The Master of Greylands. Mrs. Henry Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ sure I cannot tell. He goes out and comes in, you know, without any reference to me. I should fancy he would not be coming in, unless he has anything to call him. He has not seemed well to-day; he thinks he has caught a cold."

      "Ah, then I daresay that's the secret of his staying at home to-night," said Mr. Peter Castlemaine.

      "Yes, it may be. I did not think of that. And he has also been very much annoyed to-day: and you know, Peter, if once James is thoroughly put out of temper, it takes some little time to put him in again."

      The banker nodded assent.

      "What has annoyed him?"

      "A very curious thing," replied Mrs. Castlemaine: "you will hardly believe it when I tell you. Some young man----"

      Breaking off suddenly, she glanced around to make sure that no one was within hearing. Then drawing nearer to the banker, went on in a lowered voice:

      "Some young man presented himself this morning at Greylands' Rest, pretending to want to put in a claim to the estate."

      Abstracted though the banker had been throughout the brief interview, these words aroused him to the quick. In one moment he was the calm, shrewd, attentive business man, Peter Castlemaine, his head erect, his keen eyes observant.

      "I do not understand you, Mrs. Castlemaine."

      "Neither do I understand," she rejoined. "James said just a word or two to me, and I gathered the rest."

      "Who was the young man?"

      "Flora described him as wearing a coat trimmed with fur; and Miles thought he spoke with somewhat of a foreign accent," replied Mrs. Castlemaine, deviating unconsciously from the question, as ladies sometimes do deviate.

      "But don't you know who he was? Did he give no account of himself?"

      "He calls himself Anthony Castlemaine."

      As the name left her lips a curious kind of change, as though he were startled, passed momentarily over the banker's countenance. But he neither stirred nor spoke.

      "When the card was brought in with that name upon it--James happened to be in the red parlour, talking with me about a new governess--I said it must be an old card of your father's that somebody had got hold of. But it turned out not to be that: and, indeed, it was not like the old cards. What he wants to make out is, that he is the son of Basil Castlemaine."

      "Did James see him?"

      "Oh dear yes, and their interview lasted more than an hour."

      "And he told James he was Basil's son?--this young man."

      "I think so. At any rate, the young man told Ethel he was. She happened to meet him as he was leaving the house and he introduced himself to her as Anthony Castlemaine, Basil's son, and said he had come over to claim his inheritance--Greylands' Rest."

      "And where's Basil?" asked the banker, after a pause.

      "Dead."

      "Dead?"

      "So the young man wishes to make appear. My opinion is he must be some impostor."

      "An impostor no doubt," assented the banker, slowly. "At least--he may be. I only wonder that we have not, under the circumstances, had people here before, claiming to be connected with Basil."

      "And I am sure the matter has annoyed James very much," pursued Mrs. Castlemaine. "He betrayed it in his manner, and was not at all like himself all the afternoon. I should make short work of it if the man came again, were I James, and threaten him with the law."

      Mr. Peter Castlemaine said no more, and presently rose to join other of his guests. But as he talked to one, laughed with another, listened to a third, his head bent in attention, his eyes looking straight into their eyes, none had an idea that these signs of interest were evinced mechanically, and that his mind was far away.

      He had enough perplexity and trouble of his own just then, as Heaven knew; very much indeed on this particular evening; but this other complexity, that appeared to be arising for his brother James, added to it. To Mrs. Castlemaine's scornfully expressed opinion that the man was an impostor, he had assented just in the same way that he was now talking with his guests--mechanically. For some instinct, or prevision, call it what you will, lay on the banker's heart, that the man would turn out to be no impostor, but the veritable son of the exile, Basil.

      Peter Castlemaine was much attached to his brother James, and for James's own sake he would have regretted that any annoyance or trouble should arise for him; but he had also a selfish motive for regretting it. In his dire strait as to money--for to that it had now come--he had been rapidly making up his mind that evening to appeal to James to let him have some. The appeal might not be successful under the most favourable auspices: he knew that: but with this trouble looming for the Master of Greylands, he foresaw that it must and would fail. Greylands' Rest might be James's in all legal security; but an impression had lain on the mind of Peter Castlemaine, since his father's death, that if Basil ever returned he would set up a fight for it.

      Supper over--the elaborate, heavy, sit-down supper of those days--and the two dances following upon it, most of the guests departed. Mr. Blake-Gordon, seeking about for the banker to wish him goodnight, at length found him standing over the fire in the deserted card-room. Absorbed though he was in his own happiness, the young man could but notice the flood-tide of care on the banker's brow. It cleared off, as though by magic, when the banker looked up and saw him.

      "Is it you, William? I thought you had left."

      "I should hardly go, sir, without wishing you goodnight. What a delightful evening it has been!"

      "Ay, I think you have all enjoyed yourselves."

      "Oh, very, very much."

      "Well, youth is the time for enjoyment," observed the banker. "We can never again find the zest in it, once youth is past."

      "You look tired, sir; otherwise I--I might have ventured to trespass on you for five minutes' conversation, late though it be," pursued Mr. Blake-Gordon with some hesitation.

      "Tired!--not at all. You may take five minutes; and five to that, William."

      "It is about our future residence, sir. Raven's Priory is in the market: and I think--and Mary thinks--it will just suit us."

      "Ay; I heard more than a week ago that the Wests were leaving."

      The words took William Blake-Gordon by surprise. He looked at the banker.

      "Did you, sir!--more than a week ago! And did it not strike you that it would be a very suitable place for us?"

      "I cannot say that I thought much about it," was the banker's answer; and he was twirling an ornament on the mantelpiece about with his hand as he spoke: a small, costly vase of old china from Dresden.

      "But don't you think it would be, sir?"

      "I daresay it might be. The gardens and conservatories have been well kept up; and you and Mary Ursula have both a weakness for rare flowers."

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