"Love-letters," curtly observed discerning Mrs. Bent.

"Love-letters!" ejaculated Miss Hallet, who had never had a

love-letter in her life, and looked upon them as no better than slow

poison.

"There's not a doubt of it. His. I dare say he has got a lot of

Jane's. I gave her a bit of my mind the day before yesterday, when she

came to the inn to bring back the newspaper," added Mrs. Bent. "Gave

it plainly, too."

"And--how did Jane receive it?"

"As meek as any lamb. 'I am not the imprudent girl you appear to think

me, Mrs. Bent,' says she, with her cheeks as red as our cock's comb

when he has been fighting. 'Mr. Harry Castlemaine would not like to

hear you say this,' she went on. 'Mr. Harry Castlemaine might lump it,'

I answered her. 'It wouldn't affect him much any way, I expect,

Jane Hallet. Mr. Harry Castlemaine might set the sea afire with a

trolley-load of burning tar-barrels if he so minded, and folks would

just wink at him; while you would have the place about your ears if you

dropped in but half a thimbleful.' Jane wished me good morning at that,

and betook herself away."

Mrs. Bent's visit ended with this. Upon her departure, Miss Hallet put

on her shawl and bonnet and proceeded to take her daily walk outside

the door in the sun, pacing the narrow path from end to end. After

Mrs. Bent's information, she could no longer doubt that Jane's changed

mood must be owing to this acquaintanceship with Mr. Harry

Castlemaine. A love affair, of course;--girls were so idiotic!--and

Jane's trouble must arise from the knowledge that it could end in

nothing. So impossible had it seemed to Miss Hallet that Jane, with

her good sense, could really have anything to say, in this way, to the

son of the Master of Greylands, that since the night of the expedition

when she had gone after Jane to watch her, and received her fright as

the result, she had suffered the idea by degrees to drop from her

mind: and this revelation of Mrs. Bent's was as much a shock to her as

though she had never had a former hint of it.

"Jane mast have lost her head!" soliloquised the angry lady, her face

very stern. "She must know it cannot come to anything. They stand as

far apart as the two poles. Our family was good in the old days; as

good perhaps as that of the Castlemaines; but things altered with us.

And I went out as lady's-maid, for it was that, not companion, and

they know it, and I dare say put me, in their thoughts, on a level

with their own servants. Mr. Castlemaine is polite when he meets me,

and takes his hat off, and sometimes stays to chat for a minute: but

he would no more think my niece a fit wife for his son than he would

think the poorest fisherman's girl in the place fit. Jane must have

lost her senses!"

Miss Hallet stopped to draw her shawl more closely round her, for the

wind was brisk to-day; and then resumed her promenade and her

reflections.

"Rather than the folly should continue, I would go direct to the

Master of Greylands, and tell him. He would pretty soon stop it. And I

will do it, if I can make no impression on Jane. I should like to

know, though, before speaking to her, what footing they are upon:

whether it is but a foolish fancy for each other, meaning nothing, or

whether she considers it to be more serious. He cannot have been so

dishonourable as to say anything about marriage! At least, I--I hope

not. He might as well offer her the stars: and Jane ought to know

there's as much chance of the one as the other. I wonder what is in the

love-letters?"

Miss Hallet took a turn or two revolving this one point. A wish

crossed her that she could read the letters. She wished it not for

curiosity's sake: in truth, she would not have touched them willingly

with a pair of tongs: but that their contents might guide her own

conduct. If the letters really contained nothing but nonsense--boyish

nonsense, Miss Hallet termed it--she might deal with the matter with

Jane alone: but if Mr. Harry had been so absurd as to fill her up with

notions of marriage, why then she would carry the affair up to

Greylands' Rest, and leave it to be dealt with by Greylands' master.

Entering the house, she went upstairs. It was not likely that Jane had

left the drawer unlocked; still it might have happened so, from

inadvertence or else. But no. Miss Hallet stood in Jane's room and

pulled at the drawer in question, which was the first long drawer in

the chest. It resisted her efforts. Taking her own keys from her

pocket, she tried every likely one, but none would fit. Nevertheless,

she determined to get those letters on the first opportunity,

believing it to lie in her duty. Not a shade of doubt arose in her

mind, as to Mrs. Bent's clever theory: she was as sure the drawer

contained Harry Castlemaine's love-letters, as though she had it open

and saw them lying before her. Love-letters, and nothing else. What

else, was there, that Jane should care to conceal?

"Jane's instincts are those of a lady," thought Miss Hallet, looking

round the neat room approvingly at the pretty taste displayed, at the

little ornamental things on the muslin-draped dressing-table. "Yes,

they are. And there's her Bible and Prayer-book on their own stand;

and there's--but--dear me! where on earth did these spring from?"

She had come to a glass of hot-house flowers. Not many. Half a dozen

or so; but they were fresh, and of rare excellence.

"Jane must have brought them in last night. Smuggled them in, I should

say, for I saw none in her hand. It is easy to know where they came

from; there's only one hot-house in the whole place, and that's at

Greylands' Rest."

Miss Hallet went down more vexed than she had come up. She was very

precise and strait-laced: no one could deny that: but here was surely

enough food to disturb her. Just after she had resumed her walk

outside, her mind running upon how she could best contrive to have the

drawer opened, and so get at the love-letters, Jane appeared.

Slowly and wearily was she ascending the cliff, as if she could hardly

put one foot before the other. Miss Hallet could but notice it. Her

face was pale; the one unoccupied arm hung down heavily, the head was

bent.

"You look tired to death, Jane! What have you been doing to fatigue

yourself like that?"

Jane started at the salutation, lifted her head, and saw her aunt. As

if by magic, her listless manner changed, and she ran up the short bit

of remaining path briskly. Her pale face had taken quite a glow of

colour when she reached Miss. Hallet.

"I am not tired, aunt. I was only thinking."

"Thinking of what?" returned Miss Hallett. "You looked and walked as

though you were tired: that's all I know."

"Of something Susan Pike has just told me," laughed Jane. "It might

have turned out to be no laughing matter, though. Jack Tuff has taken

a drop too much this morning and fallen out of a little boat he got

into. Susan says he came up the beach like a drowned rat."

Jane went into the house while talking, and put down the basket she

had carried. Miss Hallet followed her.

"I could only get the scrag end this morning, aunt: the best end was

sold. So it must be boiled. And there's the newspaper, aunt: Mrs. Bent

ran across to me with it."

"Put it on at once, then, with a sliced carrot or two," said Miss

Hallet, alluding to the meat.

"And bacon," resumed Jane, "is a halfpenny a pound dearer. I think,

aunt, it would be well to buy a good-sized piece of bacon at

Stilborough. I am sure we give Pike a penny a pound more than we

should pay there."

"Well--yes--it might be," acknowledged Miss Hallet for once: who very

rarely listened to offered suggestions.

"I could bring it back this afternoon," observed Jane. "What should

take you to Stilborough this afternoon, pray?"

"I want to take the socks in. And you know, aunt--I told

you--that Mrs. Pugh asked me to go to tea there one day this week: I

may as well stay with her to-day."

Jane had expected no end of opposition; but Miss Hallet made none. She

went out to walk again without further remark, leaving Jane to the

household duties. It turned out that Susan Pike was going to

Stilborough, being also invited to Mrs. Pugh's. Jane mentioned it to

her aunt at dinner, but Miss Hallet answered nothing.

About four o'clock, that damsel, attired in all the colours of the

rainbow and as gay as a harlequin, came running up the cliff to call

for Jane. Jane, dressed neatly, and looking very nice as usual, was

ready for her; and they started together, Jane carrying her paper of

socks and an umbrella.

"Well I never, Jane! you are not a-going to lug along that there big

umbrella, are you?" cried Miss Susan, halting at the threshold, and

putting up a striped parasol the size of a dinner-plate.

"I am not sure about the weather," returned Jane, looking at the sky.

"I should not like to get wet. What do you think of it, aunt?"

"I think it likely to rain before you are back again: and you will

either take the umbrella, Jane or you will put off that best bonnet

for your old one. What is the matter with the umbrella, Susan

Pike?--It will not throw discredit upon anybody."

It was, in fact, a handsome, though very large umbrella of green silk,

a present to Jane from Miss Hallet. Susan shrugged her shoulders when

they were out of sight; and Miss Hallet wondered for the hundredth

time at Jane's making a companion of that common, illiterate girl.

She sat down to read the newspaper after they were gone, took her tea,

and at dusk put on her things to go down the cliff. It was a very dull

evening, dark before its time: heavy clouds of lead colour covered the

sky. In a rather remote angle of the village lived the blacksmith, one

Joe Brown; a small, silent, sooty kind of man in a leather apron, who

might be seen at his forge from early morning to late night. He was

there now, hammering at a piece of iron, as Miss Hallet entered.

"Good-evening, Brown."

Brown looked up at the address, and discerned who the speaker was by

the red glare of his fire--Miss Hallet. He touched his hair in answer,

and gave her back the good-evening.

She told him at once what she wanted, putting her veil aside to speak.

The key of a drawer had been mislaid in her house, and she wished

Brown to come and open it.

"Unlock him, or pick him, mum?" asked Brown.

"Only to unlock it."

"Won't the morrow do, mum? I be over busy to-night."

"No, to-morrow will not do," replied Miss Hallet, in one of those

decisive tones that carry weight. "I want it opened to-night, and you

must come at once. I shall pay you well."

So the man yielded: saying that in five minutes he would leave his

forge, and be up the cliff almost as soon as she was. He kept his

word: and Miss Hallet had but just got her things off when he arrived,

carrying a huge bunch of keys of various sizes. It was beginning to

rain. Not unfrequently was he called out on a similar errand, and

would take with him either these keys, or instruments for picking a

lock, as might be required.

She led the way upstairs to Jane's room, and pointed out the drawer.

Brown stooped to look at the lock, holding the candle close, and at

the second trial, put in a key that turned easily. He drew the drawer

a little open to show that the work was done. Nothing was to be seen

but a large sheet of white paper, covering the drawer half way up. The

contents whatever they might be, were under it.

"Thank you," said Miss Hallet, closing the drawer again, while he took

the key off the bunch at her request, to lend her until the morning.

"Don't mention this little matter, Brown, will you be so good," she

added, handing the man a shilling. "I do not care that my niece or the

neighbours should believe me careless with my keys." And he readily

promised.

The rain was now pouring down in torrents. Miss Hallet stood at the

front door with the man, really sorry that he should have to go

through such rain.

"It ain't nothing, mum," he said. And, taking his leather apron off to

throw over his shoulders, Brown went swinging away.

As the echo of his footsteps, descending the cliff, died away on her

ear, Miss Hallet slipped the bolt of the house-door, and went upstairs

again. Putting the candle down on the white covering; for Miss Hallet

and Jane had toilette covers in their rooms as well as their betters;

she opened the drawer again. If the sheet of white paper covered only

love-letters, there must be an astonishing heap of them: the colour

flew into Miss Hallet's cheeks as an idea dawned upon her that there

might be presents besides.

She pulled a chair forward, and drew the candle close to the edge of

the drawers, preparing herself for a long sitting. Not a single letter

would she leave unread: no, nor a single word in any one of them. She

was safe for two good hours, for Jane was not likely to be in before

nine: it might not be so soon as that, if the two girls waited at

Stilborough for the storm to cease.

Setting her spectacles on her nose, Miss Hallet lifted the white paper

off the contents of the drawer; and then sat gazing in surprise. There

were no love-letters; no letters of any kind. The bottom of the drawer

was lined with some delicate looking articles, that she took to be

dolls' clothes. Pretty little cambric caps, their borders crimped with

a silver knife by Jane's deft fingers; miniature frocks; small

bed-gowns--and such like.

"Why, what on earth!"--began Miss Hallet, after a prolonged

perplexity: and in her bewildered astonishment, she gingerly took up

one of the little caps and turned it about close to her spectacles.

All in a moment, with a rush and a whirl; a rush of dread in her

heart, a whirl of dreadful confusion in her brain; the truth came to

the unfortunate lady. She staggered a step or two back to the waiting

chair, and fell down on it, faint and sick. The appearance of the Grey

Friar had brought most grievous terror to her; but it had not brought

the awful dismay of this.

