It was yet early morning. The sky was darkly blue, the sea indolent and calm, the air intensely hot. Mr. George North, sitting on the bench outside the Dolphin Inn, his straw hat tilted over his brows, gazed at the placid sea before him, and felt as lazy as was the atmosphere.
He had slept well, and breakfasted to his perfect content. Young, sanguine, healthy, the mystery encompassing his brother Anthony's fate had not sufficed to break his rest. The more than hinted-at doubts of Charlotte Guise--that Anthony had been vat out of the world for ever by Mr. Castlemaine--failed to find their response in George North's mind. The mere thought of it appeared to him to be absurd: the suspicion far-fetched and impossible; the implied doubt of the Master of Greylands little less than a libel on the name of Castlemaine. Men of the world are inclined to be practical in their views, rather than imaginative: and the young and hopeful look ever on the bright side of all things.
That Anthony's disappearance was most unaccountable, George North felt; his continued absence, if indeed he still lived, was more strange still. There was very much to be unravelled in connection with that past February night, and George North intended to do his best to bring its doings to light: but that his brother had been destroyed in the dreadful manner implied, he could not and would not believe. Without giving credit to anything so terrible, there existed ground enough, ay and more than enough, for distrust and uncertainty. And, just as his sister-in-law, poor bereaved Charlotte, had taken up her abode at Greylands under false colours, to devote herself to search out the mystery of that disappearance within the Friar's Keep, so did George North resolve to take up his. Nothing loth, was he, to make a sojourn there. Had Anthony presented himself before him at that moment, safe and well, George would still have felt inclined to stay; for the charms of Ethel Reene had made anything but a transient impression on him. The world was his own, too; he had no particular home in it; Greylands was as welcome to him as an abode as any other resting-place.
John Bent came forth from the open door to join his guest. Landlords and their ways in those days were different folks from what they are in these. He wore no waistcoat under his loose linen coat, and his head was bare.
"A nice stretch of water, that, sir," he said, respectfully, indicating the wide sea, shining out in the distance.
"It is indeed," replied George North. "I think the place is a nice place altogether. That sea, and the cliff, rising up there, would be worth sketching. And there must be other pretty spots also."
"True enough, sir."
"I feel inclined to bring over my pencils and take up my quarters with you for a bit, and sketch these places. What do you say to it, Mr. Bent?"
"There's nothing I could say, sir, but that it would give me and my wife pleasure if you did. We'd try and make you comfortable."
"Ay; I don't fear but you'd do that. Well, I think I shall go to Stilborough and bring back my rattletraps. I saw a charming bit of scenery yesterday when I went to call on the French lady. It is an archway covered with ivy: looking through the opening, you catch a view of a cottage with a back-ground of trees. There was a small rustic bridge also not far off, lying amid trees, and a stream of water running under it, the whole dark and sheltered. These spots would make admirable sketches."
"No doubt, sir," returned John Bent by way of answer. "But you'd have to crave the leave of the Master of Greylands before making them. And that leave might not be easy to get."
"Why not?"
"They be on his land, sir."
"What of that? Surely he would not deny it! The great Creator has not been churlish in making this world beautiful--should one man wish to keep any part of it for the enjoyment of his own sole eyesight?"
John Bent gave his head a shake. "I don't think it is that Mr. Castlemaine would do that, sir; he is not so selfish as that comes to; but he does not like to see strangers about the place. He'd keep all strange folks out of Greylands if he could: that's my belief."
"Why should he?"
"It's just his pride and his exclusive temper, sir."
"But I thought I had heard Mr. Castlemaine described as a generous man; a pleasant-tempered man," remarked Mr. North.
"Well, and so he is, sir, when he chooses to be," confessed the landlord; "I don't say to the contrary. In many things he is as easy and liberal as a man can be. But in regard to having strangers about his land, or in the place either, he is just a despot. And I think the chances are ten to one, sir, against your getting leave to sketch any spot of his."
"I can bat ask. If he refuses me, well and good. Of course I should not attempt to defy him--though I am by no means sure that he, or any one else, has the legal power to deny our copying nature's works, in man's possession though they may be. Never mind. Enough free objects will be left for me: such as that cliff, for example, and that glorious sea."
Mr. North rose as he spoke. At that same moment two of the Grey Ladies were crossing over from the Nunnery. Only one of them wore the dress of the community, Sister Margaret. The other was Miss Castlemaine, in her flowing mourning robes. Each of the ladies smiled kindly and gave the good-morrow to John Bent. George North lifted his straw hat with reverence, and kept it off until they should have passed.
Possibly the action, so uncharacteristic of most Englishmen, attracted particularly the attention of Mary Ursula. Bending slightly her head to acknowledge the courtesy, her eyes rested on the young man's face. Whether it was his action, whether it was anything she saw in the face that struck on her, certain it was that she half stopped to gaze upon him. She said nothing, however, but passed on.
"What a magnificent young woman!" cried Mr. North, when the ladies were out of hearing. "She is beautiful. I mean the lady in mourning: not the Sister."
"She is that, sir. It is Miss Castlemaine."
"Miss Castlemaine! Which Miss Castlemaine?"
"The late banker's daughter, sir. Niece to the Master of Greylands."
An hour later, the ladies went by again on their way homeward. John was outside his door still, but alone, with a white cap on his head. Miss Castlemaine accosted him.
"Who was that gentleman we saw here just now, Mr. Bent?"
