IN THE MOONLIGHT.
White clouds were passing over the face of the blue sky, casting their
light and their shade on the glorious sea. Not for a minute together
did the sea present the same surface; its hue, its motions, and its
ripples were for ever changing. Now it would be blue and clear almost
as crystal; anon, green and still; next, sparkling like diamonds
under the sunlight: and each aspect seemed more beautiful than that
which it had displaced.
To Anthony Castlemaine, gazing at it from his bedroom at the Dolphin
Inn, no object in nature had ever seemed so beautiful. Not the
vineyards of his native land; not the sunny plains of Italy; not the
grand picturesque mountains of Switzerland: all these he had been
accustomed to from his youth, and they were fair to look upon: but to
him they were as nothing, compared with this wide, wondrous,
ever-changing sea.
Some days, a very few, had elapsed since his visit to Stilborough,
told of in the last chapter. Another week had come in, and this was
the Tuesday in it: destined to be a most fatal day for more than one
person connected with our story. The snow-storm he had anticipated, in
his homeward walk that afternoon, had passed off without falling; the
cold itself seemed on the next day to have taken its departure. With
that variable caprice that distinguishes our insular climate, the
biting frost, the keen east wind, that had almost cut people through,
had given, place to the warm, cheering weather of a balmy spring.
Anthony Castlemaine had opened the casement window to admit the genial
air, the fresh sea-breeze, and stood there in profound thought. On the
table lay a letter he had just written. Its seal of black wax was
stamped with the Castlemaine crest, and it was addressed to his native
place, Gap, Dauphiné. Some shouting arose on the beach, drawing his
attention. A fishing-boat was preparing to put out; one of her men had
not come down, and the two others and the shrill boy were raising
their voices to make tie laggard hear. He went dashing out of the
Dolphin Inn, just under the view of Anthony.
Anthony Castlemaine was in perplexity. He did not see his way any
clearer before him than he had seen it when he first came. That
Greylands' Rest was legally his he entertained no doubt of; but to
prove it was another matter. He and Mr. Castlemaine had met one day
near the Dolphin; they had talked for a few minutes, but Anthony could
make out nothing. Twice since then he had presented himself at
Greylands Rest, and Mr. Castlemaine had been denied to him. It was
quite evident he meant to have nothing more to do with Anthony.
The waves of the sea sparkled and rippled; the sun came out from
behind a fleecy cloud, and shone with renewed strength; a beautiful
vessel in the distance was passing with all her sails set.
"It is very strange behaviour," mused Anthony. "If the estate belongs
in truth to my uncle James, why can he not show me that it does? His
not showing it almost proves of itself that it is mine. I must get
to see him: I cannot stay in the dark like this."
Taking up the letter, he descended the stairs, went across to the
little general shop near the beach, and dropped it into the letter-box.
He was quite at home in Greylands now, had made acquaintance with its
inhabitants, and was known and recognised as the grandson of old
Anthony Castlemaine. In returning he met one of the Grey Sisters.
Lifting his hat, he bowed to her with deep respect; for he regarded
the Grey Ladies as a religious order, and in his native land these
female communities are held in reverence. Little Sister Phoeby--she
was very short and stout, and nearly middle-aged, and only one of the
working sisters--bobbed down her grey head in return, giving him a
kindly good-morrow.
"And John Bent thinks that Mr. Castlemaine derides these good ladies!"
thought Anthony. "It must be fancy. John has fancies. He---- Dear me!
here's that charming demoiselle again!"
She was advancing swiftly, seemingly wishing to catch Sister Phoeby,
her pretty figure attired becomingly in a light silk dress and short
scarlet cloak with silken tassels; her strangely-beautiful eyes were
cast on the sea with the same look of loving admiration that Anthony's
own sometimes wore when gazing at it. He could have wished that this
young lady was his sister, or really his cousin: for Anthony had not
seen many faces in his life that he so believed in for truth and
goodness and beauty as Ethel Reene's.
