Chapter XXVI: Dining at Greylands' Rest

It was yet early morning. The sky was darkly blue, the sea indolent and calm, the air intensely hot. Mr. George North, sitting on the bench outside the Dolphin Inn, his straw hat tilted over his brows, gazed at the placid sea before him, and felt as lazy as was the atmosphere.

He had slept well, and breakfasted to his perfect content. Young, sanguine, healthy, the mystery encompassing his brother Anthony's fate had not sufficed to break his rest. The more than hinted-at doubts of Charlotte Guise--that Anthony had been vat out of the world for ever by Mr. Castlemaine--failed to find their response in George North's mind. The mere thought of it appeared to him to be absurd: the suspicion far-fetched and impossible; the implied doubt of the Master of Greylands little less than a libel on the name of Castlemaine. Men of the world are inclined to be practical in their views, rather than imaginative: and the young and hopeful look ever on the bright side of all things.

That Anthony's disappearance was most unaccountable, George North felt; his continued absence, if indeed he still lived, was more strange still. There was very much to be unravelled in connection with that past February night, and George North intended to do his best to bring its doings to light: but that his brother had been destroyed in the dreadful manner implied, he could not and would not believe. Without giving credit to anything so terrible, there existed ground enough, ay and more than enough, for distrust and uncertainty. And, just as his sister-in-law, poor bereaved Charlotte, had taken up her abode at Greylands under false colours, to devote herself to search out the mystery of that disappearance within the Friar's Keep, so did George North resolve to take up his. Nothing loth, was he, to make a sojourn there. Had Anthony presented himself before him at that moment, safe and well, George would still have felt inclined to stay; for the charms of Ethel Reene had made anything but a transient impression on him. The world was his own, too; he had no particular home in it; Greylands was as welcome to him as an abode as any other resting-place.

John Bent came forth from the open door to join his guest. Landlords and their ways in those days were different folks from what they are in these. He wore no waistcoat under his loose linen coat, and his head was bare.

"A nice stretch of water, that, sir," he said, respectfully, indicating the wide sea, shining out in the distance.

"It is indeed," replied George North. "I think the place is a nice place altogether. That sea, and the cliff, rising up there, would be worth sketching. And there must be other pretty spots also."

"True enough, sir."

"I feel inclined to bring over my pencils and take up my quarters with you for a bit, and sketch these places. What do you say to it, Mr. Bent?"

"There's nothing I could say, sir, but that it would give me and my wife pleasure if you did. We'd try and make you comfortable."

"Ay; I don't fear but you'd do that. Well, I think I shall go to Stilborough and bring back my rattletraps. I saw a charming bit of scenery yesterday when I went to call on the French lady. It is an archway covered with ivy: looking through the opening, you catch a view of a cottage with a back-ground of trees. There was a small rustic bridge also not far off, lying amid trees, and a stream of water running under it, the whole dark and sheltered. These spots would make admirable sketches."

"No doubt, sir," returned John Bent by way of answer. "But you'd have to crave the leave of the Master of Greylands before making them. And that leave might not be easy to get."

"Why not?"

"They be on his land, sir."

"What of that? Surely he would not deny it! The great Creator has not been churlish in making this world beautiful--should one man wish to keep any part of it for the enjoyment of his own sole eyesight?"

John Bent gave his head a shake. "I don't think it is that Mr. Castlemaine would do that, sir; he is not so selfish as that comes to; but he does not like to see strangers about the place. He'd keep all strange folks out of Greylands if he could: that's my belief."

"Why should he?"

"It's just his pride and his exclusive temper, sir."

"But I thought I had heard Mr. Castlemaine described as a generous man; a pleasant-tempered man," remarked Mr. North.

"Well, and so he is, sir, when he chooses to be," confessed the landlord; "I don't say to the contrary. In many things he is as easy and liberal as a man can be. But in regard to having strangers about his land, or in the place either, he is just a despot. And I think the chances are ten to one, sir, against your getting leave to sketch any spot of his."

"I can bat ask. If he refuses me, well and good. Of course I should not attempt to defy him--though I am by no means sure that he, or any one else, has the legal power to deny our copying nature's works, in man's possession though they may be. Never mind. Enough free objects will be left for me: such as that cliff, for example, and that glorious sea."

Mr. North rose as he spoke. At that same moment two of the Grey Ladies were crossing over from the Nunnery. Only one of them wore the dress of the community, Sister Margaret. The other was Miss Castlemaine, in her flowing mourning robes. Each of the ladies smiled kindly and gave the good-morrow to John Bent. George North lifted his straw hat with reverence, and kept it off until they should have passed.

