IN THE CHAPEL RUINS.
Madam Guise sat buried in a reverie. Ethel was reading a French book
aloud; Flora was practising: but Madame, supposed to be listening to
both, heard neither the one nor the other.
Every minute of the hours that had passed since she saw the diamond
ring of her unfortunate husband concealed in Mr. Castlemaine's bureau
had been one of agony. The fright and horror she had experienced in
the search was also telling upon her: her head ached, her pulses
throbbed, her brain was fevered: and but for the dread of drawing
attention to herself, that, in her nervousness, she feared might lead
to suspicion, she would have pleaded illness and asked permission to
remain that day in her chamber. No one but herself knew how she shrunk
from Mr. Castlemaine: she could not be in the same room with him
without feeling faint; to sit next to him at the dinner-table, to be
inadvertently touched by him, was nothing less than torture. The
finding of the ring was a proof to her that her husband had in truth
met with the awful fate suspected; the concealment of the ring in the
bureau, a sure and certain sign that Mr. Castlemaine was its author.
When they were intruded upon at table by Squire Dobie with his accusing
words, Charlotte Guise had been scarcely able to suppress her emotion.
Mr. Castlemaine, in catching sight of the pallor of her face, had
attributed it simply to the abrupt mention of the disagreeable subject:
could he have suspected its true cause he had been far more put out
than even by Squire Dobie's words. An idea had crossed Charlotte
Guise--what if she were to declare herself to this good old gentleman,
and beseech him to take up her cause.
But she did not dare. It was this she was thinking of now, when she
ought to have been attending to Miss Flora's imperfect fingering.
There were reasons why she might not; why, as she clearly saw, it
might do her harm instead of good. With the one sole exception of the
ring, there was no shadow of proof against Mr. Castlemaine: and upon
the first slight breathing of hostilities, how quickly might he not do
away with the ring for ever! And, once let it be declared that she was
Anthony's wife, that her chief business in the house was to endeavour
to track out the past, she would be expelled from it summarily and the
door closed against her. How could she pursue her search then? No, she
must not risk it; she must bury the ring in silence, and stay at her
post.
"I should think I've practised long enough, for one afternoon,
Madame!"
Flora gave a final dash at the keys as she spoke--enough to set a
stoic's teeth on edge. Madame looked up languidly.
"Yes, you may shut the piano. My headache is painful and I cannot
properly attend to you."
No need of further permission. Flora shut down the lid with a bang,
and disappeared. Ethel closed her book.
"I beg your pardon for my thoughtlessness, Madame Guise. I ought not
to have read to you: I forgot your headache. Can I get you anything
for it?"
"Your reading has not hurt me at all, my dear. No, nothing: only time
will cure me."
Ethel, who had moved to the window, and was standing at it suddenly
burst into a laugh.
"I was thinking of that old gentleman's surprise," she said, "when he
saw me here. His looks expressed it. Where do you think he had seen me
to-day before, Madame Guise?"
The mention of the old gentleman--Squire Dobie--aroused Madame's
interest. She lifted her languid head quickly. "I do not know."
"In Mrs. Bent's best kitchen, stoning raisins. I went into the Dolphin
to get something for mamma, and began to help Mrs. Bent to do them,
for she said she should be late with her pudding. Old Squire Dobie
came in and saw me at them. When he found me at home here at dinner, I
know he was puzzled."
"What a--strange manner he had;--what curious things he said to Mr.
Castlemaine!" spoke Madame, seizing upon the opportunity.
"Yes," said Ethel, flushing scarlet. "I thought him very rude."
"He seemed to think that--that the young Mr. Anthony I have heard tell
of was really killed in secret."
"You cannot help people thinking things."
"And by Mr. Castlemaine."
"It was very wrong of him; it must be very foolish. I wonder papa took
it so calmly."
"You do not think it could be so then?"
"I! Is it likely, Madame Guise?"
