The illness of little Marie Guise lasted several days. Sitting by her bed--as she did for hours together--Madame Guise had time, and to spare, to lay out her plans. That is, as far as she could lay them out. Her sole object in life now--save and except the child--was to search out the mystery of her husband's fate; her one hope to bring home the crime to Mr. Castlemaine. How to set about it she knew not. She would have to account in some plausible manner for her prolonged stay at Greylands, and to conceal her real identity. Above all, she must take care never to betray interest in the fate of Anthony Castlemaine.
To stay in Greylands, or in England at all, might be rather difficult, unless she could get some employment to eke out her means. She knew perfectly well that without her husband's signature, the cautious French bankers and men of business who held his property in their hands, would not advance much, if any, of it to her, unless proofs were forthcoming of his death. She possessed a little income of her own: it was available, and she must concert ways and means of its being transmitted to her in secret, without Greylands learning who she was, and what she was. This might be done: but the money would not be enough to support her and her child comfortably as gentlewomen.
"I think I should like to make a sojourn here in Greylands," she observed to M. Bent, cautiously opening the subject, on the first day that Marie could be pronounced convalescent, and was taken down in the parlour for a change.
"Why! should you, ma'am!" returned the landlady briskly. "Well, it's a nice place."
"I like the sea--and I should wish my little one to remain quiet now. I have suffered too much anxiety on her account to take her travelling again just yet."
"Sweet little thing!" aspirated Mrs. Bent. "Her pretty rosy colour is beginning to come back to her cheeks again. I've never seen a child with a brighter."
"It is like her--like that of some of our relatives: they have a bright colour," said Madame Guise, who only just saved herself from saying--like her father's. "For her sake I will remain here for some two or three months. Do you think I could get an apartment?"
"An apartment!" repeated Mrs. Bent, who took the word literally, and was somewhat puzzled at it. "Did you mean one single room, ma'am."
"I mean two or three rooms--as might be enough. Or a small house--what you call a cottage."
"Oh, I see, ma'am," said the landlady. "I think you might do that. Some of the larger cottages let rooms in the summer to people coming over here from Stilborough for the sea air. And there's one pretty furnished cottage empty on the cliff."
"Would the rent of it be much?" asked Madame Guise, timorously, for a whole furnished cottage seemed a large enterprise.
"Next to nothing at this season," spoke Mrs. Bent, confidentially. "Here, John Bent--where are you?" she cried, flinging open the door. "What's the rent of that place----"
"Master's out," interrupted Molly, coming from the back kitchen to speak.
"Just like him!" retorted Mrs. Bent. "He is out when he's wanted, and at home when he's not. It's always the way with the men. Any way it's a nice little place, ma'am, and I know it would be reasonable."
The cottage she alluded to had a sitting-room, a kitchen, and two bedchambers, and was situated in the most picturesque part of all the cliff, close to the neatly kept cottage that had so long been inhabited by Miss Hallet and her very pretty niece. It was plainly furnished, and might be let at this season, including steel knives and forks, for fifteen shillings a week, Mrs. Bent thought. In summer the rent would be twenty-five: and the tenant had to find linen.
Madame Guise made a silent computation. Fifteen shillings a week! With the rent, and the cost of a servant, and housekeeping, and various little extras that are somehow never computed beforehand, but that rise up inevitably afterwards, she saw that the sum total would be more than she could command. And she hesitated to take the cottage.
Nevertheless, she went with Mrs. Bent to see it, and found it just what she would have liked. It was not quite so nice as Miss Hallet's a few yards off: but Miss Hallet took so much care that hers should be perfection.
"If I could but earn a little money!" repeated Charlotte to herself. "I wonder whether those good ladies at the Grey Nunnery could help me! I have a great mind to ask them."
After some deliberation, she went over to do so. It was a warm, pleasant day; for the capricious weather had once more changed; the snow and frost given place to soft west winds and genial sunshine--and Madame Guise was shown into the reception parlour. Sisters Margaret and Grizzel sat in it, and rose at her entrance. They had heard of this lady traveller, who had been detained on her journey by the illness of her little girl, and was staying at the Dolphin; but they had not seen her. It was with some curiosity, therefore, that the ladies gazed to see what she was like. A slender, ladylike, nice-looking, young woman, with blue eyes and fair hair, and who seemed to carry some care on her countenance.
Madame Guise introduced herself; apologising for her intrusion, and telling them at once its object. She wished to make some stay at Greylands, for she thought the pure air and sea-breezes would strengthen her child--could the ladies help her to some employment by which she might earn a trifle. She had a little income, but not quite sufficient. She could teach music and French, or do fine needlework; embroidery and the like.
The ladies answered her very kindly--they were both taken with the gentle stranger--but shook their heads to her petition: they had no help to give.
