AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER.
The usual dinner hour at Greylands' Rest was half past one o'clock.
Mr. Castlemaine would have preferred a late dinner--but circumstances
are sometimes stronger than we are. However, he never failed to put it
off until evening upon the very slightest plea of excuse.
Some years before the close of old Anthony Castlemaine's life, his
health failed. It was not so much a serious illness as a long and
general ailing. His medical attendant insisted upon his dining early;
and the dinner hour was altered from six o'clock to half past one. He
recovered, and lived on: some years: but the early dinner hour was
adhered to. James had never liked this early dining: and after his
father's death he wished to return to the later hour. His wife,
however, opposed it. She preferred the early dinner and the social
supper; and she insisted upon it to Mr. Castlemaine that the interests
of Ethel and Flora required that they should continue to dine early.
Mr. Castlemaine said he did not see that: Ethel was old enough to dine
late, and Flora might make her dinner at lunch time. Yes, poor child,
and have cold meat three days out of the seven, urged Mrs.
Castlemaine. The Master of Greylands yielded the point as a general
rule: but on special occasion--and he made special occasions out of
nothing--his edict was issued for the later dinner.
The dinner was just over to-day, and the servants had withdrawn,
leaving wine and dessert on the table. Mr. Castlemaine's sitting down
had been partly a matter of courtesy, though he did eat a small
portion of meat: he was going to dine in the evening at the Dolphin.
The early afternoon sun streamed into the dining-room: a long,
comfortable room with a low ceiling, its windows on the side opposite
the fire, its handsome sideboard, surmounted with plate glass, at one
end; some open book-shelves, well filled with good and attractive
volumes at the other. Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine, Ethel, Flora, and
Madame Guise, sat at the table. Harry Castlemaine had retired, and his
chair stood vacant. As a rule, Madame Guise never sat a minute longer
at any meal then she could help: as soon as she could get up without
an absolute breach of good manners, she did get up. Mrs. Castlemaine
called it a peculiarity. She estimated Madame Guise highly as an
instructress, but she admitted to her more intimate friends that she
did not understand her. To-day, as it chanced (chanced! do these things
ever occur by chance?) she had stayed: and she sat in her place at Mr.
Castlemaine's left hand in her perfectly-fitting black dress, with its
white cuffs and collar, and her wealth of auburn hair shading her pale
and quiet face. Mr. Castlemaine was in a sociable mood: latterly he had
been often too silent and abstracted. His back was to the sideboard
as he sat; handsome, upright, well-dressed as usual. Ethel was on his
right hand, the windows behind her, Harry's empty chair between her and
Mrs. Castlemaine; and Miss Flora, eating almonds and raisins as fast as
she could eat them, sat on the other side of her mother with her back
to the fire, and next to Madame.
Mrs. Castlemaine had introduced the subject that was very much in her
thoughts just now--a visit to Paris. The Master of Greylands was
purposing to make a trip thither this spring; and his wife, to her
great delight, had obtained permission to accompany him. She had never
been across the water in her life: the days of universal travelling
had not then set in: and there were moments when she felt a jealousy
of Ethel. Ethel had finished her education in the French capital; and
was, so far, that much wiser than herself.
"I long to see Versailles;--and St. Cloud;--and the Palais Royal,"
spoke Mrs. Castlemaine in a glow of enthusiasm. "I want to walk about
amid the orange-trees in pots; and in the Champs Elysées; and at Père
la Chaise. And I particularly wish to see the Gobelins Tapestry, and
the people working at it. You must be quite familiar with all these
sights, Madame Guise."
"I have seen scarcely any of them," said Madame Guise in her gentle
way. Then, perceiving the surprised look on Mrs. Castlemaine's face,
she resumed hurriedly. "We did not live very near Paris, madam,--as I
think I have said. And we French girls are kept so strictly:--and my
mother was an invalid."
