Chapter XXXVIII: Rebellion

"It is the most ridiculously sentimental piece of business that I ever heard of in my life!" spoke Mrs. Castlemaine, in a tone between a sob and a shriek.

"Nevertheless, it is what must be," said her husband. "It is decided upon."

The morrow had come. George North--but we must put aside that name now--was at Greylands' Rest, and had held his further private conference with Mr. Castlemaine. The latter knew who Madame Guise was now, and all about it, and the motive of her residence in his house. He did not know of her having visited his bureau and seen the ring. He never would know it. Partial reticence was necessary on both sides, and each had somewhat to be ashamed of that the other did not suspect or dream of.

George Castlemaine, lying awake that night at the Dolphin Inn--his whole heart aching for his uncle, his saddest regrets, past and present, given to his brother and his cousin--had been, to use a familiar saying, turning matters about in his mind, to see what was the best that might be made of them. Greylands' Rest was his: there was no question of that; and he must and should take possession of it, and make it his abode for the future. But he hated to be the means of throwing discredit on his uncle: and this step would naturally throw on him discredit in men's minds. If Greylands' Rest was the younger brother George's now, it must have been the elder brother Anthony's before him: and all the deceit, suspected of the Master of Greylands earlier in the year, would be confirmed. Was there any way of preventing this? George thought there was. And he lay dwelling on this and other difficulties until morning, and found his way.

"The world need never know that it was Anthony's, Uncle James," he said, wringing his uncle's hand to give force to his argument. "Let it be supposed that the estate was only to lapse to him after Harry--that Harry came in first by my grandfather's will. None can dispute it. And you can make a merit, you know, of giving it up at once to me, not caring to remain here now Harry is gone."

A gleam of light, like a bit of blue sky suddenly shining out of leaden clouds, dawned on Mr. Castlemaine's face. The prospect of tacitly confessing himself a traitor before his fellow men had made a large ingredient in his cup of bitterness.

"Nothing need ever be specially proclaimed," resumed George. "Nobody in the world has a right to inquire into our affairs, to say to us, How is this? or, How is that? It can be understood that this is the case. Even to your own--your own family"--(the word on George's tongue had been "wife," but he changed it)--"you need not give other explanation. Let this be so, Uncle James. It is for the honour of the Castlemaines."

"Yes, yes; it would take a load from me--if--if it may be done," said the Master of Greylands dreamily. "I see no reason why it should not be," he added, after consideration. "It lies, George, with you. You alone know the truth."

"Then that is settled. Be assured, Uncle James, that I shall never betray it. I shall accustom myself to think that it is so; that I only came in after Harry; in time I daresay I shall quite believe it."

And so, as George said, it was a settled thing. That version of the affair went abroad, and James Castlemaine's credit was saved.

His credit had also to be saved on another score: the death of Anthony. The fact, that he was dead, could no longer be kept from the curious neighbourhood: at least, it would have been in the highest degree inexpedient not to clear it up: but the Master of Greylands' knowledge of it might still be denied and concealed. The exact truth in regard to his death, the true particulars of it, might be made known: Anthony had found his way down to the lower vaults of the Friar's Keep, that night; had pounced upon the smugglers, then running a cargo; they had shot him dead, and then flung him into the sea. The smugglers were doing their work alone that night, Commodore Teague not being with them, and they were the sole authors of the calamity. Every word of this was correct, and George would enlighten the world with this, and no more. If questions were put to him as to how he came into possession of the facts, he would avow that the smugglers had confessed it to him, now that their visits to the coast were at an end for ever. He would say that the man who shot him had taken Anthony to be a coastguardsman: and this was fact also: for Van Stan said afterwards that in the surprise and confusion he had thought this; had thought that the preventive-men were on them. The Master of Greylands would hold his own as to his ignorance and innocence: and Mr. John Bent must go on working out the puzzle, of having fancied he saw him that night, to the end.

Neither need Madame Guise be quite entirely enlightened. George, a Castlemaine himself and jealous of the family's good name, would not, even to her, throw more discredit than need be on his father's brother. He would not tell her that Mr. Castlemaine had been one with the smugglers; but he would tell her that he knew of the practices and kept silence out of regard to Commodore Teague. He would disclose to her the full details of that night, as they occurred, but not that Mr. Castlemaine had been at all upon the beach, before Anthony or after him; he would say that when Anthony's fate was disclosed to him, and the ring handed over, the most lively regret and sorrow for him took possession of his uncle, but to proclaim that he had been made cognisant of it would have done no good whatever, and ruined the Commodore. Well, so far, that was all true, and Charlotte Guise must make the best of it. Mr. Castlemaine intimated that he should settle a sum of money upon the little child, Marie; and the revenues of Greylands' Rest for the period intervening between his father's death and Anthony's death would, of course, be paid over to Charlotte. George, while this was being spoken of, privately resolved to take on himself the educational expenses of the child.