They had nearly met before she observed him. He stopped and addressed
some words to her in deprecation of his former fault, keeping his hat
off while he spoke. Ethel answered him frankly, and held out her hand.
Since the previous encounter, she had had time to digest the offence,
to understand how it had arisen and that he had not the least
intention of insulting her; she had also been favourably impressed
with what she had heard abroad of Anthony Castlemaine.
"Let us forget it," said Ethel, with her sweet smile. "I understand
now how it happened; I know you did not intend any offence. Are you
going to make a long stay at the Dolphin?"
"That must depend partly on Mr. Castlemaine," replied Anthony. "He
will not give me an interview, and for myself I can scarcely see a
step before my face. I must ask him once more to listen to me; I hope
he will. I had some thought of going to him this afternoon."
"He is at home," said Ethel, innocently, who only very imperfectly
understood the trouble looming between the young man before her and
Mr. Castlemaine.
"At home now? Then I will go to him at once," said he, acting on the
impulse of the moment: and he again offered his hand to Ethel. "Adieu.
I hope you have quite forgiven me, Miss Castlemaine."
"I have quite forgiven you, indeed: but I am not Miss Castlemaine, you
know," she said, laughing, as she let her hand rest in his. "You will
know my name better soon--Ethel Reene. Good-bye."
And during her after-life Ethel was wont to look back often on this
little meeting, and to feel thankful that it had taken place, and that
it was a pleasant one. For she never again saw the ill-fated young man
in this world.
Recrossing the road, and passing the inn corner, Anthony got into the
fields on his way to Greylands' Rest. They were pleasanter than the
road that sunshiny afternoon. He walked along in deep thought,
deliberating on what he should say.
Ah, if he could but have seen behind him! A double shadow followed
him--as the poet Hood wrote of Miss Kilmansegg going upstairs to her
doom. His own natural shadow and another. Nearer and nearer it had
been gradually drawing as the days went on; and now on this day it lay
ready to close on him--as it would close ere the clock had told many
more hours: the dark, dreadful, ominous shadow of death. Of a death
done in darkness and secret.
In the last field, side by side with the avenue that led to Greylands'
Rest, while Anthony was wondering whether he should be permitted to
see his uncle or not, his uncle suddenly stood in front of him, coming
through the little gateway that led into the field.
The Master of Greylands, erect, well dressed, handsome, would have
passed him with a slight nod, but Anthony put himself in his way.
"Uncle James, I beg your pardon; I would not wish to be rude; but will
you allow me to speak a few little words to you?"
"I am in a hurry," said Mr. Castlemaine.
"Will you give me then a short interview at your house this evening?
Or to-morrow morning, if that will suit you better."
"No," replied Mr. Castlemaine.
"Twice I have been to Greylands' Rest, asking to see you, Uncle James;
and twice have I been denied. Though the last time I think you were at
home, and that you saw me from the window."
"You cannot have anything to say to me that I wish to hear, or that
would be profitable to yourself," returned the Master of Greylands
"for that reason I was denied to you. Our first interview was not so
satisfactory that we need wish for another."
"But it is necessary that we should converse," returned the young man.
"I am waiting to have this question settled as to Greylands' Rest."
"What question?" demanded Mr. Castlemaine, with haughty
indifference--just as though he had quite forgotten that anything had
ever arisen in regard to it.
"Greylands' Rest is yours, Uncle James, or it is mine: I must
ascertain which of us it belongs to. You decline to tell me----"
"Decline to tell you," interrupted Mr. Castlemaine. "Cannot you use
your own eyes and your judgment, and see that it is mine."
"I see that you are in possession of it, Uncle James; I see no
farther. You decline to show me anything of the facts: my Uncle Peter
declines; Knivett, the attorney-at-law, declines."
"Have you applied to Knivett?"
"Yes, last week."
The eyes of Mr. Castlemaine flashed fire. "How dare you do such a
thing, sir, as attempt to interfere in my affairs? Tamper with my man
of business! By heaven, I have a great mind to give you into custody!"
