Roger Galt was laughing triumphantly. He roared in my ear, “So you’ll not go sailing overseas yet awhile, John Craike, to pleasure Uncle Charles. Blunt’ll never earn his guineas for your kidnapping.”
“Thanks to you! Will they come after us, do you think?”
“There’s not a man among ’em has a horse can match mine. Save Martin! And he’ll not dare. I vow by now Martin’s gallopin’ like the devil to Craike House with the bad news for Charles.”
“Yes, and you’re like to suffer for it at Craike’s hands.”
He answered lugubriously, “Ay, I’m like to suffer for it if I remain in this part of the country. But I’ll be riding elsewhere,—when I’ve set you down. I’m not so much afraid of Craike or aught that he may do, that I’ll dance to his fiddling always.”
“Why d’ye help me now?”
“For no more than knowin’ that you’re Dick Craike’s son.”
“He was your friend?”
“Ay, friend and master.”
“You said that he’d been put out of the way, as I’d be put out of the way. What did you mean by that?”
“He was shipped overseas, I’ve heard tell.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Whither do you take me now?”
“Come to think of it now,” he answered, laughing, “I hadn’t thought of it before. Not to Rogues’ Haven.”
“Do you know Mr. Bradbury?”
“I’ve heard tell of him.”
“He’s with old Gavin Masters—whoever he may be. Will you take me to him, or set me down on the way to Masters’ house?”
He answered uneasily, “I’ll set you down near his house. I’ll not wait on old Sir Gavin, I’m that modest, Mr. Craike. He’s a gentleman. He’s a justice—as Charles Craike’s a justice.” His laughter sounded out on the wind. “Ay, I’ll take you near enough. Get on, old horse! Get on!”
We were out then from the green cup in which the Stone House lay. Looking back from the ridge, ere the trees took us into their company, I saw the old house stand grey to the morning;I saw a confusion of figures all about it; I saw a rider dashing from the gate and galloping of apace.
“Martin!” growled Roger. “He’s riding of for Rogues’ Haven to give Craike word. I’ve a mind to cut him off.”
“Who is Martin? Bart and he are brothers, aren’t they?”
“Martin and Bart Baynes, ay, they’re brothers, both rogues, spawn of old Mag Baynes’s son Adam,—he that was transported and died some year back. Ay, transported he was, but died. Craike’s men, Mart and Bart—rogues both!”
“Where does Rogues’ Haven lie?”
“That way”—with a sweep of his hand towards the rocky uplands. “Away, with the wood all about it.”
“Why the name?”
“Didn’t you see and hear enough, young sir, in Mag’s house?”
“Smugglers—ay, and worse—is that why?”
“Ay, ay; and there’s odd tales of old Edward, how his money come—” but he broke of—“I’m not forgettin’ you’re the old man’s grandson.”
“Forget that I am, and tell me.”
“There’s odd tales. Maybe he made hisfortune in the East, like any India merchant. He came as honest by it as many another, I’ve no doubt.”
“You mean dishonestly. What was my grandfather?”
He answered, laughing, “A gentleman of fortune, folk say”—and galloped on through the trees and out upon the open moorlands.
Seated before him in saddle, with nigh as much discomfort to me as when he had borne me on to Mag’s farm in the night, I fell to pondering over the mystery of old Edward Craike. How had he come by his money? Mr. Bradbury would never tell me, fencing me delicately; Roger Galt would not, but “gentleman of fortune”—it might mean buccaneer, freebooter, pirate, as Henry Morgan or many another. Ever my mother’s words recurred to me, “the doomed house”—“ill-gotten wealth”—the thought of her hate of Charles and terror of Rogues’ Haven. And the name and the company old Edward kept? Howbeit, I should know soon. When once I was safe with Mr. Bradbury, and the justice Sir Gavin Masters, and the thief-catchers from London. And how would my uncle take all this, and what should be his punishment, after his plot against me-defeated by this gentleman of the road whom he had vowed to hang, if heshould play him false, as Roger Galt had played him!
But my thoughts were yet all awhirl, even as my body was jolted and jarred before Roger Galt on his great black horse, as now putting his mount to its full speed he galloped over the moors. He descended at last on to a rough and broken road, striking back, as nearly as I might guess, for the highway on which Mr. Bradbury and I had been intercepted. And, suddenly, rounding a bend in the road, we came face to face with four riders, at the sight of whom Roger pulled up abruptly—to snatch a pistol from his holster, loosing his hold upon me, and muttering, “Jump down! Quick! I’ll not stay!”
They came onward riding swiftly, as I dropped stiffly to my feet. Roger Galt, with a wave of his hand and a cry, “Good day to ye, lad,” turned his horse and was off at a gallop, ere I understood who came and why he fled. And standing in the road, I swung round to meet the riders. I saw Mr. Bradbury come riding swiftly through the morning; beside him a stout gentleman in a scarlet coat as flushed as his jovial face; after them two hard-looking fellows, who, by their grim visages and rigs, I took for the runners whom Mr. Bradbury had called down from London.
Mr. Bradbury, with an exclamation, pulled upbeside me; but the red-coated gentleman, roaring, “After him! After him! There’s Galt! There’s our man!” set spurs to his mount and galloped apace down the track, with the two fellows clattering after.
Mr. Bradbury dismounted stiffly; hands outstretched, he came to me, crying in that shrill voice of his, “Why, Mr. Craike—my dear sir! My dear sir!”