For the dainty wardrobe was not a doll's wardrobe but a baby's.

CHAPTER XXXII.

MISS JANE IN TROUBLE.

The Grey Ladies held fête sometimes, as well as the outside world; and

it was gay this evening in the Grey Nunnery. The Sisters were en

soirée: no guests, however, were present; only themselves. The

occasion prompting it was the return of Sister Mildred: Sister Mildred

grown young again, as she laughingly told them, so sprightly did she

feel in her renewed health and strength.

She had brought some treasures back with her: contributed by the kind

relatives with whom she had been staying. A basket of luscious

hot-house grapes; a large, rich, home-made plum-cake; and two bottles

of cowslip wine. These good things had been set out on the table of the

parlour, and the whole of the Ladies sat round, listening to Sister

Mildred's glowing accounts of her visit and of its pleasant doings.

"Why, my dears, they would fain have kept me till next year," she

rejoined in answer to a remark: and her hearing was for the time so

much improved that the small ear-trumpet, hanging by a ribbon from her

waist, was scarcely ever taken up. "I had a battle, I assure you, to

get away. My cousin has two charming little girls with her, her

grandchildren, and the little mites hid the key of my box, so that it

should not be packed; and they cried bitterly when I was ready to

start."

"You will be sorry, now, that you have resigned the superiorship to

me," whispered Mary Ursula, taking up the trumpet to speak. "I will

give it back to you."

"Ah, my dear, no. I would not be head again for the world. I am

better, as you see, thanks to our merciful Father in heaven; so much

better that I can hardly believe it to be myself; but to keep well I

must have no care or trouble. I shall be of less use here now than any

of you."

"You will be of every use, dear Sister Mildred, if only to help me

with counsel," returned Mary.

"Oh, it is pleasant to be at home again," resumed the elder lady, her

face beaming from under its crisp muslin cap. "The sojourn with my

relatives has been delightful; but, after all, there's no place like

home. And you must give me an account, dear Sisters of all that has

occurred during my absence. See to the thief in the candle!"

"There's not very-much to relate, I think," observed Sister Betsey, as

she attended to the thief. "We had an adventure here, though, one

night. Tom Dance's son went on to the chapel ruins to shoot a sea-bird

for somebody at Stilborough, and his pistol exploded, and wounded him

dreadfully. He came crawling here to be taken in."

"What do you say, dear?" asked Sister Mildred, her hand to her ear.

"Tom Dance brought a sea-bird here?"

"No. His son, young Dance----"

But Sister Betsey's explanation was cut short by a loud, peremptory

ring at the house-bell. Rings at that time of the evening, for it

was close upon nine o'clock, generally betokened notice of illness or

accident. Sister Ann hastened to the door, and the others held their

breath.

"Who is ill? Is any case of calamity brought in?" quickly demanded

Sister Mildred on her return.

"No ill case of any kind," replied Sister Aim, as she approached Mary

Ursula. "It is a visitor for you, madam."

"For me!" exclaimed Mary, feeling surprised. "Is it my

uncle--Mr. Castlemaine?"

"It is Lawyer Knivett, from Stilborough," said Sister Ann. "His

business is very particular, he says."

Mary Ursula glanced around as she rose. It would scarcely be

convenient for him to come in amid all the ladies; and she desired

Sister Ann to take him to the dining-room. A cold, bare room it

looked, its solitary candle standing at one end of the dinner-table as

she entered. Mr. Knivett came forward and held out his hand.

"Will you forgive my disturbing you at this time, my dear Miss

Castlemaine?" he asked. "I should have been here an hour or two ago;

but first of all I waited for the violence of the storm to pass; and

then, just as I was getting into my gig, a client came up from a

distance, and insisted on an interview. Had I put off coming until

to-morrow morning, if might have been midday before I got here."

They were sitting down as he spoke: Mary by the end of the table where

the candle stood: he drew a chair so close in front of her that his

knees nearly touched hers. Mary was inwardly wondering what his visit

could relate to. A curious thought, bringing its latent

unpleasantness, crossed her--that it might have to do with Anthony.

"My dear lady, I am the bearer of some sad news for you," he began.

"People have said, you know, that a lawyer is like a magpie, a bird of

ill-omen."

She caught up her breath with a sigh of pain. What was it that he

had to tell her?

"It concerns your father's old friend and clerk, Thomas Hill," went on

Mr. Knivett. "He was your friend too."

"Is he ill?" gasped Mary.

"He was ill, my dear Miss Castlemaine."

The stress on the one word was so peculiar that the inference seemed

all too plain. Mary rose in agitation.

"Surely--surely he is not dead?"

"Sit down, my dear young lady. I know how grieved you will be; but

agitation will not do any good. He died this afternoon at five

o'clock."

There ensued a silence. Mary's breath was rising in gasps.

"And--I--was not sent for to him," she cried, greatly agitated.

"There was no time to send," replied Mr. Knivett. "He had been ailing

for several days past, but the doctor--it was Tillotson--said it was

nothing; poor Hill himself thought it was not. This afternoon a change

for the worse occurred, and I was sent for. There was no time for

anything."

She pushed back the brown hair, braided so simply under the muslin

cap. Pale memories were crowding upon her, mixing themselves up with

present pain. The last time she had seen the surgeon, Tillotson, was

the night when her father was found dead on his sofa, and poor Thomas

Hill was mourning over him.

"Hill said more than once to me that he should not last long now his

master Was gone," resumed the lawyer: "but I thought it was but an old

man's talk, grieving after his many years' master and friend. He was

right, however."

Regrets were stealing upon Mary. She had not, she thought, taken as

much notice of this faithful old man as she ought. Why, oh, why, in

that one sole visit she had made to Stilborough, to Mrs. Ord, did she

not call to see him? These reproaches strike on us all when a friend

passes away. The tears were trickling down her cheeks.

"And I should not have hastened over here to tell you this of itself,

Miss Castlemaine; you'd have heard it soon without that; ill news

travels fast. But nothing can be done without your sanction; hardly

the first coffin ordered. You are left sole executor."

"I am! Executor!"

"Executrix, I should have said; but the other word comes more ready.

His will does not contain ten lines, I think, for I made it; and

there's not a name mentioned in it but yours. Every stick and stone is

left to you; and sole, full power in all ways."

"But what shall I do, Mr. Knivett? To leave me executor!"

"My dear young lady, I knew you would be distressed at the first blush

of the thing. I was surprised when he gave me the directions; but he

would have it so. He had a notion, I fancy, that it might serve to

take you abroad a bit out of this place: he did not like your being

here."

"I know he did not. I strove to convince him I was happy when he came

over here in the summer; but he could not think it."

"Just so. His money is well and safely invested, and will bring you in

about three hundred and fifty pounds a year. There's some silver, too,

and other knicknacks. It is all yours."

"What a good, kind, faithful man he was!" she said, her eyes

streaming. "Good always, in every relation of life. He has gone to his

reward."

"Ay, ay," nodded Mr. Knivett. "Hill was better than some of his

neighbours, and that's a fact."

"But I can never act," she exclaimed. "I should not know what to do or

how to do it."

"My dear Miss Mary, you need not trouble yourself on that score. Give

me power, and I will make it all as easy for you as an old shoe. In

fact, I will act instead of you. Not for gain," he added impressively:

"I must do this little matter for you for friendship's sake. Nay, my

dear, you must meet this as it is meant: remember my long friendship

with your father."

"You are very kind," she faltered.

"Have you a pen and ink at hand?"

She brought one, and he caused her to assign to him the necessary

power. Then he asked her wishes as to temporary matters and they

consulted for a few minutes together: but she was glad to leave all to

Mr. Knivett that she could leave.

"There has been another death at Stilborough to-day: at least, not

more than a mile or two from it," observed the lawyer, as he rose to

leave. "You have not heard of it, I suppose?"

He had his back to her as he spoke, having turned to take up his

overcoat which lay on the children's form. Mary replied that she had

not heard anything.

"Sir Richard Blake-Gordon's dead."

A great thump seemed to strike her heart. It stood still, and then

went bounding on again.

"His death was very sudden," continued the lawyer, still occupied with

his coat. "He fell down in a fit and never spoke again. Never

recovered consciousness at all, Sir William tells me."

Mary lifted her eyes. Mr. Knivett had turned back to her then.

"Sir--William?" she stammered, feeling confused in all ways. The title

was spoken too suddenly: it sounded strange to her; unnatural.

"It was he who came in and detained me: he had to see me upon an

urgent matter. He is sadly cut up."

Hardly giving himself time to shake her hand, Mr. Knivett, bustled

away. In passing the parlour-door, Sister Mildred was coming out of

it. She and the lawyer were great friends, though they very rarely saw

each other. He could not stay longer then, he said; and she and Mary

went with him to the door, and walked with him across the waste ground

to the gate.

The storm had entirely passed: it was the same evening, told of in the

last chapter, when Miss Hallet took a trip to the blacksmith's: the

sky was clear again and bright with a few stars. The storm had been

one of those violent ones when the rain seems to descend in pitiless

torrents. A great gutter of water was streaming along in front of the

Grey Nunnery on the other side the low bank that divided the path from

the road. Mr. Knivett's horse and gig waited in the road just out of

the running water. The night was warm and still, balmy almost as in

summer, though it was getting late in the year. Ten o'clock was

striking from the Nunnery clock.

"I shall be over again in a day or two," said Mr. Knivett to the

ladies, as he took a leap from the bank over the gutter, and the groom

held the apron aside for him to get up.

The two ladies stood at the gate and watched him drive off. It was,

indeed, a lovely night now, all around quiet and tranquil. Mary, with

a sobbing sigh, said a word to Sister Mildred of the cause that had

brought the lawyer over; but the good Sister heard, as the French say,

à tort et à travers. Now, of all queer items of news, what should the

ladies have been pouring into the ex-Superior's ear during Miss

Castlemaine's absence from the parlour, but the unsatisfactory rumours

just now beginning to circulate through the village to the detriment

of Jane Hallet. Her mind full of this, no wonder Sister Mildred was

more deaf than need have been to Mary's words.

"It is a very extraordinary thing, my dear," she responded to Mary;

"and I think she must have lost her senses."

At that same moment, sounds, as of fleet footsteps, dawned on Mary's

ear in the stillness of the night. A minute before, a figure might

have been seen flying down the cliffs from the direction of Miss

Hallet's dwelling; a panting, sobbing, crying woman: or rather, girl.

She darted across the road, nobody being about, and made for the path

that would take her by the Grey Nunnery. The ladies turned to her as

she came into view. It looked like Jane Hallet. Jane, in her best

things, too. She was weeping aloud; she seemed in desperate distress:

and not until she was flying past the gate did she see the ladies

standing there. Sister Mildred, her head running on what she had

heard, glided out of the gateway to arrest and question her.

"Jane, what is amiss?"

Startled at the sight of the ladies, startled at their accosting her,

Jane, to avoid them, made a spring off the pathway into the road. The

bank was slippery with the rain, and she tried moreover to clear the

running stream below it, just as Mr. Knivett had done. But her foot

slipped, and she fell heavily.

Sister Mildred stooped over the bank, and held out her hand. Was Jane

stunned? No: but just for the minute or two she could not stir. She

put one hand to her side as Sister Mildred helped her on to the path.

Of no use to try to escape now.

"Are you hurt, child?"

"I--I think I am, ma'am," panted Jane. "I fell on my side." And she

burst into the sobs again.

"And now tell me what the matter is, and where you were going to."

"Anywhere," sobbed the girl. "My aunt has turned me out of doors?"

"Dear me!" cried Sister Mildred. "When did she turn you out of doors?"

"Now. When I got in from Stilborough. She--she--met me with reproach

and passion. Oh, she is so very violent! She frightened me. I have

never seen her so before."

"But where were you running to now?" persisted Sister Mildred. "There,

don't sob in that way."

"Anywhere," repeated Jane, hysterically. "I can sit under a hedge till

morning, and, then go to Stilborough. I am too tired to go back to

Stilborough now."

