GETTING IN BY DECEIT.
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?"
"Not any more, it would be quite sufficient," 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 was
there she 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?--what was 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.