The Grey Ladies held fête sometimes, as well as the outside world; and it was gay this evening in the Grey Nunnery. The Sisters were en soirée: no guests, however, were present; only themselves. The occasion prompting it was the return of Sister Mildred: Sister Mildred grown young again, as she laughingly told them, so sprightly did she feel in her renewed health and strength.
She had brought some treasures back with her: contributed by the kind relatives with whom she had been staying. A basket of luscious hot-house grapes; a large, rich, home-made plum-cake; and two bottles of cowslip wine. These good things had been set out on the table of the parlour, and the whole of the Ladies sat round, listening to Sister Mildred's glowing accounts of her visit and of its pleasant doings.
"Why, my dears, they would fain have kept me till next year," she rejoined in answer to a remark: and her hearing was for the time so much improved that the small ear-trumpet, hanging by a ribbon from her waist, was scarcely ever taken up. "I had a battle, I assure you, to get away. My cousin has two charming little girls with her, her grandchildren, and the little mites hid the key of my box, so that it should not be packed; and they cried bitterly when I was ready to start."
"You will be sorry, now, that you have resigned the superiorship to me," whispered Mary Ursula, taking up the trumpet to speak. "I will give it back to you."
"Ah, my dear, no. I would not be head again for the world. I am better, as you see, thanks to our merciful Father in heaven; so much better that I can hardly believe it to be myself; but to keep well I must have no care or trouble. I shall be of less use here now than any of you."
"You will be of every use, dear Sister Mildred, if only to help me with counsel," returned Mary.
"Oh, it is pleasant to be at home again," resumed the elder lady, her face beaming from under its crisp muslin cap. "The sojourn with my relatives has been delightful; but, after all, there's no place like home. And you must give me an account, dear Sisters of all that has occurred during my absence. See to the thief in the candle!"
"There's not very-much to relate, I think," observed Sister Betsey, as she attended to the thief. "We had an adventure here, though, one night. Tom Dance's son went on to the chapel ruins to shoot a sea-bird for somebody at Stilborough, and his pistol exploded, and wounded him dreadfully. He came crawling here to be taken in."
"What do you say, dear?" asked Sister Mildred, her hand to her ear. "Tom Dance brought a sea-bird here?"
"No. His son, young Dance----"
But Sister Betsey's explanation was cut short by a loud, peremptory ring at the house-bell. Rings at that time of the evening, for it was close upon nine o'clock, generally betokened notice of illness or accident. Sister Ann hastened to the door, and the others held their breath.
"Who is ill? Is any case of calamity brought in?" quickly demanded Sister Mildred on her return.
"No ill case of any kind," replied Sister Aim, as she approached Mary Ursula. "It is a visitor for you, madam."
"For me!" exclaimed Mary, feeling surprised. "Is it my uncle--Mr. Castlemaine?"
"It is Lawyer Knivett, from Stilborough," said Sister Ann. "His business is very particular, he says."
Mary Ursula glanced around as she rose. It would scarcely be convenient for him to come in amid all the ladies; and she desired Sister Ann to take him to the dining-room. A cold, bare room it looked, its solitary candle standing at one end of the dinner-table as she entered. Mr. Knivett came forward and held out his hand.
"Will you forgive my disturbing you at this time, my dear Miss Castlemaine?" he asked. "I should have been here an hour or two ago; but first of all I waited for the violence of the storm to pass; and then, just as I was getting into my gig, a client came up from a distance, and insisted on an interview. Had I put off coming until to-morrow morning, if might have been midday before I got here."
They were sitting down as he spoke: Mary by the end of the table where the candle stood: he drew a chair so close in front of her that his knees nearly touched hers. Mary was inwardly wondering what his visit could relate to. A curious thought, bringing its latent unpleasantness, crossed her--that it might have to do with Anthony.
"My dear lady, I am the bearer of some sad news for you," he began. "People have said, you know, that a lawyer is like a magpie, a bird of ill-omen."
She caught up her breath with a sigh of pain.Whatwas it that he had to tell her?
"It concerns your father's old friend and clerk, Thomas Hill," went on Mr. Knivett. "He was your friend too."
"Is he ill?" gasped Mary.
"He was ill, my dear Miss Castlemaine."
The stress on the one word was so peculiar that the inference seemed all too plain. Mary rose in agitation.
"Surely--surely he is not dead?"
"Sit down, my dear young lady. I know how grieved you will be; but agitation will not do any good. He died this afternoon at five o'clock."
There ensued a silence. Mary's breath was rising in gasps. "And--I--was not sent for to him," she cried, greatly agitated.
"There was no time to send," replied Mr. Knivett. "He had been ailing for several days past, but the doctor--it was Tillotson--said it was nothing; poor Hill himself thought it was not. This afternoon a change for the worse occurred, and I was sent for. There was no time for anything."
She pushed back the brown hair, braided so simply under the muslin cap. Pale memories were crowding upon her, mixing themselves up with present pain. The last time she had seen the surgeon, Tillotson, was the night when her father was found dead on his sofa, and poor Thomas Hill was mourning over him.
"Hill said more than once to me that he should not last long now his master Was gone," resumed the lawyer: "but I thought it was but an old man's talk, grieving after his many years' master and friend. He was right, however."
Regrets were stealing upon Mary. She had not, she thought, taken as much notice of this faithful old man as she ought. Why, oh, why, in that one sole visit she had made to Stilborough, to Mrs. Ord, did she not call to see him? These reproaches strike on us all when a friend passes away. The tears were trickling down her cheeks.
"And I should not have hastened over here to tell you this of itself, Miss Castlemaine; you'd have heard it soon without that; ill news travels fast. But nothing can be done without your sanction; hardly the first coffin ordered. You are left sole executor."
"I am! Executor!"
"Executrix, I should have said; but the other word comes more ready. His will does not contain ten lines, I think, for I made it; and there's not a name mentioned in it but yours. Every stick and stone is left to you; and sole, full power in all ways."
"But what shall I do, Mr. Knivett? To leave me executor!"
"My dear young lady, I knew you would be distressed at the first blush of the thing. I was surprised when he gave me the directions; but he would have it so. He had a notion, I fancy, that it might serve to take you abroad a bit out of this place: he did not like your being here."
