“And what is he like?”
Guy left off trying to light his pipe, and leant back in a corner of the big chair in which he was lounging. The plunge was made. He was shaken to pieces with the effort, but he still endeavoured to maintain a tone of indifference.
“I think I’ll have to tell you a little family history,” he said; “if it won’t bore you.”
“Not at all. Tell me just as you can—as you like.”
“Well, but you know, I believe, about the old traitor who drank himself to death from remorse, and naturally, haunted his descendants. Some of them drank, and, in fact, there was always an inclination to an occasional good-for-nought. Well, then came the Guy who was too late—my namesake—so, by the way, was the traitor—that story you know, too. I don’t believe my father, or grandfather, were quite all my aunt could have wished. They died young, you know; but I’m not aware that they ever saw the ghost. But, five years ago, when we went to Waynflete, to see Mrs John Palmer, I did.”
“You saw the ghost of your ancestor?”
“Well! I had seen Guy’s picture; I was full of it, and full of seeing the place for the first time, and the face flashed upon me just like the picture. The picture’s like me, you know; absurdly so. I saw him—plain as I see you. Well, that once wouldn’t have mattered, it would only have been a queer thing. But—”
“But that was not the only time?” said Cuthbert.
“I never saw him again till last night, but—I—feel him. I wake up half mad with fear. I have dreamed of him. I don’t know what it is, the fit seizes me, and when I’ve scourged the folly out of me, I faint, or my heart gets bad. I haven’t quite been able to hide that; but no one knows why. No one knows that I am afraid of my own shadow!”
“Gently, my dear boy,” said Staunton, kindly. “Keep quiet for a minute. It’s hard work telling me; makes your heart beat now, doesn’t it?”