Possibly the action, so uncharacteristic of most Englishmen, attracted particularly the attention of Mary Ursula. Bending slightly her head to acknowledge the courtesy, her eyes rested on the young man's face. Whether it was his action, whether it was anything she saw in the face that struck on her, certain it was that she half stopped to gaze upon him. She said nothing, however, but passed on.

"What a magnificent young woman!" cried Mr. North, when the ladies were out of hearing. "She is beautiful. I mean the lady in mourning: not the Sister."

"She is that, sir. It is Miss Castlemaine."

"Miss Castlemaine! Which Miss Castlemaine?"

"The late banker's daughter, sir. Niece to the Master of Greylands."

An hour later, the ladies went by again on their way homeward. John was outside his door still, but alone, with a white cap on his head. Miss Castlemaine accosted him.

"Who was that gentleman we saw here just now, Mr. Bent?"

"His name's North, madam: he is an artist."

"Thank you," said Miss Castlemaine.

"Why did you inquire?" asked Sister Margaret as they went on.

"Because something in the stranger's face seemed to be familiar to me--as though I had seen it before," replied Mary Ursula.

Meanwhile, Mr. George North, who seemed to do things rather upon impulse--or, at least, not to lose time in putting in practice any resolution he might make--had proceeded to Greylands' Rest to get the permission for sketching any particular bits of scenery he fancied, which might be owned by Mr. Castlemaine. He took the field way; the same way that he and the ladies had taken the previous night, and he was nearly at the end of his journey when he encountered Mr. Castlemaine who was coming forth from his house with Ethel Reene. Mr. North lifted his hat, and approached to accost them.

"I beg your pardon," he said to Mr. Castlemaine, bowing at the same time to Ethel, "I believe I have the honour of speaking to the Master of Greylands."

Mr. Castlemaine recognised him at once, as the young travelling artist whom he had seen the previous day at the Turk's Head; the same who had just been talked of at his breakfast-table. This Mr. George North, it turned out, was a friend of Madame Guise, or, as Madame especially put it, of her late husband's. A gentleman artist, Madame had said, for he was not dependent on his profession; he had a good patrimony, and was of good family: and Mr. Castlemaine had taken all in unsuspiciously. Apart from anything trenching on the mysteries of that certain February night and of the Friar's Keep, whatever they might be, he was the least suspicious man in the world: and it no more occurred to him to connect this young man and his appearance at Greylands with that unhappy affair, than he had connected Madame with it. Mr. Castlemaine had taken rather fancy to this young artist when at the Turk's Head: he liked the look of his bright face now, as he came up smiling: he warmed to the open, attractive manners.

George North preferred his request. He had come to Greylands the previous day in the two-horse van from Stilborough for the purpose of calling on Madame Guise; he had been struck with the pretty place and with the many charming bits of scenery it presented, fit for the pencil: some of these spots he found belonged to the Master of Greylands; would the Master of Greylands give him permission to sketch them?

And taken, it must be repeated, by the applicant's looks and words; by his winning face, his pleasing voice, his gentlemanly bearing altogether, Mr. Castlemaine gave the permission off-hand, never staying to count the cost of any after suggestions that might arise against it. Artists had come to the place before; they had stayed a week or two and departed again, leaving no traces behind: that the same would be the case with this present one, he never thought to doubt. Mr. North was somewhat different from the others, though; inasmuch as that he was known to Madame Guise (who vouched, so to say, for his being a gentleman) and also that he had gained the liking of Mr. Castlemaine.

Mr. North warmly expressed his thanks for the readily-accorded permission. Ethel had not spoken, but was blushing perpetually as she stood listening to him--and for no cause whatever, she angrily told herself. Mr. North turned to retrace his steps, and they all walked on together.

"You have been acquainted with Madame Guise and her family some time, I find," observed the Master of Greylands. "Knew them abroad."

"Oh yes. Her husband was a dear friend of mine. We were like--" Mr. North hesitated, but brought the suggestive word out, as he had led to it--"like brothers."

"Was there anything peculiar in his death?" asked Mr. Castlemaine. "Madame Guise seems to shrink so much from all mention of the subject that we can hardly help fancying there was: and it is a topic that we cannot question her upon. He died suddenly, she said one day, when some allusion was made to him, and that is all we know. Mrs. Castlemaine observed that she shivered perceptibly as she said it.

"That is what I heard--that he died suddenly," assented Mr. North. "I was roaming about Italy at the time, and did not know of it for some months afterwards. Madame Guise had left for England then. I procured her address; and, being so near, called to see her yesterday."

