Morning dawned. The Grey Nunnery was like a fair. What with the doctors and their gigs, for two surgeons came from Stilborough, and the Sisters passing in and out on various errands, and the excited people who assembled in numbers round the gates, a stranger might have wondered at the commotion. More than once had Greylands been excited during the year now swiftly approaching its close, but never as much as now. A dreadful encounter between smugglers and the preventive men! and Harry Castlemaine shot down by one of their stray bullets! and Jane Hallet come to life again!
The Master of Greylands sat by the dying couch, giving vent now and again to his dire distress. There was no hope for his son; he knew it from the medical men: and his son had been the one only thing he had much cared for in life.
Of all the blows that had fallen on James Castlemaine, none had been like unto this. The shock alone was terrible. It reached him first through one of those Grey Sisters against whom he had been so prejudiced. Sister Ann had gone running over to knock up the Dolphin, lest cordials, or else, which the Nunnery lacked, might be required for the wounded man. After arousing John Bent and telling the news, she sped onwards under the night stars, to apprise the Master of Greylands. Greylands' Rest lay still and quiet; its doors and windows closed, the blinds drawn down. Sister Ann rang, and was immediately answered inside by the bark of a dog. "Cesar, Cesar!" she called out at the top of her voice, to assure the dog that it was a friend; and Cesar, recognising the tones, ceased his bark, which was impolitic on Sister Ann's part, for if he had kept on barking it would have aroused the inmates. Sister Ann waited and rang again; and then, terrified at the thought that the Master of Greylands might be too late to see his son, she retreated a few steps and shouted up to the windows. The Master heard it, and appeared looking out.
"Who is it?--what is it?" he asked, leaning from the window he had thrown up, and recognising with astonishment the dress of a Grey Sister.
"Oh, sir, it's bad news!" replied Sister Ann, "but I'm thankful to have awoke you. It's ill news about Mr. Harry, sir: and I've run all the way here, and am out of breath."
"What ill news about Mr. Harry?"
"He has been brought to the Nunnery wounded dreadfully. I've come up to ask you to make haste, sir, if you'd see him; for he may be bleeding to death."
"Wounded?--how?" gasped the Master, feeling as bewildered as a woman, and perhaps hard of belief.
"There has been a frightful fight to-night, they say, with smugglers, sir. Mr. Nettleby and two of the coastguardsmen brought him in. We don't know what to believe or think."
With a muttered word to the effect that he would go to the Nunnery directly, the Master of Greylands shut the window. Dressing in haste, he went forth on his errand. Of the two ways to the Nunnery, the Chapel Lane was somewhat the nearer one; and he took it. He bared his aching head to the night-air as he traversed it with fleet strides, wondering what extent of misery he might be entering upon. No very long space of time had elapsed since he sat in his room dwelling on the misfortunes and the deaths that the year had brought forth. Was there to be yet further misfortune?--another death? A death to him more cruel than any that had gone before it?
As he neared the turning to the Hutt, he dashed down the opening and tried the house-door and shouted--just as Sister Ann had tried and shouted at the door of Greylands' Rest some minutes before. The door was fast, and no response came: and the Master knocked at the little window that belonged to Teague's bedchamber. "Not back yet," he murmured to himself, after waiting barely a moment, and dashed back again and on towards the Nunnery. And there he fennel his worst fears as to Harry realised, and learnt from Mr. Parker that there was no hope of saving him.
The bleeding had been then stopped by Mr. Parker, but Harry had fainted. Before he revived and was collected enough to speak, or perhaps strong enough, the other surgeons came, and not one private word had been exchanged between father and son.
With the morning Harry was better. Better in so far as that he lay at tolerable ease and could converse at will. The surgeons had done for him what little could be done; but his life was only a question of hours. In a distress, the like of which he had never before experienced, sat the Master of Greylands. His handsome, noble, attractive son, of whom he had been so proud, whom he had so beloved in his heart, was passing away from his sight for ever. His chair was drawn close to the couch, his hand lay on Harry's, his aching eyes rested on the pale, changed face. The whole world combined could not have wrought for him a trial such as this: his own death would have been as nothing to it: and the blow unnerved him.
They were alone together: none intruded unnecessarily on these closing hours. Harry gave briefly the history of the scene of the past night, thanking heaven aloud that his father was not present at it.
"The two first boats had not long been in, and not half their packages were landed, when another boat glided quietly up," said Harry. "I thought it was from the vessel with more goods, till I heard a shout in Nettleby's tones 'In the King's name,' and found the revenue men were leaping out of her. I ran to close the passage to Teague's, and was coming back again when I found myself struck here," touching his side. "The pain was horrible: I knew what it meant--that I was shot, and useless--and I slipped into the vaults, intending to get up to the chapel ruins, and so away. I must have fainted there, and fallen; for I remember nothing more until Nettleby and the rest were bringing me here."
"They found you lying there?"
"Not they. Mary Ursula."
"Mary Ursula!"
"It seems so. She was there with a lantern, I gather. Father, you will, doubtless, learn all the explanation you wish; I cannot give it. You know what this shot has done for me?"
The Master did not answer.
"It is my death. I forced Croft to tell me. By to-night all will be over."
Mr. Castlemaine, striving and struggling to maintain composure, broke down helplessly at the last words, and sobbed aloud with an emotion never before betrayed by him to man. The distress to Harry was all too great; he had been truly attached to his indulgent father.
"For my sake, father!--for the little time I have to stay!" he said, imploringly. And the Master smothered his grief as he best might.
With his hand held between his father's, and his sad eyes beseeching pardon for the offence which in strong life he had dreaded to tell, Harry Castlemaine made his confession: Jane Hallet was his wife. It was somewhat of a shock, no doubt, to the Master of Greylands, but it fell with comparative lightness on his ear: beside the one vast trouble close at hand, others seemed as nothing. Jane might be his son's wife; but his son would not live to own her as such to the world.
"Do you forgive me, father? That it was wrong, I am aware; but only myself know how dearly I grew to love her. The place has been heaping scorn upon her, but she bore it all for my sake, knowing she would be cleared when I could declare it to you."