It was in Mr. Castlemaine's room that this conference with George took place. Mr. Castlemaine unlocked the bureau, produced the ring, and placed it on George's finger. George took it off.

"I think his wife should have this, Uncle James. She may like to keep it."

"Who gave it to Anthony?" asked Mr. Castlemaine.

"My mother. It had belonged to her father, and to his father before him. She gave it to Anthony before she died, telling him it was an heirloom and charging him ever to wear it in remembrance of her."

"Then I think it should now be worn by you, George; but settle it with Madame Guise as you will. Who was your mother? An Englishwoman?"

"Oh yes. Miss North. It was her brother, Mr. George North, who stood godfather to me, and who left me all his private fortune. He was in the silk mills, and died quite a young man and a bachelor."

"Ay," said Mr. Castlemaine, rather dreamily, his thoughts back with his brother Basil, "you have money, George, I know. Is it much?"

"It is altogether nearly a thousand pounds a year. Some of it came to me from my father."

"And Ethel has about seven hundred a year," remarked Mr. Castlemaine. "And there will be the revenues of Greylands' Rest: twelve hundred, or thereabouts. You will be a rich man, George, and can keep up as much state as you please here."

It will be seen by this that George Castlemaine had asked his uncle for Ethel. Mr. Castlemaine was surprised: he had not entertained the remotest suspicion of any attachment between them: but he gave a hearty consent. He had liked George; he was fond of Ethel; and the match for her was excellent.

"I would just as soon not take her away with us when we leave, except as a temporary arrangement," was his candid avowal. "Mrs. Castlemaine does not make her home too pleasant; she will be happier with you."

"Oh, I hope so!" was the hasty, fervent answer.

The conference, which had been a long one, broke up. George went away to his interview of explanation with Madame Guise, who as yet knew nothing; and the Master of Greylands summoned his wife to the room. He informed her briefly of the state of things generally: telling her who George North was, and of Anthony's death: using the version that George had suggested, and keeping himself, as to the past, on neutral ground altogether. She was not to know even as much as Madame Guise, but to understand, as the world would, that her husband only learnt the truth now. Now that poor Harry was gone, he said, George came next in the succession to Greylands' Rest, and he (Mr. Castlemaine) had resolved to give it up to him at once. Mrs. Castlemaine, who did not feel at all inclined to quit Greylands' Rest, went into a state of rebellions indignation forthwith, and retorted with the remark already given.

"Why 'must' it be?" she asked. "Where lies the obligation?"

"Nothing would induce me to remain in this house now Harry is gone," he answered. "I wish I was away from it already: the reminiscences connected with it are so painful that I can bear to stay in it for the short while that we must stay. When a blight like this falls upon a family, Sophia, it frequently brings changes in its train."

Mrs. Castlemaine, biting her lips in temper, was not ready with a rejoinder. In the face of this plea, her stepson's death, it would not be decent to say too much. Moreover, though her husband was an excellent man in regard to allowing her full sway in trifles, she knew by experience that when it came to momentous affairs, she might as well attempt to turn the sea as to interfere with his will.

"I like Greylands' Rest," she said. "I have lived in it since you brought me home. Flora was born here. It is very hard to have to hear of leaving it."

Mr. Castlemaine had his back to her, tearing up some papers that were in a drawer of his bureau. It looked exactly as though he were already making preparations for the exit.

"And I expected that this would have been my home for life," she added more angrily, his silence increasing her feelings of rebellion.

"No, you did not expect it," said he, turning round. "I heard my father inform you, the very day after you came here, that Greylands' Rest would descend to his eldest son; not to me."

"It did descend to you," was all she said.

"But it is mine no longer. Harry is gone, and I resign it to my eldest brother's only remaining son."

"It is absurd chivalry even to think of such a thing," she retorted, her lip quivering, her throat swelling. "One would fancy you had taken leave of your senses, James."

"The less said about the matter the better," he answered, turning to his papers again. "At Greylands' Rest, now my son is gone, I cannot and will not stay: and George North--George Castlemaine--comes into possession of it."

"Do you resign to him the income of the estate as well as the house?" inquired Mrs. Castlemaine, as much mockery in her tone as she dared to use.