"I know he did not. I strove to convince him I was happy when he came over here in the summer; but he could not think it."
"Just so. His money is well and safely invested, and will bring you in about three hundred and fifty pounds a year. There's some silver, too, and other knicknacks. It is all yours."
"What a good, kind, faithful man he was!" she said, her eyes streaming. "Good always, in every relation of life. He has gone to his reward."
"Ay, ay," nodded Mr. Knivett. "Hill was better than some of his neighbours, and that's a fact."
"But I can never act," she exclaimed. "I should not know what to do or how to do it."
"My dear Miss Mary, you need not trouble yourself on that score. Give me power, and I will make it all as easy for you as an old shoe. In fact, I will act instead of you. Not for gain," he added impressively: "I must do this little matter for you for friendship's sake. Nay, my dear, you must meet this as it is meant: remember my long friendship with your father."
"You are very kind," she faltered.
"Have you a pen and ink at hand?"
She brought one, and he caused her to assign to him the necessary power. Then he asked her wishes as to temporary matters and they consulted for a few minutes together: but she was glad to leave all to Mr. Knivett that she could leave.
"There has been another death at Stilborough to-day: at least, not more than a mile or two from it," observed the lawyer, as he rose to leave. "You have not heard of it, I suppose?"
He had his back to her as he spoke, having turned to take up his overcoat which lay on the children's form. Mary replied that she had not heard anything.
"Sir Richard Blake-Gordon's dead."
A great thump seemed to strike her heart. It stood still, and then went bounding on again.
"His death was very sudden," continued the lawyer, still occupied with his coat. "He fell down in a fit and never spoke again. Never recovered consciousness at all, Sir William tells me."
Mary lifted her eyes. Mr. Knivett had turned back to her then.
"Sir--William?" she stammered, feeling confused in all ways. The title was spoken too suddenly: it sounded strange to her; unnatural.
"It was he who came in and detained me: he had to see me upon an urgent matter. He is sadly cut up."
Hardly giving himself time to shake her hand, Mr. Knivett, bustled away. In passing the parlour-door, Sister Mildred was coming out of it. She and the lawyer were great friends, though they very rarely saw each other. He could not stay longer then, he said; and she and Mary went with him to the door, and walked with him across the waste ground to the gate.
The storm had entirely passed: it was the same evening, told of in the last chapter, when Miss Hallet took a trip to the blacksmith's: the sky was clear again and bright with a few stars. The storm had been one of those violent ones when the rain seems to descend in pitiless torrents. A great gutter of water was streaming along in front of the Grey Nunnery on the other side the low bank that divided the path from the road. Mr. Knivett's horse and gig waited in the road just out of the running water. The night was warm and still, balmy almost as in summer, though it was getting late in the year. Ten o'clock was striking from the Nunnery clock.
"I shall be over again in a day or two," said Mr. Knivett to the ladies, as he took a leap from the bank over the gutter, and the groom held the apron aside for him to get up.
The two ladies stood at the gate and watched him drive off. It was, indeed, a lovely night now, all around quiet and tranquil. Mary, with a sobbing sigh, said a word to Sister Mildred of the cause that had brought the lawyer over; but the good Sister heard, as the French say, à tort et à travers. Now, of all queer items of news, what should the ladies have been pouring into the ex-Superior's ear during Miss Castlemaine's absence from the parlour, but the unsatisfactory rumours just now beginning to circulate through the village to the detriment of Jane Hallet. Her mind full of this, no wonder Sister Mildred was more deaf than need have been to Mary's words.
"It is a very extraordinary thing, my dear," she responded to Mary; "and I think she must have lost her senses."
At that same moment, sounds, as of fleet footsteps, dawned on Mary's ear in the stillness of the night. A minute before, a figure might have been seen flying down the cliffs from the direction of Miss Hallet's dwelling; a panting, sobbing, crying woman: or rather, girl. She darted across the road, nobody being about, and made for the path that would take her by the Grey Nunnery. The ladies turned to her as she came into view. It looked like Jane Hallet. Jane, in her best things, too. She was weeping aloud; she seemed in desperate distress: and not until she was flying past the gate did she see the ladies standing there. Sister Mildred, her head running on what she had heard, glided out of the gateway to arrest and question her.
"Jane, what is amiss?"
Startled at the sight of the ladies, startled at their accosting her, Jane, to avoid them, made a spring off the pathway into the road. The bank was slippery with the rain, and she tried moreover to clear the running stream below it, just as Mr. Knivett had done. But her foot slipped, and she fell heavily.
Sister Mildred stooped over the bank, and held out her hand. Was Jane stunned? No: but just for the minute or two she could not stir. She put one hand to her side as Sister Mildred helped her on to the path. Of no use to try to escape now.
"Are you hurt, child?"
"I--I think I am, ma'am," panted Jane. "I fell on my side." And she burst into the sobs again.
"And now tell me what the matter is, and where you were going to."
"Anywhere," sobbed the girl. "My aunt has turned me out of doors?"
"Dear me!" cried Sister Mildred. "When did she turn you out of doors?"
"Now. When I got in from Stilborough. She--she--met me with reproach and passion. Oh, she is so very violent! She frightened me. I have never seen her so before."
"But where were you running to now?" persisted Sister Mildred. "There, don't sob in that way."
"Anywhere," repeated Jane, hysterically. "I can sit under a hedge till morning, and, then go to Stilborough. I am too tired to go back to Stilborough now."
Sister Mildred, who had held her firmly by the arm all this time, considered before she spoke again. Fearing there might be too much cause to condemn the girl, she yet could not in humanity suffer her to go "anywhere." Jane was an especial favourite with all the Sisters. At least, she used to be.
"Come in, child," she said. "We will take care of you until the morning. And then--why we must see what is to be done. Your aunt, so, self-contained and calm a woman, must have had some great cause, I fear, for turning you out."
Crying, wailing, sobbing, and in a state altogether of strange agitation, Jane suffered the Sister to lead her indoors, resisting not. Mary Ursula spoke a kind word or two to encourage her. It was no time for reproach: even if the Grey Ladies had deemed it their province to administer it.
