Chapter XXXVI: Changed to Paradise

The winter season was coming in, but not yet winter weather, for it was mild and balmy: more like a fine September than the close of November.

The glass doors of the red parlour at Greylands' Rest were thrown open to the garden, and to the very few autumn flowers that yet lingered around the window. Dinner was over, and the ladies were back in the parlour again. Little Marie Guise was spending the day there, and was now playing at cat's-cradle with Flora: her mother was talking with Mrs. Castlemaine. Ethel sat drawing.

"Dear me! I think this is Miss Castlemaine."

The words were Madame's, and they all looked up. Yes; advancing round from the wide garden-path in her grey dress and with her stately step, came Mary Ursula. Seeing them sitting there, and the doors open, she had turned aside on her way to the front entrance. Ethel ran out.

"How good of you, Mary! Have you come to stay the afternoon?"

"No, Ethel, dear. I want to see my uncle. Is he at home?"

"I think so. We left him at table. Come in."

Mrs. Castlemaine made much of the visitor. Disliking Mary Ursula at heart, thankful that she had joined the Grey Sisterhood for good and was out of the way of Greylands' Rest, Mrs. Castlemaine made a great show of welcome at these chance visits.

"And why can you not stay now you are here?" asked Mrs. Castlemaine, purring upon Mary as she sat down. "Do take your bonnet off."

"I would stay if I could," said Mary, "but I must be back again by four o'clock. Mr. Knivett sent me a note this morning to say he should be over at that hour with some papers that require my signature."

"Then, Mary, why did you not come some afternoon when you were not expecting Mr. Knivett?" sensibly asked Ethel.

"Because I had to come to-day, Ethel. I wish to see my uncle."

"I suppose you have been busy with your money and your executorship," spoke Mrs. Castlemaine. "You must feel quite rich."

"I do," said Mary, with earnest truth. Looking back, she had not thought herself so rich in her anticipated many, many thousands a year then, as she felt now with these two or three bequeathed hundreds of additional income. "We are rich or poor by comparison, you know," she said, smiling. "And what is Marie doing?--learning to play at cat's cradle?"

Marie snatched the thread from Flora, and ran up to her: she could speak a little English now.

"Lady play wi' Marie!

"Why, my dear little child, I think I have forgotten how to play," returned Mary. "Flora can play better than I can. Flora is none the worse for that accident, I hope?" she added to Mrs. Castlemaine. "But how serious it might have been!"

"Oh, don't, don't talk of it," cried Mrs. Castlemaine, putting her hands before her eyes to shut out the mental vision. "I shall never see a furious sea again without shuddering."

"It is beautifully calm to-day," said Mary, rising to go into the dining-room to her uncle. "Like a mill-pond."

Mr. Castlemaine was no longer in the dining-room. Miles putting the wine and dessert away, said his master had gone up to his room to write letters. So Mary went after him.

Several days had passed now since the departure of Jane Hallet from the Nunnery. And the longer the time elapsed without news of her, the greater grew the marvel of Greylands. The neighbours asked one another whether Jane had mysteriously disappeared for good, after the fashion of Anthony Castlemaine. It was rumoured that the affair altogether, connected with Jane, had much annoyed the Master of Greylands. He was supposed to have talked sharply to his son on the subject; but how Harry received it, or what he replied, was not known. Harry rather shunned home just then, and made pretext for excursions to distant places, which kept him out for a day or two at a time.

But a worse doubt than any was gaining ground: the same doubt that had crossed Sister Mildred the night of the disappearance. Had Jane committed any rash act? In short, to speak out boldly, for it is what Greylands did, people thought that Jane must have flung herself into the sea. The way to the Limpet rocks--once old Dame Dance's cottage was passed--led to nowhere but the rocks: and nobody in their senses would seek them at night if they wanted to come away alive. Clearly there was but one inference to be drawn: Jane was under the water.

Of course, it was entirely inconsistent with Greylands' neighbourly outspokenness that this dismal conviction should long be concealed from Miss Hallet. Perhaps it was considered a matter of conscience to make it known to her. Mrs. Pike at the shop was the first to run up, and undertake the communication.