Mr. Castlemaine slightly nodded--as if this part scarcely needed explanation. "Then you do not know what Monsieur Guise died of, Mr. North? She has not told you?"

"No, she has not. I do not know what he died of. They were very much attached to one another, and her avoidance of the subject may be perhaps natural. He was an estimable young man, and my very good and dear friend."

Thus talking, the fields were traversed and they gained the road. Here their routes lay in opposite directions: that of the Master of Greylands and Ethel to the right, Mr. North's to the left. He was returning to the Dolphin before starting on his walk to Stilborough.

"You are staying at the inn, I presume," observed Mr. Castlemaine to him.

"Yes, I am comfortable there, and the charges are very moderate. I called for my bill this morning."

"Called for your bill! Are you going away?"

"Only to come back again this afternoon. I left my portmanteau and pencils at Stilborough."

"Well, we shall be happy to welcome you at Greylands' Rest whenever you feel inclined to call on Madame Guise," spoke Mr. Castlemaine in parting. "Will you dine with us this evening?"

"Thank you. With very much pleasure."

Mr. Castlemaine cordially shook hands, and turned away. It was rare indeed that the Master of Greylands condescended to be so free with a stranger--or, in fact, with any one. Any previous visiting-artists to the place might have looked in vain for a hand-shake. But his heart warmed to this young man; he knew not why: and there was something in Mr. North's bearing, though it was perfectly respectful to the Master of Greylands, which seemed to testify that he was, and knew himself to be, of the same social standing in society; at least, that gentleman's equal.

But that the propensity, which we all have, to take likes and dislikes seems to obey no rule or law, and is never to be accounted for, it might be noticed as a curious circumstance here. When Mr. Castlemaine first saw the unfortunate Anthony, he had taken a dislike to him. How far the avowed errand of that young man--the putting in a claim to Greylands' Rest--may have conduced to this, cannot be told: Mr. Castlemaine would have said that it had nothing to do with it; that he disliked him by instinct. Most people had seen nothing in Anthony but what was to be liked; ay, and much liked; Mr. Castlemaine was an exception. And yet, here was Anthony's brother (though Mr. Castlemaine knew it not) to whom his heart was going out as it had never yet before gone out to a stranger! Truly these instincts are more capricious than a woman's will!

George North ran into the Dolphin, caught up his umbrella to shield himself from the sun, and started on his hot walk to Stilborough. In the course of the afternoon he was back again with what he was pleased to call his rattletraps--a portmanteau and a sketching-case--having chartered a fly to Greylands. There was no two-horse van at his disposal that afternoon.

"Do you get much of this fiery weather?" he asked, throwing himself down by Mrs. Bent in her sitting-room and his hat on the table, while the landlord saw to his luggage.

"Well, we have our share of it, sir, when it's a hot summer. And this is a very hot one. Just see the sea yonder: even that looks hot."

"I shall take a dip presently and try it," returned Mr. North. "That must be the best of living at the sea-side you get glorious baths."

"You have not told me what you'd like for dinner yet, sir," resumed Mrs. Bent, who was stripping currants into a pan, her face and the currants and the cherry cap-ribbons all one and the same colour.

"Dinner! Why, I am going to dine at Greylands' Rest. Its master asked me."

"Did he!" cried Mrs. Bent in surprise. "Well, that's a great thing for him to do. He don't favour new-comers, sir."

"He has so far favoured me. I say, Mrs. Bent," added the artist, a laughing look in his bright eyes, "what a pretty girl that is, up there!"

Mrs. Bent raised her own eyes from the stripping, and shot forth an inquiring glance. He was helping himself to the ripest bunches.

"Miss Ethel Reene! Well, so she is, sir, and as good as she is pretty. There's no love lost--as it is said--between her and her stepmother. At any rate, on Mrs. Castlemaine's part. The servants say Miss Ethel gets snubbed and put upon above a bit. She has to give way finely to the little one."

"Who is the little one?--Just look at this large bunch! Twenty on it, I know."

"You'll get a surfeit, sir, if you eat at these sharp currants like that when you are so hot.

"Not I. I never tasted any so good."

"I shall charge you for then, sir," she went on, laughing.

"All right. Charge away. I have heard my father tell a tale of going into a cherry-orchard once when he was a lad, he and three more boys. They paid sixpence each, and eat what they liked. I fancy all four had a surfeit, or something, after that."

"I dare be bound. Boys in a cherry-orchard! Do you get fine currants in France, sir?"