“Good morning, Mr. Bradbury,” I answered, as he took my hands. “I’m glad to see you.”
“But where in the devil’s name had they hid you? With whom were you riding? He had cause to fear my friend here, Sir Gavin.”
“He’s Roger Galt. He took me out of Charles Craike’s hands, when he held me prisoner in a farmhouse away on the moors miles from here.”
“Galt! A notorious fellow. Highwayman! There’s a price on his head.”
“Yet my father’s friend and mine. I’m safe through him. But for him I should be aboard the ship of one Blunt, smuggler—may be worse; oh, it’s been the prettiest of plots, Mr. Bradbury, and I’ve the wildest of tales for you.”
“So!” he said swiftly. “So! Charles Craike thought to trick us, and you’ve tricked Charles Craike. By heaven, he’ll answer for this—by heaven! My dear sir, I’ve hunted high and lowfor you. Charles Craike denied all knowledge of you. Old Mr. Edward would not lift a finger. Lord knows and I guess the story our precious gentleman has told him of you. But I’ll lay Charles Craike by the heels yet.”
“Mr. Bradbury,” said I, “your friend here and the runners follow after Galt. I’d have no hurt come to him, for through him, and him only, despite Craike, I’m here and safe ashore. Not that they’re like to take him,” as I stared up the road and saw the riders pulling in, while Roger vanished from view. “Charles Craike has sworn that Roger Galt shall pay for this; I’d not have your friend there play Craike’s part, and set his hands on Galt.”
“I’ll have a word with Sir Gavin,” Mr. Bradbury assented. “Not that ’twill count, for Sir Gavin is set against the fellow, he’s been swearing indeed, for all I might say to the contrary, that not Charles Craike but Galt was responsible for the outrage upon us.”
“You took little hurt from your fall, I trust, Mr. Bradbury.”
“Little save a bad shaking. I was afoot almost at once. And must step it every foot of the way to the village—there’s a tolerable inn there, whither I’ll now lead you, Mr. Craike.”
“And what then?” I asked.
“Why, surely, we’ll proceed to wait upon your grandfather, sir.”
“Unless my Uncle Charles plans otherwise.”
“Nay, we’ll ride thither this afternoon, sir, if you’re rested and well. But the runners shall go beside our coach, lest Mr. Charles Craike still desire that we shall not meet your grandfather.”
That afternoon I drove with Mr. Bradbury to my grandfather’s house, and the two thief-catchers rode beside us. The house stood at a distance of five miles from the little village that looked down upon the sea; from the inn window I had caught sight of Blunt’s brig already putting out. It was an ancient dwelling of the Craike family, that my grandfather, enriched by trade in the East, Mr. Bradbury now assured me, had set in repair for his habitation.
For all the outrage of my imprisonment, Mr. Bradbury would have me keep a secret from old Sir Gavin Masters my detention in the Stone House. Let it remain a secret, and let the scandal be hushed, he insisted, until we had had our interview with my grandfather. I had an uneasy suspicion that he believed the old man himself implicated in the plot against me, or at least feared his resentment at interference with a crew of smugglers, with whom he and his son were associated. Committing my cause to Mr. Bradbury, I pleaded exhaustion; left him totell what tale he would to Sir Gavin, and kept my room until the hour of our departure from the inn. I contented myself with insistence that Roger Galt should have due credit for returning me to safety, and should not be held guilty of the sins of Charles Craike and his rogues. What tale Mr. Bradbury told, I knew not; as we drove away, he gave me to understand that Sir Gavin had relinquished the search after Roger; I assumed that the justice himself would not welcome an open breach with the smuggling fraternity—with whom, indeed, I took it from furtive whisperings and black looks at me, the folk at the inn—as, no doubt, the fisher-folk at the village—were in league.
But what was my grandfather’s share in the plot of my kin against me I conjectured bitterly. Mr. Bradbury observed that my uncle had established great influence over the old man; that, indeed, the one thought and acted habitually as the other. But he was bent still on my presentation to my grandfather, as if he hoped that Mr. Craike might take a liking to me, and my favour with him counteract the influence of my Uncle Charles. So, cleanly-clad, well-dressed once more, I sat by Mr. Bradbury in his coach, and proceeded with him to Craike House, as if none of the events of the Stone House hadhappened; indeed, my curiosity to learn what manner of man was my grandfather prevailed for the time over perplexity and dread.
We drove always within sound of the sea, though it was hid from our sight for the most; our way taking us over an old stone road; but at times, where the cliffs were broken, we saw the waters grey and leaden still for hanging clouds; the violence of the wind had abated, yet it blew keenly; always the tang of the sea was in my nostrils. Our road struck at last from the sea inland; we were driving soon through a deep wood; this was unbroken, ere we came to iron gates in an old brick wall. A woman, coming out of the gate-keeper’s cottage at the sound of coach and riders, stared at us through the bars, but at the sight of Mr. Bradbury’s head poking out of the window, and at his curt order, “Open the gates, woman. Mr. Bradbury to see Mr. Craike!” she unlocked and opened the gates, staring at us as we passed by. I saw her for a big woman, as nut-brown as a gipsy, and as vivid in her red shawl and green kirtle; a swath of orange-coloured stuff was about her black hair. We drove on, and the runners clattered after us. Looking back, I saw the woman run into the cottage, and reappear presently with a bearded fellow, rubbing his eyes sleepily; I saw the glintof big rings in his ears, his rig of wide blue breeches and red-striped shirt,—both remained staring after us, till the trees hid them from us. The coach rolled on through a park, ill-tended, overgrown, a very wilderness; green darkness dropped about us till we came in sight of Craike House.