Sister Mildred, who had held her firmly by the arm all this time,

considered before she spoke again. Fearing there might be too much

cause to condemn the girl, she yet could not in humanity suffer her to

go "anywhere." Jane was an especial favourite with all the Sisters. At

least, she used to be.

"Come in, child," she said. "We will take care of you until the

morning. And then--why we must see what is to be done. Your aunt, so,

self-contained and calm a woman, must have had some great cause, I

fear, for turning you out."

Crying, wailing, sobbing, and in a state altogether of strange

agitation, Jane suffered the Sister to lead her indoors, resisting

not. Mary Ursula spoke a kind word or two to encourage her. It was no

time for reproach: even if the Grey Ladies had deemed it their

province to administer it.

Jane was shown to a room. One or two beds were always kept made up in

the Grey Nunnery. Sister Betsey, invariably cheerful and pleasant with

all the world, whether they were good or bad, poor or rich, went in

with Jane and stayed to help her undress, chatting while she did it.

And so the evening came to an end, and the house was at length steeped

in quietness.

But in the middle of the night an alarm arose. Jane Hallet was ill.

Her room was next to that of Sisters Ann and Phoeby they heard her

moaning, and hastened to her.

"Mercy be good to us!" exclaimed the former, startled out of all

equanimity by what she saw and heard. "We must call the Lady Superior.

"No, no; not her," corrected the calmer Sister Phoeby. "It is Sister

Mildred who must deal with this."

So the very unusual expedient was resorted to of disturbing the

ex-Superior in her bed, who was so much older than any of them. Sister

Mildred dressed herself, and proceeded to Jane's room; and then lost

not a minute in despatching a summons for Mr. Parker. He came at once.

At the early dawn of morning the wail of a feeble infant was heard

within the chamber. A small, sickly infant that could not possibly

live. The three Sisters mentioned were alone present. None of the

others had been disturbed.

"The baptismal basin," whispered the elder lady to Sister Ann. "Make

haste."

A china basin of great value that had been an heirloom in the Grant

family, was brought in, half-filled with water. Sister Mildred

rose--she had bent for a minute or two in silent prayer--took the

infant in her arms, sprinkled it with the water, and named it "Jane."

Laying it down gently, those in the room knelt again. Even Mr. Parker,

turning from the bed, put his one knee on a chair.

By the time the Grey Ladies generally rose, all signs and symptoms of

bustle were over. Nothing remained to tell of what the night had

brought forth, save the sick-bed of Jane Hallet, and a dead infant

(ushered into the world all too soon), covered reverently over with a

sheet in the corner.

Breakfast done with, Sister Mildred betook herself up the cliff to

Miss Hallet's, her ear-trumpet hanging from her waist-band. It was a

painful interview. Never had the good Sister witnessed more pitiable

distress. Miss Hallet's share in the pomp and pride of life had not

been much, perhaps: but such as it was, it had now passed away from

her for ever.

"I had far rather have died," moaned the poor lady, in her bitter

feeling, her wounded pride. "Could I have died yesterday morning

before this dreadful thing was revealed, I should have been

comparatively happy. Heaven hears me say it."

"It is a sad world," sighed Sister Mildred, fixing the trumpet to her

ear: "and it is a dreadful thing for Jane to have been drawn into its

wickedness. But we must judge her charitably, Miss Hallet; she is but

young."

Miss Hallet led the Sister upstairs, undid Jane's locked drawer with

the blacksmith's borrowed key, and exhibited its contents as an

additional aggravation in her cup of bitterness. Sister Mildred, a

lover of fine work, could not avoid expressing admiration, as she took

up the things one by one.

"Why, they are beautiful!" she cried. "Look at the quality of the lace

and cambric! No gentleman's child could have better things provided

than these. Poor Jane! she must have known well, then, what was

coming. And such sewing! She learnt that from us!"

"Never, so long as she lives, shall she darken my doors again," was

the severe answer. "You must fancy what an awful shock it was to me,

Sister Mildred, when I opened this drawer last evening; and what I

said to Jane on her entrance, I really cannot recall. I was out of my

mind. Our family has been reduced lower and lower by ill-fortune; but

never yet by disgrace."

"I'm sure I can't understand it," returned the puzzled Sister. "Jane

was the very last girl I could have feared for. Well, well, it cannot

be mended now. We will keep her until she is about again, Miss

Hallet."

"I should put her outside the Nunnery gate to-day!" came the stern

reply.

"That would kill her," said Sister Mildred, shaking her head in

compassion. "And the destroying of her body would not save her soul.

The greater the sin, the greater, remember, was the mercy of our Lord

and Master."

"She can never hold up her head in this world again. And for myself,

as I say, I would far rather be dead than live."

"She won't hold it up as she has held it: it is not to be expected,"

assented Sister Mildred with an emphatic nod. "But--well--we must see

what can be done with her when she's better. Will you come to see her,

Miss Hallet?"

"I come to see her!" repeated the indignant relative, feeling the

proposal as nothing less than an outrage. "I would not come to see her

if she lay dying. Unless it were to reproach her with her shame."

"You are all hardness now," said indulgent Sister Mildred, "and

perhaps I should be in your place: I know what a bitter blow it is.

But the anguish will subside. Time heals the worst sores: and, the

more we are weaned from this world, the nearer we draw to Heaven."

She dropped her trumpet, held Miss Hallet's hand in hers, and turned

to depart. That ruffled lady, after escorting her to the door, turned

the key and shot the bolt, as if she wanted to have no more to do with

the outer world, and would fain deny it entrance.

"Oh ma'am, what a sight o' news is this!" broke forth staring Nancy

Gleason, meeting the Grey Lady face to face at a sudden turning of the

cliff path, and lifting her two hands in reprobation.

It was the first instalment of the public unpleasantness: an

unpleasantness that must perforce arise, and could only be met. Of no

use for Sister Mildred to say "What do you mean?" or "Jane Hallet is

nothing to you." The miserable news had gone flying about the village

from end to end: it could neither be arrested nor the comments on it

checked.

"I can't stay talking this morning, Nancy Gleeson," replied the deaf

lady; who guessed, more than heard, what the theme must be. "You had

better go home to your little ones; they may be setting themselves on

fire again."

"'Twarn't so over long ago she was a lugging our Bessy up the path,

and she looked fit to drop over it; all her breath gone, and her face

the colour o' chalk," continued Nancy, disregarding the injunction.

"Seemed to me, ma'am, then as if 'twas odd. Well, who'd ever ha'

thought it o' Miss Jane Hallet?"

Sister Mildred was yards away, and Nancy Gleeson's words were wasted

on the air. At the foot of the cliff, as she was crossing the road,

Mrs. Bent saw her from the inn door, and came over with a solemn face.

"How is she doing?" asked the landlady, speaking close to Sister

Mildred's ear.

"Pretty well."

"I shall never be surprised at anything after this, ma'am; never:

When Molly, all agape, brought the news in this morning, I could have

sent a plate at her head, for repeating what I thought was nothing but

impossible scandal. Miss Hallet must be fit to hang herself."

"It is a sad, grievous thing for all parties, Mrs. Bent," spoke Sister

Mildred. "Especially for Jane herself."

"One can't help pitying her, poor young thing. To have blighted her

life at her age! And anything that's wanted for her while she's sick,

that the Nunnery may be out of, please send over to me for. She's

heartily welcome to it, Sister Mildred."

The Sister nodded her thanks, and walked on. Mr. Parker overtook her

at the Nunnery door, and they went up together to the sick-room.

Jane lay, white and wan, on the pillow, Sister Mona standing by her

side. She looked so still and colourless that for the moment it might

have been thought she was dead. Their entrance, however, caused her

eyes to open; and then a faint shade of pink tinged her face.

Mr. Parker ordered some refreshment to be administered; and Sister

Mona left to get it. "See that she has it at once," he said, speaking

into the trumpet. "I am in a hurry just now, and cannot stay."

"Is anyone ill?" asked Sister Mildred.

"A child up at the coastguard station is in convulsions, and they have

sent for me in haste. Good-morning, madam, for the present. I'll call

in on my return."

"Only one moment, doctor," cried Sister Mildred, following him out to

the corridor, and speaking in a whisper. "Is Jane in danger?"

"No, I think not. She must be kept quiet."

Infinitely to the astonishment of Sister Mildred, somewhat to her

scandal, Mr. Harry Castlemaine appeared on the staircase, close upon

the descent of the doctor. He must have come into the Nunnery as the

latter let himself out. Taking off his hat, he advanced straight to

Sister Mildred, the open door at which she was standing no doubt

indicating to him the sick-room.

"By your leave, Sister Mildred," he said, with a grave and pleasant

smile--and passed in.

She was too utterly astonished to stop him. But she followed him in,

and laid her arresting hand on his arm.

"Mr. Harry--Harry Castlemaine, what do you mean by this? Do you think,

sir, I can allow it?"

"I must speak a word or two to Jane," he whispered in her ear,

catching up the trumpet of his own accord. "Dear lady, be charitable,

and leave me with her just for a minute, On my honour, my stay shall

not much exceed that." And, partly through his persuasive voice, and

smile, and hands, for he gently forced her to the door, partly in her

own anxiety to obey the doctor's injunction of keeping Jane quiet, and

wholly because she felt bewildered and helpless, Sister Mildred found

herself outside in the corridor again, the door shut behind her.

"My goodness!" cried the perplexed lady to herself. "It's well it's me

that's here, and not the younger Sisters."

In two minutes, or little more, he came out again; his hand held

forth.

"Thank you, dear Sister Mildred. I thank you from my heart."

"No, I cannot take it," she said, turning pointedly away from his

proffered hand.

"Are you so offended that I should have come in!"

"Not at that: though it is wrong. You know why I cannot touch your

hand in friendship, Harry Castlemaine."

He stood a moment as though about to reply; but closed his lips

without making any. "God bless you, dear lady; you are all very good:

I don't know what Greylands would do without you. And--please"--he

added, turning back again a step or two.

"Please what?" demanded Sister Mildred.

"Do not blame her. She does not deserve it. I do."

He went softly down the stairs and let himself out. John Bent was

standing at his door as Harry came in view of the Dolphin, and the

young man crossed over. But, when he got up, John had disappeared

indoors. There was no mistaking that the movement was intentional, or

the feeling that caused the landlord to shun him. Harry Castlemaine

stood still by the bench, evidently very much annoyed. Presently he

began to whistle, slowly and softly, a habit of his when in deep

thought, and looked up and down the road, as if uncertain which way he

should take.

A knot of fishermen had gathered round the small boats on the beach,

and were talking together less lazily than usual: possibly, and indeed

probably, their exciting theme was the morning's news. One of them

detached himself from the rest and came up towards the Dolphin,

remarking that he was going to "wet his whistle." Mr. Tim Gleeson in a

blue nightcap.

To judge by his flushed face and his not altogether steady gait, the

whistle had been wetted already. When he saw Mr. Harry Castlemaine

standing there, he came straight up to him, touching his cap. That

trifling mark of respect he did observe: but when he had got a glass

within him, there was no such hail-fellow-well-met in all Greylands as

Tim Gleeson. He would have accosted Mr. Castlemaine himself.

"In with the tide, Gleeson?" remarked Harry--who was always pleasant

with the men.

"Her's just gone out, sir," returned Gleeson, alluding to the boat. "I

didn't go in her."

"Missed her, eh?" A misfortune Mr. Gleeson often met with.

"Well, I did miss of her, as might be said. I was a-talking over the

news, Mr. Harry, with Tuff and one or two on 'em, and her went and put

off without me."

Harry wondered he was not turned off the boat altogether. But he said

nothing: he ceased to take notice of the man, and resumed his

whistling. Gleeson, however, chose to enter upon the subject of the

"news," and applied a hard word to Jane.

Harry's eagle glance was turned on the man like lightning. "What is

that, Gleeson?" he asked, in a quiet but imperious tone.

And Mr. Tim Gleeson, owing no doubt to the wetting of the whistle, was

so imprudent as to repeat it.

