FORESHADOWINGS OF EVIL.
The stone walls of Greylands' Rest lay cold and still under the pale
sunshine of the February day. The air was sharp and frosty; the sun,
though bright to the eye, had little warmth in it; and the same
cutting east wind that John Bent had complained of to the traveller
who had alighted at his house the previous afternoon, was prevailing
still with an equal keenness.
Mr. Castlemaine felt it in his study, where he had been busy all the
morning. He fancied he must have caught a chill, for a slight shiver
suddenly stirred his tall, fine frame, and he turned to the fire and
gave it a vigorous poke. The fuel was wood and coal mixed, and the
blaze went roaring up the chimney. The room was not large. Standing
with his back to the fire, the window was on his right hand; the door
on his left; opposite to him, against the wall, stood a massive piece
of mahogany furniture, called a bureau. It was a kind of closed-in
desk, made somewhat in the fashion of the banker's desk at Stilborough,
but larger; the inside had pigeon-holes and deep drawers, and a slab
for writing on. This inside was well filled with neatly arranged
bundles of papers, with account books belonging to the farm business
and else, and with some few old letters: and the Master of Greylands
was as cautions to keep this desk closed and locked from the
possibility of the view of those about him as his brother Peter was to
keep his. The Castlemaines were proud, reticent, and careful men.
For a good part of the morning Mr. Castlemaine had been busy at this
desk. He had shut and locked it now, and was standing with his back to
the fire, deep in thought. Two letters of the large size in vogue
before envelopes were used, and sealed with the Castlemaine crest in
red wax, lay on the side-table, ready to be posted. His left hand was
inside his waistcoat, resting on the broad plaited shirt-frill of fine
cambric; his bright dark eyes had rather a troubled look in them as
they sought that old building over the fields opposite, the Friar's
Keep, and the sparkling sea beyond. In reality, Mr. Castlemaine was
looking neither at the Friar's Keep nor the sea, for he was deep in
thought and saw nothing.
The Master of Greylands was of a superstitious nature: it may as well
be stated candidly: difficult though it was to believe such of so
practical a man. Not to the extent of giving credit to stories of
ghosts and apparitions; the probability is, that in his heart he would
have laughed at that; but he did believe in signs and warnings, in
omens of ill-luck and good luck.
On this selfsame morning he had awoke with an impression of
discomfort, as if some impending evil were hanging over him; he could
not account for it, for there was no conducing cause; and at the time
he did not connect it with any superstitions feeling or fancy, but
thought he must be either out of sorts, or had had some annoyance that
he did not at the moment of waking recollect; something lying latent
in his mind. Three or four little hindrances, or mishaps, occurred
when he was dressing. First of all, he could not find his slippers:
he hunted here; he looked there; and then remembered that he had left
them the previous night in his study--a most unusual thing for him to
do--and he had to go and fetch them, or else dress in his stockings.
Next, in putting on his shirt, he tore the buttonhole at the neck, and
was obliged to change it for another. And the last thing he did was to
upset all his shaving water, and had to wait while fresh was brought.
"Nothing but impediments: it seems as though I were not to get dressed
to-day," muttered the Master of Greylands. "Can there be any ill-luck
in store for me?"
The intelligent reader will doubtless be much surprised to hear him
ask so ridiculous a question. Nevertheless, the same kind of
thing--these marked hindrances--had occurred twice before in Mr.
Castlemaine's life, and each time a great evil had followed in the
day. Not of the present time was he thinking, now as he stood, but of
one of those past days, and of what it had brought forth.
"Poor Maria!" he softly cried--alluding to his first wife, of whom he
had been passionately fond. "Well, and merry, and loving in the
morning; and at night stretched before me in death. It was an awful
accident! and I--I have never cared quite so much for the world since.
Maria was--what is it? Come in."
A knock at the door had disturbed the reflections. Mr. Castlemaine let
fall his coat tails, which he had then caught up, and turned his head
to it. A man servant appeared.
