The Master of Greylands. Mrs. Henry Wood
sometimes do deviate.
"But don't you know who he was? Did he give no account of himself?"
"He calls himself Anthony Castlemaine."
As the name left her lips a curious kind of change, as though he were startled, passed momentarily over the banker's countenance. But he neither stirred nor spoke.
"When the card was brought in with that name upon it--James happened to be in the red parlour, talking with me about a new governess--I said it must be an old card of your father's that somebody had got hold of. But it turned out not to be that: and, indeed, it was not like the old cards. What he wants to make out is, that he is the son of Basil Castlemaine."
"Did James see him?"
"Oh dear yes, and their interview lasted more than an hour."
"And he told James he was Basil's son?--this young man."
"I think so. At any rate, the young man told Ethel he was. She happened to meet him as he was leaving the house and he introduced himself to her as Anthony Castlemaine, Basil's son, and said he had come over to claim his inheritance--Greylands' Rest."
"And where's Basil?" asked the banker, after a pause.
"Dead."
"Dead?"
"So the young man wishes to make appear. My opinion is he must be some impostor."
"An impostor no doubt," assented the banker, slowly. "At least--he may be. I only wonder that we have not, under the circumstances, had people here before, claiming to be connected with Basil."
"And I am sure the matter has annoyed James very much," pursued Mrs. Castlemaine. "He betrayed it in his manner, and was not at all like himself all the afternoon. I should make short work of it if the man came again, were I James, and threaten him with the law."
Mr. Peter Castlemaine said no more, and presently rose to join other of his guests. But as he talked to one, laughed with another, listened to a third, his head bent in attention, his eyes looking straight into their eyes, none had an idea that these signs of interest were evinced mechanically, and that his mind was far away.
He had enough perplexity and trouble of his own just then, as Heaven knew; very much indeed on this particular evening; but this other complexity, that appeared to be arising for his brother James, added to it. To Mrs. Castlemaine's scornfully expressed opinion that the man was an impostor, he had assented just in the same way that he was now talking with his guests--mechanically. For some instinct, or prevision, call it what you will, lay on the banker's heart, that the man would turn out to be no impostor, but the veritable son of the exile, Basil.
Peter Castlemaine was much attached to his brother James, and for James's own sake he would have regretted that any annoyance or trouble should arise for him; but he had also a selfish motive for regretting it. In his dire strait as to money--for to that it had now come--he had been rapidly making up his mind that evening to appeal to James to let him have some. The appeal might not be successful under the most favourable auspices: he knew that: but with this trouble looming for the Master of Greylands, he foresaw that it must and would fail. Greylands' Rest might be James's in all legal security; but an impression had lain on the mind of Peter Castlemaine, since his father's death, that if Basil ever returned he would set up a fight for it.
Supper over--the elaborate, heavy, sit-down supper of those days--and the two dances following upon it, most of the guests departed. Mr. Blake-Gordon, seeking about for the banker to wish him goodnight, at length found him standing over the fire in the deserted card-room. Absorbed though he was in his own happiness, the young man could but notice the flood-tide of care on the banker's brow. It cleared off, as though by magic, when the banker looked up and saw him.
"Is it you, William? I thought you had left."
"I should hardly go, sir, without wishing you goodnight. What a delightful evening it has been!"
"Ay, I think you have all enjoyed yourselves."
"Oh, very, very much."
"Well, youth is the time for enjoyment," observed the banker. "We can never again find the zest in it, once youth is past."
"You look tired, sir; otherwise I--I might have ventured to trespass on you for five minutes' conversation, late though it be," pursued Mr. Blake-Gordon with some hesitation.
"Tired!--not at all. You may take five minutes; and five to that, William."
"It is about our future residence, sir. Raven's Priory is in the market: and I think--and Mary thinks--it will just suit us."
"Ay; I heard more than a week ago that the Wests were leaving."
The words took William Blake-Gordon by surprise. He looked at the banker.
"Did you, sir!--more than a week ago! And did it not strike you that it would be a very suitable place for us?"
"I cannot say that I thought much about it," was the banker's answer; and he was twirling an ornament on the mantelpiece about with his hand as he spoke: a small, costly vase of old china from Dresden.
"But don't you think it would be, sir?"
"I daresay it might be. The gardens and conservatories have been well kept up; and you and Mary Ursula have both a weakness for rare flowers."
That was perfectly true. And the "weakness" showed itself then, for the young man went off into a rapturous description of the wealth of Raven's Priory in respect of floriculture. The ten minutes slipped away to twenty; and in his own enthusiasm Mr. Blake-Gordon did not notice the absence of it in his hearer.
"But I must not keep you longer, sir," he suddenly said, as his eyes caught the hands of the clock. "Perhaps you will let me see you about it to-morrow. Or allow my father to see you--that will be better."
"Not to-morrow," said Mr. Peter Castlemaine. "I shall be particularly engaged all day. Some other time."
"Whenever you please, sir. Only--we must take care that we are not forestalled in the purchase. Much delay might----"
"We can obtain a promise of the first refusal," interrupted the banker, in a somewhat impatient tone. "That will not be difficult."
"True. Goodnight, sir. And thank you for giving us this most charming evening."
"Goodnight, William."
But Mr. Blake-Gordon had not yet said his last farewell to his betrothed wife; and lovers never think that can be spoken often enough. He found her in the music-room, seated before the organ. She was waiting for her father.
"We shall have Raven's Priory, Mary," he whispered, speaking in accordance with his thoughts, in his great hopefulness; and his voice was joyous, and his pale face had a glow on it not often seen there. "Your papa himself says how beautiful the gardens and conservatories are."
"Yes," she softly answered, "we shall be sure to have it."
"I may not stay, Mary: I only came back to tell you this. And to wish you goodnight once again."
Her hand was within his arm, and they walked together to the end of the music-room. All the lights had been put out, save two. Just within the door he halted and took his farewell. His arm was around her, his lips were upon hers.
"May all good angels guard you this happy night--my love!--my promised wife!"
He went down the corridor swiftly; she stole her blushing face to the opening of the door, to take a last look at him. At that moment a crash, as of some frail thing broken, was heard in the card-room. Mr. Blake-Gordon turned into it Mary Ursula followed him.
The beautiful Dresden vase lay on the stone flags of the hearth, shivered into many atoms. It was one that Mary Ursula set great store by, for it had been a purchase of her mother's.
"Oh papa! How did it happen?"
"My dear, I swept it off unwittingly with my