Chapter XXIV: Going Over in the Two-Horse Van

August weather. For some few months had elapsed since the time of the last chapter. Stilborough lay hot and dusty under the summer sun: the pavements shone white and glistening, the roads were parched. Before the frontage of the Turk's Head on the sunny side of Cross Street, was spread a thick layer of straw to deaden the sound of horses and vehicles. A gentleman, driving into the town a few days before, was taken ill there, and lay at the hotel in a dangerous state: his doctor expressed it as "between life and death." It was Squire Dobie, of Dobie Hall.

The Turk's Head was one of those good, old-fashioned, quiet inns, not much frequented by the general public, especially by the commercial public. Its custom was chiefly confined to the county families, and to that class of people called gentlefolk. It was, therefore, very rarely in a bustle, showing but little signs of life except on Thursdays, market-day, and it would sometimes be so empty that Stilborough might well wonder how Will Heyton, its many years landlord, contrived to pay his expenses. But Will Heyton had, in point of fact, made a very nice nest-egg at it, and did not much care now whether the inn was empty or full.

In the coffee-room on this hot August morning, at a small table by the right-hand window, sat a gentleman breakfasting. A tall, slender, well-dressed young man in slight mourning, of perhaps some six-and-twenty years. He was good-looking; with a pleasing, fair, and attractive face, blue eyes, and light wavy hair that took a tinge of gold in the sunlight. This gentleman had arrived at Stilborough the previous evening by a cross-country coach, had inquired for the best hotel, and been directed to the Turk's Head. It was late for breakfast, nearly eleven o'clock: and when the gentleman--whose name was inscribed on the hotel visitors' list as Mr. George North--came down he had said something in a particularly winning way about the goodness of the bed causing him to oversleep himself. Save for him, the coffee-room was void of guests.

"Is this a large town?" he inquired of the portly head waiter, who was partly attending on him, partly rubbing up the glasses and decanters that were ranged on the mahogany stand by the wall.

"Pretty well, sir. It's next in size to the chief county town, and is quite as much frequented."

"What are the names of the places near to it?"

"We have no places of note near to us, sir: only a few small villages that count for nothing."

"Well, what are their names?"

"There's Hamley, sir; and Eastwick; and Greylands; and----"

"Are any of these places on the sea?" interrupted the stranger, as he helped himself to a mutton chop.

"Greylands is, sir. It's a poor little place in itself, nothing hardly but fishermen's huts in it; but the sea is beautiful there.--Bangalore sauce, sir?"

"Well, I don't know," said the young man, looking first at the bottle of sauce, being handed to him, and then up at the waiter, a laughing doubt in his blue eyes. "Is it good?"

"It's very good indeed, sir, as sauce; and rare too; you'd not find it in any other inn at Stilborough. Not but what some tastes prefer mutton chops plain."

"I think I do," said the stranger, declining the sauce. "Thank you; it may be better to let well alone."

His breakfast over, Mr. George North sat back in his chair, and glanced through the sunbeams at the dusty road and the white pavement. The waiter placed on the table the last number of the Stilborough Herald; and nearly at the same moment there dashed up to the inn door a phaeton and pair. The gentleman who was driving handed the reins to the groom sitting beside him, alighted, and entered the hotel.

The sun, shining right in Mr. George North's eyes, had somewhat obscured his view outwards; but as the gentleman came in and stood upright in the coffee-room, he saw a tall stately man with a remarkably handsome face. While gazing at the face, a slight emotion came suddenly into his own. "What a likeness!" he inwardly murmured. "Can it be one of them?"

"How is Squire Dobie, Hobbs?" demanded Mr. Castlemaine of the old waiter--for the new-comer was the Master of Greylands. "Any better to-day?"

"Yes, sir; the doctor thinks there's a slight improvement. He has had a fairly good night."

"That's well. Is Mr. Atherly expected in to-day, do you know?"

"No, I don't, sir. Perhaps master knows. I'll inquire."