"His name's North, madam: he is an artist."
"Thank you," said Miss Castlemaine.
"Why did you inquire?" asked Sister Margaret as they went on.
"Because something in the stranger's face seemed to be familiar to me--as though I had seen it before," replied Mary Ursula.
Meanwhile, Mr. George North, who seemed to do things rather upon impulse--or, at least, not to lose time in putting in practice any resolution he might make--had proceeded to Greylands' Rest to get the permission for sketching any particular bits of scenery he fancied, which might be owned by Mr. Castlemaine. He took the field way; the same way that he and the ladies had taken the previous night, and he was nearly at the end of his journey when he encountered Mr. Castlemaine who was coming forth from his house with Ethel Reene. Mr. North lifted his hat, and approached to accost them.
"I beg your pardon," he said to Mr. Castlemaine, bowing at the same time to Ethel, "I believe I have the honour of speaking to the Master of Greylands."
Mr. Castlemaine recognised him at once, as the young travelling artist whom he had seen the previous day at the Turk's Head; the same who had just been talked of at his breakfast-table. This Mr. George North, it turned out, was a friend of Madame Guise, or, as Madame especially put it, of her late husband's. Agentlemanartist, Madame had said, for he was not dependent on his profession; he had a good patrimony, and was of good family: and Mr. Castlemaine had taken all in unsuspiciously. Apart from anything trenching on the mysteries of that certain February night and of the Friar's Keep, whatever they might be, he was the least suspicious man in the world: and it no more occurred to him to connect this young man and his appearance at Greylands with that unhappy affair, than he had connected Madame with it. Mr. Castlemaine had taken rather fancy to this young artist when at the Turk's Head: he liked the look of his bright face now, as he came up smiling: he warmed to the open, attractive manners.
George North preferred his request. He had come to Greylands the previous day in the two-horse van from Stilborough for the purpose of calling on Madame Guise; he had been struck with the pretty place and with the many charming bits of scenery it presented, fit for the pencil: some of these spots he found belonged to the Master of Greylands; would the Master of Greylands give him permission to sketch them?
And taken, it must be repeated, by the applicant's looks and words; by his winning face, his pleasing voice, his gentlemanly bearing altogether, Mr. Castlemaine gave the permission off-hand, never staying to count the cost of any after suggestions that might arise against it. Artists had come to the place before; they had stayed a week or two and departed again, leaving no traces behind: that the same would be the case with this present one, he never thought to doubt. Mr. North was somewhat different from the others, though; inasmuch as that he was known to Madame Guise (who vouched, so to say, for his being a gentleman) and also that he had gained the liking of Mr. Castlemaine.
Mr. North warmly expressed his thanks for the readily-accorded permission. Ethel had not spoken, but was blushing perpetually as she stood listening to him--and for no cause whatever, she angrily told herself. Mr. North turned to retrace his steps, and they all walked on together.
"You have been acquainted with Madame Guise and her family some time, I find," observed the Master of Greylands. "Knew them abroad."
"Oh yes. Her husband was a dear friend of mine. We were like--" Mr. North hesitated, but brought the suggestive word out, as he had led to it--"like brothers."
"Was there anything peculiar in his death?" asked Mr. Castlemaine. "Madame Guise seems to shrink so much from all mention of the subject that we can hardly help fancying there was: and it is a topic that we cannot question her upon. He died suddenly, she said one day, when some allusion was made to him, and that is all we know. Mrs. Castlemaine observed that she shivered perceptibly as she said it.
"That is what I heard--that he died suddenly," assented Mr. North. "I was roaming about Italy at the time, and did not know of it for some months afterwards. Madame Guise had left for England then. I procured her address; and, being so near, called to see her yesterday."
Mr. Castlemaine slightly nodded--as if this part scarcely needed explanation. "Then you do not know what Monsieur Guise died of, Mr. North? She has not told you?"
"No, she has not. I do not know what he died of. They were very much attached to one another, and her avoidance of the subject may be perhaps natural. He was an estimable young man, and my very good and dear friend."
Thus talking, the fields were traversed and they gained the road. Here their routes lay in opposite directions: that of the Master of Greylands and Ethel to the right, Mr. North's to the left. He was returning to the Dolphin before starting on his walk to Stilborough.
"You are staying at the inn, I presume," observed Mr. Castlemaine to him.
"Yes, I am comfortable there, and the charges are very moderate. I called for my bill this morning."
"Called for your bill! Are you going away?"
"Only to come back again this afternoon. I left my portmanteau and pencils at Stilborough."
"Well, we shall be happy to welcome you at Greylands' Rest whenever you feel inclined to call on Madame Guise," spoke Mr. Castlemaine in parting. "Will you dine with us this evening?"
"Thank you. With very much pleasure."
Mr. Castlemaine cordially shook hands, and turned away. It was rare indeed that the Master of Greylands condescended to be so free with a stranger--or, in fact, with any one. Any previous visiting-artists to the place might have looked in vain for a hand-shake. But his heart warmed to this young man; he knew not why: and there was something in Mr. North's bearing, though it was perfectly respectful to the Master of Greylands, which seemed to testify that he was, and knew himself to be, of the same social standing in society; at least, that gentleman's equal.
