Waynflete. Coleridge Christabel Rose

a good many shindies. But I don’t like making fun of what I don’t understand.”

      “I don’t see all the new pseudo-science,” returned Constancy. “I think it’s all a delusion.”

      “I wonder if Guy Waynflete thinks so,” said Florella, thoughtfully, as she went to dress.

      Part 1, Chapter VI

      Good Comrades

      Under a great copper-beech on the lawn at Ingleby one hot afternoon, Godfrey Waynflete was enjoying the “summer feeling” on which Constancy Vyner had expatiated in London, and was spending an idle hour in teaching his young Skye terrier to jump over a stick. Rawdon Crawley, a name appropriate to the creature’s hairy simplicity, was a long grey object, like a caterpillar, with huge pricked black ears, and an expression which combined guileless innocence and philosophic power. Nevertheless, when he was coaxed, he ran under the stick, and when he was threatened, he sat still and sulked, for the perverseness of his race is fathomless.

      “You confounded little obstinate beggar,” cried Godfrey, shaking the stick at him; “you’ll have to learn who’s master.”

      Rawdon Crawley wriggled away to some distance, like a snake, then lay with his face on his paws, looking at his owner.

      “Eh, Godfrey, ye’re letting that pup get the better of ye!”

      “He’d die rather than give in,” said Godfrey, as his old aunt came across the lawn towards him.

      The last five years had increased Mrs Waynflete’s wrinkles, but she was still upright, slim, and vigorous, enjoying the presence of her younger nephew, and, possibly also, the elder one’s absence. The expression is rather strong; but Guy was so uncongenial to her that his presence could not be said to add to her happiness.

      “Eh, well,” she said; “I like a man that can speak up to you, and has got some grit. I’ve no opinion of limp characters.”

      “Things generally settle themselves if a fellow looks them in the face,” said Godfrey, cheerfully.

      “Ay, but they don’t always settle themselves to our liking. I’d like, maybe, to look myself back into a young woman; but I’m in my eighty-two, and there’s no help for it.”

      “Eh, what, auntie? You’re as young as the best of us,” said Godfrey, warmly.

      “Why, I’ve no cause of complaint. The Lord’s given me a long life, and I’ve kept my health and my faculties through it all. But, all the same, I’m an aged woman, and I might be struck down any day. So I’ve asked Susan Joshua, my cousin Joshua Palmer’s widow, to come here and make her home for a time, and bring Sarah Jane with her. She was poorly left, poor thing; and then, if I should have a stroke, there’ll be some one to look after the maids, and make you lads comfortable.”

      Godfrey was much taken aback, but before he could interpose, she went on —

      “And I’ve another reason for sending for her, Godfrey. I’ve made up my mind to spend some time at Waynflete before I die. So she can attend to the house here while I’m absent.”

      “At Waynflete, auntie? But it’s not in any sort of order. Have you ever seen it?”

      “Once, my lad, once,” said the old lady, face and voice softening. “I made your good uncle take me there for a honeymoon trip, and I said to him, as we stood on the bridge, and looked up and down the bonnie valley, ‘Eh, Mr Thomas, ye’ll be wanting a bit of land, as the money comes in to ye. Ye wedded me with my shawl over my head, but ye might be Waynflete of Waynflete yet, if ye liked to try.’ And he said, ‘Margaret, if I can give ye your will, my lass, ye shall have it.’ So I educated myself for this, and I kept his house well, and was as saving as was fitting for him and me. But there, Mr Thomas never owned but Upper Flete Farm before the Lord took him, and it was a lonesome thing for an old woman like me to set up in a fine house alone; besides that, I had the mill to attend to. But now, it’s time I took my place before I die. Guy can go and see what’s wanting.”

      “Let me go, auntie. Guy does not care about Waynflete,” said Godfrey, thoughtlessly.

      “Eh?” said his aunt. But here a rapturous bark from Rawdon Crawley, who had been penitently licking the blacking off his master’s boots, directed attention to Guy’s figure at the house door.

      He had had a long, hot journey from London, and now threw himself into a garden-chair, exclaiming with delight at the coolness and shade.

      “So you’ve seen the Miss Vyners again?” said Godfrey, referring to a note previously received from his brother.

      “Yes; they and two of Staunton’s sisters are coming down to Moorhead for a reading party in their vacation.”

      “A reading party,” said Mrs Waynflete. “Young ladies?”

      “That’s all quite correct, auntie,” said Godfrey. “Girls go to college nowadays, and of course they must read for their exams. They do, generally.”

      “Eh, well,” said the old lady. “I see no reason against it. I never doubted that a woman’s brains were as good as a man’s. I could have taken a degree myself. I’ll ask Constance Palmer to bring them here before we go to Waynflete. They can pursue their studies afterwards.”

      “Waynflete?” said Guy, with a start.

      “Yes. I’ve been telling your brother,” – here she recapitulated her two proposals. “I’ll get you to go over, and see if the place is in order.”

      “Oh yes, Aunt Margaret, if you wish; but I’ve been some time away from the mill, and there are one or two matters – ”

      “I hope you’ve brought back no new-fangled notions from town,” interrupted the old lady, sharply.

      “Well, I’ve acquired a few ideas in conversation,” said Guy, slowly. “John Cooper, no doubt, will show me the fallacy of them.”

      “You’ll have to live a long time before you’re wiser than John Cooper. Tea?” as the servant appeared with some for which Guy had asked as he came through the house. “I never take tea between meals myself.”

      “It’s new-fangled,” said Guy, meekly, “or was once.”

      “Eh, Godfrey,” said Mrs Waynflete, “there’s a plant broken in the ribbon border. That’s Crawley, I’ll be bound. He needs a whipping.” But her tone, as she walked over to the border, had lost all its asperity. Godfrey and his dog were privileged offenders.

      “Going to Waynflete is a jolly idea,” said Godfrey; “but Cousin Susan and Sarah Jane will be confounded bores, if they’re to stay here for good.”

      “They will so,” said Guy. “As for Waynflete, it’s a great move for my aunt at her age.”

      “Oh, she’s up to anything. I say, do you remember waking me up because you had the nightmare. You ate too many raspberries with those jolly girls in the old fruit-garden. That story would be a fortune to the fellows who go in for spooks. Do you ever see ghosts now?”

      “If I do, I shall not come to you for protection. You threw too much cold water on that early effort of my subliminal self to rise into consciousness.”

      “I say, I don’t go in for that jargon. Give me a good square ghost with a sheet and a turnip, not all that psychical rot.”

      “If ever you do see a ghost, my boy, it will certainly be a sheet and a turnip, and by George, how it’ll frighten you!”

      Godfrey was boy enough to rise to this bait; though he did not like his brother very much nor get on very smoothly with him, his growls were not much more serious than those of Rawdie at the end of a stick. He was too prosperous to be discontented with his surroundings.

      When Constancy came down with her aunt to the Mill House – Florella had a previous engagement, and did not accept the invitation – she found plenty of contrasts to study, and she studied each with equal zest.

      She was never tired and never bored, she was