"She has not deserved the scorn, then?"
"Never. I would not have sought to hurt a hair of her head. Say you forgive me, father!--the moments are passing."
"Yes, yes, I forgive you; I forgive you. Oh, my boy, I forgive all. I wish I could die instead of you."
"And--will you set her right with the world?" continued Harry, holding his father's hand against his cheek caressingly. "It is only you who can effectually do it, I think. And allow her a little income to maintain her in comfort?"
"Harry, I will do all."
"She is my wife, you see, father, and it is what should be. Your promise will ease my soul in dying. Had I lived, she would have shared my state and fortune.
"All, all; I will do all," said the Master of Greylands.
"For the past, it is not she who is to blame," continued Harry, anxious that there should be no misapprehension of Jane's conduct. "She would have held out against the marriage on account of my family, always begging of me to wait. But I would have my way. Do not visit the blame upon her, father, for she does not deserve it."
"I understand: she shall have all justice, Harry. Be at peace."
But, in spite of this one absorbing grief for his son, there was another care that kept intruding itself in no minor degree on the Master of Greylands: and that was the business connected with the smugglers. How much of that was known?--how much had good fortune been enabled to keep concealed? While the doctors were again with Harry towards midday, Mr. Castlemaine snatched a moment to go out of doors.
How strange the broad glare of day appeared to him! Coming out of the darkened room with its hushed atmosphere, its overlying sadness, into the light of the sun, high in the heavens, the hum of the crowding people, the stir of health and busy life, the Master of Greylands seemed to have passed into another world. The room he had left was as the grave, where his son would soon be; this moving scene as some passing pageantry, very redolent of mundane earth.
Which Greylands was making the most of,--the strange accident to Harry Castlemaine (every whit as strange as the self-shooting that had temporarily disabled young Dance; nay, stranger); or the astounding news touching the smugglers, or the reappearance of Jane Hallet--it was hard to say. All kinds of reports were afloat; some true, some untrue, as usual. Mr. Superintendent, Nettleby, it appeared, had for a considerable time suspected that smuggling to an extraordinary extent was carried on somewhere along this line of coast. From information supplied to him, he had little doubt that valuable goods found their contraband entrance, somewhere; within, say, the length of a dozen miles. The difficulty was--how to hit upon the spot. Surmises were chiefly directed to the little place called Beeton, a mile or two higher up. It presented unusual facilities for running contraband goods; slight incidents occurred from time to time that seemed to bear out the superintendent's suspicions of it; and his chief attention was directed to that place. It was directed to any spot rather than Greylands. Greylands, in the estimation of the revenue-men, was exempt from suspicion, or nearly exempt. Save the open beach, there was no spot at Greylands where a cargo could be run--and the superintendent took care that the beach should be protected. Not an idea existed that the little strip of beach under the old Friar's Keep could be made available for anything of the kind, or that it had a passage of communication with Commodore Teague's Hutt, or with any other place in the world. Counting on his ten fingers, Mr. Nettleby could number up fifteen months during which he had beset Beeton like a watchdog, and nothing at all had come of it. The unsuspected Greylands had been left at ease, as usual, to do what it would.
Upon Greylands the news fell like a thunderbolt. Had one of those cloud-electric missives suddenly fallen and shattered the rocks to pieces, it would not have caused more intense astonishment. The Friar's Keep been used as a place of smuggling for untold years!--and Commodore Teague was the head smuggler!--who used to stow away the goods in his big cellar till he could take them away in his spring cart! Greylands knew not how to believe this: and on the Commodore's score somewhat resented it, for he was an immense favourite. One fact seemed indisputable--the Commodore was not to be seen this morning, and his place was shut up.
The version generally believed was this. Mr. Superintendent Nettleby, observing, after dark had fallen, a suspicious-looking vessel lying nearly close in shore, and having had his attention directed to this same vessel once or twice before, had collected his men and taken up his place in the revenue-boat, under cover of the walls of the Grey Nunnery, and there waited until it was time to drop upon the smugglers: which he did, catching them in the act. Most of the men he surprised were sailors; he knew it by their attire and language; but there was at least one other man (if not two men) who was muffled up for disguise; and there was, without any disguise, working openly, Commodore Teague. The Commodore and these other men--take them at two--had escaped to the ship, and neither the superintendent nor his subordinates knew who they were. The wounded sailor-prisoner was a foreigner, who could speak but a few words of English. He gave his name as Jacob Blum, and appeared to know little about the affair, declaring solemnly that he had joined the vessel in Holland only a month before, and was not apprised that she was in the contraband trade.
But Harry Castlemaine--what caused him to be so fatally mixed up with the fight? Lacking an authorised version, the following sprung up; and, spreading from one to another, was soon accepted as truth. Mr. Harry, promenading about late in the night with his sweetheart, Jane Hallet (and sly enough she must have been, to have stayed all this while at old Goody Dance's, and never shown herself!), had his ears saluted with the noise and shots going on below. He rushed into the Keep and down the staircase to the vaults beneath (instinct having discovered the stairs to him at the right moment, as was supposed), where he was met and struck down by a stray shot, the fighters not even knowing that he was there. Jane Hallet must have followed him. Sister Mary Ursula's appearance on the scene, as mentioned by the two coastguardsmen, was accounted for in the same natural manner. She had heard the disturbance from her chamber-window--for of course the noise penetrated as far as the Grey Nunnery--and had gone forth, like a brave, good woman, to ascertain its meaning and see if succour was needed.
All these several reports--which running from one to another, grew into assured facts, as just said, in men's minds--were listened to by Mr. Castlemaine. He found that, as yet, not a shade of suspicion was directed to him or his house: he fervently hoped that it might not be. That would be one sup taken out of his cup of bitterness. Commodore Teague was regarded as the sole offender, so far as Greylands was concerned.
"To think that we should have been so deceived in any man!" exclaimed the landlord of the Dolphin, standing outside his door with his wife, and addressing Mr. Castlemaine and the crowd together. "I'd have believed anybody in the place to be a cheat, sir, rather than Teague."