But that the propensity, which we all have, to take likes and dislikes seems to obey no rule or law, and is never to be accounted for, it might be noticed as a curious circumstance here. When Mr. Castlemaine first saw the unfortunate Anthony, he had taken a dislike to him. How far the avowed errand of that young man--the putting in a claim to Greylands' Rest--may have conduced to this, cannot be told: Mr. Castlemaine would have said that it had nothing to do with it; that he disliked him by instinct. Most people had seen nothing in Anthony but what was to be liked; ay, and much liked; Mr. Castlemaine was an exception. And yet, here was Anthony's brother (though Mr. Castlemaine knew it not) to whom his heart was going out as it had never yet before gone out to a stranger! Truly these instincts are more capricious than a woman's will!
George North ran into the Dolphin, caught up his umbrella to shield himself from the sun, and started on his hot walk to Stilborough. In the course of the afternoon he was back again with what he was pleased to call his rattletraps--a portmanteau and a sketching-case--having chartered a fly to Greylands. There was no two-horse van at his disposal that afternoon.
"Do you get much of this fiery weather?" he asked, throwing himself down by Mrs. Bent in her sitting-room and his hat on the table, while the landlord saw to his luggage.
"Well, we have our share of it, sir, when it's a hot summer. And this is a very hot one. Just see the sea yonder: even that looks hot."
"I shall take a dip presently and try it," returned Mr. North. "That must be the best of living at the sea-side you get glorious baths."
"You have not told me what you'd like for dinner yet, sir," resumed Mrs. Bent, who was stripping currants into a pan, her face and the currants and the cherry cap-ribbons all one and the same colour.
"Dinner! Why, I am going to dine at Greylands' Rest. Its master asked me."
"Didhe!" cried Mrs. Bent in surprise. "Well, that's a great thing for him to do. He don't favour new-comers, sir."
"He has so far favoured me. I say, Mrs. Bent," added the artist, a laughing look in his bright eyes, "what a pretty girl that is, up there!"
Mrs. Bent raised her own eyes from the stripping, and shot forth an inquiring glance. He was helping himself to the ripest bunches.
"Miss Ethel Reene! Well, so she is, sir, and as good as she is pretty. There's no love lost--as it is said--between her and her stepmother. At any rate, on Mrs. Castlemaine's part. The servants say Miss Ethel gets snubbed and put upon above a bit. She has to give way finely to the little one."
"Who is the little one?--Just look at this large bunch! Twenty on it, I know."
"You'll get a surfeit, sir, if you eat at these sharp currants like that when you are so hot.
"Not I. I never tasted any so good."
"I shall charge you for then, sir," she went on, laughing.
"All right. Charge away. I have heard my father tell a tale of going into a cherry-orchard once when he was a lad, he and three more boys. They paid sixpence each, and eat what they liked. I fancy all four had a surfeit, or something, after that."
"I dare be bound. Boys in a cherry-orchard! Do you get fine currants in France, sir?"
"We get everything that's fine there," responded Mr. North, as well as he could speak for the currants. "But what little one were you talking of, Mrs. Bent?"
"Of Miss Flora, sir: Mrs. Castlemaine's daughter. A troublesome, ill-behaved little chit, she is: always in mischief. The last time we were brewing; it's only a few days ago; my young lady was passing the door and ran in: she went rushing to the brewhouse, and fell backwards into the mash-tub. Fortunately the liquor had been drawn off; but there she was, squealing in the wet grains."
Mr. North laughed, and rose. Abandoning the currants, he put on his hat and went leisurely out to take his plunge in the sea. By-and-by, when Mrs. Bent and John were seated at tea, he came running back in a commotion, his wet towels in his hand.
"Can you tell me at what time they dine at Greylands' Rest?"
"At six o'clock, sir, when they dine late," replied John "Mostly, though, it's in the middle of the day."
"And as often five o'clock as six," put in Mrs. Bent. "The earlier Mrs. Castlemaine dines, the better she likes it. You have not half dried your hair, sir."
"I had no time for superfluous drying," he replied. "It suddenly struck me that I did not know the hour for dinner, and I came off as I could. Is that the right time?" looking at the clock. "A quarter past five?"
"Right to a minute, sir. This clock never fails."
"And you say, Mrs. Bent, that they sometimes dine at five. What will they think of me?"
He went leaping up the stairs, saying something about the thoughtless ways of wandering Arabs--by which the landlord and his wife understood him to mean artists. An incredibly short time, and he was down again, dressed, and striding off to Greylands' Rest.
The first thing Mr. North noticed, on entering the gate of the garden, was the flutter of a white dress amid a nest of trees. It was enough to assure him that the dinner had not begun. He penetrated these trees, attracted by the voices within, and found himself in sight of Ethel Reene, and the young damsel recently spoken of--Miss Flora.
The white dress he had seen was Ethel's. It was an Indian sprigged muslin, set off with black ribbons. Her rich brown hair, so bright in the flicker of sunshine, had nothing to adorn it: her delicate face wore one of its sweetest blushes as he approached. She sat in a kind of grotto formed by the trees, a book resting in her lap while she talked to Flora. That young lady, unmindful of her holiday attire--a costly and very pretty frock of grey silken gauze--for Mrs. Castlemaine had said she might dine at table--was astride on one of the branches. Ethel had in vain told her not to get up there. She jumped down at the sight of Mr. North: the frock was caught, and the result was a woful rent.
"There!" exclaimed Ethel in an undertone, for Mr. North had not quite reached them. "Your beautiful new frock! What a pity! If I were mamma I should never buy you anything but stuff and cotton."