"But suppose--my dear Miss Ethel, suppose some one were to tell you
that it was so: that they had proof of it?"
"Proof of what?"
"Proof that Mr. Castlemaine did know what became of An--of the Mr.
Anthony: proof that harm came to him?"
"I should laugh at them," said Ethel.
"And not believe it?"
"No, never."
Ethel left the room with the last words: perhaps to avoid the topic.
Madame thought so, and sighed as she looked after her. It was only
natural she thought: when we are fond of people we neither care to
hear ill spoken of them, nor believe the ill; and Ethel was very fond
of Mr. Castlemaine. Charlotte Guise did not wonder: but for this
dreadful suspicion, she would have liked him herself. In fact she had
insensibly began to like him, in spite of her prejudices, until this
new and most convincing proof of his guilt was discovered in his
bureau: the search for which had cost her conscience so much to set
about, had taxed her fears so cruelly in the act, and was giving her
so intense a torment now. "I wonder what will come of it all in the
end?" she cried with a slight shiver. "Qui vivre, verra."
One of the Grey Sisters appeared at Greylands' Rest by-and-by,
bringing up little Marie Guise. It was Sister Ruth. Mrs. Castlemaine
had graciously invited the child to take tea with her mother. But Mrs.
Castlemaine was one who rarely did a kindness without some inward
motive--generally a selfish one. Marie was beginning to speak a little
English now; but never willingly; never when her French could be by
any possibility understood. To her mother she invariably spoke in
French; and Mrs. Castlemaine had made the private discovery that, to
hear the child and her mother speak together, might improve Flora's
accent. So Madame Guise was quite at liberty to have Maxie up to tea
as often as she liked.
"Do you remember your papa, dear?" asked Mrs. Castlemaine in English,
as they sat round the tea-table; Mr. Castlemaine having gone to dine
at the Dolphin.
"Sais pas, responded Marie shyly, hanging her head at the question.
"Do you like England better than France, Marie?" went on Mrs.
Castlemaine.
"Sais pas," repeated the child unwillingly, as if she meant to cry.
"How is the little burnt girl? Better?"
"Sais pas, moi."
Evidently it was profitless work, the examining of Miss Marie Guise.
Ethel laughed, and began talking to her in French. At best, she was
but a timid little thing.
Madame Guise started at the dusk hour to take her home; proceeding to
the front, open way, down the wide avenue and the high road. At the
door of the Dolphin stood Mrs. Bent, a large cooking apron tied round
her waist. She was wiping a cut-glass jug with a soft cloth, and
apparently had stepped to the door while giving some directions to
Ned, the man: who stood ready to run off somewhere without his hat.
"Mind, Ned; the very best mocha. And unless it is the best, don't
bring it. I'd sooner use what I've got in the house."
Ned started off across the road in the direction of the beach: no
doubt to Pike, the grocer's. Mrs. Bent was whisking in again, when
she caught sight of Madame Guise and the little Marie.
"You are busy this evening," said Madame.
"We've got a dinner on," replied Mrs. Bent stooping to kiss Marie, of
whom she had grown very fond during the child's sojourn and illness at
the inn. "And I had no notice of it till midday--which of course
makes one all the busier. I like to get things forward the day
beforehand, and not leave 'em to the last minute: but if you don't
know of it you can't do that."
"A dinner?--Yes, I think I heard it said at home that Mr. Castlemaine
was dining at the Dolphin."
"He is here, for one. There are five of them altogether. Captain
Scott--some grand man he is, they say, who goes about to look up the
coastguard in places; and Superintendent Nettleby; and Mr. Blackett
of the Grange. Lawyer Knivett of Stilborough makes the fifth, a friend
of Captain Scott's. And I must run in, ma'am, for I'm wanted ten ways
at once this evening."
Madame Guise passed on to the Nunnery, and entered it with the child.
Sister Betsey shook her head, intimating that it was late for the
little one to come in, considering that she had not long recovered
from an illness: and she took her away at once.
