Jane Hallet turned meekly, and disappeared amid the pillars. Miss

Castlemaine rightly conjectured that there must be some stairs leading

from these lower cloisters to the cloisters above that opened on the

chapel ruins. By these Jane had no doubt descended, and would now

ascend. In point of fact, it was so. George Hallet had eventually made

a clean breast of all the secret to Jane, including the openings and

passages. But the underground passage to the Grey Nunnery neither he

nor any one else had known of.

Miss Castlemaine turned to it now. She was crossing towards it, her

dim lantern held aloft to steer her between the pillars, when her foot

stumbled against something. Pacing slowly, she did not fall, and

recovered herself at once. Bringing the light to bear, she stooped

down and saw a man lying there on his back. He looked immensely tall,

and wore a big cape, and had a cap muffled over his forehead and eyes,

and lay still as one dead. With another faint sickness of heart, Mary

pulled the cap upwards, for she thought she recognised the handsome

features. Alas, yes! they were those of Harry Castlemaine: and they

were set in what looked like the rigidness of death.

With a shrill cry--for her feelings got the better of her--Mary called

him by name, and shook him gently. No, there was no response: he was

surely dead! She tore the cape and cap off, flinging them aside; she

put her hand to his heart, and could feel no pulse; she lifted one of

his hands, and it fell again like a heavy weight. There could be

little doubt that he must have been wounded during the fight, had run

into the vaults, intending to make his escape by the chapel ruins, and

had fallen down exhausted. Panting with fear and emotion, all

considerations lost sight of in this one great shock, Mary went back

to the beach crying for aid, and supremely astonishing Mr.

Superintendent Nettleby.

Mr. Harry Castlemaine! Mr. Harry Castlemaine lying inside there as one

dead! Why, how did that come about? What had brought him down there?

unless, indeed, he had heard the row and the fighting? But then--how

did he get down?

Mr. Nettleby spoke these problems aloud, as he proceeded by Miss

Castlemaine's side to the spot, guided by her lantern, and followed by

his two men. He assumed that the Grey Nunnery must have been aroused

by the noise, and that the Lady Superior had come forth to see what it

meant: and he politely apologised for having been the cause of

disturbance to the Sisters. Mary allowed him to think this: and made

no answer to his further expressed wonder of how she found her way

down.

When they reached the spot where lay Harry Castlemaine, the first

object the rays of the lantern flashed on was Jane Hallet. Aroused by

Miss Castlemaine's cry, she had hastened back again and was now

kneeling beside him, her trembling hands chafing his lifeless ones,

her face a distressing picture of mute agony.

"Move away," spoke Miss Castlemaine.

Jane rose instantly, with a catching of the breath, and obeyed. Mr.

Superintendent Nettleby, asking for the lantern to be held by one of

his men, and to have its full light turned on, knelt down and

proceeded to make what examination he could.

"I don't think he is dead, madam," he said to Mary Ursula, "but I do

fear he is desperately wounded. How the dickens can it have come

about?" he added, in a lower tone, meant for himself, and rising from

his knees. "Could one of the fools have fired off a shot in here, and

caught him as he was coming on to us? Well, we must get him up to land

somehow--and my boat's gone off!"

"He had better be brought to the Grey Nunnery: it is the nearest

place," spoke Mary.

"True," said the officer. "But which on earth is the way to it out of

here?"

"Up these stairs. I will show you," said Jane Hallet, stepping forward

again. "Please let me go on with the lantern."

She caught it up: she seemed nearly beside herself with grief and

distress; and the officer and men raised Harry Castlemaine. Mary

remembered the cape she had thrown aside, and could not see it, or the

cap either. It was just as well, she thought, for the things had

looked to her like garments worn for disguise, and they might have

told tales. Even then an idea was crossing her that the worst--the

complicity of the Castlemaines with the smuggling--might be kept from

the world. Yes, it was just as well: that cape and cap might have been

recognised by the superintendent and his men as being the same sort

that were worn by the iniquitous offenders they had surprised. No such

sinners in the whole decalogue of the world's crimes, according to the

estimation of Mr. Nettleby, as those who defrauded his Majesty's

revenues.

"He must have come out without his hat, or else lost it," spoke the

superintendent, looking down at the head he supported. "Take care, my

men, that's--blood."

The stairs were soon reached: some winding steps cut in stone. Jane

Hallet held the lantern to show the way; Miss Castlemaine, saying

never a word of the secret passage, followed her; the men with their

burden bringing up the rear. It was a difficult job to bring him up,

for the staircase was very narrow. They came out by a concealed door

at the end of the upper cloisters, and had to walk through them to the

chapel ruins. Mr. Nettleby never supposed but that the two women, as

well as Harry Castlemaine, had come down by this route.

"To think that I should never have suspected any stairs were there! or

that there was another set of cloisters under these!" he exclaimed in

self-humiliation, as he walked on through with the rest, avoiding the

pillars. "Had I known it, and that there was a door opening to that

strip of beach below, it would have been enough to tell me what might

be going on. But how the deuce do they contrive to get rid of the

goods after they are run?"

For Mr. Superintendent Nettleby was still ignorant of on

thing--the secret passage to Commodore Teague's house. He would not be

likely to discover or suspect that until the official search took

place that would be made on the morrow.

Once more the Nunnery was about to be disturbed to admit a wounded man

at midnight: this second man, alas! wounded unto death. Tom Dance's

son had gone forth to the world again, little the worse for his

wounds; for the son and heir of the Master of Greylands, earth was

closing.

The clanging night-bell aroused the inmates; and Sister Rachel, who

was that week portress, went down accompanied by Sister Caroline. To

describe their astonishment when they saw the line of those waiting to

enter, would be impossible. Harry Castlemaine, whom the motion and air

had revived, borne by Mr. Nettleby and two of the coastguardsmen; the

Superior, Mary Ursula; and the resuscitated Jane Hallet! Jane the

erring, with the Nunnery lantern!

"Business called me abroad to-night: I did not disturb you," quietly

observed Sister Mary Ursula to the round-eyed Sisters; and it was all

the explanation she gave, then or later.

Harry was taken into the same room that Walter Dance had been, and

laid upon the same flat, wide sofa. One of the men ran off for Mr.

Parker. The other went back with the superintendent to the scene of

the struggle. The captured goods, so many of them as had been landed,

had to be zealously guarded: Mr. Superintendent Nettleby had never

gained such a feather in his official cap as this.

Harry Castlemaine lay where he had been placed, his once fresh face

bereft of its fine colour, his eyes open to the movements around.

A patient like this was altogether different from young Dance the

fisherman, and the Sisters had gone to awaken and amaze the Nunnery

with the news. Only Mary Ursula was with him.

"Mr. Parker will soon be here, Harry," she said gently, bending over

him.

A faint smile crossed his lips. "He can do nothing for me, Mary."

"Nay, you must not think that. You feel ill, faint; I know it;

but----"

Some slight stir behind her had caught Mary's senses, and caused her

to turn. There was Jane Hallet, standing half in, half out at the

door, a mute, deprecatory appeal for permission to enter, shining

unmistakably on her sad white face.

"Back!" said Mary with calm authority, advancing to the door with her

most stately step, her hand raised to repel the intruder. "I told you

to go home, Jane Hallet: it is the only thing you can do. You have no

right to intrude yourself into the Nunnery. Go."

And she quietly closed the door, shutting Jane out, and returned to

the bedside.

Harry's hand was feebly stretched out: it fell on her arm. "Let her

come in, Mary: she is my wife."

"Your wife!"

"Yes; my wife. She has been my wife all along."

"I do not understand," faltered Mary Ursula, feeling she hardly knew

how.

"We were married at the beginning of last winter. Fear of my father's

displeasure has prevented my declaring it."

Mary was silent. Her heart throbbed unpleasantly.

"Jane is too good a girl for aught else," he resumed, the subject

seeming to impart to him some fictitious strength. "She has borne all

the obloquy in patience and silence for my sake. Did you suppose,

Mary, that the favourite pupil of the Grey Ladies, trained by them,

could have turned out unworthily?"

"You should, at least, have confided this to Miss Hallet, Harry."

"No; to her the least of all. Miss Hallet has her pride and her

notions, and would have proclaimed it in the marketplace."

"I seem not to comprehend yet," replied Mary, many remembrances

crowding upon her. In point of fact, she scarcely knew whether to

believe him. "Last winter--yes, and since then, Harry--you appeared to

be seeking Ethel Reene for your wife."

"I once had an idea of Ethel. I knew not that the warm affection I

felt for her was but that of a brother: when I fell in love with Jane

I learnt the truth. My teasings of Ethel have been but jest, Mary:

pursued to divert attention from my intimacy with my real love, my

wife."

Mary Ursula sighed. Harry had always been random and blamable in some

way or other. What a blow this would be for the Master of Greylands!

"You will let her come in, Mary! Are you doubting still?" he resumed,

noting her perplexed countenance. "Why, Mary Ursula, had my relations

with Jane been what the world assumed, can you imagine I should have

had the hardihood to intrude my brazen face here amid the Sisters when

she was taken ill? I have my share of impudence, I am told; but I have

certainly not enough for that. I sought that minute's interview with

Jane to bid her be firm--to bear all reproaches, spoken and unspoken,

for my sake and my father's peace. The only wonder to me and to Jane

also, has been that nobody ever suspected the truth."

Mary Ursula left the room. Jane was leaning against the wall outside

in the semi-darkness, a picture of quiet tribulation. Too conscious of

the estimation in which she was held, she did not dare assert herself.

The lantern, which nobody had put out, stood on the passage slab:

there was no other light. Mary drew her into the parlour--which was

wholly dark, save for the reflected light that came in from the

lantern. So much the better. Jealous for the honour of her family,

Mary Ursula was feeling the moment bitterly, and her face would have

shown that she was.

"Mr. Harry Castlemaine has been making a strange communication to me,"

she began. "He says he has married you."

"Oh, madam, it is true," returned Jane hysterically, the sudden

revulsion of feeling at finding it was known, the relief from her

miserable concealment, taking vent in a flood of tears. "We were

married last November."

"By whom?"

"Parson Marston," sobbed Jane. "He married us in his church at

Stilborough."

Surprise, resentment, condemnation of Parson Marston, overpowered Miss

Castlemaine and kept her silent. Thinking of this inferior girl--very

inferior as compared with The Castlemaines--as they had all been

thinking lately, it was not in human nature that Mary should not feel

it strongly. She had her share of the Castlemaine pride; though she

had perhaps thought that it was laid down within her when she came out

of her home at Stilborough to enter the Grey Nunnery.

"It was very strange of Mr. Marston; very wrong."

Jane's sobs did not allow her to make any rejoinder. Of course it was

wrong: nobody felt more assured of that than Jane. She did not dare to

tell how Harry Castlemaine's masterful will had carried all with him,

including herself and the parson. Jane had perhaps been quite willing

to be carried; and the parson yielded to "You must," and was besides

reprehensibly indifferent. "He would only have taken the girl off to a

distance and got tied up by a strange parson," was Mr. Marston's

excuse later, when speaking of it. "I am not to blame; I didn't set

afloat the marriage."

"How long should you have kept it secret?" asked Miss Castlemaine,

looking at Jane in her distress.

"As long as my husband had wished me to keep it, madam," was the

sobbing answer. "He was always hoping some occasion might arise for

declaring it; but he did not like to vex Mr. Castlemaine. It was my

aunt's not knowing it that grieved me most."

"I almost wonder you did not tell Sister Mildred when you were here,"

observed Mary, musing on the past.

"Oh if I had been able to tell her!" returned the girl, impulsively

clasping her hands. "It was very hard to bear, madam, all that blame;

but I tried to be patient. And many might have thought nearly as ill

of me for letting one so much above me make me his wife."

"Has no one at all known it?" asked Mary.

"Only old Mrs. Dance. She has known it from the first. We used to meet

at her cottage."

"Well, Jane, what is done cannot be undone. You are his wife, it

seems, and have been undeserving of the reproach of light conduct

passed upon you. So far I am, for your sake, glad. He has asked to see

you. You can go in."

So Jane Hallet--no longer Hallet, however,--crept into the chamber,

where her husband lay dying, and stood by his side, her heart

breaking.

"Don't grieve, Jane, more than you can help," he said, clasping her

hand. "This will answer one good end: you will be cleared."

She fell on her knees, weeping silent tears. "To save your life I

would remain under the cloud for ever," she sighed. "Oh, is there no

hope?--is there no hope?"

"Well, we shall see: the doctor will be here soon," said Harry

evasively. "There! dry your tears, Jane; take heart, my dear."

And the doctor came without much further delay, and examined his

patient, and found that a bullet had lodged itself within him.

"There must be an operation," said he, smoothing over his grave face.

And he hastened to despatch a messenger on a fleet horse for Surgeon

Croft, the most clever operating surgeon in Stilborough.

