The usual dinner hour at Greylands' Rest was half past one o'clock. Mr. Castlemaine would have preferred a late dinner--but circumstances are sometimes stronger than we are. However, he never failed to put it off until evening upon the very slightest plea of excuse.
Some years before the close of old Anthony Castlemaine's life, his health failed. It was not so much a serious illness as a long and general ailing. His medical attendant insisted upon his dining early; and the dinner hour was altered from six o'clock to half past one. He recovered, and lived on: some years: but the early dinner hour was adhered to. James had never liked this early dining: and after his father's death he wished to return to the later hour. His wife, however, opposed it.Shepreferred the early dinner and the social supper; and she insisted upon it to Mr. Castlemaine that the interests of Ethel and Flora required that they should continue to dine early. Mr. Castlemaine said he did not see that: Ethel was old enough to dine late, and Flora might make her dinner at lunch time. Yes, poor child, and have cold meat three days out of the seven, urged Mrs. Castlemaine. The Master of Greylands yielded the point as a general rule: but on special occasion--and he made special occasions out of nothing--his edict was issued for the later dinner.
The dinner was just over to-day, and the servants had withdrawn, leaving wine and dessert on the table. Mr. Castlemaine's sitting down had been partly a matter of courtesy, though he did eat a small portion of meat: he was going to dine in the evening at the Dolphin. The early afternoon sun streamed into the dining-room: a long, comfortable room with a low ceiling, its windows on the side opposite the fire, its handsome sideboard, surmounted with plate glass, at one end; some open book-shelves, well filled with good and attractive volumes at the other. Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine, Ethel, Flora, and Madame Guise, sat at the table. Harry Castlemaine had retired, and his chair stood vacant. As a rule, Madame Guise never sat a minute longer at any meal then she could help: as soon as she could get up without an absolute breach of good manners, she did get up. Mrs. Castlemaine called it a peculiarity. She estimated Madame Guise highly as an instructress, but she admitted to her more intimate friends that she did not understand her. To-day, as it chanced (chanced! do these things ever occur by chance?) she had stayed: and she sat in her place at Mr. Castlemaine's left hand in her perfectly-fitting black dress, with its white cuffs and collar, and her wealth of auburn hair shading her pale and quiet face. Mr. Castlemaine was in a sociable mood: latterly he had been often too silent and abstracted. His back was to the sideboard as he sat; handsome, upright, well-dressed as usual. Ethel was on his right hand, the windows behind her, Harry's empty chair between her and Mrs. Castlemaine; and Miss Flora, eating almonds and raisins as fast as she could eat them, sat on the other side of her mother with her back to the fire, and next to Madame.
Mrs. Castlemaine had introduced the subject that was very much in her thoughts just now--a visit to Paris. The Master of Greylands was purposing to make a trip thither this spring; and his wife, to her great delight, had obtained permission to accompany him. She had never been across the water in her life: the days of universal travelling had not then set in: and there were moments when she felt a jealousy of Ethel. Ethel had finished her education in the French capital; and was, so far, that much wiser than herself.
"I long to see Versailles;--and St. Cloud;--and the Palais Royal," spoke Mrs. Castlemaine in a glow of enthusiasm. "I want to walk about amid the orange-trees in pots; and in the Champs Elysées; and at Père la Chaise. And I particularly wish to see the Gobelins Tapestry, and the people working at it.Youmust be quite familiar with all these sights, Madame Guise."
"I have seen scarcely any of them," said Madame Guise in her gentle way. Then, perceiving the surprised look on Mrs. Castlemaine's face, she resumed hurriedly. "We did not live very near Paris, madam,--as I think I have said. And we French girls are kept so strictly:--and my mother was an invalid."
"And the bonbon shops!" pursued Mrs. Castlemaine. "I do count much on seeing the bonbon shops: they must be a sight in themselves. And the lovely bonnets!--and the jewellery! What is it that Paris has been called?--the Paradise of women?"
"May I go too?" asked Ethel with animation, these attractive allusions calling up reminiscences of her own sojourn in Paris.
"No," curtly replied Mrs. Castlemaine.
"Oh, mamma! Why, you will be glad of me to take you about and to speak French for you!"
"I shall go, mamma," quickly spoke up Flora, her mouth full of cake. "You told me I should, you know."
"We will see, my darling," said Mrs. Castlemaine, not daring to be too self-asserting just then; though her full intention was to take Flora if she could contrive it by hook or by crook. "A trip to Paris would be an excellent thing for you," she added for the benefit of Mr. Castlemaine: "it would improve your French accent and form your manners. I'll see, my dear one."
Mr. Castlemaine gave a quiet nod and smile to Ethel, as much as to say, "Iwill see for you." In fact he had all along meant Ethel to be of the party; though he would certainly do his best to leave Miss Flora at home.
At this moment Flora ought to be practising, instead of greedily eating of every dessert dish within her reach: but oughts did not go for much with Miss Flora Castlemaine. They might have gone for nothing but for Madame Guise. That lady, rising now from her chair, with a deprecatory bow to Mrs. Castlemaine for permission, reminded her pupil that she and the piano were both waiting her pleasure.
"I don't want to have a music lesson this afternoon; I don't want to practise," grumbled Flora.
"As you did not get your studies over this morning in sufficient time to take your lesson or to practise before dinner, you must do both now," spoke Madame in her steady way. And Mr. Castlemaine gave the young lady a nod of authority, from which she knew there might be no appeal.
"In a minute, papa. Please let me finish my orange."
She was pushing the quarters of an orange into her month with the silver fork. Just then Miles came into the room and addressed his master.
"You are wanted, sir, if you please."