Jane was shown to a room. One or two beds were always kept made up in the Grey Nunnery. Sister Betsey, invariably cheerful and pleasant with all the world, whether they were good or bad, poor or rich, went in with Jane and stayed to help her undress, chatting while she did it. And so the evening came to an end, and the house was at length steeped in quietness.
But in the middle of the night an alarm arose. Jane Hallet was ill. Her room was next to that of Sisters Ann and Phoeby they heard her moaning, and hastened to her.
"Mercy be good to us!" exclaimed the former, startled out of all equanimity by what she saw and heard. "We must call the Lady Superior.
"No, no; not her," corrected the calmer Sister Phoeby. "It is Sister Mildred who must deal with this."
So the very unusual expedient was resorted to of disturbing the ex-Superior in her bed, who was so much older than any of them. Sister Mildred dressed herself, and proceeded to Jane's room; and then lost not a minute in despatching a summons for Mr. Parker. He came at once.
At the early dawn of morning the wail of a feeble infant was heard within the chamber. A small, sickly infant that could not possibly live. The three Sisters mentioned were alone present. None of the others had been disturbed.
"The baptismal basin," whispered the elder lady to Sister Ann. "Make haste."
A china basin of great value that had been an heirloom in the Grant family, was brought in, half-filled with water. Sister Mildred rose--she had bent for a minute or two in silent prayer--took the infant in her arms, sprinkled it with the water, and named it "Jane." Laying it down gently, those in the room knelt again. Even Mr. Parker, turning from the bed, put his one knee on a chair.
By the time the Grey Ladies generally rose, all signs and symptoms of bustle were over. Nothing remained to tell of what the night had brought forth, save the sick-bed of Jane Hallet, and a dead infant (ushered into the world all too soon), covered reverently over with a sheet in the corner.
Breakfast done with, Sister Mildred betook herself up the cliff to Miss Hallet's, her ear-trumpet hanging from her waist-band. It was a painful interview. Never had the good Sister witnessed more pitiable distress. Miss Hallet's share in the pomp and pride of life had not been much, perhaps: but such as it was, it had now passed away from her for ever.
"I had far rather have died," moaned the poor lady, in her bitter feeling, her wounded pride. "Could I have died yesterday morning before this dreadful thing was revealed, I should have been comparatively happy. Heaven hears me say it."
"It is a sad world," sighed Sister Mildred, fixing the trumpet to her ear: "and it is a dreadful thing for Jane to have been drawn into its wickedness. But we must judge her charitably, Miss Hallet; she is but young."
Miss Hallet led the Sister upstairs, undid Jane's locked drawer with the blacksmith's borrowed key, and exhibited its contents as an additional aggravation in her cup of bitterness. Sister Mildred, a lover of fine work, could not avoid expressing admiration, as she took up the things one by one.
"Why, they are beautiful!" she cried. "Look at the quality of the lace and cambric! No gentleman's child could have better things provided than these. Poor Jane! she must have known well, then, what was coming. And such sewing! She learnt that from us!"
"Never, so long as she lives, shall she darken my doors again," was the severe answer. "You must fancy what an awful shock it was to me, Sister Mildred, when I opened this drawer last evening; and what I said to Jane on her entrance, I really cannot recall. I was out of my mind. Our family has been reduced lower and lower by ill-fortune; but never yet by disgrace."
"I'm sure I can't understand it," returned the puzzled Sister. "Jane was the very last girl I could have feared for. Well, well, it cannot be mended now. We will keep her until she is about again, Miss Hallet."
"I should put her outside the Nunnery gate to-day!" came the stern reply.
"That would kill her," said Sister Mildred, shaking her head in compassion. "And the destroying of her body would not save her soul. The greater the sin, the greater, remember, was the mercy of our Lord and Master."
"She can never hold up her head in this world again. And for myself, as I say, I would far rather be dead than live."
"She won't hold it up as she has held it: it is not to be expected," assented Sister Mildred with an emphatic nod. "But--well--we must see what can be done with her when she's better. Will you come to see her, Miss Hallet?"
"Icome to see her!" repeated the indignant relative, feeling the proposal as nothing less than an outrage. "I would not come to see her if she lay dying. Unless it were to reproach her with her shame."
"You are all hardness now," said indulgent Sister Mildred, "and perhaps I should be in your place: I know what a bitter blow it is. But the anguish will subside. Time heals the worst sores: and, the more we are weaned from this world, the nearer we draw to Heaven."
She dropped her trumpet, held Miss Hallet's hand in hers, and turned to depart. That ruffled lady, after escorting her to the door, turned the key and shot the bolt, as if she wanted to have no more to do with the outer world, and would fain deny it entrance.
"Oh ma'am, what a sight o' news is this!" broke forth staring Nancy Gleason, meeting the Grey Lady face to face at a sudden turning of the cliff path, and lifting her two hands in reprobation.
It was the first instalment of the public unpleasantness: an unpleasantness that must perforce arise, and could only be met. Of no use for Sister Mildred to say "What do you mean?" or "Jane Hallet is nothing to you." The miserable news had gone flying about the village from end to end: it could neither be arrested nor the comments on it checked.
"I can't stay talking this morning, Nancy Gleeson," replied the deaf lady; who guessed, more than heard, what the theme must be. "You had better go home to your little ones; they may be setting themselves on fire again."
"'Twarn't so over long ago she was a lugging our Bessy up the path, and she looked fit to drop over it; all her breath gone, and her face the colour o' chalk," continued Nancy, disregarding the injunction. "Seemed to me, ma'am, then as if 'twas odd. Well, who'd ever ha' thought it o' Miss Jane Hallet?"
Sister Mildred was yards away, and Nancy Gleeson's words were wasted on the air. At the foot of the cliff, as she was crossing the road, Mrs. Bent saw her from the inn door, and came over with a solemn face.
"How is she doing?" asked the landlady, speaking close to Sister Mildred's ear.
"Pretty well."
"I shall never be surprised at anything after this, ma'am; never: When Molly, all agape, brought the news in this morning, I could have sent a plate at her head, for repeating what I thought was nothing but impossible scandal. Miss Hallet must be fit to hang herself."
"It is a sad, grievous thing for all parties, Mrs. Bent," spoke Sister Mildred. "Especially for Jane herself."