While the waiter was gone on this errand, Mr. Castlemaine strolled to the unoccupied window, and looked out on his waiting horses. Fine animals, somewhat restive this morning, and the pride of Mr. Castlemaine's stables. He glanced at the stranger, sitting at the not yet cleared breakfast table, and was taken at once with his bright face and looks. Mr. George North was then reading the newspaper. Hobbs did not return, and Mr. Castlemaine stamped a little with one foot as though he were impatient. A sudden thought struck the young man: he rose, and held out the newspaper.

"I beg your pardon, sir; I am perhaps, keeping this from you."

"Not at all, thank you," said Mr. Castlemaine.

"I am a stranger; therefore this local news cannot interest me," persisted Mr. George North, fancying courtesy alone might have prompted the refusal. "It is of no moment whether I read the gazette or not."

"I have already seen it: I am obliged to you all the same," replied Mr. Castlemaine in his pleasantest manner, with not a shade of hauteur about it. "Are you staying here?"

"At present I am. It may be that I shall stay but for a short while. I cannot say yet. We artists travel about from village to village, from country to country, finding subjects for our pencil. I have lately been in the Channel Islands."

"Master says he is not particularly expecting Mr. Atherly to-day, sir," interposed Hobbs, returning; "but he thinks it likely he may be coming in. He'll get here about one o'clock if he does come."

The Master of Greylands nodded in reply. "I suppose, Hobbs, Squire Dobie is not allowed to see anyone?"

"Not yet, sir."

Mr. Castlemaine left the room, saluting the stranger at the breakfast table. Hobbs followed, to attend him to the door.

"What's the name of the young man in the coffee-room?" he asked, standing for a moment on the steps. "He seems to be a nice young fellow."

"North, sir. Mr. George North. He came in last night by the Swallow coach."

"He says he is an artist."

"Oh, does he, sir!" returned the waiter in an accent of mingled surprise and disappointment. "I'm sure I took him to be a gentleman."

Mr. Castlemaine smiled to himself at the words. Hobbs' ideas, he thought, were probably running on the artists who went about painting signboards.

"That accounts for his wanting to know the names of the parts about here," spoke the waiter. "He has been asking me. Them artists, sir, are rare ones for tramping about after bits of scenery."

The Master of Greylands went out to his carriage and took his seat. As he turned the horses' heads round to go back the way they came, Mr. George North, looking on from within, had for a moment the back of the phaeton pointed right towards him, with its distinguishing crest.

"The crest!" he exclaimed, under his breath. "Then it must be one of them! And I nearly knew it by the face. Shall I ask here which of them it is?--no, better not. Suppose I go out and take a look at the town?" he continued a few minutes later, waking up from a reverie.

Putting on his straw hat, which had a bit of black ribbon tied round it, and a good-sized brim, he went strolling hither and thither. It was not market day: but few people were abroad, and the streets looked almost deserted. People did not care to come abroad in the blazing sun, unless obliged. Altogether, there was not much for Mr. George North to see. Before an inn-door stood a kind of small yellow van, or omnibus--it was in fact something between the two--which was being laden to start. It made its journeys three times a week, and was called the two-horse van.

For want of something better to look at, Mr. George North stood watching the putting-to of the horses. On the sides of the van were inscribed the names of the places it called at; amidst them was Greylands. His eyes rested on the name and a sudden thought arose to him: Suppose I go over to Greylands by this yellow omnibus!

"Do you call at all these places to-day?" he asked of a man, who was evidently the driver.

"At every one of 'em, sir. And come back here through 'em again to-morrow."

"Have I time to go as far as the Turk's Head and back before you start?"

"Plenty of time, sir. We are not particular to a few minutes either way."

Mr. George North proceeded to the Turk's Head; not in the rather lazy fashion to which his movements seemed by nature inclined, but as fast as the sun allowed him. He there told the head waiter that he was going to make a little excursion into the country for the purpose of looking about him, and might not be back until evening, or even before the morrow.

"Inside or outside, sir?" questioned the driver when he got back.

