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Volume 8 of Mrs. Wood's Novels, (R. Bentley, 1880)
(the University of California).
THE
MASTER OF GREYLANDS.
A Novel.
BY
MRS. HENRY WOOD,
AUTHOR OF
"EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," ETC.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty.
1880.
[All Rights of Translation and Reproduction are Reserved.]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. OGDEN AND CO.
172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. In the Bank Parlour.
II. The Grey Ladies.
III. At the Dolphin Inn.
IV. Foreshadowings of Evil.
V. The Ball.
VI. Anthony Castlemaine on his Search.
VII. In the Moonlight.
VIII. Commotion at Stilborough.
IX. A Curious Story.
X. Just as She had Seen it in her Dream.
XI. Inside the Nunnery.
XII. Madame Guise.
XIII. A Storm of Wind.
XIV. Plotting and Planning.
XV. Getting in by Deceit.
XVI. At Greylands' Rest.
XVII. Opening the Bureau.
XVIII. The Grey Monk.
XIX. Jane Hallet.
XX. An Unwelcome Intruder.
XXI. In the Chapel Ruins.
XXII. Miss Hallet in the Dust.
XXIII. The Secret Passage.
XXIV. Going Over in the Two-Horse Van.
XXV. Mr. George North.
XXVI. Dining At Greylands' Rest.
XXVII. In The Vaults.
XXVIII. Out to Shoot a Night-Bird.
XXIX. One More Interview.
XXX. Love's Young Dream.
XXXI. Calling in the Blacksmith.
XXXII. Miss Jane in Trouble.
XXXIII. A Turbulent Sea.
XXXIV. Changed to Paradise.
XXXV. The Last Cargo.
XXXVI. Gone.
XXXVII. Anthony.
XXXVIII. Rebellion.
XXXIX. No Turning Back.
Conclusion.
THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE BANK PARLOUR.
Stilborough. An old-fashioned market-town of some importance in its
district, but not the chief town of the county. It was market-day:
Thursday: and the streets wore an air of bustle, farmers and other
country people passing and repassing from the corn-market to their
respective inns, or perhaps from their visit, generally a weekly one,
to the banker's.
In the heart of the town, where the street was wide and the buildings
were good, stood the bank. It was nearly contiguous to the town-hall
on the one hand, and to the old church of St. Mark on the other, and
was opposite the new market-house, where the farmers' wives and
daughters sat with their butter and poultry. For in those days--many a
year ago now--people had not leaped up above their sphere; and the
farmers' wives would have thought they were going to ruin outright had
anybody but themselves kept market. A very large and handsome house,
this bank, the residence of its owner and master, Mr. Peter
Castlemaine.
No name stood higher than Mr. Peter Castlemaine's. Though of
sufficiently good descent, he was, so to say, a self-made man.
Beginning in a small way in early life, he had risen by degrees to
what he now was--to what he had long been--the chief banker in the
county. People left the county-town to bank with him; in all his
undertakings he was supposed to be flourishing; in realized funds a
small millionaire.
The afternoon drew to a close; the business of the day was over; the
clerks were putting the last touches to their accounts previously to
departing, and Mr. Peter Castlemaine sat alone in his private room. It
was a spacious apartment, comfortably and even luxuriously furnished
for a room devoted solely to business purposes. But the banker had
never been one of those who seem to think that a hard chair and a bare
chamber are necessary to the labour that brings success. The rich
crimson carpet with its soft thick rug threw a warmth of colouring on
the room, the fire flashed and sparkled in the grate: for the month
was February and the weather yet wintry.
Before his own desk, in a massive and luxurious arm-chair, sat Mr.
Peter Castlemaine. He was a tall, slender, and handsome man, fifty-one
years of age this same month. His hair was dark, his eyes were brown,
his good complexion was yet clear and bright. In manner he was a
courteous man, but naturally a silent one; rather remarkably so; his
private character and his habits were unexceptionable.
No one had ever a moment's access to this desk at which he sat: even
his confidential old clerk could not remember to have been sent to it
for any paper or deed that might be wanted in the public rooms. The
lid of the desk drew over and closed with a spring, so that in one
instant its contents could be hidden from view and made safe and fast.