"Commodore Teague wants to know, sir, whether he may get those two or
three barrow-loads of wood moved to the Hutt to-day. He'd like to, he
says, if it's convenient."
"Yes, he can have it done. Is he here, Miles?"
"Yes, sir; he is waiting in the yard."
"I'll come and speak to him."
And the Master of Greylands, taking the two letters from the
side-table, left the room to descend, shutting the door behind him.
We must turn for a few minutes to the Dolphin Inn, and to the previous
evening. Nothing could well have exceeded John Bent's consternation
when his guest, the unknown stranger, had revealed his name. Anthony
Castlemaine! Not quite at first, but after a short interval, the
landlord saw how it must be--that he was the son of the late Basil
Castlemaine. And he was not the best pleased to hear it in the
moment's annoyance.
"You ought to have told me, sir," he stammered in his confusion. "It
was unkind to take me at a disadvantage. Here have I been using
liberties with the family's name, supposing I was talking to an utter
stranger!"
The frank expression of the young man's face, the pleasant look in his
fine brown eyes, tended to reassure the landlord, even better than
words.
"You have not said a syllable of my family that I could take exception
to," he freely said. "You knew my father: will you shake hands with
me, John Bent, as his son?"
"You are too good, sir; and I meant no harm by my gossip," said the
landlord, meeting the offered hand. "You must be the son of Mr. Basil.
It's a great many years since he went away, and I was but a youngster,
but I remember him. Your face is nearly the same as his was, sir. The
likeness was puzzling me beyond everything. I hope Mr. Basil is well,
sir."
"No," said the young man, "he is dead. And I have come over here, as
his son and heir, to claim Greylands' Rest."
It was even so. The facts were as young Anthony Castlemaine stated.
And a short summary of past events must be given here.
When Basil Castlemaine went abroad so many years ago, in his
hot-blooded youth, he spent some of the first years roaming about:
seeing the world, he called it. Later, circumstances brought him
acquainted with a young English lady, whose friends lived in France, in
the province of Dauphiné: which, as the world knows, is close on the
borders of Italy. They had settled near a place called Gap, and were
in commerce there, owning some extensive silk-mills. Basil Castlemaine,
tired probably of his wandering life, and of being a beau garçon,
married this young lady, put all the money he had left (it was a very
tolerably good sum) into the silk-mills, and became a partner. There
he had remained. He liked the climate; he liked the French mode of
life; he liked the business he had engaged in. Not once had he
re-visited England. He was by nature a most obstinate man, retaining
anger for ever, and he would not give token of remembrance to the
father and brothers who, in his opinion, had been too glad to get rid
of him. No doubt they had. But, though he did not allow them to hear
of him, he heard occasionally of them. An old acquaintance of his, who
was the son of one Squire Dobie, living some few miles on the other
side Stilborough, wrote to him every two years, or so, and gave him
news. But this correspondence (if letters written only on one side
could be called such, for all Tom Dobie ever received back was a
newspaper, sent in token that his letter had reached its destination)
was carried on en cachette; and Tom Dobie never disclosed it to living
mortal, having undertaken not to do so. Some two years before the
present period, Tom Dobie had died: his letters of course ceased, and
it was by the merest accident that Basil Castlemaine heard of the
death of his father. He was then himself too ill to return and put in
his claim to Greylands' Rest; in fact, he was near to death; but he
charged his son to go to England and claim the estate as soon as he
should be no more; nay, as he said, to enter into possession of it.
But he made use of a peculiar warning in giving this charge to his
son; and these were the words:
"Take you care what you are about, Anthony, and go to work cautiously.
There may be treachery in store for you. The brothers--your
uncles--who combined to drive me away from our homestead in days gone
by, may combine again to keep you out of it. Take care of yourself, I
say; feel your way, as it were; and beware of treachery."
Whether, as is supposed sometimes to be the case, the dying man had
some prevision of the future, and saw, as by instinct, what that
future would bring forth, certain it was, that he made use of this
warning to young Anthony: and equally certain that the end bore out
the necessity for the caution.