"And the bonbon shops!" pursued Mrs. Castlemaine. "I do count much on
seeing the bonbon shops: they must be a sight in themselves. And the
lovely bonnets!--and the jewellery! What is it that Paris has been
called?--the Paradise of women?"
"May I go too?" asked Ethel with animation, these attractive allusions
calling up reminiscences of her own sojourn in Paris.
"No," curtly replied Mrs. Castlemaine.
"Oh, mamma! Why, you will be glad of me to take you about and to speak
French for you!"
"I shall go, mamma," quickly spoke up Flora, her mouth full of cake.
"You told me I should, you know."
"We will see, my darling," said Mrs. Castlemaine, not daring to be too
self-asserting just then; though her full intention was to take Flora
if she could contrive it by hook or by crook. "A trip to Paris would
be an excellent thing for you," she added for the benefit of Mr.
Castlemaine: "it would improve your French accent and form your
manners. I'll see, my dear one."
Mr. Castlemaine gave a quiet nod and smile to Ethel, as much as to
say, "I will see for you." In fact he had all along meant Ethel to
be of the party; though he would certainly do his best to leave Miss
Flora at home.
At this moment Flora ought to be practising, instead of greedily
eating of every dessert dish within her reach: but oughts did not go
for much with Miss Flora Castlemaine. They might have gone for nothing
but for Madame Guise. That lady, rising now from her chair, with a
deprecatory bow to Mrs. Castlemaine for permission, reminded her pupil
that she and the piano were both waiting her pleasure.
"I don't want to have a music lesson this afternoon; I don't want to
practise," grumbled Flora.
"As you did not get your studies over this morning in sufficient time
to take your lesson or to practise before dinner, you must do both
now," spoke Madame in her steady way. And Mr. Castlemaine gave the
young lady a nod of authority, from which she knew there might be no
appeal.
"In a minute, papa. Please let me finish my orange."
She was pushing the quarters of an orange into her month with the
silver fork. Just then Miles came into the room and addressed his
master.
"You are wanted, sir, if you please."
"Who is it?" asked Mr. Castlemaine.
"I don't know, sir. Some oldish gentleman; a stranger. He asked----"
The man's explanation was cut short by the appearance of the visitor
himself; who had followed, without permission, from the room to which
he had been shown: a tall, erect, elderly man, attired in an ample
blue coat and top-boots. His white hair was long, his dark eyes were
keen. The latter seemed to take in the room and its inmates; his
glance passing rapidly from each to each, as he stood holding his
broad-brimmed hat and his stout walking-stick. Ethel knew him.
instantly for the stranger who had entered the Dolphin Inn while she
was helping Mrs. Bent with the raisins an hour, or so, ago: and the
probability was that he recognized her, for his eyes rested on her for
a few seconds.
Mr. Castlemaine had risen. He went a step or two forward as if about
to speak, but seemed to be uncertain. The stranger abruptly
forestalled him.
"Do you know me, James Castlemaine?"
"Why--yes--is it not Squire Dobie?" replied Mr. Castlemaine, holding
out his hand.
"Just so," replied the stranger, keeping his hands down. "Perhaps you
won't care to take my hand when you know that I have come here as a
foe."
"As a foe?" repeated Mr. Castlemaine.
"At present. Until I get an answer to the question I have come to put.
What have you done with Basil's son?"
A change passed over the face of Mr. Castlemaine: it was evident to
anybody who might be looking at him; a dark look, succeeded by a
flush. Squire Dobie broke the momentary silence.
"My old friend Basil's son; Basil the Careless: young Anthony
Castlemaine."
The Master of Greylands was himself again. "I do not understand you,"
he said, with slow distinctness. "I have done nothing with the young
man."
"Then rumour belies you, James Castlemaine."
"I assure you, Squire Dobie, that I know no more whither young Anthony
Castlemaine went, or where he is now than you know. It has been a
mystery to myself, as to every one else at Greylands."