The next moment he seemed to have pins and needles in his eyes, and

found himself flat on the ground. Struck to it by the stern hand of

Mr. Harry Castlemaine.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A TURBULENT SEA.

Boisterous weather. Ethel Reene, her scarlet cloak on, and her hat

tied securely over her ears, was making her way to the top of the

cliff opposite the coastguard station. A somewhat adventurous

expedition in such a wind; but Ethel was well used to the path. She

sat down when she reached the top: dropped down, laughing heartily.

For the blast seized rudely on her petticoats, and sent the silken

cords and tassels of her cloak flying in the air.

A glorious sea. A sea to look at to-day: to excite awe; to impress the

mind with the marvellous works of the Great Creator. "Hitherto shalt

thou come, but no farther. And here shall thy proud waves be stayed."

The waves were leaping mountains high; the foam and spray dashed

aloft; the sound of the roar was like prolonged thunder. Ethel sat

with clasped hands and sobered face and heart, lost in contemplation

of the Majesty seen and unseen. It was not the time for silent thought

to-day, or for telling her secrets to the sea: wonder, praise, awe,

they could alone fill the mind.

"What a grand scene!"

The words were spoken close to her ear, and she turned her head

quickly, holding her hat. The fastenings of her hair had blown away,

and it fell around her in a wave of curls. Mr. North was the speaker.

He had made his way up the rocks to watch this wondrous sea from that

elevated place, not suspecting any one was there.

"I do not think I ever saw it so rough as this," said Ethel, as he

took her hand in greeting, and then sat down beside her.

"I never saw it half as rough; never: but it has not been my privilege

to live near the sea," he answered. "Are you sure it is safe for you

to sit here, Ethel?"

"Oh yes. I am ever so far from the edge, you see."

"I do not know," he doubtingly answered; "the blast is strong. Mr. and

Mrs. Castlemaine might warn you away, did they see you here."

As if to impart weight to his words, a furious gust came sweeping

along and over them. Ethel caught involuntarily to the hard ground,

and bent her head down. Mr. North hastily put his arm round her for

protection.

"You see, Ethel!" he spoke when the rush had subsided. "It is

dangerous for you. Had I not been here, you might have been blown

away."

"No, no; but--perhaps--I should not have remained after that. I do not

think it was ever so fiercely rough."

As he was there, however, and holding her securely, she made no

movement to go. Ah, how could she! was it not all too delicious!--bliss

unutterable!--and the wind was such an excuse. In after years, whether

for her they might be long or short, Ethel would never lose the

remembrance of this hour. The panorama of that turbulent sea would

be one of her mind's standing pictures; the clasp of his arm never

cease, when recalled, to cause her heart to thrill.

They sat on, close together, speaking but a stray word now and then,

for it was nearly as difficult to hear anything said as it would have

been for deaf Sister Mildred. By-and-by, as if the wind wanted a

temporary rest, its worst fury seemed abated.

"I wonder if I could sketch the sea?" cried Mr. North. "Perhaps I

could: if you will help me to hold the book, Ethel."

He had his small sketch-book in his pocket: indeed he rarely went out

without it: and he drew it forth. Ethel held the leaves down on one

side the opened page, and he on the other: with his other hand he

rapidly took the lines of the horizon before him, and depicted the

mountainous billows of the raging sea. Just a few bold strokes--and:

he left the rest to be filled in at a calmer season.

"Thank you that is enough," he said to Ethel. But it took both their

efforts to close the book again securely. The wind had all but torn

its pages out; a lawful prey.

"There are people existing who hate never seen the sea," remarked

Ethel. "I wonder if they can form even a faint conception of the scene

it presents on such a day as this?"

"Thousands and thousands have never seen it," said Mr. North. "Perhaps

millions, taking the world from Pole to Pole."

Ethel laughed at a thought that came to her. "Do you know, Mr. North,

there is an old woman at Stilborough who has never seen it. She has

never in her life been as far as Greylands--only three miles."

"It is scarcely believable."

"No: but it is true. It is old Mrs. Fordham. Her two daughters kept a

cotton and tape shop in New Street. They sell fishing-tackle, too,

and writing-paper, and many other things. If you choose to go and ask

Mrs. Fordham, for yourself, she would tell you she has never had the

curiosity to come as far as as this to see the sea."

"But why?"

"For no reason, she says, except that she has always been a great

stay-at-home. She had a good many children for one thing, and they

took up all the time of her best years."

"I should like to charter a gig and bring the old lady to see it

to-day," exclaimed Mr. North. "I wonder whether she would be

astonished?"

"She would run away frightened," said Ethel, laughing. "Will you

please to tell me what the time is?"

He took out his watch. It was past twelve o'clock; and Ethel had to

go. Mr. North drew her hand within his arm, seemingly as a matter of

course, remarking that he must pilot her down the cliff. Ethel's face

was covered with blushes. She was too timid to withdraw her hand: but

she thought what would become of her should Mr. or Mrs. Castlemaine

meet them. Or even Madame! So they went on arm-in-arm.

"Should I make anything of this sketch," said Mr. North, touching his

pocket that contained the book; "anything of a watercolour I mean, it

shall be yours, if you accept it. A memento of this morning."

"Thank you," murmured Ethel, her lovely face all blushes again.

"You will think of me perhaps when you look at it--once in a way. I may

be far away: divided from you by sea and land."

"Are you going so soon?" she stammered.

"I fear I shall have to go eventually. The--the business that is

keeping me here does not advance at all; neither does it seem likely

to."

"Is business keeping you here?"

"Yes."

"I had no idea of that. Of what nature?"

"It is partly connected with property."

"The property that you told me might come to you by inheritance?"

"Yes. The coming seems very far off, though; farther than ever: and

I--I am doing myself no good by staying."

"No good!" exclaimed Ethel, in surprise.

"In one sense I am not: individually, I am not. For, each day that I

stay will only serve to render the pain of departing more

intolerable."

Their eyes met. Ethel was at no loss to understand. Whether he meant

her to or not he could scarcely have decided. But for exercising some

self-control, he must have spoken out plainly. And yet, to what end?

This fair girl might never become more to him than she was now, and

their mutual love would be flung away to die on the shoals of adverse

fate; as three parts of first love is in this world.

He released her when they were on level ground, and walked side by

side with her as far as Chapel Lane, Ethel's way home to-day. There

they stood to shake hands.

"I wonder if we shall ever again sit together watching a sea such as

this has been!" he said, retaining her hand, and gazing down at her

conscious face.

"We do not get a sea like this above once or twice a year."

"No. And when you get it next, nothing may be left of me here but the

memory. Good-bye, Ethel."

She made her way homewards as swiftly as the wind would allow. Mr.

North, somewhat sheltered under the lee of the Grey Nunnery, once he

had passed the open chapel ruins, gave his mind up to thought. The

little school-children, protected by the walls of the high building,

were playing on the waste ground at "You can't catch me."

His position had begun to cause him very serious reflection: in fact,

to worry him. Nothing could be more uncertain than it was, nothing

more unsatisfactory. Should it turn out that Mr. Castlemaine had had

any hand in injuring Anthony--in killing him, in short--why, then

George North must give up all hope of Ethel. Ethel was to Mr.

Castlemaine as a daughter, and that would be a sufficient bar to

George North's making her his wife. Long and long ago would he have

declared himself to the Master of Greylands but for Charlotte Guise;

he would go to him that very day, but for her, and say, "I am your

nephew, sir, George Castlemaine:" and ask him candidly what he had

done with Anthony. But only the bare mention of this presupposed line

of conduct would upset poor Madame Guise utterly: she had implored,

entreated, commanded him to be silent. He might go away from

Greylands, she said, and leave all the investigation to her; she

did not want him to stay; but to spoil every chance of tracing out

Anthony's fate--and, as she believed, that would spoil it--was not to

be heard of. This chafed Mr. North's spirit somewhat: but he felt that

he could not act in defiance of his brother's widow. The morning's

interview on the cliff with Ethel had not tended to lessen the

uneasiness and embarrassments of his position, but rather to bring them

more clearly before him.

"It would be something gained if I could only ascertain how the estate

was really left," he said to himself as he glanced mechanically at the

shouting children; just as so many others, including his unfortunate

brother, had said before him. "If it be, de facto, my Uncle James's,

why he could have had no motive for wishing Anthony out of the way: if

it was left to my father, why then it was absolutely Anthony's, and

the Uncle James was but a usurper. In that case--but it is very hard

to think so ill of him. I wonder whether--" Mr. North made a pause to

revolve the question--"whether I could get anything out of Knivett?"

Deep in, thought, the Nunnery passed, he unguardedly approached the

open part by the beach. Whirr!--whew! His hat went one way, the skirts

of his coat another. The latter, not being detached, had to return to

their places; but the hat was nowhere.

Harry Castlemaine, chancing to pass, ran and caught it, and brought

it, laughing, to Mr. North. The young men liked each other and were

cordial when they met; but they had not advanced to intimacy. Each had

his reasons for avoiding it: Harry Castlemaine never chose to become

to friendly with any stranger sojourning at Greylands; George North,

under his present pseudo aspect, rather shunned the Castlemaines.

"It is well heads are not loose, as well as hats, or they'd be gone

to-day," said Harry, giving up the hat. "Where's your ribbon?"

"It had come unfastened from my buttonhole. Thank you. What a grand

sea it is!"

"Wonderful. A rare sea, even for Greylands. Good-day."

Like a great many more of us, Mr. North sometimes did things upon

impulse. As he crossed to the Dolphin, holding Ins hat on his head,

the two-horse van came lumbering down the hill by the Nunnery on its

way to Stilborough. Impulse--it certainly was not reason--induced

George North to get inside and go off with it. In due course of time

it conveyed him to Stilborough.

"Can you tell me where Mr. Knivett, the advocate, lives?" he asked of

the driver when he was paying his fare.

"Lawyer Knivett, is it, sir, that you want? He lives close to the

market-house, in the centre of the town."

"Which is my way to it?"

"Go to the end of the street, sir: take the first turning on the left,

New Street, and that will bring you into the street where the

marketplace is. Anybody will tell you which is Lawyer Knivett's."

Just as in the days, some months gone by, poor Anthony had been

directed to the lawyer's house, and readily found it, so did the

younger brother find it now. The brass-plate on the door, "Mr.

Knivett, attorney-at-law," stared him in the face as he halted there.

During the dinner-hour, between half-past one and two, this outer door

was always shut; an intimation that clients were not wanted to call

just then: at other times it was generally, though not invariably,

open: impatient clients would often give it a bang behind them in

escaping. Mr. North rang the bell, and was admitted to the clerk's

room, where a young man, with curled black hair and a nose like a

parrot's, sat behind a desk near the window, writing.

"Can I see Mr. Knivett?" asked George.

The young man stretched his neck forward to take a look at the

applicant. "It's not office-hours," said he in answer, his tone

superlatively distant.

"When will it be office-hours?"

"After two o'clock."

"Can I see him then--if I wait?"

"Well, yes, I suppose you can. There's a chair"--extending the

feather-end of his pen to point it out: which caused the diamond ring

he wore on his finger to flash in the sunlight.

"A vain young dandy," thought George, as he sat down, regarding the

ring, and the curled hair, and the unexceptionable white linen. The

gentleman was, in fact, a distant relative of Squire Dobie's, holding

himself to be far above all the fraternity of men of the law, and

deeming it an extremely hard case that his friends should have put him

into it.

The silence broken only by the scratching of the pen, was interrupted

by the sudden stopping before the house of a horse and gig. An active

little gentleman of middle-age leaped out, came in, and opened the

door of the room.

"Where's Mr. Knivett, Dobie? At his dinner?"

"Yes."

Away went the little gentleman somewhere further on in the house.

Almost immediately he was back again, and Mr. Knivett with him. The

latter opened the door.

"I am going out, Mr. Dobie. Don't know how long I may be detained. Old

Mr. Seaton's taken ill." And, with that, he followed the little

gentleman out, mounted the gig with him, and was gone.

It had all passed so quickly that George North had not space to get in

a word. He supposed his chance of seeing the lawyer for that day was

at an end.