"Who is it?" asked Mr. Castlemaine.
"I don't know, sir. Some oldish gentleman; a stranger. He asked----"
The man's explanation was cut short by the appearance of the visitor himself; who had followed, without permission, from the room to which he had been shown: a tall, erect, elderly man, attired in an ample blue coat and top-boots. His white hair was long, his dark eyes were keen. The latter seemed to take in the room and its inmates; his glance passing rapidly from each to each, as he stood holding his broad-brimmed hat and his stout walking-stick. Ethel knew him. instantly for the stranger who had entered the Dolphin Inn while she was helping Mrs. Bent with the raisins an hour, or so, ago: and the probability was that he recognized her, for his eyes rested on her for a few seconds.
Mr. Castlemaine had risen. He went a step or two forward as if about to speak, but seemed to be uncertain. The stranger abruptly forestalled him.
"Do you know me, James Castlemaine?"
"Why--yes--is it not Squire Dobie?" replied Mr. Castlemaine, holding out his hand.
"Just so," replied the stranger, keeping his hands down. "Perhaps you won't care to take my hand when you know that I have come here as a foe."
"As a foe?" repeated Mr. Castlemaine.
"At present. Until I get an answer to the question I have come to put. What have you done with Basil's son?"
A change passed over the face of Mr. Castlemaine: it was evident to anybody who might be looking at him; a dark look, succeeded by a flush. Squire Dobie broke the momentary silence.
"My old friend Basil's son; Basil the Careless: young Anthony Castlemaine."
The Master of Greylands was himself again. "I do not understand you," he said, with slow distinctness. "I have done nothing with the young man."
"Then rumour belies you, James Castlemaine."
"I assure you, Squire Dobie, that I know no more whither young Anthony Castlemaine went, or where he is now than you know. It has been a mystery to myself, as to every one else at Greylands."
"I got home to Dobie Hall last week," continued the stranger; "mean to stay at it, now; have only made flying visits to it since it became mine through poor Tom's death. Drove into Stilborough yesterday for the first time; put up at the Turk's Head. Landlord, old Will Heyton, waited on me himself this morning at breakfast, talking of the changes and what not, that years have brought, since I and poor Tom, and Basil the Reckless, and other rollicking blades used to torment the inn in the years gone by. We got to speak of Basil; 'twas only natural; and he told me that Basil had died abroad about last Christmas tune; and that his son, named Anthony, had come over soon after to put in his claim to his patrimony, Greylands' Rest. He said that Anthony had suddenly disappeared one night; and was thought to have beenmade away with."
During this short explanation, they had not moved. The speaker stood just within the door, which Miles had closed, Mr. Castlemaine facing him a few paces distant. Madame Guise, waiting for Flora, had turned to the stranger, her face changing to the pallor of the grave. The Master of Greylands caught sight of the pallor, and it angered him: angered him that one should dare to speak of this remarkably unsatisfactory topic in the presence of the ladies of his family, startling and puzzling them. But he controlled his voice and manner to a kind of indifferent courtesy.
"If you will take a seat--and a glass of wine with me, Squire Dobie, I will give you all the information I possess on the subject of young Anthony's disappearance. It is not much; it does not really amount to anything: but such as it is, you shall hear it.--My wife, Mrs. Castlemaine. Sophia," turning to her as he made the introduction, "you had finished, I know: be so good as to leave us to ourselves."
They filed out of the room: Flora first, with Madame Guise; Ethel and her stepmother following. The latter, who knew something of the Dobie family, at least by reputation, halted to exchange a few words with the representative of it as she passed him. To judge by her manner, it seemed that she had put no offensive construction on his address to her husband: and the probability was that she did not. Mrs. Castlemaine might have been less aware than anybody of the disagreeable rumours whispered in Greylands, tacitly if not openly connecting her husband with the doings of that ill-fated night: for who would be likely to speak of them toher?
Squire Dobie, remarking that he did not like to sit with his back to the fire passed round the table and took the chair vacated by Ethel. He was the second son of the old Squire Dobie, of Dobie Hall, a fine old place and property nearly on the confines of the county. In the years gone by, as he had phrased it, he and his elder brother, Tom the heir, had been very intimate with Basil Castlemaine. Separation soon came. Basil went off on his impromptu travels abroad--from which, as the reader knows, he never returned; Tom Dobie, the heir, remained with his father at the Hall, never marrying: Alfred, this younger son, married a Yorkshire heiress, and took up his abode on her broad acres. It has been mentioned that Tom Dobie kept up a private occasional correspondence with Basil Castlemaine, and knew where he was settled, but that has nothing to do with the present moment. Some two years ago Tom died. His father, the old Squire, survived him by a year: and at his death the Hall fell to Alfred, who became Squire in his turn: he who had now intruded on Mr. Castlemaine.
"No thank you; no wine," he said, as Mr. Castlemaine was putting the decanter towards him. "I never drink between my meals; and I've ordered my dinner for six o'clock at the Turk's Head. I await your explanation, James Castlemaine. What did you do with young Anthony?"
"May I ask whether Will Heyton told you I had done anything with him?" returned Mr. Castlemaine, in as sarcastic a tone as the very extreme limit of civility allowed him to use.
"No. Will Heyton simply said the young man had disappeared; that he had been seen to enter that queer place, the Friar's Keep, at midnight, with, or closely following upon the Master of Greylands. When I inquired whether the whether the Master of Greylands was supposed to havecausedhim to disappear, old Will simply shrugged his shoulders, and looked more innocent than a baby. The story affected me, James Castlemaine; I went out from the breakfast-table, calling here, calling there, upon the people I had formerly known in the town. I got talking of it with them all, and heard the same tale over and over again. None accused you, mind; but I gather what theirthoughtswere: that you must have had a personal hand in the disappearance of Anthony; or, at least, a personal knowledge of what became of him."
