Chapter XXXIX: No Turning Back

Once more the whole population of Greylands turned out in commotion. A sad and silent commotion, however, this time, as befitted the cause. Voices were hushed to a low tone, faces showed sadness, the church bell was tolling. People had donned their best attire; the fishermen were in their churchgoing clothes, their boats, hauled up on the beach or lying at anchor, had rest to-day. All who could muster a scrap of mourning had put it on, though it was but an old crape hatband, or a bit of black bonnet-ribbon. Mr. Harry Castlemaine was about to be buried; and he had been a favourite with high and low.

They made their comments as they stood waiting for the funeral. The December day was raw and dull, the grey skies seeming to threaten a fall of some kind; but Mrs. Bent pronounced it not cold enough for snow. She stood at her front door, wearing a black gown, and black strings to her cap; and was condescendingly exchanging remarks with some of her inferior neighbours, and with Mrs. and Miss Pike, who had run over from the shop.

"We shall never have such a week o' surprises as this have been," pronounced Mrs. Pike, a little red-faced woman, who was this morning in what she called "the thick of a wash," and consequently had come out en déshabille, a shawl thrown over her cap, underneath which peeped out some black straggling curls. "First of all, about them smugglers and poor Mr. Harry's wound and death, and that good-hearted Commodore having to decamp himself off, through them ferreting coastguards. And now to hear that the gentleman staying here so long is one o' the Castlemaines theirselves, and heir to Greylands' Rest after Mr. Harry! It beats the news column in the Stilborough paper holla."

"'Twere a sad thing, though, about that young Mr. Anthony," exclaimed old Ben Little. "The smugglers shot him dead, ye see, and that scream Mr. Bent said he heard were his. Full o' life one moment, and shot down the next! Them wretches ought to have swung for it."

"It be a pack o' surprises, all on't, but the greatest on 'em be Jane Hallet," quoth Nancy Gleeson. "When it come out that Mr. Harry had married her, you might ha' sent me down head for'ard with a feather--just as Mr. Harry sent down our Tim one day, when he said a word again' her."

"It was very sly of Jane," struck in Miss Susan Pike, tossing her curls. "Never saying a word to a body, and making believe as it was just talk about her and Mr. Harry, and nothing else. I'd like to know how she wheedled him over."

"It's not for you to speak against her, Susan Pike," cried Mrs. Bent in her sharpest tone. "You didn't wheedle him, and wasn't likely to. She is Mr. Harry's wife--widow, worse luck!--and by all accounts no blame's due to her. Mr. Castlemaine gives none: and we heard yesterday he was going to settle two hundred a year on her for life."

"My! won't she set up for a lady!" enviously returned Miss Pike, ignoring the reprimand.

"Don't you be jealous, and show it, Susan Pike," retorted Mrs. Bent. "Everybody liked Jane: and we are all glad--but you--that she's cleared from the scandal. I did think it odd that she should go wrong."

"Her aunt have got her home now, and have took up all her proud airs again," said Mrs. Pike, not pleased that her daughter should be put down. "That Miss Hallet have always thought none of us was good enough for her."

"Hist!" said Ben Little, in a hushed voice. "Here it comes."

On the evening of the day following the death, the remains of Harry Castlemaine, then in their first coffin, had been conveyed to his home. It was from Greylands' Rest, therefore, that the funeral procession was now advancing. The curious spectators stretched their necks aloft to watch its onward progress; but as it came near they retreated into the hedges, so to say, and compressed themselves into as small a space as possible; the men, with one accord, taking off their hats.

It was a perfectly simple funeral. The state rather loved by the Castlemaines, and hitherto maintained by the Master of Greylands, it had not pleased him to extend to the obsequies of his son. Two mutes with their batons of sable plumes were in advance; Parson Marston followed in his surplice and black hood, walking at the head of the coffin, which was covered by its pall, and carried by carriers. Close to the coffin came Mr. Castlemaine; his nephew, George, accompanying him. Squire Dobie, long recovered from his illness, and Mr. Knivett walked next; two gentlemen from Stilborough, and the doctors, Parker and Croft, brought up the rear. These comprised all the ostensible mourners: they wore crape scarfs and hat-bands that nearly swept the ground, and had white handkerchiefs in their hands; but behind them were many followers: John Bent, Superintendent Nettleby, and others, who had fallen in as the procession left the house; and Miles and the other men-servants closed it.

Whether any suspicion penetrated to Mr. Superintendent Nettleby, then or later, that it was not mere accident which had taken Harry to the secret vaults of the Keep that night, cannot be known. He never gave utterance to it, then or later.

The people came out of the hedges after it had passed, and followed it slowly to the churchyard. Mr. Marston had turned and was waiting at the gate to receive the coffin, reading his solemn words. And for once in his life Parson Marston was solemn too.

"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die."

A sob of pain, telling what this calamity was to him, rose in the throat of the Master of Greylands. Few men could control themselves better than he: and he struggled for calmness. If he gave way at this, the commencement of the service, how should he hold out to the end? So his face took its pale impassive look again, as he followed on through the churchyard.