Scarcely had the gig driven off, and Mr. Dobie brought back his head

from gazing after it over the window blind, when there entered a

gentleman in deep mourning: a good-looking man with a somewhat sad

countenance. Mr. Dobie got off his stool with alacrity, and came

forward.

"How are you, Sir William?"

Sir William Blake-Gordon--for it was he--returned the greeting: the

two young men met occasionally in society.

"Can I see Mr. Knivett?" asked Sir William.

"No, that you can't," returned the gentleman-clerk. "Charles Seaton of

the Hill has just fetched him out in a desperate hurry. Knivett, going

out to the gig, put in his head to tell me old Seaton was taken ill.

Wants his will altered, I suppose."

Sir William considered. "Tell Mr. Knivett, then, that I will be here

at about eleven o'clock to-morrow. I wish to see him particularly."

"All right," said Mr. Dobie.

Sir William was turning away, when his eyes fell on George North, who

had then risen preparatory to departure. He held out his hand

cordially, and George North met it. A week or two previously, just

before Sir Richard's death, it chanced that they had met at a country

inn, and were detained there part of a day by a prolonged storm of

rain and thunder. Each had liked the other, and quick acquaintanceship

had been formed.

"Are you still at Greylands, Mr. North?"

"Yes."

"Well, do not forget that I shall be very glad to see you. Come over

at any time."

"Thank you," replied George.

The new baronet went out. Mr. Dobie, witnessing all this, began to

fancy that the gentleman might be somebody worth being civil to.

"I am sorry Knivett should have started off in this sudden way," he

observed, his tone changed to ease, "but I suppose there was no help

for it. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No," returned George, "I fear not. I merely wanted to ask Mr. Knivett

a question about a family in the neighbourhood."

"I dare say I could answer it," said Mr. Dobie. "I know all the best

families as well as Knivett does, or better: been brought up among

them."

"Do you know the Castlemaines?"

"Well, I ought to. My relatives, the Dobies of Dobie Hall, and the

Greylands' Rest people used to be as thick as inkleweavers. Harry

Castlemaine is one of my friends."

George North paused. An idea struck him that perhaps this young man

might be able to give him some information: and, to tell the truth,

though he had come to ask Mr. Knivett to do it, he had very little

hope that the lawyer would. At least there would be no harm in his

putting the question.

"I am a stranger here," he said. "Until some weeks back I never was in

this part of the world or knew a soul that inhabited it. But I have

become acquainted with a few people; and, amidst them, with the

Castlemaines. Did you know the old grandfather, Anthony?"

"Just as well as I know my own grandfather."

"Greylands' Rest was his, I fancy?"

"Of course it was."

"To whom did he leave it?"

"Ah, that's a question," said Mr. Dobie, taking his penknife out to

trim the top of one of his filbert nails. "There was a nephew made his

unexpected appearance on the estate last winter--a son of the elder

brother----"

"I have heard," interrupted George North: "Anthony Castlemaine."

"Just so. Well, he thought Greylands' Rest was his; wanted to put in a

claim to it; but Mr. Castlemaine wouldn't allow it at any price. The

claimant disappeared in some queer manner--you have no doubt heard of

it--and James Castlemaine retains undisturbed possession. Which is

said to be nine points of the law, you know."

"Then, you do not know how it was left? whether it is legally his?"

Mr. Dobie shook his head. "I'd not like to bet upon it, either way. If

forced to do so, I'd lay it against him."

"You think it was left to Anthony Castlemaine," said George North

quickly. "That is, to Anthony's father; Basil, the eldest brother."

"What I think is, that if Mr. Castlemaine could show he had any right

to it, he would show it, and put an end to the bother," spoke Mr.

Dobie.

"But he should be made to do this."

The clerk lifted his eyes from his nails, his eyebrows raised in

surprise. "Who is to make him?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Could not the law?"

"The law must get a leg to stand upon before it can act. It

has no right to interfere with Mr. Castlemaine. That young Anthony--if

he's not dead--might come back and enter a process against him for

restitution, and all that: in that case James Castlemaine would have

to show by what tenure he holds it. But it might be an awfully long

and expensive affair; and perhaps end in nothing."

"End in nothing?"

"Why, you see, if old Anthony Castlemaine simply made a present, while

he was yet living, of Greylands' Rest to James, the latter would have

to swear to it, and the thing would be done with. Some people think it

was so. Others, and I for one, don't fancy it was his at all, but that

poor young Anthony's."

"The Castlemaines have always been held to be men of honour, I

believe?"

"And we should never have doubted James to be one--but for his refusal

to satisfy his nephew and the public. Nothing but that raised a doubt

against him. It is blowing over now."

"You do not know, then, how Greylands' Rest was left, or to whom?"

"No. I don't believe anybody does know, save Mr. Castlemaine himself.

Unless it's Knivett. He may."

"But I dare say Knivett would not tell--even if he were pumped."

Mr. Dobie burst into a laugh at the idea. "Knivett tell the affairs of

any of his clients!" said he. "You might as well set on and pump this

high-backed chair as pump him."

The clerks, two of them, came in from dinner, and no more was said.

George North walked back to Greylands, having taken nothing by his

journey: just as the unfortunate Anthony had walked back to it many

months before. The wind was blowing worse than ever. Several people,

chiefly women, had gathered on the beach to look at the sea; but the

spray and the roar nearly blinded and deafened them. Amidst others

stood Mrs. Castlemaine, Ethel, and Flora: talking to them was the

landlady of the Dolphin, a huge shawl tied over her head. George North

approached.

"It is surely worse than it was this morning!" said George, after

speaking to the ladies.

"And what'll it be when the tide is full up again!" cried Mrs. Bent,

whose tongue was ever of the readiest. "Twenty years I've lived in

this place, and never saw it like this. Look at that wave!--My

patience!"

Almost as the words left her lips, there arose a cry of alarm. The

wave, rearing itself to a towering height, came dashing in on the

beach nearer than was bargained for, and engulfed Miss Flora

Castlemaine. That young damsel, in defiance of commands, had been

amusing herself by running forward to meet the waves and running back

again before the water could catch her. This time she had not been

quite so successful. The force of the water threw her down; and even

as they looked, in the first moment of alarm, they saw her drifting

rapidly out to sea with the returning tide.

Mrs. Castlemaine shrieked wildly. Nearly everybody shrieked. Some ran

here, some yonder; some laid hold of one another in the nervousness

induced by terror: and the child was being washed further out all the

while. But the cries suddenly ceased; breaths were held in suspense:

for one was going out to the rescue.

It was George North. Flinging off his coat and hat, he dashed through

the waves, keeping his footing as long as he could, battling with the

incoming tide. But for the boisterous state of the sea, the rescue

would have been mere child's play; as it was, it cost him some work to

reach and save her. He bore her back, out of the cruel water. She was

quite insensible.

Ethel burst into tears. In the moment's agitation, she was not sure

but she clasped his arm, wet as he was, when striving to pour forth

her thanks. "Oh, how brave you are! How shall we ever repay you!"

He snatched a moment to look back into her eyes, to give her a smile

that perhaps said all too much, and went on with his dripping burden.

"To my house!" cried Mrs. Bent, rushing forward to lead the way.

"There's a furnace of hot water there, for we've got a wash on to-day.

And, Mr. North, sir, you'll just get yourself between the blankets,

if you please, and I'll bring you up a dose of hot brandy-and-water."

To see them all scampering over to the Dolphin, with the

picked-up coat and hat, the wind taking their petticoats behind, the

two wet figures in their midst, and Mrs. Castlemaine wringing her

hands in despair, was a sight for Greylands. But, at least, George

North had saved the child.

The next event that happened to excite the village was the

disappearance of Jane Hallet from the Nunnery. She disappeared, so to

speak. In fact she ran away from it.

Something like a fortnight had elapsed since her illness, or from that

to three weeks, and she was able to walk about her room and do, at her

own request, some sewing for the Sisters. Mr. Harry Castlemaine had

not intruded on the Nunnery again. It was getting time to think of

what was to be done with her: where she was to go, how she was to

live. Jane had been so meek, so humble throughout this illness, so

thankful for the care and kindness shown her, and for the

non-reproach, that the Grey Ladies, in spite of their inward

condemnation, could not help liking her in their hearts almost as much

as they had liked her before, and they felt an anxious interest in her

future. Sister Mildred especially, more reflective than the others by

reason of her years, often wondered what that future was to be, what

it could be. Miss Hallet--shut up in her home, her cheeks pink with

shame whenever she had to go abroad: which she took care should be on

Sundays only; but divine service, such as it was in Greylands, she

would not miss--had never been to the Nunnery to see Jane, or taken

the slightest notice of her. Sister Mildred had paid another visit to

the cliff, and held a second conference with Miss Hallet, but it

resulted in no good for Jane.

"She has blighted her own life and embittered mine," said Miss Hallet.

"Never more can I hold up my head among my neighbours. I will not

willingly see her again; I hope I never shall see her."

"The worst of it is, that all this reprobation will not undo the

past," returned Sister Mildred. "If it would, if it could have served

to prevent it, I'd say punish Jane to the last extreme of harshness.

But it won't."

"She deserves to be punished always."

"The evil has come upon her, and everybody knows it. Your receiving

her again in your home will not add to it or take from it. She has

nowhere else to go."

"I pray you cease, Sister Mildred," said Miss Hallet; and it was plain

to be seen that she spoke with utter pain. "You cannot--pardon me--you

cannot understand my feelings in this."

"What shall you do without Jane? She was very useful to you; she was a

companion."

"Could I ever make a companion of her again? For the rest, I have taken

a little servant--Brown the blacksmith's eldest girl--and I find her

handy."

"If I could but induce you to be lenient, for Jane's sake!" urged the

pleading Sister, desperately at issue between her own respect for Miss

Hallet's outraged feelings and her compassion for Jane.

"I never can be," was the answer, spoken stiffly: but Miss Hallet's

fingers were trembling as she smoothed back her black silk mitten. "As

to receiving her under my roof again, why, if I were ever brought to

do that, I should be regarded as no better than herself. I should be

no better--as I look upon it. Madam, you think it right to ask me

this, I know: but to entertain it is an impossibility."

Sister Mildred dropped her ear-trumpet with a click. The hardness

vexed her. And yet she could but acknowledge that it was in a degree

excusable. But for the difficulties lying in Jane's path, she had

never urged it.

So there the matter rested. Miss Hallet had despatched her new servant

to the Nunnery with a portion of Jane's wardrobe: and what on earth

was to become of Jane the Sisters were unable to conjecture. They

could not keep her: the Nunnery was not a reformatory, or meant to be

one. Consulting together, they at last thought of a plan.

Sister Mildred went one morning into Jane's room. Jane was seated at

the window in a shawl, busy at her work--some pinafores for the poor

little school-children. Her face was prettier than ever and very

delicate, her manner deprecating, as she rose and courtesied to the

late Superior.

"How are you getting on, Jane?"

"I have nearly finished this one, madam," she answered, holding out

the pinafore.

"I don't mean as to work. I mean yourself."

"Oh, I feel nearly quite well now, thank you, madam," replied Jane. "I

get stronger every day."

"I was talking about you with some of the ladies last night, Jane. We

wonder what you are about to do. Have you any plan, or idea of your

own?"

Poor Jane's face took a shade of crimson. She did not answer.

"Not that we wish to hurry you away from us, Jane. You are welcome to

stay, and we intend you to do so, for at least two weeks yet. Only it

will not do to leave considerations off to the last: this is why I

speak to you in time."

Sister Mildred had sat down close by Jane; by bending her ear, she

could do without the trumpet. Jane's hands, slender always, and weak

yet, shook as she held the pinafore.

"Have you formed any plans, Jane?"

"Oh no, ma'am."

"I thought so," returned Sister Mildred, for indeed she did not see

what plans Jane, so lonely and friendless, could form. "When we cannot

do what we would, we must do what we can--that used to be one of your

copies in small-hand, I remember, Jane."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, my dear, I don't want to speak harshly, but I think you must

apply it to yourself. You can no longer do what you would: you will

have to do what you can. I am sorry to say that your aunt continues

inexorable: she will not shelter you again."