"Oh, outside to-day. Can't I sit by you?"

He was welcome, the driver said, the seat not being taken; and Mr. George North mounted to the seat and put up his umbrella, which he had brought with him as a shelter against the sun. Two or three more passengers got up behind, and placed themselves amid the luggage; and there were several inside.

The two-horse van sped along very fairly; and in a short time reached the first village. After descending a hill, the glorious sea burst into view.

"What place do you call this?" asked the stranger.

"This is Greylands, sir."

"Greylands, is it? I think I'll get down here. Dear me, what a beautiful sea! How much do I pay you?"

"A shilling fare, sir. Anything you please for the driver. Thank you, sir; thank you," concluded the man pocketing the eighteen-pence given to him. "We shall stop in a minute, sir, at the Dolphin Inn."

On this hot day, which really seemed too hot for work, Mrs. Bent was stealing a few moments' idleness on the bench outside her window. John had been sitting there all the morning. The landlady was making free comments, after her wont, upon the doings, good and bad, of her neighbours; John gave an answering remark now and again, but she did not seem to wait for it.

There is not much to tell the reader of this short space of time that has elapsed without record. No very striking event had taken place in it; Greylands was much in the same condition as when we parted from it last. Poor Miss Hallet had been ill for some weeks, possibly the result of the fright, and was quite unable to look personally after the vagaries of Miss Jane: the Friar's Keep and its mysteries remained where they had been; Sister Mildred was ill again, and Mary Ursula had not plucked up courage since to penetrate anew the secret passage. Squire Dobie, red-hot at first to unravel the mystery of the disappearance of Basil's son, had finally given up the inquiry as hopeless; neither had Madame Guise advanced one jot in her discoveries touching the suspected iniquity of the Master of Greylands.

"Here comes the two-horse van," remarked Mrs. Bent.

The two-horse van drew up before the bench and close to Mr. and Mrs. Bent. Its way did not lie by that of the ordinary coach road, but straight on up the hill past the Nunnery. Whether it had parcels or passengers to descend, or whether it had not, it always halted at the Dolphin, to "give the horses a minute's breathing," as the driver said: and to give himself a minute's gossip with the landlord and landlady.

The gossip to-day lay chiefly on the score of the unusual heat, and on some refractory wheel of the van, which had persisted the previous day in dropping its spokes out. And the driver had mounted to his seat again, and the van was rattling off, before Mr. and Mrs. Bent remarked that the gentlemanly-looking man in the straw hat, who had got down, as they supposed, merely to stretch his legs, had not gone on with it.

He was standing with his back to them to look about him. At the pile of buildings rising on his left, the Grey Nunnery; at the cliff towards the right, with its nestling houses; at the dark-blue sea opposite, lying calm and lovely under its stagnant fishing boats. A long, lingering look of admiration at the latter, and he turned round to Mr. and Mrs. Bent, standing by the bench now, but not sitting, and lifted his straw bat as he addressed them.

"I beg your pardon. This seems to be a very nice place. What an expanse of sea!"

"It's a very nice place indeed--for its size, sir," said John. "And you'd not get a better sea than that anywhere."

"The place is called Greylands, I am told."

"Yes, sir: Greylands."

"I am an artist," continued the stranger in his pleasing, open manner, a manner that was quite fascinating both Mr. and Mrs. Bent. "I should fancy there must be choice bits of landscape about here well worth my taking."

"And so there is, sir. Many of 'em."

"Will you give me lodging for a few hours?--allow me to call your inn my head-quarters, while I look about for myself a little?" he continued with a most winning smile.

"And glad to receive you, sir," put in Mrs. Bent before her husband had time to reply. "Oar house is open to all, and especially to one as pleasant-speaking as you, sir."

"By the way," he said, stopping to pause when stepping before them indoors, as though he were trying to recall something--"Greylands? Greylands? Yes, that must be the name. Do you chance to know if a French lady is living anywhere in this neighbourhood? A Madame Guise?"

