DINING AT GREYLANDS' REST.
It was yet early morning. The sky was darkly blue, the sea indolent
and calm, the air intensely hot. Mr. George North, sitting on the
bench outside the Dolphin Inn, his straw hat tilted over his brows,
gazed at the placid sea before him, and felt as lazy as was the
atmosphere.
He had slept well, and breakfasted to his perfect content. Young,
sanguine, healthy, the mystery encompassing his brother Anthony's fate
had not sufficed to break his rest. The more than hinted-at doubts of
Charlotte Guise--that Anthony had been vat out of the world for ever
by Mr. Castlemaine--failed to find their response in George North's
mind. The mere thought of it appeared to him to be absurd: the
suspicion far-fetched and impossible; the implied doubt of the Master
of Greylands little less than a libel on the name of Castlemaine. Men
of the world are inclined to be practical in their views, rather than
imaginative: and the young and hopeful look ever on the bright side of
all things.
That Anthony's disappearance was most unaccountable, George North
felt; his continued absence, if indeed he still lived, was more
strange still. There was very much to be unravelled in connection with
that past February night, and George North intended to do his best to
bring its doings to light: but that his brother had been destroyed in
the dreadful manner implied, he could not and would not believe.
Without giving credit to anything so terrible, there existed ground
enough, ay and more than enough, for distrust and uncertainty. And,
just as his sister-in-law, poor bereaved Charlotte, had taken up her
abode at Greylands under false colours, to devote herself to search
out the mystery of that disappearance within the Friar's Keep, so did
George North resolve to take up his. Nothing loth, was he, to make a
sojourn there. Had Anthony presented himself before him at that
moment, safe and well, George would still have felt inclined to stay;
for the charms of Ethel Reene had made anything but a transient
impression on him. The world was his own, too; he had no particular
home in it; Greylands was as welcome to him as an abode as any other
resting-place.
John Bent came forth from the open door to join his guest. Landlords
and their ways in those days were different folks from what they are
in these. He wore no waistcoat under his loose linen coat, and his
head was bare.
"A nice stretch of water, that, sir," he said, respectfully,
indicating the wide sea, shining out in the distance.
"It is indeed," replied George North. "I think the place is a nice
place altogether. That sea, and the cliff, rising up there, would be
worth sketching. And there must be other pretty spots also."
"True enough, sir."
"I feel inclined to bring over my pencils and take up my quarters with
you for a bit, and sketch these places. What do you say to it, Mr.
Bent?"
"There's nothing I could say, sir, but that it would give me and my
wife pleasure if you did. We'd try and make you comfortable."
"Ay; I don't fear but you'd do that. Well, I think I shall
go to Stilborough and bring back my rattletraps. I saw a charming bit
of scenery yesterday when I went to call on the French lady. It is an
archway covered with ivy: looking through the opening, you catch a
view of a cottage with a back-ground of trees. There was a small
rustic bridge also not far off, lying amid trees, and a stream of
water running under it, the whole dark and sheltered. These spots
would make admirable sketches."
"No doubt, sir," returned John Bent by way of answer. "But you'd have
to crave the leave of the Master of Greylands before making them. And
that leave might not be easy to get."
"Why not?"
"They be on his land, sir."
"What of that? Surely he would not deny it! The great Creator has not
been churlish in making this world beautiful--should one man wish to
keep any part of it for the enjoyment of his own sole eyesight?"
John Bent gave his head a shake. "I don't think it is that Mr.
Castlemaine would do that, sir; he is not so selfish as that comes to;
but he does not like to see strangers about the place. He'd keep all
strange folks out of Greylands if he could: that's my belief."
"Why should he?"
"It's just his pride and his exclusive temper, sir."
"But I thought I had heard Mr. Castlemaine described as a generous
man; a pleasant-tempered man," remarked Mr. North.