Jane turned to the table for her handkerchief. The tears were

trickling down her face.

"We--the Sisters and myself--think it will be the best for you to take

an easy place as servant----"

"As servant!" echoed Jane, looking startled.

"As servant for light work in a good family far away from here. Sister

Margaret thinks she can manage this--her connections are very good,

you know. Of course the truth must be told to them; but you will be

taken care of, and made happy--we would not else place you--and have

the opportunity afforded you of redeeming the past, so far as it may

be redeemed. You don't like this, I'm afraid, Jane; but what else is

there that's open to you?"

Jane was sobbing bitterly. She suddenly stooped and kissed the

Sister's hand; but she made no answer.

"I will talk with you again to-morrow," said Sister Mildred, rising.

"Think it over, Jane--and don't sob like that, child. If you can

suggest anything better, why we'll listen to it. We only want to help

you, and to keep you out of harm for the future."

Jane was very sad and silent all that day. In the evening, after dark,

Sister Caroline, who had been out on an errand, came in with rounded

eyes, declaring she had seen Jane Hallet out of doors. The ladies

reproved her. Sister Caroline often had fancies.

"If it was not Jane Hallet it was her ghost," cried Sister Caroline,

lightly. "She was under the cliff by the sea. I never saw anybody so

much like Jane in my life."

"Have you been down under the cliff?" questioned Sister Charlotte.

"I went there for a minute or two with poor old Dame Tuff," explained

the Sister. "She was looking after Jack, who had been missing since

morning: she thought he might be lying under the cliff after too much

ale. While we were peering into all the holes and shady places,

somebody ran by exactly like Jane."

"Ran by where?"

"Close along, between us and the sea. Towards the Limpets."

"But nobody could want anything that way. They might be drowned."

"Well, it looked like Jane."

"Hush!" said one of the graver ladies. "You know it could not be Jane

Hallet. Did you find Jack Tuff?"

"No: his poor mother's gone home crying. What a trouble sons are!

But--may I go and see if Jane is in her room?"

It was really very obstinate of Sister Caroline: but she was allowed

to go. Down she came with a rush.

Jane was not in her room.

Several of the Sisters, excited by the news, trooped up in a body to

see. Very true. The room had been made neat by Jane, but there was no

trace of herself. On the table lay some lines in pencil addressed to

Sister Mildred.

A few lines of grateful, heartfelt thanks for the kindness shown to

her, and an imploring hope that the ladies would think of her with as

little harshness as they could. But not a single word to tell of

whither she had gone.

"Pray Heaven she has not done anything rash!" mentally cried Sister

Mildred with pale cheeks, as she thought of the dangers of the path

that led to that part of the coast called the Limpets.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

CHANGED TO PARADISE.

The winter season was coming in, but not yet winter weather, for it

was mild and balmy: more like a fine September than the close of

November.

The glass doors of the red parlour at Greylands' Rest were thrown open

to the garden, and to the very few autumn flowers that yet lingered

around the window. Dinner was over, and the ladies were back in the

parlour again. Little Marie Guise was spending the day there, and was

now playing at cat's-cradle with Flora: her mother was talking with

Mrs. Castlemaine. Ethel sat drawing.

"Dear me! I think this is Miss Castlemaine."

The words were Madame's, and they all looked up. Yes; advancing round

from the wide garden-path in her grey dress and with her stately step,

came Mary Ursula. Seeing them sitting there, and the doors open, she

had turned aside on her way to the front entrance. Ethel ran out.

"How good of you, Mary! Have you come to stay the afternoon?"

"No, Ethel, dear. I want to see my uncle. Is he at home?"

"I think so. We left him at table. Come in."

Mrs. Castlemaine made much of the visitor. Disliking Mary Ursula at

heart, thankful that she had joined the Grey Sisterhood for good and

was out of the way of Greylands' Rest, Mrs. Castlemaine made a great

show of welcome at these chance visits.

"And why can you not stay now you are here?" asked Mrs. Castlemaine,

purring upon Mary as she sat down. "Do take your bonnet off."

"I would stay if I could," said Mary, "but I must be back again by

four o'clock. Mr. Knivett sent me a note this morning to say he should

be over at that hour with some papers that require my signature."

"Then, Mary, why did you not come some afternoon when you were not

expecting Mr. Knivett?" sensibly asked Ethel.

"Because I had to come to-day, Ethel. I wish to see my uncle."

"I suppose you have been busy with your money and your executorship,"

spoke Mrs. Castlemaine. "You must feel quite rich."

"I do," said Mary, with earnest truth. Looking back, she had not

thought herself so rich in her anticipated many, many thousands a year

then, as she felt now with these two or three bequeathed hundreds of

additional income. "We are rich or poor by comparison, you know," she

said, smiling. "And what is Marie doing?--learning to play at cat's

cradle?"

Marie snatched the thread from Flora, and ran up to her: she could

speak a little English now.

"Lady play wi' Marie!

"Why, my dear little child, I think I have forgotten how to play,"

returned Mary. "Flora can play better than I can. Flora is none the

worse for that accident, I hope?" she added to Mrs. Castlemaine. "But

how serious it might have been!"

"Oh, don't, don't talk of it," cried Mrs. Castlemaine, putting her

hands before her eyes to shut out the mental vision. "I shall never

see a furious sea again without shuddering."

"It is beautifully calm to-day," said Mary, rising to go into the

dining-room to her uncle. "Like a mill-pond."

Mr. Castlemaine was no longer in the dining-room. Miles putting the

wine and dessert away, said his master had gone up to his room to

write letters. So Mary went after him.

Several days had passed now since the departure of Jane Hallet from

the Nunnery. And the longer the time elapsed without news of her, the

greater grew the marvel of Greylands. The neighbours asked one another

whether Jane had mysteriously disappeared for good, after the fashion

of Anthony Castlemaine. It was rumoured that the affair altogether,

connected with Jane, had much annoyed the Master of Greylands. He was

supposed to have talked sharply to his son on the subject; but how

Harry received it, or what he replied, was not known. Harry rather

shunned home just then, and made pretext for excursions to distant

places, which kept him out for a day or two at a time.

But a worse doubt than any was gaining ground: the same doubt that had

crossed Sister Mildred the night of the disappearance. Had Jane

committed any rash act? In short, to speak out boldly, for it is what

Greylands did, people thought that Jane must have flung herself into

the sea. The way to the Limpet rocks--once old Dame Dance's cottage

was passed--led to nowhere but the rocks: and nobody in their senses

would seek them at night if they wanted to come away alive. Clearly

there was but one inference to be drawn: Jane was under the water.

Of course, it was entirely inconsistent with Greylands' neighbourly

outspokenness that this dismal conviction should long be concealed

from Miss Hallet. Perhaps it was considered a matter of conscience to

make it known to her. Mrs. Pike at the shop was the first to run up,

and undertake the communication.

Miss Hallet received it in cold silence: for all the world as if she

had been a stock or a stone, as Mrs. Pike related afterwards: and for

a day or two she held on in her course of high-mightiness. But it

could not last. She had human feelings, as well as other people: it

might have been that they were all the keener from her outward shell

of impassive coldness; and they made themselves heard in spite of her

injured pride. The news shocked her; the more she tried to drive it

from her mind, the more persistently it came back to take up its abode

there: and at length a whole flood-tide of remorse and repentance set

in: for she asked herself whether she--she--had helped to drive Jane

to her dreadful fate. It is one thing to browbeat our friends to

within an inch of their lives: but quite another thing to shut them

into their coffins.

On the second evening, when twilight was sufficiently dim to enfold

her within its shade, Miss Hallet went down to seek an interview with

Sister Mildred at the Nunnery; and was admitted to her. Mary Ursula

Castlemaine was also in the room, writing at a table apart: but she

did not interfere in any way, or take part in the conversation.

"I have come to know the truth of this," gasped Miss Hallet, whose

every effort to suppress her agitation and to appear cold as usual,

served to impede her breath. "At least, madam, so far as you can tell

it me."

"But, my dear, good woman, I can't tell you anything," briskly

returned Sister Mildred, speaking with her trumpet to her ear. "We

don't know what to think ourselves. I wish we did."

They were sitting side by side on the well-worn horsehair sofa, which

was drawn close to the fire. Mary was in the further corner behind

them, a shade on the candle by which she wrote. Miss Hallet untied the

strings of her bonnet, as if in need of air.

"Jane cannot have put an end to her life!" spoke Miss Hallet, her

trembling lips betokening that she felt less assured of the fact than

the words implied. "She was too religious a girl for anything so

desperately wicked; too well-principled."

"That is what I tell myself ten times a day," returned Sister Mildred.

"Or try to."

"Try to!" echoed Miss Hallet.

"Well, you see--you see--" Sister Mildred spoke with hesitation,

between wishing to tell just the truth and dislike to say what must

inflict pain--"you see, the thought that keeps intruding on me is

this: having been deceived in my estimation of Jane's good principles

on one point, one is obliged to feel less sure of them on another."

A groan broke from Miss Hallet; she coughed to cover it. But in

another moment her misery got the better of her, and all reticence was

thrown away.

"Oh, if you can help me to find her--if you can give me a hope that

she is still living, do so, dear lady, for heaven's sake," she

implored, placing her hands, in her irrepressible agitation, on the

arm of Sister Mildred. "Let me not have her death upon my conscience!"

The good Sister took both the hands and held them in hers. "For my own

sake, I would do it if I could," she gently said. "To find Jane, I

would forfeit a good deal that is precious to me."

"It is killing me," said Miss Hallet. "It will kill me speedily unless

this incertitude can be ended. For the past two days, I have not had

one moment's peace. Night and day, night and day, the one dreadful

doubt is upon me with a harrowing torment. Where is Jane?"

"We cannot think where she can be," said Sister Mildred, shaking her

head. "Nobody seems to know."

A moment's silence, and then the sound of hysterics burst upon the

room: cries, and sobs, and catchings of the breath. Miss Hallet had

not given way like this even when her nephew died.

But, alas, they could give her no satisfaction, no comfort. Sister

Mildred, shaking hands with her before departure, spoke cheerfully of

hope, of "looking on the bright side of things," but it was very

negative consolation.

"My dear, did you take note of what passed?" questioned Sister Mildred

of Mary Ursula, when they were alone. "How distressing this is!"

Mary rose from her desk and came forward. "My heart was aching for her

all the time," she said. "Miss Hallet may have acted somewhat harshly;

but she has my greatest pity. I wish I could relieve her!"

"If anyone in this world knows where Jane is, it must be Mr. Harry

Castlemaine," observed Sister Mildred in a cold, subdued whisper.

"That is, if she be still alive. I wonder, my dear, whether we might

ask him."

"Whether he would give any information, you mean," replied Mary Ursula.

"He ought to; and I think he would. Though, perhaps, it might be

better got at through his father."

"Through his father!" echoed Sister Mildred, quickly. "Oh, my dear, we

should never dare to question the Master of Greylands."

"I would: and will," concluded Mary Ursula.

It was in pursuance of this resolve that Mary had come up this

afternoon to Greylands' Rest. Harry had gone to Newerton for a day or

two, this time really upon business. Mary went upstairs and knocked at

her uncle's door.

The Master of Greylands was doing nothing. He had apparently been

writing at his bureau, for the flap was down, one drawer stood out and

some papers were lying open. He had quitted it, and sat back in a

chair near the window; his eyes resting on the calm sea stretched out

in the distance. Which sea, however, he never saw; his thoughts were

far away.

"Nothing has gone right since that fatal night," he said to himself,

his brow knitted into lines of pain. "Teague has said all the summer

that suspicions are abroad--though I think he must be wrong; and now

there's this miserable trouble about Harry and that girl! For myself,

I seem to be treading on a volcano. The stir after Anthony is not at

an end yet: I am sure of it; instinct warns me that it is not: and

should a comprehensive search be instituted, who can tell where it

would end, or what might come to light?"

A log of blazing wood fell on the hearth with a splutter and crash.

Mr. Castlemaine looked round mechanically: but all was safe. The room

was just as lonely and bare as usual: no signs of life or occupation

in it, save the master himself and the papers in the open bureau.

