The Argosy — page 99: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Master of Greylands. 87 “Mr. James Castlemaine!” imperiously echoed the Master of Grey- lands, as he stalked from the room, card in hand. The visitor was standing before a portrait in the drawing-room, con- templating it earnestly. It was that of old Anthony Castlemaine, taken when he was about fifty years of age. At the opening of the door he turned round and advanced, his hand extended and a pleasant smile on his face. ‘* T have the gratification, I fancy, of seeing my Uncle James Mr. Castlemaine kept his hands to himself. He looked haughtily at the intruder ; he spoke frigidly. ‘“‘t have not the honour of your acquaintance, sir.” ‘“‘ But my card tells you who I am,” rejoined the young man. “I am indeed your nephew, uncle; the son of your elder brother. He was Basil, and you are James.” ‘Pardon me, sir, if I tell you what JZ think you are. An impostor.” ‘Ah no, do not beafraid, uncle. I am verily your nephew, Anthony Castlemaine. I have papers and legal documents with me to prove indisputably the fact ; I bring you also a letter from my father, written orn his death-bed. But I should have thought you might know me by my likeness to my father ; and he—I could fancy that portrait had been taken for him”—pointing to the one he had been looking at. ‘“‘ He always said I greatly resembled my grandfather.” There could be no dispute as to the likeness. The young man’s face was the Castlemaine face exactly: the well formed, handsome features, the clear and fresh complexion, the brilliant dark eyes. All the Castlemaines had been alike, and this one was like them all; even like James, who stood there. Taking a letter from his pocket-book, he handed it to Mr. Castle- maine. The latter broke the seal—Basil’s own seal ; he saw that—and began to peruse it. While he did so, he reflected a little, and made up his mind. To acknowledge his nephew. For he had the sense to see that no other resource would be left him. He did it with a tolerably good grace, but in a reserved, cold kind of manner. Folding up the letter, he asked a few questions ; which young Anthony freely answered, and gave a brief account of the past. ‘“* And Basil—your father—is dead, you say! Has been dead four weeks. This letter, I see, is dated Christmas Day.” ‘“It was on Chnstmas Day he wrote it, uncle. Yes, nearly four weeks have elapsed since his death : it took place on the fourteenth of January ; his wife, my dear mother, had died on the same day six years before. It was curious, was it not? I had meant to come, over-here immediately, as he charged me to do; but there were many matters of 1 (C(O) business to be settled, and I could not get away until new. OO