Flora, even, looked down ruefully at the damage: the frock was new, as Ethel said, costly, and beautiful.
"Pin it up, Ethel."
"I have no pins here. Besides, pinning would not hold it. It can only be mended. You had better show it to Eliza."
The spoilt child ran past Mr. North on her way indoors. He came up to Ethel, bowed, and then held his hand out. With another bright and deeper blush she put hers into it.
"I shall get quite the English manners soon," he said, "We do not shake hands much in my country: especially with young ladies. They do not let us."
"Do you call France your country?"
"Well, I am apt to do so, having lived there so much. I have been making great haste here, Miss Reene, not knowing the hour for dinner."
"We dine at six," replied Ethel. "Mamma has but just returned from her drive, and is dressing," she added, as if in apology for being the only one to receive him. "Papa has been out all the afternoon."
"Is Madame Guise well to-day?"
"Not very. She has one of her bad headaches, I am sorry to say, and is in her room. She will be here shortly."
He sat down by Ethel, and took up the book she had been reading; a very old and attractive book indeed--the "Vicar of Wakefield."
"What an excellent story it is!" he exclaimed.
"Have you read it?" asked Ethel, rising to proceed to the house.
"Indeed I have. Twenty times, I should think. My mother had a small store of these old English works, and and my brother revelled in them."
"You have brothers and sisters?"
"Only one sister now. She is married and lives in France."
"Ah, then I can understand why you like to go thither so much," said Ethel, all unconscious that it was his native land; that he had never before been in England. "Is her husband French?"
"Yes," replied Mr. North. "Oh, what a lovely rose!" he cried, halting at a tree they were passing, perhaps to change the conversation.
It was in truth one of rare beauty: small, bright, delicate, and of exquisite fragrance. Ethel, in her impulsive good nature, in her innocent thoughtlessness, plucked it and offered it to him. As he took it from her, their eyes met: in his own shone a strangely-earnest look of gratitude for the gift, mingled with admiration. Poor Ethel became crimson at the thought of what she had done, and would have regained the flower had it been possible. She went on quickly to the glassdoors of the drawing-room; Mr. North followed, placing the rose in his buttonhole.
Madame Guise was entering the room by the inner door at the same moment. Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine soon, appeared; lastly, Miss Flora, in her mended frock. Harry Castlemaine was not at home; some errand, either of business or pleasure, had taken him to Stilborough. Harry had been out a great deal of late: there seemed to be a restlessness upon him, and his father was beginning to notice it.
Mr. North was received (as he heard later from Madame Guise) quite en famille--which pleased him much. No alteration was made in the usual style of dinner: but the dinners at Greylands' Rest were always sufficiently good for chance company. As George North sat at table, watching the master at the head board, he could not bring himself to believe that Charlotte's suspicions were correct. Good-looking, refined, courtly, pleasing, Mr. Castlemaine appeared to be the very last man capable of committing a secret crime. Every other moment some gesture of his, or glance, or tone in the voice, put George North in mind of his father, Basil Castlemaine: and--no, he could not, hecould notjoin in the doubts of poor Anthony's wife.
But he noticed one thing. That ever and anon Mr. Castlemaine would seem to forget where he was, forget his position as host, and fall into a fit of silent abstraction, during which, a curiously-sad expression lay on his face, and his brow was knit as with some painful care. He would rouse himself as soon as he perceived he was mentally absent, and be in an instant the grand, courtly, self-possessed Master of Greylands again. But the fits of gloom did occur, and George North observed them.
Nevertheless, he could not entertain the dread suspicions of his sister-in-law. That a vast deal of mystery attached to his brother's disappearance, and that Mr. Castlemaine was in some degree and manner connected with it, or cognizant of it, he readily saw cause, to recognize: but, of the darker accusation, he believed him to be innocent. And it went with George North very much against the grain to sit at Mr. Castlemaine's hospitable table under false colours, and not to declare the fact that he was his brother Basil's son.
Something of this he said to Madame Guise. Dinner over, the party strolled into the garden, grateful for the little breath of air it brought. Mr. North found himself momentarily alone with Madame, near the grand sweeping elm tree.
"Are you mad, George?" she hastily cried in French and in the deepest alarm, in response to the word or two he whispered. "Wish to declare yourself! not like to be here only as Mr. North! For the love of heaven, recall your senses."
"It is terrible deceit, Charlotte."
"Do you no longer care for your unfortunate brother? Have you lost all remembrance of your love for him?--of the ties of kindred?--of the time when you played together at your mother's knee! Do you think it cost me nothing to come here under a wrong name--that it costs me no self reproaches to be here under sham pretences, I who have as keen a sense of honour as you? But I do it for Anthony's sake; I bear all the feeling of disgrace for him."
"That is just it," said George, "as it seems to me. Disgrace."
"It must be borne--for my sake, and for Anthony's. Were you to say, 'I am George, Anthony's brother,' Mr. Castlemaine would take, alarm; he would turn you out of the house, and me after you: and, rely upon it, we should never, discover more of poor Anthony than we know now. It would still all be uncertain. No, mon ami, go you away from Greylands if you like, and leave me to seek on alone; but, declare yourself you must not. Anthony would rise from his grave at your unnatural conduct."