"I got home to Dobie Hall last week," continued the stranger; "mean to
stay at it, now; have only made flying visits to it since it became
mine through poor Tom's death. Drove into Stilborough yesterday for
the first time; put up at the Turk's Head. Landlord, old Will Heyton,
waited on me himself this morning at breakfast, talking of the changes
and what not, that years have brought, since I and poor Tom, and Basil
the Reckless, and other rollicking blades used to torment the inn in
the years gone by. We got to speak of Basil; 'twas only natural; and
he told me that Basil had died abroad about last Christmas tune; and
that his son, named Anthony, had come over soon after to put in his
claim to his patrimony, Greylands' Rest. He said that Anthony had
suddenly disappeared one night; and was thought to have been made
away with."
During this short explanation, they had not moved. The speaker stood
just within the door, which Miles had closed, Mr. Castlemaine facing
him a few paces distant. Madame Guise, waiting for Flora, had turned
to the stranger, her face changing to the pallor of the grave. The
Master of Greylands caught sight of the pallor, and it angered him:
angered him that one should dare to speak of this remarkably
unsatisfactory topic in the presence of the ladies of his family,
startling and puzzling them. But he controlled his voice and manner to
a kind of indifferent courtesy.
"If you will take a seat--and a glass of wine with me, Squire Dobie, I
will give you all the information I possess on the subject of young
Anthony's disappearance. It is not much; it does not really amount to
anything: but such as it is, you shall hear it.--My wife, Mrs.
Castlemaine. Sophia," turning to her as he made the introduction, "you
had finished, I know: be so good as to leave us to ourselves."
They filed out of the room: Flora first, with Madame Guise; Ethel and
her stepmother following. The latter, who knew something of the Dobie
family, at least by reputation, halted to exchange a few words with
the representative of it as she passed him. To judge by her manner, it
seemed that she had put no offensive construction on his address to
her husband: and the probability was that she did not. Mrs.
Castlemaine might have been less aware than anybody of the
disagreeable rumours whispered in Greylands, tacitly if not openly
connecting her husband with the doings of that ill-fated night: for
who would be likely to speak of them to her?
Squire Dobie, remarking that he did not like to sit with his back to
the fire passed round the table and took the chair vacated by Ethel.
He was the second son of the old Squire Dobie, of Dobie Hall, a fine
old place and property nearly on the confines of the county. In the
years gone by, as he had phrased it, he and his elder brother, Tom the
heir, had been very intimate with Basil Castlemaine. Separation soon
came. Basil went off on his impromptu travels abroad--from which, as
the reader knows, he never returned; Tom Dobie, the heir, remained
with his father at the Hall, never marrying: Alfred, this younger son,
married a Yorkshire heiress, and took up his abode on her broad acres.
It has been mentioned that Tom Dobie kept up a private occasional
correspondence with Basil Castlemaine, and knew where he was settled,
but that has nothing to do with the present moment. Some two years ago
Tom died. His father, the old Squire, survived him by a year: and at
his death the Hall fell to Alfred, who became Squire in his turn: he
who had now intruded on Mr. Castlemaine.
"No thank you; no wine," he said, as Mr. Castlemaine was putting the
decanter towards him. "I never drink between my meals; and I've
ordered my dinner for six o'clock at the Turk's Head. I await your
explanation, James Castlemaine. What did you do with young Anthony?"
"May I ask whether Will Heyton told you I had done anything with him?"
returned Mr. Castlemaine, in as sarcastic a tone as the very extreme
limit of civility allowed him to use.
"No. Will Heyton simply said the young man had disappeared; that he
had been seen to enter that queer place, the Friar's Keep, at
midnight, with, or closely following upon the Master of Greylands.