Miss Hallet received it in cold silence: for all the world as if she had been a stock or a stone, as Mrs. Pike related afterwards: and for a day or two she held on in her course of high-mightiness. But it could not last. She had human feelings, as well as other people: it might have been that they were all the keener from her outward shell of impassive coldness; and they made themselves heard in spite of her injured pride. The news shocked her; the more she tried to drive it from her mind, the more persistently it came back to take up its abode there: and at length a whole flood-tide of remorse and repentance set in: for she asked herself whether she--she--had helped to drive Jane to her dreadful fate. It is one thing to browbeat our friends to within an inch of their lives: but quite another thing to shut them into their coffins.

On the second evening, when twilight was sufficiently dim to enfold her within its shade, Miss Hallet went down to seek an interview with Sister Mildred at the Nunnery; and was admitted to her. Mary Ursula Castlemaine was also in the room, writing at a table apart: but she did not interfere in any way, or take part in the conversation.

"I have come to know the truth of this," gasped Miss Hallet, whose every effort to suppress her agitation and to appear cold as usual, served to impede her breath. "At least, madam, so far as you can tell it me."

"But, my dear, good woman, I can't tell you anything," briskly returned Sister Mildred, speaking with her trumpet to her ear. "We don't know what to think ourselves. I wish we did."

They were sitting side by side on the well-worn horsehair sofa, which was drawn close to the fire. Mary was in the further corner behind them, a shade on the candle by which she wrote. Miss Hallet untied the strings of her bonnet, as if in need of air.

"Jane cannot have put an end to her life!" spoke Miss Hallet, her trembling lips betokening that she felt less assured of the fact than the words implied. "She was too religious a girl for anything so desperately wicked; too well-principled."

"That is what I tell myself ten times a day," returned Sister Mildred. "Or try to."

"Try to!" echoed Miss Hallet.

"Well, you see--you see--" Sister Mildred spoke with hesitation, between wishing to tell just the truth and dislike to say what must inflict pain--"you see, the thought that keeps intruding on me is this: having been deceived in my estimation of Jane's good principles on one point, one is obliged to feel less sure of them on another."

A groan broke from Miss Hallet; she coughed to cover it. But in another moment her misery got the better of her, and all reticence was thrown away.

"Oh, if you can help me to find her--if you can give me a hope that she is still living, do so, dear lady, for heaven's sake," she implored, placing her hands, in her irrepressible agitation, on the arm of Sister Mildred. "Let me not have her death upon my conscience!"

The good Sister took both the hands and held them in hers. "For my own sake, I would do it if I could," she gently said. "To find Jane, I would forfeit a good deal that is precious to me."

"It is killing me," said Miss Hallet. "It will kill me speedily unless this incertitude can be ended. For the past two days, I have not had one moment's peace. Night and day, night and day, the one dreadful doubt is upon me with a harrowing torment. Where is Jane?"

"We cannot think where she can be," said Sister Mildred, shaking her head. "Nobody seems to know."

A moment's silence, and then the sound of hysterics burst upon the room: cries, and sobs, and catchings of the breath. Miss Hallet had not given way like this even when her nephew died.

But, alas, they could give her no satisfaction, no comfort. Sister Mildred, shaking hands with her before departure, spoke cheerfully of hope, of "looking on the bright side of things," but it was very negative consolation.

"My dear, did you take note of what passed?" questioned Sister Mildred of Mary Ursula, when they were alone. "How distressing this is!"

Mary rose from her desk and came forward. "My heart was aching for her all the time," she said. "Miss Hallet may have acted somewhat harshly; but she has my greatest pity. I wish I could relieve her!"

"If anyone in this world knows where Jane is, it must be Mr. Harry Castlemaine," observed Sister Mildred in a cold, subdued whisper. "That is, if she be still alive. I wonder, my dear, whether we might ask him."

"Whether he would give any information, you mean," replied Mary Ursula. "He ought to; and I think he would. Though, perhaps, it might be better got at through his father."

"Through his father!" echoed Sister Mildred, quickly. "Oh, my dear, we should never dare to question the Master of Greylands."

"I would: and will," concluded Mary Ursula.

It was in pursuance of this resolve that Mary had come up this afternoon to Greylands' Rest. Harry had gone to Newerton for a day or two, this time really upon business. Mary went upstairs and knocked at her uncle's door.