"Charlotte, you are exciting yourself for nothing," he hastily whispered, for Mrs. Castlemaine was approaching. "I did not say I was going to declare myself; I only said how unpalatable to me is the acting of this deceit. But for Anthony's sake and yours, I would not bear it for a moment; as circumstances are, I must go on with it, and be George North perhaps to the end of the chapter."
"Not to the end," she murmured, "Not to the end. Anthony's fate will be discovered before very long time has elapsed--or my prayers and tears will have found no pity in heaven."
Only at dusk did they go in to tea. Afterwards, Ethel was bade to sing some of her songs. George North--no mean musician himself, and with a soft, pleasant voice of his own--sat by the piano, listening to their melody, gazing through the twilight at her sweet face, and thinking that he had never been so nearly in an earthly paradise.
When he took his departure, they accompanied him to the gate. The stars were out, the night was clear and still, the heat yet excessive. It chanced that he and Ethel walked side by side; it chanced that he held her hand, ay, and pressed it too, longer than he had need have done when he said goodnight. That moment's parting would remain in Ethel's memory for life; the heavy perfume of the flowers lay around them, her heart and pulses were alike beating.
If she and George North had not fallen in love with one another, they were at least on the highroad towards it.
Time had again gone on. It was autumn weather. Mr. George North was making a tolerably long sojourn in the place, and seemed to be passing his days agreeably. Sketching, boating, gossiping; one would have said he had no earthly care. Perhaps he had not--save the one sweet care of making himself acceptable to Ethel Reene.
The fate of each was over and done with long ago, so far as that grand master-passion of the heart went--love. Ethel was helplessly in love with him for all time. "Ma caprice est faite," she might have said to Madame Guise in that lady's native language; and Madame would have opened her eyes to hear it. For in regard to the affection that had sprung up between those two young people, Madame was entirely in the dark. Not very observant by nature, her whole thoughts occupied with the one great trouble of her life, she remained wholly unsuspicious of what was passing in the inner life of those around her.
George North's love for Ethel made his very existence. The purest, truest affection man can feel, beat in his heart for Ethel Reene. To meet, was with both of them the one great event of the day; the hope to be looked forward to when they rose in the morning, the remembrance that glowed within their breasts at night. On the solitary cliffs up by the coastguard station: or down on the sheltered beach of the seashore, towards the Limpets; or amid the lovely scenery where he carried his pencils--in one place or another they were sure to meet. The soft wind seemed to whisper love-songs, the varying tints of the autumn foliage were as the brilliant colours of the trees on the everlasting shores, the very air was fraught with a heavenly perfume; and the world for each was as the Garden of Eden.
Mrs. Castlemaine was no more wise than Madame. She had discerned nothing. Perhaps their first intimacy grew during a few days that she was absent from home. Disappointed of the promised excursion to Paris--for Mr. Castlemaine had allowed the months to go on and on, and did not attempt to enter on it--Mrs. Castlemaine set off on a ten days' visit to some friends in the adjoining county, taking Flora with her. This was close upon the appearance of George North at Greylands. Ethel, left at home under the chaperonage of Madame, saw a good deal of Mr. George North: and the mutual liking, already rising in either heart, perfected itself into love. Long before Mrs. Castlemaine's ten days of absence had come to an end, they were secretly conscious that they were all in all to each other.
Mrs. Castlemaine returned, and neither saw nor suspected anything. Perhaps she was not likely to suspect. People don't go about betraying the most secretive passion man can feel, or write the words, I love, in brazen letters on their foreheads. True love is essentially reticent, hiding itself away from the eye of man within the remotest folds of the shrinking heart. Neither had Mr. North breathed a word to Ethel. He was not prepared to do it. Before he could speak, he must be able to declare his own true name to her and to her step-parents, to say "I am George Castlemaine." And circumstances would not let him do that yet.
He had learned absolutely nothing in regard to his brother's fate: to unravel aught of the mystery attending it seemed to be beyond his power. He had explored, as he believed, every nook and portion of the Friar's Keep; but without success of any kind. It appeared to be a lonely, deserted, and in places a dilapidated building, affording no spots for concealment. There existed not a trace of Anthony; there was nothing to show that he had ever entered it. George North stayed on at the Dolphin, waiting patiently for the elucidation that might or might not come; listening, whenever they met, to his sister-in-law's most persistent belief that itwouldcome: and perfectly contented so to stay on while he could see Ethel and feed his heart's love for her, though the stay had been for ever.
Midnight was striking from the old turret-clock of the Grey Nunnery. Standing at the open window of her bedchamber, was Miss Castlemaine. She had put off the mourning for her father now, and assumed the grey dress of the Sisterhood. A warm black shawl was wrapped about her shoulders, for the night air was somewhat cold, and the breeze from the sea brought a chillness with it. It was late for any of the Grey Sisters to be up; unless detained by sickness, they went to rest early: but Miss Castlemaine had come in rather late from spending the evening at Greylands' Rest, and had afterwards sat up writing a long letter. She had now been in her room some little time, and had not yet begun to undress. To use an old saying, she had no sleep in her eyes. Putting the warm shawl on, she opened the window, and stood leaning on its sill, deep in thought as she gazed out at the wide expanse of the sea. Hardly a night had passed of the past summer but she had thus stood as she was standing now. To look thus over the still sea in its calmness during this silent hour, or at its heaving waves, flashing white under the moon or starlight, and lost in thought and care, was a positive luxury to Miss Castlemaine. But these autumn nights were getting somewhat cold for it.