"One can't help pitying her, poor young thing. To have blighted her life at her age! And anything that's wanted for her while she's sick, that the Nunnery may be out of, please send over to me for. She's heartily welcome to it, Sister Mildred."
The Sister nodded her thanks, and walked on. Mr. Parker overtook her at the Nunnery door, and they went up together to the sick-room.
Jane lay, white and wan, on the pillow, Sister Mona standing by her side. She looked so still and colourless that for the moment it might have been thought she was dead. Their entrance, however, caused her eyes to open; and then a faint shade of pink tinged her face.
Mr. Parker ordered some refreshment to be administered; and Sister Mona left to get it. "See that she has it at once," he said, speaking into the trumpet. "I am in a hurry just now, and cannot stay."
"Is anyone ill?" asked Sister Mildred.
"A child up at the coastguard station is in convulsions, and they have sent for me in haste. Good-morning, madam, for the present. I'll call in on my return."
"Only one moment, doctor," cried Sister Mildred, following him out to the corridor, and speaking in a whisper. "Is Jane in danger?"
"No, I think not. She must be kept quiet."
Infinitely to the astonishment of Sister Mildred, somewhat to her scandal, Mr. Harry Castlemaine appeared on the staircase, close upon the descent of the doctor. He must have come into the Nunnery as the latter let himself out. Taking off his hat, he advanced straight to Sister Mildred, the open door at which she was standing no doubt indicating to him the sick-room.
"By your leave, Sister Mildred," he said, with a grave and pleasant smile--and passed in.
She was too utterly astonished to stop him. But she followed him in, and laid her arresting hand on his arm.
"Mr. Harry--Harry Castlemaine, what do you mean by this? Do you think, sir, I can allow it?"
"Imustspeak a word or two to Jane," he whispered in her ear, catching up the trumpet of his own accord. "Dear lady, be charitable, and leave me with her just for a minute, On my honour, my stay shall not much exceed that." And, partly through his persuasive voice, and smile, and hands, for he gently forced her to the door, partly in her own anxiety to obey the doctor's injunction of keeping Jane quiet, and wholly because she felt bewildered and helpless, Sister Mildred found herself outside in the corridor again, the door shut behind her.
"My goodness!" cried the perplexed lady to herself. "It's well it's me that's here, and not the younger Sisters."
In two minutes, or little more, he came out again; his hand held forth.
"Thank you, dear Sister Mildred. I thank you from my heart."
"No, I cannot take it," she said, turning pointedly away from his proffered hand.
"Are you so offended that I should have come in!"
"Not at that: though it is wrong. You know why I cannot touch your hand in friendship, Harry Castlemaine."
He stood a moment as though about to reply; but closed his lips without making any. "God bless you, dear lady; you are all very good: I don't know what Greylands would do without you. And--please"--he added, turning back again a step or two.
"Please what?" demanded Sister Mildred.
"Do not blameher. She does not deserve it. I do."
He went softly down the stairs and let himself out. John Bent was standing at his door as Harry came in view of the Dolphin, and the young man crossed over. But, when he got up, John had disappeared indoors. There was no mistaking that the movement was intentional, or the feeling that caused the landlord to shun him. Harry Castlemaine stood still by the bench, evidently very much annoyed. Presently he began to whistle, slowly and softly, a habit of his when in deep thought, and looked up and down the road, as if uncertain which way he should take.
A knot of fishermen had gathered round the small boats on the beach, and were talking together less lazily than usual: possibly, and indeed probably, their exciting theme was the morning's news. One of them detached himself from the rest and came up towards the Dolphin, remarking that he was going to "wet his whistle." Mr. Tim Gleeson in a blue nightcap.
To judge by his flushed face and his not altogether steady gait, the whistle had been wetted already. When he saw Mr. Harry Castlemaine standing there, he came straight up to him, touching his cap. That trifling mark of respect he did observe: but when he had got a glass within him, there was no such hail-fellow-well-met in all Greylands as Tim Gleeson. He would have accosted Mr. Castlemaine himself.
"In with the tide, Gleeson?" remarked Harry--who was always pleasant with the men.
"Her's just gone out, sir," returned Gleeson, alluding to the boat. "I didn't go in her."
"Missed her, eh?" A misfortune Mr. Gleeson often met with.
"Well, I did miss of her, as might be said. I was a-talking over the news, Mr. Harry, with Tuff and one or two on 'em, and her went and put off without me."
Harry wondered he was not turned off the boat altogether. But he said nothing: he ceased to take notice of the man, and resumed his whistling. Gleeson, however, chose to enter upon the subject of the "news," and applied a hard word to Jane.
Harry's eagle glance was turned on the man like lightning. "What is that, Gleeson?" he asked, in a quiet but imperious tone.
And Mr. Tim Gleeson, owing no doubt to the wetting of the whistle, was so imprudent as to repeat it.
The next moment he seemed to have pins and needles in his eyes, and found himself flat on the ground. Struck to it by the stern hand of Mr. Harry Castlemaine.
Boisterous weather. Ethel Reene, her scarlet cloak on, and her hat tied securely over her ears, was making her way to the top of the cliff opposite the coastguard station. A somewhat adventurous expedition in such a wind; but Ethel was well used to the path. She sat down when she reached the top:droppeddown, laughing heartily. For the blast seized rudely on her petticoats, and sent the silken cords and tassels of her cloak flying in the air.
A glorious sea. A sea to look at to-day: to excite awe; to impress the mind with the marvellous works of the Great Creator. "Hitherto shalt thou come, but no farther. And here shall thy proud waves be stayed."
The waves were leaping mountains high; the foam and spray dashed aloft; the sound of the roar was like prolonged thunder. Ethel sat with clasped hands and sobered face and heart, lost in contemplation of the Majesty seen and unseen. It was not the time for silent thought to-day, or for telling her secrets to the sea: wonder, praise, awe, they could alone fill the mind.
"What a grand scene!"
The words were spoken close to her ear, and she turned her head quickly, holding her hat. The fastenings of her hair had blown away, and it fell around her in a wave of curls. Mr. North was the speaker. He had made his way up the rocks to watch this wondrous sea from that elevated place, not suspecting any one was there.
"I do not think I ever saw it so rough as this," said Ethel, as he took her hand in greeting, and then sat down beside her.
