Mr Clifton looked much cheered by the notion of a tenant in the shape of a well-to-do lady.
“We might get a good deal done by Michaelmas,” he said. “I find the church is dedicated to Saint Michael.”
“Is that so?” said Guy, as if struck.
“Yes; I’ve been looking up the records—and—I believe it’s illegal; but I found some such curious matters in the old registers, that, as they concern your family, I ventured to bring them with me.”
He produced two worm-eaten old volumes, in which he had placed various marks.
It appeared that the last Waynflete parson had lived to extreme old age. His death in 1810 was set down, and had been followed by three long incumbencies of men of the illiterate and not over-reputable class, too common formerly in the north of England.
“The last was more decent,” said the vicar; “but he did nothing. The roots of evil are old and deep. Now, here’s a queer thing, noted comparatively recently by the vicar before last, in 1864.
“Buried John Outhwaite. Stated on his death-bed that, when a lad, he saw the ghost of one of the old Waynfletes, on Flete Bridge, on an autumn night. Probably a trick played on him by a comrade.”
“Is there any more?” said Guy, eagerly.
“The ghost of ‘t’ owd Guy’ is a tradition in the place,” said the vicar; “but there seems nothing recent at all authenticated.”