"Do not let us quarrel, Uncle James; suffer me to say what little I
have to say quietly. I did not go to Mr. Knivett otherwise than
openly. He said he could tell me nothing; and I recognized the weight
of his objection--that he is your attorney. Being so, he of course
cannot act for me."
"Perhaps you tried to bribe him to act for you," scoffed Mr.
Castlemaine, who was foolishly beginning to lose his temper.
"I would not do any mean or dishonourable thing, Uncle James; I am a
Castlemaine, and my father's son. But what I have to say to you is
this, that matters cannot rest as they are: and I wish you fully to
understand what my course will be if you do not give me the
satisfaction I require, as to who is the true owner of Greylands'
Rest. Only show me that it is yours, and I make my bow of departure
from Greylands."
"You are pretty insolent for a young man!" retorted Mr. Castlemaine,
looking down on him with scorn. "Do you suppose such an application
was ever made to a gentleman before? You speak of your father, my
brother Basil: had some impudent stranger presented himself before
him, and demanded to see title-deeds of his, what would his answer
have been, think you?"
"Circumstances alter cases, Uncle James. My case is different from the
imaginary one that you put. Only satisfy me that the place is yours,
and I ask no more. I have a right to know so much."
"You never shall know it: for your insolence, you shall never know
more than you know now. Do your best and worst."
"Then you will leave me no resource but to proceed," returned the
young man, who maintained his temper and his courtesy in a notable
degree. "I shall employ the best lawyer I can call to my aid, and act
on his advice."
"Tush!" was the contemptuous answer. "Go and put in a claim to Parson
Marston's church--to the Dolphin Inn,--to the beach itself! Claim all,
and see how far a lawyer will advance you in it."
"I wish you had met me temperately, Uncle James. I only ask what's
fair--to be satisfied. It is the talk of the neighbours now: they say
you ought to satisfy me; they think you would do it if it were in your
power."
"What?" roared Mr. Castlemaine.
Had Anthony seen the storm he was provoking, he had surely not
continued. He did not wish to irritate Mr. Castlemaine: all he
wanted was to show him the reasons of his proposed attempted
investigation--to prove to him that he was justified in what he meant
to do. The truth was, the young man, who was by nature just,
honourable, and kindly, who had never in his life attempted to take a
mean advantage of friend or enemy, felt half ashamed and deeply grieved
to be thus thrown into adverse contact with his newly-found relatives;
and he sought to show that he had justifiable excuse for it.
"It is not my fault, uncle, if the people thus give their opinion: I
did not ask for it, or provoke them to it. What they say has reason in
it, as it seems to me. When the popular belief prevailed that my
grandfather would not leave his estate away from his eldest son,
Basil, and when it was never known how he did leave it, or to whom, or
anything about it, save that his second son remained in possession,
why, they talked. That is what I am told. It would be a satisfaction
to the public as well as to me, Uncle James, if you would suffer the
truth to be known."
It was not often that the Master of Greylands allowed anger to
overpower him. In his younger days he had been subject to fits of
intemperate passion, but time and self-control had well-nigh stamped
the failing out. Perhaps until this moment he had believed it had left
him for ever. His passion rose now: his face was scarlet; his clenched
hands were kept by force down to his side, lest they should deal a
blow at Anthony. Them, so far, he controlled, but not his tongue:
and he poured forth a torrent of abuse.
"Go back to where you came from, insolent, upstart braggart!" were the
words he finished up with. "You are no true son of my brother Basil.
Ill-doing though he was, he was not a fire-brand, striving to spread
malignant dissension amid a peaceable community."
"Uncle James, I shall never go back until I have come to the bottom of
this matter," spoke the young man, firmly: and it may be that his
unruffled temper, his very calmness of bearing, only served to
irritate all the more Mr. Castlemaine. "The best man of law that
London will afford I shall summon to my aid: he must force you to show
the title by which you hold possession of the estate; and we shall
then see which has the most right to it, you or I."