But Mr. Parker knew quite well that there remained no hope in this

world for Harry Castlemaine.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

GONE!

Morning dawned. The Grey Nunnery was like a fair. What with the

doctors and their gigs, for two surgeons came from Stilborough, and

the Sisters passing in and out on various errands, and the excited

people who assembled in numbers round the gates, a stranger might have

wondered at the commotion. More than once had Greylands been excited

during the year now swiftly approaching its close, but never as much

as now. A dreadful encounter between smugglers and the preventive men!

and Harry Castlemaine shot down by one of their stray bullets! and

Jane Hallet come to life again!

The Master of Greylands sat by the dying couch, giving vent now and

again to his dire distress. There was no hope for his son; he knew it

from the medical men: and his son had been the one only thing he had

much cared for in life.

Of all the blows that had fallen on James Castlemaine, none had been

like unto this. The shock alone was terrible. It reached him first

through one of those Grey Sisters against whom he had been so

prejudiced. Sister Ann had gone running over to knock up the Dolphin,

lest cordials, or else, which the Nunnery lacked, might be required

for the wounded man. After arousing John Bent and telling the news,

she sped onwards under the night stars, to apprise the Master of

Greylands. Greylands' Rest lay still and quiet; its doors and windows

closed, the blinds drawn down. Sister Ann rang, and was immediately

answered inside by the bark of a dog. "Cesar, Cesar!" she called out

at the top of her voice, to assure the dog that it was a friend; and

Cesar, recognising the tones, ceased his bark, which was impolitic on

Sister Ann's part, for if he had kept on barking it would have aroused

the inmates. Sister Ann waited and rang again; and then, terrified at

the thought that the Master of Greylands might be too late to see his

son, she retreated a few steps and shouted up to the windows. The

Master heard it, and appeared looking out.

"Who is it?--what is it?" he asked, leaning from the window he had

thrown up, and recognising with astonishment the dress of a Grey

Sister.

"Oh, sir, it's bad news!" replied Sister Ann, "but I'm thankful to

have awoke you. It's ill news about Mr. Harry, sir: and I've run all

the way here, and am out of breath."

"What ill news about Mr. Harry?"

"He has been brought to the Nunnery wounded dreadfully. I've come up

to ask you to make haste, sir, if you'd see him; for he may be

bleeding to death."

"Wounded?--how?" gasped the Master, feeling as bewildered as a woman,

and perhaps hard of belief.

"There has been a frightful fight to-night, they say, with smugglers,

sir. Mr. Nettleby and two of the coastguardsmen brought him in. We

don't know what to believe or think."

With a muttered word to the effect that he would go to the Nunnery

directly, the Master of Greylands shut the window. Dressing in haste,

he went forth on his errand. Of the two ways to the Nunnery, the

Chapel Lane was somewhat the nearer one; and he took it. He bared his

aching head to the night-air as he traversed it with fleet strides,

wondering what extent of misery he might be entering upon. No very

long space of time had elapsed since he sat in his room dwelling on

the misfortunes and the deaths that the year had brought forth. Was

there to be yet further misfortune?--another death? A death to him

more cruel than any that had gone before it?

As he neared the turning to the Hutt, he dashed down the opening and

tried the house-door and shouted--just as Sister Ann had tried and

shouted at the door of Greylands' Rest some minutes before. The door

was fast, and no response came: and the Master knocked at the little

window that belonged to Teague's bedchamber. "Not back yet," he

murmured to himself, after waiting barely a moment, and dashed back

again and on towards the Nunnery. And there he fennel his worst fears

as to Harry realised, and learnt from Mr. Parker that there was no hope

of saving him.

The bleeding had been then stopped by Mr. Parker, but Harry had

fainted. Before he revived and was collected enough to speak, or

perhaps strong enough, the other surgeons came, and not one private

word had been exchanged between father and son.

With the morning Harry was better. Better in so far as that he lay at

tolerable ease and could converse at will. The surgeons had done for

him what little could be done; but his life was only a question of

hours. In a distress, the like of which he had never before

experienced, sat the Master of Greylands. His handsome, noble,

attractive son, of whom he had been so proud, whom he had so beloved

in his heart, was passing away from his sight for ever. His chair was

drawn close to the couch, his hand lay on Harry's, his aching eyes

rested on the pale, changed face. The whole world combined could not

have wrought for him a trial such as this: his own death would have

been as nothing to it: and the blow unnerved him.

They were alone together: none intruded unnecessarily on these closing

hours. Harry gave briefly the history of the scene of the past night,

thanking heaven aloud that his father was not present at it.

"The two first boats had not long been in, and not half their packages

were landed, when another boat glided quietly up," said Harry. "I

thought it was from the vessel with more goods, till I heard a shout

in Nettleby's tones 'In the King's name,' and found the revenue men

were leaping out of her. I ran to close the passage to Teague's, and

was coming back again when I found myself struck here," touching his

side. "The pain was horrible: I knew what it meant--that I was shot,

and useless--and I slipped into the vaults, intending to get up to the

chapel ruins, and so away. I must have fainted there, and fallen; for

I remember nothing more until Nettleby and the rest were bringing me

here."

"They found you lying there?"

"Not they. Mary Ursula."

"Mary Ursula!"

"It seems so. She was there with a lantern, I gather. Father, you

will, doubtless, learn all the explanation you wish; I cannot give it.

You know what this shot has done for me?"

The Master did not answer.

"It is my death. I forced Croft to tell me. By to-night all will be

over."

Mr. Castlemaine, striving and struggling to maintain composure, broke

down helplessly at the last words, and sobbed aloud with an emotion

never before betrayed by him to man. The distress to Harry was all too

great; he had been truly attached to his indulgent father.

"For my sake, father!--for the little time I have to stay!" he said,

imploringly. And the Master smothered his grief as he best might.

With his hand held between his father's, and his sad eyes beseeching

pardon for the offence which in strong life he had dreaded to tell,

Harry Castlemaine made his confession: Jane Hallet was his wife. It

was somewhat of a shock, no doubt, to the Master of Greylands, but it

fell with comparative lightness on his ear: beside the one vast

trouble close at hand, others seemed as nothing. Jane might be his

son's wife; but his son would not live to own her as such to the

world.

"Do you forgive me, father? That it was wrong, I am aware; but only

myself know how dearly I grew to love her. The place has been heaping

scorn upon her, but she bore it all for my sake, knowing she would be

cleared when I could declare it to you."

"She has not deserved the scorn, then?"

"Never. I would not have sought to hurt a hair of her head. Say you

forgive me, father!--the moments are passing."

"Yes, yes, I forgive you; I forgive you. Oh, my boy, I forgive all. I

wish I could die instead of you."

"And--will you set her right with the world?" continued Harry, holding

his father's hand against his cheek caressingly. "It is only you who

can effectually do it, I think. And allow her a little income to

maintain her in comfort?"

"Harry, I will do all."

"She is my wife, you see, father, and it is what should be. Your

promise will ease my soul in dying. Had I lived, she would have shared

my state and fortune.

"All, all; I will do all," said the Master of Greylands.

"For the past, it is not she who is to blame," continued Harry,

anxious that there should be no misapprehension of Jane's conduct.

"She would have held out against the marriage on account of my family,

always begging of me to wait. But I would have my way. Do not visit

the blame upon her, father, for she does not deserve it."

"I understand: she shall have all justice, Harry. Be at peace."

But, in spite of this one absorbing grief for his son, there was

another care that kept intruding itself in no minor degree on the

Master of Greylands: and that was the business connected with the

smugglers. How much of that was known?--how much had good fortune been

enabled to keep concealed? While the doctors were again with Harry

towards midday, Mr. Castlemaine snatched a moment to go out of doors.

How strange the broad glare of day appeared to him! Coming out of the

darkened room with its hushed atmosphere, its overlying sadness, into

the light of the sun, high in the heavens, the hum of the crowding

people, the stir of health and busy life, the Master of Greylands

seemed to have passed into another world. The room he had left was as

the grave, where his son would soon be; this moving scene as some

passing pageantry, very redolent of mundane earth.

Which Greylands was making the most of,--the strange accident to Harry

Castlemaine (every whit as strange as the self-shooting that had

temporarily disabled young Dance; nay, stranger); or the astounding

news touching the smugglers, or the reappearance of Jane Hallet--it

was hard to say. All kinds of reports were afloat; some true, some

untrue, as usual. Mr. Superintendent, Nettleby, it appeared, had for a

considerable time suspected that smuggling to an extraordinary extent

was carried on somewhere along this line of coast. From information

supplied to him, he had little doubt that valuable goods found their

contraband entrance, somewhere; within, say, the length of a dozen

miles. The difficulty was--how to hit upon the spot. Surmises were

chiefly directed to the little place called Beeton, a mile or two

higher up. It presented unusual facilities for running contraband

goods; slight incidents occurred from time to time that seemed to bear

out the superintendent's suspicions of it; and his chief attention was

directed to that place. It was directed to any spot rather than

Greylands. Greylands, in the estimation of the revenue-men, was exempt

from suspicion, or nearly exempt. Save the open beach, there was no

spot at Greylands where a cargo could be run--and the superintendent

took care that the beach should be protected. Not an idea existed that

the little strip of beach under the old Friar's Keep could be made

available for anything of the kind, or that it had a passage of

communication with Commodore Teague's Hutt, or with any other place in

the world. Counting on his ten fingers, Mr. Nettleby could number up

fifteen months during which he had beset Beeton like a watchdog, and

nothing at all had come of it. The unsuspected Greylands had been left

at ease, as usual, to do what it would.

Upon Greylands the news fell like a thunderbolt. Had one of those

cloud-electric missives suddenly fallen and shattered the rocks to

pieces, it would not have caused more intense astonishment. The

Friar's Keep been used as a place of smuggling for untold years!--and

Commodore Teague was the head smuggler!--who used to stow away the

goods in his big cellar till he could take them away in his spring

cart! Greylands knew not how to believe this: and on the Commodore's

score somewhat resented it, for he was an immense favourite. One fact

seemed indisputable--the Commodore was not to be seen this morning, and

his place was shut up.

The version generally believed was this. Mr. Superintendent Nettleby,

observing, after dark had fallen, a suspicious-looking vessel lying

nearly close in shore, and having had his attention directed to this

same vessel once or twice before, had collected his men and taken up

his place in the revenue-boat, under cover of the walls of the Grey

Nunnery, and there waited until it was time to drop upon the

smugglers: which he did, catching them in the act. Most of the men he

surprised were sailors; he knew it by their attire and language; but

there was at least one other man (if not two men) who was muffled up

for disguise; and there was, without any disguise, working openly,

Commodore Teague. The Commodore and these other men--take them at

two--had escaped to the ship, and neither the superintendent nor his

subordinates knew who they were. The wounded sailor-prisoner was a

foreigner, who could speak but a few words of English. He gave his

name as Jacob Blum, and appeared to know little about the affair,

declaring solemnly that he had joined the vessel in Holland only a

month before, and was not apprised that she was in the contraband

trade.

But Harry Castlemaine--what caused him to be so fatally mixed up with

the fight? Lacking an authorised version, the following sprung up;

and, spreading from one to another, was soon accepted as truth. Mr.

Harry, promenading about late in the night with his sweetheart, Jane

Hallet (and sly enough she must have been, to have stayed all this

while at old Goody Dance's, and never shown herself!), had his ears

saluted with the noise and shots going on below. He rushed into the

Keep and down the staircase to the vaults beneath (instinct having

discovered the stairs to him at the right moment, as was supposed),

where he was met and struck down by a stray shot, the fighters not

even knowing that he was there. Jane Hallet must have followed him.

Sister Mary Ursula's appearance on the scene, as mentioned by the two

coastguardsmen, was accounted for in the same natural manner. She had

heard the disturbance from her chamber-window--for of course the noise

penetrated as far as the Grey Nunnery--and had gone forth, like a

brave, good woman, to ascertain its meaning and see if succour was

needed.

All these several reports--which running from one to another, grew

into assured facts, as just said, in men's minds--were listened to by

Mr. Castlemaine. He found that, as yet, not a shade of suspicion was

directed to him or his house: he fervently hoped that it might not be.

That would be one sup taken out of his cup of bitterness. Commodore

Teague was regarded as the sole offender, so far as Greylands was

concerned.

"To think that we should have been so deceived in any man!" exclaimed

the landlord of the Dolphin, standing outside his door with his wife,

and addressing Mr. Castlemaine and the crowd together. "I'd have

believed anybody in the place to be a cheat, sir, rather than Teague."

"We have not had Teague's defence yet," spoke the Master of Greylands.

"It is not right to entirely condemn a man unheard."

"But the coastguardsmen saw him there at work, sir," retorted

ready-tongued Mrs. Bent. "Henry Mann says he was hard at it with his shirt

sleeves stripped up. He'd not be helping for love: he must have had

his own interest there."