It was not her own proper chamber that she was in, but Sister Mildred's. Sister Mildred was away. Her health was much better; but Mr. Parker, the doctor, had said most positively that a change of a month or two was necessary to complete her cure: and Sister Mildred departed to stay with some relatives whom she had not seen for many years. She would be returning shortly now, and Mary Ursula's occupancy of her room was only temporary. The approach of cold weather had caused some necessary alterations in Mary Ursula's chamber--the old grate was being replaced by a new one, and the chimney repaired: and during its process, she occupied the chamber of Sister Mildred.
The lapse of months had not diminished the uneasiness of Mary Ursula's mind, in regard to the disappearance of her unfortunate cousin Anthony in the Friar's Keep. That Keep still wore for her an atmosphere of uncertainty and mystery. She never thought of it--and it was more often in her thoughts than she would have liked to say--but with one of those unpleasant thrills of renewed pain that arise at times with us all, when some heavy sorrow or suspense lies latent in the heart. Over and over again, since the night when Sister Mildred had discovered to her the secret passage, and she had explored with that lady its subterranean depth and length, had the wish--nay, the resolve--made itself heard within her to go again through the same passage, and look a little about the Friar's Keep. She knew not how, she knew not why, but the fear that Anthony had been treacherously dealt with grew of stronger conviction day by day. Not by Mr. Castlemaine: she could never fear that: and she resented the doubt cast upon him by the world--which he in his haughty pride would not condescend to resent--and believed that the discovery of the truth, if it could be made, would be doing her uncle the best of services. By exploring, herself, the Friar's Keep, she might be able to trace out nothing: but at least the strong desire to try lay upon her. Is it not so with all of us? In any search or complexity, do we not always mistrust others, and the capability of others, and think in our secret hearts that we could succeed where they fail? The figure Mary had seen with her own eyes, bearing its lamp, and which was religiously believed by the small community of Greylands to be the ghost of the wicked monk, long dead and gone, possessed no supernatural terrors for her. That it was some living personage, personating the dead monk for a purpose, she felt sure of; and she could not help fancying that in some unimaginable manner it must have to do with the concealment of the fate of Anthony.
Circumstances had brought all these matters more especially to her mind to-night. An old friend of hers, a Mrs. Hunter of Stilborough, had been also a visitor, though a chance one, that evening at Greylands' Rest. Mrs. Hunter was very fond of Mr. Castlemaine. She scouted the doubt thrown upon him in connection with his vanished nephew, regarding it as the height of absurdity; and toshowthis opinion of hers, rather liked talking of the affair. She had introduced it that evening at Greylands' Rest, asking all sorts of questions about the Keep, and about the ghost that sometimes appeared there, and about Anthony. During this conversation, Mary Ursula noticed that her uncle was remarkably silent; and once she caught a look of strangely painful uneasiness on his face. As they were walking home--for it was Mr. Castlemaine himself who had brought her back to the Grey Nunnery--she ventured to speak of it to him.
"You have never heard in any way of Anthony, I suppose, Uncle James?"
"Never," was Mr. Castlemaine's reply.
"Is it not strange that some of his friends in France do not inquire after him? He must have had friends there."
"I'm sure I don't know," was the curt answer.
"What doyouthink became of him, uncle?"
"My dear, the affair has altogether so annoyed me that I don't care to think. We will drop it, Mary Ursula."
Now, this was not satisfactory--and Mary felt that it was not. Of course it closed her lips upon the subject of Anthony; but she put another question not much less hazardous.
"Who is that figure that shows himself sometimes as the ghost of the Grey Monk?"
"I do not understand you."
The answer caused her to pause: the tone of it was, certainly resentful.
"He walks about with his lamp, uncle."
"Well?"
"Surely you do not believe in it--that it is really a ghost?" she exclaimed in astonishment.
"I am content not to be wiser than my neighbours," replied Mr. Castlemaine. "I suppose I have some elements of superstition within me. We are none of us responsible for our own nature, you know, Mary Ursula."
She said no more. In fact, they reached the Nunnery gate just then. Mr. Castlemaine saw her indoors, and went back again. Mary sat late, writing her letter, and then came up to her room.
She was thinking over it all now, as she stood at the window, the fresh sea air blowing upon her somewhat heated brow. There was no moon, but the night was passably light. Gentle waves stirred the surface of the water; a faint ripple might be heard from the incoming tide. It had turned some three hours since, and now covered, as Mary knew, the narrow path underneath the Nunnery, but not the strip of beach at the Friar's Keep: that beach, however, would be inaccessible for some hours, except by sea. Some night boats were out beyond Greylands, fishing as usual: she could discover their lights in the distance. Almost immediately opposite to her, and not far off, stood a two-masted vessel at anchor. She wondered why it should have stayed in that solitary spot, so close in-shore, instead of the more customary place off the beach. It may be almost said that she saw and thought these things unconsciously in her mind's preoccupation.
Nothing surprised her more--nay, half as much--as Mr. Castlemaine's implied admission of his belief in the supernatural appearance of the Grey Friar. An impression was abroad among the fishermen that the Castlemaines believed in the ghost as fully as they themselves did: but until to-night Mary had smiled at this. Look on what side she would, it seemed to be mystery upon mystery.