Mr. Castlemaine had listened in silence; perfectly unmoved. Squire Dobie regarded him keenly with his dark and searching eyes.
"I know but little of the matter; less, apparently, than you know," he quietly said. "I am ready to tell you what that little is--but it will not help you, Squire Dobie.
"What do you mean in saying less than I know?"
"Because I never was near the Friar's Keep at all on that night. Your informants, I presume, must have been, by their assuming to know so much."
"They know nothing. It is all conjecture."
"Oh, all conjecture," returned Mr. Castlemaine, with the air of one suddenly enlightened. "And you come here and accuse me on conjecture? I ought to feel supremely indebted to you, Alfred Dobie."
"What they do say--that is not conjecture--is, that it was you who preceded Basil's son into the Keep."
"Who says it?"
"Basil's son said it, and thought it: it was only that that took him in, poor fellow. The landlord of the inn here, John Bent, saw it and says it."
"But John Bent was mistaken. And you have only his word, remember, for asserting what Basil's son saw or said."
Squire Dobie paused, looking full at his host, as if he could gather by looks whether he was deceiving him or not.
"Was it, or was it not you, who went into the Keep, James Castlemaine?"
"It was not. I have said from the first, I repeat it to you now, that I was not near the Keep that night: unless you call Teague's Hutt near it. As a matter of fact, the Hutt is near it, of course; but we estimate distances relatively----"
"I know how near it is," interrupted Squire Dobie. "I came round that way just now, up the lane; and took sounding of the places."
"Good. I went down to Teague's that night--you have no doubt heard all about the why and the wherefore. I smoked a pipe with Teague while making the arrangements to go for a sail with him on the morrow; and I came straight back again from the Hutt here, getting home at half-past eleven. I hear that Teague says he watched me up the lane: which I am sure I was not conscious of."
"You were at home here by half-past eleven?" spoke Squire Dobie.
"It had not gone the half hour."
"And did not go down the lane again?"
"Certainly not. I had nothing to go for. On the following morning, before it was light, I was roused from my bed by tidings of the death of my brother Peter, and I went off at once to Stilborough."
"Poor Peter!" exclaimed the Squire. "What a nice steady young fellow he was!--just the opposite of Basil. And what a name he afterwards made for himself!"
"When I returned to Greylands in the afternoon," quietly went on Mr. Castlemaine, "and found that Anthony was said to have disappeared unaccountably, and that my name was being bandied about in connection with it, you may imagine my astonishment."
"Yes, if you were really ignorant."
The Master of Greylands half rose from his chair, and then resumed it. His spirit, subdued hitherto, was quickening.
"Forbearance has its limits, Squire Dobie; so has courtesy. Will you inform me by what right you come into my house and persist in these most offensive and aspersive questions?"
"By the right of my former friendship for your brother Basil. I have no children of my own: never had any; and when I heard this tale, my heart warmed to poor Basil's son: I resolved to take up his cause, and try to discover what had become of him."
"Pardon me, that does not give you the right to intrude here with these outspoken suspicions."
"I think it does. The suspicions are abroad, James Castlemaine; ignore the fact to yourself as you may. Your name is cautiously used: people must be cautious, you know: not used at all perhaps in any way that could be laid hold of. One old fellow, indeed, whispered a pretty broad word; but caught it up again when half said."
"Who was he?" asked the Master of Greylands.
"I'll be shot if I tell you. John Bent? No, that it was not: John Bent seems as prudent as the rest of them. Look here, James Castlemaine: if an impression exists against you, you must not blame people, but circumstances. Look at the facts. Young Anthony comes over to claim his property which you hold, believing it to be his. You tell him it is not his, that it is yours; but you simplytellhim this; you do not, in spite of his earnest request, prove it to him. There's bad blood between you: at any rate, there is on your side; and you have an open encounter in a field, where you abuse him and try to strike him. That same night he and John Bent, being abroad together, see you cross the road from this Chapel Lane, that leads direct from your house, you know, and enter the Friar's Keep; young Anthony runs over in your wake, and enters it also: and from that blessed moment he is never seen by mortal eyes again. People outside hear a shot and a scream--and that's all. Look dispassionately at the circumstances for yourself, and see if they do not afford grounds for suspicion."
"If all the facts were true--yes. The most essential link in them is without foundation--that it was I who went into the Friar's Keep. Let me put a question to you--what object can you possibly suppose I should have in quitting my house at midnight to pay a visit to that ghostly place?"
"I don't know. It puzzles everybody."
"If John Bent is really correct in his assertions, that some one did cross from the lane to the Friar's Keep, I can only assume it to have been a stranger. No inhabitant of Greylands, as I believe and now assure you Squire Dobie, would voluntarily enter that place in the middle of the night. It has an ill reputation for superstition: all kinds of ghostly fancies attach to it. I should about as soon think of quitting my house at night to pay a visit to the moon as to the Friar's Keep."
Squire Dobie sat in thought. All this was more than plausible; difficult to discredit. He began to wonder whether he had not been hard upon James Castlemaine.
"What is your opinion upon the disappearance?" he asked. "You must have formed one."
Mr. Castlemaine lifted his dark eyebrows.
"I can't form one," he said. "Sometimes I have thought Anthony must have attempted to run down the rocks by the uncertain path from the chapel ruins, and have perished in the sea; at others I think he may have left Greylands voluntarily that night, and will some day or other reappear again as unexpectedly. His father Basil was given to these impromptu flights, you know."