When I inquired whether the whether the Master of Greylands was
supposed to have caused him to disappear, old Will simply shrugged
his shoulders, and looked more innocent than a baby. The story
affected me, James Castlemaine; I went out from the breakfast-table,
calling here, calling there, upon the people I had formerly known in
the town. I got talking of it with them all, and heard the same tale
over and over again. None accused you, mind; but I gather what their
thoughts were: that you must have had a personal hand in the
disappearance of Anthony; or, at least, a personal knowledge of what
became of him."
Mr. Castlemaine had listened in silence; perfectly unmoved. Squire
Dobie regarded him keenly with his dark and searching eyes.
"I know but little of the matter; less, apparently, than you know," he
quietly said. "I am ready to tell you what that little is--but it will
not help you, Squire Dobie.
"What do you mean in saying less than I know?"
"Because I never was near the Friar's Keep at all on that night. Your
informants, I presume, must have been, by their assuming to know so
much."
"They know nothing. It is all conjecture."
"Oh, all conjecture," returned Mr. Castlemaine, with the air of one
suddenly enlightened. "And you come here and accuse me on conjecture?
I ought to feel supremely indebted to you, Alfred Dobie."
"What they do say--that is not conjecture--is, that it was you who
preceded Basil's son into the Keep."
"Who says it?"
"Basil's son said it, and thought it: it was only that that took him
in, poor fellow. The landlord of the inn here, John Bent, saw it and
says it."
"But John Bent was mistaken. And you have only his word, remember, for
asserting what Basil's son saw or said."
Squire Dobie paused, looking full at his host, as if he could gather
by looks whether he was deceiving him or not.
"Was it, or was it not you, who went into the Keep, James
Castlemaine?"
"It was not. I have said from the first, I repeat it to you now, that
I was not near the Keep that night: unless you call Teague's Hutt near
it. As a matter of fact, the Hutt is near it, of course; but we
estimate distances relatively----"
"I know how near it is," interrupted Squire Dobie. "I came round that
way just now, up the lane; and took sounding of the places."
"Good. I went down to Teague's that night--you have no doubt heard all
about the why and the wherefore. I smoked a pipe with Teague while
making the arrangements to go for a sail with him on the morrow; and I
came straight back again from the Hutt here, getting home at half-past
eleven. I hear that Teague says he watched me up the lane: which I am
sure I was not conscious of."
"You were at home here by half-past eleven?" spoke Squire Dobie.
"It had not gone the half hour."
"And did not go down the lane again?"
"Certainly not. I had nothing to go for. On the following morning,
before it was light, I was roused from my bed by tidings of the death
of my brother Peter, and I went off at once to Stilborough."
"Poor Peter!" exclaimed the Squire. "What a nice steady young fellow
he was!--just the opposite of Basil. And what a name he afterwards
made for himself!"
"When I returned to Greylands in the afternoon," quietly went on Mr.
Castlemaine, "and found that Anthony was said to have disappeared
unaccountably, and that my name was being bandied about in connection
with it, you may imagine my astonishment."
"Yes, if you were really ignorant."
The Master of Greylands half rose from his chair, and then resumed it.
His spirit, subdued hitherto, was quickening.
"Forbearance has its limits, Squire Dobie; so has courtesy. Will you
inform me by what right you come into my house and persist in these
most offensive and aspersive questions?"
"By the right of my former friendship for your brother Basil. I have
no children of my own: never had any; and when I heard this tale, my
heart warmed to poor Basil's son: I resolved to take up his cause, and
try to discover what had become of him."
"Pardon me, that does not give you the right to intrude here with
these outspoken suspicions."
"I think it does. The suspicions are abroad, James Castlemaine; ignore
the fact to yourself as you may. Your name is cautiously used: people
must be cautious, you know: not used at all perhaps in any way that
could be laid hold of. One old fellow, indeed, whispered a pretty
broad word; but caught it up again when half said."
"Who was he?" asked the Master of Greylands.