"We have not had Teague's defence yet," spoke the Master of Greylands. "It is not right to entirely condemn a man unheard."
"But the coastguardsmen saw him there at work, sir," retorted ready-tongued Mrs. Bent. "Henry Mann says he was hard at it with his shirt sleeves stripped up. He'd not be helping for love: he must have had his own interest there."
The Master of Greylands was wisely silent. To defend Teague too much might have turned suspicion on himself: at least, he fancied so in his self-consciousness: and the probability was that the Commodore would never return to ascertain how he stood with Greylands.
In the course of the morning, making rather more commotion with its sail than usual, Tom Dance's fishing-boat came sailing in. Tom and his son were on board her, and a fair haul of fish. The various items of strange news were shouted out to it by half a dozen tongues as soon as it was within hailing distance. Tom gave vent to sundry surprised ejaculations in return, as he found the cable and made the boat fast, and landed with a face of astonishment. The one item that seemed most to stagger him was the state of Mr. Harry Castlemaine.
"It can't be true!" he cried, standing still, while a change passed over his countenance. "Shot by smugglers!--dying! Mr. Harry Castlemaine!"
"Well, you see, Tom, it might ha' been them preventive-men,--'twarn't obliged to ha' been they smugglers," said Jack Tuff. "Both sides was firing off, by all account, as thick as thieves. Which ever 'twas, Mr. Harry have got his death-shot. How wet your jersey is!"
Tom Dance turned in at his own door, threw off the "jersey" and other articles of his fishing toggery, flung on dry things, and went up towards the throng round the Dolphin. Mr. Castlemaine was just crossing back to the Nunnery, and looked at him, some involuntary surprise in his eyes.
"Is it you, Dance?"
"It's me, sir: just got in with the tide. I be struck stupid, pretty nigh, hearing what they've been telling me, down there," added Tom, indicating the beach.
"Ay, no doubt," said the Master of Greylands, in a subdued tone. But he walked on, saying no more.
Tom Dance's confrères in the fishing trade had no idea but that he had sailed out in the ordinary way with the night tide. The reader knows that at midnight he was at least otherwise occupied. Tom had done a somewhat daring act. He and his son, alike uninjured in the fray, had escaped in the ship's boats; and Tom, flinging off his disguising cape and cap, his sea boots, and in fact most of his other attire, leaped into the water to swim to his fishing-boat, lying on the open beach. It was his one chance of non-discovery. He felt sure that neither he nor Walter had been recognized by Nettleby and his men; but, if they were to go off to Holland in the ship and so absent themselves from Greylands, it would at once be known that they were the two who had been seen taking part. No man in Greylands was so good a swimmer as Dance; and----he resolved to risk it. He succeeded. After somewhat of a battle, and the water was frightfully cold, he gained his boat. It had just floated with the incoming tide. By means of one of the ropes, of which there were several hanging over the side, he climbed on board, put on some of his sea-toggery that was there, and slipped the cable. The anchor was small, not at all difficult for one man to lift; but Tom Dance wanted to save both time and noise, and it was easiest to slip the cable. The moderate breeze was in his favour blowing off the land. He hoisted the staysail, and was soon nearing the ship, which was already spreading her canvas for flight. From the ship Dance took his son on board. They stayed out all night, fishing: it was necessary, to give a colouring to things and avert suspicion; and they had now, close upon midday, come in with a tolerable haul of fish. Walter had orders to stay on board, occupy himself there, andbe still, while Tom landed to gather news and to see which way the wind lay.
But he had never thought to hear these sad tidings about Harry Castlemaine.
"It has a'most done me up," he said, returning on board again and speaking to his son. "He was the finest young fellow in the country, and the freest in heart and hand. And to be struck like this!"
"How much is known, father?" asked Walter, stopping in his employment of sorting the fish.
"Nothing's known that I can hear," growled Tom Dance, for he was feeling the crossness of affairs just then. "It's all laid on Teague's back--as Teague always good-naturedly said it would be, if a blow-up came."
"Can Teague ever come back, father?"
"Teague don't want to. Teague has said oftentimes that he'd as soon, or sooner, be over among the Dutch than here. He was always ready for the start, I expect. He'll be writing for us to go over and see him next summer."
"I know he liked them foreign towns: he's often been in 'em," observed Walter. "And he mist have feathered his nest pretty well."
"Yes; he won't need to look about him for his pipe and chop of a day. Our chief nest-egg is smashed though, lad. No more secret night-work for us ever again."
"Well, you must have feathered the nest too, father," returned Walter, privately glad that the said night-work was over, for he had never liked it in his heart.
"You just hold your tongue about the feathering of nests," sharply reprimanded Tom. "Once let folks fancy I've got more than fishing would bring in, and they might set on to ask where it come from.Yournest won't be feathered by me, I can tell ye, young man, unless you keep a still tongue in your head."
"There's no fear of me, father."
"And there'd better not be," concluded Tom Dance. "I'd ship ye off after Teague, short and quick, if I thought there was."
The afternoon was drawing to its close. On the rude couch, more exhausted than he had been in the morning, getting every minute now nearer to death, lay Harry Castlemaine. His stepmother, Flora, Ethel, good old Sister Mildred, and Mary Ursula, all had taken their last farewell of him. Mrs. Bent had contrived to get in, and had taken hers with some bitter tears. Mr. Parker had just gone out again: the Sister in attendance, perceiving what was at hand, had soon followed him. The poor wife, Jane, only acknowledged to be left, had gone through her last interview with her husband and said her last adieu. Nearly paralysed with grief, suffering from undue excitement which had been repressed so long, she had relapsed into a state of alarming prostration, that seemed worse than faintness. Mr. Parker administered an opiate, and she was now lying on her old bed above, cared for by Sister Mildred. And the sole watcher by the dying bed was Mr. Castlemaine.