It stood amid tall pine and fir trees—a sombre, dreary house; the ivy holding it in a green net, webbed across shuttered windows, climbing to the very leads, and gripping the chimney stacks. An ancient, crumbling house,—I had a notion that but for the ivy it must fall in ruins to the ground; a house of gloom from the dark ivy—the evil green ivy, with the black pines and fir trees all about it, with weeds and tangle of flowers before it, where once had been rose gardens; with nettles and lank green grass upon its lawns. We drove up, seeing no one; we pulled up before the flight of stone steps leading up to its door,—steps worn by rains of centuries, and by the feet of generations; steps guarded by stone dragons, wingless and earless from their years, their eyes blinded and their jaws stopped with green moss. Sombre and secret stood the house amid the black cloud of pine and fir trees; I saw the black clouds lower above it; I heard the winds cry out about it; the old trees strain and sigh, and tosstheir boughs like arms, in lamentation or in terror for the house,—the doomed house, where my kinsmen dwelt. Afar I heard the drumming of the sea against the rock-bound coast. I had a curious shapeless notion—prescience—that even as all the evil of the house—the ill-gotten fortunes of the house—came from the sea, out of the sea should retribution—vengeance—come.
Mr. Bradbury bade the runners and the coach-boy wait for us. Taking my arm, he climbed the steps with me to the door; its oak was bound with iron in fantastic pattern, and studded with copper nails; the knocker was of copper in the form of a satyr’s grinning face,—and all this copper was corroded, and the green stained the door as the evil green of the ivy stained the front of the house. Mr. Bradbury raised the knocker with difficulty; though it clashed heavily, it failed to bring response from the house; whispering to me, “I’d have thought Charles would have been keeping a sharper look out for our arrival than this,” he knocked double knocks, until the clank of a chain and the screech of bolts sounded within. The door opened, and an old man stood blinking out at us—an old man, his clean-shaven face shrivelled and brown, and his eyes palely blue; his white hair was powdered,and his suit of black on his bent and withered body as neat and precise as his linen.
“Mr. Bradbury, sir,” he quavered.
“Your ears are not as sharp as they might be, Thrale,” said Mr. Bradbury, drily. “Pray, open the door to Mr. Craike and me, and tell your master that we have the honour to wait upon him in obedience to his wish.”
Thrale answered in that shaking voice of his—though his eyes looked keenly and wickedly at me, “To be sure, gentlemen, to be sure! Pray step inside!”—and opened the door slowly into the hall. It was a dark and gloomy vault; ere old Thrale closed the door, I caught a glimpse of a hall panelled all in oak, of canvases mouldering in mildewed frames, and of a wide black stairway opposite the door, leading up into darkness. If fanlight above the door or windows at the head of the stair should have lit the hall, all light was kept out by curtains, shutters, or netted ivy; the darkness of night fell with the closing of the door.
Mr. Bradbury, grasping my arm hurriedly, cried out, “Gad, how dark and cold this house is, Thrale! I’m not prepared to take my death of a chill waiting here till you announce us to your master. Go ahead of us, man, and show us into his room immediately—d’ye hear me?” Headopted a tone of brusque good humour, though well I understood his apprehension of what might yet befall me, if we were left standing in the dark. The dark hung mysterious all about us; I could feel cold draughts of air; I believed that I could hear furtive whisperings and footsteps, doors softly opening and closing, hangings waving; all this might have been the wind without. Certainly I heard Thrale chuckle behind me, as he locked the door and fixed the chain; he answered Mr. Bradbury, “As you wish, sir.”
“Strike a light, Thrale,—d’ye hear me?—a light. I’ve no mind to break a leg or my neck in the dark! A light, Thrale!”
“Certainly, sir,” Thrale’s answer floated back to us, as he flitted away in the dark.
“Why, damn the fellow, he’s leaving us after all,” gasped Mr. Bradbury. “Thrale, you hear me? Thrale! Come back, man!”
But there came no sound save of the whisperings, gliding footsteps, rustlings of hangings waving in the dark, or of the ghostly wind that seemed to haunt the House of Craike. Mr. Bradbury’s left hand grasped my arm; I understood that his right groped in his coat pocket for his pistol. The impress of the blackness and gloom of the house was upon me,while I had good cause to dread my uncle’s plotting; I stood straining my eyes and ears in the darkness, imagining that figures advanced upon us in the dark. Mr. Bradbury drew me back against the door, muttering, “By the Lord, if the old rogue’s not back presently, I’ll take upon me to make a dash for the stair and force my way into the master’s room.”
But he was silent, as a glimmer of light showed through the darkness. Thrale was returning, carrying a silver candlestick; his face was villainous and livid in the pale light.
“Where the deuce have you been, Thrale?” cried Mr. Bradbury. “Didn’t you hear me call after you?”
Thrale answered quietly, “I asks pardon, Mr. Bradbury, sir. As you said, I don’t hear as well as I might. I’d flint and steel to find,”—and stood blinking at us, with the candlestick lifted high in his bone-white hands.