"I never saw it half as rough; never: but it has not been my privilege to live near the sea," he answered. "Are you sure it is safe for you to sit here, Ethel?"
"Oh yes. I am ever so far from the edge, you see."
"I do not know," he doubtingly answered; "the blast is strong. Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine might warn you away, did they see you here."
As if to impart weight to his words, a furious gust came sweeping along and over them. Ethel caught involuntarily to the hard ground, and bent her head down. Mr. North hastily put his arm round her for protection.
"You see, Ethel!" he spoke when the rush had subsided. "It is dangerous for you. Had I not been here, you might have been blown away."
"No, no; but--perhaps--I should not have remained after that. I do not think it was ever so fiercely rough."
As he was there, however, and holding her securely, she made no movement to go. Ah, how could she! was it not all too delicious!--bliss unutterable!--and the wind was such an excuse. In after years, whether for her they might be long or short, Ethel would never lose the remembrance of this hour. The panorama of that turbulent sea would be one of her mind's standing pictures; the clasp of his arm never cease, when recalled, to cause her heart to thrill.
They sat on, close together, speaking but a stray word now and then, for it was nearly as difficult to hear anything said as it would have been for deaf Sister Mildred. By-and-by, as if the wind wanted a temporary rest, its worst fury seemed abated.
"I wonder if I could sketch the sea?" cried Mr. North. "Perhaps I could: if you will help me to hold the book, Ethel."
He had his small sketch-book in his pocket: indeed he rarely went out without it: and he drew it forth. Ethel held the leaves down on one side the opened page, and he on the other: with his other hand he rapidly took the lines of the horizon before him, and depicted the mountainous billows of the raging sea. Just a few bold strokes--and: he left the rest to be filled in at a calmer season.
"Thank you that is enough," he said to Ethel. But it took both their efforts to close the book again securely. The wind had all but torn its pages out; a lawful prey.
"There are people existing who hate never seen the sea," remarked Ethel. "I wonder if they can form even a faint conception of the scene it presents on such a day as this?"
"Thousands and thousands have never seen it," said Mr. North. "Perhaps millions, taking the world from Pole to Pole."
Ethel laughed at a thought that came to her. "Do you know, Mr. North, there is an old woman at Stilborough who has never seen it. She has never in her life been as far as Greylands--only three miles."
"It is scarcely believable."
"No: but it is true. It is old Mrs. Fordham. Her two daughters kept a cotton and tape shop in New Street. They sell fishing-tackle, too, and writing-paper, and many other things. If you choose to go and ask Mrs. Fordham, for yourself, she would tell you she has never had the curiosity to come as far as as this to see the sea."
"But why?"
"For no reason, she says, except that she has always been a great stay-at-home. She had a good many children for one thing, and they took up all the time of her best years."
"I should like to charter a gig and bring the old lady to see it to-day," exclaimed Mr. North. "I wonder whether she would be astonished?"
"She would run away frightened," said Ethel, laughing. "Will you please to tell me what the time is?"
He took out his watch. It was past twelve o'clock; and Ethel had to go. Mr. North drew her hand within his arm, seemingly as a matter of course, remarking that he must pilot her down the cliff. Ethel's face was covered with blushes. She was too timid to withdraw her hand: but she thought what would become of her should Mr. or Mrs. Castlemaine meet them. Or even Madame! So they went on arm-in-arm.
"Should I make anything of this sketch," said Mr. North, touching his pocket that contained the book; "anything of a watercolour I mean, it shall be yours, if you accept it. A memento of this morning."
"Thank you," murmured Ethel, her lovely face all blushes again.
"You will think of me perhaps when you look at it--once in a way. I may be far away: divided from you by sea and land."
"Are you going so soon?" she stammered.
"I fear I shall have to go eventually. The--the business that is keeping me here does not advance at all; neither does it seem likely to."
"Is business keeping you here?"
"Yes."
"I had no idea of that. Of what nature?"
"It is partly connected with property."
"The property that you told me might come to you by inheritance?"
"Yes. The coming seems very far off, though; farther than ever: and I--I am doing myself no good by staying."
"No good!" exclaimed Ethel, in surprise.
"In one sense I am not: individually, I am not. For, each day that I stay will only serve to render the pain of departing more intolerable."
Their eyes met. Ethel was at no loss to understand. Whether he meant her to or not he could scarcely have decided. But for exercising some self-control, he must have spoken out plainly. And yet, to what end? This fair girl might never become more to him than she was now, and their mutual love would be flung away to die on the shoals of adverse fate; as three parts of first love is in this world.
He released her when they were on level ground, and walked side by side with her as far as Chapel Lane, Ethel's way home to-day. There they stood to shake hands.
"I wonder if we shall ever again sit together watching a sea such as this has been!" he said, retaining her hand, and gazing down at her conscious face.
"We do not get a sea like this above once or twice a year."
"No. And when you get it next, nothing may be left of me here but the memory. Good-bye, Ethel."
She made her way homewards as swiftly as the wind would allow. Mr. North, somewhat sheltered under the lee of the Grey Nunnery, once he had passed the open chapel ruins, gave his mind up to thought. The little school-children, protected by the walls of the high building, were playing on the waste ground at "You can't catch me."
His position had begun to cause him very serious reflection: in fact, to worry him. Nothing could be more uncertain than it was, nothing more unsatisfactory. Should it turn out that Mr. Castlemaine had had any hand in injuring Anthony--in killing him, in short--why, then George North must give up all hope of Ethel. Ethel was to Mr. Castlemaine as a daughter, and that would be a sufficient bar to George North's making her his wife. Long and long ago would he have declared himself to the Master of Greylands but for Charlotte Guise; he would go to him that very day, but for her, and say, "I am your nephew, sir, George Castlemaine:" and ask him candidly what he had done with Anthony. But only the bare mention of this presupposed line of conduct would upset poor Madame Guise utterly: she had implored, entreated,commandedhim to be silent. He might go away from Greylands, she said, and leave all the investigation to her; she did not want him to stay; but to spoil every chance of tracing out Anthony's fate--and, as she believed, that would spoil it--was not to be heard of. This chafed Mr. North's spirit somewhat: but he felt that he could not act in defiance of his brother's widow. The morning's interview on the cliff with Ethel had not tended to lessen the uneasiness and embarrassments of his position, but rather to bring them more clearly before him.