"Well, and so he is, sir, when he chooses to be," confessed the
landlord; "I don't say to the contrary. In many things he is as easy
and liberal as a man can be. But in regard to having strangers about
his land, or in the place either, he is just a despot. And I think the
chances are ten to one, sir, against your getting leave to sketch any
spot of his."
"I can bat ask. If he refuses me, well and good. Of course I should
not attempt to defy him--though I am by no means sure that he, or any
one else, has the legal power to deny our copying nature's works, in
man's possession though they may be. Never mind. Enough free objects
will be left for me: such as that cliff, for example, and that
glorious sea."
Mr. North rose as he spoke. At that same moment two of the Grey Ladies
were crossing over from the Nunnery. Only one of them wore the dress
of the community, Sister Margaret. The other was Miss Castlemaine, in
her flowing mourning robes. Each of the ladies smiled kindly and gave
the good-morrow to John Bent. George North lifted his straw hat with
reverence, and kept it off until they should have passed.
Possibly the action, so uncharacteristic of most Englishmen, attracted
particularly the attention of Mary Ursula. Bending slightly her head
to acknowledge the courtesy, her eyes rested on the young man's face.
Whether it was his action, whether it was anything she saw in the face
that struck on her, certain it was that she half stopped to gaze upon
him. She said nothing, however, but passed on.
"What a magnificent young woman!" cried Mr. North, when the ladies
were out of hearing. "She is beautiful. I mean the lady in mourning:
not the Sister."
"She is that, sir. It is Miss Castlemaine."
"Miss Castlemaine! Which Miss Castlemaine?"
"The late banker's daughter, sir. Niece to the Master of Greylands."
An hour later, the ladies went by again on their way homeward. John
was outside his door still, but alone, with a white cap on his head.
Miss Castlemaine accosted him.
"Who was that gentleman we saw here just now, Mr. Bent?"
"His name's North, madam: he is an artist."
"Thank you," said Miss Castlemaine.
"Why did you inquire?" asked Sister Margaret as they went on.
"Because something in the stranger's face seemed to be familiar to
me--as though I had seen it before," replied Mary Ursula.
Meanwhile, Mr. George North, who seemed to do things rather upon
impulse--or, at least, not to lose time in putting in practice any
resolution he might make--had proceeded to Greylands' Rest to get the
permission for sketching any particular bits of scenery he fancied,
which might be owned by Mr. Castlemaine. He took the field way; the
same way that he and the ladies had taken the previous night, and he
was nearly at the end of his journey when he encountered Mr.
Castlemaine who was coming forth from his house with Ethel Reene. Mr.
North lifted his hat, and approached to accost them.
"I beg your pardon," he said to Mr. Castlemaine, bowing at the same
time to Ethel, "I believe I have the honour of speaking to the Master
of Greylands."
Mr. Castlemaine recognised him at once, as the young travelling artist
whom he had seen the previous day at the Turk's Head; the same who had
just been talked of at his breakfast-table. This Mr. George North, it
turned out, was a friend of Madame Guise, or, as Madame especially put
it, of her late husband's. A gentleman artist, Madame had said, for
he was not dependent on his profession; he had a good patrimony, and
was of good family: and Mr. Castlemaine had taken all in
unsuspiciously. Apart from anything trenching on the mysteries of that
certain February night and of the Friar's Keep, whatever they might
be, he was the least suspicious man in the world: and it no more
occurred to him to connect this young man and his appearance at
Greylands with that unhappy affair, than he had connected Madame with
it. Mr. Castlemaine had taken rather fancy to this young artist when
at the Turk's Head: he liked the look of his bright face now, as he
came up smiling: he warmed to the open, attractive manners.
George North preferred his request. He had come to Greylands the
previous day in the two-horse van from Stilborough for the purpose of
calling on Madame Guise; he had been struck with the pretty place and
with the many charming bits of scenery it presented, fit for the
pencil: some of these spots he found belonged to the Master of
Greylands; would the Master of Greylands give him permission to sketch
them?