So here was Anthony Castlemaine: arrived in the land of his family to
put in his claim to what he deemed was his lawful inheritance,
Greylands' Rest, the deep black band worn for his father yet fresh
upon his hat.
Mrs. Castlemaine sat in the red parlour, reading a letter. Or, rather,
re-reading it, for it was one that had arrived earlier in the morning.
A lady at Stilborough had applied for the vacant place of Governess to
Miss Flora Castlemaine, and had enclosed her testimonials.
"Good music, singing, drawing; no French," read Mrs. Castlemaine
aloud, partly for the benefit of Miss Flora, who stood on a stool at
her elbow, not at all pleased that any such application should come;
for, as we have already seen, the young lady would prefer to bring
herself up without the aid of any governess. "Good tempered, but an
excellent disciplinarian, and very firm with her pupils----"
"I'm not going to have her, mamma," came the interruption. "Don't
you think it!"
"I do not suppose you will have her, Flora. The want of French will be
an insuperable objection. How tiresome it is! One seems unable to get
everything. The last lady who applied was not a sufficient musician
for advanced pupils, and therefore could not have undertaken Ethel's
music."
"As if Ethel needed to learn music still! Why, she plays as well--as
well," concluded the girl, at a loss for a simile. "Catch me learning
music when I'm as old as Ethel!"
"I consider, it nonsense myself, but Ethel wishes it, and your papa so
foolishly gives in to her whims in all things that of course she has
to be studied in the matter as much as you. It may be months and
months before we get a lady who combines all that's wanted here."
Mrs. Castlemaine spoke resentfully. What with one thing and another,
she generally was in a state of resentment against Ethel.
"I hope it may be years and years!" cried Flora, leaning her arms on
the table and kicking her legs about. "I hope we shall never get one
at all."
"It would be easy enough to get one, but for this trouble about
Ethel's music," grumbled Mrs. Castlemaine. "I have a great mind to
send her to the Grey Nunnery for her lessons. Sister Charlotte, I
know, is perfect on the piano; and she would be thankful for the
employment."
"Papa would not let her go to the Nunnery," said the sharp girl. "He
does not like the Grey Ladies."
"I suppose he'd not. I'm sure, what with this disqualification and
that disqualification, a good governess is as difficult to fix upon
as----get off the table, my sweet child," hastily broke off Mrs.
Castlemaine: "here's your papa."
The Master of Greylands entered the red parlour, after his short
interview in the yard with Commodore Teague. Miss Flora slipped past
him, and disappeared. He saw a good deal to find fault with in her
rude, tomboy ways; and she avoided him when she could. Taking the
paper, he stirred the fire into a blaze, just as he had, not many
minutes before, stirred his own fire upstairs.
"It is a biting-cold day," he observed. "I think I must have caught a
little chill, for I seem to feel cold in an unusual degree. What's
that?"
Mrs. Castlemaine held the letters still in her hand; and by the
expression of her countenance, bent upon the contents, he could
perceive there was some annoyance.
"This governess does not do; it is as bad as the last. She lacked
music; this one lacks French. Is it not provoking, James?"
Mr. Castlemaine took up the letters and read them.
"I should say she is just the sort of governess for Flora," he
observed. "The testimonials are excellent."
"But her want of French! Did you not observe that?"
"I don't know that French is of so much consequence for Flora as the
getting a suitable person to control her. One who will hold her under
firm discipline. As it is, she is being ruined."
"French not of consequence for Flora!" repeated Mrs. Castlemaine.
"What can you mean, James?"
"I said it was not of so much consequence, relatively speaking.
Neither is it."
"And while Ethel's French is perfect!"
"What has that to do with it?"
"I will never submit to see Flora inferior in accomplishments to
Ethel, James. French I hold especially by: I have felt the want of it
myself. Better, of the two, for her to fail in music than in speaking
French. If it were not for Ethel's senseless whim of continuing to
take music lessons, there would be no trouble."
"Who's this, I wonder?" cried Mr. Castlemaine.