"The children we bring up here are of poor parentage and do not need accomplishments," said Sister Margaret. "If they did, we should teach them in the Nunnery: indeed we should be thankful to get pupils of a better class ourselves, for we are but poor. Sister Mona is a good French scholar; and Sister Charlotte's music is perfect. As to fine work, we do not know anyone who requires it to be done."
"Not but that we should have been glad to help you, if we could," put in Sister Grizzel, with a pleasant smile.
Madame Guise rose, stifling a sigh. She saw exactly how it was--that the Grey Nunnery was about the last place able to assist her. In leaving the parlour, she met a lady, young and stately, who was entering it; one of wondrous beauty, tall, majestic, of gracious manner and presence.
"Our Superior, Sister Mary Ursula," said Sister Grizzel.
And Madame Guise knew that it was her husband's cousin--for Miss Castlemaine had joined the Sisterhood some days past. She wore the clear muslin cap over her luxuriant hair, but not the Grey habit, for she had not put aside the mourning for her father. In the magnificent dark eyes, in the bright complexion and in the beautiful features, Madame Guise saw the likeness to her husband and to the rest of the Castlemaines. Sister Mary Ursula bowed and said a few gracious words: Madame Guise responded with one of her elaborate French curtseys, and passed onwards through the gate.
"So that hope has failed!" she thought, as she crossed over to the inn. "I might have known it would: with so many accomplished ladies among themselves, the Sisters cannot want other people's aid."
Buried in thought, perplexed as to what her future course should be, Madame Guise did not go at once indoors, but sat down on the bench outside the house. The window of the sitting-room, occupied by John Bent and his wife, stood open--for Mrs. Bent liked plenty of fresh air--and people were talking inside. On that same bench had sat more than once her unfortunate husband, looking at the water as she was looking, at the fishermen collected on the beach, at the boats out at sea, their white sails at rest in the calm of the sunshiny day. She was mentally questioning what else she could try, now that her mission to the Grey Sisters had failed, and wondering how little she and Marie could live upon, if she got nothing to do. Gradually the talking became clearer to her ear. She heard the landlady's voice and another voice: not John Bent's, but the young, free, ready voice of a gentleman. It was in truth Harry Castlemaine's; who, passing the inn, had turned in for a gossip.
"It seems to me like a great sacrifice, Mr. Harry," were the first distinct words that fell on Madame Guise's ear. "The Grey Ladies are very good and noble; next door to angels, I'm sure, when folks are sick; but it is not the right life for Miss Castlemaine to take to."
"We told her so until we were tired of telling it," returned Harry Castlemaine. "It has cut up my father grievously. We will drop the subject, Mrs. Bent: I cannot speak of it with patience yet. How is the sick child getting on?"
"As well as can be, sir. She is just now upstairs in her midday sleep. Talking of children, though," broke off Mrs. Bent, "what is this mishap that has happened to Miss Flora? We hear she met with some accident yesterday."
"Mounted to the top of the gardener's ladder and fell off it," said Harry, with equanimity. "She is always in mischief."
"And was she hurt, sir?"
"Not much. Grazed her face in a few places and put her wrist out. She will come to greater grief unless they get somebody to take care of her. Having been so long without a governess, the young damsel is like a wild colt."
"The last time Mrs. Castlemaine passed by here on foot, Mr. Harry, she told me she had just engaged a governess. It must be a fortnight ago."
"And so she had engaged one; but the lady was taken ill and threw up the situation. Mrs. Castlemaine is hard to please in the matter of governesses. She must have perfect French and perfect music: and the two, united with other requisite qualifications, seem difficult to find. Mrs. Castlemaine was talking this morning of advertising."
"Dear me! to think that such a fine post as that should be going a begging!" cried the landlady. "A gentleman's home and a plenty of comfort in it, and--and however much pay is it a year, Mr. Harry?"
"Fifty guineas, I think," said the young man carelessly, as though fifty-guinea salaries were an every day trifle. Mrs. Bent lifted her hands and eyes.
"Fifty guineas!--and her bed and board. And only one little lady to teach; and gentlefolks to live with! My goodness! Mr. Harry, one would think half the ladies in England would jump at it."
Onelady at least was ready to "jump" at it: she who sat outside, overhearing the tale. The lips of Charlotte Guise parted as she listened; her cheeks flushed red with excitement. Oh, if she herself could obtain this place!--become an inmate of the house where dwelt her husband's enemy, James Castlemaine! How seemingly clear and straightforward would be her path of discovery then, compared with what it would be in that cottage on the cliff, or with any other position she could hope to be placed in! She could daily, hourly watch Mr. Castlemaine; and it must surely be her fault if she did not track home the deed to him! As to her fitness for the post, why French was her native language, and in music she was a finished artiste: and she could certainly undertake general instruction!
