church was dark, damp, and cold, but a flood of yellow sunlight streamed through the open door and fell upon a flat stone at the entrance on which was no name, but only a date, “1785,” and two words – “Too Late.”
“Cruel!” ejaculated Guy, and caught himself up.
“Eh, sir,” said the old woman, coming forward with a curtsey; “there be the last o’ t’owd Waynfletes, him as saw some’at and died raving. Here outside’s fayther, as shot hisself, and could na’ lie in t’kirkyard, so’s brother, t’vicar, laid un here in t’field and pu’d t’wa’ doon, and built ’t oop agen, round ’s tomb. Here a ligs.”
She led them out among the heaped-up graves, and showed them a round excrescence in the churchyard wall, within which was an old-fashioned oblong tombstone.
A tall, fair-haired, young man, with a lanky figure and stumbling steps, went before them, as if doing the honours of the dreary neglected place.
“Yon’s soft Jem Outhwaite,” said the old woman in a whisper. “He’ve seen t’owd genleman —him as walks, sir. He seed un when he wor a laddie, and went silly. He maks a bit o’ brass by fetchin’ and carryin’ fer t’sexton and me.”
“Soft” Jem touched his hat and grinned cheerfully. Guy gave him a shilling, and the old woman another, with youthful lordliness but he disliked the sight of these dishonoured graves more than he could have supposed possible, and the poor delighted softy, tying up his shilling in an old spotted handkerchief made a vivid impression on him.
Part 1, Chapter III
The Inheritance
Constancy made Godfrey tell her all the story of the loss of Waynflete, of the traitor’s ghost, and of the Guy who was too late, as they walked home round the paddock, and looked down over Flete Edge to the river Flete at the bottom of the valley. A rough, ill-grown plantation covered the steep descent, while scattered cottages were planted on the equally steep hill opposite to them. Guy studied it with silent interest, while Godfrey compared it unfavourably with the Ingleby valley, and scoffed at the legends which he was repeating.
“Ghosts are all bosh,” he said, with decision.
“Well, there are some odd noises at Waynflete,” said Constancy, as they reached the house. “Now, come and see a picture. It must be this wretched Guy who was too late.”
She took them upstairs to the extreme end of the wing of the house next the stables. Here, with windows looking out three ways, was a little octagon room, with polished oak floor, and scanty old-fashioned furniture. Over the chimney was the head of a handsome fair-faced youth, with the last rays of sun falling on his face.
“I declare, Guy,” said Godfrey, “he’s uncommonly like you, especially about the eyes.”
“I dare say,” said Guy, but the likeness annoyed him.
“He looks very sad, poor fellow,” said Florella, softly; while Constancy looked from one to the other, and thought, “I’ve got a lot of ‘study.’” Rooms had been assigned to the two boys at the other end of this same wing of the house, opening into each other, as was the way of rooms at Waynflete.
Godfrey went to bed, thinking that he did not much like these old legends and old scandals; and as for ghosts, the idea was too ridiculous! Still, there were certainly an odd variety of nocturnal noises at Waynflete – scratch, tap – rats and mice? Then a low murmuring and sobbing – the wind? He stuck his candle in the open window, and the flame hardly stirred. There was an interval of silence, and he got into bed and fell asleep as he ran through in his mind all the causes of mysterious noises – distant trains, coughing sheep, scraping creepers, pecking pigeons, whistling wind, scratching mice, etc, etc.
He was awakened by a violent clutch on his shoulder, and starting up saw, in the stream of moonlight from the window, his brother, half dressed and deadly pale, who fell on his knees beside him, hiding his face and grasping him so tightly that he was hardly able to move.
“Guy – I say! Guy! Good Lord, what’s the matter with you? Ill? Got the nightmare? I say – let go – I can’t stir!”
Guy loosened his hold after a moment or two, but he shook from head to foot, and Godfrey, tumbling out of the bed, pushed him up on to it, and stood staring at him as he lay with hidden face.
“What the dickens is the matter with you? I say, Guy! Can’t you speak?”
There was no answer, and Godfrey bethinking himself that cold water was supposed to be an appropriate remedy for sudden ailments, plunged his sponge into the water-jug, and soused it on his brother’s head. It was so far effectual that Guy began to fetch his breath again, in long sobbing gasps, while Godfrey, to his increased horror, felt that there were tears on the face that was pressed against his hand.
“Oh, I say, Guy! I say – what is making you such an awful duffer? What is the matter with you?”
Poor Guy shivered and trembled, perhaps not finding Godfrey’s method very helpful; but he came more to himself by degrees, asked for some water to drink, and pulled the coverings round him.
“Didn’t you see – him?” he whispered at last. “See – see what? Oh, I say! Guy, you haven’t been dreaming of the ghost? Oh, I say! how can you be such a duffer! You’re as bad as when you used to climb into my crib, and Auntie Waynflete whipped you, after that nursemaid made the bogie and scared you.” What difference it might have made to Guy Waynflete if, at that moment of terrible experience he had had some comprehending friend to soothe and sustain him, it is impossible to say; as it was, his boyish pride and self-consciousness began to revive, under his brother’s rough dealing; he made an effort to pull himself together, laughed in an odd, startling way, and said —
“Dreaming! Yes, of course I was dreaming. Don’t you ever say one word about it.”
“Not I,” said Godfrey. “A nice story it would be to get about. Now, am I to go into your room, and sleep with the ghost? It’s getting chilly.”
Guy raised himself on his arm, and stared out into the moonlight.
“No,” he said, “I’ll go back myself. You’ll never hear another word about it.”
He got up, still tremulously, and went away, shutting the door behind him.
Godfrey was but a boy, with all the callous stupidity of his sixteen years. He thought that the incident had been very odd, and rather disgraceful to Guy’s manhood. He was glad it was over, and he tumbled back into bed again, and went to sleep.
Guy looked much paler than usual the next morning, but confessed to nothing amiss. As he went out with the others to join in trying the new tennis-ground, he saw Florella, standing a little apart from the others, evidently just getting over a fit of crying.
“I say – can I help you about anything?” he said, good naturedly.
“No,” said Florella, turning upon him a pair of translucent eyes, almost as steadfast as Constancy’s, and even more candid. “I – I – I’ve been helping to do something wrong – that’s all.”
She ran away before he could speak; but, surprised as he was, there remained in his mind the feeling that somehow she was a nice little girl.
Godfrey heard no more of Guy’s midnight adventure during the remaining three days of the visit. The time passed pleasantly,