"The arrangements I choose to make with him are my own, Sophia, and are private between himself and me. Whithersoever I may go, I shall take as good an income with me as you have enjoyed here."

"And where shall you go?"

"I think at first we will travel for a bit. You have often expressed a wish for that. Afterwards we shall see. Perhaps you would like to settle in London, and for myself I care very little where it is."

A vision of the seductions of London--its shops, its shows, its theatres, its gay life generally--rose attractively, as in a vision, before Mrs. Castlemaine. She had never been to the metropolis in her life, and quite believed its streets were paved with gold.

"One thing I am surprised at, James," she resumed quitting that bone of contention for another. "That you should give consent off hand, as you tell me you have done, to Ethel's marriage with a stranger."

"A stranger! We have seen a good deal of him in the past few months; and he is my nephew."

"But a very disreputable kind of nephew. Really I must say it! He has concealed his name from us, and has aided and abetted that governess in concealing hers! It is not reputable."

"But I have explained the cause to you. The poor woman came to the place to seek out her husband, and thought she should have a better chance of success if she dropped his name and appeared as a stranger. George came over in his turn, and at her request dropped his. Remember one thing, Sophia, the concealment has not injured us; and Madame Guise has at least been an efficient governess for Flora, and done her duty well."

"I should certainly think twice before I gave him Ethel. Such haste! I don't see" (and here a little bit of the true animus peeped out) "why Ethel should have the pleasure of staying on at Greylands' Rest for good, while I and Flora are to be forced to leave it!"

No answer.

"All the pleasant places of the dear child!--that have been hers from childhood--that she has grown up attached to! Her very swing in the garden!--the doll's house in the nursery! Everything."

"She can take her swing and her doll's house with her."

"And for that Ethel to stay, and come in for all the benefit! If she must marry George North I should at least make her wait a twelvemonth."

"They shall be married as soon as they please," said Mr. Castlemaine. "He will make her a good husband; I am sure of it: and his means are large. Her home with him will be happier than you have allowed it to be with us: I did not forget that in my decision."

The lips of Mrs. Castlemaine were being bitten to nothing. Whatever she said seemed to get twisted and turned against her. But she fully intended at some more auspicious moment, when her husband should be in a less uncompromising mood, to have another trial at retaining Greylands' Rest. If she had but known the real truth!--that it was George Castlemaine's by inheritance, and had been his since that past February night!

Meanwhile George himself was with Madame Guise, making known to her the elucidation of many things and of the manner of Anthony's death. Poor Charlotte Guise, demonstrative as are most French women sobbed and exclaimed as she listened, and found that what she had feared was indeed a certainty. It was the shot of that fatal February night that had killed her husband: the scream heard had been his death-scream. She was in truth a widow and her child fatherless.

But, when the first shock lifted itself--and it was perhaps less keenly felt in consequence of what may be called these many long months of preparation for it--her thoughts turned to Mr. Castlemaine. The certainty that he was innocent--for she implicitly believed her brother-in-law's version of the past--brought to her unspeakable relief. Prejudice apart, she had always liked Mr. Castlemaine: and she now felt ashamed for having doubted him. "If I had but taken the courage to declare myself to him at first, and what my mission was in England, I might have been spared all this dreadful suspicion and torment!" she cried, her tears dropping softly. "And it has been a torment, I assure you, George, to live in the same house with Mr. Castlemaine, believing him guilty. And oh! to think that I should have opened that bureau! Will he ever forgive me?"

"You must not tell him of that," said George gravely. "I speak in your interest alone, Charlotte. It would answer no good end to declare it; and, as it happened, no harm was done."

"No harm but to me," she moaned. "Since I saw that ring, my fears of Mr. Castlemaine and my own trouble have increased tenfold."

George held out the ring, saying that Mr. Castlemaine had just handed it to him. "He says," continued George, "that the one problem throughout it all which he could not solve, was why Anthony's friends never came over to institute a search for him, or made inquiry by letter."

"Ah, yes," said Madame Guise, "there have been problems on all sides, no doubt--and the looking back at them seems quite to bewilder me."

She had been slipping the sparkling diamond ring on and off her slender finger that wore the wedding-ring. "Take it, George," she said, giving it back to him.

"Nay, it is yours, Charlotte: not mine."

"But no," she answered in some surprise. "This is your family's ring, bequeathed to you by your mother. Anthony would have worn it always had he lived; you must wear it now. Let me put it on for you."

"It might be a consolation to you to keep it."