The long table in the middle of the room was to-day more than usually
covered with papers; a small marble slab between Mr. Peter
Castlemaine's left hand and the wall held sundry open ledgers piled
one upon another, to which he kept referring. Column after column of
figures: the very sight of them enough to give an unfinancial man the
nightmare: but the banker ran his fingers up and down the rows at
railroad speed, for, to him, it was mere child's-play. Seldom has
there existed a clearer head for his work than that of Peter
Castlemaine. But for that fact he might not have been seated where he
was to-day, the greatest banker for miles round.
And yet, as he sat there, surrounded by these marks and tokens of
wealth and power, his face presented a sad contrast to them and to the
ease and luxury of the room. Sad, careworn, anxious, looked he; and,
as he now and again paused in his work to pass his hand over his brow,
a heavy sigh escaped him. The more he referred to his ledgers, and
compared them with figures and papers on the desk before him, so much
the more perplexed and harassed did his face become. In his eyes there
was the look of a hunted animal, the look of a drowning man catching
at a straw, the look that must have been in the eyes of poor Louis
Dixhuit when they discovered him in his disguise and turned his
horses' heads backwards. At last, throwing down his pen, he fell back
in his chair, and hid his face in his hands.
"No escape," he murmured, "no escape! Unless a miracle should
supervene, I am undone."
He remained in this attitude, that told so unmistakably of despair,
for some minutes, revolving many things: problems working themselves
in and out of his brain confusedly, as a man works in and out of a
labyrinth, to which he has lost the clue. A small clock on the
mantelpiece struck the hour, five, and then chimed an air once popular
in France. It was a costly trifle that the banker had bought years ago.
Paintings, articles of virtu, objets de luxe, had always possessed
attractions for him.
The chimes aroused him. "I must talk to Hill," he muttered: "no use
putting it off till another day." And he touched the spring of his
small hand-bell.
In answer, the door opened, and there entered a little elderly man
with snow-white hair worn long behind, and a good-looking, fair, and
intellectual face, its eyes beaming with benevolence. He wore a black
tail coat, according to the custom of clerks of that day, and a white
cambric frilled shirt like that of his master. It was Thomas Hill; for
many years Mr. Peter Castlemaine's confidential clerk and right hand.
"Come in, Hill; come in," said the banker. "Close the door--and lock
it."
"The clerks are gone, sir; the last has just left," was the reply. But
the old man nevertheless turned the key of the door.
Mr. Peter Castlemaine pointed to a seat close to him; and his clerk,
quiet in all his movements, as in the tones of his voice, took it in
silence. For a full minute they looked at each other; Thomas Hill's
face reflecting the uneasiness of his master's. He was the first to
speak.
"I know it, sir," he said, his manner betraying the deepest respect
and sympathy. "I have seen it coming for a long while. So have you,
sir. Why have you not confided in me before?"
"I could not," breathed Mr. Peter Castlemaine. "I wanted to put it
from me, Hill, as a thing that could never really be. It has never
come so near as it has come now, Hill; it has never been so real as at
this moment of outspoken words."
"It was not my place to take the initiative, sir; but I was wishing
always that you would speak to me. I could but place facts and figures
before you and point to results, compare past balances with present
ones, other years' speculations with last year's, and--and give you
the opportunity of opening the subject with me. But you never would
open it."
"I have told you why, Hill," said Peter Castlemaine. "I strove to
throw the whole trouble from me. It was a weak, mistaken feeling; nine
men out of every ten would have been actuated by it under similar
circumstances. And yet," he continued, half in soliloquy, "I never was
much like other men, and I never knew myself to be weak."
"Never weak; never weak," responded the faithful clerk,
affectionately.
"I don't know, Hill; I feel so now. This has been to me long as a
far-off monster, creeping onwards by degrees, advancing each day by
stealthy steps more ominously near: and now it is close at hand, ready
to crush me."
"I seem not to understand it," said poor Hill.
"And there are times when I cannot," returned Mr. Peter Castlemaine.
