The Master of Greylands. Mrs. Henry Wood
this selfsame morning he had awoke with an impression of discomfort, as if some impending evil were hanging over him; he could not account for it, for there was no conducing cause; and at the time he did not connect it with any superstitions feeling or fancy, but thought he must be either out of sorts, or had had some annoyance that he did not at the moment of waking recollect; something lying latent in his mind. Three or four little hindrances, or mishaps, occurred when he was dressing. First of all, he could not find his slippers: he hunted here; he looked there; and then remembered that he had left them the previous night in his study--a most unusual thing for him to do--and he had to go and fetch them, or else dress in his stockings. Next, in putting on his shirt, he tore the buttonhole at the neck, and was obliged to change it for another. And the last thing he did was to upset all his shaving water, and had to wait while fresh was brought.
"Nothing but impediments: it seems as though I were not to get dressed to-day," muttered the Master of Greylands. "Can there be any ill-luck in store for me?"
The intelligent reader will doubtless be much surprised to hear him ask so ridiculous a question. Nevertheless, the same kind of thing--these marked hindrances--had occurred twice before in Mr. Castlemaine's life, and each time a great evil had followed in the day. Not of the present time was he thinking, now as he stood, but of one of those past days, and of what it had brought forth.
"Poor Maria!" he softly cried--alluding to his first wife, of whom he had been passionately fond. "Well, and merry, and loving in the morning; and at night stretched before me in death. It was an awful accident! and I--I have never cared quite so much for the world since. Maria was--what is it? Come in."
A knock at the door had disturbed the reflections. Mr. Castlemaine let fall his coat tails, which he had then caught up, and turned his head to it. A man servant appeared.
"Commodore Teague wants to know, sir, whether he may get those two or three barrow-loads of wood moved to the Hutt to-day. He'd like to, he says, if it's convenient."
"Yes, he can have it done. Is he here, Miles?"
"Yes, sir; he is waiting in the yard."
"I'll come and speak to him."
And the Master of Greylands, taking the two letters from the side-table, left the room to descend, shutting the door behind him.
We must turn for a few minutes to the Dolphin Inn, and to the previous evening. Nothing could well have exceeded John Bent's consternation when his guest, the unknown stranger, had revealed his name. Anthony Castlemaine! Not quite at first, but after a short interval, the landlord saw how it must be--that he was the son of the late Basil Castlemaine. And he was not the best pleased to hear it in the moment's annoyance.
"You ought to have told me, sir," he stammered in his confusion. "It was unkind to take me at a disadvantage. Here have I been using liberties with the family's name, supposing I was talking to an utter stranger!"
The frank expression of the young man's face, the pleasant look in his fine brown eyes, tended to reassure the landlord, even better than words.
"You have not said a syllable of my family that I could take exception to," he freely said. "You knew my father: will you shake hands with me, John Bent, as his son?"
"You are too good, sir; and I meant no harm by my gossip," said the landlord, meeting the offered hand. "You must be the son of Mr. Basil. It's a great many years since he went away, and I was but a youngster, but I remember him. Your face is nearly the same as his was, sir. The likeness was puzzling me beyond everything. I hope Mr. Basil is well, sir."
"No," said the young man, "he is dead. And I have come over here, as his son and heir, to claim Greylands' Rest."
It was even so. The facts were as young Anthony Castlemaine stated. And a short summary of past events must be given here.
When Basil Castlemaine went abroad so many years ago, in his hot-blooded youth, he spent some of the first years roaming about: seeing the world, he called it. Later, circumstances brought him acquainted with a young English lady, whose friends lived in France, in the province of Dauphiné: which, as the world knows, is close on the borders of Italy. They had settled near a place called Gap, and were in commerce there, owning some extensive silk-mills. Basil Castlemaine, tired probably of his wandering life, and of being a beau garçon, married this young lady, put all the money he had left (it was a very tolerably good sum) into the silk-mills, and became a partner. There he had remained. He liked the climate; he liked the French mode of life; he liked the business he had engaged in. Not once had he re-visited England. He was by nature a most obstinate man, retaining anger for ever, and he would not give token of remembrance to the father and brothers who, in his opinion, had been too glad to get rid of him. No doubt they had. But, though he did not allow them to hear of him, he heard occasionally of them. An old acquaintance of his, who was the son of one Squire Dobie, living some few miles on the other side Stilborough, wrote to him every two years, or so, and gave him news. But this correspondence (if letters written only on one side could be called such, for all Tom Dobie ever received back was a newspaper, sent in token that his letter had reached its destination) was carried on en cachette; and Tom Dobie never disclosed it to living mortal, having undertaken not to do so. Some two years before the present period, Tom Dobie had died: his letters of course ceased, and it was by the merest accident that Basil Castlemaine heard of the death of his father. He was then himself too ill to return and put in his claim to Greylands' Rest; in fact, he was near to death; but he charged his son to go to England and claim the estate as soon as he should be no more; nay, as he said, to enter into possession of it. But he made use of a peculiar warning in giving this charge to his son; and these were the words:
"Take you care what you are about, Anthony, and go to work cautiously. There may be treachery in store for you. The brothers--your uncles--who combined to drive me away from our homestead in days gone by, may combine again to keep you out of it. Take care of yourself, I say; feel your way, as it were; and beware of treachery."
Whether, as is supposed sometimes to be the case, the dying man had some prevision of the future, and saw, as by instinct, what that future would bring forth, certain it was, that he made use of this warning to young Anthony: and equally certain that the end bore out the necessity for the caution.
So here was Anthony Castlemaine: arrived in the land of his family to put in his claim to what he deemed was his lawful inheritance, Greylands' Rest, the deep black band worn for his father yet fresh upon his hat.
Mrs. Castlemaine sat in the red parlour, reading a letter. Or, rather, re-reading it, for it was one that had arrived earlier in the morning. A lady at Stilborough had applied for the vacant place of Governess to Miss Flora Castlemaine, and had enclosed her testimonials.
"Good music, singing, drawing; no French," read Mrs. Castlemaine aloud, partly for the benefit of Miss Flora, who stood on a stool at her elbow, not at all pleased that any such application should come; for, as we have already seen, the young lady would prefer to bring herself up without the aid of any governess. "Good tempered, but an excellent disciplinarian, and very firm with her pupils----"
"I'm not going to have her, mamma," came the interruption. "Don't you think it!"
"I do not suppose you will have her, Flora. The want of French will be an insuperable objection. How tiresome it is! One seems unable to get everything. The last lady who applied was not a sufficient musician for advanced pupils, and therefore could not have undertaken Ethel's music."
"As if Ethel needed to learn music still! Why, she plays as well--as well," concluded the girl, at a loss for a simile. "Catch me learning music when I'm as old as Ethel!"
"I consider, it nonsense myself, but Ethel wishes it, and your papa so foolishly gives in to her whims in all things that of course she has to be studied in the matter as much as you. It may be months and months before we get a lady who combines all that's wanted here."
Mrs. Castlemaine spoke resentfully. What with one thing and another, she generally was in a state of resentment against Ethel.
"I hope it may be years and years!" cried Flora, leaning her arms on the