Anthony Castlemaine had opened the casement window to admit the genial air, the fresh sea-breeze, and stood there in profound thought. On the table lay a letter he had just written. Its seal of black wax was stamped with the Castlemaine crest, and it was addressed to his native place, Gap, Dauphiné. Some shouting arose on the beach, drawing his attention. A fishing-boat was preparing to put out; one of her men had not come down, and the two others and the shrill boy were raising their voices to make tie laggard hear. He went dashing out of the Dolphin Inn, just under the view of Anthony.
Anthony Castlemaine was in perplexity. He did not see his way any clearer before him than he had seen it when he first came. That Greylands' Rest was legally his he entertained no doubt of; but to prove it was another matter. He and Mr. Castlemaine had met one day near the Dolphin; they had talked for a few minutes, but Anthony could make out nothing. Twice since then he had presented himself at Greylands Rest, and Mr. Castlemaine had been denied to him. It was quite evident he meant to have nothing more to do with Anthony.
The waves of the sea sparkled and rippled; the sun came out from behind a fleecy cloud, and shone with renewed strength; a beautiful vessel in the distance was passing with all her sails set.
"It is very strange behaviour," mused Anthony. "If the estate belongs in truth to my uncle James, why can he not show me that it does? His not showing it almost proves of itself that it is mine. I must get to see him: I cannot stay in the dark like this."
Taking up the letter, he descended the stairs, went across to the little general shop near the beach, and dropped it into the letter-box. He was quite at home in Greylands now, had made acquaintance with its inhabitants, and was known and recognised as the grandson of old Anthony Castlemaine. In returning he met one of the Grey Sisters. Lifting his hat, he bowed to her with deep respect; for he regarded the Grey Ladies as a religious order, and in his native land these female communities are held in reverence. Little Sister Phoeby--she was very short and stout, and nearly middle-aged, and only one of the working sisters--bobbed down her grey head in return, giving him a kindly good-morrow.