This left Madame Guise alone with Miss Castlemaine. Mary Ursula sat
away from the light, doing nothing: an unusual thing, for the Sisters
made it a point to be always employed. The muslin cap was on her
bright hair; her mourning dress, all crape, handsomer than was
strictly consistent with the plain ideas of the community, fell in
soft folds around her. These costly robes of Sister Mary Ursula's had
been somewhat of a stumbling block in her change of existence: but, as
all the Sisters said, it would be a sin against thrift to do away with
them before they were worn out.
"You are thinking me very idle," she said to Madame Guise in a light
tone of half apology for being caught with her hands before her. "But
the truth is, I am feeling very tired this evening; unequal to work. I
had a sleepless night, and got up with headache this morning."
"I too, had a sleepless night," said Madame Guise, forgetting caution
in the sympathy of the moment. "Troubles were tormenting me."
"What troubles have you?" asked Mary Ursula in a kind, gentle tone.
"You are satisfied with the care the Sisters give your little one?"
"Oh quite; quite. I am sure she is happy here."
"And you have told me that she and you are alone in the world."
Madame Guise untied her bonnet, and laid it on the chair beside her,
before replying.
"Most of us have our troubles in one shape or another, I expect;
sometimes they are of a nature that we do not care to speak of. It is
that thing that the English call a skeleton in a closet. But--pardon
me, Miss Castlemaine--you and I are both young to have already found
the skeleton."
"True," said Mary Ursula: and for a moment she was silent from
delicacy, intending to drop the subject. But her considerate goodness
of heart induced her to speak at again.
"You are a lonely exile here, Madame: the land and its people are
alike strange to you. If you have any source of trouble or care that
it would be a comfort to you to share with another, or that I could in
any way help to alleviate, impart it to me. You shall find me a true
friend."
Just for one delusive instant, the impulse to take this grand and
sweet and kindly lady into her confidence; to say to her I am trying
to trace out my poor husband's fate; swayed Charlotte Guise. The next,
she remembered that it must not be; that she was Miss Castlemaine, the
niece of that great enemy.
"You are only too good and kind," she rejoined in a sad, faint tone.
"I wish I could; I should ask nothing better: but there are some of
our burthens we must bear alone."
"Are you quite comfortable at Greylands' Rest?" asked Mary Ursula,
unable to repress the suspicion that Mrs. Castlemaine's temper or her
young daughter's insolence might be rendering the governess's place a
trying one.
"Yes--pretty well. That is, I should be," she hastily added, speaking
on the impulse of the moment, "if I were quite sure the house was an
honest one."
"The house an honest one!" echoed Mary Ursula in undisguised
astonishment, a haughty flush dying her face. "What do you mean?"
"Ah, pardon me, madam!--It may be that I mistake terms--I am not
English. I did not mean to say it was a thief's house."
"But what do you mean?"
Madame Guise looked full at the questioner. She spoke after a short
consideration, dropping her voice to a half whisper.
"I would like to know--to feel sure--that Mr. Castlemaine did not do
anything with that poor young man, his nephew."
Mary Ursula sat half confounded--the rejoinder was so very
unexpected, the subject so entirely disagreeable.
"At least, Madame Guise, that cannot be any affair of yours."
"You are angry with me, madam; your words are cold, your tones
resentful. The first evening that I arrived at Greylands I chanced to
hear about that young man. Mollee, the servant at the inn, came up to
help me make the tisane for my little child, and she talked. She told
of the young man's strange disappearance, saying he was supposed to
have been murdered: and that Mr. Castlemaine knew of it. Ah, it had a
great effect upon me, that history; I was cold and miserable, and my
little one was ill: I could not get it away from my mind."
"I think you might have done so by this time," frigidly remarked Mary
Ursula.
