The Master of Greylands: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

Commodore Teague was at dinner: taking it in the kitchen to save trouble. But he had the free and easy manners of a sailor, and ushered his unknown guest in without ceremony, and gave him the best seat, while the Squire introduced himself and his object in calling.

Squire Dobie?--come to know about that there business of young Mr. Castlemaine's, and how he got lost and where he went to: well, in his opinion it was all just moonshine. Yes, moonshine; and perhaps it might be also Squire Dobie's opinion that it was moonshine, if he could get to the top and bottom of it. Couldn't be a doubt that the young man had come out o' the Keep after going into it--'twarn't likely he'd stay long in that there ghostly place--and went off somewhere of his own accord. That's what he, Jack Teague, thought: though he'd not answer for it, neither, that the young fellow might not have made a false step on the slippery rock path, and gone head foremost down to Davy Jones's locker. The shot and scream? Didn't believe there ever was a scream that night; thought John Bent dreamt it; and the shot came from him, Teague; after cleaning his gun he loaded it and fired it off. The most foolish thing in it all was to suspect the Master of Greylands of marching into the Keep. As if he'd want to go there at midnight! or at any other time, for the matter of that. Mr. Castlemaine went away from his place between eleven and half-after; and he, Jack Teague, saw him go up the lane towards his house with his own eyes: 'twarn't likely he'd come down it again for the purpose of waylaying young Anthony, or what not.

Now, this was the substance of all that the anxious old friend of Basil Castlemaine could obtain from Commodore Teague. The Commodore seemed to be a rough, honest, jovial-speaking man, incapable of deceit, or of double dealing: and, indeed, as Squire Dobie asked himself, why should he be guilty of it in this matter? He went away fair puzzled, not knowing what to think; and leaving the savoury smell, proceeding from the Commodore's stew getting cold on the table. But why it should have pleased the Commodore to favour Squire Dobie with the rough and ready manners, the loose grammar, he used to the common people of Greylands, instead of being the gentleman that he could be when he chose, was best known to himself.

Crossing the road, as he emerged from the lane, the Squire entered the chapel ruins, and went to the edge of the land there. He saw the narrow, tortuous, and certainly, for those who had not a steady foot and head, dangerous path that led down to the strip of beach below: which beach was not discernible now, for it was high water. The path was rarely trodden by man: the ill reputation of the Friar's Keep kept the village away from it: and, otherwise, there was no possible inducement to tempt men down it. Neither, as some instinct taught Squire Dobie, had it been taken that night by young Anthony Castlemaine.

[CHAPTER XXI.]

IN THE CHAPEL RUINS.

Madam Guise sat buried in a reverie. Ethel was reading a French book aloud; Flora was practising: but Madame, supposed to be listening to both, heard neither the one nor the other.

Every minute of the hours that had passed since she saw the diamond ring of her unfortunate husband concealed in Mr. Castlemaine's bureau had been one of agony. The fright and horror she had experienced in the search was also telling upon her: her head ached, her pulses throbbed, her brain was fevered: and but for the dread of drawing attention to herself, that, in her nervousness, she feared might lead to suspicion, she would have pleaded illness and asked permission to remain that day in her chamber. No one but herself knew how she shrunk from Mr. Castlemaine: she could not be in the same room with him without feeling faint; to sit next to him at the dinner-table, to be inadvertently touched by him, was nothing less than torture. The finding of the ring was a proof to her that her husband had in truth met with the awful fate suspected; the concealment of the ring in the bureau, a sure and certain sign that Mr. Castlemaine was its author. When they were intruded upon at table by Squire Dobie with his accusing words, Charlotte Guise had been scarcely able to suppress her emotion. Mr. Castlemaine, in catching sight of the pallor of her face, had attributed it simply to the abrupt mention of the disagreeable subject: could he have suspected its true cause he had been far more put out than even by Squire Dobie's words. An idea had crossed Charlotte Guise--what if she were to declare herself to this good old gentleman, and beseech him to take up her cause.

But she did not dare. It was this she was thinking of now, when she ought to have been attending to Miss Flora's imperfect fingering. There were reasons why she might not; why, as she clearly saw, it might do her harm instead of good. With the one sole exception of the ring, there was no shadow of proof against Mr. Castlemaine: and upon the first slight breathing of hostilities, how quickly might he not do away with the ring for ever! And, once let it be declared that she was Anthony's wife, that her chief business in the house was to endeavour to track out the past, she would be expelled from it summarily and the door closed against her. How could she pursue her search then? No, she must not risk it; she must bury the ring in silence, and stay at her post.

"I should think I've practised long enough, for one afternoon, Madame!"