The Master of Greylands. Mrs. Henry Wood
he answered. "What an array of jam pots! Do you leave the key in the door? A few of those might be walked off and never be missed."
"I should like to see anybody attempt it," cried Mrs. Bent, wrathfully. "You are always joking, Mr. Harry."
He laughed cordially. "John," he said, turning to the landlord, "did the coach bring a parcel for me?"
"No, sir. Were you expecting one, Mr. Harry?"
Mrs. Bent turned completely round from her cupboard. "It's not a trick you are thinking to play us, is it, sir? I have not forgotten that other parcel you had left here once."
"Other parcel? Oh, that was ever so many years ago. I am expecting this from London, John, if you will take it in. It will come to-morrow, I suppose. Mrs. Bent thinks I am a boy still."
"Ah no, sir, that I don't," she said. "You've long grown beyond that, and out of my control."
"Out of everybody else's too," he laughed. "Where I used to get cuffs I now get kisses, Mrs. Bent. And I am not sure but they are the more dangerous application of the two."
"I am very sure they are," called out Mrs. Bent, as the young man went off laughing, after bowing slightly to the stranger, who was now standing up, and whose appearance bespoke him to be a gentleman.
"Who was that?" asked the stranger of John Bent.
"That was Mr. Harry Castlemaine, sir. Son of the Master of Greylands."
With one leap, the stranger was outside the door, gazing after him. But Harry Castlemaine, quick and active, was already nearly beyond view. When the stranger came back to his place again, Mrs. Bent had locked up her cupboard and was gone.
"A fine-looking young man," he remarked.
"And a good-hearted one as ever lived--though he is a bit random," said John. "I like Mr. Harry; I don't like his father."
"Why not?"
"Well, sir, I hardly know why. One is apt to take dislikes sometimes."
"You were speaking of Greylands' Rest--of the rumours that went abroad respecting it when old Mr. Castlemaine died. What were they?"
"Various rumours, sir; but all tending to one and the same point. And that was, whether Greylands' Rest had, or had not, legally come to Mr. James Castlemaine."
"Being the second son," quietly spoke the stranger. "There can be no question I should think, that the rightful heir was the eldest son, Basil."
"And it was known, too, that Basil was his father's favourite; and that the old man during his last years was always looking and longing for him to come back," spoke John Bent, warming with the subject: "and in short, sir, everybody expected it would be left to Basil. On the other hand, James was close at hand, and the old man could leave it to him if he pleased."
"One glance at the will would set all doubt at rest."
"Ay. But it was not known, sir, whether there was a will, or not."
"Not known?"
"No, sir. Some said there was a will, and that it left all to Mr. Basil; others said there was no will at all, but that old Anthony Castlemaine made Mr. James a deed of gift of Greylands' Rest. And a great many said, and still say, that old Mr. Castlemaine only handed him over the estate in trust for Mr. Basil--or for any sons Mr. Basil might leave after him."
The stranger sat in silence. On his little finger shone a magnificent diamond ring, evidently of great value; he twirled it about unconsciously.
"What is your opinion, Mr. Bent?" he suddenly asked.
"Mine, sir? Well, I can't help thinking that the whole was left to Mr. Basil, and that if he's alive the place is no more Mr. James's than it is mine. I think it particularly for two reasons: one because the old man always said it would be Basil's; and again if it was given to Mr. James, whether by will or by deed of gift, he would have taken care to show abroad the will or the deed that gave it him, and so set the rumours at rest for good. Not but what all the Castlemaines are close and haughty-natured men, never choosing to volunteer information about themselves. So that----"
"Now then, John Bent! It's about time you began to lay the cloth and see to the silver."
No need to say from whom the interruption came. Mrs. Bent, her face flushed to the colour of the cherry ribbons, whisked in and whisked out again. John followed; and set about his cloth-laying. The stranger sat where he was, in a reverie, until called to dinner.
It was a small, but most excellent repast, the wine taken with it some of the Dolphin's choice Burgundy, of which it had a little bin. John Bent waited on his guest, who dined to his complete satisfaction. He was about to leave the bottle on the table after dinner, but the guest motioned it away.
"No, no more; I do not drink after dinner. It is not our custom in France."
"Oh, very well, sir. I'll cork it up for to-morrow. I--I beg your pardon, sir," resumed the landlord, as he drew the cloth from the table, "what name shall I put down to you, sir?"
The stranger rose and stood on the hearthrug, speaking distinctly when he gave his name.
Speaking distinctly. Nevertheless John Bent seemed not to hear it, for he stared like one in a dream.
"What?" he gasped, in a startled tone of terror, as he staggered back against the sideboard; and some of the fresh colour left his face. "What name did you say, sir?"
"Anthony Castlemaine."
CHAPTER IV.
FORESHADOWINGS OF EVIL.
The stone walls of Greylands' Rest lay cold and still under the pale sunshine of the February day. The air was sharp and frosty; the sun, though bright to the eye, had little warmth in it; and the same cutting east wind that John Bent had complained of to the traveller who had alighted at his house the previous afternoon, was prevailing still with an equal keenness.
Mr. Castlemaine felt it in his study, where he had been busy all the morning. He fancied he must have caught a chill, for a slight shiver suddenly stirred his tall, fine frame, and he turned to the fire and gave it a vigorous poke. The fuel was wood and coal mixed, and the blaze went roaring up the chimney. The room was not large. Standing with his back to the fire, the window was on his right hand; the door on his left; opposite to him, against the wall, stood a massive piece of mahogany furniture, called a bureau. It was a kind of closed-in desk, made somewhat in the fashion of the banker's desk at Stilborough, but larger; the inside had pigeon-holes and deep drawers, and a slab for writing on. This inside was well filled with neatly arranged bundles of papers, with account books belonging to the farm business and else, and with some few old letters: and the Master of Greylands was as cautions to keep this desk closed and locked from the possibility of the view of those about him as his brother Peter was to keep his. The Castlemaines were proud, reticent, and careful men.
For a good part of the morning Mr. Castlemaine had been busy at this desk. He had shut and locked it now, and was standing with his back to the fire, deep in thought. Two letters of the large size in vogue before envelopes were used, and sealed with the Castlemaine crest in red wax, lay on the side-table, ready to be posted. His left hand was inside his waistcoat, resting on the broad plaited shirt-frill of fine cambric; his bright dark eyes had rather a troubled look in them as they sought that old building over the fields opposite, the Friar's Keep, and the sparkling sea beyond. In reality, Mr. Castlemaine was looking neither at the Friar's Keep nor the sea, for he was deep in thought and saw nothing.
The Master of Greylands was of a superstitious nature: it may as well be stated candidly: difficult though it was to believe such of so practical a man. Not to the extent of giving credit to stories of ghosts and apparitions; the probability is, that in his heart he would have laughed at that; but he did believe in signs and warnings, in omens of ill-luck and good luck.
On