"It would be something gained if I could only ascertain how the estate was really left," he said to himself as he glanced mechanically at the shouting children; just as so many others, including his unfortunate brother, had said before him. "If it be, de facto, my Uncle James's, why he could have had no motive for wishing Anthony out of the way: if it was left to my father, why then it was absolutely Anthony's, and the Uncle James was but a usurper. In that case--but it is very hard to think so ill of him. I wonder whether--" Mr. North made a pause to revolve the question--"whether I could get anything out of Knivett?"
Deep in, thought, the Nunnery passed, he unguardedly approached the open part by the beach. Whirr!--whew! His hat went one way, the skirts of his coat another. The latter, not being detached, had to return to their places; but the hat was nowhere.
Harry Castlemaine, chancing to pass, ran and caught it, and brought it, laughing, to Mr. North. The young men liked each other and were cordial when they met; but they had not advanced to intimacy. Each had his reasons for avoiding it: Harry Castlemaine never chose to become to friendly with any stranger sojourning at Greylands; George North, under his present pseudo aspect, rather shunned the Castlemaines.
"It is well heads are not loose, as well as hats, or they'd be gone to-day," said Harry, giving up the hat. "Where's your ribbon?"
"It had come unfastened from my buttonhole. Thank you. What a grand sea it is!"
"Wonderful. A rare sea, even for Greylands. Good-day."
Like a great many more of us, Mr. North sometimes did things upon impulse. As he crossed to the Dolphin, holding Ins hat on his head, the two-horse van came lumbering down the hill by the Nunnery on its way to Stilborough. Impulse--it certainly was not reason--induced George North to get inside and go off with it. In due course of time it conveyed him to Stilborough.
"Can you tell me where Mr. Knivett, the advocate, lives?" he asked of the driver when he was paying his fare.
"Lawyer Knivett, is it, sir, that you want? He lives close to the market-house, in the centre of the town."
"Which is my way to it?"
"Go to the end of the street, sir: take the first turning on the left, New Street, and that will bring you into the street where the marketplace is. Anybody will tell you which is Lawyer Knivett's."
Just as in the days, some months gone by, poor Anthony had been directed to the lawyer's house, and readily found it, so did the younger brother find it now. The brass-plate on the door, "Mr. Knivett, attorney-at-law," stared him in the face as he halted there. During the dinner-hour, between half-past one and two, this outer door was always shut; an intimation that clients were not wanted to call just then: at other times it was generally, though not invariably, open: impatient clients would often give it a bang behind them in escaping. Mr. North rang the bell, and was admitted to the clerk's room, where a young man, with curled black hair and a nose like a parrot's, sat behind a desk near the window, writing.
"Can I see Mr. Knivett?" asked George.
The young man stretched his neck forward to take a look at the applicant. "It's not office-hours," said he in answer, his tone superlatively distant.
"When will it be office-hours?"
"After two o'clock."
"Can I see him then--if I wait?"
"Well, yes, I suppose you can. There's a chair"--extending the feather-end of his pen to point it out: which caused the diamond ring he wore on his finger to flash in the sunlight.
"A vain young dandy," thought George, as he sat down, regarding the ring, and the curled hair, and the unexceptionable white linen. The gentleman was, in fact, a distant relative of Squire Dobie's, holding himself to be far above all the fraternity of men of the law, and deeming it an extremely hard case that his friends should have put him into it.
The silence broken only by the scratching of the pen, was interrupted by the sudden stopping before the house of a horse and gig. An active little gentleman of middle-age leaped out, came in, and opened the door of the room.
"Where's Mr. Knivett, Dobie? At his dinner?"
"Yes."
Away went the little gentleman somewhere further on in the house. Almost immediately he was back again, and Mr. Knivett with him. The latter opened the door.
"I am going out, Mr. Dobie. Don't know how long I may be detained. Old Mr. Seaton's taken ill." And, with that, he followed the little gentleman out, mounted the gig with him, and was gone.
It had all passed so quickly that George North had not space to get in a word. He supposed his chance of seeing the lawyer for that day was at an end.
Scarcely had the gig driven off, and Mr. Dobie brought back his head from gazing after it over the window blind, when there entered a gentleman in deep mourning: a good-looking man with a somewhat sad countenance. Mr. Dobie got off his stool with alacrity, and came forward.
"How are you, Sir William?"
Sir William Blake-Gordon--for it was he--returned the greeting: the two young men met occasionally in society.
"Can I see Mr. Knivett?" asked Sir William.
"No, that you can't," returned the gentleman-clerk. "Charles Seaton of the Hill has just fetched him out in a desperate hurry. Knivett, going out to the gig, put in his head to tell me old Seaton was taken ill. Wants his will altered, I suppose."
Sir William considered. "Tell Mr. Knivett, then, that I will be here at about eleven o'clock to-morrow. I wish to see him particularly."
"All right," said Mr. Dobie.
Sir William was turning away, when his eyes fell on George North, who had then risen preparatory to departure. He held out his hand cordially, and George North met it. A week or two previously, just before Sir Richard's death, it chanced that they had met at a country inn, and were detained there part of a day by a prolonged storm of rain and thunder. Each had liked the other, and quick acquaintanceship had been formed.
"Are you still at Greylands, Mr. North?"
"Yes."
"Well, do not forget that I shall be very glad to see you. Come over at any time."
"Thank you," replied George.
The new baronet went out. Mr. Dobie, witnessing all this, began to fancy that the gentleman might be somebody worth being civil to.
"I am sorry Knivett should have started off in this sudden way," he observed, his tone changed to ease, "but I suppose there was no help for it. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"No," returned George, "I fear not. I merely wanted to ask Mr. Knivett a question about a family in the neighbourhood."
"I dare say I could answer it," said Mr. Dobie. "I know all the best families as well as Knivett does, or better: been brought up among them."
"Do you know the Castlemaines?"
"Well, I ought to. My relatives, the Dobies of Dobie Hall, and the Greylands' Rest people used to be as thick as inkleweavers. Harry Castlemaine is one of my friends."