"We get everything that's fine there," responded Mr. North, as well as he could speak for the currants. "But what little one were you talking of, Mrs. Bent?"

"Of Miss Flora, sir: Mrs. Castlemaine's daughter. A troublesome, ill-behaved little chit, she is: always in mischief. The last time we were brewing; it's only a few days ago; my young lady was passing the door and ran in: she went rushing to the brewhouse, and fell backwards into the mash-tub. Fortunately the liquor had been drawn off; but there she was, squealing in the wet grains."

Mr. North laughed, and rose. Abandoning the currants, he put on his hat and went leisurely out to take his plunge in the sea. By-and-by, when Mrs. Bent and John were seated at tea, he came running back in a commotion, his wet towels in his hand.

"Can you tell me at what time they dine at Greylands' Rest?"

"At six o'clock, sir, when they dine late," replied John "Mostly, though, it's in the middle of the day."

"And as often five o'clock as six," put in Mrs. Bent. "The earlier Mrs. Castlemaine dines, the better she likes it. You have not half dried your hair, sir."

"I had no time for superfluous drying," he replied. "It suddenly struck me that I did not know the hour for dinner, and I came off as I could. Is that the right time?" looking at the clock. "A quarter past five?"

"Right to a minute, sir. This clock never fails."

"And you say, Mrs. Bent, that they sometimes dine at five. What will they think of me?"

He went leaping up the stairs, saying something about the thoughtless ways of wandering Arabs--by which the landlord and his wife understood him to mean artists. An incredibly short time, and he was down again, dressed, and striding off to Greylands' Rest.

The first thing Mr. North noticed, on entering the gate of the garden, was the flutter of a white dress amid a nest of trees. It was enough to assure him that the dinner had not begun. He penetrated these trees, attracted by the voices within, and found himself in sight of Ethel Reene, and the young damsel recently spoken of--Miss Flora.

The white dress he had seen was Ethel's. It was an Indian sprigged muslin, set off with black ribbons. Her rich brown hair, so bright in the flicker of sunshine, had nothing to adorn it: her delicate face wore one of its sweetest blushes as he approached. She sat in a kind of grotto formed by the trees, a book resting in her lap while she talked to Flora. That young lady, unmindful of her holiday attire--a costly and very pretty frock of grey silken gauze--for Mrs. Castlemaine had said she might dine at table--was astride on one of the branches. Ethel had in vain told her not to get up there. She jumped down at the sight of Mr. North: the frock was caught, and the result was a woful rent.

"There!" exclaimed Ethel in an undertone, for Mr. North had not quite reached them. "Your beautiful new frock! What a pity! If I were mamma I should never buy you anything but stuff and cotton."

Flora, even, looked down ruefully at the damage: the frock was new, as Ethel said, costly, and beautiful.

"Pin it up, Ethel."

"I have no pins here. Besides, pinning would not hold it. It can only be mended. You had better show it to Eliza."

The spoilt child ran past Mr. North on her way indoors. He came up to Ethel, bowed, and then held his hand out. With another bright and deeper blush she put hers into it.

"I shall get quite the English manners soon," he said, "We do not shake hands much in my country: especially with young ladies. They do not let us."

"Do you call France your country?"

"Well, I am apt to do so, having lived there so much. I have been making great haste here, Miss Reene, not knowing the hour for dinner."

"We dine at six," replied Ethel. "Mamma has but just returned from her drive, and is dressing," she added, as if in apology for being the only one to receive him. "Papa has been out all the afternoon."

"Is Madame Guise well to-day?"

"Not very. She has one of her bad headaches, I am sorry to say, and is in her room. She will be here shortly."

He sat down by Ethel, and took up the book she had been reading; a very old and attractive book indeed--the "Vicar of Wakefield."

"What an excellent story it is!" he exclaimed.

"Have you read it?" asked Ethel, rising to proceed to the house.

"Indeed I have. Twenty times, I should think. My mother had a small store of these old English works, and and my brother revelled in them."

"You have brothers and sisters?"

"Only one sister now. She is married and lives in France."

"Ah, then I can understand why you like to go thither so much," said Ethel, all unconscious that it was his native land; that he had never before been in England. "Is her husband French?"

"Yes," replied Mr. North. "Oh, what a lovely rose!" he cried, halting at a tree they were passing, perhaps to change the conversation.

It was in truth one of rare beauty: small, bright, delicate, and of exquisite fragrance. Ethel, in her impulsive good nature, in her innocent thoughtlessness, plucked it and offered it to him. As he took it from her, their eyes met: in his own shone a strangely-earnest look of gratitude for the gift, mingled with admiration. Poor Ethel became crimson at the thought of what she had done, and would have regained the flower had it been possible. She went on quickly to the glassdoors of the drawing-room; Mr. North followed, placing the rose in his buttonhole.