And taken, it must be repeated, by the applicant's looks and words; by
his winning face, his pleasing voice, his gentlemanly bearing
altogether, Mr. Castlemaine gave the permission off-hand, never staying
to count the cost of any after suggestions that might arise against it.
Artists had come to the place before; they had stayed a week or two
and departed again, leaving no traces behind: that the same would be
the case with this present one, he never thought to doubt. Mr. North
was somewhat different from the others, though; inasmuch as that he
was known to Madame Guise (who vouched, so to say, for his being a
gentleman) and also that he had gained the liking of Mr. Castlemaine.
Mr. North warmly expressed his thanks for the readily-accorded
permission. Ethel had not spoken, but was blushing perpetually as she
stood listening to him--and for no cause whatever, she angrily told
herself. Mr. North turned to retrace his steps, and they all walked on
together.
"You have been acquainted with Madame Guise and her family some time,
I find," observed the Master of Greylands. "Knew them abroad."
"Oh yes. Her husband was a dear friend of mine. We were like--" Mr.
North hesitated, but brought the suggestive word out, as he had led to
it--"like brothers."
"Was there anything peculiar in his death?" asked Mr. Castlemaine.
"Madame Guise seems to shrink so much from all mention of the subject
that we can hardly help fancying there was: and it is a topic that we
cannot question her upon. He died suddenly, she said one day, when
some allusion was made to him, and that is all we know. Mrs.
Castlemaine observed that she shivered perceptibly as she said it.
"That is what I heard--that he died suddenly," assented Mr. North. "I
was roaming about Italy at the time, and did not know of it for some
months afterwards. Madame Guise had left for England then. I procured
her address; and, being so near, called to see her yesterday."
Mr. Castlemaine slightly nodded--as if this part scarcely needed
explanation. "Then you do not know what Monsieur Guise died of, Mr.
North? She has not told you?"
"No, she has not. I do not know what he died of. They were very much
attached to one another, and her avoidance of the subject may be
perhaps natural. He was an estimable young man, and my very good and
dear friend."
Thus talking, the fields were traversed and they gained the road. Here
their routes lay in opposite directions: that of the Master of
Greylands and Ethel to the right, Mr. North's to the left. He was
returning to the Dolphin before starting on his walk to Stilborough.
"You are staying at the inn, I presume," observed Mr. Castlemaine to
him.
"Yes, I am comfortable there, and the charges are very moderate. I
called for my bill this morning."
"Called for your bill! Are you going away?"
"Only to come back again this afternoon. I left my portmanteau and
pencils at Stilborough."
"Well, we shall be happy to welcome you at Greylands' Rest whenever
you feel inclined to call on Madame Guise," spoke Mr. Castlemaine in
parting. "Will you dine with us this evening?"
"Thank you. With very much pleasure."
Mr. Castlemaine cordially shook hands, and turned away. It was rare
indeed that the Master of Greylands condescended to be so free with a
stranger--or, in fact, with any one. Any previous visiting-artists to
the place might have looked in vain for a hand-shake. But his heart
warmed to this young man; he knew not why: and there was something in
Mr. North's bearing, though it was perfectly respectful to the Master
of Greylands, which seemed to testify that he was, and knew himself to
be, of the same social standing in society; at least, that gentleman's
equal.
But that the propensity, which we all have, to take likes and dislikes
seems to obey no rule or law, and is never to be accounted for, it
might be noticed as a curious circumstance here. When Mr. Castlemaine
first saw the unfortunate Anthony, he had taken a dislike to him. How
far the avowed errand of that young man--the putting in a claim to
Greylands' Rest--may have conduced to this, cannot be told: Mr.
Castlemaine would have said that it had nothing to do with it; that he
disliked him by instinct. Most people had seen nothing in Anthony but
what was to be liked; ay, and much liked; Mr. Castlemaine was an
exception. And yet, here was Anthony's brother (though Mr. Castlemaine
knew it not) to whom his heart was going out as it had never yet
before gone out to a stranger! Truly these instincts are more
capricious than a woman's will!