"I have other relics of Anthony's. There is his watch, and the chain; and there must be some little treasures in his desk. Mr. Bent will hand them over to me when he knows who I am. But as to this ring, George, I have no claim to it: nor would I keep it while you and Emma live."

"Were his watch and chain saved?" exclaimed George.

"Why yes. Did you never hear that? Mr. Bent keeps them locked up with the other things. Anthony had been writing in his parlour that night at the Dolphin, you know; it was supposed that he put off his watch to look how the time went: at any rate it was found on the table the next morning by the side of his desk."

George sighed deeply. All these trifles connected with his brother's last day on earth were so intensely painful. Never, as he fully believed, should he look at the glittering ring, now on his finger, without recalling Anthony to memory. Charlotte sat down and burst into renewed tears.

"Where is Ethel?" he asked.

"She was in the schoolroom just now, crying. Ah, George, she feels Mr. Harry's death very much: she liked him as a brother."

George proceeded to the schoolroom. As he was entering, Flora darted out, her eyes swollen, her cheeks enflamed. She, too, had loved her half-brother, for all her careless ways and his restraining hand. George would have detained her to speak a kind word, but she suddenly dipped her head and flew past, under his arm.

Ethel was not crying now. She stood by the fire, leaning her pretty head against the mantelpiece. Her back was towards the door, and she was not aware that it was George who entered.

"My darling, I fear this is a sad trial to you," he said, advancing.

His voice brought to her a start of surprise; his words caused the tears to flow again. George drew her to him, and she sobbed on his breast.

"You don't know what it is," she said quite hysterically. "I used to be at times cross and angry with him. And now I find there was no cause for it, that he was married all the while. Oh if I had but known!--he should never have heard from me an unkind word."

"Be assured of one thing, Ethel--that he appreciated your words at their proper due only, and laughed at them in his heart. He knew you loved him as a brother: and I am sure he was truly attached to you."

"Yes, I do know all that. But--I wish I had been always kind to him," she added, as she drew away and stood as before.

"I come from a long talk with Mr. Castlemaine," said George, after a minute's pause, putting his elbow on the opposite end of the mantel piece to face her while he spoke "I have been asking him for you, Ethel."

"Ye--s?" she faltered, her eyes glancing up for a moment, and then falling again. "Asking him to-day?"

"You are thinking that it is not the most appropriate day I could have chosen: and that's true. But, in one sense, I did not choose it. We had future plans of different kinds to discuss, and this one had to come in with them. I come to make a confession to you, Ethel, to crave your pardon. The name under which I have won you, George North, is not my true name. At least, not all my name. I am a Castlemaine. Mr. Castlemaine's nephew, and that poor lost Anthony's brother."

Ethel looked bewildered. "A Castlemaine!" she repeated. "How can that be?"

"My dear, it is easy to understand. Mr. Basil Castlemaine, he who settled abroad, was the eldest brother of this house, you know, years ago. Anthony was Basil's elder son, I his younger. I came over to discover what I could of Anthony's fate, and I dropped temporarily the name of Castlemaine, lest my being recognised as one of the family might impede my search. My uncle James condones it all; and I believe he thinks that I was justified. I have now resumed my name--George North Castlemaine."

Ethel drew a deep breath. She was trying to recover her astonishment.

"Would it pain you very much, Ethel, to know that you would make no change in your residence?--that you would spend your life at Greylands' Rest?"

"I--do not understand you," she faintly said, a vision of remaining under Mrs. Castlemaine's capricious control for ever, and of being separated from him, rushing over her like an ugly nightmare.

"Greylands' Rest is to be my home in future, Ethel. Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine leave it----"

"Yours!--your own?" she interrupted in excitement. "This house! Greylands' Rest?"

"Yes; my own. It is mine now. I come in after Harry," he added very hurriedly, to cover the last sentence, which had slipped out inadvertently: "and my uncle resigns it to, me at once."

"Oh dear," said Ethel, more and more bewildered. "But it would cost so much to live here."

"Not more than I can afford to spend," he answered with a smile. "I told you, Ethel, if you remember, that I expected to come into some property, though I was not sure of it. I have come into it. What would have been poor Anthony's had he lived, is now mine."

"But--is Anthony really dead?"

"Ay. I will tell you about it later. The present question is, Ethel, whether you will share my home here at Greylands' Rest."

He spoke with a smile, crossed over, and stood before her on the shabby old hearthrug. Just one moment of maiden hesitation, of a sweet rising blush, and she bent forward to the arms that were opened to encircle her.

"One home together here," he fondly murmured, bending his face on hers. "One Heaven hereafter."