George North paused. An idea struck him that perhaps this young man might be able to give him some information: and, to tell the truth, though he had come to ask Mr. Knivett to do it, he had very little hope that the lawyer would. At least there would be no harm in his putting the question.
"I am a stranger here," he said. "Until some weeks back I never was in this part of the world or knew a soul that inhabited it. But I have become acquainted with a few people; and, amidst them, with the Castlemaines. Did you know the old grandfather, Anthony?"
"Just as well as I know my own grandfather."
"Greylands' Rest was his, I fancy?"
"Of course it was."
"To whom did he leave it?"
"Ah, that's a question," said Mr. Dobie, taking his penknife out to trim the top of one of his filbert nails. "There was a nephew made his unexpected appearance on the estate last winter--a son of the elder brother----"
"I have heard," interrupted George North: "Anthony Castlemaine."
"Just so. Well, he thought Greylands' Rest was his; wanted to put in a claim to it; but Mr. Castlemaine wouldn't allow it at any price. The claimant disappeared in some queer manner--you have no doubt heard of it--and James Castlemaine retains undisturbed possession. Which is said to be nine points of the law, you know."
"Then, you do not know how it was left? whether it is legally his?"
Mr. Dobie shook his head. "I'd not like to bet upon it, either way. If forced to do so, I'd lay it against him."
"You think it was left to Anthony Castlemaine," said George North quickly. "That is, to Anthony's father; Basil, the eldest brother."
"What I think is, that if Mr. Castlemaine could show he had any right to it, he would show it, and put an end to the bother," spoke Mr. Dobie.
"But he should be made to do this."
The clerk lifted his eyes from his nails, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Who is to make him?"
"I'm sure I don't know. Could not the law?"
"The law must get a leg to stand upon before it can act. It has no right to interfere with Mr. Castlemaine. That young Anthony--if he's not dead--might come back and enter a process against him for restitution, and all that: in that case James Castlemaine would have to show by what tenure he holds it. But it might be an awfully long and expensive affair; and perhaps end in nothing."
"End in nothing?"
"Why, you see, if old Anthony Castlemaine simply made a present, while he was yet living, of Greylands' Rest to James, the latter would have to swear to it, and the thing would be done with. Some people think it was so. Others, and I for one, don't fancy it was his at all, but that poor young Anthony's."
"The Castlemaines have always been held to be men of honour, I believe?"
"And we should never have doubted James to be one--but for his refusal to satisfy his nephew and the public. Nothing but that raised a doubt against him. It is blowing over now."
"You do not know, then, how Greylands' Rest was left, or to whom?"
"No. I don't believe anybody does know, save Mr. Castlemaine himself. Unless it's Knivett. He may."
"But I dare say Knivett would not tell--even if he were pumped."
Mr. Dobie burst into a laugh at the idea. "Knivett tell the affairs of any of his clients!" said he. "You might as well set on and pump this high-backed chair as pump him."
The clerks, two of them, came in from dinner, and no more was said. George North walked back to Greylands, having taken nothing by his journey: just as the unfortunate Anthony had walked back to it many months before. The wind was blowing worse than ever. Several people, chiefly women, had gathered on the beach to look at the sea; but the spray and the roar nearly blinded and deafened them. Amidst others stood Mrs. Castlemaine, Ethel, and Flora: talking to them was the landlady of the Dolphin, a huge shawl tied over her head. George North approached.
"It is surely worse than it was this morning!" said George, after speaking to the ladies.
"And what'll it be when the tide is full up again!" cried Mrs. Bent, whose tongue was ever of the readiest. "Twenty years I've lived in this place, and never saw it like this. Look at that wave!--My patience!"
Almost as the words left her lips, there arose a cry of alarm. The wave, rearing itself to a towering height, came dashing in on the beach nearer than was bargained for, and engulfed Miss Flora Castlemaine. That young damsel, in defiance of commands, had been amusing herself by running forward to meet the waves and running back again before the water could catch her. This time she had not been quite so successful. The force of the water threw her down; and even as they looked, in the first moment of alarm, they saw her drifting rapidly out to sea with the returning tide.
Mrs. Castlemaine shrieked wildly. Nearly everybody shrieked. Some ran here, some yonder; some laid hold of one another in the nervousness induced by terror: and the child was being washed further out all the while. But the cries suddenly ceased; breaths were held in suspense: for one was going out to the rescue.
It was George North. Flinging off his coat and hat, he dashed through the waves, keeping his footing as long as he could, battling with the incoming tide. But for the boisterous state of the sea, the rescue would have been mere child's play; as it was, it cost him some work to reach and save her. He bore her back, out of the cruel water. She was quite insensible.
Ethel burst into tears. In the moment's agitation, she was not sure but she clasped his arm, wet as he was, when striving to pour forth her thanks. "Oh, how brave you are! How shall we ever repay you!"
He snatched a moment to look back into her eyes, to give her a smile that perhaps said all too much, and went on with his dripping burden. "To my house!" cried Mrs. Bent, rushing forward to lead the way. "There's a furnace of hot water there, for we've got a wash on to-day. And, Mr. North, sir, you'll just getyourselfbetween the blankets, if you please, and I'll bring you up a dose of hot brandy-and-water."
To see them all scampering over to the Dolphin, with the picked-up coat and hat, the wind taking their petticoats behind, the two wet figures in their midst, and Mrs. Castlemaine wringing her hands in despair, was a sight for Greylands. But, at least, George North had saved the child.
The next event that happened to excite the village was the disappearance of Jane Hallet from the Nunnery. She disappeared, so to speak. In fact she ran away from it.
Something like a fortnight had elapsed since her illness, or from that to three weeks, and she was able to walk about her room and do, at her own request, some sewing for the Sisters. Mr. Harry Castlemaine had not intruded on the Nunnery again. It was getting time to think of what was to be done with her: where she was to go, how she was to live. Jane had been so meek, so humble throughout this illness, so thankful for the care and kindness shown her,and for the non-reproach, that the Grey Ladies, in spite of their inward condemnation, could not help liking her in their hearts almost as much as they had liked her before, and they felt an anxious interest in her future. Sister Mildred especially, more reflective than the others by reason of her years, often wondered what that future was to be, what it could be. Miss Hallet--shut up in her home, her cheeks pink with shame whenever she had to go abroad: which she took care should be on Sundays only; but divine service, such as it was in Greylands, she would not miss--had never been to the Nunnery to see Jane, or taken the slightest notice of her. Sister Mildred had paid another visit to the cliff, and held a second conference with Miss Hallet, but it resulted in no good for Jane.
