The Master of Greylands. Mrs. Henry Wood
Some thought it was left to James In trust for Basil; but nobody knew, and the Castlemaines were close men, who never talked of their own affairs. The estate of Greylands' Rest was supposed to be worth about twelve hundred a year. It was the only portion of old Mr. Castlemaine's property that there could be any doubt or surmise about: what money he had to dispose of, he had divided during his lifetime between James and Peter; Basil having had his at starting. James Castlemaine was the only gentleman of importance living at Greylands; he was looked up to as a sort of feudal lord by its inhabitants generally, and swayed them at will.
Following the coach-road that led off by the Dolphin for about half a mile, you came to a long green avenue on the right hand, which was the chief approach to Greylands' Rest. It was an old house, built of grey stone; a straggling, in-and-out, spacious, comfortable mansion, only two stories high. Before the old-fashioned porch entrance lay a fine green lawn, with seats under its trees, and beds of flowers. Stables, barns, kitchen gardens, and more lawns and flower beds lay around. The rooms inside were many, but rather small; and most of them had to be approached by a narrow passage: as is sometimes the case in ancient houses that are substantially built. From the upper rooms at the side of the house could be seen, just opposite, the Friar's Keep, its casements and its broken upper walls; Commodore Teague's Hutt lying exactly in a line between the two buildings: and beyond all might be caught glimpses of the glorious sea.
It was a cold, bright day in February, the day following the dinner at the banker's. Mr. Castlemaine was busy in his study--a business-room, where he kept his farming accounts, and wrote his letters--which was on the upper floor of the house, looking towards the sea and the Friar's Keep, and was approached from the wide corridor by a short narrow passage having a door at either end. The inner door Mr. Castlemaine often kept locked. In a pretty room below, warm and comfortable, and called the Red Parlour from its prevailing colour, its ceiling low, its windows opening to the lawn, but closed to-day, sat the ladies of his family: Mrs. Castlemaine, her daughter Flora, and Ethel Reene.
It has been said that James Castlemaine's second wife was a widow--she was a Mrs. Reene. Her first marriage had also been to a widower, Mr. Reene, who had one daughter, Ethel. Mrs. Reene never took to this stepchild; she was jealous of Mr. Reene's affection for her; and when, on Mr. Reene's death, which occurred shortly after the marriage, it was found that he had left considerably more money to his child than to his new wife, Mrs. Reene's dislike was complete. A year or two after her marriage with Mr. Castlemaine, a little girl was born to her--Flora. On this child, her only one, she lavished all her love--but she had none for Ethel. Mr. Castlemaine, on his part, gave the greater portion of his affection to his son, the child of his first wife, Harry. A very fine young man now, of some five-and-twenty years, was Harry Castlemaine, and his father was wrapped up in him. Ethel addressed Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine as "papa" and "mamma," but she was in point of fact not really related to either. She was five years old when she came to Greylands' Rest, had grown up there as a child of the house, and often got called, out of doors, "Miss Castlemaine."
Ethel seemed to stand alone without kith or kin, with no one to love her; and she felt it keenly. As much as a young lady can be put upon and snubbed in a gentleman's well-appointed family, Ethel Reene was. Mr. Castlemaine was always kind to her, though perhaps somewhat indifferent; Mrs. Castlemaine was unkind and tyrannical; Flora--an indulged, selfish, ill-bred girl of twelve, forward enough in some things for one double her age--did her best to annoy her in all ways. And Mrs. Castlemaine permitted this: she could see no fault in Flora, she hated Ethel. Ethel Reene was nineteen now, growing fast into womanhood; but she was young for her years, and of a charming simplicity--not so rare in girls then as it is now. She was good, gentle, and beautiful; with a pale, quiet beauty that slowly takes hold of the heart, but as surely stays there. Her large eyes, full of depth, sweetness, and feeling, gazed out at you with almost the straightforward innocence of a child: and no child's heart could have been more free from guile. Her hair was dark, her pretty features were refined and delicate, her whole appearance ladylike and most attractive.