"To be sure she is, sir. She is governess at Greylands Rest. Within a stone's throw--as may almost be said--of this house."

"Ah, indeed. I knew her and her husband, Monsieur Guise, in France. He was my very good friend. Dear me! how thirsty I am."

"Would you like to take anything, sir?"

"Yes, I should; but not beer, or any strong drink of that sort. Have you any lemonade?"

John Bent had; and went to fetch it. The stranger sat down near the open-window, and gazed across at the sea. Mrs. Bent was gazing at him; at his very nice-looking face, so fair and bright, and at the wavy hair, light and fine as silken threads of gold.

"Are you English, sir?" demanded free and curious Mrs. Bent.

"Why do you ask the question?" he returned with a smile, as he threw full on her the light of his laughing blue eyes.

"Well, sir--though I'm sure you are an Englishman person--and a rare good-looking one too--there's a tone in your voice that sounds foreign to me."

"I am English," he replied: "but I have lived very much abroad, in France and Italy and other countries: have roamed about from place to place. No doubt my accent has suffered. We can't be a vagabond, you see, madam, without betraying it."

Mrs. Bent shook her head at the epithet, which he spoke-with a laugh: few persons, to judge by looks, were less of a vagabond than he. John came in with the lemonade sparkling in a glass.

"Ah, that's good," said the traveller drinking it at a draught. "If your viands and wines generally are as good as that, Mr. Bent, your guests must be fortunate. I should like to call and see Madame Guise," he added rising. "I suppose I may venture to do so?"

"Why not, sir?"

"Are the people she is with dragons?" he asked, in his half laughing and wholly fascinating way. "Will they eat me up, think you? Some families do not admit visitors to their governess."

"You may call, and welcome, sir," said Mrs. Bent. "The family are of note hereabout, great gentlefolks--the Castlemaines. Madame Guise is made as comfortable there as if it were her own house and home."

"I'll venture then," said the stranger, taking his hat and umbrella. "Perhaps you will be good enough to direct the road to me."

John Bent took him out at the front door, and pointed out to him the way over the fields--which were far pleasanter and somewhat nearer than the road way: and Mr. North was soon at the gate of Greylands' Rest. Mrs. Castlemaine was seated under a shady clump of trees, doing some wool work. He raised his hat and bowed to her as he passed, but continued his way to the door. Miles opened it and asked his pleasure.

"I am told that Madame Guise lives here. May I be permitted to see her?"

"Yes, sir," replied the man, admitting him to the hall. "What name?"

"Mr. George North. I have not my cards with me."

"Mr. George North!" repeated Mrs. Castlemaine to herself, for she had been near enough to hear distinctly the conversation in the stillness of the summer's day. "What an exceedingly handsome young man! Quite a Saxon face. I wonder who he is!"

Miles conducted Mr. George North to the red parlour, where Madame Guise was sitting with Ethel. "A gentleman to see you, ma'am," was his mode of introduction: "Mr. George North."

"Mr. ---- who!" cried Madame, her manner hurried and startled.

"Mr. George North," repeated Miles; and ushered the gentleman in.

She turned her back upon the door, striving for courage and calmness in the one brief moment of preparation that she might dare to snatch. But that Ethel's attention was given to the stranger, she had not failed to see the agitation. Madame's pocket-handkerchief was clutched almost through in her nervous hand.

"How do you do, Madame Guise?"

She turned round then, meeting him in the middle of the room. Her face was white as death as she put out her hand to him. His own manner was unembarrassed, but his countenance at the moment looked strangely grave.

"Being in the neighbourhood I have ventured to call upon you, Madame Guise. I hope you have been well."

"Quite well, thank you," she said in a low tone, pointing to a chair, and sitting down herself. "I am so much surprised to see you."

"No doubt you are. How is the little girl?"

"She is at school with some good ladies, and she is quite happy there," replied Madame Guise, speaking rather more freely. "I thought you were in Italy, Mr. North."

