"I am Anthony Castlemaine, young lady; son of the late Basil Castlemaine, the heir of Greylands. I come from an interview with my Uncle James; and I--I beg your pardon most heartily once more."
"Anthony Castlemaine, the son of Basil Castlemaine!" she exclaimed, nearly every emotion forgotten in astonishment; but a conviction, nevertheless, seizing upon her that it was true. "The son of the lost Basil!"
"I am, in very truth, his son," replied Anthony. "My father is dead, and I have come over to claim--and I hope, enter into--my patrimony, Greylands' Rest."
[CHAPTER V.]
THE BALL.
Lights gleamed from the rooms of the banker's house in Stilborough. A flood of light blazed from the hall, and was reflected on the pavement outside, and on the colours of the flowering plants just within the entrance. Mr. Peter Castlemaine and Miss Castlemaine gave a dance that night; and it was the custom to open the door early, and keep it open, for the arrival of the expected guests.
The reception-rooms were in readiness, and gay with their wax lights and flowers. They opened mostly into one another. The largest of them was appropriated to dancing. All its furniture and its carpet had been removed; benches occupied the walls under the innumerable sconces bearing lights; and the floor was chalked artistically, in a handsome pattern of flowers, after the fashion of the day.
In the small apartment that was her own sitting-room stood Mary Ursula. In her rich robes of white silk and lace, and in the jewels which had been her mother's, and which it was her father's wish she should wear on grand occasions, she looked, with her stately form and her most lovely face, of almost regal beauty. Excitement had flushed her cheeks to brightness; on her delicate and perfect features sat an animation not often seen there. Whatever evil might be overhanging the house, at least no prevision of it rested on Miss Castlemaine; and perhaps few young ladies in all the kingdom could be found who were possessed of the requisites for happiness in a degree that could vie with the banker's daughter, or who had so entire a sense of it. Beautiful, amiable, clever, rich; the darling of her father; sheltered from every care in her sumptuous home; loving and beloved by a young man worthy of her, and to whom she was soon to be united! In the days to come, Mary Ursula would look back on this time, and tell herself that the very intensity of its happiness might have warned her that it was too bright to last.
He, her lover, was by her side now. He had come early, on purpose to be for a few minutes alone with her, before the arrival of the other guests. They stood together on the hearthrug. A quiet-looking young man of middle height, with dark hair, just the shade of hers, and rather a pensive and mild cast of face: a face, however, that did not seem to proclaim much moral strength. Such was William Blake-Gordon.
They were conversing of the future; the future that to both of them looked so bright; of the home and home life that ere long would be theirs in common. Mr. Blake-Gordon had been for some little time searching for a house, and had not met with a suitable one. But he thought he had found it now.