The Master of Greylands was doing nothing. He had apparently been writing at his bureau, for the flap was down, one drawer stood out and some papers were lying open. He had quitted it, and sat back in a chair near the window; his eyes resting on the calm sea stretched out in the distance. Which sea, however, he never saw; his thoughts were far away.

"Nothing has gone right since that fatal night," he said to himself, his brow knitted into lines of pain. "Teague has said all the summer that suspicions are abroad--though I think he must be wrong; and now there's this miserable trouble about Harry and that girl! For myself, I seem to be treading on a volcano. The stir after Anthony is not at an end yet: I am sure of it; instinct warns me that it is not: and should a comprehensive search be instituted, who can tell where it would end, or what might come to light?"

A log of blazing wood fell on the hearth with a splutter and crash. Mr. Castlemaine looked round mechanically: but all was safe. The room was just as lonely and bare as usual: no signs of life or occupation in it, save the master himself and the papers in the open bureau.

"When men look askance at me," ran on his thoughts, "it makes my blood boil. I am living it down; I shall live it down; but I have not dared to openly resent it and that has told against me. And if the stir should arise again, and unpleasant facts come out--why then it would be all over with the good name of the Master of Greylands. The world calls me proud: and I am proud. Heaven knows, though, that I have had enough this year to take pride out of me."

A deep sigh, telling of the inward trouble, escaped him. Men whose minds are at ease cannot sigh like that.

"It has been an unlucky year for the Castlemaines: a fatal year. After a long tide of prosperity such years do come, I suppose, to a family. Peter's trouble first, and his uncertain death:--and what a near shave it was, the staving off disgrace from his name! Anthony's intrusion and the trouble he gave me, and then his death: that, unfortunately, had nothing uncertain about it. The cloud that fell upon me, and that lasts still; and now, Teague's doubts; and now again, Harry! Better for me, perhaps, to get out of it all, while the opportunity remains."

A heavy sigh broke from him, coming apparently from the very depth of his heart. He put his elbow on the arm of his chair, and leaned his brow upon his hand.

"Poor Anthony," he moaned, after a pause. "Oh, if the doings of that night could but be recalled! I would give the best years of my remaining life to undo its fatal work. Just one moment of mad, impetuous passion, and it was all over! What can his friends be about, I wonder, that they have not come to see after him? I thought he said he had a brother, at that first interview; but I have never been sure, for I was feeling resentful, half checkmated, and I would not listen to him. I am certain he said he had a sister--married, I think, to a Frenchman. They have not come; they do not write: French people don't care for their relatives, perhaps--and they must be French rather than English. If Anthony----"

A gentle knock at the door had been unheard by Mr. Castlemaine: a second knock was followed by the entrance of Mary Ursula in her Sister's dress. So entirely was Mr. Castlemaine buried in these unpleasant, far away scenes, that just for a moment he stared at the intruder, his mind completely absent. Mary could not help noticing his haggard look and the pain that sat in his eyes.

"Why, Mary Ursula, is it you?" he cried, starting up. "Come in, my dear."

With a rapid movement, as he advanced to meet her, he swept the papers back and closed the bureau. Taking her hands in his he kissed her, and put a chair for her near the fire. But Mary would not sit down. She had not time, she said: and she went and stood by the window.

It was not a pleasant matter for her to enter upon, and she spoke very slightly and briefly. Just saying that if he, her uncle, had learnt anything through his son of Jane Hallet, it would be a relief to the Grey Ladies if he would impart it, and especially to the aunt, who was in a distressing state of suspense; fears, that Jane had made away with herself, existing in Greylands.

"My dear, I know nothing whatever of her," said Mr. Castlemaine, standing at the window by the side of his niece. "The whole of the affair has been most grievous to me, most annoying--as you may well conceive. I had some words with Harry at the time; sharp ones; and it has created a sort of coolness between us. Since then, we have mutually avoided the subject."

Mary sighed. "I cannot help being sorry for Jane," she said, "whatever may be the end. She is too good to have lost herself. You do not know, Uncle James, how nice she is."

"'Sorry' is not the word for it," emphatically spoke the Master of Greylands, his stern tone meant for his absent son. "I always held the Hallets in respect."