"When men look askance at me," ran on his thoughts, "it makes my blood

boil. I am living it down; I shall live it down; but I have not dared

to openly resent it and that has told against me. And if the stir

should arise again, and unpleasant facts come out--why then it would

be all over with the good name of the Master of Greylands. The world

calls me proud: and I am proud. Heaven knows, though, that I have had

enough this year to take pride out of me."

A deep sigh, telling of the inward trouble, escaped him. Men whose

minds are at ease cannot sigh like that.

"It has been an unlucky year for the Castlemaines: a fatal year. After

a long tide of prosperity such years do come, I suppose, to a family.

Peter's trouble first, and his uncertain death:--and what a near shave

it was, the staving off disgrace from his name! Anthony's intrusion

and the trouble he gave me, and then his death: that, unfortunately,

had nothing uncertain about it. The cloud that fell upon me, and that

lasts still; and now, Teague's doubts; and now again, Harry! Better

for me, perhaps, to get out of it all, while the opportunity remains."

A heavy sigh broke from him, coming apparently from the very depth of

his heart. He put his elbow on the arm of his chair, and leaned his

brow upon his hand.

"Poor Anthony," he moaned, after a pause. "Oh, if the doings of that

night could but be recalled! I would give the best years of my

remaining life to undo its fatal work. Just one moment of mad,

impetuous passion, and it was all over! What can his friends be about,

I wonder, that they have not come to see after him? I thought he said

he had a brother, at that first interview; but I have never been sure,

for I was feeling resentful, half checkmated, and I would not listen

to him. I am certain he said he had a sister--married, I think, to a

Frenchman. They have not come; they do not write: French people don't

care for their relatives, perhaps--and they must be French rather than

English. If Anthony----"

A gentle knock at the door had been unheard by Mr. Castlemaine: a

second knock was followed by the entrance of Mary Ursula in her

Sister's dress. So entirely was Mr. Castlemaine buried in these

unpleasant, far away scenes, that just for a moment he stared at the

intruder, his mind completely absent. Mary could not help noticing his

haggard look and the pain that sat in his eyes.

"Why, Mary Ursula, is it you?" he cried, starting up. "Come in, my

dear."

With a rapid movement, as he advanced to meet her, he swept the papers

back and closed the bureau. Taking her hands in his he kissed her, and

put a chair for her near the fire. But Mary would not sit down. She

had not time, she said: and she went and stood by the window.

It was not a pleasant matter for her to enter upon, and she spoke very

slightly and briefly. Just saying that if he, her uncle, had learnt

anything through his son of Jane Hallet, it would be a relief to the

Grey Ladies if he would impart it, and especially to the aunt, who was

in a distressing state of suspense; fears, that Jane had made away

with herself, existing in Greylands.

"My dear, I know nothing whatever of her," said Mr. Castlemaine,

standing at the window by the side of his niece. "The whole of the

affair has been most grievous to me, most annoying--as you may well

conceive. I had some words with Harry at the time; sharp ones; and it

has created a sort of coolness between us. Since then, we have

mutually avoided the subject."

Mary sighed. "I cannot help being sorry for Jane," she said, "whatever

may be the end. She is too good to have lost herself. You do not know,

Uncle James, how nice she is."

"'Sorry' is not the word for it," emphatically spoke the Master of

Greylands, his stern tone meant for his absent son. "I always held the

Hallets in respect."

Mary turned from the window to depart. Other things were perplexing

her as well as this unfortunate business. It struck her more and more

how ill her uncle looked; ill, and full of care. Lines had begun to

indent themselves on his once smooth brow.

"Are you well, Uncle James?" she stayed to say.

"Why do you ask?"

"You do not look well. There is something in your face now

that--that----"

"That what, child?"

"That reminds me of papa. As he looked the last month or two of his

life."

"Ay. I have had some worry lately, from more sources than one. And

that tries a man's looks, Mary, worse than all."

He attended her downstairs. She said farewell to the red parlour, and

commenced her walk back to the Nunnery.

Somewhat later, before the dusk of the November evening came on,

Madame Guise attired herself to take home Marie. The little girl was

showing symptoms of a delicate chest, and the Sisters had begged her

mother to let her be in betimes. To please the child they went on

through the back buildings, which were at some distance from the

house, that she might see the ducks, and cocks and hens.

Quitting the fold-yard to cross the meadow, which would bring them

round to the avenue, they came upon Mr. North. He sat on the stump of

a tree, sketching a bit of the old barn.

"Are you here, George!" spoke Madame. "What are you doing?"

He held out the sketch to show her: pulling little Marie to him at the

same time, to give her a kiss.

"Why you not come to see me?" asked the child in French. For she had

taken a great fancy to this pleasant gentleman, who sometimes had

bonbons in his pocket for her, calling him, at the Nunnery, little

incipient coquette, le joli monsieur.

"Ah, I think I must come and see Miss Marie one of these fine days.

Does Marie like dolls?"

"I like four, five dolls," said Marie.

"Four, five!" laughed George. "Why it would be an army. We shall have

to dismantle a shop.

"I must be going, Marie," said her mother. "And you will have to make

haste with that drawing, George. You will not see very much longer."

"Oh, I shall finish it."

"Have you heard anything, George--gathered anything--that can throw

light on poor Anthony?" she looked back, to ask in a whisper.

"Never a word," he answered.

"Nor I. I begin almost to despair. Au revoir."

Meanwhile, indoors, Mr. Castlemaine had gone up to his room again, and

Flora in the red parlour was making herself disagreeable as usual. The

young lady's insistence that Marie should stay to tea had met with no

response, and she was sulky in consequence.

For some little time she relieved herself by kicking her feet about,

throwing down the fire-irons, and giving shakes to the table to

disturb Ethel. By-and-by, when it grew dusk, and Mrs. Castlemaine had

to hold her book very close to her eyes and Ethel to put up her

drawing, the young lady saw a larger field for annoyance. Advancing to

the piano, she brought both her hands down on the keys with her whole

might. The result was a crash that might have aroused the seven

sleepers.

"How dare you, Flora?" exclaimed Ethel. "Don't you know the piano was

tuned this week?"

A derisive laugh: and another crash.

"Mamma, will you speak to her?"

Crash the third. Mrs. Castlemaine, absorbed by her book of romance,

took no notice whatever.

"Do you think I will have my piano served in that way and the wires

broken?" cried Ethel, starting up. "What a dreadful child you are!"

A tussle--for the young lass was strong, and was leaning with her

whole weight and her two arms on the keys--and then Ethel succeeded in

shutting and locking it. It was Ethel's own piano: a present to her

from Mr. Castlemaine, and a beautiful instrument. Mademoiselle la

méchante turned to the table, took up Ethel's drawing-book and began

rumpling the leaves.

"Oh, mamma, mamma, why do you not speak to her?" cried Ethel, in

distress, as she tried to get possession of the book, and failed.

"Mamma!"

"How tiresome you are, Ethel!" exclaimed Mrs. Castlemaine explosively:

for her story was at a most interesting part, and she could not be

disturbed during these last few moments of daylight. "Sit down and be

quiet. The dear child would do no harm, if you only let her alone."

The dear child had retreated to the open part of the room beyond the

table, and was dancing there like a little maniac, flirting over the

leaves at Ethel in derision. These petty annoyances are hard to bear.

Injustice is hard to bear, even where the temper is naturally as sweet

as Ethel's.

"Give me that book," said Ethel, going up to Flora.

"I shan't."

"I tell you, Flora, to give it to me."

Flora was holding the book open above her head, a cover stretched in

each hand, and laughing an ugly, mocking laugh. Suddenly, without

warning, she dashed it full in Ethel's face: a pretty sharp blow.

Smarting, angry, Ethel seized the tiresome child by the arms. Flora

shrieked, and called out in a rage that Ethel was pinching her. Very

likely it might be so, for the grasp was a tight one. Flora dropped

the book, and struck Ethel in the face with all the force of her

wrathful hand. Her pale face tingling with the smart, agitated,

indignant, but the book secured, Ethel stood before Mrs. Castlemaine.

"Am I to bear this, mamma?--and you look on and say nothing!"

"You should let her alone: it is your own fault," contemptuously

retorted Mrs. Castlemaine.

Justice in that house for her!--unless Mr. Castlemaine was at

hand!--Ethel had long ceased to hope for it. But the present moment was

unusually bitter; it tried her terribly. She quitted the room; and,

seeing the hall-door open, ran out in a storm of tears and sobs, and

dashed along the path.

It was dusk but not dark; the bared trees, the wintry shrubs, the cold

beds telling of the departed flowers, all spoke of loneliness. But not

more lonely, they, than Ethel.

She stood when she came to the outer gate and flung her arms upon it,

sobbing bitterly; gazing down the avenue, as if longing to go forth

into the world for ever. Alas, there was no chance of that; she was

tied to this home, so oftentimes made miserable. Had Ethel been poor

she might have gone out as governess: but that plea could not be

raised.

Bending her face upon her hands, which rested still upon the gate, she

gave way to all the minute's gloomy anguish, weeping aloud. Not a

living being was in sight or hearing; she believed herself as much

alone as though it had been some unpeopled desert and could indulge

her passionate grief at will.

"Oh Ethel, what is this?"

It was a soft, low, pained voice that spoke the words in her ear; a

fond hand was laid upon her head; the only voice, the only hand that

could have thrilled her heart.

Mr. North, passing into the avenue on his way home from sketching the

piece of the old barn, his portfolio being under his arm, had come

upon her thus. Opening the gate, he drew her on to the bench under the

high laurel trees and sat down by her.

"Now, tell me what it is?"

Beguiled by the seduction of the moment, smarting still under the

treatment she had received, contrasting his loving, gentle kindness

with the cruel indifference of the only mother she had ever known,

Ethel sobbed out a brief account of what had passed. His breast heaved

with angry passion.

"Is it often so, Ethel?"

"Oh yes, very. It has been so for years. I have never had any one to

really love me since my father died; I have never known what it is to

have a securely happy home: only this one of frequent turbulence. I

wish I could run away from it!"

He was no more prudent than she. He forgot wisdom, circumstances,

reason: all. His breath short, his words unchosen, he poured forth the

tale of his love, and asked her if she would be his wife. Ethel bent

her face on his coat-sleeve, and cried silent, happy tears.

"You know, you must know, how I have loved you, Ethel. I should have

spoken long ago, but that circumstances held me back. Even now I fear

that I cannot speak openly to Mr. Castlemaine: it may be some little

time first. But oh, my darling, you have not, you cannot have mistaken

my love."

Not a word. It was early yet for confession from her. But her face was

still on his arm.

"For one thing, I am not rich, Ethel. I have quite enough for comfort,

but not that which would give you a home like this. And Mr.

Castlemaine----"

"I would rather be in a cottage with bread, than here," she

interrupted, all her candour rising to the surface.

"And Mr. Castlemaine may not choose that you shall pit this house for

one less well set-up, I was about to say, my love," he went on. "What

we might find sufficient competence, he might deem poverty."

"I have plenty of money of my own," said Ethel simply.

"Have you?" cried Mr. North, in a surprised and anything but a

gratified tone. He had certainly never known or suspected that she had

money; and he foresaw that the fact might be only an additional reason

for Mr. Castlemaine's rejection of him. "It may be so much the worse

for us, Ethel. I may come into money myself; quite sufficient to

satisfy even Mr. Castlemaine; or I may not. It is this uncertainty

that has helped to keep me silent. But come what will now, we cannot

part."

No, they could never part. Heart beating against heart, knew and

ratified it. He gathered her face to his, whispering his sweet

love-vows as he kissed off its tears.

And, for Ethel, the lonely surroundings, the dreary paths, the bare

beds, the wintry trees, seemed suddenly to have changed into the

Garden of Paradise.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE LAST CARGO.

At the window of her bedroom in the Grey Nunnery, steadily

gazing out to sea, stood Mary Ursula Castlemaine. The night was almost

as light as though the moon were shining: for a sort of light haze,

partially covering the skies, seemed to illumine the earth and make

things visible.