"She has blighted her own life and embittered mine," said Miss Hallet. "Never more can I hold up my head among my neighbours. I will not willingly see her again; I hope I never shall see her."
"The worst of it is, that all this reprobation will not undo the past," returned Sister Mildred. "If it would, if it could have served to prevent it, I'd say punish Jane to the last extreme of harshness. But it won't."
"She deserves to be punished always."
"The evil has come upon her, and everybody knows it. Your receiving her again in your home will not add to it or take from it. She has nowhere else to go."
"I pray you cease, Sister Mildred," said Miss Hallet; and it was plain to be seen that she spoke with utter pain. "You cannot--pardon me--you cannot understand my feelings in this."
"What shall you do without Jane? She was very useful to you; she was a companion."
"Could I ever make a companion of her again? For the rest, I have taken a little servant--Brown the blacksmith's eldest girl--and I find her handy."
"If I could but induce you to be lenient, for Jane's sake!" urged the pleading Sister, desperately at issue between her own respect for Miss Hallet's outraged feelings and her compassion for Jane.
"I never can be," was the answer, spoken stiffly: but Miss Hallet's fingers were trembling as she smoothed back her black silk mitten. "As to receiving her under my roof again, why, if I were ever brought to do that, I should be regarded as no better than herself. I should be no better--as I look upon it. Madam, you think it right to ask me this, I know: but to entertain it is an impossibility."
Sister Mildred dropped her ear-trumpet with a click. The hardness vexed her. And yet she could but acknowledge that it was in a degree excusable. But for the difficulties lying in Jane's path, she had never urged it.
So there the matter rested. Miss Hallet had despatched her new servant to the Nunnery with a portion of Jane's wardrobe: and what on earth was to become of Jane the Sisters were unable to conjecture. They could not keep her: the Nunnery was not a reformatory, or meant to be one. Consulting together, they at last thought of a plan.
Sister Mildred went one morning into Jane's room. Jane was seated at the window in a shawl, busy at her work--some pinafores for the poor little school-children. Her face was prettier than ever and very delicate, her manner deprecating, as she rose and courtesied to the late Superior.
"How are you getting on, Jane?"
"I have nearly finished this one, madam," she answered, holding out the pinafore.
"I don't mean as to work. I mean yourself."
"Oh, I feel nearly quite well now, thank you, madam," replied Jane. "I get stronger every day."
"I was talking about you with some of the ladies last night, Jane. We wonder what you are about to do. Have you any plan, or idea of your own?"
Poor Jane's face took a shade of crimson. She did not answer.
"Not that we wish to hurry you away from us, Jane. You are welcome to stay, and we intend you to do so, for at least two weeks yet. Only it will not do to leave considerations off to the last: this is why I speak to you in time."
Sister Mildred had sat down close by Jane; by bending her ear, she could do without the trumpet. Jane's hands, slender always, and weak yet, shook as she held the pinafore.
"Have you formed any plans, Jane?"
"Oh no, ma'am."
"I thought so," returned Sister Mildred, for indeed she did not see what plans Jane, so lonely and friendless, could form. "When we cannot do what we would, we must do what we can--that used to be one of your copies in small-hand, I remember, Jane."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, my dear, I don't want to speak harshly, but I think you must apply it to yourself. You can no longer do what you would: you will have to do what you can. I am sorry to say that your aunt continues inexorable: she will not shelter you again."
Jane turned to the table for her handkerchief. The tears were trickling down her face.
"We--the Sisters and myself--think it will be the best for you to take an easy place as servant----"
"As servant!" echoed Jane, looking startled.
"As servant for light work in a good family far away from here. Sister Margaret thinks she can manage this--her connections are very good, you know. Of course the truth must be told to them; but you will be taken care of, and made happy--we would not else place you--and have the opportunity afforded you of redeeming the past, so far as it may be redeemed. You don't like this, I'm afraid, Jane; but what else is there that's open to you?"
Jane was sobbing bitterly. She suddenly stooped and kissed the Sister's hand; but she made no answer.
"I will talk with you again to-morrow," said Sister Mildred, rising. "Think it over, Jane--and don't sob like that, child. If you can suggest anything better, why we'll listen to it. We only want to help you, and to keep you out of harm for the future."
Jane was very sad and silent all that day. In the evening, after dark, Sister Caroline, who had been out on an errand, came in with rounded eyes, declaring she had seen Jane Hallet out of doors. The ladies reproved her. Sister Caroline often had fancies.
"If it was not Jane Hallet it was her ghost," cried Sister Caroline, lightly. "She was under the cliff by the sea. I never saw anybody so much like Jane in my life."
"Have you been down under the cliff?" questioned Sister Charlotte.
"I went there for a minute or two with poor old Dame Tuff," explained the Sister. "She was looking after Jack, who had been missing since morning: she thought he might be lying under the cliff after too much ale. While we were peering into all the holes and shady places, somebody ran by exactly like Jane."
"Ran by where?"
"Close along, between us and the sea. Towards the Limpets."
"But nobody could want anything that way. They might be drowned."
"Well, it looked like Jane."
"Hush!" said one of the graver ladies. "You know it could not be Jane Hallet. Did you find Jack Tuff?"
"No: his poor mother's gone home crying. What a trouble sons are! But--may I go and see if Jane is in her room?"
It was really very obstinate of Sister Caroline: but she was allowed to go. Down she came with a rush.
Jane wasnotin her room.
Several of the Sisters, excited by the news, trooped up in a body to see. Very true. The room had been made neat by Jane, but there was no trace of herself. On the table lay some lines in pencil addressed to Sister Mildred.
A few lines of grateful, heartfelt thanks for the kindness shown to her, and an imploring hope that the ladies would think of her with as little harshness as they could. But not a single word to tell of whither she had gone.
"Pray Heaven she has not done anything rash!" mentally cried Sister Mildred with pale cheeks, as she thought of the dangers of the path that led to that part of the coast called the Limpets.