George North ran into the Dolphin, caught up his umbrella to shield
himself from the sun, and started on his hot walk to Stilborough. In
the course of the afternoon he was back again with what he was pleased
to call his rattletraps--a portmanteau and a sketching-case--having
chartered a fly to Greylands. There was no two-horse van at his
disposal that afternoon.
"Do you get much of this fiery weather?" he asked, throwing himself
down by Mrs. Bent in her sitting-room and his hat on the table, while
the landlord saw to his luggage.
"Well, we have our share of it, sir, when it's a hot summer. And this
is a very hot one. Just see the sea yonder: even that looks hot."
"I shall take a dip presently and try it," returned Mr. North. "That
must be the best of living at the sea-side you get glorious baths."
"You have not told me what you'd like for dinner yet, sir," resumed
Mrs. Bent, who was stripping currants into a pan, her face and the
currants and the cherry cap-ribbons all one and the same colour.
"Dinner! Why, I am going to dine at Greylands' Rest. Its master asked
me."
"Did he!" cried Mrs. Bent in surprise. "Well, that's a great thing
for him to do. He don't favour new-comers, sir."
"He has so far favoured me. I say, Mrs. Bent," added the artist, a
laughing look in his bright eyes, "what a pretty girl that is, up
there!"
Mrs. Bent raised her own eyes from the stripping, and shot forth an
inquiring glance. He was helping himself to the ripest bunches.
"Miss Ethel Reene! Well, so she is, sir, and as good as she is pretty.
There's no love lost--as it is said--between her and her stepmother.
At any rate, on Mrs. Castlemaine's part. The servants say Miss Ethel
gets snubbed and put upon above a bit. She has to give way finely to
the little one."
"Who is the little one?--Just look at this large bunch! Twenty on it,
I know."
"You'll get a surfeit, sir, if you eat at these sharp currants like
that when you are so hot.
"Not I. I never tasted any so good."
"I shall charge you for then, sir," she went on, laughing.
"All right. Charge away. I have heard my father tell a tale of going
into a cherry-orchard once when he was a lad, he and three more boys.
They paid sixpence each, and eat what they liked. I fancy all four had
a surfeit, or something, after that."
"I dare be bound. Boys in a cherry-orchard! Do you get fine currants in
France, sir?"
"We get everything that's fine there," responded Mr. North, as well as
he could speak for the currants. "But what little one were you talking
of, Mrs. Bent?"
"Of Miss Flora, sir: Mrs. Castlemaine's daughter. A troublesome,
ill-behaved little chit, she is: always in mischief. The last time we were
brewing; it's only a few days ago; my young lady was passing the door
and ran in: she went rushing to the brewhouse, and fell backwards into
the mash-tub. Fortunately the liquor had been drawn off; but there she
was, squealing in the wet grains."
Mr. North laughed, and rose. Abandoning the currants, he put on his
hat and went leisurely out to take his plunge in the sea. By-and-by,
when Mrs. Bent and John were seated at tea, he came running back in a
commotion, his wet towels in his hand.
"Can you tell me at what time they dine at Greylands' Rest?"
"At six o'clock, sir, when they dine late," replied John "Mostly,
though, it's in the middle of the day."
"And as often five o'clock as six," put in Mrs. Bent. "The earlier
Mrs. Castlemaine dines, the better she likes it. You have not half
dried your hair, sir."
"I had no time for superfluous drying," he replied. "It suddenly
struck me that I did not know the hour for dinner, and I came off as I
could. Is that the right time?" looking at the clock. "A quarter past
five?"
"Right to a minute, sir. This clock never fails."
"And you say, Mrs. Bent, that they sometimes dine at five. What will
they think of me?"
He went leaping up the stairs, saying something about the thoughtless
ways of wandering Arabs--by which the landlord and his wife understood
him to mean artists. An incredibly short time, and he was down again,
dressed, and striding off to Greylands' Rest.