The Master of Greylands was wisely silent. To defend Teague too much

might have turned suspicion on himself: at least, he fancied so in his

self-consciousness: and the probability was that the Commodore would

never return to ascertain how he stood with Greylands.

In the course of the morning, making rather more commotion with its

sail than usual, Tom Dance's fishing-boat came sailing in. Tom and his

son were on board her, and a fair haul of fish. The various items of

strange news were shouted out to it by half a dozen tongues as soon as

it was within hailing distance. Tom gave vent to sundry surprised

ejaculations in return, as he found the cable and made the boat fast,

and landed with a face of astonishment. The one item that seemed most

to stagger him was the state of Mr. Harry Castlemaine.

"It can't be true!" he cried, standing still, while a change passed

over his countenance. "Shot by smugglers!--dying! Mr. Harry

Castlemaine!"

"Well, you see, Tom, it might ha' been them

preventive-men,--'twarn't obliged to ha' been they smugglers," said

Jack Tuff. "Both sides was firing off, by all account, as thick as

thieves. Which ever 'twas, Mr. Harry have got his death-shot. How wet

your jersey is!"

Tom Dance turned in at his own door, threw off the "jersey" and other

articles of his fishing toggery, flung on dry things, and went up

towards the throng round the Dolphin. Mr. Castlemaine was just

crossing back to the Nunnery, and looked at him, some involuntary

surprise in his eyes.

"Is it you, Dance?"

"It's me, sir: just got in with the tide. I be struck stupid, pretty

nigh, hearing what they've been telling me, down there," added Tom,

indicating the beach.

"Ay, no doubt," said the Master of Greylands, in a subdued tone. But

he walked on, saying no more.

Tom Dance's confrères in the fishing trade had no idea but that he had

sailed out in the ordinary way with the night tide. The reader knows

that at midnight he was at least otherwise occupied. Tom had done a

somewhat daring act. He and his son, alike uninjured in the fray, had

escaped in the ship's boats; and Tom, flinging off his disguising cape

and cap, his sea boots, and in fact most of his other attire, leaped

into the water to swim to his fishing-boat, lying on the open beach.

It was his one chance of non-discovery. He felt sure that neither he

nor Walter had been recognized by Nettleby and his men; but, if they

were to go off to Holland in the ship and so absent themselves from

Greylands, it would at once be known that they were the two who had

been seen taking part. No man in Greylands was so good a swimmer as

Dance; and----he resolved to risk it. He succeeded. After somewhat of

a battle, and the water was frightfully cold, he gained his boat. It

had just floated with the incoming tide. By means of one of the

ropes, of which there were several hanging over the side, he climbed

on board, put on some of his sea-toggery that was there, and slipped

the cable. The anchor was small, not at all difficult for one man to

lift; but Tom Dance wanted to save both time and noise, and it was

easiest to slip the cable. The moderate breeze was in his favour

blowing off the land. He hoisted the staysail, and was soon nearing

the ship, which was already spreading her canvas for flight. From the

ship Dance took his son on board. They stayed out all night, fishing:

it was necessary, to give a colouring to things and avert suspicion;

and they had now, close upon midday, come in with a tolerable haul of

fish. Walter had orders to stay on board, occupy himself there, and be

still, while Tom landed to gather news and to see which way the wind

lay.

But he had never thought to hear these sad tidings about Harry

Castlemaine.

"It has a'most done me up," he said, returning on board again and

speaking to his son. "He was the finest young fellow in the country,

and the freest in heart and hand. And to be struck like this!"

"How much is known, father?" asked Walter, stopping in his employment

of sorting the fish.

"Nothing's known that I can hear," growled Tom Dance, for he was

feeling the crossness of affairs just then. "It's all laid on Teague's

back--as Teague always good-naturedly said it would be, if a blow-up

came."

"Can Teague ever come back, father?"

"Teague don't want to. Teague has said oftentimes that he'd as soon,

or sooner, be over among the Dutch than here. He was always ready for

the start, I expect. He'll be writing for us to go over and see him

next summer."

"I know he liked them foreign towns: he's often been in 'em," observed

Walter. "And he mist have feathered his nest pretty well."

"Yes; he won't need to look about him for his pipe and chop of a day.

Our chief nest-egg is smashed though, lad. No more secret night-work

for us ever again."

"Well, you must have feathered the nest too, father," returned Walter,

privately glad that the said night-work was over, for he had never

liked it in his heart.

"You just hold your tongue about the feathering of nests," sharply

reprimanded Tom. "Once let folks fancy I've got more than fishing

would bring in, and they might set on to ask where it come from.

Your nest won't be feathered by me, I can tell ye, young man, unless

you keep a still tongue in your head."

"There's no fear of me, father."

"And there'd better not be," concluded Tom Dance. "I'd ship ye off

after Teague, short and quick, if I thought there was."

The afternoon was drawing to its close. On the rude couch, more

exhausted than he had been in the morning, getting every minute now

nearer to death, lay Harry Castlemaine. His stepmother, Flora, Ethel,

good old Sister Mildred, and Mary Ursula, all had taken their last

farewell of him. Mrs. Bent had contrived to get in, and had taken hers

with some bitter tears. Mr. Parker had just gone out again: the Sister

in attendance, perceiving what was at hand, had soon followed him. The

poor wife, Jane, only acknowledged to be left, had gone through her

last interview with her husband and said her last adieu. Nearly

paralysed with grief, suffering from undue excitement which had been

repressed so long, she had relapsed into a state of alarming

prostration, that seemed worse than faintness. Mr. Parker administered

an opiate, and she was now lying on her old bed above, cared for by

Sister Mildred. And the sole watcher by the dying bed was Mr.

Castlemaine.

Oh, what sorrow was his! The only living being he had greatly cared

for in the world dying before his aching eyes. It was for him he had

lived, had schemed, had planned and hoped. That nefarious smuggling

had been only carried on in reference to Harry's prospective wealth.

But for Harry's future position, that Mr. Castlemaine had so longed to

establish on a high footing, he had thrown it up long before. It was

all over now; the secret work, the hope, and the one cherished life.

"Father, don't!" panted Harry, as Mr. Castlemaine sat catching up ever

and anon his breath in sobs, though his eyes were dry. "It may be

better for me to go. I used to look forward, I've often done it, to

being a good son to you in your old age: but it may be best as it is."

Mr. Castlemaine could not trust himself to answer.

"And you'll forgive me for all the trouble I've cost you! As I trust

God has forgiven me. I have been thinking of Him all day, father."

A terrible sob now. Mr. Castlemaine knew not how to keep down his

emotion. Oh, how bitter it was to him, this closing hour, his heart

aching with its pain!

"It won't be so very long, father; you'll be coming, you know: and it

is a journey that we must all take. What's the matter?--it's getting

dark!"

Mr. Castlemaine raised his eyes to the window. The light was certainly

fading on the panes; the dusk was stealing over the winter afternoon.

Harry could only speak at intervals, and the words came out with long

pauses between them. Mr. Castlemaine fancied he was beginning slightly

to wander: but a great many of us are apt to fancy that when watching

the dying.

"And you'll take care of Jane, father? Just a little help, you know,

to keep her from being thrown on the world. It's not much she'll want

I don't ask it."

The damp hand, lying in Mr. Castlemaine's was, pressed almost

to pain; but there was no other answer. The aching heart was well-nigh

unmanned.

"And don't be angry with Marston, father: he only did what I made him

do. He is a better man than we have thought him. He was very good to

me when he was here to-day, and left me comfort."

Mr. Castlemaine lodged his elbow on his knee, and bent his brow upon

his hand. For some time there was silence. Harry, who had none of the

restlessness sometimes characteristic of the final scene, lay quite

still, his eyes closed.

A very long, deep breath disturbed the silence. It startled Mr.

Castlemaine. He looked up, and for a moment loosed the hand he held.

"Harry!"

Harry Castlemaine, his eyes wide open now, raised his head from the

pillow. He seemed to be staring at the windowpanes with a fixed look,

as though he could see the sea that lay beyond, and found something

strange in it.

"Father, dear father, it is she!" he burst out in his natural tones,

and with a deep, exulting joy in them. "It is my mother: I know her

well. Oh, yes, mother, I am coming!"

The Master of Greylands was startled. Harry had never seen his mother

to remember her; he knew her only by her picture, which hung in one of

the rooms, and was a speaking likeness of her. Harry had fallen back

again, and lay with a smile upon his face. One more deep respiration

came slowly forth from his lips: it was the last he had to take in

this world.

The bereaved father saw what it was, and all his bitter sorrow rose up

within him in one long overwhelming agony. He fell upon the

unconscious face lying there; his trial seeming greater than he could

bear.

"Oh, Harry, my son! my son Harry! would God I could have died for

thee, my son, my son!"

CHAPTER XXXVII.

ANTHONY.

Little explanation need be afforded in regard to the smuggling

practices, so long carried on with impunity. Some ten or fifteen years

before, Commodore Teague (commodore by courtesy) had taken the Hutt of

old Mr. Castlemaine, on whose land it stood. Whether the Commodore

had fixed on his abode there with the pre-intention to set up in the

contraband trade, so much favoured then and so profitable, or whether

the facilities which the situation presented for it, arising from the

subterranean passage to the beach, which Teague himself discovered, and

which had been unknown to the Castlemaines, first induced the thought,

cannot be told. Certain it is, that Teague did organize and embark in

it; and was joined in it by James Castlemaine. James Castlemaine was

a young and active man then, ever about; and Teague probably thought

that it would not do to run the risk of being found out by the

Castlemaines. He made a merit of necessity; and by some means induced

James Castlemaine to join him in the work--to be his partner in it,

in fact. Half a loaf is better than no bread, runs the proverb, and

the Commodore was of that opinion. His proposal was a handsome one.

James Castlemaine was to take half the gross profits; he himself would

take the risk, the cost, and the residue of the profits. Perhaps James

Castlemaine required little urging: daring, careless, loving adventure,

the prospect presented charms for him that nothing else could have

brought. And the compact was made.

It was never disclosed to his father, old Anthony Castlemaine, or to

Peter, the banker, or to any other of his kith and kin, his son Harry

excepted. As Harry grew to manhood and settled down at Greylands'

Rest, after his education was completed, the same cause that induced

the Commodore to confide in James Castlemaine induced the latter to

confide in his son--namely, that Harry might, one of these fine

nights, be finding it out for himself. Harry delighted in it just as

much as his father had, and took an active part in the fun a great

deal oftener than his father did. Harry rarely allowed a cargo to be

run without him; Mr. Castlemaine, especially of late years, was only

occasionally present. Few men plotting against His Majesty's revenues

had ever enjoyed so complete an immunity from exposure. James

Castlemaine and the Commodore had, to use young Dance's expression,

pretty well feathered their nests: and Tom Dance--who had been taken

into confidence from the first, for the help of a strong man was needed

by Teague to stow away the cargoes after they were run--had not done

amiss in his small way.

It was over now. The fever and the excitement, the hidden peril and

the golden harvest, all had come to an end, and Harry Castlemaine's

life bad ended with them. Striding over the field path that led to

Greylands' Rest, his heart softened almost like a little child's, his

tears running slowly down his cheeks unchecked, went the Master of

Greylands from his son's death-bed.

"Is it retribution?" he murmured, lifting his face in the gloom of the

evening. "Harry's death following upon Anthony's ere the year is out!"

And he struck his forehead as he walked on.

"I beg your pardon, sir, for speaking at this moment. May I say how

truly I feel for you? I would not like you to think me indifferent to

this great sorrow."

The speaker was George North. They had met in the most lonely part of

the road, just before the turning into the avenue close to the house

gates. George North did not know that the death had actually taken

place; only that it was expected ere long. All his sympathies were

with Mr. Castlemaine: he had been feeling truly for him and for Harry

during the day; and in the impulse of the moment, meeting thus

unexpectedly, he stopped to express it.

"Thank you," said Mr. Castlemaine, quite humbly, drawing his hand

across his face. "Yes, it is a bitter blow. The world's sunshine has

gone out for me with it."

A rapid thought came to George North. What if, in this softened mood,

he were to ask for a word of Anthony? If ever the Master of Greylands

could be induced to afford information of his fate, it would be now:

no other moment might ever occur so favourable as this. Yes, he

would; be the result what it might.

"Forgive me Mr. Castlemaine. There is a matter that I have

long wished to mention to you; a question I would ask: the present,

now that we are alone here, and both softened by sorrow--for believe

me I do sorrow for your son more than you may suspect--seems to me to

be an appropriate time. May I dare to ask it?"

"Ask anything," said the unconscious mourner.

"Can you tell me what became of young Anthony Castlemaine?"

Even in the midst of his anguish, the question gave the Master of

Greylands a sharp sting. "What do you know about Anthony Castlemaine?"

he rejoined.

"He was my--dear friend," spoke George in agitation. "If you would but

tell me, sir, what became of him! Is he really dead?"