A skeleton’s hands—mere bone—they seemed to me, as the old rogue, at Mr. Bradbury’s peremptory order, lit us up the stairs. The glimmer of pale light, the lime-white head, the bone-white hands, the silver candlestick, seemed from his noiseless movement to glide before us. From the head of the stair wide galleries led off to right and left and before us,—galleries shroudedwith dark tapestries. I saw rusty armour standing against the walls. I kicked against a pile of tumbled mail as the old man flitted before us by many fast-shut doors down the corridor to the left. He paused at a high black door, the glimmer of the candle showed me grotesque carvings and tarnished gilding upon it; he rapped smartly on this door with his bony fingers. No one answering, he opened the door, and swept aside the thick green curtains hanging before it.
The room revealed was high and wide; only a pale green light crept through the diamond panes of its two windows stained by the mosses of the years and netted with the ivy. For the time I had no eye for its furnishings, but only for the figure in the carved black chair by the fire. He was an old man; he had been of great stature and strength, his bulk was supported now by faded purple cushions. He seemed to prop himself upon the arms of his chair; his wide, brown hands were stained with red jewels; I had an uneasy fancy of blood-smeared hands. His clean-shaven face was very broad, bronzed and congested, his brows were framed in white hair tumbling about his immense shoulders; his eyes were coal-black beneath ash-grey brows. His whole aspect suggested decaying will, as his body decaying strength. A quilted gown of green andgold-brocaded silk was corded about his middle; his bent legs were cased in black silken breeches and hose; his shoe buckles were set with smoke-blue jewels; an ebony stick rested by his chair.
“Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, stepping swiftly forward and bowing politely, “I have the honour at last to present your grandson—Mr. John Craike!”
It may have been only the leaping flame upon the hearth, but it seemed to me that colour rose to the old brown face, and that light burned in the coal-black eyes. An instant only, and his aspect was hard and grim. He did not offer his hand to Mr. Bradbury or me; he seemed still to prop himself upon the arms of his chair; he said, in tones curiously rich and full for so old a man, “You wrote to me, Bradbury, and Charles answered you at my dictation that I would receive you.”
“Well, we are here, sir,” said Mr. Bradbury, easily.
“And you are here! You know me well enough, Mr. Bradbury, to understand my wishes. I do not welcome your visit. I felt bound only to receive you and hear you. Why have you come?”
Mr. Bradbury, standing forward, sought his snuff-box, and made play with it; the cold jewels shining white upon his fingers, his eyes hard and keen as his diamonds. “Mr. Craike,”he said, “our interview with you should surely be in private. Is there any need for Thrale to remain?”
“Set chairs, Thrale, and I’ll ring for you—if I need you. Is Mr. Charles in the house?”
“No, sir,” answered Thrale, his malignant look marking resentment against Mr. Bradbury. “He’s abroad.”
“If he return, tell him to come to my room. Set chairs—damn you! Set chairs! Don’t stand there like a candle in a draught. Like to be blown out any minute—eh, Bradbury, eh?” and passed from sudden passion to loud laughter.
As Thrale set chairs by the fire for Mr. Bradbury and me, I found the opportunity to look about the room. It was lit by those green panes dully for the lateness of the afternoon, and by the leaping flame. It had been a rich, ornate room; I saw dull gold and faded colours in some sombre painting upon the ceiling; faces on the walls—portraits of gloomy folks much of the aspect of the grim old man looking across the green-veined marble hearth at us. A panelled room with heavy tapestries corrupt with moth and grime, with heavy furniture dark with age, a huge four-poster with black silken curtains, black presses, black table; pale gleam of crystal and silver upon a sideboard, old books in a highcase. Only a Persian carpet by my grandfather’s chair and his garish gown and gems lent rich colour to the room; all else was gloomy, tarnished, faded. Gloom—surely over all the house was gloom; surely the wind beating on the windows, moaning and sighing, was burdened with a tale of sins; surely a sense of evil brooded in this room,—where sat old Edward Craike to think of life drawing near to death,—to think, maybe, of punishment for years of sinning. For on the face was scored a record of old sins and dead passions; its aspect was evil; the lips were merciless; the brooding eyes, from the sudden blazing wrath at Thrale, could burn with an unholy fire. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood,—I could feel for this old broken man no pity, no affection. I found myself conjecturing only that these eyes would face death—surely so near him—courageously, as an intrepid voyager’s looking on uncharted seas.
Thrale, stepping noiselessly, withdrew.
Mr. Bradbury leaned forward swiftly. “Now, sir,” he said, “I ask you to listen to me patiently.”
“Go on, Bradbury!”
“I ask you to remember your affection for your son Richard—such affection as you have not felt for any other being.”
He said heavily, “Why recall the past,Bradbury? What is the past but a voyage I have made, and come from with an empty hold?”
“Ay, surely,” assented Mr. Bradbury, taking snuff and smiling. “You have a gift of melancholy, Mr. Craike.”
“Bradbury, you speak to me as no man dares to speak.”
“You permit me,” said Mr. Bradbury quietly, “to speak frankly to you, knowing me your friend, Mr. Craike, and honest in my dealings with you. As your friend—as your son’s friend—I am here. Mr. Craike, you’ve sailed over the world in your day; you’ve suffered shipwreck; you’ve been cast away. What would you not have given—even you—to have had with you upon the desert isle you’ve told me of, one of your kind—one of your blood?”