He alluded to a visitor's ring at the hall bell. Flora came dashing
in.
"It's a gentleman in a fur coat," she said. "I watched him come up the
avenue."
"A gentleman in a fur coat!" repeated her mother.
"Some one who has walked from Stilborough this cold day, I suppose."
Miles entered. On his small silver waiter lay a card. He presented it
to his master and spoke. "The gentleman says he wishes to see you,
sir. I have shown him into the drawing-room."
The Master of Greylands was gazing at the card with knitted brow and
haughty lips. He did not understand the name on it.
"What farce is this?" he exclaimed, tossing the card on the table in
anger. And Mrs. Castlemaine bent to read it with aroused curiosity.
"Anthony Castlemaine."
"It must be an old card of your father's, James," she remarked,
"given, most likely, year's ago, to some one to send in, should he
ever require to present himself here--perhaps to crave a favour."
This view, just at the moment it was spoken, seemed feasible enough to
Mr. Castlemaine, and his brow lost its fierceness. Another minute, and
he saw how untenable it was.
"My father never had such a card as this, Sophia. Plain 'Anthony
Castlemaine,' without hold or handle. His cards had 'Mr.' before the
name. And look at the strokes and flourishes--it's not like an English
card. What sort of a person is it, Miles?"
"A youngish gentleman sir. He has a lot of dark fur on his coat. He
asked for Mr. James Castlemaine."
"Mr. James Castlemaine!" echoed the Master of Greylands, sharply, as
he stalked from the room, card in hand.
The visitor was standing before a portrait in the drawing-room
contemplating it earnestly. It was that of old Anthony Castlemaine,
taken when he was about fifty years of age. At the opening of the door
he turned round and advanced, his hand, extended and a pleasant smile
on his face.
"I have the gratification, I fancy, of seeing my Uncle James!"
Mr. Castlemaine kept his hands to himself. He looked haughtily at the
intruder; he spoke frigidly.
"I have not the honour of your acquaintance, sir."
"But my card tells you who I am," rejoined the young man. "I am
indeed your nephew, uncle; the son of your elder brother. He was
Basil, and you are James."
"Pardon me, sir, if I tell you what I think you are. An impostor."
"Ah no, do not be afraid, uncle. I am verily your nephew, Anthony
Castlemaine. I have papers and legal documents with me to prove
indisputably the fact; I bring you also a letter from my father,
written on his death-bed. But I should have thought you might know me
by my likeness to my father; and he--I could fancy that portrait had
been taken for him"--pointing to the one he had been looking at. "He
always said I greatly resembled my grandfather."
There could be no dispute as to the likeness. The young man's face was
the Castlemaine face exactly: the well formed, handsome features, the
clear and fresh complexion, the brilliant dark eyes. All the
Castlemaines had been alike, and this one was like them all; even like
James, who stood there.
Taking a letter from his pocket-book, he handed it to Mr. Castlemaine.
The latter broke the seal--Basil's own seal; he saw that--and began to
peruse it. While he did so, he reflected a little, and made up his
mind.
To acknowledge his nephew. For he had the sense to see that no other
resource would be left him. He did it with a tolerably good grace, but
in a reserved cold kind of manner. Folding up the letter, he asked a
few questions which young Anthony freely answered, and gave a brief
account of the past.
"And Basil--your father--is dead, you say! Has been dead four weeks.
This letter, I see, is dated Christmas Day."
"It was on Christmas Day he wrote it, uncle. Yes, nearly four weeks
have elapsed since his death: it took place on the fourteenth of
January; his wife, my dear mother, had died on the same day six years
before. That was curious, was it not? I had meant to come over here
immediately, as he charged me to do; but there were many matters of
business to be settled, and I could not get away until now."
"Have you come over for any particular purpose?" coldly asked Mr.
Castlemaine.
"I have come to stay, Uncle James. To take possession of my
inheritance."
"Of your inheritance?"
"The estate of Greylands' Rest."
"Greylands' Rest is not yours," said Mr. Castlemaine.