"But this is all supposition?"
"Undoubtedly it is. Who was it, then, they watched into the Keep, you ask?--that is the least-to-be-accounted-for statement of all. My opinion is that no one entered it; that John Bent's eyesight deceived him."
"And now one more question, James," resumed the Squire, insensibly returning to the more familiar appellation of former days: "is Greylands' Rest yours, or was it left to Basil?"
"It is mine."
"Did it come to you by will?"
For a moment Mr. Castlemaine hesitated before giving an answer. The persistent questioning annoyed him; and yet he did not know how to escape it.
"It became mine by deed of gift."
"Why did you not show the deed to Anthony?"
"I might have done so had he waited. He was too impatient. Ishouldhave done it:" and the emphasis here was marked. "To no one save yourself have I acknowledged so much, Squire Dobie. I recognize in none the right to question me."
Squire Dobie rose, taking his hat and stick from the side-table where he had laid them, and held out his hand to Mr. Castlemaine.
"If you are an innocent man, James, and I have said what cannot be justified, I heartily beg your pardon. Perhaps time will clear up the mystery. Meanwhile, if you will come over to Dobie Hall, and bring your family to stay a few days, I shall be glad to welcome you. Who was that nice-looking, delicate featured woman with the light hair?"
"With the light hair?--oh, my little daughter's governess. Madame Guise; a French lady."
"And the very pretty girl who was sitting by you?"
"Miss Reene. She is my wife's stepdaughter."
Squire Dobie took his departure, Mr. Castlemaine walking with him to the hall-door. When outside, the Squire stood for an instant as if deliberating which way to choose--the avenue, or the obscure by-way of Chapel Lane. He took the latter.
"I'll see this Commodore Teague and hear his version of it," he said to himself as he went on. "James Castlemaine speaks fairly, but doubts of him still linger on my mind: though why they should I know not."
Walking briskly up the lane, as he turned into it, came a tall, handsome young fellow, who bore a great resemblance to the Castlemaines. Squire Dobie accosted him.
"You should be James Castlemaine's son, young man."
Harry stopped.
"I am the son of the Master of Greylands."
"Ay. Can't mistake a Castlemaine. I am Squire Dobie. You've heard of the Dobies?"
"Oh dear, yes. I knew Mr. Tom Dobie and the old Squire."
"To be sure. Well, there's only me left of them. I have been to pay a visit to your father."
"I hope you found him at home, sir."
"Yes, and have been talking with him. Well you are a fine young fellow: over six feet, I suppose. I wish I had a son like you! Was that poor cousin of yours, young Anthony--who seems to have vanished more mysteriously than anybody ever vanished yet--was he a Castlemaine?"
"Not in height: he was rather short. But he had a regular Castlemaine face; as nice-looking as they say my Uncle Basil used to be."
"What has become of him?"
"I don't know. I wish I did know!" Harry added earnestly.
They parted. That this young fellow had borne no share in the business, and would be glad to find its elucidation, Squire Dobie saw. Turning down the little path, when he came to it, that led to the Hutt, he knocked at the door.
Commodore Teague was at dinner: taking it in the kitchen to save trouble. But he had the free and easy manners of a sailor, and ushered his unknown guest in without ceremony, and gave him the best seat, while the Squire introduced himself and his object in calling.
Squire Dobie?--come to know about that there business of young Mr. Castlemaine's, and how he got lost and where he went to: well, in his opinion it was all just moonshine. Yes, moonshine; and perhaps it might be also Squire Dobie's opinion that it was moonshine, if he could get to the top and bottom of it. Couldn't be a doubt that the young man had come out o' the Keep after going into it--'twarn't likely he'd stay long in that there ghostly place--and went off somewhere of his own accord. That's what he, Jack Teague, thought: though he'd not answer for it, neither, that the young fellow might not have made a false step on the slippery rock path, and gone head foremost down to Davy Jones's locker. The shot and scream? Didn't believe there ever was a scream that night; thought John Bent dreamt it; and the shot came from him, Teague; after cleaning his gun he loaded it and fired it off. The most foolish thing in it all was to suspect the Master of Greylands of marching into the Keep. As if he'd want to go there at midnight! or at any other time, for the matter of that. Mr. Castlemaine went away from his place between eleven and half-after; and he, Jack Teague, saw him go up the lane towards his house with his own eyes: 'twarn't likely he'd comedownit again for the purpose of waylaying young Anthony, or what not.
Now, this was the substance of all that the anxious old friend of Basil Castlemaine could obtain from Commodore Teague. The Commodore seemed to be a rough, honest, jovial-speaking man, incapable of deceit, or of double dealing: and, indeed, as Squire Dobie asked himself, why should he be guilty of it in this matter? He went away fair puzzled, not knowing what to think; and leaving the savoury smell, proceeding from the Commodore's stew getting cold on the table. But why it should have pleased the Commodore to favour Squire Dobie with the rough and ready manners, the loose grammar, he used to the common people of Greylands, instead of being the gentleman that he could be when he chose, was best known to himself.
Crossing the road, as he emerged from the lane, the Squire entered the chapel ruins, and went to the edge of the land there. He saw the narrow, tortuous, and certainly, for those who had not a steady foot and head, dangerous path that led down to the strip of beach below: which beach was not discernible now, for it was high water. The path was rarely trodden by man: the ill reputation of the Friar's Keep kept the village away from it: and, otherwise, there was no possible inducement to tempt men down it. Neither, as some instinct taught Squire Dobie, had it been taken that night by young Anthony Castlemaine.
