"Very few people appreciate the feeling of a place. Hardly any one can
feel the London atmosphere," said Constancy Vyner, one Sunday afternoon
nearly five years after the events last recorded, as she sat drinking
tea on a balcony in a square on the London side of Kensington.
"I shouldn't have thought our atmosphere so ethereal as to be
imperceptible to any one," said a young man who formed one of the party.
"That's a most obvious remark, Mr Staunton; but I didn't mean fogs. I
don't believe the country ever gives one just such a feel of summer as
there is now. Hot air, balcony-flowers, rustling brown trees, they're
drier and more papery than country ones; sunny dust, dusty sun, and
people, pavements, and omnibuses, and undergrounds--and smart
fashionable clothes. It's so summery! Nobody's got the idea exactly,"
she said. "Of course Dickens has a London feel; but that's on another
level, ghastly and squalid--or best parlour and hot-buttered toast; nor
does it quite belong to the swells, though it has fashion and the season
in it, too."
"Your idea is coming?" said Mr Staunton, watching her curiously.
"I've got it!" said Constancy, sitting up with a broad smile of
pleasure. "It's modern--it's democratic. It's life's fulness, roses,
strawberries, sun, summer--got with some trouble, for the many. So
there's a little dust. You have the best of everything--music, parties;
but you go by the underground!"
When Constancy was present, she always took the stage--or, rather,
people gave it to her--she commanded attention. She was now at college,
thinking, talking, making friends according to her wont, and though her
literary ambitions were necessarily much in abeyance, she wrote, now and
then, an article or short story, which had just the distinction that
wins acceptance, and was not quite like every one else's.
The youngest Miss Staunton was a college friend, and Constancy was
intimate with her family, which consisted of two or three sisters, all
busy with various forms of self-help and self-expression, and of the
brother now present. The whole party lived harmoniously together, on a
conjunction of small incomes, on terms of mutual independence, and, as
Constancy epigrammatically put it, "went into society in the
underground," and into very good society too, which is no doubt a modern
and democratic development.
"Don't let us collect material for magazine articles," said Violet
Staunton; "but let us settle about the reading party. Cuthbert has
heard of a jolly old-fashioned place on the moors up above Rilston, in
Yorkshire, within reach of all kinds of fine scenery."
"Rilston!" interposed Constancy. "We stayed once with Aunt Connie, at a
place near there--Waynflete."
"How odd!" said Violet. "It was from Mr Waynflete that Cuth heard of
the place."
"Guy Waynflete is a friend of mine," said Mr Staunton. "I stayed with
him once at Ingleby. We came upon Moorhead in our walks, and I should
think it might suit for the preparation of future double firsts and
senior-wranglers."
"Thank you, Mr Staunton," said Constancy, frankly rising to the bait.
"I dare say you would expect to find us crocheting antimacassars!"
A little more discussion followed as to ways and means, and as to the
number of the party, which was to consist of Constancy and her sister,
of the eldest and youngest Miss Stauntons, and of two other college
students.
"I should like to see Waynflete again," said Constancy; "it was a lovely
old place--haunted, too. The family lost it to a villain called
Maxwell, and the old lady who has it now bought it back again."
"I never heard anything of the family history from Waynflete," said
Cuthbert Staunton, "beyond the fact that the old place had been
recovered. But I believe we are connected with some Yorkshire Maxwells.
Do you know any particulars of the `villain,' Miss Vyner?"
"You, descended from the hereditary foe, and friends with Guy Waynflete,
without knowing it? How splendid!" said Constancy, sitting upright.
"This is the story."
And with exact memory and considerable force she related the legend of
the loss of Waynflete as she had heard it five years ago from Godfrey;
putting in a vivid description of the eerie old house, and the still
more eerie picture of the unhappy heir, concluding with--
"The eldest one was so like the picture. He is in the business now,
isn't he? I heard he didn't take a good degree. And Godfrey was such a
big boy."
"Well, he is a very big boy still," said Cuthbert Staunton, who had
listened with much interest. "He is a fine fellow, still at Oxford.
Guy is made of rather complex stuff. Perhaps you may see him--he is in
London, and I asked him to look in to tell my sisters about this
moorland paradise."
As he spoke there was a movement, and a fair, slight young man came in,
whom Cuthbert greeted cordially, and introduced as Mr Waynflete.
The five years had not greatly changed him. He had the same slightly
supercilious manner and the same "pretty" wistful eyes, into which, at
the sight of Constancy, there came a startled look.
"I remember Waynflete so well," she said, after the greeting. "Is it as
delightful as ever?"
"I have never seen it since," said Guy; "but the lease is out this year,
and I believe some of us are to go and inspect it. Moorhead is eight or
ten miles off--up on the moors."
"Will you tell us about it, Mr Waynflete," said the elder Miss
Staunton. "We want to go in August. Is it a place where we are likely
to be shot, or glared at by indignant keepers, if we walk about? We
shouldn't like to be a grievance--or to be treated as one."
"No," said Guy, with a smile. "It's only the fringe of the moor, and
there are very few grouse there. I think you'd be tolerated, even if
you picked bilberries and had picnics."
"That's just what we want to do," said Constancy, "picnics on improved
principles. But we shall each have an _etna_, we shan't trust to sticks
and a gipsy-kettle."
"I don't know how young ladies amuse themselves when they're not
reading," said Guy. "But there's nothing to do at Moorhead. It's two
miles from High Hinton, and four from Kirk Hinton, and nine from
Rilston--and it mostly rains up there. But Mrs Shipley's very good at
scones and tea-cakes, and the view is first-class of its kind."
"Then, when it rains, we can put on our mackintoshes, and walk two--or
four--miles to buy postage stamps," said Constancy, rising. "Good-bye,
Kitty, I must be going. Mind you look up your duties as chaperon and
eldest of the party. Mr Waynflete, I'm sure my aunt will be delighted
to see you if you like to call. We are at home on Tuesdays--12, Sumner
Square. Mr Staunton, perhaps we shall see you too?"
The young men made proper acknowledgments, and when Constancy, with no
ladies' last words, had taken her departure, Guy stated that he wished
to hear the evening service at Westminster, and asked his friend to walk
there with him by way of the Thames Embankment.