"My father informed me that it was. He brought me up to no profession:
he always said that Greylands' Rest would be mine at his own death;
that he should come into it himself at the death of his father, and
thence it would descend to me. To make all sure, he left it to me in
his will. And, as I have mentioned to you, we did not hear my
grandfather was dead until close upon last Christmas. Had my father
known it in the summer, he would have come over to put in his claim:
he was in sufficiently good health then."
"It is a pity you should have come so far on a fruitless errand, young
man. Listen. When your father, Basil, abandoned his home here in his
youth, he forfeited all claim to the inheritance. He asked for his
portion, and had it; he took it away with him and stayed away;
stayed away for nigh upon forty years. What claim does he suppose that
sort of conduct gave him on my father's affection, that he should
leave to him Greylands' Rest?"
"He always said his father would leave it to no one but him: that he
knew it and, was sure of it."
"What my father might have done had Basil come back during his
lifetime, I cannot pretend to say: neither is it of any consequence to
guess at it now. Basil did not come back, and, therefore, you cannot be
surprised that he missed Greylands' Rest; that the old father left it
to his second son--myself--instead of to him."
"But did he leave it to you, uncle?"
"A superfluous question, young man. I succeeded to it, and am here in
possession of it."
"I am told that there are doubts upon the point abroad," returned
Anthony, speaking in the same pleasant tone, but with straightforward
candour.
"Doubts upon what point?" haughtily demanded Mr. Castlemaine.
"What I hear is this, Uncle James. That it is not known to the public,
and never has been known, how you came into Greylands' Rest. Whether
the estate was left to you by will, or handed over to you by deed of
gift, or given to you in trust to hold for my father. Nobody knows, I
am told, anything about it, or even whether there was or was not a
will. Perhaps you will give me these particulars, uncle?"
Mr. Castlemaine's face grew dark as night. "Do you presume to doubt my
word, young man? I tell you that Greylands' Rest is mine. Let it
content you."
"If you will show me that Greylands' Rest is yours, Uncle James, I
will never say another word upon the subject, or give you the smallest
trouble. Prove this to me, and I will stay a few days in the
neighbourhood, for the sake of cementing family ties--though I may
never meet any of you again--and then go back to the place whence I
came. But if you do not give me this proof, I must prosecute my claim,
and maintain my rights."
"Rights!" scoffed Mr. Castlemaine, beginning to lose his temper. "How
dare you presume to talk to me in this way? A needy adventurer--for
that is what I conclude you are, left without means of your own--to
come here, and----"
"I beg your pardon," interrupted the young man; "I am not needy.
Though far from rich, I have a fair competency. Enough to keep me in
comfort."
"It is all one to me," said Mr. Castlemaine. "You had better do as you
say--go back to the place whence you came."
"If the estate be truly and lawfully yours, I should be the last to
attempt to disturb you in it; I should not wish to do so. But if it be
not yours, Uncle James, it must be mine; and, until I can be assured
one way or the other, I shall remain here, though it be for ever."
Mr. Castlemaine drew himself up to his full height. He was perfectly
calm again; perhaps somewhat vexed that he had allowed himself to
betray temper; and rejoined, coolly and prudently, "I cannot pretend
to control your movements; to say you shall go, or you shall come; but
I tell you, frankly, that your staying will not serve you in the
least. Were you to remain for ever--as you phrase it--not one tittle
of proof would you get from me. Things have come to a pretty pass if I
am to be bearded in my own house, and have my word doubted."
"Well, Uncle James," said the young man, still speaking pleasantly,
"then nothing remains for me but to try and find out the truth for
myself. I wish you had been more explicit with me, for I am sure I do
not know how to set about it," he added, candidly.
A faint, proud smile curled Mr. Castlemaine's decisive lips. It seemed
to say, "Do what you please; it is beneath my notice." His nephew took
up his hat to depart.
"May I offer to shake hands with you, Uncle James? I hope we need not
be enemies?"
