Chapter XIV: Plotting and Planning

The illness of little Marie Guise lasted several days. Sitting by her bed--as she did for hours together--Madame Guise had time, and to spare, to lay out her plans. That is, as far as she could lay them out. Her sole object in life now--save and except the child--was to search out the mystery of her husband's fate; her one hope to bring home the crime to Mr. Castlemaine. How to set about it she knew not. She would have to account in some plausible manner for her prolonged stay at Greylands, and to conceal her real identity. Above all, she must take care never to betray interest in the fate of Anthony Castlemaine.

To stay in Greylands, or in England at all, might be rather difficult, unless she could get some employment to eke out her means. She knew perfectly well that without her husband's signature, the cautious French bankers and men of business who held his property in their hands, would not advance much, if any, of it to her, unless proofs were forthcoming of his death. She possessed a little income of her own: it was available, and she must concert ways and means of its being transmitted to her in secret, without Greylands learning who she was, and what she was. This might be done: but the money would not be enough to support her and her child comfortably as gentlewomen.

"I think I should like to make a sojourn here in Greylands," she observed to M. Bent, cautiously opening the subject, on the first day that Marie could be pronounced convalescent, and was taken down in the parlour for a change.

"Why! should you, ma'am!" returned the landlady briskly. "Well, it's a nice place."

"I like the sea--and I should wish my little one to remain quiet now. I have suffered too much anxiety on her account to take her travelling again just yet."

"Sweet little thing!" aspirated Mrs. Bent. "Her pretty rosy colour is beginning to come back to her cheeks again. I've never seen a child with a brighter."

"It is like her--like that of some of our relatives: they have a bright colour," said Madame Guise, who only just saved herself from saying--like her father's. "For her sake I will remain here for some two or three months. Do you think I could get an apartment?"

"An apartment!" repeated Mrs. Bent, who took the word literally, and was somewhat puzzled at it. "Did you mean one single room, ma'am."

"I mean two or three rooms--as might be enough. Or a small house--what you call a cottage."

"Oh, I see, ma'am," said the landlady. "I think you might do that. Some of the larger cottages let rooms in the summer to people coming over here from Stilborough for the sea air. And there's one pretty furnished cottage empty on the cliff."

"Would the rent of it be much?" asked Madame Guise, timorously, for a whole furnished cottage seemed a large enterprise.

"Next to nothing at this season," spoke Mrs. Bent, confidentially. "Here, John Bent--where are you?" she cried, flinging open the door. "What's the rent of that place----"

"Master's out," interrupted Molly, coming from the back kitchen to speak.

"Just like him!" retorted Mrs. Bent. "He is out when he's wanted, and at home when he's not. It's always the way with the men. Any way it's a nice little place, ma'am, and I know it would be reasonable."

The cottage she alluded to had a sitting-room, a kitchen, and two bedchambers, and was situated in the most picturesque part of all the cliff, close to the neatly kept cottage that had so long been inhabited by Miss Hallet and her very pretty niece. It was plainly furnished, and might be let at this season, including steel knives and forks, for fifteen shillings a week, Mrs. Bent thought. In summer the rent would be twenty-five: and the tenant had to find linen.

Madame Guise made a silent computation. Fifteen shillings a week! With the rent, and the cost of a servant, and housekeeping, and various little extras that are somehow never computed beforehand, but that rise up inevitably afterwards, she saw that the sum total would be more than she could command. And she hesitated to take the cottage.

Nevertheless, she went with Mrs. Bent to see it, and found it just what she would have liked. It was not quite so nice as Miss Hallet's a few yards off: but Miss Hallet took so much care that hers should be perfection.

"If I could but earn a little money!" repeated Charlotte to herself. "I wonder whether those good ladies at the Grey Nunnery could help me! I have a great mind to ask them."

After some deliberation, she went over to do so. It was a warm, pleasant day; for the capricious weather had once more changed; the snow and frost given place to soft west winds and genial sunshine--and Madame Guise was shown into the reception parlour. Sisters Margaret and Grizzel sat in it, and rose at her entrance. They had heard of this lady traveller, who had been detained on her journey by the illness of her little girl, and was staying at the Dolphin; but they had not seen her. It was with some curiosity, therefore, that the ladies gazed to see what she was like. A slender, ladylike, nice-looking, young woman, with blue eyes and fair hair, and who seemed to carry some care on her countenance.

Madame Guise introduced herself; apologising for her intrusion, and telling them at once its object. She wished to make some stay at Greylands, for she thought the pure air and sea-breezes would strengthen her child--could the ladies help her to some employment by which she might earn a trifle. She had a little income, but not quite sufficient. She could teach music and French, or do fine needlework; embroidery and the like.

The ladies answered her very kindly--they were both taken with the gentle stranger--but shook their heads to her petition: they had no help to give.

"The children we bring up here are of poor parentage and do not need accomplishments," said Sister Margaret. "If they did, we should teach them in the Nunnery: indeed we should be thankful to get pupils of a better class ourselves, for we are but poor. Sister Mona is a good French scholar; and Sister Charlotte's music is perfect. As to fine work, we do not know anyone who requires it to be done."

"Not but that we should have been glad to help you, if we could," put in Sister Grizzel, with a pleasant smile.