Madam Guise sat buried in a reverie. Ethel was reading a French book aloud; Flora was practising: but Madame, supposed to be listening to both, heard neither the one nor the other.
Every minute of the hours that had passed since she saw the diamond ring of her unfortunate husband concealed in Mr. Castlemaine's bureau had been one of agony. The fright and horror she had experienced in the search was also telling upon her: her head ached, her pulses throbbed, her brain was fevered: and but for the dread of drawing attention to herself, that, in her nervousness, she feared might lead to suspicion, she would have pleaded illness and asked permission to remain that day in her chamber. No one but herself knew how she shrunk from Mr. Castlemaine: she could not be in the same room with him without feeling faint; to sit next to him at the dinner-table, to be inadvertently touched by him, was nothing less than torture. The finding of the ring was a proof to her that her husband had in truth met with the awful fate suspected; the concealment of the ring in the bureau, a sure and certain sign that Mr. Castlemaine was its author. When they were intruded upon at table by Squire Dobie with his accusing words, Charlotte Guise had been scarcely able to suppress her emotion. Mr. Castlemaine, in catching sight of the pallor of her face, had attributed it simply to the abrupt mention of the disagreeable subject: could he have suspected its true cause he had been far more put out than even by Squire Dobie's words. An idea had crossed Charlotte Guise--what if she were to declare herself to this good old gentleman, and beseech him to take up her cause.
But she did not dare. It was this she was thinking of now, when she ought to have been attending to Miss Flora's imperfect fingering. There were reasons why she might not; why, as she clearly saw, it might do her harm instead of good. With the one sole exception of the ring, there was no shadow of proof against Mr. Castlemaine: and upon the first slight breathing of hostilities, how quickly might he not do away with the ring for ever! And, once let it be declared that she was Anthony's wife, that her chief business in the house was to endeavour to track out the past, she would be expelled from it summarily and the door closed against her. How could she pursue her search then? No, she must not risk it; she must bury the ring in silence, and stay at her post.
"Ishouldthink I've practised long enough, for one afternoon, Madame!"
Flora gave a final dash at the keys as she spoke--enough to set a stoic's teeth on edge. Madame looked up languidly.
"Yes, you may shut the piano. My headache is painful and I cannot properly attend to you."
No need of further permission. Flora shut down the lid with a bang, and disappeared. Ethel closed her book.
"I beg your pardon for my thoughtlessness, Madame Guise. I ought not to have read to you: I forgot your headache. Can I get you anything for it?"
"Your reading has not hurt me at all, my dear. No, nothing: only time will cure me."
Ethel, who had moved to the window, and was standing at it suddenly burst into a laugh.
"I was thinking of that old gentleman's surprise," she said, "when he saw me here. His looks expressed it. Where do you think he had seen me to-day before, Madame Guise?"
The mention of the old gentleman--Squire Dobie--aroused Madame's interest. She lifted her languid head quickly. "I do not know."
"In Mrs. Bent's best kitchen, stoning raisins. I went into the Dolphin to get something for mamma, and began to help Mrs. Bent to do them, for she said she should be late with her pudding. Old Squire Dobie came in and saw me at them. When he found me at home here at dinner, I know he was puzzled."
"What a--strange manner he had;--what curious things he said to Mr. Castlemaine!" spoke Madame, seizing upon the opportunity.
"Yes," said Ethel, flushing scarlet. "I thought him very rude."
"He seemed to think that--that the young Mr. Anthony I have heard tell of was really killed in secret."
"You cannot help people thinking things."
"And by Mr. Castlemaine."
"It was very wrong of him; it must be very foolish. I wonder papa took it so calmly."
"Youdo not think it could be so then?"
"I!Is it likely, Madame Guise?"
"But suppose--my dear Miss Ethel, suppose some one were to tell you that it was so: that they had proof of it?"
"Proof of what?"
"Proof that Mr. Castlemaine did know what became of An--of the Mr. Anthony: proof that harm came to him?"
"I should laugh at them," said Ethel.
"And not believe it?"
"No, never."
Ethel left the room with the last words: perhaps to avoid the topic. Madame thought so, and sighed as she looked after her. It was only natural she thought: when we are fond of people we neither care to hear ill spoken of them, nor believe the ill; and Ethel was very fond of Mr. Castlemaine. Charlotte Guise did not wonder: but for this dreadful suspicion, she would have liked him herself. In fact she had insensibly began to like him, in spite of her prejudices, until this new and most convincing proof of his guilt was discovered in his bureau: the search for which had cost her conscience so much to set about, had taxed her fears so cruelly in the act, and was giving her so intense a torment now. "I wonder what will come of it all in the end?" she cried with a slight shiver. "Qui vivre, verra."
One of the Grey Sisters appeared at Greylands' Rest by-and-by, bringing up little Marie Guise. It was Sister Ruth. Mrs. Castlemaine had graciously invited the child to take tea with her mother. But Mrs. Castlemaine was one who rarely did a kindness without some inward motive--generally a selfish one. Marie was beginning to speak a little English now; but never willingly; never when her French could be by any possibility understood. To her mother she invariably spoke in French; and Mrs. Castlemaine had made the private discovery that, to hear the child and her mother speak together, might improve Flora's accent. So Madame Guise was quite at liberty to have Maxie up to tea as often as she liked.
"Do you remember your papa, dear?" asked Mrs. Castlemaine in English, as they sat round the tea-table; Mr. Castlemaine having gone to dine at the Dolphin.
"Sais pas, responded Marie shyly, hanging her head at the question.
"Do you like England better than France, Marie?" went on Mrs. Castlemaine.