"But it comes up now and again," she rejoined, "and that keeps alive
the remembrance. Events bring it up. Only to-day, when we had not left
the dinner-table, some stranger came pushing his way into the room
behind Miles, asking Mr. Castlemaine what he had done with Basil's
son, young Anthony. It put Mr. Castlemaine out; I saw his face change;
and he sent us all from the room."
Mary Ursula forgot her coldness. It was this very subject that had
deprived her past night of sleep: though she could no more confess it
to Madame Guise than the latter could confess. The two were playing
unconsciously at hide-and-seek with one another.
"Who was the stranger, Madame Guise?"
"Mr. Castlemaine called him Squire Dobie. They were together ever so
long. Mr. Castlemaine, I say, did not like it; one might see that. Oh,
when I think of what might have happened that night to the young
Anthony, it makes me shudder."
"The best thing you can do is not to think of it, Madame Guise. It
is nothing to you, one way or the other. And it is scarcely in good
taste for you to be suspicious of Mr. Castlemaine while you are eating
his bread. Rely upon it, when this matter shall have been cleared up--if
it ever be cleared--Mr. Castlemaine will be found as good and honest as
you are."
The bell for the Sisters' supper rang clanging out. Madame Guise put
her bonnet on, and rose.
"Do forgive me," she whispered with deprecation. "I might not to have
mentioned it to you; I did not wish to offend, or to hurt your
feelings. But I am very lonely here; I have but my own heart to
commune with."
"And thoughts are free," reflected Mary Ursula. "It was only natural
that the mysterious story should lay hold of her." And in heart she
excused the stranger.
"Be at ease," she said, taking Madame's hand. "Dismiss it from your
mind. It is not a thing that need trouble you."
"Not trouble me!" repeated Madame Guise to herself as she went through
the gate. "It is me alone that it ought to trouble, of all in the wide
world."
She turned to the right, intending to go home by Chapel Lane, instead
of crossing to the broad open front road; but to pass the Friar's Keep
at any period of the day, and especially at night, had for Charlotte
Guise an irresistible fascination. Some instinct within her, whether
false or true, was always whispering that it was there she must seek
for traces of her husband.
She reached the gate of the chapel ruins, hesitated, and then entered
it. The same fascination that drew her to pass the Friar's Keep on her
road home, caused her to enter the ruins that led to the place. A
shiver, induced by nervousness, took her as she closed the gate behind
her; and she did not pass into the Keep, but crossed over to the edge
of the cliff. The sea and the boats on it seemed like so much company.
Not that many boats could be seen. Just two or three, fishing lower
down beyond the village, rather far off, in fact; but their lights
proved that they were there, and it made her feel less lonely. It was
not a very light night: no moon, and the stars did not shine over
brightly; but the atmosphere was clear, and the moss-covered wall of
the Friar's Keep with its gothic door might be seen very distinctly.
"If I only dared go in and search about!--with a lantern or something
of that!" she said to herself, glancing sideways at it. "I might come
upon some token, some bit of his dress, perhaps, that had been torn
away in the struggle. For a struggle there must have been. Anthony was
brave, and he would not let them take his life without having a fight
for it. Unless they shot him without warning!"
Burying her face in her hands, she shudderingly rehearsed over to
herself what that struggle had probably been. It was foolish of her to
do this, for it gave her unnecessary pain: but she had got into the
habit of indulging these thoughts instead of checking them; and
perhaps they came unbidden. You must not cherish your sorrow, we say
to some friend who is overwhelmed with grief and despair. No, answers
the poor sufferer: but how can I help it? Just so was it with
Charlotte Guise. Day by day, night by night, she saw only her husband
and his unhappy fate; she was as a sick person in some fever dream,
whose poor brain has seized hold of one idea and rambles upon it for
ever.