While the red flush was yet on her face, the light of excitement in her eyes, Harry Castlemaine came out. Seeing her sitting there, he guessed who she was, took off his hat and politely accosted her, saying he was glad to hear the little girl was improving. Madame Guise rose. It was the first time she had spoken to him.
"I thank you, sir, for your good wishes: yes, she is getting well now. And I--I beg your pardon, sir--I think I heard you just now say to Madame Bent (the window is open) that you found it difficult to get a governess for your house."
"My people find it so. Why?--do you know of one?" he added, smiling.
"I think I do, sir."
"Mrs. Castlemaine is very difficult to please, especially as regards French," he said still smiling; "and the French of some of the ladies who have applied has turned out to be very English French, so they would not suit her. Should you chance to know of any one really eligible, madam, you would be conferring a favour in introducing the lady to the notice of Mrs. Castlemaine."
"Sir, I will think of it."
He lifted his hat again as he wished her good-day. And Madame Guise, gazing after him, thought again that Heaven was surely working for her, in thus opening a prospect of entrance to the house of Mr. Castlemaine.
Turning out of the Dolphin Inn, by its front entrance, went Charlotte Guise, in her morning attire. It was a bright afternoon, and the fields were green again. They lay on either side her road--the inland coach road that the stage was wont to traverse. Leaving Mr. Parker's house on her left--for it was in this spot that the doctor's residence was situated--she presently came to the turning to Greylands' Rest, and passed on up the avenue. It was a wide avenue, and not far short of half a mile in length, with trees on either side; oak, elm, birch, larch, poplar, lime, and others. At its end was the gate admitting to the domain of Greylands' Rest.
The house lay still and quiet in the sunshine. Madame Guise looked at it with yearning eyes, for it was the place that had probably cost her poor husband his life. But for putting in his claim to it, he might be living yet: and whether that claim was a right or a wrong one, she hoped with her whole heart would be proved before she herself should die. Opening the gate, and passing round the fine green lawn, among the seats, the trees, the shrubs and the flower-beds, she gained the porch entrance. Miles answered her ring at the bell.
"Can I see Mrs. Castlemaine?"
"Mrs. Castlemaine is out in the carriage, ma'am. Mr. Castlemaine is at home."
Hesitating a moment, for the very name of the Master of Greylands carried to the heart of Charlotte Guise a shrinking dread, and yet fearful lest delay might cause her application to be too late, she said she would be glad to speak with Mr. Castlemaine. Miles admitted her into the hall--a good, old-fashioned room, with a wood fire blazing in it. Along a passage to the right lay the drawing-room, and into this room Miles ushered the lady.
Mrs. Castlemaine generally went out for a drive once a day. This afternoon she had taken Flora; whose face was adorned with sundry patches of sticking-plaster, the result of the fall off the ladder. In the red parlour sat Ethel Reene, painting flowers on cardboard for a hand-screen: and the Master of Greylands stood with his back to the fire, talking with her. They were speaking of Miss Castlemaine.
"Papa, I do not think we must hope it," Ethel was saying. "Rely upon it, Mary will not come out again."
Mr. Castlemaine's face darkened at the words. Though holding the same conviction himself, the step his niece had taken in entering the Nunnery was so unpalatable to him that he could not bear to hear the opinion confirmed or alluded to. He hated the Grey Sisters. He would have rid Greylands of their presence, had it been in his power.
"It is a sin, so to waste her life!" he said, his deep tones betraying his mortification. "Ethel, I think we cannot have made her happy here.
"It was nothing of that, papa. She told me she had been cherishing the idea before she came to Greylands."
"A meddling, tattling, tabby-cat set of women! Mary Ursula ought to----Well, what now, Miles?" For the man had entered the room and was waiting to speak.
"A lady has come here, sir, asking to see Mrs. Castlemaine. When I said the mistress was out, she said she would be glad to speak a few words to you. She is in the drawing-room, sir."
"What lady is it?" returned the Master of Greylands.
"Well, sir, I'm not altogether sure, but I fancy it is the one staying at the Dolphin; her with the sick child. Anyway, she's a very nice, pleasant-looking young lady, sir, whoever it is."
"I'm sure I don't know what she can want with me," remarked Mr. Castlemaine, as he walked off to the drawing-room, and laid his hand on the door. But thought is quick: and a fancy of what might have brought her here came across his mind ere he turned the handle.