"Oh that he were not dead!" cried Mr. Castlemaine, unmanned by the

past remembrances, the present pain. "He would have been some one to

care for; I could have learnt to love him as my nephew. I have no one

left now."

"You have still a nephew, sir!" returned George, deeply agitated, a

sure conviction seating itself within him at the last words, that

whatever might have been the adverse fate of Anthony, the sorrowing

man before him had not helped to induce it. "A nephew who will ask

nothing better than to serve you in all affection and duty--if you

will but suffer him."

Mr. Castlemaine looked keenly at the speaker in the evening's

gloaming. "Where is this nephew?" he inquired after a pause.

"I am he, sir. I am George Castlemaine."

"You?"

"Yes, Uncle James--if I may dare so to address you. I am poor

Anthony's brother."

"And my brother Basil's son?"

"His younger son, Uncle James. They named me George North."

"George North Castlemaine," repeated Mr. Castlemaine, as if wishing to

familiarise himself with the name. "And you have been staying here

with a view of tracing out Anthony's fate?" he added, quickly arriving

at the conclusion, and feeling by rapid instinct that this young man

was in good truth his nephew.

"Yes, I have, sir And I had begun to despair of doing it. Is he still

living?"

"No, lie is dead. He died that fatal February night that you have

heard of. You have heard talk of the shot: that shot killed him."

In spite of his effort for composure, George allowed a groan to escape

his lips. The Master of Greylands echoed it.

"George, my nephew, it has been an unlucky year with the

Castlemaines," he said in a wailing tone. "Death has claimed three of

us; two of the deaths, at least, have been violent, and all of them

have been that sudden death we pray against Sunday by Sunday in the

Litany. My brother Peter; my nephew Anthony; and now my son!"

The suspicion, that had been looming in George's mind since the

morning, rose to the surface: a suspicion of more curious things than

one.

"I think I understand it," he said; "I see it all. In some such affray

with the smugglers as occurred last night, Anthony met his death. A

shot killed him; as it has now killed another? A smuggler's shot?"

"A smuggler's shot--true. But there was no affray."

"Tell me all, Uncle James," said the young man, his beseeching tone

amounting to pain. "Let me share all--the trouble and doings of the

past. It shall be hidden in my breast for ever."

"What is it that you suspect?"

"That the smuggling trade was yours: and that the fact accounts for

your having been in the Keep that night--for Harry's being there

yesterday. Trust me as you have trusted your son, Uncle James: it

shall be ever sacred. I will sympathise with you as he has done: am I

not a Castlemaine?"

One rapid debate in his mind, and then the Master of Greylands pointed

to his garden and led the way to the nearest bench there: the

selfsame bench that George had sat on to whisper his love-vows to

Ethel. He was about to disclose all to his new-found nephew, to whom

his esteem and admiration had before been drawn as George North; whom

he already liked, nay loved, by one of those subtle instincts rarely

to be accounted for. Unless he made a clean breast of all things, the

fate of Anthony must in some particulars still remain dark.

He first of all satisfied George upon the one point which has already

been declared to the reader: they were the smugglers, the

Castlemaines, in conjunction with the originator and active man,

Teague: explaining to him how it was that he had been induced to join

himself to the practices. And then he went on to other matters.

George Castlemaine sat by his side in the dusky night, and listened to

the tale. To more than he had dared to ask, or hope for, or even to

think of that eventful evening. For Mr. Castlemaine entered upon the

question of the estate: speaking at first abruptly.

"Greylands' Rest is Anthony's," said he.

"Anthony's!"

"Yes. Or rather yours, now Anthony is gone; but it was his when he

came over. It is necessary for me to tell you this at first: one part

of the story involves another. My father knew nothing of the

smuggling; never had an idea of it; and the money that I gained by it

I had to invest quietly from time to time through a London agent; so

that he, and others, should not know I possessed it. A few weeks

before my father died, he called me to him one morning to talk about

the property----"

"Did he make a will?----I beg your pardon for my interruption, Uncle

James," hastily added the young man in apology for what now struck him

for rudeness.

"No, he did not make a will. He never made one. Your grandfather was

one of those men who shrink from making a will--there are many such in

the world. It was less necessary in his case to make one than it is in

some cases--at least he deemed it so. Of his available means, Basil

had received his share, I had received mine, Peter had had his; all,

years before. Nothing, save the estate, was left to will away. I see

what you are wondering at, George--that out of twelve or thirteen

hundred a year--for that is about what the estate brings in--your

grandfather should have been able to live here so liberally and make

the show we did: but during his lifetime he enjoyed nearly as much

more from a relative of my mother's, which source of income went back

at his death. Perhaps you know this. My father began that morning to

talk to me--'When do you expect Basil, James?' he asked abruptly: and

the question unutterably astonished me, for we had not heard from

Basil at all, and did not expect him. 'He will come,' said my father;

'he will come. Basil will know that I must be drawing near my end, and

he will come over to be ready to take possession here.' 'Leave

Greylands' Rest for me, father,' I burst out--for I had been hoping

all along that it would be mine after him: I presume you see for why?"

But George did not see: and said so.

"On account of what went on in the Friar's Keep," explained Mr.

Castlemaine. "It would not do, unless I gave up that, for me to quit

this place, or for a stranger to live at it. I knew Basil of old: he

would just as soon have denounced it to the world as not. And, as I

was not then inclined to give up anything so profitable, I wished to

have Greylands' Rest. There is no other residence within miles of the

place that would have been suitable for me and my family."

"And would my grandfather not leave it to you, Uncle James?"

"He refused absolutely. He would not listen to me. Greylands' Rest

must descend to Basil after him, he said, and to Basil's son--if Basil

had a son--after him. I begged him to let me purchase Greylands'

Rest at a fair valuation, and pay over the money to him or invest it

for Basil. I said I was attached to the place, having lived in it all

my life; whereas Basil had been away from it years and years. I

offered to add on to the purchase money any premium that might be

named; but the old man laughed, and asked where I was to get all the

money from. Of course he did not know of my private resources, and I

did not dare to allude to them. I brought up Peter's name, saying he

would assist me. Peter was rolling in riches then. But it was all of

no use: Basil was the eldest, my father said, the rightful heir, and

the estate should never pass over him for one of us. He drew up,

himself, a sort of deed of gift, not a will, giving the estate to

Basil then; then, during his own lifetime; and he charged me, should

Basil not have appeared at the time of his demise, to remain in

possession and keep it up for him. But he never charged me--mark you,

George, he never charged me to seek Basil out. And, for the matter of

that, we did not know where to seek him."

Mr. Castlemaine paused to take his hat off and wipe his brow. This

confession must be costing him some pain. But for the greater pain at

his heart, the hopeless despair that seemed to have fallen on the

future, it had never been made.

"My father died. I, according to his pleasure, remained on, the Master

of Greylands' Rest. People took it for granted it was left to me; I

never gave a hint to the contrary, even to my brother Peter. Peter was

getting into embarrassment then with his undertakings of magnitude,

and came to me for money to help him. The time went on; each month as

it passed and brought no sign of Basil, no tidings of him, seeming to

confirm me more securely in possession of the property. My father had

said to me, 'Should Basil never reappear to claim it, nor any son of

Basil's, then it will be yours, James.' Before the first year came to

an end, I thought it was mine; as the second year advanced, it seemed

so securely my own that I never gave a thought or a fear to its being

taken from me. You may judge, then, what I felt when some young fellow

presented himself one day at Greylands' Rest, without warning of any

kind, saying Basil was dead, that he was Basil's son, and had come to

claim the property."

Again the Master of Greylands paused. But this time he remained quite

still. George did not interrupt him.

"When I recall the shame connected with that period, and would fain

plead an excuse for myself, I feel tempted to say that the excuse lay

in the suddenness of the blow. You must not think me covetous, George

Castlemaine: love of money had nothing whatever to do with the

assertion to Anthony that Greylands' Rest was mine. I dreaded to be

turned from it. I wanted, at any cost (that of honour you will say),

to stay in it. At one of the interviews I had with your brother, I

hinted to him that compensation might be made to him for his

disappointment, even to the value of the estate, for I was rich and

did not heed money. But Anthony was a true Castlemaine, I found,

Basil's own son: for he at once replied that he required only justice:

if the estate was his, he must have it; if not his, he did not want to

be recompensed for what he had no claim to. I was angry, mortified,

vexed: he kept asking me to show the Deed, or the Will, by which I

held it: I could not do that, for it would have been seen at once that

the property was his, not mine."

"Perhaps you have destroyed the Deed," said George.

"No, I kept it. I have it still. It was always my intention to make

restitution some time, and I kept the Deed. My poor son would never

have succeeded to Greylands' Rest."

"Who would then?" exclaimed George involuntarily.

"Anthony. I am speaking just now of what my thoughts and intentions

were during that brief period of Anthony's sojourn at Greylands. But

now listen, George. You must have heard that on the last day of your

brother's life we had an encounter in yonder field."

"Oh yes, I have heard of it."

"Something indoors had put me frightfully out of temper, and I was in

a haughty and angry mood. But, as Heaven is my judge, I resolved,

later on in that afternoon, to make him restitution: to give up to him

the estate. After leaving him, I went on; I was, I believe, in a

foaming passion, and walked fast to throw it of. In passing the

churchyard, I saw that some one had been flinging some dead sticks on

my father's tombstone: you know it, of course: it is the large one of

white marble with the iron rails round: and I went in to clear them

off. How it was I know not: I suppose Heaven sends such messages to

all of us: but as I stood there to read the inscription, 'Anthony

Castlemaine, of Greylands' Rest,' all the folly and iniquity of my

conduct rose up vividly to confront me. I saw his fine old face before

me again, I seemed to hear his voice, enjoining me to hold the estate

in trust for Basil, or Basil's son, and relying with the utmost

implicit trust on my honour that I would do this. A revulsion of

feeling came over me, my face flushed with its sense of shame.

'Father, I will obey you,' I said aloud; 'before another day shall

close, Greylands' Rest shall have passed to young Anthony.' And it

should so have passed. Heaven hears me say it, and knows that I would

have carried it out."

"I am sure of it," said George, trustingly. It was impossible to doubt

the fervent accent, the earnest tone, so replete with pain.

"I am now approaching that fatal point, the death of Anthony. When I

went back home, I sat down to consider of the future. Two plans

suggested themselves to me. The one was, to take Anthony into

confidence as to the business transacted at the Friar's Keep; the

other was to give the business up altogether, so far as I and Harry

were concerned, and to make no disclosure of it to Anthony. I rather

inclined to the latter course: I had realized a vast deal of money,

and did not require more, and I thought it might be as well to get out

of the risk while we were undiscovered. Teague, who had made money

also, might give it up, or continue it on his sole score and at his

own risk, as he pleased. I thought of this all the evening, and

between ten and eleven o'clock, after the household had gone to bed, I

went down to Teague's to speak to him about it. I had no particular

motive, you understand, for going to Teague at that late hour, the

morning would have been soon enough; but I had thought myself into

an impatient, restless mood, and so started off upon impulse. I stayed

with Teague, talking, until near half-past eleven, perhaps quite that:

no decision was come to, either by me or him, as to our respective

course in regard to the trade; but that made no difference to my

intended communication to Anthony as to the estate; and meant to send

for him to Greylands' Rest as soon as breakfast was over on the

following morning. Do you believe me?"

"Fully, Uncle James. I believe every word you say."

"I am telling it before Heaven," was the solemn rejoinder. "As in the

presence of my dead son."

And that was the first intimation George received that Harry was no

more.

"It was, I say, about half-past eleven when I left the Hutt. In

turning into Chapel Lane I saw a man standing there, holding on by one

of the trees. It was Jack Tuff, one of our working fishermen. He might

have noticed me, though I hoped he had not; for you will readily

understand that I did not care for the village to know of any night

visits I might pay Teague. Upon reaching home I went upstairs to my

bureau, and sat for a few minutes, though I really can't say how many,

looking over some private papers connected with the trade. Mrs.

Castlemaine and the household had, I say, gone to rest. I began to

feel tired; I had not been well for some days; and shut the papers up

until morning. Chancing to look from the window before quitting the

room, I saw a vessel at anchor, just in a line with the chapel ruins.

It was a remarkably bright, moonlight night. The vessel looked like

our vessel; the one engaged in the contraband trade; and I knew that

if it was so, she had come over unexpectedly, without notice, to

Teague. Such an occurrence was very unusual, though it had happened

once or twice before. I left the house again, passed down Chapel Lane,

and went straight over to the chapel ruins to take a nearer look at

the vessel. Yes, I see what you are thinking of, George--your brother

and John Bent did see me. Bent's assertion that they stood there and

watched me across is true; though I did not see them, and had no idea

anyone was there. One glance was sufficient to show me that it was in

truth our vessel. I hastened through the Friar's Keep to the secret

door, and ran down the staircase. The cargo was already being run: the

boats were up on the beach, and the men were wading through the water

with the goods. Teague was not there, nor was Dance or his son: in

fact, the sailors had taken us by surprise. Without the delay of a

moment, I ran up the subterranean passage to summon Teague, and met

him at the other end: he had just seen the anchored vessel. Not many

minutes was I away from the beach, George Castlemaine, but when I got

back, the mischief had been done. Anthony was killed."

