It was never disclosed to his father, old Anthony Castlemaine, or to Peter, the banker, or to any other of his kith and kin, his son Harry excepted. As Harry grew to manhood and settled down at Greylands' Rest, after his education was completed, the same cause that induced the Commodore to confide in James Castlemaine induced the latter to confide in his son--namely, that Harry might, one of these fine nights, be finding it out for himself. Harry delighted in it just as much as his father had, and took an active part in the fun a great deal oftener than his father did. Harry rarely allowed a cargo to be run without him; Mr. Castlemaine, especially of late years, was only occasionally present. Few men plotting against His Majesty's revenues had ever enjoyed so complete an immunity from exposure. James Castlemaine and the Commodore had, to use young Dance's expression, pretty well feathered their nests: and Tom Dance--who had been taken into confidence from the first, for the help of a strong man was needed by Teague to stow away the cargoes after they were run--had not done amiss in his small way.
It was over now. The fever and the excitement, the hidden peril and the golden harvest, all had come to an end, and Harry Castlemaine's life bad ended with them. Striding over the field path that led to Greylands' Rest, his heart softened almost like a little child's, his tears running slowly down his cheeks unchecked, went the Master of Greylands from his son's death-bed.
"Is it retribution?" he murmured, lifting his face in the gloom of the evening. "Harry's death following upon Anthony's ere the year is out!" And he struck his forehead as he walked on.
"I beg your pardon, sir, for speaking at this moment. May I say how truly I feel for you? I would not like you to think me indifferent to this great sorrow."
The speaker was George North. They had met in the most lonely part of the road, just before the turning into the avenue close to the house gates. George North did not know that the death had actually taken place; only that it was expected ere long. All his sympathies were with Mr. Castlemaine: he had been feeling truly for him and for Harry during the day; and in the impulse of the moment, meeting thus unexpectedly, he stopped to express it.
"Thank you," said Mr. Castlemaine, quite humbly, drawing his hand across his face. "Yes, it is a bitter blow. The world's sunshine has gone out for me with it."
A rapid thought came to George North. What if, in this softened mood, he were to ask for a word of Anthony? If ever the Master of Greylands could be induced to afford information of his fate, it would be now: no other moment might ever occur so favourable as this. Yes, he would; be the result what it might.
"Forgive me Mr. Castlemaine. There is a matter that I have long wished to mention to you; a question I would ask: the present, now that we are alone here, and both softened by sorrow--for believe me I do sorrow for your son more than you may suspect--seems to me to be an appropriate time. May I dare to ask it?"
"Ask anything," said the unconscious mourner.
"Can you tell me what became of young Anthony Castlemaine?"