"In the old days, sir, everything you handled turned to gold. You had
but to take up a speculation, and it was sure to prove a grand
success. Why, sir, your name has become quite a proverb for luck. If
Castlemaine the banker's name is to it, say people of any new
undertaking, it must succeed. But for some time past things have
changed, and instead of success, it has been failure. Sir, it is just
as though your hand had lost its cunning."
"Right, Hill," sighed his master, "my hand seems to have lost its
cunning. It is--I have said it over and over again to myself--just as
though some curse pursued me. Ill-luck; nothing but ill-luck! If a
scheme has looked fair and promising to-day, a blight has fallen on it
to-morrow. And I, like a fool, as I see now, plunged into fresh
ventures, hoping to redeem the last one. How few of us are there who
know how to pull up in time! Were all known the public would say that
the mania of gambling must have taken hold of me----"
"No, no," murmured the clerk.
"----When it was but the recklessness of a drowning man. Why, Hill--if
I could get in the money at present due to me, money that I think will
come in, perhaps shortly, though it is locked up now, we should
weather the storm."
"I trust it will be weathered, sir, somehow. At the worst, it will not
be a bad failure; there'll be twenty shillings in the pound if they
will but wait. Perhaps, if you called a private meeting and pointed
things out, and showed them that it is only time you want, they'd
consent to let you have it. Matters would go on then, and there'd be
no exposure."
"It is the want of time that will crush me," said Peter Castlemaine.
"But if they will allow you time, sir?"
"All will not," was the significant answer, and Mr. Peter Castlemaine
lowered his voice as he spoke it, and looked full at his clerk. "You
know those Armannon bonds?"
Whether it was the tone, the look, or the question, certain it was
that in that instant an awful dread, an instinct of evil, seized upon
the old man. His face turned white.
"I had to use those bonds, Hill," whispered his master. "To mortgage
them, you understand. But, as I am a living man, I believed when I did
it that in less than a week they would be redeemed and replaced."
"Mortgaged the Armannon bonds!" ejaculated Thomas Hill, utterly unable
to take in the fact, and looking the picture of horror.
"And they are not yet redeemed."
The clerk wrung his hands. "My master! my friend and master! How could
you? Surely it was done in a moment of madness!"
"Of weakness, of wickedness, if you will, Thomas, but not madness. I
was as sane as I am now. You remember the large payment we had to make
last August? It had to be made, you know, or things would have come
to a crisis then. I used the bonds to raise the money."
"But I--I cannot comprehend," returned the clerk slowly, after casting
his recollection back. "I thought you borrowed that money from Mr.
Castlemaine."
"No. Mr. Castlemaine would not lend it me. I don't know whether he
smelt a rat and got afraid for the rest I hold of his. What he said
was, that he had not so large a sum at his disposal. Or, it may be,"
added the banker in a dreamy kind of tone, "that James thought I was
only going into some fresh speculation, and considers I am rich enough
already. How little he knows!"
"Oh, but these deeds must be redeemed!" cried the old clerk, rising
from his seat in excitement. "At all sacrifice they must be got back,
sir. If you have to sell up all, houses, land, and everything, they
must be returned to their safe resting-place. You must not longer run
this dreadful risk, sir: the fear of it would bring me down in
suspense and sorrow to my grave."
"Then, what do you suppose it has been doing for me?" rejoined Mr.
Peter Castlemaine. "Many a time and oft since, I have said to myself,
'Next week shall see those bonds replaced.' But the 'next week' has
never come: for I have had to use all available cash to prop up the
falling house and keep it from sinking. Once down, Hill, the truth
about the bonds could no longer be concealed."
"You must sell all, sir."
"There's nothing left to sell, Thomas," said his master. "At least,
nothing immediately available. It is time that is wanted. Given
that, I could put things straight again."
A trying silence. Thomas Hill's face was full of pain and dread. "I
have a little accumulated money of my own, sir: some of it I've saved,
some came to me when my brother died," he said. "It is about six
thousand pounds, and I have neither chick nor child. Every shilling of
it shall be yours, sir, as soon as I can withdraw it from where it is
invested."
His master grasped his hands. "Faithful man and friend!" he cried, the
tears of emotion dimming his brown eyes. "Do you think I would accept
the sacrifice and bring you to ruin as I have brought myself? Never
that, Hill."