Oh, what sorrow was his! The only living being he had greatly cared for in the world dying before his aching eyes. It was for him he had lived, had schemed, had planned and hoped. That nefarious smuggling had been only carried on in reference to Harry's prospective wealth. But for Harry's future position, that Mr. Castlemaine had so longed to establish on a high footing, he had thrown it up long before. It was all over now; the secret work, the hope, and the one cherished life.
"Father, don't!" panted Harry, as Mr. Castlemaine sat catching up ever and anon his breath in sobs, though his eyes were dry. "It may be better for me to go. I used to look forward, I've often done it, to being a good son to you in your old age: but it may be best as it is."
Mr. Castlemaine could not trust himself to answer.
"And you'll forgive me for all the trouble I've cost you! As I trust God has forgiven me. I have been thinking ofHimall day, father."
A terrible sob now. Mr. Castlemaine knew not how to keep down his emotion. Oh, how bitter it was to him, this closing hour, his heart aching with its pain!
"It won't be so very long, father; you'll be coming, you know: and it is a journey that we must all take. What's the matter?--it's getting dark!"
Mr. Castlemaine raised his eyes to the window. The light was certainly fading on the panes; the dusk was stealing over the winter afternoon. Harry could only speak at intervals, and the words came out with long pauses between them. Mr. Castlemaine fancied he was beginning slightly to wander: but a great many of us are apt to fancy that when watching the dying.
"And you'll take care of Jane, father? Just a little help, you know, to keep her from being thrown on the world. It's not much she'll want I don't ask it."
The damp hand, lying in Mr. Castlemaine's was, pressed almost to pain; but there was no other answer. The aching heart was well-nigh unmanned.
"And don't be angry with Marston, father: he only did what I made him do. He is a better man than we have thought him. He was very good to me when he was here to-day, and left me comfort."
Mr. Castlemaine lodged his elbow on his knee, and bent his brow upon his hand. For some time there was silence. Harry, who had none of the restlessness sometimes characteristic of the final scene, lay quite still, his eyes closed.
A very long, deep breath disturbed the silence. It startled Mr. Castlemaine. He looked up, and for a moment loosed the hand he held.
"Harry!"
Harry Castlemaine, his eyes wide open now, raised his head from the pillow. He seemed to be staring at the windowpanes with a fixed look, as though he could see the sea that lay beyond, and found something strange in it.
"Father, dear father, it is she!" he burst out in his natural tones, and with a deep, exulting joy in them. "It is my mother: I know her well. Oh, yes, mother, I am coming!"
The Master of Greylands was startled. Harry had never seen his mother to remember her; he knew her only by her picture, which hung in one of the rooms, and was a speaking likeness of her. Harry had fallen back again, and lay with a smile upon his face. One more deep respiration came slowly forth from his lips: it was the last he had to take in this world.
The bereaved father saw what it was, and all his bitter sorrow rose up within him in one long overwhelming agony. He fell upon the unconscious face lying there; his trial seeming greater than he could bear.
"Oh, Harry, my son! my son Harry! would God I could have died for thee, my son, my son!"
Little explanation need be afforded in regard to the smuggling practices, so long carried on with impunity. Some ten or fifteen years before, Commodore Teague (commodore by courtesy) had taken the Hutt of old Mr. Castlemaine, on whose land it stood. Whether the Commodore had fixed on his abode there with the pre-intention to set up in the contraband trade, so much favoured then and so profitable, or whether the facilities which the situation presented for it, arising from the subterranean passage to the beach, which Teague himself discovered, and which had been unknown to the Castlemaines, first induced the thought, cannot be told. Certain it is, that Teague did organize and embark in it; and was joined in it by James Castlemaine. James Castlemaine was a young and active man then, ever about; and Teague probably thought that it would not do to run the risk of beingfound outby the Castlemaines. He made a merit of necessity; and by some means induced James Castlemaine to join him in the work--to be his partner in it, in fact. Half a loaf is better than no bread, runs the proverb, and the Commodore was of that opinion. His proposal was a handsome one. James Castlemaine was to take half the gross profits; he himself would take the risk, the cost, and the residue of the profits. Perhaps James Castlemaine required little urging: daring, careless, loving adventure, the prospect presented charms for him that nothing else could have brought. And the compact was made.
It was never disclosed to his father, old Anthony Castlemaine, or to Peter, the banker, or to any other of his kith and kin, his son Harry excepted. As Harry grew to manhood and settled down at Greylands' Rest, after his education was completed, the same cause that induced the Commodore to confide in James Castlemaine induced the latter to confide in his son--namely, that Harry might, one of these fine nights, be finding it out for himself. Harry delighted in it just as much as his father had, and took an active part in the fun a great deal oftener than his father did. Harry rarely allowed a cargo to be run without him; Mr. Castlemaine, especially of late years, was only occasionally present. Few men plotting against His Majesty's revenues had ever enjoyed so complete an immunity from exposure. James Castlemaine and the Commodore had, to use young Dance's expression, pretty well feathered their nests: and Tom Dance--who had been taken into confidence from the first, for the help of a strong man was needed by Teague to stow away the cargoes after they were run--had not done amiss in his small way.
It was over now. The fever and the excitement, the hidden peril and the golden harvest, all had come to an end, and Harry Castlemaine's life bad ended with them. Striding over the field path that led to Greylands' Rest, his heart softened almost like a little child's, his tears running slowly down his cheeks unchecked, went the Master of Greylands from his son's death-bed.
"Is it retribution?" he murmured, lifting his face in the gloom of the evening. "Harry's death following upon Anthony's ere the year is out!" And he struck his forehead as he walked on.
"I beg your pardon, sir, for speaking at this moment. May I say how truly I feel for you? I would not like you to think me indifferent to this great sorrow."
The speaker was George North. They had met in the most lonely part of the road, just before the turning into the avenue close to the house gates. George North did not know that the death had actually taken place; only that it was expected ere long. All his sympathies were with Mr. Castlemaine: he had been feeling truly for him and for Harry during the day; and in the impulse of the moment, meeting thus unexpectedly, he stopped to express it.