More food, than this subject, and quite as unpleasant, though of a different nature, had been given to Mary that night by Mrs. Hunter. One of Mary's chief friends in Stilborough had been a Mrs. Ord; she and Mary had been girls together. The husband, Colonel Ord, was in India: the young wife, who was delicate, remained at home. Sad news had now arrived from India. Colonel Ord was dead. He had died suddenly; it was supposed in consequence of excitement at the failure of an Indian Bank, in which all his property was placed. Mrs. Hunter had imparted this news at Greylands' Rest: and she had moreover whispered an announcement that had just been made public--the engagement of William Blake-Gordon to the heiress of Mountsorrel. Little marvel that Mary's eyes had no sleep in them!
Her reflections--and they were very painful--were interrupted by some stir that appeared to be taking place on board the two-masted vessel. Suddenly, as it seemed to her, two boats shot out from it, one after the other. The men, rowing them, seemed to be steering right for this end of the Nunnery; and Mary watched with surprise. No: they were making, it was quite evident now, for the Friar's Keep higher up. Stretching out at the casement window as far as she dared stretch, Mary saw them go straight on for the little beach there; she thought she heard a bustle; she fancied she distinguished whispers. Wild ideas, devoid of reason, arose within her: in the broad matter-of-fact daylight, she might have felt ashamed of their improbability; but the imagination, when excited, soars away on curious wings. Were these boats bringing back Anthony?
The night went on. She saw other boats come: she saw boats go back; she saw them come again. Surely she was not dreaming all this! and yet it seemed an impossible pageantry. At length a powerful impulse took possession of her--she would go through the secret passage and try and solve the mystery: go then and there.
Fastening her warm black shawl more securely round her, and tying on a dark silk hood, she unlocked her drawers to get the keys of the passage, and descended softly the stairs. In descending them it had not seemed very lonely--though a sense of loneliness does strike upon one when making a solitary pilgrimage about even an inhabited house at the dead of night, when everybody else is abed and asleep. But when she came to go down the stone steps to the damp vaults below, lighted only by the solitary lantern she held, then Mary's courage deserted her. Brave and good woman though she was, she halted in a kind of terror, and asked herself whether she could go on alone. Alone she must go if she went at all: not for a great deal would she disclose the fact of this existing passage to any of the Sisters, or let them know of her errand in it. Sister Mildred was the only one who shared the secret, and Sister Mildred was not there.
Taking a few minutes to recover herself; to strive, ay, and to pray for returning courage; Mary at length went on. Arrived at the door, she unlocked it with great trouble: the lock was no less rusty than before, and now there was only one pair of hands to it; and she went swiftly along the passage in a sort of desperate perseverance. The door at the other end unlocked, but with just as much difficulty, she once more, for the second time in her life, found herself in the cloistered vaults underneath the Keep.
Pausing again to gather what bravery would come to her, her hand pressed on her beating heart, she then proceeded about the place with her lantern; throwing its light here, throwing it there. At first she could see no trace of anyone, living or dead; could hear no sound. Soon she halted abruptly; a thought had come across her, bringing a sick fear--suppose she should not be able to find her way back to the passage door, but must remain where she was until daylight? Daylight! what light of day could penetrate those unearthly vaults?--they must be always, by day and by night, as dark as the grave. As she stood undecided whether to search further or to go back at once, she became conscious of a whiff of fresh air, that brought with it a smell of the sea.
Stepping gently in its direction, she found herself at an opening. A door, it seemed: whatever it was, it was open to the strip of beach under the Friar's Keep, and to the sea beyond it. All seemed perfectly still: there was neither sight nor sound of human being; but as she stood in the stillness she caught the distant regular dip of the oars in the water, belonging no doubt to the retreating boats.
What could it mean?--what could it all be? Even this opening, in the hitherto-supposed-to-be impregnable walls--was it a new opening, or did it exist always? Mary stood wondering, listening, looking; or, rather, peering: peering into the darkness of the night, for it was not light enough tolook.
These vaults, how much farther did they extend? She could not conjecture, and dared not attempt to discover, lest she lost her way back again: all the interstices of these pillared cloisters seemed one so like another that she might not risk it. Turning away from the fresh breeze and the welcome smell of the sea, she began to retrace her steps.
To retrace her steps, as she imagined, her thoughts very full. The question had been mooted, by people unacquainted with the place--were there any means by which the unfortunate Anthony Castlemaine could be effectually disposed of, if the worst had happened to him: say, any facility for throwing him into the sea? The answer had always been No, not from the Friar's Keep, for the Keep had no communication of any kind with the sea, its walls were thick and impervious. But, it seemed that there was a communication with the sea--as Mary had now just seen. Her thoughts and her breath alike came unpleasantly quick, and she groped along, and laid her disengaged hand on her bosom to still its pain.
But where was the door? Where? She thought she had been going in its direction, but she had come far enough, and to spare, and here was no sign of it. Was she indeed lost in this ghostly place? Her heart beat ten times more wildly at the thought.
She was very cautious in the use of the lantern, lest it might betray her, should anyone chance to be there: carrying it close before her, and keeping three of its sides dark. She moved it here, she moved it there: but no trace of the door did it shine upon; and in her desperation, she pushed down the three dark slides, and flung the light aloft. Nothing was to be seen but the dark stone floor of the vaults, their intersected pillars and arches above, and the openings between them. One spot, one division, was ever just like another. Lost! lost!
Her hand fell with the lantern: the drops of fear broke out on her face. At that moment a sound, as of the banging of a door, echoed among the pillars, and she hastily hid the glaring lantern under her shawl.