The words inflamed Mr. Castlemaine almost to madness. With a fierce
oath--and bad language, though common enough then, was what he was
rarely, if ever, betrayed to use--he lifted his hand to strike.
Anthony, startled, got away.
"What have I done to merit this treatment, Uncle James?" he
remonstrated. "Is it because I am a relative? You would not, for
shame, so treat a stranger."
But the Master of Greylands, flinging back a word and look of utter
contempt, went striding on his way, leaving his nephew alone.
Now it happened that this contest was witnessed by the superintendent
of the coastguard, Mr. Nettleby, who was walking along the path of the
neighbouring field behind the far-off intervening hedge, bare at that
season. He could not hear the words that passed--the whole field was
between--but he saw they were angry ones, and that the Master of
Greylands was in a foaming passion. Calling in at the Dolphin Inn, he
related before one or two people what he had seen: and Anthony, when
he returned soon after, gave the history of the interview.
"I'm sure I thought Mr. Castlemaine struck you, sir," resumed the
officer.
"No, but he would have liked to strike me," said Anthony. "I stepped
back from his hand. It is very foolish of him."
"I think he would like to kill Mr. Anthony, for my part, by the way he
treats him," said John Bent. But the words were only spoken in the
heat of partisanship, without actual meaning: just as we are all given
to hasty assertions on occasion. However, they were destined to be
remembered afterwards by Greylands.
Somewhat later John Bent and his guest were standing at the front
door, talking together of the general perplexity of things. The sun
was setting in the west in beautiful clouds of rose-colour and amber,
showing the advance of evening John began to think he had better be
laying the cloth for the parlour dinner, unless he wanted his wife
about him. And--here she was! her cherry-coloured ribbons right over
his shoulder.
At that moment, careering down the road from Greylands' Rest, came
Harry Castlemaine on his spirited horse. His overcoat was rolled up
and strapped on the saddle, and he looked as though mounted for a
journey. On the road he was bent the Chapel Lane would have been the
nearest way; but when on horseback Harry always took the front way
from his house, though it might involve a round through the village.
"Going out a pleasuring, Mr. Harry?" cried the landlady, as he
reined-in.
"Going out a businessing," corrected the young man, in his free and
careless manner, as he nodded and smiled at Anthony--for he did not
share in his father's discourteous behaviour to their new relative,
though he had not yet made advances to any intimacy. "A beautiful
sunset, is it not?"
"Quite very beautiful," replied Anthony.
"I am bound for Newerton, Mrs. Bent," resumed Harry. "Can I do anything
for you there?"
"Nothing, thank you, sir."
"What, not even choose you some cap ribbons? Newerton ribbons, you
know, take the conceit out of those at Stilborough."
"You must always have your joke, Mr. Harry! As if a fine young
gentleman like you would trouble himself to choose an old woman's
ribbons!"
"See if I don't bring you some! Meanwhile, John, suppose you give me a
glass of ale, to speed me on my journey."
The landlord brought the ale, handing it up on a waiter; somewhat to
his own discomfort, for the horse was prancing and rearing. Harry
Castlemaine drank it; and with a general nod, an intimation that he
should return on the morrow, and a wave of the hand to his cousin, he
rode away.
Anthony went round the corner of the house to look after him. Not
being anything great in horsemanship himself, he admired those who
were. He admired also the tall, fine form, the handsome face, and the
free, frank bearing of Harry Castlemaine; and a hope in that moment
arose in his heart that they might become good friends if he remained
in England. He stood and watched him up the road until its bending hid
him from view. Harry's route lay past the Grey Nunnery, past the
coastguard station higher up, and so onwards. Newerton was a town of
some importance, at about ten miles distance.