Mary turned from the window to depart. Other things were perplexing her as well as this unfortunate business. It struck her more and more how ill her uncle looked; ill, and full of care. Lines had begun to indent themselves on his once smooth brow.

"Are you well, Uncle James?" she stayed to say.

"Why do you ask?"

"You do not look well. There is something in your face now that--that----"

"That what, child?"

"That reminds me of papa. As he looked the last month or two of his life."

"Ay. I have had some worry lately, from more sources than one. And that tries a man's looks, Mary, worse than all."

He attended her downstairs. She said farewell to the red parlour, and commenced her walk back to the Nunnery.

Somewhat later, before the dusk of the November evening came on, Madame Guise attired herself to take home Marie. The little girl was showing symptoms of a delicate chest, and the Sisters had begged her mother to let her be in betimes. To please the child they went on through the back buildings, which were at some distance from the house, that she might see the ducks, and cocks and hens.

Quitting the fold-yard to cross the meadow, which would bring them round to the avenue, they came upon Mr. North. He sat on the stump of a tree, sketching a bit of the old barn.

"Are you here, George!" spoke Madame. "What are you doing?"

He held out the sketch to show her: pulling little Marie to him at the same time, to give her a kiss.

"Why you not come to see me?" asked the child in French. For she had taken a great fancy to this pleasant gentleman, who sometimes had bonbons in his pocket for her, calling him, at the Nunnery, little incipient coquette, le joli monsieur.

"Ah, I think I must come and see Miss Marie one of these fine days. Does Marie like dolls?"

"I like four, five dolls," said Marie.

"Four, five!" laughed George. "Why it would be an army. We shall have to dismantle a shop.

"I must be going, Marie," said her mother. "And you will have to make haste with that drawing, George. You will not see very much longer."

"Oh, I shall finish it."

"Have you heard anything, George--gathered anything--that can throw light on poor Anthony?" she looked back, to ask in a whisper.

"Never a word," he answered.

"Nor I. I begin almost to despair. Au revoir."

Meanwhile, indoors, Mr. Castlemaine had gone up to his room again, and Flora in the red parlour was making herself disagreeable as usual. The young lady's insistence that Marie should stay to tea had met with no response, and she was sulky in consequence.

For some little time she relieved herself by kicking her feet about, throwing down the fire-irons, and giving shakes to the table to disturb Ethel. By-and-by, when it grew dusk, and Mrs. Castlemaine had to hold her book very close to her eyes and Ethel to put up her drawing, the young lady saw a larger field for annoyance. Advancing to the piano, she brought both her hands down on the keys with her whole might. The result was a crash that might have aroused the seven sleepers.

"How dare you, Flora?" exclaimed Ethel. "Don't you know the piano was tuned this week?"

A derisive laugh: and another crash.

"Mamma, will you speak to her?"

Crash the third. Mrs. Castlemaine, absorbed by her book of romance, took no notice whatever.

"Do you think I will have my piano served in that way and the wires broken?" cried Ethel, starting up. "What a dreadful child you are!"

A tussle--for the young lass was strong, and was leaning with her whole weight and her two arms on the keys--and then Ethel succeeded in shutting and locking it. It was Ethel's own piano: a present to her from Mr. Castlemaine, and a beautiful instrument. Mademoiselle la méchante turned to the table, took up Ethel's drawing-book and began rumpling the leaves.

"Oh, mamma, mamma, why do you not speak to her?" cried Ethel, in distress, as she tried to get possession of the book, and failed. "Mamma!"

"How tiresome you are, Ethel!" exclaimed Mrs. Castlemaine explosively: for her story was at a most interesting part, and she could not be disturbed during these last few moments of daylight. "Sit down and be quiet. The dear child would do no harm, if you only let her alone."

The dear child had retreated to the open part of the room beyond the table, and was dancing there like a little maniac, flirting over the leaves at Ethel in derision. These petty annoyances are hard to bear. Injustice is hard to bear, even where the temper is naturally as sweet as Ethel's.

"Give me that book," said Ethel, going up to Flora.

"I shan't."

"I tell you, Flora, to give it to me."

