“You know how, bit by bit, your great-uncle Palmer and I have got Waynflete back. And I’ve often told you how my great-uncle Guy lost it?”
“Oh yes, auntie,” said Godfrey, cheerfully. “He got screwed, and then made up a cock-and-bull story about the family ghost stopping him at the bridge. Awful bad lot he must have been. Then he died, didn’t he, and Maxwell of Ouseley had the place till he went to the bad, and had to sell it?”
“Yes, he died delirious, and my grandfather was turned out to make his way in the world. So you see, ’twas self-indulgence, drinking and gambling that lost the place, and ruined the family.”
“I don’t think my namesake deserves all the blame,” said Guy. “His father, as I understand the story, got him into a pretty tight place.”
“He had his chance, Guy, and he lost it by his cowardice—if, as some think, he was stopped by highwaymen, or by his vicious habits, if he was drunk. He was a very fine gentleman, I’ve heard; played the fiddle, Guy, and wrote verses; but that was no stand-by in his hour of need.”
“The family ghost, himself,” said Guy, in a slow, dry voice, “seems to have been an unpleasant person to know.”
“Ay; there was a young Waynflete who betrayed his friend in Monmouth’s rebellion, to save his own life. He went mad, and shot himself—as the story runs—so ignorant folk say his ghost haunts Waynflete, and think, when the wind blows, they hear his horse galloping.”
“That Guy who was too late was an awful duffer, if he wasn’t drunk!” said Godfrey. “I’d have got over the river, ghost or highwayman, or been killed on the spot.”
“It’s not a nice story,” said Guy. “I should think Waynflete was haunted by all their ghosts!”
“Ghost-stories are very proper for old families,” said Mrs Waynflete; “but of course no one believes them. There, it’s a disgraceful story; take it as a warning. You’d better get ready for dinner.”