“I believe there’s a fate against it’s coming to good.”
“What if there is?” said Guy, sharply.
“Where should we be if Aunt Margaret had stopped to think about fate?”
Godfrey leant over the fire with his elbows on his knees.
“I don’t see that she did get the better of fate, after all. Waynflete’s a beastly hole, and there’s no money to keep it up, and it’s touch and go with the business, and you have half killed yourself.”
“But not quite,” said Guy. “Now, look here, it’s disgraceful to own a place in this condition, and it’s got to be pulled round, spite of fate or fiend either. Of course the work is not done, when the place is a sink of iniquity, and the property gone to destruction. We’ve got to finish it. Come, cheer up; get some supper. I’ve got a notion. We’ll get Clifton to come here, to dine and sleep, and talk matters over. Don’t you play devil’s advocate. He doesn’t want one.”
Godfrey looked up, half-scared, half-fascinated, into his brother’s face. There were times when he was more than half afraid of him.
Mr Clifton, a lively and energetic young man, full of plans and schemes, for which he found Waynflete hardly ripe, came over as invited, and soon suggested starting a subscription for the repairs of the church.
“The curious old Norman architecture makes it a county concern,” he said, “and Mrs Waynflete’s memory is so much respected that I am sure people would like to show it by helping us.”
“Yes,” said Guy, “I expect Mrs John Palmer, our connection, who wishes to take the house for the summer, would give us something.”