"Murdered?"

"You may call it murder, if you like. His own imprudence, poor fellow,

induced it. It would appear--but we shall never know the exact

truth--that he must have discovered the staircase pretty quickly, and

followed me down. In my haste I had no doubt left the door open. At

once he was in the midst of the scene. The boats hauled up there, the

goods already landed, the sailors at their hasty work speaking

together in covert whispers, must have told him what it meant. In his

honest impulse, but most fatal imprudence, he dashed forward amid the

sailor-smugglers. 'I have caught you, you illicit villains!' he

shouted, or words to that effect. 'I see what nefarious work you are

engaged in: cheating His Majesty's revenue. What, ho! coastguard!'

Before the words had well left his lips, one of the men caught up a

pistol, presented it at him, and shot him dead."

Mr. Castlemaine paused. His nephew, George, was silent from agitation.

"The man who shot him was the mate of the vessel, a Dutchman by birth.

When Teague and I reached the beach, we saw them all standing over

Anthony. He----"

"He was dead, you say?" gasped George.

"Stone dead. The bullet had gone through his heart. I cannot attempt

to tell you what my sensations were; but I would freely have given all

I possessed, in addition to Greylands' Rest, to recall the act. There

was a short consultation as to what was to be done with him; and,

during this, one of the men drew a diamond ring from poor Anthony's

finger, on which the moonlight had flashed, and put it into my hand. I

have it still, shut up in my bureau."

George thought of this very ring--that Charlotte Guise had discovered

and told him of. She had been deeming it the one conclusive proof

against Mr. Castlemaine.

"I spoke of Christian burial for Anthony: but insuperable difficulties

stood in the way. It might have led to the discovery of the trade that

was carried on; and Van Stan, the man who killed him, insisted on his

being thrown at once into the sea."

George groaned. "Was it done?"

"It was. Van Stan, a huge, angular fellow, he was, with the strength

of ten ordinary men, cleared out one of the boats. They lifted Anthony

into it; he was rowed out to sea, and dropped into its midst. I can

assure you, George, that for many a day I looked for the sea to cast

the body ashore: but it never has cast it."

"Where is that Van Stan?"

"Van Stan has died now in his turn. Big and strong giant though he was

to look at, he died in Holland not long after of nothing but a

neglected cold. I ought to have told you," added Mr. Castlemaine,

"that Teague went up nearly at once to lock the gate of the chapel

ruins: and there he saw John Bent pacing about: which made us all the

more cautions below to be as silent as might be. It was our custom to

lock that gate when cargoes were being run, both to guard against

surprise and against anyone coming into the ruins to look out to sea.

We had three keys to the gate: Teague kept one; Harry another; Dance a

third."

"I wonder you could get three keys made to it without suspicion,"

spoke George, amid his deeper thoughts.

"We got a fresh lock and its keys from over the water, and had it put

on the gate without Greylands being the wiser. That was many a year

ago."

"And--you were not present!" remarked George, his bewildered thoughts

recurring to the one fatal act of the night, and speaking like a man

in a dream.

"No. It was exactly as I have told you. My son was also away that

night: he had gone to Newerton. Had he or I been there, I don't know

that we could have hindered it: Van Stan gave no more warning of what

he was about to do than does a flash of lightning. Poor Anthony's own

imprudence was in fault. He no doubt supposed that he had suddenly

come upon a nest of lawless wretches; and never thought to connect

them in any way with the Castlemaines."

"Teague said that the shot that was heard by John Bent and others

proceeded from his gun. That was not true?"

"It was not true. That he had been cleaning his gun that night, was

so; for when I reached the Hutt, I found him occupied at it. It was

also true that he was going out for a sail next day in his yacht----"

"And were you going with him as they said?"

"No, I was not. But if I am to tell you all, I must proceed in my own

way. I went home that night, when the work was over, with Anthony's

fate lying heavily upon me. After a perfectly sleepless night I was

disturbed in the early morning by the news that my brother Peter was

dead; and I started for Stilborough. In the afternoon, when I came

back, I found Greylands in a commotion. Miles, my servant man, told me

of the disappearance of Anthony, and he alluded indignantly to the

rumours connecting me with it. I had to meet these rumours; prudence

necessitated it; and I went to the Dolphin Inn, where the people had

mostly assembled, taking the Hutt on my way. The Hutt was shut up;

Teague was not in yet. On my way onwards I met him, just landed from

his boat, and we stayed to exchange opinions. 'Don't let it be known

that you were out at all last night, sir,' he said. 'Your man Miles

sticks to it that you were not, and so must you.' I should have taken

this advice but for one circumstance--in for one lie in for fifty, you

know; and lies I was obliged to tell, to turn all scent from the

illicit trade. I told Teague that in quitting the Hutt the previous

night at half-past eleven, I had seen Tuff in the lane, and he might

have recognised me. So my visit to Teague had to be acknowledged and

accounted for; it was the safer plan; and in a word or two we settled

what the plea should be--that I had gone down to arrange about going

for a sail with him the next morning in his yacht. This I spoke of at

the Dolphin; but other facts and rumours suggested against me I

ignored. It was a terrible time," passionately added Mr. Castlemaine.

"I never recall it without pain."

"It must have been," said George in his sympathy.

"Teague went to the Dolphin later, but I had then left the inn. He

said that when he heard the people commenting on the shot, instinct

prompted him to take it on himself, and he there and then avowed that

the report came from his own gun. The scream he denied in toto,

insisting upon it that it was all fancy. Would it had been!"

"Would it had been!" echoed George with a groan.

"It was like a fate!" burst forth the Master of Greylands, breaking

the distressing pause. "Like a fate, that I should have gone into the

Keep that night by way of the chapel ruins. We always avoided that way

of entrance and egress, to keep observation from it. Harry, I know,

had used it more than he ought: it was so much more ready a way than

going into Teague's and passing through the long passage: but I was

always cautioning him. The young are careless."

"The ghost of the Grey Monk?" asked George. "Who personated him? Of

course I can understand that the farce was kept up to scare the world

from the Friar's Keep."

"Just so. The superstition already existed in the village, and we

turned it to account. I recollect when I was a boy sundry old people

testified to having been at odd times scared by the apparition at the

windows of the Keep when they were passing it at night. We

re-organised the ghost and caused him to show himself occasionally,

procuring for the purpose a monk's dress, and a lamp emitting a pale

blue flame by means of spirit and salt. Teague and Harry were the

actors; sometimes one, sometimes the other. It was an element of fun

in my poor boy's life."

Mr. Castlemaine rose with the last words. He had need of repose.

"I will see you again in the morning, George. Come to me at what hour

you please, and I will introduce you to my wife by your true name.

Greylands' Rest is yours, you know, now."

"I--but I do not wish you to go out of it, Uncle James," said George

in his impulse of generosity.

"I shall be only too glad to get out of it as soon as may be," was the

impressive answer. "Do you think I could bear to live in it now? Would

to Heaven I had gone out of it before this fatal year! George," he

added, with a gasp of agitation, "as I was walking home just now I

asked myself whether the finger of God had not been at work. These

illicit practices of mine caused the death of Anthony; I denied that

death, concealed it, have attempted to ridicule it to the world: and

now my own and only son has died the same miserable death; been shot

down, perhaps, by the very selfsame pistol. It is retribution, lad."

"I wish I could comfort you!" whispered George.

A moment's silence and Mr. Castlemaine recovered himself; his tone

changed.

"The revenues of the estate have been put by since nay father's death:

left for such a moment as this: I told you I did not mean to keep

possession always. They shall be paid over to you."

"They are not mine, Uncle James. Up to last February they were

Anthony's."

"Anthony is dead."

"But he left a wife and child."

"A wife and child! Anthony! Was it a boy? Perhaps I have spoken too

fast."

"It is a girl," said George, not deeming it well to enter on the

subject of Madame Guise before the morrow. Mr. Castlemaine had been

tried enough for one day.

"Oh, a girl. Then you take Greylands' Rest. At least--I suppose so,"

added Mr. Castlemaine doubtfully. "My brother Basil made a will?"

"Oh, yes. He made a fresh will as soon as he heard of his father's

death. He bequeathed Greylands' Rest (assuming that it was then his)

to Anthony and to his sons, should he have any, in succession after

him: failing sons, he left it to me after Anthony."

"That is all legal then. Until to-morrow morning, George."

With a pressure of the hand, the Master of Greylands went down the

path to his house, and let himself in with his latchkey. The doors

were closed, the blinds were down; for tidings of Harry's death were

already carried there. He went straight up to that solitary room, and

shut himself in with his bitter trouble.

He was not a cruel man, or a vindictive man, or a covetous man. No,

nor a false man, save in that one unhappy business relating to his

nephew Anthony. All his efforts for many a year had been directed to

ward off suspicion from the doings of the Friar's Keep: and when

Anthony so unexpectedly appeared, his rejection of his claims had not

been for the sake of retaining the revenues that were not his, but

because he would not, if he could help it, quit the house. The one

short sentence just spoken to George, "I have put by the revenues

since my father's death," conveyed a true fact. Mr. Castlemaine did

not wish for the revenues or intend to appropriate them, unless he was

assured that his brother Basil and Basil's heirs had alike failed. He

would have liked to send Anthony back to France, pay him what was due,

and buy the estate from him. To have had the fraudulent doings

discovered and brought home to him would have been to the Master of

Greylands worse than death. It was to keep them secret that he

discouraged the sojourn of strangers at Greylands; that he did not

allow Harry to enter on an intimacy with any visitors who might be

staying there: and of late he had shown an impatience, in spite of his

liking for him, for the departure of the gentleman-artist, George

North. His dislike of the Grey Sisters had its sole origin in this. He

always dreaded that their attention might be attracted some night to

the boats, putting off from the contraband vessel; and he would have

shut up the Grey Nunnery had it been in his power. That Mary Ursula,

with her certain income, small though it was, should have joined the

Sisterhood, tried him sorely; both from this secret reason and for her

own sake. Nearly as good, he thought, that she had been buried alive.

It was all over now, and the end had come. The last cargo had now been

run, the lucrative trade and its dash of lawless excitement had been

stopped for ever. This would not have troubled him: he was getting

tired of it, he was getting afraid of it: but it had left its dreadful

consequences in its train; dealt, as may be said, a final death-blow

at parting. Harry Castlemaine had passed away, and with him the

heart's life of the Master of Greylands.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

REBELLION.

"It is the most ridiculously sentimental piece of business that I ever

heard of in my life!" spoke Mrs. Castlemaine, in a tone between a sob

and a shriek.

"Nevertheless, it is what must be," said her husband. "It is decided

upon."

The morrow had come. George North--but we must put aside that name

now--was at Greylands' Rest, and had held his further private

conference with Mr. Castlemaine. The latter knew who Madame Guise was

now, and all about it, and the motive of her residence in his house.

He did not know of her having visited his bureau and seen the ring. He

never would know it. Partial reticence was necessary on both sides,

and each had somewhat to be ashamed of that the other did not suspect

or dream of.

George Castlemaine, lying awake that night at the Dolphin

Inn--his whole heart aching for his uncle, his saddest regrets, past

and present, given to his brother and his cousin--had been, to use a

familiar saying, turning matters about in his mind, to see what was

the best that might be made of them. Greylands' Rest was his: there

was no question of that; and he must and should take possession of it,

and make it his abode for the future. But he hated to be the means of

throwing discredit on his uncle: and this step would naturally throw

on him discredit in men's minds. If Greylands' Rest was the younger

brother George's now, it must have been the elder brother Anthony's

before him: and all the deceit, suspected of the Master of Greylands

earlier in the year, would be confirmed. Was there any way of

preventing this? George thought there was. And he lay dwelling on this

and other difficulties until morning, and found his way.

"The world need never know that it was Anthony's, Uncle James," he

said, wringing his uncle's hand to give force to his argument. "Let it

be supposed that the estate was only to lapse to him after Harry--that

Harry came in first by my grandfather's will. None can dispute it. And

you can make a merit, you know, of giving it up at once to me, not

caring to remain here now Harry is gone."

A gleam of light, like a bit of blue sky suddenly shining out of

leaden clouds, dawned on Mr. Castlemaine's face. The prospect of

tacitly confessing himself a traitor before his fellow men had made a

large ingredient in his cup of bitterness.