The first thing Mr. North noticed, on entering the gate of the garden,
was the flutter of a white dress amid a nest of trees. It was enough
to assure him that the dinner had not begun. He penetrated these
trees, attracted by the voices within, and found himself in sight of
Ethel Reene, and the young damsel recently spoken of--Miss Flora.
The white dress he had seen was Ethel's. It was an Indian sprigged
muslin, set off with black ribbons. Her rich brown hair, so bright in
the flicker of sunshine, had nothing to adorn it: her delicate face
wore one of its sweetest blushes as he approached. She sat in a kind
of grotto formed by the trees, a book resting in her lap while she
talked to Flora. That young lady, unmindful of her holiday attire--a
costly and very pretty frock of grey silken gauze--for Mrs.
Castlemaine had said she might dine at table--was astride on one of
the branches. Ethel had in vain told her not to get up there. She
jumped down at the sight of Mr. North: the frock was caught, and the
result was a woful rent.
"There!" exclaimed Ethel in an undertone, for Mr. North had not quite
reached them. "Your beautiful new frock! What a pity! If I were mamma
I should never buy you anything but stuff and cotton."
Flora, even, looked down ruefully at the damage: the frock was new, as
Ethel said, costly, and beautiful.
"Pin it up, Ethel."
"I have no pins here. Besides, pinning would not hold it. It can only
be mended. You had better show it to Eliza."
The spoilt child ran past Mr. North on her way indoors. He came up to
Ethel, bowed, and then held his hand out. With another bright and
deeper blush she put hers into it.
"I shall get quite the English manners soon," he said, "We do not
shake hands much in my country: especially with young ladies. They do
not let us."
"Do you call France your country?"
"Well, I am apt to do so, having lived there so much. I have been
making great haste here, Miss Reene, not knowing the hour for dinner."
"We dine at six," replied Ethel. "Mamma has but just returned from her
drive, and is dressing," she added, as if in apology for being the
only one to receive him. "Papa has been out all the afternoon."
"Is Madame Guise well to-day?"
"Not very. She has one of her bad headaches, I am sorry to say, and is
in her room. She will be here shortly."
He sat down by Ethel, and took up the book she had been reading; a
very old and attractive book indeed--the "Vicar of Wakefield."
"What an excellent story it is!" he exclaimed.
"Have you read it?" asked Ethel, rising to proceed to the house.
"Indeed I have. Twenty times, I should think. My mother had a small
store of these old English works, and and my brother revelled in
them."
"You have brothers and sisters?"
"Only one sister now. She is married and lives in France."
"Ah, then I can understand why you like to go thither so much," said
Ethel, all unconscious that it was his native land; that he had never
before been in England. "Is her husband French?"
"Yes," replied Mr. North. "Oh, what a lovely rose!" he cried, halting
at a tree they were passing, perhaps to change the conversation.
It was in truth one of rare beauty: small, bright, delicate, and of
exquisite fragrance. Ethel, in her impulsive good nature, in her
innocent thoughtlessness, plucked it and offered it to him. As he took
it from her, their eyes met: in his own shone a strangely-earnest look
of gratitude for the gift, mingled with admiration. Poor Ethel became
crimson at the thought of what she had done, and would have regained
the flower had it been possible. She went on quickly to the glassdoors
of the drawing-room; Mr. North followed, placing the rose in his
buttonhole.
Madame Guise was entering the room by the inner door at the same
moment. Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine soon, appeared; lastly, Miss Flora,
in her mended frock. Harry Castlemaine was not at home; some errand,
either of business or pleasure, had taken him to Stilborough. Harry
had been out a great deal of late: there seemed to be a restlessness
upon him, and his father was beginning to notice it.