"There's the ring in Mr. Castlemaine's bureau!--and if I could find
some other token of his person here, elucidation might come of it,"
she resumed, lifting her head. "A button; a glove; a torn bit of
cloth?--I should know them all. It is pénible to continue to lead
this false life! As I am, unknown, I can do nothing. I may not even
ask John Bent to let me take just one look at his dear effects, or as
much as open the lid of his small desk. While I am Madame Guise, it is
no affair of mine, I should be told; I must not concern myself with
it: but if I might show to the world that I am Charlotte Castlemaine,
the right would be all mine. It is awkward; because I may not show it
to them: and I can only search out traces in secret; that Friar's Keep
may hold proofs of what his fate has been, if I could but go in and
look for them."
She turned her head towards the old building, but not very
courageously: at the best, it was but a ghostly-looking place at
night: and then turned it back and gazed out to sea again.
"No. I should not have the bravery to go in alone; even if I could
secure a lantern. There's that revenant that comes; and it might
appear to me. I saw it as distinctly last night from Mr. Castlemaine's
window as I ever saw anything in my life. And if I were in the place,
and it appeared to me, I should die of fear.--I think I half died of
fear last night when I heard the voice of Mr. Harry," she went on,
after a pause: "there was he, before me, and there was the revenant,
over here, behind me; and----"
Some sound behind her at this moment nearly made Charlotte Guise start
out of her skin. When buried in ghostly visions--say, for instance, in
reading a frightful tale alone at night--we all know how a sudden
noise will shake the nerves. The gate was opening behind Charlotte,
and the fright sent her bang against the wall. There she cowered in
the corner, her black clothes drawn round her, suppressing the cry
that would have risen to her lips, and, praying to escape detection.
She did escape it. Thanks to the shade cast by the angle of projecting
wall, and to her dark clothes, she remained unseen. It was Harry
Castlemaine who had entered. He advanced to the edge of the cliff, but
not near to her, and stood there for a few moments, apparently looking
out to sea. Then he pushed open the gothic door, and passed into the
Friar's Keep.
What was Charlotte Guise to do? Should she make a dart for the gate,
to get away, running the risk of his coming out again and pouncing
upon her; or should she stay where she was until he had gone again?
She decided for the former, for her present situation was intolerable.
After all, if he did see her, she must make the excuse that she had
crossed the ruins to take a look at the beautiful sea: he could not
surely suspect anything from that!
But this was not to be accomplished. She was just about to glide away
from her hiding place, when the gate again opened, and some other
figure, after looking cautiously about, came gliding into the ruins. A
woman's light figure, enveloped in a dark cloak, its hood concealing
the head and partly the face. It crossed the ruins cautiously, with a
side look steadily directed to the Keep door, as if to guard against
surprise, and then stood at the edge, under cover of the Keep, gazing
attentively out to sea. Madame Guise was at the opposite corner close
to the wall of the Nunnery, and watched all this. By the glimpse of
the profile turned sideways to her, she thought it was the young girl
they called Jane Hallet.
Slowly turning away from the sea, the girl was apparently about to
steal back again, when she suddenly drew herself flat against the old
moss-eaten wall of the Friar's Keep, and crouched down there. At the
same moment, Harry Castlemaine came out of the Keep, strode with a
quick step to the gate, and passed through it. The girl had evidently
heard him coming out, and wished to avoid him. He crossed the road to
Chapel Lane; and she, after taking another steady look across the sea,
quitted the ruins also, and went scuttering down the hill in the
direction of her home.
Charlotte Guise breathed again. Apart from her husband's disappearance
and the tales of the revenant she so dreaded, Charlotte could not help
thinking that things connected with the Friar's Keep looked romantic
and mysterious. Giving ample time for Harry Castlemaine to have got
half way up the lane on his road home, she entered the lane herself,
after glancing up at the two windows, behind which the Grey Friar was
wont to appear. All was dark and silent there to-night. She had not
gone ten paces up the lane, when quick, firm footsteps were heard
behind her: those of the Master of Greylands. Not caring to encounter
him, still less that he should know she chose that lonely road for
returning home at night, she drew aside among the trees while he
passed. He turned down to the Hutt, and Madame Guise went hastening
onwards.