"I left Italy some weeks ago. Since then I have been wandering onwards, from place to place, sketching this, sketching that, in my usual rather vagabond fashion, and have at length turned up in England."

The laughing light was coming back to his eyes again: he momentarily turned them on Ethel as he spoke. Madame Guise seemed to consider she might be under an obligation to introduce him.

"Mr. George North, my dear. Miss Ethel Reene, sir; one of my pupils."

Mr. George North rose from his chair and bowed elaborately: Ethel bowed slightly, smiled, and blushed. She was very much taken with the young man: and perhaps, if the truth were known, he was with her. Certain it was, that she was looking very pretty in her summer dress of white muslin, with the silver-grey ribbons in her hair.

"Did you come straight to England from Italy?" asked Madame Guise.

"My fashion of coming was not straight but very crooked," he answered. "I took the Channel Islands in my way."

"The Channel Islands!"

"Jersey and Guernsey and Sark. Though I am not quite sure how I got there," he added in his very charming manner, and with another glance and half smile at Ethel; who blushed again vividly as she met it, and for no earthly reason.

"But you could not fly over to them in your sleep," debated Madame Guise, taking his words literally.

"I suppose not. I was at St. Malo one day, and I presume I must have gone from thence in a boat. One of these days, when my fortune's made, I intend to take up my abode for a few months at Sark. The climate is lovely; the scenery beautiful."

"How did you know I was here?" asked Madame Guise.

"I saw--I saw Madame de Rhone in France," he replied, making a slight break, as put. "She told me you had come to England and were living with an English family at a place called Greylands," he continued. "Finding myself to-day at Greylands, I could but try to find you out."

"You are very good," murmured Madame, whose hands were again beginning to show signs of trembling.

Ethel rose to leave the room. It occurred to her that Madame might like to be alone with her friend, and she had stayed long enough for good manners. At that same moment, however, Mrs. Castlemaine came in by the open glassdoors, so Ethel's considerate thought was foiled. Mrs. Castlemaine bowed slightly as she looked at the stranger.

"Mr. North, madam; a friend of my late husband's," spoke Madame Guise, quite unable to prevent her voice from betraying agitation. "He was at Greylands to-day and has found me out."

"We are very pleased to see Mr. North," said Mrs. Castlemaine, turning to him with her most gracious tones, for the good looks and easy manners of the stranger had favourably impressed her. "Are you staying at Greylands?"

".I am travelling about, madam, from place to place, taking sketches. I have recently come from Hampshire previous to that, I was in the Channel Islands. Last night I slept at Stilborough, and came to Greylands this morning by a conveyance that I heard called the 'two-horse van' in search of objects for my pencil."

He mentioned the "two-horse van" so quaintly that Mrs. Castlemaine burst into a laugh. "I think you must have been jolted," she said, and Mr. North bowed.

"Remembering to have been told that Madame Guise, the wife of my late dear friend, Monsieur Guise was residing with a family at a place called Greylands, I made inquiries for the address at the inn here, and presumed to call."

He bowed again slightly with somewhat of deprecation to Mrs. Castlemaine as he spoke. She assured him he was quite welcome; that it was no presumption.

"Are you an artist by profession, Mr. North?--Or do you take sketches for pleasure?" she asked presently, as the conversation proceeded.

"Something of both, madam. I cannot say that I am dependent on my pencil. I once painted what my friends were pleased to call a good picture, and it was exhibited and bought--in Paris."

"A watercolour?"

"Yes, a watercolour."

"I hope you got a good price for it."

"Five thousand francs."

"How much is that in English money?" asked Mrs. Castlemaine, after an electrified pause, for at the first moment her ideas had run to five thousand pounds.

"Two hundred pounds. It was a scene taken in the Alpes-Maritimes."

"You have been much abroad, Mr. North?"

"Oh, very much. I have latterly been staying for more than a year in Italy."

"How you must have enjoyed it?"

"For the time of sojourn I did. But it will always lay on my mind in a heavy weight of repentance."

"But why?" exclaimed Mrs. Castlemaine.

