Some few days before the stay at Moorhead came to an end, Kitty Staunton
received a letter, which surprised her greatly, as it came from a person
of whose existence she had never previously heard. It was signed
"Catherine Maxwell," and began, "My dear young cousin," and stated that
the writer had heard from her old friend Mrs Raby that the Miss
Stauntons were staying at Moorhead, and that, as she believed them to be
her cousin George Maxwell's grandchildren, it would give her great
pleasure to make their acquaintance; would they come over and spend the
day with her at her little cottage at Ousel well, bringing with them any
of their young friends who cared for the drive?
Kitty and Violet being curious and interested, and Florella being
inclined for the expedition, the three set off one fine brisk morning;
over the moors on the opposite side to Kirk Hinton, and came to a little
cold, fresh village, high up on the side of a narrow valley. Here in a
cold, fresh little house, with latched doors painted with thin white
paint, and deeply recessed windows looking into a little garden full of
hardy plants, now turning brown and yellow with the autumn frosts, they
found an apple-cheeked old lady dressed in a shot-silk gown of so old a
style that it was just about to come again into fashion. She spoke with
so strong a northern accent that the London girls caught what she said
with difficulty; but she made them most heartily welcome, gave them some
very thin and long-legged fowls for dinner, followed up by curds and
red-currant jelly. Then she showed them sundry curiosities, which they
knew how to admire. There was a filigree basket, like to the one which
Rosamond of the Purple Vase made for her cousin's birthday, and for
which she was so unmercifully snubbed by the common sense of her
unfeeling parents. There were engravings in oval frames, bits of Leeds
china, an old spinning-wheel, and finally, a quaintly shaped card-table,
which on being opened, displayed, instead of green cloth, an exquisitely
worked pattern of faded roses in the very finest tent-stitch.
"And that, cousin love," she said, "was in Waynflete Hall when it
belonged to my great-grandfather Maxwell."
"Really!" said Kitty, with much interest. "Our brother Cuthbert is
staying with Mr Guy Waynflete at Ingleby now. It was through him that
we came to Moorhead."
Miss Maxwell looked quite awestruck.
"Well, well," she said, "young people's ways are different. I should
never have made myself known to Mrs Waynflete, nor should I think of
calling at Waynflete, even if I visited at that distance. Not that I
keep up old grudges, my love, but there's a delicacy in such matters."
"Cuthbert knew Mr Waynflete a long time before they knew about any
former connection. I don't think it troubles them, they are great
friends."
"Ah!" said Miss Maxwell. "_Guy_, too, I hope--"
"Cousin Catherine," said Violet, boldly; "I am sure you can tell us
delightful old stories of the two families. Do! Tell us about the
ghost and the Guy Waynflete who never got back in time. Have we got a
ghost as well as the Waynfletes?"
"Oh no, love," said Miss Maxwell, "our family was never of that kind;
and indeed, when there's so much drinking and dissipation as there was
among the Waynfletes, there's no need of ghosts to bring ruin. And I'm
sure your brother will always remember, that it was all in the way of
business my great-grandfather obtained the place."
"And how did he lose it again?" asked Violet.
"My dear, through business misfortunes," said Miss Maxwell, with
dignity. "And Ouseley, which is only a few miles up the valley, was
sold in my father's time. But I've been thinking, there are no Ouseley
Maxwells left but me. And I have a few old letters which perhaps your
brother ought to have."
"I'm sure Cuthbert would be delighted to come and see them and you,"
said Kitty.
"Oh no, Cousin Catherine," interposed Violet; "do let us see them. We
can tell Cuth, or give them to him; but old family letters, especially
about Waynflete and the ghosts, would be quite too awfully jolly."
Miss Maxwell looked at the blooming girl with her outspoken voice and
her straight-looking eyes, her sailor hat, and her boyish jacket, as if
she had never thought of any one like her before; she sighed and looked
solemn, but pulled out the drawer of the card-table, and took therefrom,
with great mystery, two or three yellow-looking letters, an old
Prayer-book, and a very dirty pack of cards, and on one of these she
pointed out a dark stain. "My loves," she whispered; "this was stained
on that fatal night with Squire Waynflete's life blood."
Violet became suddenly serious, and Florella could hardly help crying
out in protest against touching these things which seemed to her full of
a living trouble.
Miss Maxwell opened the Prayer-book which was bound in red morocco, most
delicately tooled and gilt. On the title-page was written "Margaret
Waynflete" and the dates of the births of her two sons. "Guy Waynflete,
born June 19th, 1760," and then "My Pretty Baby;" then "Godfrey
Waynflete, 1764," and then in the same pointed, careful hand--
"The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him."
Florella could not speak a word, and when the book was handed to her to
look at, she laid her hand on it with a soft, reverent touch.
Then Miss Maxwell with some ceremony opened the two papers, and begged
Kitty to read them aloud.
The first was in the hand of this long dead Margaret Waynflete, and was
evidently the brief commencement of a journal or diary.
_February 10th_, 1785.--My son Guy has gone to London.
_February 12th_.--We have killed another little Pig.
_February 13th_.--Attorney Maxwell is more Obliging than I like to See.
_February 14th_.--My Brother Godfrey did begin by Mistake the Funeral
Service instead of the Marriage, for an honest couple. This Comes of
Carousing. Alas!
_March 25th_.--My Chittyprat Hen has a Fine Brood. There be no letter
from my son Guy, which angers his Father. My poor Boy. He is better
even in Town than Here. Does God indeed permit the Spirit of His wicked
Ancestor to Trouble Him? Alas! there is Wickedness Enough Alive.
_April 15th_.--The Pain at my Heart is great, I have nigh Swooned with
it. N.B.--To distil lavender and drop Into it Cloves, for a Cordial.
Death would be No evil, but for my two Sons, but this House would be no
Home.
Here the brief record suddenly stopped, only lower down on the page were
faintly and unsteadily written the words, "My dear son."
"There _was_ the ghost then, you see," said Violet, in awestruck tones.
"Oh, go on, Kitty. It _is_ interesting."
"There's no more," said Kitty. "The other paper is quite different."