It was not the custom at that time for women to attend the obsequies of those in the better ranks of life. Women followed the poor, but never the rich. Neither did any, save those bidden to a funeral, attempt to enter the church as spectators: or at least, it was done but in very rare cases. The crowd who had gathered by the Dolphin Inn, to watch it pass, took up their standing in the churchyard. From time to time the voice of Mr. Marston was heard, and that of the clerk in the Amens; and soon the procession was out again.

The grave--or rather the vault--of old Anthony Castlemaine, had been opened in the churchyard, and Harry was laid there in it. His own mother was there: the coffins lay two abreast. The Master of Greylands saw his wife's as he looked in. The inscription was as plain as though she had been buried yesterday: "Maria Castlemaine. Aged twenty-six." Another sob shook his throat as Harry's was lowered on it, and for a minute or two he broke down.

It was all soon over, and they filed out of the churchyard on their way back to Greylands' Rest. Leaving the curious and sympathising crowd to watch the grave-diggers, and lament one to another that the fine, open-hearted young man had been taken away so summarily, and to elbow one another as they pushed round to see the last of his coffin, and to read its name:

"Henry Castlemaine. Aged twenty-six." So he had died at just the same age as his mother!

Miss Castlemaine sat in the parlour at the Grey Nunnery, the little Marie on her knee. Since she knew who this child was--a Mary Ursula, like herself, and a Castlemaine--a new interest had arisen for her in her heart. She was holding the little one to her, looking into her face, and tracing the resemblance to the family. A great resemblance there undoubtedly was: the features were the clearly-cut Castlemaine features, the eyes were the same dark lustrous eyes; and Mary most wondered that the resemblance had never previously struck her.

Once more Mary had put aside the simple grey dress of the Sisterhood for robes of mourning: flowing robes, they were, of silk and crape, worn for poor Harry. The cap was on her head still, shading her soft brown hair.

It was the week subsequent to the funeral. On the following day Madame Guise (as well retain the name to the last) was about to return to her own land with her child, escorted thither by George Castlemaine. It was not to be a perpetual separation, for Charlotte had faithfully promised to come over at least once in three years to stay with George and Ethel at Greylands' Rest, so as to give her child the privilege of keeping up relations with the Castlemaine family. A slab was to be placed in the church to the memory of Anthony, and that, Madame Guise said, would of itself bring her. She must afford herself the mournful satisfaction of reading it from time to time. After her departure Mary Ursula was to go to Greylands' Rest on a short farewell visit to her uncle. It would be Christmastide, and she would spend the Christmas there. Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine were losing no time in their departure from Greylands' Rest; they would be gone, with Ethel and Flora, before the new year came in. Mr. Castlemaine would not stay in it to see the dawning of another year: the last one, he said, had been too ill-fated. George would return as soon as might be to take up his abode there--but travelling on the Continent was somewhat uncertain at that season. During the winter Mr. and Mrs. Castlemaine would remain in London; and in the spring George was to go up there for his marriage, and bring Ethel home.

"Marie must not forget her English," said Mary Ursula, pressing a kiss on the child's face.

"Marie not fordet it, lady."

"And Marie is to come sometimes and see her dear old friends here; mamma says so; and Uncle George will----"

"A gentleman to see you, madam."

Little Sister Phoeby had opened the parlour door with the announcement, and was showing the visitor in. Mary thought it must be Mr. Knivett, and wondered that she had not heard the gate-bell. The fact was, Sister Phoeby had had the front door open, to let out the school children.

It was not Mr. Knivett who entered, but a much younger man: one whom, of all the world, Mary would have least expected to see--Sir William Blake-Gordon. He came forward, holding out his hand with trepidation, his utterly colourless face betraying his inward emotion. Mary rose, putting down the child, and mechanically suffered her hand to meet his. Sister Phoeby beckoned out the little girl, and shut the door.

"Will you pardon my unauthorised intrusion?" he asked, putting his hat on the table and taking a chair near her. "I feared to write and ask permission to call, lest you should deny it to me."

"I should not have denied it--no; my friends are welcome here," replied Mary, feeling just as agitated as he, but successfully repressing its signs. "You have, no doubt, some good reason for seeking me."

She spoke with one of her sweetest smiles: the smile that she was wont to give to her best friends. How well he remembered it!

"You have heard--at least I fancy you must have heard--some news of me," resumed Sir William, speaking with considerable embarrassment and hesitation. "It has been made very public."

Mary coloured now. About a fortnight before, Mr. Knivett had told her that the projected marriage of Sir William with Miss Mountsorrel was at an end. The two lovers had quarrelled and parted. Sir William sat looking at Mary, either waiting for her answer, or because he hesitated to go on.

"I heard that something had occurred to interrupt your plans," said Mary. "It is only a temporary interruption, I trust."

"It is a lasting one," he said; "and I do not wish it to be otherwise. Oh, Mary!" he added, rising in agitation, "you know, you must know, how hateful it was to me! I entered into it to please my father; I never had an iota of love for her. Love! the very word is desecrated in connection with what I felt for Miss Mountsorrel. I really and truly had not even friendship for her; I could not feel it. When we parted, I felt like a man who has been relieved from some heavy weight of dull despair; it was as though I had shaken off a felon's chains."