"The money shall be yours, sir," repeated the clerk firmly.
"Hush, hush!" cried Mr. Peter Castlemaine. "Though I were dying of
shame and hunger, I would not take it. And, do you not see, my friend,
that it would be a useless sacrifice? Six thousand pounds would be
swallowed up unheeded in the vortex: it would be but as a drop of
water to the heaving ocean."
It was even so. Thomas Hill saw it. They sat down together and went
into the books: the banker showing him amounts and involvements that
he had never suspected before. The ruin seemed to be close at hand;
there seemed to be no possible way out of it. Common ruin Thomas Hill
might have got over in time; but this ruin, the ruin that threatened
his master, would have turned his hair white in a night had time not
already turned it.
And crimes were more heavily punished in those days than they are in
these.
At a quarter to six o'clock, Peter Castlemaine was in his dining-room,
dressed for dinner. He often had friends to dine with him on
market-days, and was expecting some that night: a small social party of
half a dozen, himself included. He stood with his back to the fire, his
brow smoothed, his aspect that of complete ease; he could hear his
butler coming up the stairs to show in the first guest. All the
dwelling-rooms were on this first floor, the ground-floor being
entirely appropriated to business.
"Mr. Castlemaine."
The two brothers met in the middle of the room and shook hands. Mr.
Castlemaine was the elder by two years, but he did not look so, and
there was a very great likeness between them. Fine, upright, handsome
men, both; with clear, fresh faces, well-cut features, and keen,
flashing, dark eyes. Very pleasant men to talk to; but silent men as
to their own affairs. Mr. Castlemaine had just come in from his
residence, Greylands' Rest: it was in contradistinction to him that
the banker was invariably called Mr. Peter Castlemaine.
"All well at home, James?"
"Quite so, thank you."
"You were not in at market, to-day."
"No: I had nothing particular to call me in. Are you expecting a large
party this evening?"
"Only six of us. Here comes another."
The butler's step was again heard. But this time he came, not to
announce a guest, but to bring a note, just delivered. Peter
Castlemaine's hand shook slightly as he opened it. He dreaded all
letters now. It proved, however, to be only an excuse from one of the
expected guests: and a strange relief sat on his face as he turned to
his brother.
"Lawrence can't come, James. So there'll be but five of us."
"Lawrence is not much loss," said Mr. Castlemaine, "You don't look
quite yourself, Peter," he added, to his brother; something in the
latter's countenance having struck his observant eye. "I think you
are working too hard; have thought so for some time. Don't let the
love of money take all pleasure out of life. Surely you must have made
enough, and might now take some rest."
The banker laughed. "As to taking rest, that's easier recommended than
done, James. I am too young to give up work yet: I should be like a
fish out of water."
"Ah well--we are all, I expect, wedded to our work--whatever it may
be: creatures of habit," admitted Mr. Castlemaine. "I will just go and
see Mary Ursula. She in her room, I suppose. What a treasure you
possess in that girl, Peter!"
"Beyond the wealth of Solomon; beyond all price," was the impulsive
answer, and Peter Castlemaine's face glowed as he made it. "Yes, you
will find her in her room, James."
Mr. Castlemaine went to the end of the wide and handsome passage,--its
walls lined with paintings, its floor covered with a carpet, rich and
soft as moss,--and knocked at a door there. A sweet voice bade him
enter.
The small, choice room was brilliantly lighted with wax tapers; the
fire threw a warmth on its dainty furniture. A stately lady, tall,
slight, and very beautiful, who had been working at a sketch, put down
her pencil, and rose. It was Miss Castlemaine, the banker's only
child: as fair a picture as could be found in the world. She wore a
white muslin dress, made low in the fashion of the day. On her
queen-like neck was a string of pearls; bracelets of pearls clasped her
pretty arms. Her face was indeed beautiful: it was like her father's
face, but more delicately carved; the complexion was of a paler and
fairer tint; the brown eyes, instead of flashing, as his did in his
youth, had a subdued, almost a sad look in them. It was one of the
sweetest faces ever seen, but altogether its pervading expression was
that of sadness: an expression that in her childhood had led many an
old woman to say, "She is too good to live." She had lived, however,
in the best of strength and health, until now, when she was in her
five-and-twentieth year. An accomplished lady, she, very much so for
those days, and of great good sense; her conversational powers rare; a
sound musician, and a fair linguist, fond of sketching and painting in
watercolours. With it all, she was particularly gentle in manner,
modest and retiring as a woman should be: there was at all times a
repose upon her that seemed to exhale repose, and was most charming.