"Thank you," said Mr. Castlemaine, quite humbly, drawing his hand across his face. "Yes, it is a bitter blow. The world's sunshine has gone out for me with it."
A rapid thought came to George North. What if, in this softened mood, he were to ask for a word of Anthony? If ever the Master of Greylands could be induced to afford information of his fate, it would be now: no other moment might ever occur so favourable as this. Yes, hewould;be the result what it might.
"Forgive me Mr. Castlemaine. There is a matter that I have long wished to mention to you; a question I would ask: the present, now that we are alone here, and both softened by sorrow--for believe me I do sorrow for your son more than you may suspect--seems to me to be an appropriate time. May I dare to ask it?"
"Ask anything," said the unconscious mourner.
"Can you tell me what became of young Anthony Castlemaine?"
Even in the midst of his anguish, the question gave the Master of Greylands a sharp sting. "What do you know about Anthony Castlemaine?" he rejoined.
"He was my--dear friend," spoke George in agitation. "If you would but tell me, sir, what became of him! Is he really dead?"
"Oh that he were not dead!" cried Mr. Castlemaine, unmanned by the past remembrances, the present pain. "He would have been some one to care for; I could have learnt to love him as my nephew. I have no one left now."
"You have still a nephew, sir!" returned George, deeply agitated, a sure conviction seating itself within him at the last words, that whatever might have been the adverse fate of Anthony, the sorrowing man before him had not helped to induce it. "A nephew who will ask nothing better than to serve you in all affection and duty--if you will but suffer him."
Mr. Castlemaine looked keenly at the speaker in the evening's gloaming. "Where is this nephew?" he inquired after a pause.
"I am he, sir. I am George Castlemaine."
"You?"
"Yes, Uncle James--if I may dare so to address you. I am poor Anthony's brother."
"And my brother Basil's son?"
"His younger son, Uncle James. They named me George North."
"George North Castlemaine," repeated Mr. Castlemaine, as if wishing to familiarise himself with the name. "And you have been staying here with a view of tracing out Anthony's fate?" he added, quickly arriving at the conclusion, and feeling by rapid instinct that this young man was in good truth his nephew.
"Yes, I have, sir And I had begun to despair of doing it. Is he still living?"
"No, lie is dead. He died that fatal February night that you have heard of. You have heard talk of the shot: that shot killed him."
In spite of his effort for composure, George allowed a groan to escape his lips. The Master of Greylands echoed it.
"George, my nephew, it has been an unlucky year with the Castlemaines," he said in a wailing tone. "Death has claimed three of us; two of the deaths, at least, have been violent, and all of them have been that sudden death we pray against Sunday by Sunday in the Litany. My brother Peter; my nephew Anthony; and now my son!"
The suspicion, that had been looming in George's mind since the morning, rose to the surface: a suspicion of more curious things than one.
"I think I understand it," he said; "I see it all. In some such affray with the smugglers as occurred last night, Anthony met his death. A shot killed him; as it has now killed another? A smuggler's shot?"
"A smuggler's shot--true. But there was no affray."
"Tell me all, Uncle James," said the young man, his beseeching tone amounting to pain. "Let me share all--the trouble and doings of the past. It shall be hidden in my breast for ever."
"What is it that you suspect?"
"That the smuggling trade was yours: and that the fact accounts for your having been in the Keep that night--for Harry's being there yesterday. Trust me as you have trusted your son, Uncle James: it shall be ever sacred. I will sympathise with you as he has done: am I not a Castlemaine?"
One rapid debate in his mind, and then the Master of Greylands pointed to his garden and led the way to the nearest bench there: the selfsame bench that George had sat on to whisper his love-vows to Ethel. He was about to disclose all to his new-found nephew, to whom his esteem and admiration had before been drawn as George North; whom he already liked, nay loved, by one of those subtle instincts rarely to be accounted for. Unless he made a clean breast of all things, the fate of Anthony must in some particulars still remain dark.
He first of all satisfied George upon the one point which has already been declared to the reader: they were the smugglers, the Castlemaines, in conjunction with the originator and active man, Teague: explaining to him how it was that he had been induced to join himself to the practices. And then he went on to other matters.
George Castlemaine sat by his side in the dusky night, and listened to the tale. To more than he had dared to ask, or hope for, or even to think of that eventful evening. For Mr. Castlemaine entered upon the question of the estate: speaking at first abruptly.
"Greylands' Rest is Anthony's," said he.
"Anthony's!"
"Yes. Or rather yours, now Anthony is gone; but it was his when he came over. It is necessary for me to tell you this at first: one part of the story involves another. My father knew nothing of the smuggling; never had an idea of it; and the money that I gained by it I had to invest quietly from time to time through a London agent; so that he, and others, should not know I possessed it. A few weeks before my father died, he called me to him one morning to talk about the property----"
"Did he make a will?----I beg your pardon for my interruption, Uncle James," hastily added the young man in apology for what now struck him for rudeness.
"No, he did not make a will. He never made one. Your grandfather was one of those men who shrink from making a will--there are many such in the world. It was less necessary in his case to make one than it is in some cases--at least he deemed it so. Of his available means, Basil had received his share, I had received mine, Peter had had his; all, years before. Nothing, save the estate, was left to will away. I see what you are wondering at, George--that out of twelve or thirteen hundred a year--for that is about what the estate brings in--your grandfather should have been able to live here so liberally and make the show we did: but during his lifetime he enjoyed nearly as much more from a relative of my mother's, which source of income went back at his death. Perhaps you know this. My father began that morning to talk to me--'When do you expect Basil, James?' he asked abruptly: and the question unutterably astonished me, for we had not heard from Basil at all, and did not expect him. 'He will come,' said my father; 'he will come. Basil will know that I must be drawing near my end, and he will come over to be ready to take possession here.' 'Leave Greylands' Rest for me, father,' I burst out--for I had been hoping all along that it would be mine after him: I presume you see for why?"
But George did not see: and said so.