"What caused it?" questioned Mary, feeling that she must say something.

"Coolness caused it. For the very life of me I was unable to behave to her as I ought--as I suppose she had a right to expect me to behave. Since my father's death I had been more distant than ever, for I could not help remembering the fact that, had I held out against his will until then, I should have been free: and I resented it bitterly in my heart. Resented it on her, I fear. She reproached me with my coolness one day--some two or three weeks ago, it is. One word led to another; we had a quarrel and she threw me up."

"I am sorry to hear it," said Mary.

"Can you say that from your heart?"

He put the subdued question so pointedly, and there was so wistful an expression of reproach in his face that she felt confused. Sir William came up close, and took her hands.

"You know what I have come for," he cried, his voice hoarse with agitation. "I should have come a week ago but that it was the period of your deep mourning. Oh, Mary! let it be with us as it used to be! There can be no happiness for me in this world apart from you. Since the day of my father's death I have never ceased to--to--I had almost said to curse the separation that he forced upon us; or, rather to curse my weakness in yielding to it. Oh, my darling, forgive me!--my early and only love, forgive me I Come to me Mary, and be my dear wife!"

The tears were running down her face. Utterly unnerved, feeling how entirely the old love was holding sway in her heart, she let her hands lie in his.

"I am not rich, as you know, Mary; but we shall have enough for comfort. Your position at least, as Lady Blake Gordon, will be assured, and neither of us cares for riches. Our tastes are alike simple. Do you remember how we both used to laugh at undue parade and show?"

"Hush, William! Don't tempt me."

"Not tempt you! My dear one, you must be mine. It was a sin to separate us: it would be a worse sin to prolong the separation now that impediments are removed."

"I cannot turn back," she said.. "I have cast my lot in here, and must abide by it. I--I--seem to see--to see more surely and clearly day by day as the days go on"--she could scarcely speak for agitation--"that God Himself has led me to this life; that He is showing me hour by hour how to be more useful in it. I may not quit it now."

"Do you recall the fact, Mary, that your father gave you to me? It was his will that we should be man and wife. You cannot refuse to hear my prayer."

None knew, or ever would know, what that moment was to Mary Ursula: how strong was the temptation that assailed her; how cruelly painful to resist it. But, while seductive love showed her the future, as his wife, in glowing colours, reason forbade her yielding to it. Argument after argument against it crowded into her mind. She had cast in her lot with these good ladies; she had made the poor patient community, struggling before with need and privation, happy with her means. How could she withdraw those means from them? She had, in her own heart, and doing it secretly as to Christ, taken up her cross and her work in this life that she had entered upon. When she embraced it, she embraced it for ever: to turn away from it now would be like a mockery of Heaven. Involuntarily there arose in her mind a warning verse of Holy Writ, strangely applicable. She thought it might almost have been written for her; and a breathed word of silent prayer went up from her heart that she might be helped and strengthened.

"You know, Mary, that Mr. Peter Castlemaine----"

"Just a moment, William," she interrupted, lifting her hand pleadingly. "Let me think it out."

There were worldly reasons also why she should not yield, she went on to think: ay, and perhaps social ones. What would the public say if, during this temporary estrangement from Agatha Mountsorrel, this trumpery quarrel, she were to seize upon him again with indecent haste, and make him her own? What would her own sense of right say to it?--her maidenly propriety?--her untarnished spirit of honour? No, it could not be: the world might cry shame on her, and she should cry it on herself. Sir William Blake-Gordon interrupted her with his impassioned words. This moment, as it should be decided, seemed to be to him as one of life or death.

"William, hush!" she said, gazing at him through her blinding tears, and clasping his hands, in which hers still rested, almost to pain in her mind's anguish. "It may not be."

"Sit you down, my love, and be calm. I am sure you are hardly conscious of what you say. Oh, Mary, reflect! It is our whole life's happiness that is at stake: yours and mine."

They sat down side by side; and when her emotion had subsided she told him why it might not, giving all the reasons for her decision, and speaking quietly and firmly. He pleaded as though he were pleading for life itself, as well as its happiness: but he pleaded in vain. All the while she was repeating to herself that verse of warning, as if she dreaded letting it go from her for a moment.

"We will be as dear brother and sister, William, esteeming each other unto our lives' end, and meeting occasionally. You will still marry Agatha----"

"Mary!"

"Yes, I think it will be so; and I hope and trust you will be happy together. I am sure you will be."

"Our time together is short enough to-day, Mary. Do not waste it in these idle words. If you knew how they grate on me!"

"Well, I will leave that. But you must not waste your life in impossible thoughts of me and of what might have been. It would render impracticable our intercourse as friends. Thank you for what you have come this day to say: it will make my heart happier when its tumult and agitation shall be over."

Once more, by every argument in his power to call up, by the deep love and despair at his heart, he renewed his pleading. But it did not answer. The interview was prolonged to quite an unusual period, and was painful on both sides, but it terminated at length; and when William Blake-Gordon left her presence he left it as her lover for ever.