"Sais pas," repeated the child unwillingly, as if she meant to cry.
"How is the little burnt girl? Better?"
"Sais pas, moi."
Evidently it was profitless work, the examining of Miss Marie Guise. Ethel laughed, and began talking to her in French. At best, she was but a timid little thing.
Madame Guise started at the dusk hour to take her home; proceeding to the front, open way, down the wide avenue and the high road. At the door of the Dolphin stood Mrs. Bent, a large cooking apron tied round her waist. She was wiping a cut-glass jug with a soft cloth, and apparently had stepped to the door while giving some directions to Ned, the man: who stood ready to run off somewhere without his hat.
"Mind, Ned; the very best mocha. And unless it is the best, don't bring it. I'd sooner use what I've got in the house."
Ned started off across the road in the direction of the beach: no doubt to Pike, the grocer's. Mrs. Bent was whisking in again, when she caught sight of Madame Guise and the little Marie.
"You are busy this evening," said Madame.
"We've got a dinner on," replied Mrs. Bent stooping to kiss Marie, of whom she had grown very fond during the child's sojourn and illness at the inn. "And I had no notice of it till midday--which of course makes one all the busier. I like to get things forward the day beforehand, and not leave 'em to the last minute: but if you don't know of it you can't do that."
"A dinner?--Yes, I think I heard it said at home that Mr. Castlemaine was dining at the Dolphin."
"He is here, for one. There are five of them altogether. Captain Scott--some grand man he is, they say, who goes about to look up the coastguard in places; and Superintendent Nettleby; and Mr. Blackett of the Grange. Lawyer Knivett of Stilborough makes the fifth, a friend of Captain Scott's. And I must run in, ma'am, for I'm wanted ten ways at once this evening."
Madame Guise passed on to the Nunnery, and entered it with the child. Sister Betsey shook her head, intimating that it was late for the little one to come in, considering that she had not long recovered from an illness: and she took her away at once.
This left Madame Guise alone with Miss Castlemaine. Mary Ursula sat away from the light, doing nothing: an unusual thing, for the Sisters made it a point to be always employed. The muslin cap was on her bright hair; her mourning dress, all crape, handsomer than was strictly consistent with the plain ideas of the community, fell in soft folds around her. These costly robes of Sister Mary Ursula's had been somewhat of a stumbling block in her change of existence: but, as all the Sisters said, it would be a sin against thrift to do away with them before they were worn out.
"You are thinking me very idle," she said to Madame Guise in a light tone of half apology for being caught with her hands before her. "But the truth is, I am feeling very tired this evening; unequal to work. I had a sleepless night, and got up with headache this morning."
"I too, had a sleepless night," said Madame Guise, forgetting caution in the sympathy of the moment. "Troubles were tormenting me."
"What troubles have you?" asked Mary Ursula in a kind, gentle tone. "You are satisfied with the care the Sisters give your little one?"
"Oh quite; quite. I am sure she is happy here."
"And you have told me that she and you are alone in the world."
Madame Guise untied her bonnet, and laid it on the chair beside her, before replying.
"Most of us have our troubles in one shape or another, I expect; sometimes they are of a nature that we do not care to speak of. It is that thing that the English call a skeleton in a closet. But--pardon me, Miss Castlemaine--you and I are both young to have already found the skeleton."
"True," said Mary Ursula: and for a moment she was silent from delicacy, intending to drop the subject. But her considerate goodness of heart induced her to speak at again.
"You are a lonely exile here, Madame: the land and its people are alike strange to you. If you have any source of trouble or care that it would be a comfort to you to share with another, or that I could in any way help to alleviate, impart it to me. You shall find me a true friend."
Just for one delusive instant, the impulse to take this grand and sweet and kindly lady into her confidence; to say to her I am trying to trace out my poor husband's fate; swayed Charlotte Guise. The next, she remembered that it must not be; that she was Miss Castlemaine, the niece of that great enemy.
"You are only too good and kind," she rejoined in a sad, faint tone. "I wish I could; I should ask nothing better: but there are some of our burthens we must bear alone."
"Are you quite comfortable at Greylands' Rest?" asked Mary Ursula, unable to repress the suspicion that Mrs. Castlemaine's temper or her young daughter's insolence might be rendering the governess's place a trying one.
"Yes--pretty well. That is, I should be," she hastily added, speaking on the impulse of the moment, "if I were quite sure the house was an honest one."
"The house an honest one!" echoed Mary Ursula in undisguised astonishment, a haughty flush dying her face. "What do you mean?"
"Ah, pardon me, madam!--It may be that I mistake terms--I am not English. I did not mean to say it was a thief's house."
"But what do you mean?"
Madame Guise looked full at the questioner. She spoke after a short consideration, dropping her voice to a half whisper.
"I would like to know--to feel sure--that Mr. Castlemaine did not do anything with that poor young man, his nephew."
Mary Ursula sat half confounded--the rejoinder was so very unexpected, the subject so entirely disagreeable.
"At least, Madame Guise, that cannot be any affair of yours."
"You are angry with me, madam; your words are cold, your tones resentful. The first evening that I arrived at Greylands I chanced to hear about that young man. Mollee, the servant at the inn, came up to help me make the tisane for my little child, and she talked. She told of the young man's strange disappearance, saying he was supposed to have been murdered: and that Mr. Castlemaine knew of it. Ah, it had a great effect upon me, that history; I was cold and miserable, and my little one was ill: I could not get it away from my mind."
"I think you might have done so by this time," frigidly remarked Mary Ursula.