She was seated near the fire in the handsome but low-ceilinged room; her face studiously turned from the one conspicuous portrait that hung opposite the chimney-glass, for its likeness to her husband had struck on her with a chill. She rose at Mr. Castlemaine's entrance and curtseyed as only a Frenchwoman can curtsey. He saw an elegant looking young woman with a pleasing countenance and somewhat shrinking manner. Mr. Castlemaine took her to be timid; probably unused to society: for in these, the opening minutes of the interview, she trembled visibly. He, of course, had heard with the rest of Greylands, of the lady traveller who had cut short her journey at the Dolphin Inn an consequence of the illness of her child, and who was supposed to be going on again as soon as she could. Mr. Castlemaine had thought no more about it than that. But the idea that crossed him now was, that this lady, having to encounter the detention at the inn, might be finding herself short of funds to pursue her journey, and had come to apply to him in the difficulty. Readily, would he have responded; for he had a generous hand, an open heart. To hear, therefore, what the real object of her visit was--that of soliciting the situation of governess, vacant in his household, surprised him not a little.
The tale she told was plausible. Mr. Castlemaine, utterly unsuspicious in regard to her, doubted nothing of its truth. The lady made a favourable impression on him, and he was very courteous to her.
She was a widow, she said: and she had come over from Paris to this country for two objects. One was to seek out a relative that she believed was somewhere in it, though she did not know for certain whether he was dead or alive; the other was to obtain employment as a governess--for she had been given to understand that good French governesses were at a premium in the English country, and her own means were but slender, not adequate to the support of herself and little girl. Journeying along by coach, she had found her child attacked with fever, which compelled her to halt at Greylands. Liking the place, perceiving that it was open and healthy, she had been thinking that she should do well to keep her child in it for a time, and therefore was hoping to make her arrangements to do so. Should she be so fortunate as to obtain the post in Mr. Castlemaine's household, the thing would be easy. Very plausibly did she tell the tale; turning, however, hot and cold alternately all the while, and detesting herself for the abhorred deceit.
"But--pardon me, madam--what, in that case, would you do with the child?" asked Mr. Castlemaine.
"I would place her at nurse with some good woman, sir. That would not be difficult. And the little thing would enjoy all the benefit of the sea-air. In my country, children are more frequently brought up at nurse than at home."
"I have heard so," observed Mr. Castlemaine. "You speak English remarkably well, madam, for a Frenchwoman. Have you been much in this country?"
"Never before, sir. My mother was English, and she always talked to me in her own tongue. I was reared in her faith--the protestant. My father was French, and a Catholic. Upon their marriage it was agreed that, of the children to be born, the boys should be brought up in his faith and the girls in hers. There came no boy, however; and only one girl--me."
All this was true. Madame Guise did not add, for it was unnecessary, that towards the close of her father's life he entered into large speculations, and became a ruined man. He and her mother were both dead now. She said just what she was obliged to say, and no more.
"And it is. I presume, to see your mother's relatives that you have come to England?" pursued Mr. Castlemaine.
"Yes, sir," she answered after a moment of hesitation; for it came indeed hard to Charlotte Guise to tell a deliberate untruth, although necessity might justify it. "My mother used to talk much of one relative that she had here--a brother. He may not be living now: I do not know."
"In what part of England did he live?"
"I think he must have been a traveller, sir, for he seemed to move about. We would hear of him, now in the south of England, now in the north, and now in the west. Mostly he seemed to be in what my mother called remote countries--Cumberland and Westmoreland."
"Cumberland and Westmoreland!" echoed Mr. Castlemaine. "Dear me! And have you no better clue to him than that?"
"No better, sir; no other. I do not, I say, know whether he is dead or alive."
"Well, it seems--pardon me--to be a somewhat wild-goose chase that you have entered on, this search for him. What is his name?"
"My mother's maiden name was Williams. He was her brother."
Mr. Castlemaine shook his head. "A not at all uncommon name," he said, "and I fear, madam, you might find some difficulty in tracing him out."
"Yes, I fear so. I find those places are very far off. At any rate, I will not think more of it for the present. My little child, I see it now, is too young to travel."
In all this account, Madame Guise had spoken the simple truth. The facts were as she stated. The only falsehood in it was, the representation that it was this relative, this never-yet-met uncle, she had come over to search out. During her long journey, through France, she had said to herself that after she had found her husband, they might perhaps go together to seek her uncle: but that was all.
"Yes, the little one is too young and delicate to travel," pursued Madame Guise, "and I dare not take her on. This illness of hers has frightened me, and I shall, if possible, remain here by the sea."
"I presume, madam--pardon me--that you were hoping to obtain help from this uncle."
"Yes," was the answer, given falteringly. "Should you admit me into your house, sir, I will do my best to help on the studies of your daughter."
"But--will you reconcile yourself to fill a situation of this kind in a stranger's house after having ruled in a home of your own?" questioned Mr. Castlemaine, considerately, as he remembered his wife's domineering and difficult temper.
"Ah, sir, the beggars, you know, must not be the choosers. I must do something to keep me, and I would like to do this."
"The salary Mrs. Castlemaine offers is fifty guineas."