Flora was holding the book open above her head, a cover stretched in each hand, and laughing an ugly, mocking laugh. Suddenly, without warning, she dashed it full in Ethel's face: a pretty sharp blow.

Smarting, angry, Ethel seized the tiresome child by the arms. Flora shrieked, and called out in a rage that Ethel was pinching her. Very likely it might be so, for the grasp was a tight one. Flora dropped the book, and struck Ethel in the face with all the force of her wrathful hand. Her pale face tingling with the smart, agitated, indignant, but the book secured, Ethel stood before Mrs. Castlemaine.

"Am I to bear this, mamma?--and you look on and say nothing!"

"You should let her alone: it is your own fault," contemptuously retorted Mrs. Castlemaine.

Justice in that house for her!--unless Mr. Castlemaine was at hand!--Ethel had long ceased to hope for it. But the present moment was unusually bitter; it tried her terribly. She quitted the room; and, seeing the hall-door open, ran out in a storm of tears and sobs, and dashed along the path.

It was dusk but not dark; the bared trees, the wintry shrubs, the cold beds telling of the departed flowers, all spoke of loneliness. But not more lonely, they, than Ethel.

She stood when she came to the outer gate and flung her arms upon it, sobbing bitterly; gazing down the avenue, as if longing to go forth into the world for ever. Alas, there was no chance of that; she was tied to this home, so oftentimes made miserable. Had Ethel been poor she might have gone out as governess: but that plea could not be raised.

Bending her face upon her hands, which rested still upon the gate, she gave way to all the minute's gloomy anguish, weeping aloud. Not a living being was in sight or hearing; she believed herself as much alone as though it had been some unpeopled desert and could indulge her passionate grief at will.

"Oh Ethel, what is this?"

It was a soft, low, pained voice that spoke the words in her ear; a fond hand was laid upon her head; the only voice, the only hand that could have thrilled her heart.

Mr. North, passing into the avenue on his way home from sketching the piece of the old barn, his portfolio being under his arm, had come upon her thus. Opening the gate, he drew her on to the bench under the high laurel trees and sat down by her.

"Now, tell me what it is?"

Beguiled by the seduction of the moment, smarting still under the treatment she had received, contrasting his loving, gentle kindness with the cruel indifference of the only mother she had ever known, Ethel sobbed out a brief account of what had passed. His breast heaved with angry passion.

"Is it often so, Ethel?"

"Oh yes, very. It has been so for years. I have never had any one to really love me since my father died; I have never known what it is to have a securely happy home: only this one of frequent turbulence. I wish I could run away from it!"

He was no more prudent than she. He forgot wisdom, circumstances, reason: all. His breath short, his words unchosen, he poured forth the tale of his love, and asked her if she would be his wife. Ethel bent her face on his coat-sleeve, and cried silent, happy tears.

"You know, you must know, how I have loved you, Ethel. I should have spoken long ago, but that circumstances held me back. Even now I fear that I cannot speak openly to Mr. Castlemaine: it may be some little time first. But oh, my darling, you have not, you cannot have mistaken my love."

Not a word. It was early yet for confession from her. But her face was still on his arm.

"For one thing, I am not rich, Ethel. I have quite enough for comfort, but not that which would give you a home like this. And Mr. Castlemaine----"

"I would rather be in a cottage with bread, than here," she interrupted, all her candour rising to the surface.

"And Mr. Castlemaine may not choose that you shall pit this house for one less well set-up, I was about to say, my love," he went on. "What we might find sufficient competence, he might deem poverty."

"I have plenty of money of my own," said Ethel simply.

"Have you?" cried Mr. North, in a surprised and anything but a gratified tone. He had certainly never known or suspected that she had money; and he foresaw that the fact might be only an additional reason for Mr. Castlemaine's rejection of him. "It may be so much the worse for us, Ethel. I may come into money myself; quite sufficient to satisfy even Mr. Castlemaine; or I may not. It is this uncertainty that has helped to keep me silent. But come what will now, we cannot part."

No, they could never part. Heart beating against heart, knew and ratified it. He gathered her face to his, whispering his sweet love-vows as he kissed off its tears.

And, for Ethel, the lonely surroundings, the dreary paths, the bare beds, the wintry trees, seemed suddenly to have changed into the Garden of Paradise.