"But it comes up now and again," she rejoined, "and that keeps alive the remembrance. Events bring it up. Only to-day, when we had not left the dinner-table, some stranger came pushing his way into the room behind Miles, asking Mr. Castlemaine what he had done with Basil's son, young Anthony. It put Mr. Castlemaine out; I saw his face change; and he sent us all from the room."
Mary Ursula forgot her coldness. It was this very subject that had deprived her past night of sleep: though she could no more confess it to Madame Guise than the latter could confess. The two were playing unconsciously at hide-and-seek with one another.
"Who was the stranger, Madame Guise?"
"Mr. Castlemaine called him Squire Dobie. They were together ever so long. Mr. Castlemaine, I say, did not like it; one might see that. Oh, when I think of what might have happened that night to the young Anthony, it makes me shudder."
"The best thing you can do isnotto think of it, Madame Guise. It is nothing to you, one way or the other. And it is scarcely in good taste for you to be suspicious of Mr. Castlemaine while you are eating his bread. Rely upon it, when this matter shall have been cleared up--if it ever be cleared--Mr. Castlemaine will be found as good and honest as you are."
The bell for the Sisters' supper rang clanging out. Madame Guise put her bonnet on, and rose.
"Do forgive me," she whispered with deprecation. "I might not to have mentioned it to you; I did not wish to offend, or to hurt your feelings. But I am very lonely here; I have but my own heart to commune with."
"And thoughts are free," reflected Mary Ursula. "It was only natural that the mysterious story should lay hold of her." And in heart she excused the stranger.
"Be at ease," she said, taking Madame's hand. "Dismiss it from your mind. It is not a thing that need trouble you."
"Not trouble me!" repeated Madame Guise to herself as she went through the gate. "It is me alone that it ought to trouble, of all in the wide world."
She turned to the right, intending to go home by Chapel Lane, instead of crossing to the broad open front road; but to pass the Friar's Keep at any period of the day, and especially at night, had for Charlotte Guise an irresistible fascination. Some instinct within her, whether false or true, was always whispering that it was there she must seek for traces of her husband.
She reached the gate of the chapel ruins, hesitated, and then entered it. The same fascination that drew her to pass the Friar's Keep on her road home, caused her to enter the ruins that led to the place. A shiver, induced by nervousness, took her as she closed the gate behind her; and she did not pass into the Keep, but crossed over to the edge of the cliff. The sea and the boats on it seemed like so much company.
Not that many boats could be seen. Just two or three, fishing lower down beyond the village, rather far off, in fact; but their lights proved that they were there, and it made her feel less lonely. It was not a very light night: no moon, and the stars did not shine over brightly; but the atmosphere was clear, and the moss-covered wall of the Friar's Keep with its gothic door might be seen very distinctly.
"If I only dared go in and search about!--with a lantern or something of that!" she said to herself, glancing sideways at it. "I might come upon some token, some bit of his dress, perhaps, that had been torn away in the struggle. For a struggle there must have been. Anthony was brave, and he would not let them take his life without having a fight for it. Unless they shot him without warning!"
Burying her face in her hands, she shudderingly rehearsed over to herself what that struggle had probably been. It was foolish of her to do this, for it gave her unnecessary pain: but she had got into the habit of indulging these thoughts instead of checking them; and perhaps they came unbidden. You must not cherish your sorrow, we say to some friend who is overwhelmed with grief and despair. No, answers the poor sufferer: but how can I help it? Just so was it with Charlotte Guise. Day by day, night by night, she saw only her husband and his unhappy fate; she was as a sick person in some fever dream, whose poor brain has seized hold of one idea and rambles upon it for ever.
"There's the ring in Mr. Castlemaine's bureau!--and if I could find some other token of his person here, elucidation might come of it," she resumed, lifting her head. "A button; a glove; a torn bit of cloth?--I should know them all. It ispénibleto continue to lead this false life! As I am, unknown, I can do nothing. I may not even ask John Bent to let me take just one look at his dear effects, or as much as open the lid of his small desk. While I am Madame Guise, it is no affair of mine, I should be told; I must not concern myself with it: but if I might show to the world that I am Charlotte Castlemaine, the right would be all mine. It is awkward; because I may not show it to them: and I can only search out traces in secret; that Friar's Keep may hold proofs of what his fate has been, if I could but go in and look for them."
She turned her head towards the old building, but not very courageously: at the best, it was but a ghostly-looking place at night: and then turned it back and gazed out to sea again.
"No. I should not have the bravery to go in alone; even if I could secure a lantern. There's that revenant that comes; and it might appear to me. I saw it as distinctly last night from Mr. Castlemaine's window as I ever saw anything in my life. And if I were in the place, and it appeared to me, I should die of fear.--I think I half died of fear last night when I heard the voice of Mr. Harry," she went on, after a pause: "there was he, before me, and there was the revenant, over here, behind me; and----"
Some sound behind her at this moment nearly made Charlotte Guise start out of her skin. When buried in ghostly visions--say, for instance, in reading a frightful tale alone at night--we all know how a sudden noise will shake the nerves. The gate was opening behind Charlotte, and the fright sent her bang against the wall. There she cowered in the corner, her black clothes drawn round her, suppressing the cry that would have risen to her lips, and, praying to escape detection.
She did escape it. Thanks to the shade cast by the angle of projecting wall, and to her dark clothes, she remained unseen. It was Harry Castlemaine who had entered. He advanced to the edge of the cliff, but not near to her, and stood there for a few moments, apparently looking out to sea. Then he pushed open the gothic door, and passed into the Friar's Keep.