Mr. North was received (as he heard later from Madame Guise) quite en
famille--which pleased him much. No alteration was made in the usual
style of dinner: but the dinners at Greylands' Rest were always
sufficiently good for chance company. As George North sat at table,
watching the master at the head board, he could not bring himself to
believe that Charlotte's suspicions were correct. Good-looking,
refined, courtly, pleasing, Mr. Castlemaine appeared to be the very
last man capable of committing a secret crime. Every other moment some
gesture of his, or glance, or tone in the voice, put George North in
mind of his father, Basil Castlemaine: and--no, he could not, he
could not join in the doubts of poor Anthony's wife.
But he noticed one thing. That ever and anon Mr. Castlemaine would
seem to forget where he was, forget his position as host, and fall
into a fit of silent abstraction, during which, a curiously-sad
expression lay on his face, and his brow was knit as with some painful
care. He would rouse himself as soon as he perceived he was mentally
absent, and be in an instant the grand, courtly, self-possessed Master
of Greylands again. But the fits of gloom did occur, and George North
observed them.
Nevertheless, he could not entertain the dread suspicions of his
sister-in-law.. That a vast deal of mystery attached to his brother's
disappearance, and that Mr. Castlemaine was in some degree and manner
connected with it, or cognizant of it, he readily saw cause, to
recognize: but, of the darker accusation, he believed him to be
innocent. And it went with George North very much against the grain to
sit at Mr. Castlemaine's hospitable table under false colours, and not
to declare the fact that he was his brother Basil's son.
Something of this he said to Madame Guise. Dinner over, the party
strolled into the garden, grateful for the little breath of air it
brought. Mr. North found himself momentarily alone with Madame, near
the grand sweeping elm tree.
"Are you mad, George?" she hastily cried in French and in the deepest
alarm, in response to the word or two he whispered. "Wish to declare
yourself! not like to be here only as Mr. North! For the love of
heaven, recall your senses."
"It is terrible deceit, Charlotte."
"Do you no longer care for your unfortunate brother? Have you lost all
remembrance of your love for him?--of the ties of kindred?--of the
time when you played together at your mother's knee! Do you think it
cost me nothing to come here under a wrong name--that it costs me no
self reproaches to be here under sham pretences, I who have as keen a
sense of honour as you? But I do it for Anthony's sake; I bear all the
feeling of disgrace for him."
"That is just it," said George, "as it seems to me. Disgrace."
"It must be borne--for my sake, and for Anthony's. Were you to say, 'I
am George, Anthony's brother,' Mr. Castlemaine would take, alarm; he
would turn you out of the house, and me after you: and, rely upon it,
we should never, discover more of poor Anthony than we know now. It
would still all be uncertain. No, mon ami, go you away from Greylands
if you like, and leave me to seek on alone; but, declare yourself you
must not. Anthony would rise from his grave at your unnatural
conduct."
"Charlotte, you are exciting yourself for nothing," he hastily
whispered, for Mrs. Castlemaine was approaching. "I did not say I was
going to declare myself; I only said how unpalatable to me is the
acting of this deceit. But for Anthony's sake and yours, I would not
bear it for a moment; as circumstances are, I must go on with it, and
be George North perhaps to the end of the chapter."
"Not to the end," she murmured, "Not to the end. Anthony's fate will
be discovered before very long time has elapsed--or my prayers and
tears will have found no pity in heaven."
Only at dusk did they go in to tea. Afterwards, Ethel was bade to sing
some of her songs. George North--no mean musician himself, and with a
soft, pleasant voice of his own--sat by the piano, listening to their
melody, gazing through the twilight at her sweet face, and thinking
that he had never been so nearly in an earthly paradise.
When he took his departure, they accompanied him to the gate. The
stars were out, the night was clear and still, the heat yet excessive.
It chanced that he and Ethel walked side by side; it chanced that he
held her hand, ay, and pressed it too, longer than he had need have
done when he said goodnight. That moment's parting would remain in
Ethel's memory for life; the heavy perfume of the flowers lay around
them, her heart and pulses were alike beating.
If she and George North had not fallen in love with one another, they
were at least on the highroad towards it.