"It seems a large sum to me, sir," was the truthful and candid answer. "Appointments in France, a very few excepted, are not so highly paid as in England. I should of course be permitted to go out to see my child?"
"Dear me, yes: whenever you pleased, madam. You would be quite at liberty here--be as one of ourselves entirely. Mrs. Castlemaine--but here she is; returning home."
The Master of Greylands had heard the carriage drawing up. He quitted the room, and said a few hasty words to his wife of what had occurred. Mrs. Castlemaine, much taken with the project, came in, in her black satin pelisse, coated with crape. She sat down and put a few questions as to the applicant's acquirements.
"I am a brilliant pianist, madam, as I know you sometimes phrase it in your country," said Madame Guise. "My French is of course pure; and I could teach dancing. Not drawing; I do not understand it."
"Drawing is quite a minor consideration," replied Mrs. Castlemaine. "Could you undertake the English?"
"Why not, madam? I am nearly as well read in English as in French. And I am clever at embroidery, and other kinds of fine and fancy needlework."
"Do you fully understand that you would have to undertake Miss Reene's music also? She is my stepdaughter."
"It would be a pleasure to me, madam. I am fond of music."
Mr. Castlemaine came into the room again at this juncture. "What part of France have you lived in?" he asked. "Did I understand you to say in Paris?"
Another necessary lie, or next door to one, for Charlotte Guise! Were she to say, "My native province is that of the Dauphiné, and I have lived near Gap," it might open their eyes to suspicion at once. She swallowed down a cough that rose, partly choking her.
"Not quite in Paris, sir. A little beyond it."
"And--pardon me--could you give references?" Madame Guise looked up helplessly. The colour rose in her face; for the fear of losing the appointment became very present to her.
"I know not how. I never was a governess before; and in that respect no one could speak for me. I am of respectable family: my father was a rentier, and much considered. For myself, I am of discreet conduct and manners,--surely you cannot doubt it," she added, the tears of emotion rising to her eyes, as she looked at them.
They looked back in return: Mr. Castlemaine thinking what a nice, ladylike, earnest woman she was, one he could take on trust; Mrs. Castlemaine, entirely seduced by the prospect of the pure French for Flora, eagerly wanting to ratify the bargain. Madame Guise mistook the silence, supposing they were hesitating.
"I could have a letter written to you from Paris," she said. "I possess a friend there, who will, I am sure, satisfy you that I am of good conduct and family. Would there be more than this required?"
"Notanymore, it would bequitesufficient," Mrs. Castlemaine hastened to say with emphasis. And, without waiting for the promised letter--which, as she observed could come later--she engaged the governess on the spot. Mr. Castlemaine attended Madame Guise to the door: and never a suspicion crossed him that she was--who she was. How should it? How was he likely to connect this lady-traveller--detained at the place by accident, so shy in manner, so evidently distressed for her child--with the unfortunate Anthony, lost since that fatal February night?
Madame Guise went out from the interview. In some respects it had not been satisfactory: or, rather, not in accordance with her ante-impressions. She had gone to it picturing Mr. Castlemaine as some great monster of iniquity, some crafty, cruel, sinister man, from whom the world might shrink. She found him a very good-looking, pleasing, and polished gentleman, with a high-bred air, a kind and apparently sincere manner, and with the wonderful face-resemblance to his brother Basil and to her own poor husband. How had it been possible, she asked herself, for so apparently correct a man to commit that most dreadful crime, and still be what he was? How wickedly deceitful some great criminals were!
Mrs. Bent, when consulted, made strong objection to the nursing scheme, expressing a most decided opinion against it. "Put the sweet little child to any one of those old women! Why, the next news we got would be that she had been let roll down the cliff, or had fell into the sea! I should not like to risk it for a child of mine, ma'am."
"I must do something with her," said Madame Guise, setting her lips tightly. Give up her plan, she would not; she believed Heaven itself had aided her in it; but no one knew how much it cost her to part with this great treasure, her child. From the hour of its birth, it had never been away from her. The devotion of some French women to their children seems as remarkable as is the neglect of others.
"There's one thing you might do with her, ma'am, if you chose--and a far better thing too than consigning her to any old nurse-woman."
"What is that?"
"Well, I'll take the liberty of suggesting it," cried Mrs. Bent. "Put her to the Grey Sisters."
"The Grey Sisters!" echoed Madame Guise, struck with the suggestion. "But would they take one so young, think you? A little child who can scarcely speak!"
"I think they'd take her and be glad of it. Why, ma'am, children are like playthings to them. They have the fishermen's children there by day to teach and train; and they keep 'em by night too when the little ones are sick."
No suggestion could have been more welcome to Madame Guise. The wonder was, that she had not herself thought of it: she no doubt would have done so had Marie been older. To put the matter at rest, she went over at once to the Nunnery. Sister Charlotte received her, and heard her proposal joyfully.