Her father loved her with an ardent love; he had lost his wife, and
this child was all-in-all to him. But for her sake, he might not have
dreaded the coming disgrace with the intense horror he did dread it.
His happiest hours were spent with her. In the twilight he would sit
in the music-room, listening to her playing on the piano, or on the
sweet-toned organ he had had built for her--the tones not more sweet,
though, than her own voice when raised in song. Her gift of
extemporising was of no mean order; and as the banker sat listening to
the organ's sounds, its rise and fall, its swelling and dying away, he
would forget his cares. She was engaged to William Blake-Gordon, the
eldest son of Sir Richard Blake-Gordon; a poor, but very haughty
baronet, unduly proud of his descent. But for the vast amount of money
Miss Castlemaine was expected to inherit, Sir Richard had never
condescended to give his consent to the match: but the young man
loved her for her own sake. Just now Miss Castlemaine was alone: the
lady, Mrs. Webb, who resided with her as chaperon and companion,
having been called away by the illness of a near relative. One word as
to her name--Mary Ursula. A somewhat long name to pronounce, but it was
rarely shortened by her relatives. The name had been old Mrs.
Castlemaine's, her grandmother's, and was revered in the Castlemaine
family.
"I knew it was you, Uncle James," she said, meeting him with both
hands extended. "I knew you would come in to see me."
He took her hands into one of his and touched fondly her beautiful
hair, that so well set-off the small and shapely head, and kissed her
tenderly. Mr. Castlemaine was fond of his niece, and very proud of
her.
"Your face is cold, Uncle James."
"Fresh with the out-of-door cold, my dear. I walked in."
"All the way from Greylands!"
He laughed at her "all the way." It was but three miles; scarcely
that. "I felt inclined for the walk, Mary Ursula. The carriage will
come in to take me home."
"Is Ethel well, Uncle James? And Mrs. Castlemaine?"
"Quite so, my dear. What are you doing here?"
She had sat down to the table again, and he bent his head over her to
look at her drawing. There was a moment's silence.
"Why it is--it is the Friar's Keep!" exclaimed Mr. Castlemaine.
"Yes," she answered. "I sketched its outlines when at your house last
summer, and I have never filled it in until now."
She sketched as she did everything else--almost perfectly. The
resemblance was exact, and Mr. Castlemaine said so. "It seems to me
already completed!" he observed.
"All but the shading of the sky in the back-ground."
"Why have you made those two windows darker than the rest?"
Miss Castlemaine smiled as she answered jestingly, "I thought there
should be no opportunity given for the appearance of the Grey Friar in
my drawing, Uncle James."
Mr. Castlemaine drew in his lips with a peculiar twist. The jest
pleased him.
"Have you seen much of the Grey Sisters lately, Uncle James?"
This did not please him. And Mary Ursula, as she caught the
involuntary frown that knitted his bold brow, felt vexed to have asked
the question. Not for the first time, as she well recalled, had Mr.
Castlemaine shown displeasure at the mention of the "Grey Sisters."
"Why do you not like them, Uncle James?"
"I cannot help thinking that Greylands might get on better if it were
rid of them," was the short reply of Mr. Castlemaine. But he passed at
once from the subject.
"And we are not to have this fair young lady-hostess at the
dinner-table's head to-night?" he cried, in a different and a warm
tone, as he gazed affectionately at his niece. "Mary Ursula, it is a
sin. I wish some customs were changed! And you will be all alone!"
"'Never less alone than when alone,'" quoted Mary Ursula: "and that is
true of me, uncle mine. But to-night I shall not be alone in any
sense, for Agatha Mountsorrel is coming to bear me company."
"Agatha Mountsorrel! I don't care for her, Mary Ursula. She is
desperately high and mighty."
"All the Mountsorrels are that--with their good descent and their
wealth, I suppose they think they have cause for it--but I like her.
