The Master of Greylands. Mrs. Henry Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ It's late to get anything of a dinner up; and he has not said what he'll have, though I asked him."

      "And look here, wife--that portmanteau is not an English one."

      "It may be Dutch, for all it matters to us. Now John Bent, just you stir up that fire a bit, and put some coal on. I may have to bring a saucepan in here, for what I know."

      "Tush!" said John, doing as he was bid, nevertheless. "A chop and a potato: that's as much as most of these chance travellers want."

      "Not when they are from over the water. I don't forget the last foreign Frenchman that put up here. Fifteen dishes he wanted for his dinner, if he wanted one. And all of 'em dabs and messes."

      She had gone to carry away her shrimps when the stranger came down. He walked direct into the room, and looked from the open door. The landlord stood up.

      "You are Thomas Bent, I think," said the stranger, turning round.

      "John Bent, sir. My father was Thomas Bent, and he has been dead many a year."

      "And this is your good wife?" he added, as the landlady came bustling in. "Mistress of the inn."

      "And master too," muttered John, in an undertone.

      "I was about to order dinner, Mr. Bent----"

      "Then you'd better order it of me, sir," put in the landlady. "His head's no better than a sieve if it has much to carry. Ask for spinach and cauliflower, and you'd get served up carrots and turnips."

      "Then I cannot do better than leave my dinner to you, madam," said the young man with a pleasant laugh. "I should like some fish out of that glorious sea; and the rest I leave to you. Can I have an English plum-pudding?

      "An English plum-pudding! Good gracious, sir, it could not be made and boiled!"

      "That will do for to-morrow, then."

      Mrs. Bent departed, calling to Molly as she went. The inn kept but two servants; Molly, and a man; the latter chiefly attending to out-of-door things: horses, pigs and such like. When further help was needed indoors, it could be had from the village.

      "This must be a healthy spot," remarked the stranger, taking a chair without ceremony at John Bent's fire. "It is very open."

      "Uncommon healthy, sir. A bit bleak in winter, when the wind's in the east; as it is to-day."

      "Have you many good families residing about?"

      "Only one, sir. The Castlemaines?"

      "The Castlemaines?"

      "An old family who have lived here for many a year. You'd pass their place, sir, not long before getting out here; a house of greystone on your left hand. It is called Greylands' Rest."

      "I have heard of Greylands' Rest--and also of the Castlemaines. It belonged, I think, to old Anthony Castlemaine."

      "It did, sir. His son has it now."

      "I fancied he had more than one son."

      "He had three, sir. The eldest, Mr. Basil, went abroad and never was heard of after: leastways, nothing direct from him. The second, Mr. James, has Greylands' Rest. He always lived there with his father, and he lives there still--master of all since the old gentleman died."

      "How did it come to him?" asked the stranger, hastily. "By will?"

      "Ah, sir, that's what no soul can tell. All sorts of surmises went about; but nobody knows how it was."

      A pause. "And the third son? Where is he?"

      "The third's Mr. Peter. He is a banker at Stilborough."

      "Is he rich?"

      John Bent laughed at the question. "Rich, sir? Him? Why, it's said he could almost buy up the world. He has one daughter; a beautiful young lady, who's going to be married to young Mr. Blake-Gordon, a son of Sir Richard. Many thought that Mr. Castlemaine--the present Master of Greylands--would have liked to get her for his own son. But----"

      In burst Mrs. Bent, a big cooking apron tied on over her gown. She looked slightly surprised at seeing the stranger-seated there; but said nothing. Unlocking the corner cupboard, and throwing wide its doors, she began searching for something on the shelves.

      "Here you are, Mrs. Bent! Busy as usual."

      The sudden salutation came from a gentleman who had entered the house hastily. A tall, well-made, handsome, young fellow, with a ready tongue, and a frank expression in his dark brown eyes. He stood just inside the door, and did not observe the stranger.

      "Is it you, Mr. Harry?" she said, glancing round.

      "It's nobody else," he answered. "What an array of jam pots! Do you leave the key in the door? A few of those might be walked off and never be missed."

      "I should like to see anybody attempt it," cried Mrs. Bent, wrathfully. "You are always joking, Mr. Harry."

      He laughed cordially. "John," he said, turning to the landlord, "did the coach bring a parcel for me?"

      "No, sir. Were you expecting one, Mr. Harry?"

      Mrs. Bent turned completely round from her cupboard. "It's not a trick you are thinking to play us, is it, sir? I have not forgotten that other parcel you had left here once."

      "Other parcel? Oh, that was ever so many years ago. I am expecting this from London, John, if you will take it in. It will come to-morrow, I suppose. Mrs. Bent thinks I am a boy still."

      "Ah no, sir, that I don't," she said. "You've long grown beyond that, and out of my control."

      "Out of everybody else's too," he laughed. "Where I used to get cuffs I now get kisses, Mrs. Bent. And I am not sure but they are the more dangerous application of the two."

      "I am very sure they are," called out Mrs. Bent, as the young man went off laughing, after bowing slightly to the stranger, who was now standing up, and whose appearance bespoke him to be a gentleman.

      "Who was that?" asked the stranger of John Bent.

      "That was Mr. Harry Castlemaine, sir. Son of the Master of Greylands."

      With one leap, the stranger was outside the door, gazing after him. But Harry Castlemaine, quick and active, was already nearly beyond view. When the stranger came back to his place again, Mrs. Bent had locked up her cupboard and was gone.

      "A fine-looking young man," he remarked.

      "And a good-hearted one as ever lived--though he is a bit random," said John. "I like Mr. Harry; I don't like his father."

      "Why not?"

      "Well, sir, I hardly know why. One is apt to take dislikes sometimes."

      "You were speaking of Greylands' Rest--of the rumours that went abroad respecting it when old Mr. Castlemaine died. What were they?"

      "Various СКАЧАТЬ