A moment's hesitation, and Mr. Castlemaine shook the offered hand. It
was next to impossible to resist the frank geniality; just the same
frank geniality that had characterized Basil; and Mr. Castlemaine
thawed a little.
"It appears to be a very strange thing that Basil should have remained
stationary all those years in Franco; never once to have come home!"
"I have heard him say many a time, Uncle James, that he should never
return until he returned to take possession of Greylands' Rest. And
during the time of the great war travelling was dangerous and
difficult."
"Neither could I have believed that he would have settled down so
quietly. And to engage in commerce!"
"He grew to like the bustle of business. He had a vast capacity for
business, Uncle James."
"No doubt; being a Castlemaine," was the answer, delivered with
conscious superiority. "The Castlemaines lack capacity for nothing
they may choose to undertake. Good-morning; and I wish you a better
errand next time."
As Anthony Castlemaine, on departing, neared the gate leading to the
avenue, he saw a young lady approaching it. A fisherman, to whom she
was speaking, walked by her side. The latter's words, as he turned
away, caught the ear of Anthony.
"You will tell the master then; please, Miss Castlemaine, and say a
good word to him for me?"
"Yes, I will, Gleeson; and I am very sorry for the misfortune," the
young lady answered. "Good-day."
Anthony gazed with unfeigned pleasure on the beautiful face presented
to him in--as he supposed--his cousin. It was Ethel Reene. The cheeks
had acquired a soft rose flush in the crisp air, the dark brown hair
took a wonderfully bright tinge in the sunshine; and in the deep eyes
glancing so straight and honestly through their long dark lashes into
those of the stranger, there was a sweet candour that caused Anthony
Castlemaine to think them the prettiest eyes he had ever seen. He
advanced to her direct; said a few words indicative of his delight at
meeting her; and, while Ethel was lost in astonishment, he suddenly
bent his face forward, and kissed her on either cheek.
For a moment, Ethel Reene was speechless bewildered with confused
indignation at the outrage; and then she burst into a flood of tears.
What she said, she hardly knew; but all bespoke her shivering,
sensitive sense of the insult. Anthony Castlemaine was overwhelmed. He
had intended no insult, but only to give a cousinly greeting after the
fashion of his adopted land; and he hastened to express his
contrition.
"I beg your pardon a million times. I am so grieved to have pained or
offended you. I think you cannot have understood that I am your
cousin?"
"Cousin, sir," she rejoined--and Mr. Castlemaine himself could not
have spoken with a more haughty contempt. "How dare you presume? I
have not a cousin or a relative in the wide world."
The sweet eyes were flashing, the delicate face was flushed to
crimson. It occurred to Anthony Castlemaine that he must have made
some unfortunate mistake.
"I know not how to beg your pardon sufficiently," he continued. "I
thought indeed you were my cousin, Miss Castlemaine."
"I am not Miss Castlemaine."
"I--pardon me!--I assuredly heard the sailor address you as Miss
Castlemaine."
Ethel was beginning to recover herself. She saw that he did not look
at all like a young man who would gratuitously offer any lady an
insult, but like a true gentleman. Moreover there flashed upon her
perception the strong likeness his face bore to the Castlemaines; and
she thought that what he had done he must have done in some error.
"I am not Miss Castlemaine," she condescended to explain, her tone
losing part of its anger, but not its pride. "Mr. Castlemaine's house
is my home, and people often call me by the name. But--and if I were
Miss Castlemaine, who are you, sir, that you should claim to be my
cousin? The Castlemaines have no strange cousins."
"I am Anthony Castlemaine, young lady; son of the late Basil
Castlemaine, the heir of Greylands. I come from an interview with my
Uncle James; and I--I beg your pardon most heartily once more."
"Anthony Castlemaine, the son of Basil Castlemaine!" she exclaimed,
nearly every emotion forgotten in astonishment; but a conviction,
nevertheless, seizing upon her that it was true. "The son of the lost
Basil!"
"I am, in very truth, his son," replied Anthony. "My father is dead,
and I have come over to claim--and I hope, enter into--my patrimony,
Greylands' Rest."