"Nothing need ever be specially proclaimed," resumed George. "Nobody

in the world has a right to inquire into our affairs, to say to us,

How is this? or, How is that? It can be understood that this is the

case. Even to your own--your own family"--(the word on George's tongue

had been "wife," but he changed it)--"you need not give other

explanation. Let this be so, Uncle James. It is for the honour of the

Castlemaines."

"Yes, yes; it would take a load from me--if--if it may be done," said

the Master of Greylands dreamily. "I see no reason why it should not

be," he added, after consideration. "It lies, George, with you. You

alone know the truth."

"Then that is settled. Be assured, Uncle James, that I shall never

betray it. I shall accustom myself to think that it is so; that I

only came in after Harry; in time I daresay I shall quite believe it."

And so, as George said, it was a settled thing. That version of the

affair went abroad, and James Castlemaine's credit was saved.

His credit had also to be saved on another score: the death of

Anthony. The fact, that he was dead, could no longer be kept from the

curious neighbourhood: at least, it would have been in the highest

degree inexpedient not to clear it up: but the Master of Greylands'

knowledge of it might still be denied and concealed. The exact truth

in regard to his death, the true particulars of it, might be made

known: Anthony had found his way down to the lower vaults of the

Friar's Keep, that night; had pounced upon the smugglers, then running

a cargo; they had shot him dead, and then flung him into the sea. The

smugglers were doing their work alone that night, Commodore Teague not

being with them, and they were the sole authors of the calamity. Every

word of this was correct, and George would enlighten the world with

this, and no more. If questions were put to him as to how he came into

possession of the facts, he would avow that the smugglers had

confessed it to him, now that their visits to the coast were at an end

for ever. He would say that the man who shot him had taken Anthony to

be a coastguardsman: and this was fact also: for Van Stan said

afterwards that in the surprise and confusion he had thought this;

had thought that the preventive-men were on them. The Master of

Greylands would hold his own as to his ignorance and innocence: and Mr.

John Bent must go on working out the puzzle, of having fancied he saw

him that night, to the end.

Neither need Madame Guise be quite entirely enlightened. George, a

Castlemaine himself and jealous of the family's good name, would not,

even to her, throw more discredit than need be on his father's

brother. He would not tell her that Mr. Castlemaine had been one with

the smugglers; but he would tell her that he knew of the practices and

kept silence out of regard to Commodore Teague. He would disclose to

her the full details of that night, as they occurred, but not that

Mr. Castlemaine had been at all upon the beach, before Anthony or

after him; he would say that when Anthony's fate was disclosed to him,

and the ring handed over, the most lively regret and sorrow for him

took possession of his uncle, but to proclaim that he had been made

cognisant of it would have done no good whatever, and ruined the

Commodore. Well, so far, that was all true, and Charlotte Guise must

make the best of it. Mr. Castlemaine intimated that he should settle a

sum of money upon the little child, Marie; and the revenues of

Greylands' Rest for the period intervening between his father's death

and Anthony's death would, of course, be paid over to Charlotte.

George, while this was being spoken of, privately resolved to take on

himself the educational expenses of the child.

It was in Mr. Castlemaine's room that this conference with George took

place. Mr. Castlemaine unlocked the bureau, produced the ring, and

placed it on George's finger. George took it off.

"I think his wife should have this, Uncle James. She may like to keep

it."

"Who gave it to Anthony?" asked Mr. Castlemaine.

"My mother. It had belonged to her father, and to his father before

him. She gave it to Anthony before she died, telling him it was an

heirloom and charging him ever to wear it in remembrance of her."

"Then I think it should now be worn by you, George; but settle it with

Madame Guise as you will. Who was your mother? An Englishwoman?"

"Oh yes. Miss North. It was her brother, Mr. George North, who stood

godfather to me, and who left me all his private fortune. He was in

the silk mills, and died quite a young man and a bachelor."

"Ay," said Mr. Castlemaine, rather dreamily, his thoughts back with

his brother Basil, "you have money, George, I know. Is it much?"

"It is altogether nearly a thousand pounds a year. Some of it came to

me from my father."

"And Ethel has about seven hundred a year," remarked Mr. Castlemaine.

"And there will be the revenues of Greylands' Rest: twelve hundred, or

thereabouts. You will be a rich man, George, and can keep up as much

state as you please here."

It will be seen by this that George Castlemaine had asked his uncle

for Ethel. Mr. Castlemaine was surprised: he had not entertained the

remotest suspicion of any attachment between them: but he gave a

hearty consent. He had liked George; he was fond of Ethel; and the

match for her was excellent.

"I would just as soon not take her away with us when we leave, except

as a temporary arrangement," was his candid avowal. "Mrs. Castlemaine

does not make her home too pleasant; she will be happier with you."

"Oh, I hope so!" was the hasty, fervent answer.

The conference, which had been a long one, broke up. George went away

to his interview of explanation with Madame Guise, who as yet knew

nothing; and the Master of Greylands summoned his wife to the room. He

informed her briefly of the state of things generally: telling her who

George North was, and of Anthony's death: using the version that

George had suggested, and keeping himself, as to the past, on neutral

ground altogether. She was not to know even as much as Madame Guise,

but to understand, as the world would, that her husband only learnt

the truth now. Now that poor Harry was gone, he said, George came next

in the succession to Greylands' Rest, and he (Mr. Castlemaine) had

resolved to give it up to him at once. Mrs. Castlemaine, who did not

feel at all inclined to quit Greylands' Rest, went into a state of

rebellions indignation forthwith, and retorted with the remark already

given.

"Why 'must' it be?" she asked. "Where lies the obligation?"

"Nothing would induce me to remain in this house now Harry is gone,"

he answered. "I wish I was away from it already: the reminiscences

connected with it are so painful that I can bear to stay in it for the

short while that we must stay. When a blight like this falls upon a

family, Sophia, it frequently brings changes in its train."

Mrs. Castlemaine, biting her lips in temper, was not ready with a

rejoinder. In the face of this plea, her stepson's death, it would not

be decent to say too much. Moreover, though her husband was an

excellent man in regard to allowing her full sway in trifles, she knew

by experience that when it came to momentous affairs, she might as

well attempt to turn the sea as to interfere with his will.

"I like Greylands' Rest," she said. "I have lived in it since you

brought me home. Flora was born here. It is very hard to have to hear

of leaving it."

Mr. Castlemaine had his back to her, tearing up some papers that were

in a drawer of his bureau. It looked exactly as though he were already

making preparations for the exit.

"And I expected that this would have been my home for life," she added

more angrily, his silence increasing her feelings of rebellion.

"No, you did not expect it," said he, turning round. "I heard my

father inform you, the very day after you came here, that Greylands'

Rest would descend to his eldest son; not to me."

"It did descend to you," was all she said.

"But it is mine no longer. Harry is gone, and I resign it to my eldest

brother's only remaining son."

"It is absurd chivalry even to think of such a thing," she retorted,

her lip quivering, her throat swelling. "One would fancy you had taken

leave of your senses, James."

"The less said about the matter the better," he answered, turning to

his papers again. "At Greylands' Rest, now my son is gone, I cannot

and will not stay: and George North--George Castlemaine--comes into

possession of it."

"Do you resign to him the income of the estate as well as the house?"

inquired Mrs. Castlemaine, as much mockery in her tone as she dared to

use.

"The arrangements I choose to make with him are my own, Sophia, and

are private between himself and me. Whithersoever I may go, I shall

take as good an income with me as you have enjoyed here."

"And where shall you go?"

"I think at first we will travel for a bit. You have often expressed a

wish for that. Afterwards we shall see. Perhaps you would like to

settle in London, and for myself I care very little where it is."

A vision of the seductions of London--its shops, its shows, its

theatres, its gay life generally--rose attractively, as in a vision,

before Mrs. Castlemaine. She had never been to the metropolis in her

life, and quite believed its streets were paved with gold.

"One thing I am surprised at, James," she resumed quitting that bone

of contention for another. "That you should give consent off hand, as

you tell me you have done, to Ethel's marriage with a stranger."

"A stranger! We have seen a good deal of him in the past few months;

and he is my nephew."

"But a very disreputable kind of nephew. Really I must say it! He has

concealed his name from us, and has aided and abetted that governess

in concealing hers! It is not reputable."

"But I have explained the cause to you. The poor woman came to the

place to seek out her husband, and thought she should have a better

chance of success if she dropped his name and appeared as a stranger.

George came over in his turn, and at her request dropped his. Remember

one thing, Sophia, the concealment has not injured us; and Madame

Guise has at least been an efficient governess for Flora, and done her

duty well."

"I should certainly think twice before I gave him Ethel. Such haste! I

don't see" (and here a little bit of the true animus peeped out) "why

Ethel should have the pleasure of staying on at Greylands' Rest for

good, while I and Flora are to be forced to leave it!"

No answer.

"All the pleasant places of the dear child!--that have been hers from

childhood--that she has grown up attached to! Her very swing in the

garden!--the doll's house in the nursery! Everything."

"She can take her swing and her doll's house with her."

"And for that Ethel to stay, and come in for all the benefit! If she

must marry George North I should at least make her wait a

twelvemonth."

"They shall be married as soon as they please," said Mr. Castlemaine.

"He will make her a good husband; I am sure of it: and his means are

large. Her home with him will be happier than you have allowed it to

be with us: I did not forget that in my decision."

The lips of Mrs. Castlemaine were being bitten to nothing. Whatever

she said seemed to get twisted and turned against her. But she fully

intended at some more auspicious moment, when her husband should be in

a less uncompromising mood, to have another trial at retaining

Greylands' Rest. If she had but known the real truth!--that it was

George Castlemaine's by inheritance, and had been his since that past

February night!

Meanwhile George himself was with Madame Guise, making known to her

the elucidation of many things and of the manner of Anthony's death.

Poor Charlotte Guise, demonstrative as are most French women sobbed

and exclaimed as she listened, and found that what she had feared was

indeed a certainty. It was the shot of that fatal February night that

had killed her husband: the scream heard had been his death-scream.

She was in truth a widow and her child fatherless.

But, when the first shock lifted itself--and it was perhaps less

keenly felt in consequence of what may be called these many long

months of preparation for it--her thoughts turned to Mr. Castlemaine.

The certainty that he was innocent--for she implicitly believed her

brother-in-law's version of the past--brought to her unspeakable

relief. Prejudice apart, she had always liked Mr. Castlemaine: and

she now felt ashamed for having doubted him. "If I had but taken the

courage to declare myself to him at first, and what my mission was

in England, I might have been spared all this dreadful suspicion and

torment!" she cried, her tears dropping softly. "And it has been a

torment, I assure you, George, to live in the same house with Mr.

Castlemaine, believing him guilty. And oh! to think that I should have

opened that bureau! Will he ever forgive me?"

"You must not tell him of that," said George gravely. "I speak in your

interest alone, Charlotte. It would answer no good end to declare it;

and, as it happened, no harm was done."

"No harm but to me," she moaned. "Since I saw that ring, my fears of

Mr. Castlemaine and my own trouble have increased tenfold."

George held out the ring, saying that Mr. Castlemaine had just handed

it to him. "He says," continued George, "that the one problem

throughout it all which he could not solve, was why Anthony's friends

never came over to institute a search for him, or made inquiry by

letter."

"Ah, yes," said Madame Guise, "there have been problems on all sides,

no doubt--and the looking back at them seems quite to bewilder me."

She had been slipping the sparkling diamond ring on and off her

slender finger that wore the wedding-ring. "Take it, George," she

said, giving it back to him.

"Nay, it is yours, Charlotte: not mine."

"But no," she answered in some surprise. "This is your family's ring,

bequeathed to you by your mother. Anthony would have worn it always

had he lived; you must wear it now. Let me put it on for you."

"It might be a consolation to you to keep it."

"I have other relics of Anthony's. There is his watch, and the chain;

and there must be some little treasures in his desk. Mr. Bent will

hand them over to me when he knows who I am. But as to this ring,

George, I have no claim to it: nor would I keep it while you and Emma

live."

"Were his watch and chain saved?" exclaimed George.

"Why yes. Did you never hear that? Mr. Bent keeps them locked up with

the other things. Anthony had been writing in his parlour that night

at the Dolphin, you know; it was supposed that he put off his watch to

look how the time went: at any rate it was found on the table the next

morning by the side of his desk."

George sighed deeply. All these trifles connected with his brother's

last day on earth were so intensely painful. Never, as he fully

believed, should he look at the glittering ring, now on his finger,

without recalling Anthony to memory. Charlotte sat down and burst into

renewed tears.

"Where is Ethel?" he asked.

"She was in the schoolroom just now, crying. Ah, George, she feels

Mr. Harry's death very much: she liked him as a brother."

George proceeded to the schoolroom. As he was entering, Flora darted

out, her eyes swollen, her cheeks enflamed. She, too, had loved her

half-brother, for all her careless ways and his restraining hand.

George would have detained her to speak a kind word, but she suddenly

dipped her head and flew past, under his arm.