What was Charlotte Guise to do? Should she make a dart for the gate, to get away, running the risk of his coming out again and pouncing upon her; or should she stay where she was until he had gone again? She decided for the former, for her present situation was intolerable. After all, if he did see her, she must make the excuse that she had crossed the ruins to take a look at the beautiful sea: he could not surely suspect anything from that!
But this was not to be accomplished. She was just about to glide away from her hiding place, when the gate again opened, and some other figure, after looking cautiously about, came gliding into the ruins. A woman's light figure, enveloped in a dark cloak, its hood concealing the head and partly the face. It crossed the ruins cautiously, with a side look steadily directed to the Keep door, as if to guard against surprise, and then stood at the edge, under cover of the Keep, gazing attentively out to sea. Madame Guise was at the opposite corner close to the wall of the Nunnery, and watched all this. By the glimpse of the profile turned sideways to her, she thought it was the young girl they called Jane Hallet.
Slowly turning away from the sea, the girl was apparently about to steal back again, when she suddenly drew herself flat against the old moss-eaten wall of the Friar's Keep, and crouched down there. At the same moment, Harry Castlemaine came out of the Keep, strode with a quick step to the gate, and passed through it. The girl had evidently heard him coming out, and wished to avoid him. He crossed the road to Chapel Lane; and she, after taking another steady look across the sea, quitted the ruins also, and went scuttering down the hill in the direction of her home.
Charlotte Guise breathed again. Apart from her husband's disappearance and the tales of the revenant she so dreaded, Charlotte could not help thinking that things connected with the Friar's Keep looked romantic and mysterious. Giving ample time for Harry Castlemaine to have got half way up the lane on his road home, she entered the lane herself, after glancing up at the two windows, behind which the Grey Friar was wont to appear. All was dark and silent there to-night. She had not gone ten paces up the lane, when quick, firm footsteps were heard behind her: those of the Master of Greylands. Not caring to encounter him, still less that he should know she chose that lonely road for returning home at night, she drew aside among the trees while he passed. He turned down to the Hutt, and Madame Guise went hastening onwards.
Mr. Castlemaine was on his way homewards from the dinner at the Dolphin. When the party broke up, he had given his arm to Nettleby the superintendent; who had decidedly taken as much as he could conveniently carry. It pleased the Master of Greylands, in spite of his social superiority, to make much of the superintendent as a general rule; he was always cordial with him. Captain Scott had taken the same--for in those days hard drinking was thought less ill of than it is in these--and had fallen fast asleep in one of John Bent's good old-fashioned chairs. As Mr. Castlemaine came out of the superintendent's gate after seeing him safely indoors, he found Lawyer Knivett there.
"Why, Knivett, is it you?" he exclaimed. "I thought you and the captain were already on your road to Stilborough."
"Time enough," replied the lawyer. "Will you take a stroll on the beach? It's a nice night."
Mr. Castlemaine put his arm within the speaker's, and they crossed over in that direction. Both of them were sober as judges. It was hardly light enough to see much of the beauty of the sea; but Mr. Knivett professed to enjoy it, saying he did not get the chance of its sight or its breezes at Stilborough. In point of fact, he had something to say to the Master of Greylands, and did not care to enter upon the subject abruptly.
"Weary work, it must be, for those night fishermen!" remarked the lawyer, pointing to two or three stationary lights in the distance.
"They are used to it, Knivett."
"I suppose so. Use goes a great way in this life. By the way, Mr. Castlemaine--it has just occurred to me--I wish you'd let me give you a word of advice, and receive it in good part."
"What is it? Speak out."
"Could you not manage to show the deed of tenure by which you own Greylands' Rest?" pursued the lawyer, insensibly dropping his voice.
"I suppose I could if I chose," replied Mr. Castlemaine, after a scarcely perceptible pause.
"Then I should recommend you to do so. I have wanted to say this to you for some little time; but the truth is, I did not know how you would take it."
"Whyhave you wanted to say it to me?"
"Well--the fact is, people are talking. People will talk, you know--great idiots! If you could contrive to let somebody see the deed--of course you'd not seem to show it purposely--by which you hold the property, the world would be convinced that you had no cause to--to wish young Anthony out of the way, and would stop its blatant tongue.Do so, Mr. Castlemaine."
"I conclude you mean to insinuate that the world is sayingIput Anthony out of the way."
"Something of that. Oh, people are foolish simpletons at the best. Of course, there's nothing in it; they are sure of that; but, don't you perceive, once let them know that young Anthony's pretensions had not a leg to stand upon, and they'd see there was no mo----in fact, they'd shut up at once," broke off the lawyer, feeling that he might be treading on dangerous ground. "If you have the deed at hand, let it be seen one of these first fine days by some worthy man whose word can be taken."
"And that would stop the tongues you say?"
"Undoubtedly it would. It would be a proof that you, at least, could have no motive for wishing Anthony elsewhere," added the lawyer more boldly.
"Then, listen to my answer, Knivett: NO. I will never show it for any such purpose; never as long as I live. If the world likes to talk, let it talk."
"It does talk," urged the lawyer ruefully.
"It is quite welcome to talk, for me. I am astonished at you, Knivett; you might have known me better than to suggest such a thing. But that you were so valued by my father, and respected by me, I should have knocked you down."
The haughty spirit of the Master of Greylands had been aroused by the insinuation: he spoke coldly, proudly, and resentfully. Mr. Knivett knitted his brow: but he had partly expected this.
"The suggestion was made in friendliness," he said.
"Of course. But it was a mistake. We will forget it, Knivett."
They shook hands in silence. Mr. Knivett crossed over to the inn, where the fly waited to convey himself and Captain Scott to Stilborough; and the Master of Greylands had then commenced his walk homewards, taking the road that would lead him through Chapel Lane.