The Master of Greylands. Mrs. Henry Wood

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      "All well at home, James?"

      "Quite so, thank you."

      "You were not in at market, to-day."

      "No: I had nothing particular to call me in. Are you expecting a large party this evening?"

      "Only six of us. Here comes another."

      The butler's step was again heard. But this time he came, not to announce a guest, but to bring a note, just delivered. Peter Castlemaine's hand shook slightly as he opened it. He dreaded all letters now. It proved, however, to be only an excuse from one of the expected guests: and a strange relief sat on his face as he turned to his brother.

      "Lawrence can't come, James. So there'll be but five of us."

      "Lawrence is not much loss," said Mr. Castlemaine, "You don't look quite yourself, Peter," he added, to his brother; something in the latter's countenance having struck his observant eye. "I think you are working too hard; have thought so for some time. Don't let the love of money take all pleasure out of life. Surely you must have made enough, and might now take some rest."

      The banker laughed. "As to taking rest, that's easier recommended than done, James. I am too young to give up work yet: I should be like a fish out of water."

      "Ah well--we are all, I expect, wedded to our work--whatever it may be: creatures of habit," admitted Mr. Castlemaine. "I will just go and see Mary Ursula. She in her room, I suppose. What a treasure you possess in that girl, Peter!"

      "Beyond the wealth of Solomon; beyond all price," was the impulsive answer, and Peter Castlemaine's face glowed as he made it. "Yes, you will find her in her room, James."

      Mr. Castlemaine went to the end of the wide and handsome passage,--its walls lined with paintings, its floor covered with a carpet, rich and soft as moss,--and knocked at a door there. A sweet voice bade him enter.

      The small, choice room was brilliantly lighted with wax tapers; the fire threw a warmth on its dainty furniture. A stately lady, tall, slight, and very beautiful, who had been working at a sketch, put down her pencil, and rose. It was Miss Castlemaine, the banker's only child: as fair a picture as could be found in the world. She wore a white muslin dress, made low in the fashion of the day. On her queen-like neck was a string of pearls; bracelets of pearls clasped her pretty arms. Her face was indeed beautiful: it was like her father's face, but more delicately carved; the complexion was of a paler and fairer tint; the brown eyes, instead of flashing, as his did in his youth, had a subdued, almost a sad look in them. It was one of the sweetest faces ever seen, but altogether its pervading expression was that of sadness: an expression that in her childhood had led many an old woman to say, "She is too good to live." She had lived, however, in the best of strength and health, until now, when she was in her five-and-twentieth year. An accomplished lady, she, very much so for those days, and of great good sense; her conversational powers rare; a sound musician, and a fair linguist, fond of sketching and painting in watercolours. With it all, she was particularly gentle in manner, modest and retiring as a woman should be: there was at all times a repose upon her that seemed to exhale repose, and was most charming. Her father loved her with an ardent love; he had lost his wife, and this child was all-in-all to him. But for her sake, he might not have dreaded the coming disgrace with the intense horror he did dread it. His happiest hours were spent with her. In the twilight he would sit in the music-room, listening to her playing on the piano, or on the sweet-toned organ he had had built for her--the tones not more sweet, though, than her own voice when raised in song. Her gift of extemporising was of no mean order; and as the banker sat listening to the organ's sounds, its rise and fall, its swelling and dying away, he would forget his cares. She was engaged to William Blake-Gordon, the eldest son of Sir Richard Blake-Gordon; a poor, but very haughty baronet, unduly proud of his descent. But for the vast amount of money Miss Castlemaine was expected to inherit, Sir Richard had never condescended to give his consent to the match: but the young man loved her for her own sake. Just now Miss Castlemaine was alone: the lady, Mrs. Webb, who resided with her as chaperon and companion, having been called away by the illness of a near relative. One word as to her name--Mary Ursula. A somewhat long name to pronounce, but it was rarely shortened by her relatives. The name had been old Mrs. Castlemaine's, her grandmother's, and was revered in the Castlemaine family.

      "I knew it was you, Uncle James," she said, meeting him with both hands extended. "I knew you would come in to see me."

      He took her hands into one of his and touched fondly her beautiful hair, that so well set-off the small and shapely head, and kissed her tenderly. Mr. Castlemaine was fond of his niece, and very proud of her.

      "Your face is cold, Uncle James."

      "Fresh with the out-of-door cold, my dear. I walked in."

      "All the way from Greylands!"

      He laughed at her "all the way." It was but three miles; scarcely that. "I felt inclined for the walk, Mary Ursula. The carriage will come in to take me home."

      "Is Ethel well, Uncle James? And Mrs. Castlemaine?"

      "Quite so, my dear. What are you doing here?"

      She had sat down to the table again, and he bent his head over her to look at her drawing. There was a moment's silence.

      "Why it is--it is the Friar's Keep!" exclaimed Mr. Castlemaine.

      "Yes," she answered. "I sketched its outlines when at your house last summer, and I have never filled it in until now."

      She sketched as she did everything else--almost perfectly. The resemblance was exact, and Mr. Castlemaine said so. "It seems to me already completed!" he observed.

      "All but the shading of the sky in the back-ground."

      "Why have you made those two windows darker than the rest?"

      Miss Castlemaine smiled as she answered jestingly, "I thought there should be no opportunity given for the appearance of the Grey Friar in my drawing, Uncle James."

      Mr. Castlemaine drew in his lips with a peculiar twist. The jest pleased him.

      "Have you seen much of the Grey Sisters lately, Uncle James?"

      This did not please him. And Mary Ursula, as she caught the involuntary frown that knitted his bold brow, felt vexed to have asked the question. Not for the first time, as she well recalled, had Mr. Castlemaine shown displeasure at the mention of the "Grey Sisters."

      "Why do you not like them, Uncle James?"

      "I cannot help thinking that Greylands might get on better if it were rid of them," was the short reply of Mr. Castlemaine. But he passed at once from the subject.

      "And we are not to have this fair young lady-hostess at the dinner-table's head to-night?" he cried, in a different and a warm tone, as he gazed affectionately at his niece. "Mary Ursula, it is a sin. I wish some customs were changed! And you will be all alone!"

      "'Never less alone than when alone,'" quoted Mary Ursula: "and that is true of me, uncle mine. But to-night I shall not be alone in any sense, for Agatha Mountsorrel is coming to bear me company."

      "Agatha Mountsorrel! I don't care for her, Mary Ursula. She is desperately high and mighty."

      "All the Mountsorrels are that--with their good descent and their СКАЧАТЬ