"On account of what went on in the Friar's Keep," explained Mr. Castlemaine. "It would not do, unless I gave up that, for me to quit this place, or for a stranger to live at it. I knew Basil of old: he would just as soon have denounced it to the world as not. And, as I was not then inclined to give up anything so profitable, I wished to have Greylands' Rest. There is no other residence within miles of the place that would have been suitable for me and my family."
"And would my grandfather not leave it to you, Uncle James?"
"He refused absolutely. He would not listen to me. Greylands' Rest must descend to Basil after him, he said, and to Basil's son--if Basil had a son--afterhim. I begged him to let me purchase Greylands' Rest at a fair valuation, and pay over the money to him or invest it for Basil. I said I was attached to the place, having lived in it all my life; whereas Basil had been away from it years and years. I offered to add on to the purchase money any premium that might be named; but the old man laughed, and asked where I was to get all the money from. Of course he did not know of my private resources, and I did not dare to allude to them. I brought up Peter's name, saying he would assist me. Peter was rolling in riches then. But it was all of no use: Basil was the eldest, my father said, the rightful heir, and the estate should never pass over him for one of us. He drew up, himself, a sort of deed of gift, not a will, giving the estate to Basil then; then, during his own lifetime; and he charged me, should Basil not have appeared at the time of his demise, to remain in possession and keep it up for him. But he never charged me--mark you, George, he never charged me to seek Basil out. And, for the matter of that, we did not know where to seek him."
Mr. Castlemaine paused to take his hat off and wipe his brow. This confession must be costing him some pain. But for the greater pain at his heart, the hopeless despair that seemed to have fallen on the future, it had never been made.
"My father died. I, according to his pleasure, remained on, the Master of Greylands' Rest. People took it for granted it was left to me; I never gave a hint to the contrary, even to my brother Peter. Peter was getting into embarrassment then with his undertakings of magnitude, and came to me for money to help him. The time went on; each month as it passed and brought no sign of Basil, no tidings of him, seeming to confirm me more securely in possession of the property. My father had said to me, 'Should Basil never reappear to claim it, nor any son of Basil's, then it will be yours, James.' Before the first year came to an end, I thought it was mine; as the second year advanced, it seemed so securely my own that I never gave a thought or a fear to its being taken from me. You may judge, then, what I felt when some young fellow presented himself one day at Greylands' Rest, without warning of any kind, saying Basil was dead, that he was Basil's son, and had come to claim the property."
Again the Master of Greylands paused. But this time he remained quite still. George did not interrupt him.
"When I recall the shame connected with that period, and would fain plead an excuse for myself, I feel tempted to say that the excuse lay in the suddenness of the blow. You must not think me covetous, George Castlemaine: love of money had nothing whatever to do with the assertion to Anthony that Greylands' Rest was mine. I dreaded to be turned from it. I wanted, at any cost (that of honour you will say), to stay in it. At one of the interviews I had with your brother, I hinted to him that compensation might be made to him for his disappointment,even to the value of the estate, for I was rich and did not heed money. But Anthony was a true Castlemaine, I found, Basil's own son: for he at once replied that he required only justice: if the estate was his, he must have it; if not his, he did not want to be recompensed for what he had no claim to. I was angry, mortified, vexed: he kept asking me to show the Deed, or the Will, by which I held it: I could not do that, for it would have been seen at once that the property was his, not mine."
"Perhaps you have destroyed the Deed," said George.
"No, I kept it. I have it still. It was always my intention to make restitution some time, and I kept the Deed. My poor son would never have succeeded to Greylands' Rest."
"Who would then?" exclaimed George involuntarily.
"Anthony. I am speaking just now of what my thoughts and intentions were during that brief period of Anthony's sojourn at Greylands. But now listen, George. You must have heard that on the last day of your brother's life we had an encounter in yonder field."
"Oh yes, I have heard of it."
"Something indoors had put me frightfully out of temper, and I was in a haughty and angry mood. But, as Heaven is my judge, I resolved, later on in that afternoon, to make him restitution: to give up to him the estate. After leaving him, I went on; I was, I believe, in a foaming passion, and walked fast to throw it of. In passing the churchyard, I saw that some one had been flinging some dead sticks on my father's tombstone: you know it, of course: it is the large one of white marble with the iron rails round: and I went in to clear them off. How it was I know not: I suppose Heaven sends such messages to all of us: but as I stood there to read the inscription, 'Anthony Castlemaine, of Greylands' Rest,' all the folly and iniquity of my conduct rose up vividly to confront me. I saw his fine old face before me again, I seemed to hear his voice, enjoining me to hold the estate in trust for Basil, or Basil's son, and relying with the utmost implicit trust on my honour that I would do this. A revulsion of feeling came over me, my face flushed with its sense of shame. 'Father, I will obey you,' I said aloud; 'before another day shall close, Greylands' Rest shall have passed to young Anthony.' And it should so have passed. Heaven hears me say it, and knows that I would have carried it out."
"I am sure of it," said George, trustingly. It was impossible to doubt the fervent accent, the earnest tone, so replete with pain.
"I am now approaching that fatal point, the death of Anthony. When I went back home, I sat down to consider of the future. Two plans suggested themselves to me. The one was, to take Anthony into confidence as to the business transacted at the Friar's Keep; the other was to give the business up altogether, so far as I and Harry were concerned, and to make no disclosure of it to Anthony. I rather inclined to the latter course: I had realized a vast deal of money, and did not require more, and I thought it might be as well to get out of the risk while we were undiscovered. Teague, who had made money also, might give it up, or continue it on his sole score and at his own risk, as he pleased. I thought of this all the evening, and between ten and eleven o'clock, after the household had gone to bed, I went down to Teague's to speak to him about it. I had no particular motive, you understand, for going to Teague at that late hour, the morning would have been soon enough; but I hadthoughtmyself into an impatient, restless mood, and so started off upon impulse. I stayed with Teague, talking, until near half-past eleven, perhaps quite that: no decision was come to, either by me or him, as to our respective course in regard to the trade; but that made no difference to my intended communication to Anthony as to the estate; and meant to send for him to Greylands' Rest as soon as breakfast was over on the following morning. Do you believe me?"
