Waynflete. Coleridge Christabel Rose
Guy,” said Mrs Waynflete. “It’s but a poor place, and while the house was let to strangers – as, indeed, a good part of the property is still in the hands of the old tenants – I did not care for you to go there. Now, you can both see what you think of it.”
Guy gave a quick glance at her, while Godfrey said —
“I don’t suppose it’s jollier than this.”
“Before you go,” said the old lady, sitting up in her chair, “there’s something I want to say to you.”
“Yes, auntie,” said Godfrey, staring at her, while Guy said, “Yes?” politely.
“You both know how Waynflete has been got back for the family. By hard work, and doing of duty, and courage. When my heart is set on a thing, lads, I don’t fear trouble. I don’t fear man, and I’ve no need to fear the devil, since I know I’m in the right. And I never shall fear what folks may say of any course I choose to follow. I’m an old woman, and I tell you that a single aim always hits the mark.”
As she spoke in her strong voice, and looked at the lads with her strong eyes, Guy felt that the manifesto had a purpose. Godfrey listened quite simply as to an improving remark.
“You know how, bit by bit, your great-uncle Palmer and I have got Waynflete back. And I’ve often told you how my great-uncle Guy lost it?”
“Oh yes, auntie,” said Godfrey, cheerfully. “He got screwed, and then made up a cock-and-bull story about the family ghost stopping him at the bridge. Awful bad lot he must have been. Then he died, didn’t he, and Maxwell of Ouseley had the place till he went to the bad, and had to sell it?”
“Yes, he died delirious, and my grandfather was turned out to make his way in the world. So you see, ’twas self-indulgence, drinking and gambling that lost the place, and ruined the family.”
“I don’t think my namesake deserves all the blame,” said Guy. “His father, as I understand the story, got him into a pretty tight place.”
“He had his chance, Guy, and he lost it by his cowardice – if, as some think, he was stopped by highwaymen, or by his vicious habits, if he was drunk. He was a very fine gentleman, I’ve heard; played the fiddle, Guy, and wrote verses; but that was no stand-by in his hour of need.”
“The family ghost, himself,” said Guy, in a slow, dry voice, “seems to have been an unpleasant person to know.”
“Ay; there was a young Waynflete who betrayed his friend in Monmouth’s rebellion, to save his own life. He went mad, and shot himself – as the story runs – so ignorant folk say his ghost haunts Waynflete, and think, when the wind blows, they hear his horse galloping.”
“That Guy who was too late was an awful duffer, if he wasn’t drunk!” said Godfrey. “I’d have got over the river, ghost or highwayman, or been killed on the spot.”
“It’s not a nice story,” said Guy. “I should think Waynflete was haunted by all their ghosts!”
“Ghost-stories are very proper for old families,” said Mrs Waynflete; “but of course no one believes them. There, it’s a disgraceful story; take it as a warning. You’d better get ready for dinner.”
She rose and walked out of the room as she spoke, with a quick, firm step, while Guy laughed rather scornfully.
“What an anachronism the dear old lady is!” he said. “As if all the world depended on Waynflete!”
“I don’t know what you mean!” said Godfrey, angrily. “I think she’s an awfully splendid old woman to have stuck to her point all her life and won it. Catch a highwayman stopping me!”
“My unlucky namesake said it was a ghost.”
“Well, but it wasn’t, you know. There aren’t any.”
“You’re the right heir for Aunt Margaret, Godfrey. She ought to leave you Waynflete.”
“Why; you’re the eldest,” said Godfrey; “she says interfering with natural laws is wicked.”
“If primogeniture is a natural law?”
“It’s the law of England,” said Godfrey, as if that settled the point.
Guy laughed again.
“Ah, Godfrey,” he said, “you’ll always get past the ghosts! Well, the visit will be rather jolly. I’ve a great curiosity about Waynflete, and at least it will be clean. I agree with Ruskin that smoke is sinful.”
“There’s a great deal of rot in Ruskin,” said Godfrey, “and you ought not to say things are sinful, when they ain’t. Plenty of things are.”
Part 1, Chapter II
The House
Constancy Vyner was sitting at a table, sorting and arranging a little pile of manuscripts, neatly clipped together, and written in the distinct upright hand of the modern high-school girl. She was dressed in a plain, girlish frock, well cut and well put on, her thick brown hair hung on her shoulders, and curled over her square low forehead in vigorous waves, as if every hair was full of elastic life. Her handsome eyes, of a clear shade of hazel, looked out under straight brown eyebrows, from a brown, rosy face with an air of keen and critical observation; while the straight nose and firm round chin added to her purposeful look. She was tall and strongly made for her sixteen years, and the white, well-shaped hands that held the papers looked as if made to carry out the work which the well-shaped head would conceive. The room in which she sat was as old-fashioned as she herself was modern and up to date, with small irregular panels, sloping roof, and tiny casements, through which the evening sun danced in distorted gleams.
“I think I’m doing well,” said Constancy aloud to herself, as if convincing an opponent. “Ten shillings from the Guide of Youth for the best essay on Reading. I’m glad I was so careful as to what books I mentioned. One must respect people’s prejudices. I have much the best chance for all those acrostics and search questions. The editor of The Children’s Friend has asked me for another story. This will do. The little delicate boy must catch cold in a thunderstorm when his sister takes him out without leave. Shall he quite die? I think not. The district-visitor shall save his life. And this story for The Penny Pleasure Giver. There mustn’t be any moral in that at all! Altogether I have got twenty pounds in the last year, and some of the editors write ‘Dear Madam,’ and don’t find out I’m only a little girl! Something ought to come out of this place. It’s beautiful copy!” she continued, leaning back in her chair and glancing round her, while a certain absorbed receptive look came into her keen eyes, altering her whole expression.
She jumped up, and swinging herself into the deep high recess of the little casement, pushed it open and looked out.
Beneath her lay a wild untrimmed garden divide! by a sunk fence from a large paddock sloping towards a narrow valley, with heathery hills beyond. The sky was blue and still, with long streaks of pearly silvery cloud across the hilltops. A flight of rooks came home to a group of tall elm trees beside the house, filling the still air with sound.
“It’s awfully jolly and heavenly!” said Constancy, staring at the dazzling clouds with strong, unfaltering eyes. “It’ll do for a description.”
“What will do for a description?” said an answering voice, like a softer echo of her own, as another girl, a year or so younger than herself, came in and stood below the window, lifting up a face of almost exactly the same shape, more delicate and perhaps less forcible.
“Rooks – peace – brownish meadows, and blue sky,” said Constancy. “Nice description. What have you been doing, Florella?”
“Talking to Aunt Constance about the Waynfletes, and the place. She says she is glad we have come; the house is gloomy, and she has heard odd noises. Oh, Cosy, do you think it could be haunted?”
“That would be luck!” said Constancy, jumping down. “Oh, I say, even a little noise would do to begin with! If I could only get a ghost, and the way people behaved with