Admit a dear little child as boarder amongst them! Yes, that they would; and take the most loving care; and train her, they hoped, to find the road to Heaven. They would be glad to have two or three little ones of the better class, no matter what the age; the bit of money paid for them would be an assistance, for the Sisterhood was but poor. Though, indeed, now that the new Sister, Mary Ursula--Miss Castlemaine--had joined them, they were better off.
"I am so glad to hear you say she may come," said Madame Guise. "I had feared my little one was too young. She must have everything done for her, and she cannot speak plainly. English she does not speak at all, though she understands it."
"She will soon speak it with us: and we will try and make her quite happy. But I must summon our Superior," added Sister Charlotte, "for I may not take upon myself to decide this, though I know how welcome it will be."
The Superior came in, in the person of Miss Castlemaine.
Alas, no longer to be called so--but Sister Mary Ursula. She swept in, in her silk mourning dress, and with the muslin cap shading her beautiful hair, and greeted Madame Guise with all her winning and gracious manner, holding out her hand in welcome. In some turn of the face, or in some glance of the eye--it was hard to define what--so strong a likeness to the lost and ill-fated Anthony momentarily shone out from Miss Castlemaine's countenance, that poor Madame Guise felt faint. But she had to control all feeling now; she had passed into another character and left herself out of sight behind.
Seated opposite to her, giving to her her best attention, her fine head gently bent, her soft, but brilliant eyes thrown upon her, Sister Mary Ursula listened to the story Madame Guise told. She had engaged herself as governess at Greylands' Rest, and wished to be allowed to place her child with the Grey Ladies.
"Is the situation at Greylands' Rest one that you think will suit you?--do you feel that it is what you will like to undertake?" Miss Castlemaine inquired when the speaker paused: for at the first moment she had thought that it was only her opinion that was being asked.
"Yes, I do. I am very much pleased to have obtained it."
"Then I can only say that I hope you will be happy in it, and find it all you can wish. I am sure you will like my uncle. Your pupil, Miss Flora Castlemaine, is self-willed, and has been much indulged by her mother. You will be able, I trust, to bring her to better ways."
"And you will take my little girl, madam?"
"Certainly. It is very good of you to confide her to us."
"It is very good of you to agree to take her, madam. I am so glad! And how much shall I pay you for her? Say by the trimestre--the three months?"
Miss Castlemaine shook her head with a smile. "I have not been here long enough to act on my own judgment," she said: "upon all knotty points I consult Sister Mildred. We will let you know in the course of the day."
Madame Guise rose. But for the dreadful suspicion that lay upon her, the crime she was going out of her own character to track, she would have liked to throw herself into the arms of this gracious lady, and say with tears, "You are my husband's cousin. Oh, pity me, for I was Anthony's wife!" But it might not be. She had entered on her task, and must go through with it.
And when a dainty little note in Sister Margaret's writing was brought over to the Dolphin in the evening by Sister Ann, Madame Guise found that the ladies had fixed a very small sum as payment for her child--four pounds the quarter: or, sixteen pounds the year.
"Cent francs par trimestre," commented Madame Guise in her own language. "It is quite moderate: but Marie is but a little one."
The child went over on the following day. She was entered as Mademoiselle Marie Guise. Very much astonished would those good ladies have been had they known her true name to be that of their Superior--Mary Ursula Castlemaine! There was no fear of the child betraying secrets. She was a very backward child, not only in speech; she seemed to have forgotten all about her father, and she could not have told the name of her native place, where it was, or anything about it, if questioned over so. Trouble was expected with her at the parting. Her mother was advised not to attempt to see her for some three or four days after she went over to the Nunnery: but rather to give her time to get reconciled to the change, and to this new abode.
It was cruel penance to the mother, this parting; worse than it could have been to the child. Those who understand the affection of some French mothers for their children, and who remember that the little ones never leave their side, will know what this must have been for Charlotte Guise. She saw Marie at a distance on the following day, Sunday--for it happened to be Saturday that the child went in. The little church was filled at the three o'clock afternoon service, when Parson Marston gabbled through the prayers and the sermon to the edification of his flock. Little Marie sat in the large pew with the Grey ladies, between Sister Mary Ursula in her black attire, and Sister Betsey in her grey. The latter who had a special love for children, had taken the little one under her particular charge. Marie was in black also: and a keen observer might have fancied there was some sort of likeness between her and the stately Head Sister beside her. The child looked happy and contented. To the scandal of the surrounders, no doubt far more to them than to that of the Parson himself, whose mouth widened with a laugh, she, happening to espy out her mother when they were standing up to say the belief, extended her hands, called out "Maman! maman!" and began to nod incessantly. Sister Betsey succeeded in restoring decorum.