"Fully, Uncle James. I believe every word you say."
"I am telling it before Heaven," was the solemn rejoinder. "As in the presence of my dead son."
And that was the first intimation George received that Harry was no more.
"It was, I say, about half-past eleven when I left the Hutt. In turning into Chapel Lane I saw a man standing there, holding on by one of the trees. It was Jack Tuff, one of our working fishermen. He might have noticed me, though I hoped he had not; for you will readily understand that I did not care for the village to know of any night visits I might pay Teague. Upon reaching home I went upstairs to my bureau, and sat for a few minutes, though I really can't say how many, looking over some private papers connected with the trade. Mrs. Castlemaine and the household had, I say, gone to rest. I began to feel tired; I had not been well for some days; and shut the papers up until morning. Chancing to look from the window before quitting the room, I saw a vessel at anchor, just in a line with the chapel ruins. It was a remarkably bright, moonlight night. The vessel looked like our vessel; the one engaged in the contraband trade; and I knew that if it was so, she had come over unexpectedly, without notice, to Teague. Such an occurrence was very unusual, though it had happened once or twice before. I left the house again, passed down Chapel Lane, and went straight over to the chapel ruins to take a nearer look at the vessel. Yes, I see what you are thinking of, George--your brother and John Bent did see me. Bent's assertion that they stood there and watched me across is true; though I did not see them, and had no idea anyone was there. One glance was sufficient to show me that it was in truth our vessel. I hastened through the Friar's Keep to the secret door, and ran down the staircase. The cargo was already being run: the boats were up on the beach, and the men were wading through the water with the goods. Teague was not there, nor was Dance or his son: in fact, the sailors had taken us by surprise. Without the delay of a moment, I ran up the subterranean passage to summon Teague, and met him at the other end: he had just seen the anchored vessel. Not many minutes was I away from the beach, George Castlemaine, but when I got back, the mischief had been done. Anthony was killed."
"Murdered?"
"You may call it murder, if you like. His own imprudence, poor fellow, induced it. It would appear--but we shall never know the exact truth--that he must have discovered the staircase pretty quickly, and followed me down. In my haste I had no doubt left the door open. At once he was in the midst of the scene. The boats hauled up there, the goods already landed, the sailors at their hasty work speaking together in covert whispers, must have told him what it meant. In his honest impulse, but most fatal imprudence, he dashed forward amid the sailor-smugglers. 'I have caught you, you illicit villains!' he shouted, or words to that effect. 'I see what nefarious work you are engaged in: cheating His Majesty's revenue. What, ho! coastguard!' Before the words had well left his lips, one of the men caught up a pistol, presented it at him, and shot him dead."
Mr. Castlemaine paused. His nephew, George, was silent from agitation.
"The man who shot him was the mate of the vessel, a Dutchman by birth. When Teague and I reached the beach, we saw them all standing over Anthony. He----"
"He was dead, you say?" gasped George.
"Stone dead. The bullet had gone through his heart. I cannot attempt to tell you what my sensations were; but I would freely have given all I possessed, in addition to Greylands' Rest, to recall the act. There was a short consultation as to what was to be done with him; and, during this, one of the men drew a diamond ring from poor Anthony's finger, on which the moonlight had flashed, and put it into my hand. I have it still, shut up in my bureau."
George thought of this very ring--that Charlotte Guise had discovered and told him of. She had been deeming it the one conclusive proof against Mr. Castlemaine.
"I spoke of Christian burial for Anthony: but insuperable difficulties stood in the way. It might have led to the discovery of the trade that was carried on; and Van Stan, the man who killed him, insisted on his being thrown at once into the sea."
George groaned. "Was it done?"
"It was. Van Stan, a huge, angular fellow, he was, with the strength of ten ordinary men, cleared out one of the boats. They lifted Anthony into it; he was rowed out to sea, and dropped into its midst. I can assure you, George, that for many a day I looked for the sea to cast the body ashore: but it never has cast it."
"Where is that Van Stan?"
"Van Stan has died now in his turn. Big and strong giant though he was to look at, he died in Holland not long after of nothing but a neglected cold. I ought to have told you," added Mr. Castlemaine, "that Teague went up nearly at once to lock the gate of the chapel ruins: and there he saw John Bent pacing about: which made us all the more cautions below to be as silent as might be. It was our custom to lock that gate when cargoes were being run, both to guard against surprise and against anyone coming into the ruins to look out to sea. We had three keys to the gate: Teague kept one; Harry another; Dance a third."
"I wonder you could get three keys made to it without suspicion," spoke George, amid his deeper thoughts.
"We got a fresh lock and its keys from over the water, and had it put on the gate without Greylands being the wiser. That was many a year ago."
"And--you were not present!" remarked George, his bewildered thoughts recurring to the one fatal act of the night, and speaking like a man in a dream.
"No. It was exactly as I have told you. My son was also away that night: he had gone to Newerton. Had he or I been there, I don't know that we could have hindered it: Van Stan gave no more warning of what he was about to do than does a flash of lightning. Poor Anthony's own imprudence was in fault. He no doubt supposed that he had suddenly come upon a nest of lawless wretches; and never thought to connect them in any way with the Castlemaines."
"Teague said that the shot that was heard by John Bent and others proceeded from his gun. That was not true?"
"It was not true. That he had been cleaning his gun that night, was so; for when I reached the Hutt, I found him occupied at it. It was also true that he was going out for a sail next day in his yacht----"
"And were you going with him as they said?"