Ethel was not crying now. She stood by the fire, leaning her pretty

head against the mantelpiece. Her back was towards the door, and she

was not aware that it was George who entered.

"My darling, I fear this is a sad trial to you," he said, advancing.

His voice brought to her a start of surprise; his words caused the

tears to flow again. George drew her to him, and she sobbed on his

breast.

"You don't know what it is," she said quite hysterically. "I used to

be at times cross and angry with him. And now I find there was no

cause for it, that he was married all the while. Oh if I had but

known!--he should never have heard from me an unkind word."

"Be assured of one thing, Ethel--that he appreciated your words at

their proper due only, and laughed at them in his heart. He knew you

loved him as a brother: and I am sure he was truly attached to you."

"Yes, I do know all that. But--I wish I had been always kind to him,"

she added, as she drew away and stood as before.

"I come from a long talk with Mr. Castlemaine," said George, after a

minute's pause, putting his elbow on the opposite end of the mantel

piece to face her while he spoke "I have been asking him for you,

Ethel."

"Ye--s?" she faltered, her eyes glancing up for a moment, and then

falling again. "Asking him to-day?"

"You are thinking that it is not the most appropriate day I could have

chosen: and that's true. But, in one sense, I did not choose it. We

had future plans of different kinds to discuss, and this one had to

come in with them. I come to make a confession to you, Ethel, to crave

your pardon. The name under which I have won you, George North, is not

my true name. At least, not all my name. I am a Castlemaine. Mr.

Castlemaine's nephew, and that poor lost Anthony's brother."

Ethel looked bewildered. "A Castlemaine!" she repeated. "How can that

be?"

"My dear, it is easy to understand. Mr. Basil Castlemaine, he who

settled abroad, was the eldest brother of this house, you know, years

ago. Anthony was Basil's elder son, I his younger. I came over to

discover what I could of Anthony's fate, and I dropped temporarily the

name of Castlemaine, lest my being recognised as one of the family

might impede my search. My uncle James condones it all; and I believe

he thinks that I was justified. I have now resumed my name--George

North Castlemaine."

Ethel drew a deep breath. She was trying to recover her astonishment.

"Would it pain you very much, Ethel, to know that you would make no

change in your residence?--that you would spend your life at

Greylands' Rest?"

"I--do not understand you," she faintly said, a vision of remaining

under Mrs. Castlemaine's capricious control for ever, and of being

separated from him, rushing over her like an ugly nightmare.

"Greylands' Rest is to be my home in future, Ethel. Mr. and Mrs.

Castlemaine leave it----"

"Yours!--your own?" she interrupted in excitement. "This house!

Greylands' Rest?"

"Yes; my own. It is mine now. I come in after Harry," he added very

hurriedly, to cover the last sentence, which had slipped out

inadvertently: "and my uncle resigns it to, me at once."

"Oh dear," said Ethel, more and more bewildered. "But it would cost so

much to live here."

"Not more than I can afford to spend," he answered with a smile. "I

told you, Ethel, if you remember, that I expected to come into some

property, though I was not sure of it. I have come into it. What would

have been poor Anthony's had he lived, is now mine."

"But--is Anthony really dead?"

"Ay. I will tell you about it later. The present question is, Ethel,

whether you will share my home here at Greylands' Rest."

He spoke with a smile, crossed over, and stood before her on the

shabby old hearthrug. Just one moment of maiden hesitation, of a

sweet rising blush, and she bent forward to the arms that were opened

to encircle her.

"One home together here," he fondly murmured, bending his face on

hers. "One Heaven hereafter."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

NO TURNING BACK.

Once more the whole population of Greylands turned out in commotion. A

sad and silent commotion, however, this time, as befitted the cause.

Voices were hushed to a low tone, faces showed sadness, the church

bell was tolling. People had donned their best attire; the fishermen

were in their churchgoing clothes, their boats, hauled up on the beach

or lying at anchor, had rest to-day. All who could muster a scrap of

mourning had put it on, though it was but an old crape hatband, or a

bit of black bonnet-ribbon. Mr. Harry Castlemaine was about to be

buried; and he had been a favourite with high and low.

They made their comments as they stood waiting for the funeral. The

December day was raw and dull, the grey skies seeming to threaten a

fall of some kind; but Mrs. Bent pronounced it not cold enough for

snow. She stood at her front door, wearing a black gown, and black

strings to her cap; and was condescendingly exchanging remarks with

some of her inferior neighbours, and with Mrs. and Miss Pike, who had

run over from the shop.

"We shall never have such a week o' surprises as this have been,"

pronounced Mrs. Pike, a little red-faced woman, who was this morning

in what she called "the thick of a wash," and consequently had come

out en déshabille, a shawl thrown over her cap, underneath which

peeped out some black straggling curls. "First of all, about them

smugglers and poor Mr. Harry's wound and death, and that good-hearted

Commodore having to decamp himself off, through them ferreting

coastguards. And now to hear that the gentleman staying here so long

is one o' the Castlemaines theirselves, and heir to Greylands' Rest

after Mr. Harry! It beats the news column in the Stilborough paper

holla."

"'Twere a sad thing, though, about that young Mr. Anthony," exclaimed

old Ben Little. "The smugglers shot him dead, ye see, and that scream

Mr. Bent said he heard were his. Full o' life one moment, and shot

down the next! Them wretches ought to have swung for it."

"It be a pack o' surprises, all on't, but the greatest on 'em be Jane

Hallet," quoth Nancy Gleeson. "When it come out that Mr. Harry had

married her, you might ha' sent me down head for'ard with a

feather--just as Mr. Harry sent down our Tim one day, when he said a

word again' her."

"It was very sly of Jane," struck in Miss Susan Pike, tossing her

curls. "Never saying a word to a body, and making believe as it was

just talk about her and Mr. Harry, and nothing else. I'd like to know

how she wheedled him over."

"It's not for you to speak against her, Susan Pike," cried Mrs. Bent

in her sharpest tone. "You didn't wheedle him, and wasn't likely to.

She is Mr. Harry's wife--widow, worse luck!--and by all accounts no

blame's due to her. Mr. Castlemaine gives none: and we heard yesterday

he was going to settle two hundred a year on her for life."

"My! won't she set up for a lady!" enviously returned Miss Pike,

ignoring the reprimand.

"Don't you be jealous, and show it, Susan Pike," retorted Mrs. Bent.

"Everybody liked Jane: and we are all glad--but you--that she's

cleared from the scandal. I did think it odd that she should go

wrong."

"Her aunt have got her home now, and have took up all her proud airs

again," said Mrs. Pike, not pleased that her daughter should be put

down. "That Miss Hallet have always thought none of us was good enough

for her."

"Hist!" said Ben Little, in a hushed voice. "Here it comes."

On the evening of the day following the death, the remains of Harry

Castlemaine, then in their first coffin, had been conveyed to his

home. It was from Greylands' Rest, therefore, that the funeral

procession was now advancing. The curious spectators stretched their

necks aloft to watch its onward progress; but as it came near they

retreated into the hedges, so to say, and compressed themselves into

as small a space as possible; the men, with one accord, taking off

their hats.

It was a perfectly simple funeral. The state rather loved by the

Castlemaines, and hitherto maintained by the Master of Greylands, it

had not pleased him to extend to the obsequies of his son. Two mutes

with their batons of sable plumes were in advance; Parson Marston

followed in his surplice and black hood, walking at the head of the

coffin, which was covered by its pall, and carried by carriers. Close

to the coffin came Mr. Castlemaine; his nephew, George, accompanying

him. Squire Dobie, long recovered from his illness, and Mr. Knivett

walked next; two gentlemen from Stilborough, and the doctors, Parker

and Croft, brought up the rear. These comprised all the ostensible

mourners: they wore crape scarfs and hat-bands that nearly swept the

ground, and had white handkerchiefs in their hands; but behind them

were many followers: John Bent, Superintendent Nettleby, and others,

who had fallen in as the procession left the house; and Miles and the

other men-servants closed it.

Whether any suspicion penetrated to Mr. Superintendent Nettleby, then

or later, that it was not mere accident which had taken Harry to the

secret vaults of the Keep that night, cannot be known. He never gave

utterance to it, then or later.

The people came out of the hedges after it had passed, and followed it

slowly to the churchyard. Mr. Marston had turned and was waiting at

the gate to receive the coffin, reading his solemn words. And for once

in his life Parson Marston was solemn too.

"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that

believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever

liveth and believeth in Me shall never die."

A sob of pain, telling what this calamity was to him, rose in the

throat of the Master of Greylands. Few men could control themselves

better than he: and he struggled for calmness. If he gave way at this,

the commencement of the service, how should he hold out to the end? So

his face took its pale impassive look again, as he followed on through

the churchyard.

It was not the custom at that time for women to attend the obsequies

of those in the better ranks of life. Women followed the poor, but

never the rich. Neither did any, save those bidden to a funeral,

attempt to enter the church as spectators: or at least, it was done

but in very rare cases. The crowd who had gathered by the Dolphin Inn,

to watch it pass, took up their standing in the churchyard. From time

to time the voice of Mr. Marston was heard, and that of the clerk in

the Amens; and soon the procession was out again.

The grave--or rather the vault--of old Anthony Castlemaine, had been

opened in the churchyard, and Harry was laid there in it. His own mother

was there: the coffins lay two abreast. The Master of Greylands saw his

wife's as he looked in. The inscription was as plain as though she had

been buried yesterday: "Maria Castlemaine. Aged twenty-six." Another

sob shook his throat as Harry's was lowered on it, and for a minute or

two he broke down.

It was all soon over, and they filed out of the churchyard on their

way back to Greylands' Rest. Leaving the curious and sympathising

crowd to watch the grave-diggers, and lament one to another that the

fine, open-hearted young man had been taken away so summarily, and to

elbow one another as they pushed round to see the last of his coffin,

and to read its name:

"Henry Castlemaine. Aged twenty-six."

So he had died at just the same age as his mother!

Miss Castlemaine sat in the parlour at the Grey Nunnery, the little

Marie on her knee. Since she knew who this child was--a Mary Ursula,

like herself, and a Castlemaine--a new interest had arisen for her in

her heart. She was holding the little one to her, looking into her

face, and tracing the resemblance to the family. A great resemblance

there undoubtedly was: the features were the clearly-cut Castlemaine

features, the eyes were the same dark lustrous eyes; and Mary most

wondered that the resemblance had never previously struck her.

Once more Mary had put aside the simple grey dress of the Sisterhood

for robes of mourning: flowing robes, they were, of silk and crape,

worn for poor Harry. The cap was on her head still, shading her soft

brown hair.

It was the week subsequent to the funeral. On the following day Madame

Guise (as well retain the name to the last) was about to return to her

own land with her child, escorted thither by George Castlemaine. It

was not to be a perpetual separation, for Charlotte had faithfully

promised to come over at least once in three years to stay with George

and Ethel at Greylands' Rest, so as to give her child the privilege of

keeping up relations with the Castlemaine family. A slab was to be

placed in the church to the memory of Anthony, and that, Madame Guise

said, would of itself bring her. She must afford herself the mournful

satisfaction of reading it from time to time. After her departure Mary

Ursula was to go to Greylands' Rest on a short farewell visit to her

uncle. It would be Christmastide, and she would spend the Christmas

there. Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine were losing no time in their departure

from Greylands' Rest; they would be gone, with Ethel and Flora, before

the new year came in. Mr. Castlemaine would not stay in it to see

the dawning of another year: the last one, he said, had been too

ill-fated. George would return as soon as might be to take up his abode

there--but travelling on the Continent was somewhat uncertain at that

season. During the winter Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine would remain in

London; and in the spring George was to go up there for his marriage,

and bring Ethel home.

"Marie must not forget her English," said Mary Ursula, pressing a kiss

on the child's face.

"Marie not fordet it, lady."

"And Marie is to come sometimes and see her dear old friends here;

mamma says so; and Uncle George will----"

"A gentleman to see you, madam."

Little Sister Phoeby had opened the parlour door with the

announcement, and was showing the visitor in. Mary thought it must be

Mr. Knivett, and wondered that she had not heard the gate-bell. The

fact was, Sister Phoeby had had the front door open, to let out the

school children.

It was not Mr. Knivett who entered, but a much younger man: one whom,

of all the world, Mary would have least expected to see--Sir William

Blake-Gordon. He came forward, holding out his hand with trepidation,

his utterly colourless face betraying his inward emotion. Mary rose,

putting down the child, and mechanically suffered her hand to meet his.

Sister Phoeby beckoned out the little girl, and shut the door.

"Will you pardon my unauthorised intrusion?" he asked, putting his hat

on the table and taking a chair near her. "I feared to write and ask

permission to call, lest you should deny it to me."

"I should not have denied it--no; my friends are welcome here,"

replied Mary, feeling just as agitated as he, but successfully

repressing its signs. "You have, no doubt, some good reason for seeking

me."