“Allegory, Bradbury?” he said, impassively.
“Allegory, surely! Seeing you sitting here alone—knowing you all these days alone, as surely as were you on your desert isle, longing—as any human being must long—for kith and kin, for friend, at least for one of whose companionship—affection even—you might be assured.”
“You mean this lad here?” in unaltered tone.
“Who else? Look at this lad! Frame apicture in your mind, Mr. Craike—your son Richard’s—set Richard’s likeness and this boy’s side by side. And will you say that this lad seated here is not, feature for feature, colour of eyes and hair and skin, in body, manner—your son, Richard?”
My grandfather said slowly, “Richard was as all our race. The lad is Richard look for look. What is it to me, Bradbury? My son was never wed.”
I felt my cheeks burn; ere Mr. Bradbury might restrain me, I started up, and facing the old man, cried out, “And there you lie! If I be the son of Richard Craike—and that I be I care not—no man shall question or deny my parents’ honour, take their name lightly. You hear me,—you lie!”
He did not stir in his chair; his aspect was unchanged save that the light seemed to burn up in his old eyes. He said coolly, “The lad is Richard’s son, Bradbury.”
“And rightly resentful of your words, sir,” cried Mr. Bradbury, snapping his snuff-box.
“Bradbury, don’t try me too far. You are at liberty to go at once—with Richard’s son.”
“Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, leaning forward in his chair, and looking intently at my grandfather, “knowing you—your sense ofjustice—I dare to tell you, as the lad has told you, that you lie. Your son was wedded nineteen years back to Mary Howe—you will recall her.”
“Surely—serving-woman to Mrs. Charles.”
“He was wedded to her in London, after Charles and his wife, understanding Richard’s passion for her, had driven her from this house. Their enmity pursued her—from house to house, employment to employment. She was in London—destitute, nigh starving—when Richard, returning from the Continent, sought and found her. He married her in London—nineteen years since, Mr. Craike, nineteen years since. He lived for several years with her in London under her name of Howe, earning his living honestly, not communicating with you and taking nothing from you. He disappeared ten years or so back. Mr. Craike, the agency that robbed you of your son; that took him from his wife and child, that shipped him out of England or hid his body in the ground—for whether he be alive or dead I cannot tell, even as you—I do believe to be the active enmity of your son Charles—his jealousy of Richard Craike, his elder brother and your heir.”
And now at last I saw the cruel lips part; and now I heard the old man gasp and mutter to himself; I saw the red flash upon his shakinghands; I saw his eyes burn up, and flame from Bradbury to me.
“Mr. Craike,” Mr. Bradbury proceeded, “the proofs of this marriage—of the boy’s legitimacy—are in my hands.”
“You have these proofs with you?”
“Mr. Craike, would I be such a fool as to bring them here? Would Mrs. Richard Craike entrust them to me, coming to this house? We have them and we hold them.”
“Fearing me?”
“No! Fearing your son Charles. With cause, sir, with bitter cause! And hear this, sir, we should have been here days since—would have been—but for your son. His agents waylay our coach; his agents carry off the boy and gaol him in the Stone House you may know of. Ay, and would have shipped him overseas with Blunt—smuggler, freebooter—what is he? All this, all this,—to keep the lad from you, sir, while you sit by your fire alone—alone!”
“You’ve proof of this? I have no knowledge of any plot?”
“Proof! Am I fool or trickster, Mr. Craike?”
“I do not think you fool or trickster, Bradbury.”
“Look on this boy: his likeness to your son Richard. Knowing your son Charles, think atwhat he would stay to keep him from your sight.”
He said deliberately, “I know my son Charles even as I know myself. I am no censor, Bradbury. Charles would have kept this lad away from me, say you? Fearing lest he commend himself to me and profit by it; take more at my death than by the law he must inherit. Money and jewels—knowing on what I have my hand. What of it, Bradbury? Had I been Charles; had I desired to keep my brother’s son out of my father’s sight—for such a reason—I would have done as Charles has done. Only, I was bolder in my day than Charles. Enough, what is all this to me?”
“Yet Charles has failed,” said Mr. Bradbury, grinning, “and you will profit by it, Mr. Craike. Do you love Charles?”
“You need not ask that, Bradbury.”
“And you loved Richard. You should favour Richard’s son. Alone—I said of you—alone, with thoughts—and terrors.”
“Had the sea ever terror for me, Bradbury, or peril, or the dark? What terrors now?”
“Mr. Craike, you are a man, and the unknown after death is terrible to men. Except they have a faith that you have not. Unhappily!”
“I have no faith, or fear.”
“Oh, if you be prepared to sit alone in your last years,—face death alone,” Mr. Bradbury said earnestly, “I appeal still to what was human in you—love for your son Richard. Let your heart turn to Richard’s son.”
“What purpose would you serve?”
Mr. Bradbury did not answer, but was taking snuff, and coldly regarding my Uncle Charles, who had drawn aside the curtain, and was standing in the doorway.
He stepped forward—a handsome, smiling gentleman of middle age, his face ivory-white, his white hair held by a black ribbon, his dress as precise as Mr. Bradbury’s, but set off by his shapely body. He wore no jewel; he had no touch of colour on him, save the red line of his lips and the cold blue of his eyes. He bowed with a courtly grace to Mr. Bradbury; he vouchsafed me the merest lift of his brows.