"No, I was not. But if I am to tell you all, I must proceed in my own way. I went home that night, when the work was over, with Anthony's fate lying heavily upon me. After a perfectly sleepless night I was disturbed in the early morning by the news that my brother Peter was dead; and I started for Stilborough. In the afternoon, when I came back, I found Greylands in a commotion. Miles, my servant man, told me of the disappearance of Anthony, and he alluded indignantly to the rumours connecting me with it. I had to meet these rumours; prudence necessitated it; and I went to the Dolphin Inn, where the people had mostly assembled, taking the Hutt on my way. The Hutt was shut up; Teague was not in yet. On my way onwards I met him, just landed from his boat, and we stayed to exchange opinions. 'Don't let it be known that you were out at all last night, sir,' he said. 'Your man Miles sticks to it that you were not, and so must you.' I should have taken this advice but for one circumstance--in for one lie in for fifty, you know; and lies I was obliged to tell, to turn all scent from the illicit trade. I told Teague that in quitting the Hutt the previous night at half-past eleven, I had seen Tuff in the lane, and he might have recognised me. So my visit to Teague had to be acknowledged and accounted for; it was the safer plan; and in a word or two we settled what the plea should be--that I had gone down to arrange about going for a sail with him the next morning in his yacht. This I spoke of at the Dolphin; but other facts and rumours suggested against me I ignored. It was a terrible time," passionately added Mr. Castlemaine. "I never recall it without pain."
"It must have been," said George in his sympathy.
"Teague went to the Dolphin later, but I had then left the inn. He said that when he heard the people commenting on the shot, instinct prompted him to take it on himself, and he there and then avowed that the report came from his own gun. The scream he denied in toto, insisting upon it that it was all fancy. Would it had been!"
"Would it had been!" echoed George with a groan.
"It was like a fate!" burst forth the Master of Greylands, breaking the distressing pause. "Like a fate, that I should have gone into the Keep that night by way of the chapel ruins. We always avoided that way of entrance and egress, to keep observation from it. Harry, I know, had used it more than he ought: it was so much more ready a way than going into Teague's and passing through the long passage: but I was always cautioning him. The young are careless."
"The ghost of the Grey Monk?" asked George. "Who personated him? Of course I can understand that the farce was kept up to scare the world from the Friar's Keep."
"Just so. The superstition already existed in the village, and we turned it to account. I recollect when I was a boy sundry old people testified to having been at odd times scared by the apparition at the windows of the Keep when they were passing it at night. We re-organised the ghost and caused him to show himself occasionally, procuring for the purpose a monk's dress, and a lamp emitting a pale blue flame by means of spirit and salt. Teague and Harry were the actors; sometimes one, sometimes the other. It was an element of fun in my poor boy's life."
Mr. Castlemaine rose with the last words. He had need of repose.
"I will see you again in the morning, George. Come to me at what hour you please, and I will introduce you to my wife by your true name. Greylands' Rest is yours, you know, now."
"I--but I do not wish you to go out of it, Uncle James," said George in his impulse of generosity.
"I shall be only too glad to get out of it as soon as may be," was the impressive answer. "Do you think I could bear to live in it now? Would to Heaven I had gone out of it before this fatal year! George," he added, with a gasp of agitation, "as I was walking home just now I asked myself whether the finger of God had not been at work. These illicit practices of mine caused the death of Anthony; I denied that death, concealed it, have attempted to ridicule it to the world: and now my own and only son has died the same miserable death; been shot down, perhaps, by the very selfsame pistol. It is retribution, lad."
"I wish I could comfort you!" whispered George.
A moment's silence and Mr. Castlemaine recovered himself; his tone changed.
"The revenues of the estate have been put by since nay father's death: left for such a moment as this: I told you I did not mean to keep possession always. They shall be paid over to you."
"They are not mine, Uncle James. Up to last February they were Anthony's."
"Anthony is dead."
"But he left a wife and child."
"A wife and child! Anthony! Was it a boy? Perhaps I have spoken too fast."
"It is a girl," said George, not deeming it well to enter on the subject of Madame Guise before the morrow. Mr. Castlemaine had been tried enough for one day.
"Oh, a girl. Then you take Greylands' Rest. At least--I suppose so," added Mr. Castlemaine doubtfully. "My brother Basil made a will?"
"Oh, yes. He made a fresh will as soon as he heard of his father's death. He bequeathed Greylands' Rest (assuming that it was then his) to Anthony and to his sons, should he have any, in succession after him: failing sons, he left it to me after Anthony."
"That is all legal then. Until to-morrow morning, George."
With a pressure of the hand, the Master of Greylands went down the path to his house, and let himself in with his latchkey. The doors were closed, the blinds were down; for tidings of Harry's death were already carried there. He went straight up to that solitary room, and shut himself in with his bitter trouble.
He was not a cruel man, or a vindictive man, or a covetous man. No, nor a false man, save in that one unhappy business relating to his nephew Anthony. All his efforts for many a year had been directed to ward off suspicion from the doings of the Friar's Keep: and when Anthony so unexpectedly appeared, his rejection of his claims had not been for the sake of retaining the revenues that were not his, but because he would not, if he could help it, quit the house. The one short sentence just spoken to George, "I have put by the revenues since my father's death," conveyed a true fact. Mr. Castlemaine did not wish for the revenues or intend to appropriate them, unless he was assured that his brother Basil and Basil's heirs had alike failed. He would have liked to send Anthony back to France, pay him what was due, and buy the estate from him. To have had the fraudulent doings discovered and brought home to him would have been to the Master of Greylands worse than death. It was to keep them secret that he discouraged the sojourn of strangers at Greylands; that he did not allow Harry to enter on an intimacy with any visitors who might be staying there: and of late he had shown an impatience, in spite of his liking for him, for the departure of the gentleman-artist, George North. His dislike of the Grey Sisters had its sole origin in this. He always dreaded that their attention might be attracted some night to the boats, putting off from the contraband vessel; and he would have shut up the Grey Nunnery had it been in his power. That Mary Ursula, with her certain income, small though it was, should have joined the Sisterhood, tried him sorely; both from this secret reason and for her own sake. Nearly as good, he thought, that she had been buried alive.
It was all over now, and the end had come. The last cargo had now been run, the lucrative trade and its dash of lawless excitement had been stopped for ever. This would not have troubled him: he was getting tired of it, he was getting afraid of it: but it had left its dreadful consequences in its train; dealt, as may be said, a final death-blow at parting. Harry Castlemaine had passed away, and with him the heart's life of the Master of Greylands.