The remaining events of the evening, so far as they concerned Anthony
Castlemaine, were destined to assume importance and to be discussed
for days and weeks afterwards. He took his dinner at six, John Bent
waiting on him as usual; afterwards, he sat alone for an hour or two
in deep thought. At least, Mrs. Bent, coming in to take away his
coffee-cup, assumed him to be deep in thought as he did not speak to
her, an unusual thing. He sat between the table and the fire, his
elbow resting on the former and his fingers pressing his right temple.
The landlady had never seen him so still, or look so solemn; there was
a cloud as of some dread care upon his face--she declared so to the
world afterwards. Could it have been that in those, the last few hours
of his life on earth, a foreshadowing of the dreadful fate about to
overtake him was presented in some vague manner to his mind? It might
have been so.
About nine o'clock he suddenly asked the landlord to fetch down his
inkstand and paper-case, which he had left in his bedroom; and then
he wrote a letter, sealed it as he had the one in the afternoon, and
put on it the same address. By-and-by, John Bent came in again to look
to the fire.
"I have made up my mind to get another interview with Mr. Castlemaine
before I apply for legal advice," spoke Anthony.
"Bless me!" exclaimed John Bent, for the words surprised him.
"Yes. I have been thinking it well over from beginning to end; and I
see that I ought to give my uncle James one more opportunity to settle
it amicably, before bringing the dispute openly before the world, and
causing a scandal. He was in a passion this afternoon and perhaps did
not quite understand me: when he shall have had time to reflect he may
be more reasonable."
John Bent shook his head. In his own mind he did not believe that
fifty fresh appeals would have any effect on Mr. Castlemaine.
"I say this to myself," went on Anthony: "Whether Greylands' Rest is
his by right or not, he is in possession of it. Nobody can deny that.
And I have tried to put myself in imagination in his place, and I see
how cruel a blow it would seem if a stranger came to seek to deprive
me of it. I might be as angry as he is."
"Then, sir, do you intend to leave him in possession of it?" returned
the landlord.
"No, no; you do not comprehend. I must enforce my claim; if the estate
is mine, I will never yield it--to him, or to anyone. But it may be
his: and I think it is only just to offer him one more opportunity of
privately satisfying me, before I take any proceedings. I shall do so.
If I cannot see him to-morrow, I will write to him fully."
"The meeting might only lead to another quarrel, Mr. Anthony."
"Well--yes--I have thought of that. And I fear he would injure me if
he could," added the young man, in a dreamy manner, and speaking to
himself instead of to his landlord. "There: don't put more coal,
please: it is too warm."
John Bent went away with his coal-scuttle. He remarked to his wife
that their inmate did not seem in his usual good spirits. Mrs. Bent,
trimming one of her smart caps at the round table by the fire,
answered that she knew as much as that without being told; and that he
(John) had better see that Molly was properly attending to the company
in the public-room.
It was considerably past ten, and the company--as Mrs. Bent called
them, which consisted principally of fishermen--were singing a jovial
song, when Anthony Castlemaine came out of his parlour, the letter in
his hand. Just as he had posted the one written in the afternoon, so
he went over to the box now and posted this. After that, he took a
turn up and down the beach, listening to the low murmuring of the sea,
watching the moonbeams as they played on the water. It was a most
beautiful night; the air still and warm, the moon rather remarkably
bright. That Greylands' Rest was his own legally now, and would soon
be his own practically, he entertained no doubt, and he lost himself
in visions of the pleasant life he might lead there. Thus the time
slipped unconsciously on, and when he got back to the Dolphin the
clock had struck eleven. John Bent's company were taking their
departure--for the house closed at the sober hour of eleven--John's
man was shutting the shutters, and John himself stood outside his
door, his hat on his head and a pipe in his mouth.
"A lovely night, sir, isn't it?" he began. "A'most like summer. I've
been finishing my pipe outside on the bench here."
"Lovely indeed," replied Anthony. "I could never tire of looking at
the sea yonder."
