The Master of Greylands: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

CONTENTS
CHAPTER
[I].	In the Bank Parlour.
[II.]	The Grey Ladies.
[III.]	At the Dolphin Inn.
[IV.]	Foreshadowings of Evil.
[V.]	The Ball.
[VI.]	Anthony Castlemaine on his Search.
[VII.]	In the Moonlight.
[VIII.]	Commotion at Stilborough.
[IX.]	A Curious Story.
[X.]	Just as She had Seen it in her Dream.
[XI.]	Inside the Nunnery.
[XII.]	Madame Guise.
[XIII.]	A Storm of Wind.
[XIV.]	Plotting and Planning.
[XV.]	Getting in by Deceit.
[XVI.]	At Greylands' Rest.
[XVII.]	Opening the Bureau.
[XVIII.]	The Grey Monk.
[XIX.]	Jane Hallet.
[XX.]	An Unwelcome Intruder.
[XXI.]	In the Chapel Ruins.
[XXII.]	Miss Hallet in the Dust.
[XXIII.]	The Secret Passage.
[XXIV.]	Going Over in the Two-Horse Van.
[XXV.]	Mr. George North.
[XXVI.]	Dining At Greylands' Rest.
[XXVII.]	In The Vaults.
[XXVIII.]	Out to Shoot a Night-Bird.
[XXIX.]	One More Interview.
[XXX.]	Love's Young Dream.
[XXXI.]	Calling in the Blacksmith.
[XXXII.]	Miss Jane in Trouble.
[XXXIII.]	A Turbulent Sea.
[XXXIV.]	Changed to Paradise.
[XXXV.]	The Last Cargo.
[XXXVI.]	Gone.
[XXXVII.]	Anthony.
[XXXVIII.]	Rebellion.
[XXXIX.]	No Turning Back.
	[ Conclusion.]

THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS.

[CHAPTER I.]

IN THE BANK PARLOUR.

Stilborough. An old-fashioned market-town of some importance in its district, but not the chief town of the county. It was market-day: Thursday: and the streets wore an air of bustle, farmers and other country people passing and repassing from the corn-market to their respective inns, or perhaps from their visit, generally a weekly one, to the banker's.

In the heart of the town, where the street was wide and the buildings were good, stood the bank. It was nearly contiguous to the town-hall on the one hand, and to the old church of St. Mark on the other, and was opposite the new market-house, where the farmers' wives and daughters sat with their butter and poultry. For in those days--many a year ago now--people had not leaped up above their sphere; and the farmers' wives would have thought they were going to ruin outright had anybody but themselves kept market. A very large and handsome house, this bank, the residence of its owner and master, Mr. Peter Castlemaine.

No name stood higher than Mr. Peter Castlemaine's. Though of sufficiently good descent, he was, so to say, a self-made man. Beginning in a small way in early life, he had risen by degrees to what he now was--to what he had long been--the chief banker in the county. People left the county-town to bank with him; in all his undertakings he was supposed to be flourishing; in realized funds a small millionaire.

The afternoon drew to a close; the business of the day was over; the clerks were putting the last touches to their accounts previously to departing, and Mr. Peter Castlemaine sat alone in his private room. It was a spacious apartment, comfortably and even luxuriously furnished for a room devoted solely to business purposes. But the banker had never been one of those who seem to think that a hard chair and a bare chamber are necessary to the labour that brings success. The rich crimson carpet with its soft thick rug threw a warmth of colouring on the room, the fire flashed and sparkled in the grate: for the month was February and the weather yet wintry.

Before his own desk, in a massive and luxurious arm-chair, sat Mr. Peter Castlemaine. He was a tall, slender, and handsome man, fifty-one years of age this same month. His hair was dark, his eyes were brown, his good complexion was yet clear and bright. In manner he was a courteous man, but naturally a silent one; rather remarkably so; his private character and his habits were unexceptionable.

No one had ever a moment's access to this desk at which he sat: even his confidential old clerk could not remember to have been sent to it for any paper or deed that might be wanted in the public rooms. The lid of the desk drew over and closed with a spring, so that in one instant its contents could be hidden from view and made safe and fast. The long table in the middle of the room was to-day more than usually covered with papers; a small marble slab between Mr. Peter Castlemaine's left hand and the wall held sundry open ledgers piled one upon another, to which he kept referring. Column after column of figures: the very sight of them enough to give an unfinancial man the nightmare: but the banker ran his fingers up and down the rows at railroad speed, for, to him, it was mere child's-play. Seldom has there existed a clearer head for his work than that of Peter Castlemaine. But for that fact he might not have been seated where he was to-day, the greatest banker for miles round.