Now and again, when the tall clock in the corner struck a quarter or a half-hour, the vicar got up and, opening one of the deep-recessed windows, stared out into the night. Then he flung the casement back again in silence, came back to his chair, and he and his brother filled their glasses full and drank them down. But Mr Maxwell of Ouseley only set his lips to his. At last eleven strokes, quick, sharp, and loud, rang out from the clock in the corner. The squire flung his cards down, and the parson swore a round oath.
“Time gets on,” said Maxwell of Ouseley. “I hope Mr Guy’s journey has not been unduly delayed. I hope it sincerely.”
“Do you, Mr Maxwell of Ouseley?” said the squire. “Your hope’s very likely to be disappointed, for my son Guy never fulfilled anybody’s hopes in his life. Not his mother’s.”
And the squire looked round at the familiar furniture, dropped his rough hand on the delicate needlework, and looked with his frowning brows at the picture, the token of his dead wife’s love for her first-born son.
“Time yet, time yet,” said the parson, and got heavily up once more, and flung the window open. The wind rushed in, wailing and howling, and with it a sound as of a horse galloping on the wet ground.
“He is coming!” cried Maxwell; but the Waynfletes laughed.
“No, no, no!” cried the squire; “that horse never draws bridle. He has galloped ever since Guy Waynflete betrayed his friend to King James the Second, and saved his own dirty skin. Ye’ll hear him, Mr Maxwell, when you sleep under this roof when the wind’s up—and luck’s down. Maybe ye’ll see the traitor’s ghost. My son Guy has seen him—or else he lied, which is like enough. Shut the window, brother Godfrey, and snuff the candles.”
“Will you deal again, sir?” said Maxwell of Ouseley.
“No,” cried the squire; “cards won’t bring the lad back. Get your book, brother Godfrey, and read us a prayer. Pray, man, pray! and Mr Maxwell can join us.”
“With pleasure, sir,” said Maxwell of Ouseley, bowing.