They paced about together before the bench, talking, and presently
extending their stroll up the hill. Mr. Nettleby's residence, a
fair-sized, pretty cottage, stood aback from the road in its garden,
just opposite the Grey Nunnery; and Mr. Nettleby, smoking his pipe,
was at the outer gate.
When that fatal night was gone and past, and people began to recall
its events, they said how chance trifles seemed to have worked
together to bring about the ill. Had Anthony Castlemaine not written
that letter, the probability was that he would never have gone out at
all; on returning from the post and the beach, had the landlord not
been outside the inn, he would at once have entered: and finally, had
the superintendent of the coastguard not been at his gate, they would
not have stayed abroad.
Mr. Nettleby invited them in, hospitably offering them a pipe and
glass. He had business abroad that night, and therefore had not
retired to rest. They consented to enter, "just for a minute."
The minute extended itself to the best part of an hour. Once seated
there by the fire, and plunged into a sea of talk, they were in no
hurry to move again. Anthony Castlemaine accepted a pipe, John Bent
refilled his. The former took a glass of sugar and water--at which Mr.
Nettleby made a wry face; John Bent had a glass of weak Hollands,
which lasted him during the visit: he was no drinker.
The conversation turned on various matters. On the claims of Anthony
to Greylands' Rest, which had become quite a popular topic; on the
social politics of Greylands, and on other subjects. Under a strong
injunction of secrecy, Mr. Nettleby imparted certain suspicions that
he was entertaining of a small hamlet called Beeton, a mile or two
higher up the coast. He believed some extensive smuggling was carried
on there, and he purposed paying a visit to the place that very night,
to look out for anything there might be to see. Anthony inquired
whether he was extensively troubled by smugglers, and the
superintendent said No; very little indeed, considering that the coast
lay so convenient for Holland and other suspicious countries: but he
had his doubts.
They all went out together. It was twelve o'clock, or close upon it.
Mr. Nettleby's road lay to the left; theirs to the right. However,
they turned to accompany him a short distance, seduced to it by the
beauty of the night.
"In for a penny, in for a pound," thought John Bent. "The missis can't
go on more if I stay out for another hour than she'll go on now."
But they did not walk far: just to the top of the hill, and a short
way beyond it. They then wished the officer goodnight, and turned back
again.
The Friar's Keep looked ghastly enough in the moonlight. Anthony
Castlemaine glanced up at its roof, dilapidated in places, at its dark
casement windows. "Let us watch a minute," said he, jestingly,
"perhaps the Grey Monk will appear."
John Bent smiled. They had passed the entrance to Chapel Lane, and
were standing within the thick privet hedge and the grove of trees
which overshadowed it. Not that the trees gave much shadow at that
season, for their branches were bare.
"Tell me again the legend of the Grey Monk," said Anthony. "I partly
forget it."
John Bent proceeded to do as he was bid, lowering his voice as
befitted the time and subject. But he had scarcely begun the narrative
when the sound of approaching footsteps struck on their ears, and his
voice involuntarily died away into silence. At the first moment, they
thought the superintendent was returning.
But no. The footsteps came from Chapel Lane. They drew more closely
within the cover of the hedge, and waited. A gentleman, walking fast
and firmly, emerged from the lane, crossed the road, went in at the
gate of the chapel ruins, seemed to take a hasty glance out over the
sea, and then passed into the Friar's Keep. Very much to the
astonishment of John Bent, and somewhat to that of Anthony, they
recognized Mr. Castlemaine.
"He was taking a look at the sea by moonlight," whispered Anthony.
"I'll go after him. I will. And we'll have it out under the moonbeams.
What's he doing now, I wonder, in that Friar's Keep?"
Before John Bent could stop him--and, as the landlord said later, an
impulse prompted him to attempt it--the young man was off like a shot;
entered the gate in the wake of his uncle, and disappeared amid the
cloisters of the Friar's Keep.
The Master of Greylands must have emerged safely enough from those
ghostly cloisters: since he was abroad and well the next day as usual:
but the ill-fated Anthony Castlemaine was never again seen in this
life.