Mr. Bradbury met him with an equal composure. “It’s as well that you came here, Mr. Charles,” he said. “You formed the subject of our conversation.”
“Indeed,” he answered, indifferently, and, pulling forward a chair, he seated himself beside his father. “I am happy to believe, sir, that you’re prepared to speak of me as freely in my presence as in my absence.”
“I am to take this as your permission, Charles?” asked Mr. Bradbury, smoothly.
“Why not?” my uncle asked, smiling.
“Well, then, I have introduced this younggentleman to your father as your brother’s son, John Craike. I have already informed your father of the steps you took to prevent his arrival at Craike House.”
“My sole concern,” said the gentleman, carelessly, “is that I failed.”
“You admit your culpability?” asked Mr. Bradbury, meeting him with an equal composure.
“Culpability! Pray, your snuff-box, Bradbury—I haven’t mine by me. Thank you!” leaning forward and taking a pinch. “I admit no culpability, my dear Bradbury.”
“It is, to be sure, merely a question of phrase,” Mr. Bradbury conceded, drily. “It is enough for me that you failed. Admitting this, then, do you admit equally your responsibility for your brother’s disappearance from England?”
I saw my grandfather lean forward in his chair, his hands now gripping the ebony stick; the movement was not lost upon my uncle.
He answered swiftly, “That, Bradbury, I deny wholly. You are well aware of my affection for my brother, and my natural grief at his disappearance.”
“Well aware,” said Mr. Bradbury, with some show of anger. “And well aware, Charles, that if you were responsible, you would not dare toadmit this before your father, knowing his actual affection for your brother as for no other being. Yet you admit before him your culpability—your guilt—in regard to this young gentleman—your brother’s son. Understanding that Mr. Edward Craike here takes a—shall I say tolerant?—view of many things that others,—I,—that the law of England regard as crimes, Charles Craike—as crimes punishable with the utmost rigour.”
“Really, Bradbury, you grow prosy,” Mr. Charles protested.
“You impose upon our friendship, Bradbury,” the old man muttered.
“Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, “would you have me make-believe to you of all men? Your son attempts to put away his brother’s son. He admits his guilt coolly—with effrontery, and you say nothing! I expected you to say nothing. But by his denial of his responsibility for the disappearance of Richard Craike from England, Charles here proves this to me—his realisation of your love for his brother, and the certainty of your righteous anger and his punishment, if it could be proved against him.”
“Bradbury! Bradbury!” Charles Craike murmured, smiling; but for the first time I saw a show of colour in his face, and a tightening of his lips.
“The lad,” persisted Mr. Bradbury, “is Richard’s son. Legitimate! Be silent, Charles”—as the gentleman, with a bitter exclamation, started from his chair. “Don’t think that I, of all men, would come here, present this lad to Mr. Craike as his grandson, unless I were in possession of irrefutable proofs—that Richard Craike was married to Mary Howe, and that the boy is the child of that marriage. Nor would I have brought him to this house, but that I realise, as fully as I understand aught of Mr. Craike—that the best of Mr. Craike—his natural affection—was given wholly to his elder son.”
Mr. Bradbury leaned forward, eyeing the pair keenly. Charles Craike, impassive now, sat back in his chair; the old man had lowered his eyes, and now it seemed at last was moved and trembling; the ebony stick in his grasp clattered upon the hearth.
“I hoped,” said Mr. Bradbury, “to offer my client a little happiness in his last days. If I could not give him back his son, at least I could give him his grandson—look for look, colour for colour—the image of his son.”
Now my grandfather’s eyes burned suddenly upon me; now he leaned forward in his chair; colouring and confused, I sat staring at him in turn. He muttered then, “Bradbury—these proofs!”
“The proofs are in our possession, sir. Necessarily, I could not bring them to this house.”
“Ay, but proofs, proofs—your bare word.”
“Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, disdainfully, “when have you ever had occasion before to question my probity?”
My grandfather was silent; again his eyes were cast down; the ebony stick in his grasp did not cease to clatter on the hearth. Charles Craike sat silent. Mr. Bradbury, snapping his snuff-box, rose from his chair.
“That is all I have to say to you, Mr. Craike,” he said, quietly. “I beg you to give this matter your earnest consideration, realising that at least the boy is the heir of Craike House, and realising that it is in your power to enrich him from your private fortunes as surely, sir, you would have enriched your son.”
I wondered at the composure of my Uncle Charles. He had risen with Mr. Bradbury, and now stood leaning against the chimney-piece, his face revealing nothing of the rage which surely racked him.
“I beg to take my leave of you, Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, bowing to my grandfather. “Come, lad!”
But as I started up, glad enough to be away,the old man’s cane smote heavily upon the hearth. “The lad,” he growled, “stays here, Bradbury!”
“Mr. Craike, were you alone in this house,” said Mr. Bradbury, swiftly, “nothing could give me keener pleasure than that your grandson should remain with you. But Craike House is Craike House, and the lad goes with me.”
“He stays here!” cried the old man, with sudden stormy anger. “Damn you, Bradbury, he stays here!”
“Mr. Craike, I am answerable for the lad’s safety.”
“Really, Bradbury, really!” Charles deprecated.