December had come in, but the weather was still balmy: people said to

one another that they were going to have no winter. It had been one of

those exceptional years when England seems to have borrowed some more

genial climate: since the changeable spring there had been only smiles

and sunshine.

As the days and weeks had gone on since that communication made to

Miss Castlemaine by Walter Dance the night of his accident (to be

retracted by him in the morning), the doubt in her mind and the

uneasiness it caused rarely gave her rest. She had not dared to speak

of it to Mr. Castlemaine: had she been perfectly sure that he was in

ignorance in regard to it--in short, to speak out plainly, that he was

not implicated, she would have told him all; but the uncertainty

withheld her. The evidence of her own senses she could not question,

therefore she did believe, that the wholesale smuggling, confessed to

by young Dance in his fear of death, was an actual fact--that cargoes

of lace, and what not, were periodically run. The question agitating

her was--had, or had not, this treason the complicity of the Master of

Greylands? If it had, she must be silent on the subject for ever; if

it had not, why then she would like to communicate with himself upon

it. For an idea had taken firm hold of her, arising she knew not from

what instinct, that the ill-fate of Anthony--had any ill-fate in truth

overtaken him--must have arisen through the doings of one of these

disturbed nights when the Friar's Keep was invaded by lawless bands of

sailors.

It was for this reason she could not rest; it was this never-forgotten

thought that disturbed her peace by day and her sleep by night. The

smuggling and the smugglers she would only have been too glad to

forget; but the mysterious fate of Anthony lay on her mind like a

chronic nightmare. Another thing, too, added to her disquietude. The

Grey Monk, about which nothing had been heard for some weeks past, was

now, according to public rumour, appearing again.

In her heart she suspected that this Grey Monk and all the rest of the

mystery had to do with the smuggling and with that only. Reason told

her, or strove to tell her, that Commodore Teague was the principal in

it all, the cunning man, for whom the goods were run; and she tried to

put down that latent doubt of Mr. Castlemaine that would rise up

unbidden. If she could but set that little doubt at rest! she was ever

saying to herself. If she could but once ascertain that her uncle had

nothing to do with the unlawful practices, why then she would disclose

to him what she knew, and leave him to search out this clue to the

disappearance of Anthony.

Many a night had she stood at her casement window as she was standing

now; though not always, perhaps oftener than not. But not until

to-night had she seen the same two-masted vessel--or what she took to

be the same. It had certainly not been visible at sunset: but there it

lay now, its masts tapering upwards, and its shape distinctly visible

in the white haze, just in the same spot that it had been that other

night.

Mary wrapped herself up, and put her casement window open, and sat

down and watched. Watched and waited. As the clocks told midnight,

some stir was discernible on board; and presently the small boats, as

before, came shooting out from the ship through the water. There could

be no mistake: another of those nefarious cargoes was about to be run.

With a pale face but resolute heart, Mary Ursula Castlemaine rose up.

She would go forth again through the secret passage, and look on at

these men. Not to denounce them; not to betray her presence or her

knowledge of what they were about; but simply to endeavour to

ascertain whether her uncle made one at the work.

Procuring the keys and the dark lantern, Mary started. There was some

delay at setting out, in consequence of her being unable to open the

first door. Try with all her force, though she would and did, she

could not turn the key in the lock. And she was on the point of giving

it up as hopeless, when the key yielded. At least a quarter of an hour

must have been hindered over this.

It was colder by far in the passage than it had been those other

nights, for the time of the year was later: cold, and damp, and

wofully dreary. Mary's courage oozed out at every step. Once she

paused, questioning whether she could go on with this, but she

reasoned herself into it. She reached the other end, set her light on

the floor, and put the key into this second door.

Meanwhile the boats had come in, been hauled up on the beach, and the

goods were being landed. The men worked with a will. They wore

sea-boots and waded through the water with the bales on their

shoulders. Much jabbering was carried on, for some of the sailors were

foreigners; but all spoke in covert tones. No one could be near enough

to hear them, by land or by sea; they felt well assured of that; but

it was always best to be prudent. The sailors were working as they

worked on board ship, open and undisguised; Commodore Teague was

undisguised; but the other three men--for there were three

others--wore capes and had huge caps tied on over their ears and brows;

and in the uncertain light their best friends might not have known

them. Two of these, it is as well to say it, were Tom Dance and his

son; the other was a tall, slender, fine-figured young man, who seemed

to look on, rather than to work, and who had not the heavy

sea-boots on. But there was no sign of the Master of Greylands. The

bales were carried up and put down in the dry, close to the walls of

the Keep. When all the goods that were to come out of the ship should

be landed, then the sailors would help to carry them through the

passage to the cellars of the Hutt, before finally returning on board.

"Where you lay de pistols?" asked a sailor in imperfect English, as he

slung down a huge bale from his shoulder.

"Down there as usual, Jansen," replied another, pointing to some

raised stone-work projecting from the walls of the Keep. "And the

cutlasses too. Where should they be!"

"What do Jansen ask that for, Bill?" questioned one, of the last

speaker.

"I get a bad dream last night," said Jansen, answering for himself. "I

dream we all fighting, head, tail, wi' dem skulking coastguard. 'Jack,'

he says to me in dream, 'where de knives, where de pistols?'--and we

search about and we not find no knives, no pistols, and dey overpower

us, and I call out, an' den I wake."

"I don't like them dreams," cried one of the ship's crew. "Dreams be

hanged; there's nothing in 'em," struck in Tom Dance. "I dreamed one

night, years ago, as my old mother was lying dead afore me: stead o'

that, she told me next day she'd get married again if I didn't behave

myself."

"Bear a hand here, Dance," said the Commodore.

At this moment, there was heard the sounds of a boat, clashing up

through the waters.

Before the men could well look out, or discover what it meant, she was

close in, and upon them. A boat that had stolen silently out from

under the walls of the Grey Nunnery, where she had been lying

concealed, waiting to pounce upon her prey. It was a boat belonging to

the preventive service, and it contained Mr. Superintendent Nettleby

and his coastguardsmen. After years of immunity the smugglers were

discovered at last.

"In the King's name!" shouted the superintendent, as he sprung into

the shallow water.

M. Jansen's dream had not told him true; inasmuch as the pistols and

cutlasses lay ready to hand, and were at once snatched up by their

owners. A desperate fight ensued; a hand-to-hand struggle: pistols

were fired, oaths were hissed out, knives were put to work. But though

the struggle was fierce it was very short: all the efforts of the

smugglers, both sailors and landsmen, were directed to securing their

own safety by escaping to the ship. And just as Mary Ursula appeared

upon the scene, they succeeded in pushing the boats off, and

scrambling into them.

Mary was horror-struck. She had bargained for seeing rough men running

packages of goods; but she had never thought of fighting and cries and

murder. Once within the vaults of the Friar's Keep the noise had

guided her to the open door she had seen before, open again now; and

she stood there sick and trembling.

They did not see her; she took care of that: hiding behind a pillar,

her lantern darkened, she peeped out, shivering, on the scene. In the

confusion she understood very little; she saw very little; though the

cause of it all was plain enough to her mind--the smugglers had been

surprised by the preventive men. In the preventive-service boat lay a

bound and wounded sailor-prisoner, and also one of the customs' men who

had been shot through the leg: not to speak of minor wounds and

contusions on both sides. Of all that, however, Mary knew nothing until

later. There she stood close to the scene of turmoil, hearing the harsh

voices, the rough words, glancing out at the pile of goods, and at the

dusky figures before her, moving about in the night. It was like a

panoramic picture dimly seen.

Almost as by sleight of hand, for Mary did not see how or where they

went, the men and the commotion disappeared together. The ship's

boats, unfollowed, were hastening away to the ship; but what became of

Mr. Nettleby and his staff? A moment ago, the small portion of the

beach close before her, that was not under water, had been alive with

the preventive men; Mary had recognised the superintendent's voice as

he shouted out some order, and now not a soul was visible. No doubt

they were exploring the inner corners of this bit of beach, never

suspected of fraud, never visited by his Majesty's servants until now.

She cautiously advanced a step or two and looked out. There lay,

hauled up on the beach halfway, the waiting boat, which she supposed

to be unoccupied: the two wounded men, one of them having fainted from

loss of blood, were lying down flat in it, invisible to her.

A short while, and the officers reappeared. Mary drew back and went

behind a pillar. Some of them got into the boat, and it was pushed

off; three of them remained, either from want of space in the boat, or

to keep guard over the goods; one of them was Mr. Nettleby.

Of what use for Mary to stay? None. She could not solve the doubt

touching her uncle. Oh, that she had never come! she kept thinking to

herself; that she had not had this most dreadful scene portrayed to

her! Never again, she felt all too certain of it, should she attempt

to enter the Keep by the subterranean passage.

Pushing up the slide of one side of the lantern to guide her steps,

she was retracing her way through the vaults, when a ray of the light

flashed upon a figure. A moving figure in woman's clothes, that seemed

to be endeavouring to hide itself. Mary lifted her lantern, and saw

the face of Jane Hallet.

Of Jane Hallet! Just for a moment or two a sickness as of some

supernatural fear seized upon Miss Castlemaine. For Jane had never

been heard of yet in Greylands, and very little doubt existed that she

had found her bed at the bottom of the sea. The dark hood she was in

the habit of wearing at night had fallen back from her face: her eyes

wore a strange, terrified, appealing look in the sudden and startling

light.

Recovering her better reason, Mary laid her detaining hand upon her

before she could escape. Which of the two faces was the whiter, it

were hard to say.

"It is you, Jane Hallet!"

"Yes, madam, it is me," gasped Jane in answer.

"Where have you been all this while, and whence do you come? And what

brings you in this place now?"

The explanation was given in a few brief sentences. Jane, alarmed at

the idea presented to her by the Grey Ladies of going out to service,

against which step there existed private reasons, had taken straight

refuge in Dame Dance's cottage under the cliff; she had been there

ever since and was there still. Old Mrs. Dance was like a mother to

her, she added; and had been in her entire confidence for a long

while. As to what brought her in that place to-night, why--she was

watching,--she told Miss Castlemaine with much emotion--watching for

the dreadful evil that had to-night occurred.

"I have been dreading it always, madam," she said, her breath short in

its agitation. "I knew, through my brother, of the work that was

sometimes done here--though he betrayed it to me by accident, not

intentionally. I have come to the chapel ruins of a night to see if

there were preparations being made for running a cargo, and to look

whether the vessel, whose shape I knew, was standing out at sea. One

night in the autumn I saw them run the goods: I was watching all the

while. It was one o'clock when I got home, and my aunt was fit to

strike me: for I could not tell her why I stayed out."

"Watching for what?" imperiously spoke Miss Castlemaine.

"Oh, madam, don't you see?--for the preventive men. I was ever fearing

that they would discover the work some night, and surprise it--as they

have now done. I thought if I were on the watch for this (which nobody

else, so far as I could guess, seemed to fear or think of) I might be

in time to warn--to warn those who were doing it. But the officers

were too cunning for me, too quick: as I stood just now looking over

the low brink in the chapel ruins, I saw a boat shoot past from

underneath the walls of the Nunnery, and I knew what it was. Before I

got down here the fight had begun."

Jane had gone into a fit of trembling. Somehow Miss Castlemaine's

heart was hardening to her.

"At nine o'clock this evening I thought I saw the vessel standing off

in the far distance," resumed Jane: "so I came out later and watched

her move up to her usual place, and have been watching since in the

chapel ruins."

"May I inquire who knew of this watching of yours?" asked Mary Ursula,

her tone full of resentment.

"Not any one, madam. Not any one in the world."

"Not Mr. Harry Castlemaine?"

"Oh, no. I should not dare to speak of the subject to him, unless he

first spoke of it to me. I have wished he would."

"As there is nothing more that can be done here to-night, of watching

or else, I think you had better return home, Jane Hallet," spoke Miss

Castlemaine in the same proud, cold tone: though she inwardly wondered

which way of egress Jane would take.

"I was just going," spoke the trembling girl. "There--there is

not--oh! forgive me, madam!--any one lying wounded on the beach, I

hope?"

"I presume not," replied Miss Castlemaine. "The superintendent and his

men are there."