She spoke with one of her sweetest smiles: the smile that she was wont

to give to her best friends. How well he remembered it!

"You have heard--at least I fancy you must have heard--some news of

me," resumed Sir William, speaking with considerable embarrassment and

hesitation. "It has been made very public."

Mary coloured now. About a fortnight before, Mr. Knivett had told her

that the projected marriage of Sir William with Miss Mountsorrel was

at an end. The two lovers had quarrelled and parted. Sir William sat

looking at Mary, either waiting for her answer, or because he

hesitated to go on.

"I heard that something had occurred to interrupt your plans," said

Mary. "It is only a temporary interruption, I trust."

"It is a lasting one," he said; "and I do not wish it to be otherwise.

Oh, Mary!" he added, rising in agitation, "you know, you must know,

how hateful it was to me! I entered into it to please my father; I

never had an iota of love for her. Love! the very word is desecrated

in connection with what I felt for Miss Mountsorrel. I really and

truly had not even friendship for her; I could not feel it. When we

parted, I felt like a man who has been relieved from some heavy weight

of dull despair; it was as though I had shaken off a felon's chains."

"What caused it?" questioned Mary, feeling that she must say

something.

"Coolness caused it. For the very life of me I was unable to behave to

her as I ought--as I suppose she had a right to expect me to behave.

Since my father's death I had been more distant than ever, for I could

not help remembering the fact that, had I held out against his will

until then, I should have been free: and I resented it bitterly in my

heart. Resented it on her, I fear. She reproached me with my coolness

one day--some two or three weeks ago, it is. One word led to another;

we had a quarrel and she threw me up."

"I am sorry to hear it," said Mary.

"Can you say that from your heart?"

He put the subdued question so pointedly, and there was so wistful an

expression of reproach in his face that she felt confused. Sir William

came up close, and took her hands.

"You know what I have come for," he cried, his voice hoarse with

agitation. "I should have come a week ago but that it was the period

of your deep mourning. Oh, Mary! let it be with us as it used to be!

There can be no happiness for me in this world apart from you. Since

the day of my father's death I have never ceased to--to--I had almost

said to curse the separation that he forced upon us; or, rather to

curse my weakness in yielding to it. Oh, my darling, forgive me!--my

early and only love, forgive me I Come to me Mary, and be my dear

wife!"

The tears were running down her face. Utterly unnerved, feeling how

entirely the old love was holding sway in her heart, she let her hands

lie in his.

"I am not rich, as you know, Mary; but we shall have enough for

comfort. Your position at least, as Lady Blake Gordon, will be

assured, and neither of us cares for riches. Our tastes are alike

simple. Do you remember how we both used to laugh at undue parade and

show?"

"Hush, William! Don't tempt me."

"Not tempt you! My dear one, you must be mine. It was a sin to

separate us: it would be a worse sin to prolong the separation now

that impediments are removed."

"I cannot turn back," she said.. "I have cast my lot in here, and must

abide by it. I--I--seem to see--to see more surely and clearly day by

day as the days go on"--she could scarcely speak for agitation--"that

God Himself has led me to this life; that He is showing me hour by

hour how to be more useful in it. I may not quit it now."

"Do you recall the fact, Mary, that your father gave you to me? It

was his will that we should be man and wife. You cannot refuse to hear

my prayer."

None knew, or ever would know, what that moment was to Mary Ursula:

how strong was the temptation that assailed her; how cruelly painful

to resist it. But, while seductive love showed her the future, as his

wife, in glowing colours, reason forbade her yielding to it. Argument

after argument against it crowded into her mind. She had cast in her

lot with these good ladies; she had made the poor patient community,

struggling before with need and privation, happy with her means. How

could she withdraw those means from them? She had, in her own heart,

and doing it secretly as to Christ, taken up her cross and her work in

this life that she had entered upon. When she embraced it, she

embraced it for ever: to turn away from it now would be like a mockery

of Heaven. Involuntarily there arose in her mind a warning verse of

Holy Writ, strangely applicable. She thought it might almost have been

written for her; and a breathed word of silent prayer went up from her

heart that she might be helped and strengthened.

"You know, Mary, that Mr. Peter Castlemaine----"

"Just a moment, William," she interrupted, lifting her hand

pleadingly. "Let me think it out."

There were worldly reasons also why she should not yield, she went on

to think: ay, and perhaps social ones. What would the public say if,

during this temporary estrangement from Agatha Mountsorrel, this

trumpery quarrel, she were to seize upon him again with indecent

haste, and make him her own? What would her own sense of right say to

it?--her maidenly propriety?--her untarnished spirit of honour? No, it

could not be: the world might cry shame on her, and she should cry it

on herself. Sir William Blake-Gordon interrupted her with his

impassioned words. This moment, as it should be decided, seemed to be

to him as one of life or death.

"William, hush!" she said, gazing at him through her blinding tears,

and clasping his hands, in which hers still rested, almost to pain in

her mind's anguish. "It may not be."

"Sit you down, my love, and be calm. I am sure you are hardly

conscious of what you say. Oh, Mary, reflect! It is our whole life's

happiness that is at stake: yours and mine."

They sat down side by side; and when her emotion had subsided she told

him why it might not, giving all the reasons for her decision, and

speaking quietly and firmly. He pleaded as though he were pleading for

life itself, as well as its happiness: but he pleaded in vain. All the

while she was repeating to herself that verse of warning, as if she

dreaded letting it go from her for a moment.

"We will be as dear brother and sister, William, esteeming each other

unto our lives' end, and meeting occasionally. You will still marry

Agatha----"

"Mary!"

"Yes, I think it will be so; and I hope and trust you will be happy

together. I am sure you will be."

"Our time together is short enough to-day, Mary. Do not waste it in

these idle words. If you knew how they grate on me!"

"Well, I will leave that. But you must not waste your life in

impossible thoughts of me and of what might have been. It would render

impracticable our intercourse as friends. Thank you for what you have

come this day to say: it will make my heart happier when its tumult

and agitation shall be over."

Once more, by every argument in his power to call up, by the deep love

and despair at his heart, he renewed his pleading. But it did not

answer. The interview was prolonged to quite an unusual period, and

was painful on both sides, but it terminated at length; and when

William Blake-Gordon left her presence he left it as her lover for

ever.

CONCLUSION.

Winter had passed: summer had come round again. Greylands basked in

the light and heat of the June sun; the sea lay sleeping under the

fishing boats.

There's not much to tell. Greylands' Rest had its new inmates: George

Castlemaine and his wife. Ethel told her secrets to her husband now

instead of to the sea: but they both were fond of sitting on the high

cliffs together and watching its waves. Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine were

somewhere abroad, intending to stay there until autumn: and Miss Flora

was where poor Harry always said she ought to be--at a good school.

Mr. Castlemaine had carried his point, in spite of the opposition of

his wife. It must be one of two things, he said: either that Mrs.

Castlemaine stayed in England herself, or else that she disposed in

some way of Flora; for Flora he was fully determined not to have

abroad with him. So, being bent upon the foreign travel, Mrs.

Castlemaine had to yield.

Jane Hallet--old names stand by us--had taken up her abode again with

her aunt, in the pretty home on the cliff. It would probably be her

dwelling-place for life. Unless, indeed, she carried out the project

she had been heard once to mention--that, whenever her aunt should be

called away, she hoped to join the community of the Grey Sisters. Very

sad and gentle and subdued did Jane look in her widow's cap. There was

a little stone now in the churchyard to the memory of "Jane, infant

child of Harry Castlemaine:" it had been placed there, unasked, by the

Master of Greylands; and just as Jane used to steal down the cliff in

the dusk of evening to meet her husband, so did she now often steal

down at the same silent hour to weep over the graves of her child and

its father, lying side by side. Not yet did Greylands, as a rule, give

her her true name: old names, it has been just observed, stand by us:

and Hallet, as applied to Jane, was more familiar to the tongue than

Castlemaine. The income settled on Jane was ample for every comfort:

she and her aunt now lived as quiet gentle-people, keeping a good

servant. Jane had dropped her intimacy with Miss Susan Pike, though she

would stay and speak cordially to her when by chance they met. Which

implied distance, or reserve, or whatever it might be, was not at all

agreeable to that damsel, and she consoled herself by telling Greylands

that Jane was "stuck-up." Little cared poor Jane. Her young life had

always been a sad one: and now, before she was twenty years of age, its

happiness had been blighted out of it. George Castlemaine and his wife,

at Greylands' Rest, were becoming fond of Jane: Ethel had always liked

her. Jane visited them now sometimes; and Greylands was shown that they

respected and regarded her.

"It is as it should be: Jane's manners and ways were always too high

for her pocket--as are Miss Hallet's, too, for that matter," remarked

Mrs. Bent to her husband, one day that they sat sunning themselves on

the bench outside the inn, and saw Jane pass with Ethel. John only

nodded in reply. With the elucidation of the fate of Anthony

Castlemaine, and the delivering over of his effects to his widow,

Charlotte Guise, John's mind was at rest, and he had returned to his

old easy apathy. By dint of much battling with strong impressions,

John had come to the conclusion that the tall man he saw cross from

the Chapel Lane to the ruins, that February night, might have been one

of the smugglers on his way from the Hutt, who bore an extraordinary

resemblance to the Master of Greylands. Jack Tuff held out still that

it was he; but Jack Tuff was told his eyesight that night could not be

trusted.

News came from Commodore Teague pretty often. He appeared to be

flourishing in his new abode over the water, and had set up a

pleasure-boat on the Scheldt. He sent pressing messages for Greylands

to visit him and Tom Dance and his son intended to avail themselves of

the invitation. The Commodore inquired after old friends, even to the

ghost of the Grey Monk, whether it "walked" as much as it used to

walk, or whether it didn't. The Hutt remained without a tenant. Not a

soul would take it. Events had severely shaken the bravery of

Greylands; the ghost had shown itself much in the last year, and the

Hutt was too near its haunting place, the Friar's Keep, to render it a

comfortable residence. So it remained untenanted, and was likely to

remain so. Greylands would almost as soon have parted with its faith

in the Bible as in the Grey Monk.

And the participation of the Master of Greylands in those illicit

practices was not disclosed or suspected, and the name and reputation

of the Castlemaines had never a tarnish on it. It was believed that he

had behaved in a remarkably handsome and liberal manner to his nephew

George, in giving up to him Greylands' Rest during his own lifetime:

George himself spoke feelingly of it: and what with that, and what

with the sympathy felt for the loss of his son, and what with regret

for the suspicions cast on him in regard to Anthony, Mr. Castlemaine

stood higher in men's estimation than ever he had stood originally.

And that was saying a great deal.

And she--Mary Ursula! Some further good fortune had come to her in the

shape of money. A heavy debt due to her father since long years, which

had been looked upon as a total loss, was suddenly repaid. It

amounted, with the interest, to many thousands of pounds. As Mr. Peter

Castlemaine had himself not a creditor in the world, all his

obligations having been paid in full, it lapsed of course to his

daughter. So, even on the score of fortune, she might not have been so

unequal a match for Sir William Blake-Gordon. Sir William, knowing how

utterly at an end was all hope of Mary, had, after some tardy delay,

renewed his engagement with Miss Mountsorrel: and this month, June,

they had been married. Mary sent them a loving letter of good wishes,

and a costly present: and she told them that she and they should

always be the best of friends.

She was too rich now, she was wont to say, laughingly, to the Sisters:

and she introduced some changes for comfort into the Nunnery. One of

the rooms hitherto shut up, a spacious apartment with the lovely sea

view, she had caused to be renovated and furnished for the Ladies,

leaving the parlour still as the reception-room. A smaller apartment

with the same sea aspect was fitted up for herself, and her own fine

piano placed in it: the Superior's private sitting-room. Sister

Mildred had neither the means nor had she been educated with the

tastes of Mary Ursula. The door leading from the Nunnery into the

secret passage was bricked-up for ever.

A grand, stately Superior-mistress made Miss Castlemaine; and the Grey

Ladies, under her wise and gracious sway, enlarged their sphere of

benevolence. Using her means, they sought out their fellow-pilgrims,

entangled amid the thorns of this world, and helped them on the road

to a better. For herself, though anxiously fulfilling all the social

obligations of her sphere here, she kept her feet and her heart set

ever towards the eternal shore. And if--for she was but human--a

regret came over her for the position she had persisted in resigning,

or a vision rose of the earthly bliss that would have been hers as

William Blake-Gordon's wife, that one verse of the loving MASTER'S,

delivered to His people during His sojourn on earth, was sure to

suggest itself for her consolation. As it had come into her mind,

uncalled for and unbidden, during that hour of her temptation, so

would it return to cheer and comfort her now.

"No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit

to enter the kingdom of God."

THE END.

--------------------------------------------

J. OGDEN AND CO., PRINTERS, 172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Master of Greylands, by Mrs. Henry Wood