"Because----" and there he made a pause. "In my unpardonable thoughtlessness, madam, I, roving about from spot to spot, omitted sometimes to give any family any address where news from them might find me."

"And you had cause to repent not doing it?"

"Bitter cause," he answered, a wrung expression resting for an instant on his face. "My father died during that time; and--there were other matters wanting me. My life, so far as that past portion of it goes, will be one of unavailing repentance."

It almost seemed--at least the fancy struck Ethel--that Mr. North gave this little bit of unusual confidence--unusual in a stranger--for the benefit of Madame Guise. Certain it was, that he looked at her two or three times as he spoke; and on her face there shone a strangely sad and regretful light.

In about half an hour he rose to depart. Mrs. Castlemaine offered luncheon, but he declined it. He had been a lazy lie-abed that morning, he said with a laughing smile, and it seemed but now almost that he had taken his breakfast at the Turk's Head. The impression he left behind him was not so much of a stranger, as of an acquaintance they had known, so pleasant and easy had been the intercourse during the interview; and an acquaintance they were sorry to part with.

Madame Guise went with him across the lawn. Mrs. Castlemaine would have gone too, but that Ethel stopped her.

"Mamma, don't," she whispered: "they may be glad to have a few moments alone. I fancy Madame Guise cannot have seen him since before her husband died: she seemed quite agitated when he came in."

"True," said Mrs. Castlemaine, for once recognising reason in words of Ethel's. "What a gentlemanly young fellow he seems--in spite of that wide straw hat."

He had put the straw hat on, and seemed to be looking at the different flower beds in his progress; Madame Guise pointing to one and another with her finger. Had Mrs. Castlemaine caught but a word of the private conversation being carried on under the semblance of admiring the flowers, she might have stolen out to listen in the gratification of her curiosity. Which would not have served her, for they spoke in French.

"How you startled me, George!" cried Madame Guise, as their heads were both bent over a rose-tree. "I thought I should have fainted. It might have made me discover all. Let us walk on!"

"Well, I suppose I ought to have written first. But I thought I should be introduced to you alone--your being here as the governess."

"How are they all at Gap?--Look at these carnations.--How is Emma? Did you get my letter through her?"

"I got it when I reached Gap. They are all well. She gave me your letter and what news she could. I cannot understand it, Charlotte. Where is Anthony?"

"Dead. Murdered. As I truly and fully believe."

Mr. North lifted his hat and passed his white handkerchief across his brow, very perplexed and stern just then.

"When can I see you alone, Charlotte?"

"This evening. As soon as dusk sets in, I will meet you in Chapel Lane:" and she directed him where to find it. "You stay at the lower end near that great building almost in ruins, the Friar's Keep, and I will come to you. Are you here at last to help me unravel the treachery, George?"

"I will try to do it."

"But why have you been so tardy?--why did you go to--what did you say--those Channel Islands?"

"I had an artist friend with me who would go over there. I did not care to show too much eagerness to come on to England--he might have suspected I had a motive. And it seems to me, Charlotte, that this investigation will be a most delicate business; one that a breath of suspicion, as to who I am, might defeat."

"And oh, why did you linger so long in Italy, George?" she asked in a low tone of painful wailing. "And to have neglected for months to let us get an address that would certainly find you! Had you been at Gap when the father died, the probability is that Anthony and you would have made the journey here in company. Surely Mr. James Castlemaine had not dared to kill him then!"

"Hush!" he answered in a voice more bitterly painful than her own. "You heard what I said just now in the salon: the regret, the self-reproach will only cease with my life. Until this evening then, Charlotte!"

"Until this evening."

"Who is that charming demoiselle?" he asked, as they shook hands in parting. "What relation is she to the house?"

"No real relation of it at all. She is Miss Reene; Mrs. Castlemaine's stepdaughter. Mrs. Castlemaine was a widow when she married into the family."

Mr. George North closed the gate behind him; took off his hat to Madame with the peculiar action of a Frenchman, and walked away.