Madame Guise rose, stifling a sigh. She saw exactly how it was--that the Grey Nunnery was about the last place able to assist her. In leaving the parlour, she met a lady, young and stately, who was entering it; one of wondrous beauty, tall, majestic, of gracious manner and presence.

"Our Superior, Sister Mary Ursula," said Sister Grizzel.

And Madame Guise knew that it was her husband's cousin--for Miss Castlemaine had joined the Sisterhood some days past. She wore the clear muslin cap over her luxuriant hair, but not the Grey habit, for she had not put aside the mourning for her father. In the magnificent dark eyes, in the bright complexion and in the beautiful features, Madame Guise saw the likeness to her husband and to the rest of the Castlemaines. Sister Mary Ursula bowed and said a few gracious words: Madame Guise responded with one of her elaborate French curtseys, and passed onwards through the gate.

"So that hope has failed!" she thought, as she crossed over to the inn. "I might have known it would: with so many accomplished ladies among themselves, the Sisters cannot want other people's aid."

Buried in thought, perplexed as to what her future course should be, Madame Guise did not go at once indoors, but sat down on the bench outside the house. The window of the sitting-room, occupied by John Bent and his wife, stood open--for Mrs. Bent liked plenty of fresh air--and people were talking inside. On that same bench had sat more than once her unfortunate husband, looking at the water as she was looking, at the fishermen collected on the beach, at the boats out at sea, their white sails at rest in the calm of the sunshiny day. She was mentally questioning what else she could try, now that her mission to the Grey Sisters had failed, and wondering how little she and Marie could live upon, if she got nothing to do. Gradually the talking became clearer to her ear. She heard the landlady's voice and another voice: not John Bent's, but the young, free, ready voice of a gentleman. It was in truth Harry Castlemaine's; who, passing the inn, had turned in for a gossip.

"It seems to me like a great sacrifice, Mr. Harry," were the first distinct words that fell on Madame Guise's ear. "The Grey Ladies are very good and noble; next door to angels, I'm sure, when folks are sick; but it is not the right life for Miss Castlemaine to take to."

"We told her so until we were tired of telling it," returned Harry Castlemaine. "It has cut up my father grievously. We will drop the subject, Mrs. Bent: I cannot speak of it with patience yet. How is the sick child getting on?"

"As well as can be, sir. She is just now upstairs in her midday sleep. Talking of children, though," broke off Mrs. Bent, "what is this mishap that has happened to Miss Flora? We hear she met with some accident yesterday."

"Mounted to the top of the gardener's ladder and fell off it," said Harry, with equanimity. "She is always in mischief."

"And was she hurt, sir?"

"Not much. Grazed her face in a few places and put her wrist out. She will come to greater grief unless they get somebody to take care of her. Having been so long without a governess, the young damsel is like a wild colt."

"The last time Mrs. Castlemaine passed by here on foot, Mr. Harry, she told me she had just engaged a governess. It must be a fortnight ago."

"And so she had engaged one; but the lady was taken ill and threw up the situation. Mrs. Castlemaine is hard to please in the matter of governesses. She must have perfect French and perfect music: and the two, united with other requisite qualifications, seem difficult to find. Mrs. Castlemaine was talking this morning of advertising."

"Dear me! to think that such a fine post as that should be going a begging!" cried the landlady. "A gentleman's home and a plenty of comfort in it, and--and however much pay is it a year, Mr. Harry?"

"Fifty guineas, I think," said the young man carelessly, as though fifty-guinea salaries were an every day trifle. Mrs. Bent lifted her hands and eyes.

"Fifty guineas!--and her bed and board. And only one little lady to teach; and gentlefolks to live with! My goodness! Mr. Harry, one would think half the ladies in England would jump at it."

One lady at least was ready to "jump" at it: she who sat outside, overhearing the tale. The lips of Charlotte Guise parted as she listened; her cheeks flushed red with excitement. Oh, if she herself could obtain this place!--become an inmate of the house where dwelt her husband's enemy, James Castlemaine! How seemingly clear and straightforward would be her path of discovery then, compared with what it would be in that cottage on the cliff, or with any other position she could hope to be placed in! She could daily, hourly watch Mr. Castlemaine; and it must surely be her fault if she did not track home the deed to him! As to her fitness for the post, why French was her native language, and in music she was a finished artiste: and she could certainly undertake general instruction!

While the red flush was yet on her face, the light of excitement in her eyes, Harry Castlemaine came out. Seeing her sitting there, he guessed who she was, took off his hat and politely accosted her, saying he was glad to hear the little girl was improving. Madame Guise rose. It was the first time she had spoken to him.

"I thank you, sir, for your good wishes: yes, she is getting well now. And I--I beg your pardon, sir--I think I heard you just now say to Madame Bent (the window is open) that you found it difficult to get a governess for your house."

"My people find it so. Why?--do you know of one?" he added, smiling.

"I think I do, sir."

"Mrs. Castlemaine is very difficult to please, especially as regards French," he said still smiling; "and the French of some of the ladies who have applied has turned out to be very English French, so they would not suit her. Should you chance to know of any one really eligible, madam, you would be conferring a favour in introducing the lady to the notice of Mrs. Castlemaine."

"Sir, I will think of it."

He lifted his hat again as he wished her good-day. And Madame Guise, gazing after him, thought again that Heaven was surely working for her, in thus opening a prospect of entrance to the house of Mr. Castlemaine.