Rawdie was found, soon afterwards, sitting by himself in another part of the garden. He had retired with discretion.
“And now, Guy,” said Godfrey, by-and-by, when his tale was told, and Guy, after more sympathetic congratulations, had dryly remarked that it was fortunate that Mr Van Brunt’s character and credit had proved above suspicion, “I want you to listen.
“You know well enough which of us has carried on Aunt Waynflete’s purpose. You know what she really meant, and that this wretched will was a mere mistake. But for you, the business would have gone to the dogs, and this place to the hammer, or, perhaps, to the devil; for, remember, I’m your own flesh and blood, and I know what this last year has been as well as you. And I can be just as determined. I took an oath, and I’ll not break it. And, look here, that’s as much an inward prompting of my soul as ever you knew in yours. It’s my share of the work. Now, for once, you must give in.”
“Yes, I will, Godfrey,” said Guy, “I’ll give in. And, my boy, I wouldn’t give the stoniest field in Waynflete for the finest estate in England; and I took it hard I hadn’t got it. I loved it from the first moment I saw it, and now—”
For once Guy faltered, and could not finish, but by a great squeeze of Godfrey’s hand, though the next minute he said—
“Mind, we’ll have to consider how to do it in a proper and legal manner. We’ll keep it quiet till that’s done.”
“All right,” said Godfrey. “Aunt Waynflete would be satisfied now.”
It was Michaelmas Eve, a lovely still day, without a leaf stirring. Florella was gathering Michaelmas daisies. Nobody thought much about her in these exciting days, and she did the odds and ends, and filled up the holes and corners. Suddenly a shadow fell on her flowers, and Guy’s voice said—
“I want you to come with me to look at the picture.”
“I’ll come,” she said, and they went slowly upstairs, and along the passage to the little octagon-room, flooded with autumn sunlight, and stood together in front of the picture.