Mr. Castlemaine was on his way homewards from the dinner at the
Dolphin. When the party broke up, he had given his arm to Nettleby the
superintendent; who had decidedly taken as much as he could
conveniently carry. It pleased the Master of Greylands, in spite of
his social superiority, to make much of the superintendent as a
general rule; he was always cordial with him. Captain Scott had taken
the same--for in those days hard drinking was thought less ill of than
it is in these--and had fallen fast asleep in one of John Bent's good
old-fashioned chairs. As Mr. Castlemaine came out of the
superintendent's gate after seeing him safely indoors, he found Lawyer
Knivett there.
"Why, Knivett, is it you?" he exclaimed. "I thought you and the
captain were already on your road to Stilborough."
"Time enough," replied the lawyer. "Will you take a stroll on the
beach? It's a nice night."
Mr. Castlemaine put his arm within the speaker's, and they crossed
over in that direction. Both of them were sober as judges. It was
hardly light enough to see much of the beauty of the sea; but Mr.
Knivett professed to enjoy it, saying he did not get the chance of its
sight or its breezes at Stilborough. In point of fact, he had
something to say to the Master of Greylands, and did not care to enter
upon the subject abruptly.
"Weary work, it must be, for those night fishermen!" remarked the
lawyer, pointing to two or three stationary lights in the distance.
"They are used to it, Knivett."
"I suppose so. Use goes a great way in this life. By the way, Mr.
Castlemaine--it has just occurred to me--I wish you'd let me give you
a word of advice, and receive it in good part."
"What is it? Speak out."
"Could you not manage to show the deed of tenure by which you own
Greylands' Rest?" pursued the lawyer, insensibly dropping his voice.
"I suppose I could if I chose," replied Mr. Castlemaine, after a
scarcely perceptible pause.
"Then I should recommend you to do so. I have wanted to say this to
you for some little time; but the truth is, I did not know how you
would take it."
"Why have you wanted to say it to me?"
"Well--the fact is, people are talking. People will talk, you
know--great idiots! If you could contrive to let somebody see the
deed--of course you'd not seem to show it purposely--by which you hold
the property, the world would be convinced that you had no cause to--to
wish young Anthony out of the way, and would stop its blatant tongue.
Do so, Mr. Castlemaine."
"I conclude you mean to insinuate that the world is saying I put
Anthony out of the way."
"Something of that. Oh, people are foolish simpletons at the best. Of
course, there's nothing in it; they are sure of that; but, don't you
perceive, once let them know that young Anthony's pretensions had not
a leg to stand upon, and they'd see there was no mo----in fact, they'd
shut up at once," broke off the lawyer, feeling that he might be
treading on dangerous ground. "If you have the deed at hand, let it be
seen one of these first fine days by some worthy man whose word can be
taken."
"And that would stop the tongues you say?"
"Undoubtedly it would. It would be a proof that you, at least, could
have no motive for wishing Anthony elsewhere," added the lawyer more
boldly.
"Then, listen to my answer, Knivett: NO. I will never show it for any
such purpose; never as long as I live. If the world likes to talk, let
it talk."
"It does talk," urged the lawyer ruefully.
"It is quite welcome to talk, for me. I am astonished at you, Knivett;
you might have known me better than to suggest such a thing. But that
you were so valued by my father, and respected by me, I should have
knocked you down."
The haughty spirit of the Master of Greylands had been aroused by the
insinuation: he spoke coldly, proudly, and resentfully. Mr. Knivett
knitted his brow: but he had partly expected this.
"The suggestion was made in friendliness," he said.
"Of course. But it was a mistake. We will forget it, Knivett."
They shook hands in silence. Mr. Knivett crossed over to the inn,
where the fly waited to convey himself and Captain Scott to
Stilborough; and the Master of Greylands had then commenced his walk
homewards, taking the road that would lead him through Chapel Lane.