Madame Guise sat with Mr. and Mrs. Bent, occupying the post of honour at the top of the pew. After that, she strove to hide herself from Marie. In the square, crimson-curtained pew pertaining to Greylands' Rest, the only pew in the church with any pretensions to grandeur, sat the Master of Greylands and his family: his wife with a pinched face, for she had contrived to take cold; Harry, tall as himself, free and fascinating; Flora staring about with the plaster patches on her face; and Ethel Reene, devout, modest, lovely. They were all in black: the mourning worn for Mr. Peter Castlemaine. Their servants, also in mourning, occupied a pew behind that of the Grey Ladies. It might have been noticed that Mr. Castlemaine never once turned his head towards these ladies: he had never favoured them, and the step taken by his niece in joining their society had vexed him more materially than he would have liked to say. He had his private reasons for it: he had cause to wish those ladies backs turned on Greylands; but he had no power to urge their departure openly, or to send them by force away.
Very dull was poor Charlotte Guise all that Sunday evening. She would not meet the little one on coming out of church, but mixed with the people to avoid it. Her heart yearned to give a fond word, a tender kiss; but so anxiously bent was she upon entering Greylands' Rest, that she shrank from anything that might impede it, or imperil the child's stay at the Nunnery. After taking tea in her parlour, she sat awhile in her own room above stairs indulging her sadness. It was sometimes worse than she knew how to bear. She might not give way to grief, distress, anguish in the presence of the world; that might have betrayed her to suspicion; but there were moments, when alone, that she yielded to it in all its bitterness. The fathomless sea, calm to-night, was spread out before her, grey and dull, for the rays of the setting sun had left it: did that sea cover the body of him whom she had loved more than life? To her left rose the Friar's Keep--she could almost catch a glimpse of its dark walls if she stretched her head well out at the casement; at any rate, she could see this end of the Grey Nunnery, and that was something. Did that Friar's Keep, with its dark tales, its superstitions stories--did that Keep contain the mystery? She fully believed it did. From the very first, the description of the building had seized on her mind, and left its dread there. It wasthereshe must look for the traces of her husband's fate; perhaps even for himself. Yes, she believed that the grim walls covered him, not the heaving sea.
"Oh Anthony! my ill-fated, wronged husband!" she cried, raising her clasped hands upwards in her distress and speaking through her blinding tears, "may the good God help me to bring your fate to light!"
The shades of twilight were deepening. Fishermen, with their wives and children, were wending their way homewards after the Sunday evening's walk--the one walk taken together of the seven days. Two of the Grey Ladies came down from the cliff and went towards the Nunnery: Madame Guise, who by this time had made acquaintance with some of the inhabitants, wondered whether anybody was ill in the cottages there. A good many dwellings were scattered on this side of the cliff: some of them pretty, commodious homes, others mere huts.
Once more, as she stood there at the casement window, Charlotte Guise asked herself whether she was justified in thus entering Greylands' Rest under a false aspect--justified even by the circumstances. She had revolved the question in her mind many times during the past few days, and the answer had always been, as it was now, in the affirmative. And she was of a straightforward, honourable nature; although the reader may be disposed to judge the contrary. That Mr. Castlemaine had taken her husband's life; taken it in wilful malice and wickedness, that he might retain his usurpation of Greylands' Rest, she did not entertain a shade of doubt of: she believed, religiously believed, that the mission of tracking out this crime was laid upon her by Heaven: and she did consider herself justified in taking any steps that might forward her in it; any steps in the world, overhanded or underhanded, short of doing injury to any innocent person. Her original resolve had been, merely to stay in the village, seek out what information she could, and wait; but the opportunity having been offered her in so singularly marked a manner (as she looked upon it) of becoming an inmate of Mr. Castlemaine's home, she could not hesitate in embracing it. And yet, though she never faltered in her course, though an angel from Heaven would hardly have stopped her entrance, believing, as she did, that the entrance had been specially opened for her, every now and again qualms of conscience pricked her sharply, and she hated the whole proceeding.
"But I cannot leave Anthony alone in the unknown grave," she would piteously tell herself at these moments. "And I can see no other way to discovery; and I have no help from any one to aid me in it. If I entered upon the investigation openly, declaring who I am, that might be worse than fruitless: it would put Mr. Castlemaine on his guard; he is more clever than I, he has all power here, while I have none; and Anthony might remain where he is, unavenged, for ever. No, no, I must go on in my planned-out course."
The sea became more grey; the evening star grew bright in the sky; people had gone within their homes and the doors were shut. Madame Guise, tired with the wearily-passing hours, sick and sad at her own reflections, put on her bonnet and warm mantle to take a bit of a stroll over to the beach. Mrs. Bent happened to meet her as she gained the passage below. The landlady was looking so unusually cross that Madame Guise noticed it.