“The lad will come to no hurt in this house,” the old man said, and his eyes blazed suddenly at Charles. “You hear me, Charles? No hurt shall come to him! If hurt come to him,—if, in defiance of me you seek to injure him, and separate my son’s son from me, as they took my son from me,—look to it, Bradbury, that no concern for me, and no desire further to keep the secrets of this house, shall stand between my grandson’s enemies and justice! Justice, Bradbury! The boy stays here. You remain to dine with me, Bradbury. There are affairs.”
Smiling triumphantly, Mr. Bradbury bowed.
“I am honoured, Mr. Craike,” he said; and with a flourish, offered his snuff-box to my Uncle Charles, who accepted a pinch, maintaining an ineffable composure.
An hour thence I sat in the room which was to be mine while I remained in Craike House, and to which the shadowy Thrale had conducted me. It was a great bed-chamber, its windows overlooking dark woods and hills, and afar through the dropping dusk the leaden greyness of the sea. On entering, I had hastened to throw wide the casement, regardless of the coldness of the wind, but seeking by its freshness to dispel the thick, dead mustiness of the room. A gloomy chamber—the fire smoking on the hearth, the furniture of old dark oak, a great four-poster hung with sombre green silk, presses like tombs, the mirrors, so dull with damp, neglect and age, as scarcely to reflect the pale gleam of the candles, which I had lit against the approaching darkness.
One painting only hung within the room, above the black marble chimney-piece. It might have been a portrait of my Uncle Charles, yet if the painter had depicted faithfully the manner of the man, this cavalier wore no such mask as my uncle affected; the face was boldly evil. The sinistergaze seemed to follow me from hearth to window-seat, the head to bend forward from the rich lace collar; the jewelled hands of this cavalier in green and silver to touch the sword in menace. A hateful portrait, yet I had less dislike of it than of my uncle’s aspect; the portrait might well have revealed the soul of Charles Craike, hid in him by his smiling and composed demeanour, his distinction of person, mode and manner, even as the beauty of the body conceals the skeleton. The ceiling of my room, painted after the manner of my grandfather’s room, suggested by its riot of bodies, gold gleam of wine cups and brocades, the taste of a dead kinsman; mayhap, the cavalier over the chimney-piece had had the decoration of Craike House. Like the hangings of the bed, the tapestries upon the wall—recording the devoutness of some kinswoman by depicting the quest of the Sangreal—were riddled with moth and dull with dust. Over all the room, as over the house and the wood about it, a cloud seemed to brood; still, in the whipping of the ivy against the panes, the whistling of the wind, and the stir of the hangings, I seemed to hear the whispering voices; the gloom prevailed over the pale candlelight or the spurts of flame upon the smoking hearth. “The doomed house—the doomed house”—I repeated my mother’swords. I found resemblance between the house of Craike and my grandfather,—in the decay upon them both, the storms scored on the front of man and house; the breaking frames concealing secret sins, the end approaching. The doomed house—so from my first knowledge of it I thought of my kinsmen’s home amid the darkling wood.
And here was I to remain after Mr. Bradbury’s departure from the house that night. I had the assurance of my grandfather’s protection, against my uncle, who hated me, as he had hated my father. What was this treasure old Edward Craike had amassed that for it—surely for it—Charles should have sold his soul? Now, for the fear of losing this treasure, compelled by the threatening of an old and breaking man to hold his hand from me—his rival; the irony of it brought a bitter smile to my lips. I had no definite terror yet of the house and its folk; terror I might have on the moors, terror in the Stone House—to be done to death in my sleep, or terror in the hands of Blunt—shipped aboard his brig, for, it might be, the port of death; but here I was no more afraid of the event than a man may be afraid of life’s adventure. I understood easily that the will of one man—though this man near to dying—held in thrall the folk of Rogues’Haven; that this will decreed that I should dwell securely in the house; I believed my uncle, for all his jealous hate of me, would not dare lift his hand further to do me hurt. The mystery of the house, even as the mystery of life to be, allured me; I was glad to be in the Rogues’ Haven, and in the company of its folk, even as I was glad to be alive.
As yet my grandfather had not addressed me directly. The fluttering ghost, Thrale, ere leaving me in my room, had said no more than that a bell would summon me to dinner; that he would then have the room properly prepared for me; and that a groom would bring my baggage over from the inn that night. I had laved my face and hands, and smoothed my hair; this was all the toilet I might make for dinner, and I was resting in a chair by the hearth when there came a knocking on my door. At my call “Come in!” my uncle entered. He stood an instant in the doorway; from my subsequent knowledge of him he had a just appreciation of the advantages of his appearance,—a superb figure of a man, even as in the niceties and preciseness of his dress and his courtly manners he bore the semblance of a gentleman. He had made a change of his dress; he wore still sober black, which he affected ever; but his coat andbreeches were cut very elegantly; his linen was of a silver whiteness, and illumined by a fine diamond in his cravat; the snuff-box in his delicate fingers was set with brilliants. He made me a little bow and smiled upon me.
“Pray be seated, nephew,” he said, as I rose from my chair. “I trust that I do not intrude on your repose.”
I sought to match my manners with his own, but failed lamentably; bowing with an ill grace, drawing a chair forward for him with a clatter, and feeling myself colour to the tips of my ears, I said, “I’m not so weary for the want of rest these past few nights, sir, that I’d be sleeping now. Pray sit down!”
