The Master of Greylands: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

"Well?"

"Surely you do not believe in it--that it is really a ghost?" she exclaimed in astonishment.

"I am content not to be wiser than my neighbours," replied Mr. Castlemaine. "I suppose I have some elements of superstition within me. We are none of us responsible for our own nature, you know, Mary Ursula."

She said no more. In fact, they reached the Nunnery gate just then. Mr. Castlemaine saw her indoors, and went back again. Mary sat late, writing her letter, and then came up to her room.

She was thinking over it all now, as she stood at the window, the fresh sea air blowing upon her somewhat heated brow. There was no moon, but the night was passably light. Gentle waves stirred the surface of the water; a faint ripple might be heard from the incoming tide. It had turned some three hours since, and now covered, as Mary knew, the narrow path underneath the Nunnery, but not the strip of beach at the Friar's Keep: that beach, however, would be inaccessible for some hours, except by sea. Some night boats were out beyond Greylands, fishing as usual: she could discover their lights in the distance. Almost immediately opposite to her, and not far off, stood a two-masted vessel at anchor. She wondered why it should have stayed in that solitary spot, so close in-shore, instead of the more customary place off the beach. It may be almost said that she saw and thought these things unconsciously in her mind's preoccupation.

Nothing surprised her more--nay, half as much--as Mr. Castlemaine's implied admission of his belief in the supernatural appearance of the Grey Friar. An impression was abroad among the fishermen that the Castlemaines believed in the ghost as fully as they themselves did: but until to-night Mary had smiled at this. Look on what side she would, it seemed to be mystery upon mystery.

More food, than this subject, and quite as unpleasant, though of a different nature, had been given to Mary that night by Mrs. Hunter. One of Mary's chief friends in Stilborough had been a Mrs. Ord; she and Mary had been girls together. The husband, Colonel Ord, was in India: the young wife, who was delicate, remained at home. Sad news had now arrived from India. Colonel Ord was dead. He had died suddenly; it was supposed in consequence of excitement at the failure of an Indian Bank, in which all his property was placed. Mrs. Hunter had imparted this news at Greylands' Rest: and she had moreover whispered an announcement that had just been made public--the engagement of William Blake-Gordon to the heiress of Mountsorrel. Little marvel that Mary's eyes had no sleep in them!

Her reflections--and they were very painful--were interrupted by some stir that appeared to be taking place on board the two-masted vessel. Suddenly, as it seemed to her, two boats shot out from it, one after the other. The men, rowing them, seemed to be steering right for this end of the Nunnery; and Mary watched with surprise. No: they were making, it was quite evident now, for the Friar's Keep higher up. Stretching out at the casement window as far as she dared stretch, Mary saw them go straight on for the little beach there; she thought she heard a bustle; she fancied she distinguished whispers. Wild ideas, devoid of reason, arose within her: in the broad matter-of-fact daylight, she might have felt ashamed of their improbability; but the imagination, when excited, soars away on curious wings. Were these boats bringing back Anthony?

The night went on. She saw other boats come: she saw boats go back; she saw them come again. Surely she was not dreaming all this! and yet it seemed an impossible pageantry. At length a powerful impulse took possession of her--she would go through the secret passage and try and solve the mystery: go then and there.

Fastening her warm black shawl more securely round her, and tying on a dark silk hood, she unlocked her drawers to get the keys of the passage, and descended softly the stairs. In descending them it had not seemed very lonely--though a sense of loneliness does strike upon one when making a solitary pilgrimage about even an inhabited house at the dead of night, when everybody else is abed and asleep. But when she came to go down the stone steps to the damp vaults below, lighted only by the solitary lantern she held, then Mary's courage deserted her. Brave and good woman though she was, she halted in a kind of terror, and asked herself whether she could go on alone. Alone she must go if she went at all: not for a great deal would she disclose the fact of this existing passage to any of the Sisters, or let them know of her errand in it. Sister Mildred was the only one who shared the secret, and Sister Mildred was not there.