"I'll be shot if I tell you. John Bent? No, that it was not: John Bent
seems as prudent as the rest of them. Look here, James Castlemaine: if
an impression exists against you, you must not blame people, but
circumstances. Look at the facts. Young Anthony comes over to claim
his property which you hold, believing it to be his. You tell him it
is not his, that it is yours; but you simply tell him this; you do
not, in spite of his earnest request, prove it to him. There's bad
blood between you: at any rate, there is on your side; and you have an
open encounter in a field, where you abuse him and try to strike him.
That same night he and John Bent, being abroad together, see you cross
the road from this Chapel Lane, that leads direct from your house, you
know, and enter the Friar's Keep; young Anthony runs over in your
wake, and enters it also: and from that blessed moment he is never seen
by mortal eyes again. People outside hear a shot and a scream--and
that's all. Look dispassionately at the circumstances for yourself, and
see if they do not afford grounds for suspicion."
"If all the facts were true--yes. The most essential link in them is
without foundation--that it was I who went into the Friar's Keep. Let
me put a question to you--what object can you possibly suppose I
should have in quitting my house at midnight to pay a visit to that
ghostly place?"
"I don't know. It puzzles everybody."
"If John Bent is really correct in his assertions, that some one did
cross from the lane to the Friar's Keep, I can only assume it to have
been a stranger. No inhabitant of Greylands, as I believe and now
assure you Squire Dobie, would voluntarily enter that place in the
middle of the night. It has an ill reputation for superstition: all
kinds of ghostly fancies attach to it. I should about as soon think of
quitting my house at night to pay a visit to the moon as to the
Friar's Keep."
Squire Dobie sat in thought. All this was more than plausible;
difficult to discredit. He began to wonder whether he had not been
hard upon James Castlemaine.
"What is your opinion upon the disappearance?" he asked. "You must
have formed one."
Mr. Castlemaine lifted his dark eyebrows.
"I can't form one," he said. "Sometimes I have thought Anthony must
have attempted to run down the rocks by the uncertain path from the
chapel ruins, and have perished in the sea; at others I think he may
have left Greylands voluntarily that night, and will some day or other
reappear again as unexpectedly. His father Basil was given to these
impromptu flights, you know."
"But this is all supposition?"
"Undoubtedly it is. Who was it, then, they watched into the Keep, you
ask?--that is the least-to-be-accounted-for statement of all. My
opinion is that no one entered it; that John Bent's eyesight deceived
him."
"And now one more question, James," resumed the Squire, insensibly
returning to the more familiar appellation of former days: "is
Greylands' Rest yours, or was it left to Basil?"
"It is mine."
"Did it come to you by will?"
For a moment Mr. Castlemaine hesitated before giving an answer. The
persistent questioning annoyed him; and yet he did not know how to
escape it.
"It became mine by deed of gift."
"Why did you not show the deed to Anthony?"
"I might have done so had he waited. He was too impatient. I should
have done it:" and the emphasis here was marked. "To no one save
yourself have I acknowledged so much, Squire Dobie. I recognize in
none the right to question me."
Squire Dobie rose, taking his hat and stick from the side-table where
he had laid them, and held out his hand to Mr. Castlemaine.
"If you are an innocent man, James, and I have said what cannot be
justified, I heartily beg your pardon. Perhaps time will clear up the
mystery. Meanwhile, if you will come over to Dobie Hall, and bring
your family to stay a few days, I shall be glad to welcome you. Who
was that nice-looking, delicate featured woman with the light hair?"
"With the light hair?--oh, my little daughter's governess. Madame
Guise; a French lady."
"And the very pretty girl who was sitting by you?"
"Miss Reene. She is my wife's stepdaughter."
Squire Dobie took his departure, Mr. Castlemaine walking with him to
the hall-door. When outside, the Squire stood for an instant as if
deliberating which way to choose--the avenue, or the obscure by-way of
Chapel Lane. He took the latter.
"I'll see this Commodore Teague and hear his version of it," he said
to himself as he went on. "James Castlemaine speaks fairly, but doubts
of him still linger on my mind: though why they should I know not."