Ethel Reene had much to put up with in her everyday life: for Mrs. Castlemaine's conduct was trying in the extreme; Flora's worse than trying. She seldom retaliated: having learnt how useless retaliation from her was against them: and, besides, she loved peace. But she was not without spirit: and only herself knew what it had cost her to learn to keep that spirit under: sometimes when matters went too far, she would check her stepmother's angry torrent by a few firm words, and quietly leave the room to take refuge in the peace and solitude of her own chamber. Or else she would put her bonnet on and wander away to the cliffs; where, seated on the extreme edge, she would remain for hours, looking out on the sea. She had once been fond of taking her place in the chapel ruins, and sitting there, for the expanse of ocean seen from thence was most grand and beautiful; sometimes, when the water was low, so that the strip of beach beneath could be gained, she would step down the short but dangerous rock to it--which strip of beach was only accessible from the chapel ruins and at low tide. But one day Mr. Castlemaine happened to see her do this; he was very angry, and absolutely forbade her, not only to descend the rocks, but to enter, under any pretence whatsoever, the site of the chapel ruins. Ethel was not one to disobey.
But to sit on the higher rocks farther up, by the coastguard station, was not denied her; Mr. Castlemaine only enjoining her to be cautious. It had grown to be her favourite spot, and she often sat or walked there on the cliff's edge. The ever-changing water seemed to bring consolation to her spirit; it spoke to her in strange, soothing whispers; it fed the romance and the dreams that lie in a young girl's heart. When the sea was rough and the waves dashed against the cliffs, flinging up their spray mountains high, and sprinkling her face as with a mist, she would stand, lost in the grandeur and awe of the scene, her hat off and held by its ribbons, her hair floating in the wind: the sky and the waves seemed to speak to her soul of immortality; to bring nearer to her the far-off gates of heaven. And so, for want of suitable companionship, Ethel Reene shared her secrets with the sea.
The glass doors of the red parlour were closed to-day against the east wind; the lawn beyond, though bright with sunshine, lay cold under its bare and wintry trees. Mrs. Castlemaine sat by the fire working at a pair of slippers; a little woman, she, dressed in striped green silk, with light hair, and a cross look on what had once been a very pretty, though sharp-featured face. Ethel sat near the window, drawing; she wore a bright ruby winter dress of fine merino, with some white lace at its throat and sleeves; a blue ribbon, to which was suspended some small gold ornament, encircled her delicate neck; drops of gold were in her ears; and her pretty cheeks were flushed to crimson, for Mrs. Castlemaine was hot in dispute and making her feel very angry. Flora, a restless damsel, in a flounced brown frock and white pinafore, with a fair, pretty, saucy face, and her flaxen curls tied back with blue, was perched on the music-stool before Ethel's piano, striking barbarous chords with one hand and abusing Ethel alternately.
The dispute to-day was this. Miss Oldham, Flora's governess, had lately given warning precipitately, and left Greylands' Rest; tired out, as everybody but Mrs. Castlemaine knew, with her pupil's insolence. Mrs. Castlemaine had not yet found anyone willing, or whom she deemed eligible, to replace her--for it must be remembered that governesses then were somewhat rare. Weary of waiting, Mrs. Castlemaine had come to a sudden determination, and was now announcing it, that Ethel should have the honour of filling the post.
"It is of no use, mamma," said Ethel. "I could not teach; I am sure I am not fit for it. And, you know, Flora would never obey me."
"That I'd not," put in Miss Flora, wheeling herself half round on the stool. "I hate governesses; and they do me no good. I don't know half as much as I did when Miss Oldham came, twelve months ago. Do I, mamma?"
"I fear you do not, my darling," replied Mrs. Castlemaine. "Miss Oldham's system of teaching was quite a failure, and she sadly neglected her duty; but----"
"Oh, mamma," interrupted Flora, peevishly, "don't put in that horrid 'but.' I tell you I hate governesses; I'm not going to have another. Nothing but learning lessons, lessons, lessons, all day long, just as though you wanted me to be a governess!"
"If you did not learn, Flora, you would grow up a little heathen," Ethel ventured to remark. "You would not like that."
"Now don't you put in your word," retorted