"I have been giving a word of a sort to Mr. Harry Castlemaine," she explained, as they entered her sitting-room. "You be quiet, John Bent: what I see right to do, I shall do. Mr. Harry will go too far in that quarter if he does not mind."
"Young men like to talk to pretty girls all the world over; they did in my time, I know, and they do in this," was John's peaceful answer, as he rose from his fire-side chair at his guest's entrance. "Bat I don't see, wife, that it's any good reason for your pouncing upon Mr. Harry as he was going by to his home and saying what you did."
"Prevention's better than cure," observed Mrs. Bent, in a short tone. "As to young men liking to talk to pretty girls, that's all very well when they are equals in life; but when it comes to a common sailor's daughter and a gentleman, it's a different thing."
"Jane Hallet's father was not a common sailor!"
"He was not over much above it," retorted Mrs. Bent. "Because the Grey Sisters educated her and made much of her, would you exalt her into a lady? you never had proper sense, John Bent, and never will have.
"I call Miss Hallet a lady," said John.
"You might call the moon a lantern if you chose, but you couldn't make other folks do it. As to Jane, she is too pretty to be followed by Mr. Harry Castlemaine. Why, he must have been walking with her nearly ever since tea!"
"He intends no harm, Dorothy, I'll answer for it."
"Harm comes sometimes without intention, John Bent. Mr. Harry's as thoughtless and random as a March hare. I've seen what I have seen: and Jane Hallet had better keep herself in future out of his company."
"Well, your speaking to him did no good, wife. And it was not respectful."
"Good! it's not likely it would do good with him," conceded Mrs. Bent. "He turns everything into laughter. Did you hear how he began about my Sunday cap, asking for the pattern of it, and setting Molly off in a grin! She nearly dropped the scuttle of coals she was bringing in--good evening then, ma'am, for the present, if you are going for your little stroll."
Madame Guise, leaving her host and hostess to settle their difference touching Mr. Harry Castlemaine, went over to the beach and walked about there. The shades grew deeper; the stars came out brightly: night was upon the earth when she retraced her steps. Thinking of her little one, she did not go into the inn, but walked past the Grey Nunnery: she knew she should not see the child, but it was a satisfaction only to look at the window of the room that contained her. Soon Madame Guise came to the gate of the chapel ruins; and some impulse prompted her to open it and enter. But she first of all looked cautiously around to make sure she was not being watched: once let it be known that she held any particular interest in this place, and her connection with him who had been lost within it might be suspected! When we hold a dangerous secret, the conscience is more than sensitive: and Madame Guise was no exception to the rule.
She crossed the ruins, and stood looking out on the sea, so grand from thence. It was low water; she saw the rude steps by which the little beach below might be gained, but would not have liked to venture down. The steps were hazardous for even a strong man, and perhaps were not used from one month's end to another: the slime and sea-weed made them slippery. After she had gazed her fill, she turned to the Friar's Keep, and made her way into it by the gothic door between the once firm walls.
Oh, but it was dark here! By what she could make out, when her sight got used to the gloom, she seemed to be amidst the arches of some pillared cloisters. While looking on this side and that side, striving to pierce the mysteries, taking a step this way and a step that, and trembling all the while lest she should see the revenant, said to haunt the place, a dreadful sound, like the huge fluttering of large wings, arose above in the arches. Poor Charlotte Guise, superstitious by nature and education, and but young in years yet, was seized with a perfect acme of terror; of terror too great to scream. Was it the spirit of her husband, striving to communicate with her, she wondered--and oh blame her not too greatly. She had been reared in the fear of "revenants;" she earnestly believed that the dead were sometimes permitted to revisit the earth. Silence supervened, and her terror grew somewhat less intense. "Is your grave here, Anthony?" she murmured; "are you buried in some corner of this lonesome place, away from the eye of man? Oh, hear me while I repeat my vow to search out this dreadful mystery! To the utmost of the power that circumstances and secrecy leave me, will I strive to find you, Anthony; and bring home to Mr. Castlemaine----"
A worse noise than before; an awful fluttering and flapping right above her head. She screamed out now, terrified nearly to death. The echoes repeated her scream; and the rushing wings, with another kind of scream, not half so shrill as hers, went out through the broken wall and flew across the sea. She felt just as though she were dropping into her grave. Was it the revenant of the place?--or was it the revenant of her husband?--whatwas it? Cowering there, her face prone against a column, Charlotte asked herself these dread questions: and never once, until her alarm was somewhat subsiding, did she think of what her reason might have shown her at first--that it was an owl. An owl, angry at its precincts being invaded: or perhaps some large sea-bird.
With her face as white as death, and her limbs shaking as though in an ague fit, she made her way to the entrance gate again; passed through it, and so got away from the Friar's Keep.