Other sounds came. Some door had evidently been shut, for now it was being barred and bolted. It was not very near, and Mary Ursula waited. Then, turning on the full light of her lantern again, and keeping her back to the sounds, she went swiftly, blindly about, in search of the passage door.
Ah, what a blessing! There it was, now, before her. Perhaps in all her life she had never experienced a moment of relief like that. A sound of joy faintly escaped her; an aspiration of thankfulness went up from her heart.
She had brought the keys inside with her, as a precaution, in case the door should close; they were tied together with string, and she had lodged the key belonging to this door in the lock on this side: Sister Mildred had done the same on the occasion of their first expedition. But now, as she stood there, Mary found she could not easily draw the key out: it might have got turned in the lock, and the lock was hard and unmanageable: so she had to put down the lantern, first of all closing its three sides, and take both hands to the key.
She had just got it out and pushed the door open, and was gliding softly and swiftly through, when a great bright light was thrown upon her, and a rough hand grasped her shoulder. With a cry of awful terror, Mary turned, and saw a pistol held close to her face.
"O don't!" she cried--"spare me! spare me! I am Sister Mary Ursula--I am Miss Castlemaine."
The man, who looked young, and was short and sturdy, turned in the doorway, with his dark lantern, never speaking a word. At that unlucky moment, the door swung against his elbow, and the pistol went off. Down he dropped with a hoarse scream.
Whether Mary Ursula retained her senses for the instant, she never afterwards knew. Fear, and the instinct of self-preservation, would have caused her to fly: but how could she leave the wounded man to his fate? The whole place seemed to be reeling around her; her head swam, and she stood back against the wall for support.
"Are you here alone?" she asked, bending down, when she could get her breath and some little strength into her shrinking spirit.
"I be, ma'am. The rest are all gone."
Why! surely she knew that voice! Taking her lantern, she threw its light upon his face, and recognized Walter Dance, Dance the fisherman's son: a young fellow with whom she had had a friendly chat only yesterday: and to whom she had given many a little present when he was a lad.
"Is it you, Walter!" she exclaimed, with the utmost astonishment--and to find that it was he seemed to chase away as by magic her worst fears. "What were you doing here?"
No answer--except some dismal groans.
"Are you much hurt?"
"I am just killed," he moaned. "Oh, ma'am! who is to help me?"
Who indeed! Mary Ursula had an innate dread of such calamities as this; she had a true woman's sensitive heart, shrinking terribly from the very thought of contact with these woes of life. "I do not know that I can help you, Walter," she said faintly. "Where are you hurt? Do you think you could get up?"
He began to try, and she helped him to his feet. One arm, the left, was powerless; and the young man said his left side was also. He leaned upon her, begging pardon for the liberty, and looked about him in dismay.
"Where does this here passage lead to, ma'am?"
"To the Grey Nunnery. Could you manage to walk to it?"
"I must get somewhere, lady, where I can be aided. I feel the blood a-dripping down me. If the bullet is not inside of me, it must have bedded itself in the wall."
The blood came from the arm. Beginning to feel faint again, feeling also very much as though she had been the cause of this, perhaps had cost the young man his life, Mary Ursula bound up the arm as well as she could, with her hankerchief and with his.
"Will you go on with me to the Nunnery, Walter?"
"Yes, ma'am, an' I can get there. I never knew of this here passage."
She locked the door, took the keys and the two lanterns herself, giving him the pistol, and bade Walter lean upon her. The walking seemed to hurt him very much, and he moaned frequently. In spite of his hardy fisherman's life, he was a very bad one to bear pain. When they came to the vaults of the Nunnery and, had to ascend the stairs, his face turned livid, and he clutched Miss Castlemaine tightly to save himself from falling. The pistol dropped from his hand once.
She got him into a small room off the kitchen, where accidents had been attended to before--for, indeed, the Grey Nunnery was somewhat of a hospital, and the good Sisters were its tender nurses. A wide, hard, capacious sofa was there, and down he sank upon it. Mary stayed to light a candle, and then hastened away to get help.
"You shall have a little brandy directly, Walter," she said. "I am going now to call assistance: we must get Mr. Parker here."
He only moaned in answer: the agony in his side seemed dreadful: but as Miss Castlemaine was leaving the room, he called her back again.
"Lady," he cried with feverish earnestness, and there was a wildly eager look in his eyes as they sought hers, "don't tell how it was done; don't tell where you saw me, or aught about it. I shall say my pistol went off in the chapel ruins, and that I crawled here to your door to get succour. I've got a reason for it."
"Very well: be it so," assented Miss Castlemaine, after a pause of reflection. It would be at least as inconvenient for her, were the truth confessed, as for him.
He looked frightfully pale: and, to Miss Castlemaine's horror, she saw some drops of blood dripping from his clothes, which must proceed from the wound in his side. Flying up the stairs, she entered the first chamber, where Sisters Ann and Phoeby slept; aroused them with a word or two of explanation, and was back again almost instantly with some water and the flask of brandy kept for emergencies. The Sisters were down almost as soon as she was; they were both capable women in a case such as this, almost as good themselves as a doctor. They saw to his side and bound it up, just as Mary Ursula had bound his arm. Sister Ann then ran off for Mr. Parker, and Sister Phoeby went to the kitchen to light the fire and prepare hot water, leaving Miss Castlemaine alone with the patient.