Walking briskly up the lane, as he turned into it, came a tall,
handsome young fellow, who bore a great resemblance to the
Castlemaines. Squire Dobie accosted him.
"You should be James Castlemaine's son, young man."
Harry stopped.
"I am the son of the Master of Greylands."
"Ay. Can't mistake a Castlemaine. I am Squire Dobie. You've heard of
the Dobies?"
"Oh dear, yes. I knew Mr. Tom Dobie and the old Squire."
"To be sure. Well, there's only me left of them. I have been to pay a
visit to your father."
"I hope you found him at home, sir."
"Yes, and have been talking with him. Well you are a fine young
fellow: over six feet, I suppose. I wish I had a son like you! Was
that poor cousin of yours, young Anthony--who seems to have vanished
more mysteriously than anybody ever vanished yet--was he a
Castlemaine?"
"Not in height: he was rather short. But he had a regular Castlemaine
face; as nice-looking as they say my Uncle Basil used to be."
"What has become of him?"
"I don't know. I wish I did know!" Harry added earnestly.
They parted. That this young fellow had borne no share in the
business, and would be glad to find its elucidation, Squire Dobie saw.
Turning down the little path, when he came to it, that led to the
Hutt, he knocked at the door.
Commodore Teague was at dinner: taking it in the kitchen to save
trouble. But he had the free and easy manners of a sailor, and ushered
his unknown guest in without ceremony, and gave him the best seat,
while the Squire introduced himself and his object in calling.
Squire Dobie?--come to know about that there business of young Mr.
Castlemaine's, and how he got lost and where he went to: well, in his
opinion it was all just moonshine. Yes, moonshine; and perhaps it
might be also Squire Dobie's opinion that it was moonshine, if he
could get to the top and bottom of it. Couldn't be a doubt that the
young man had come out o' the Keep after going into it--'twarn't
likely he'd stay long in that there ghostly place--and went off
somewhere of his own accord. That's what he, Jack Teague, thought:
though he'd not answer for it, neither, that the young fellow might
not have made a false step on the slippery rock path, and gone head
foremost down to Davy Jones's locker. The shot and scream? Didn't
believe there ever was a scream that night; thought John Bent dreamt
it; and the shot came from him, Teague; after cleaning his gun he
loaded it and fired it off. The most foolish thing in it all was to
suspect the Master of Greylands of marching into the Keep. As if he'd
want to go there at midnight! or at any other time, for the matter of
that. Mr. Castlemaine went away from his place between eleven and
half-after; and he, Jack Teague, saw him go up the lane towards his
house with his own eyes: 'twarn't likely he'd come down it again for
the purpose of waylaying young Anthony, or what not.
Now, this was the substance of all that the anxious old friend of
Basil Castlemaine could obtain from Commodore Teague. The Commodore
seemed to be a rough, honest, jovial-speaking man, incapable of
deceit, or of double dealing: and, indeed, as Squire Dobie asked
himself, why should he be guilty of it in this matter? He went away
fair puzzled, not knowing what to think; and leaving the savoury
smell, proceeding from the Commodore's stew getting cold on the table.
But why it should have pleased the Commodore to favour Squire Dobie
with the rough and ready manners, the loose grammar, he used to the
common people of Greylands, instead of being the gentleman that he
could be when he chose, was best known to himself.
Crossing the road, as he emerged from the lane, the Squire entered the
chapel ruins, and went to the edge of the land there. He saw the
narrow, tortuous, and certainly, for those who had not a steady foot
and head, dangerous path that led down to the strip of beach below:
which beach was not discernible now, for it was high water. The path
was rarely trodden by man: the ill reputation of the Friar's Keep kept
the village away from it: and, otherwise, there was no possible
inducement to tempt men down it. Neither, as some instinct taught
Squire Dobie, had it been taken that night by young Anthony
Castlemaine.