And I fancy that is her carriage stopping now. There's six o'clock,
uncle; and you will be keeping the soup waiting."
Six was striking from the room's silver-gilt timepiece. "I suppose I
must go," said Mr. Castlemaine. "I'd rather stay and spend the evening
with you."
"Oh, Uncle James, think of the baked meats!" she laughed. "Of the
nectar-cup!"
"What are baked meats and a nectar-cup to the brightness of thine
eyes, to the sweet discourse of thy lips? There's not thy peer in this
world, Mary Ursula."
"Uncle, uncle, you would spoil me. Flattery is like a subtle poison,
that in time destroys sound health."
"Fare you well, my dear. I will come and say goodnight to you before
I leave."
As Mr. Castlemaine trod the corridor, he met Miss Mountsorrel coming
up: a handsome, haughty girl in a scarlet cloak and hood. She returned
his salute with a sweeping bow, and passed on her way in silence.
T tie dinner was one of those perfect little repasts that the
banker was renowned for. The three other guests were Sir Richard
Blake-Gordon; the Reverend John Marston, vicar of St. Mark's and also
of Greylands, generally called by the public "Parson Mas'on;" and Mr.
Knivett, family solicitor to the Castlemaines. The wines were
excellent; the reunion was altogether sociable and pleasant; and the
banker's brow gave no indication of the strife within. It's true Mr.
Marston took his full share of the wine--as many a parson then
appeared to think it quite religious to do--and talked rather too much
accordingly. But the guests enjoyed themselves and broke up before
eleven. Mr. Castlemaine, who could drink his wine with any man, but
took care never to take more than he could carry as a gentleman,
proceeded to his niece's room to say goodnight to her; as he had
promised to do.
"I hope I have not kept you up, my dear," he began as he entered.
"Oh no, Uncle James," was Mary Ursula's answer. "I never go to bed
until I have sung the evening hymn to papa."
"Where's Miss Mountsorrel?"
"The carriage came for her at ten o'clock."
"And pray where's Master William, that he has not been here this
evening?"
She blushed like a summer rose. "Do you think he is here every
evening, Uncle James? Mrs. Webb warned him in time that it would not
be etiquette, especially while she was away. And how have you enjoyed
yourself?"
"Passably. The baked meats you spoke of were tempting; the nectar
good. Of which nectar, in the shape of a dinner port, the parson took
slightly more than was necessary. What toast, do you suppose, he
suddenly gave us?"
"How can I tell, Uncle James?" she rejoined, looking up.
"We were talking of you at the moment, and the parson rose to his
legs, his glass in his hand. 'Here's to the fairest and sweetest
maiden in the universe,' said he, 'and may she soon be Lady
Blake-Gordon!'"
"Oh, how could he!" exclaimed Miss Castlemaine, colouring painfully in
her distress. "And Sir Richard present!"
"As to Sir Richard, I thought he was going frantic. You know what he
is. 'Zounds! Sir Parson,' he cried, starting up in his turn, 'do you
wish me dead? Is it not enough that the young lady should first become
Mistress Blake-Gordon? Am I so old and useless as to be wished out
of the world for the sake of my son's aggrandisement?'--and so on.
Marston pacified him at last, protesting that he had only said
Mistress Blake-Gordon; or that, if he had not, he had meant to say it.
And now, goodnight, my dear, for I don't care to keep my horses
standing longer in the cold. When are you coming to stay at Greylands'
Rest?"
"Whenever you like to invite me, Uncle James. I wish you could get
papa over for a week. It would give him rest: and he has not appeared
to be well of late. He seems full of care."
"Of business, my dear; not care. Though, of course, undertakings such
as his must bring care with them. You propose it to him; and come with
him: if he will come for anybody's asking, it is yours."
"You will give my love to Ethel; and----"
Castlemaine, stooping to kiss her, arrested the words with a whisper.
"When is it to be, Mary Ursula? When shall we be called upon to
congratulate Mistress Blake-Gordon? Soon?"
"Oh uncle, I don't know." And she laughed and blushed, and felt
confused at the outspoken words: but in her inmost heart was as happy
as a queen.