Madame Guise was entering the room by the inner door at the same moment. Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine soon, appeared; lastly, Miss Flora, in her mended frock. Harry Castlemaine was not at home; some errand, either of business or pleasure, had taken him to Stilborough. Harry had been out a great deal of late: there seemed to be a restlessness upon him, and his father was beginning to notice it.

Mr. North was received (as he heard later from Madame Guise) quite en famille--which pleased him much. No alteration was made in the usual style of dinner: but the dinners at Greylands' Rest were always sufficiently good for chance company. As George North sat at table, watching the master at the head board, he could not bring himself to believe that Charlotte's suspicions were correct. Good-looking, refined, courtly, pleasing, Mr. Castlemaine appeared to be the very last man capable of committing a secret crime. Every other moment some gesture of his, or glance, or tone in the voice, put George North in mind of his father, Basil Castlemaine: and--no, he could not, he could not join in the doubts of poor Anthony's wife.

But he noticed one thing. That ever and anon Mr. Castlemaine would seem to forget where he was, forget his position as host, and fall into a fit of silent abstraction, during which, a curiously-sad expression lay on his face, and his brow was knit as with some painful care. He would rouse himself as soon as he perceived he was mentally absent, and be in an instant the grand, courtly, self-possessed Master of Greylands again. But the fits of gloom did occur, and George North observed them.

Nevertheless, he could not entertain the dread suspicions of his sister-in-law.. That a vast deal of mystery attached to his brother's disappearance, and that Mr. Castlemaine was in some degree and manner connected with it, or cognizant of it, he readily saw cause, to recognize: but, of the darker accusation, he believed him to be innocent. And it went with George North very much against the grain to sit at Mr. Castlemaine's hospitable table under false colours, and not to declare the fact that he was his brother Basil's son.

Something of this he said to Madame Guise. Dinner over, the party strolled into the garden, grateful for the little breath of air it brought. Mr. North found himself momentarily alone with Madame, near the grand sweeping elm tree.

"Are you mad, George?" she hastily cried in French and in the deepest alarm, in response to the word or two he whispered. "Wish to declare yourself! not like to be here only as Mr. North! For the love of heaven, recall your senses."

"It is terrible deceit, Charlotte."

"Do you no longer care for your unfortunate brother? Have you lost all remembrance of your love for him?--of the ties of kindred?--of the time when you played together at your mother's knee! Do you think it cost me nothing to come here under a wrong name--that it costs me no self reproaches to be here under sham pretences, I who have as keen a sense of honour as you? But I do it for Anthony's sake; I bear all the feeling of disgrace for him."

"That is just it," said George, "as it seems to me. Disgrace."

"It must be borne--for my sake, and for Anthony's. Were you to say, 'I am George, Anthony's brother,' Mr. Castlemaine would take, alarm; he would turn you out of the house, and me after you: and, rely upon it, we should never, discover more of poor Anthony than we know now. It would still all be uncertain. No, mon ami, go you away from Greylands if you like, and leave me to seek on alone; but, declare yourself you must not. Anthony would rise from his grave at your unnatural conduct."

"Charlotte, you are exciting yourself for nothing," he hastily whispered, for Mrs. Castlemaine was approaching. "I did not say I was going to declare myself; I only said how unpalatable to me is the acting of this deceit. But for Anthony's sake and yours, I would not bear it for a moment; as circumstances are, I must go on with it, and be George North perhaps to the end of the chapter."

"Not to the end," she murmured, "Not to the end. Anthony's fate will be discovered before very long time has elapsed--or my prayers and tears will have found no pity in heaven."

Only at dusk did they go in to tea. Afterwards, Ethel was bade to sing some of her songs. George North--no mean musician himself, and with a soft, pleasant voice of his own--sat by the piano, listening to their melody, gazing through the twilight at her sweet face, and thinking that he had never been so nearly in an earthly paradise.

When he took his departure, they accompanied him to the gate. The stars were out, the night was clear and still, the heat yet excessive. It chanced that he and Ethel walked side by side; it chanced that he held her hand, ay, and pressed it too, longer than he had need have done when he said goodnight. That moment's parting would remain in Ethel's memory for life; the heavy perfume of the flowers lay around them, her heart and pulses were alike beating.

If she and George North had not fallen in love with one another, they were at least on the highroad towards it.