He sat down, lolling back in his chair, and crossing his shapely legs. “Surely between kinsmen,” he said, smiling, “frankness is natural. Your meaning is patent. Having had so little sleep through my detention of you at the Stone House, you’re weary, and would rest alone. My dear nephew, selfishness has always been my failing—indeed, it is a failing of our family. Forgive me, then, if I trespass, having a word or two to say to you. Will you hear me?”
“Surely.”
He said deliberately, “For aught that I have done to keep you from this house; for aughtthat I have said concerning you, your parentage and birth, I offer no excuse and ask no pardon. I am no hypocrite at least, my nephew. Indeed, I did believe, when I read Bradbury’s letter to my father, that though our blood might run in you, you could have no legitimate claim upon us. I do not question Mr. Bradbury’s assurance now”—with a hasty wave of his hand, as if to pacify my swift resentment. “You took affront—natural affront—at words of mine you overheard in the Stone House; accepting Mr. Bradbury’s assurance, I own myself mistaken. I tell you, nephew, believing as I then believed, I still would do what I have done to keep you from my father, and to prevent any marks of favour he may show you. Am I frank with you?”
“You’d have me believe so,” I muttered, vengefully.
He laughed, and made me a bow. “Nephew,” he said, “you’re here; you’ve caught the fancy of your grandfather; how long you’ll retain it I’ll not conjecture, knowing so little of you. He’ll have no hurt come to you at my hands; it is my habit to obey him,”—with a bitter sneer.
“Fearing him?” I ventured.
“As much as I fear any man,” he answered, carelessly. “It’s to my advantage to be dutiful; it is to the advantage of any man to be dutifulto a rich kinsman, as of the place-hunter to fawn upon a personage with star or ribbon. Tush, nephew, my practice is the practice of all wise men: to accept the fact, and shape myself to the fact, to seek advantage, and employ what wit I have for the attainment of it. I’m not prepared to love you, nephew; there is no need for that hypocrisy.”
“None!” I assented bitterly.
“But while my father lives,” he proceeded, “we’re to be inmates of this house. We’re to meet daily; to live our lives together; to appear in public together. It would be tedious to me that we should be for ever wrangling. Let us then be frank with each other,—hate each other, but let us not show our lack of breeding by impoliteness. John, while we’re together in this house, I am prepared to play dutiful kinsman, preceptor, friend. And you?”
For my very hate of him I could only seek to match my wit with his own. I answered, “And I, my dear uncle, am prepared to ape the part of dutiful nephew—to assume all the respect, affection, trust, I do not feel for you.”
He laughed; he rose from his chair. “We understand one another, nephew. I compliment you upon your breeding. Let us join the gentlemen.”
He took my arm with a gay show of cordiality; arm in arm we went down to dinner, as the bell was clanging through the house.
The dining-room was gloomy as a vault. The candles, burning in branching silver sticks on the white cloth, might have been tapers burning for the dead. A tapestry of flickering lights and shadows seemed to drape the room; ever and anon the leaping firelight or the waving candle-flame would be reflected from some piece of plate, or crystal, or gilded frame. I saw the colour show like blood from one great canvas. In the dimness, the servants moving to and fro in final preparation for the meal, seemed ghostly figures. I wondered that all should be old men, till I recollected Mr. Bradbury’s explanation to me of the name of Rogues’ Haven, the fact that my grandfather retained about himself his associates and servitors in the making of his fortunes.
I found my grandfather seated in a chair by the fire, and engaged in conversation with Mr. Bradbury. Mr. Craike had put off his gown for an old-fashioned coat of black, gold-braided and gold-buttoned, and a flapped waistcoat ofblack silk, flowered with gold; the red jewels glittered still upon his hands, and a brooch of red stones secured the fine laces at his throat. He presented a singular, almost barbaric figure in contrast to the precision of my uncle and Mr. Bradbury.
Waiving formality, all the company at dinner was assembled in the dining-room; two young folk were seated a little apart,—a girl of about my own years and a youth perhaps a year older—him I knew, by his dark likeness to my uncle, for his son Oliver, whom Mr. Bradbury had already mentioned to me; but he had not spoken to me of the girl. My uncle, leading me forward, presented me to her; I scarcely caught his words for my confusion, as I bowed awkwardly to her curtsy; but I gathered that she was his ward, Miss Milne; and I recollected that Milne was his wife’s name. I remember that I was repelled by my impression of a dark, sullen face; her black hair fell in ringlets about thin white shoulders, her lips were pale, her grey eyes seemed sunken. Her grey gown became her ill, and she wore no ornament.
My attention was claimed instantly by my uncle—“My dear John,—your cousin Oliver”—blandly making us known, yet his tone suggesting to me disfavour, if not actual dislike, for theungainly figure of his son. Ungainly, yet built strongly, wholly lacking his father’s elegance,—his hair coarse and black, his brows black, his look sullen and lowering—Oliver Craike yet pleased me more than any of my kinsmen to whom I had been made known. I understood the sturdy strength of him for the rippling muscles displayed by the fine cut of his black clothes; his hand gripped mine with a force that was not hostile; his eyes looked as sullenly at me as Miss Milne’s. “You’re welcome, cousin,” he muttered, while my uncle smiled on us urbanely, and expressed a polite wish that as kinsmen we might be friends.
But Mr. Bradbury claimed my immediate attention; with a word of apology to my grandfather, he rose from his chair, and drew me apart from them.
“I’ll be penning a letter to Chelton,” he said. “Have you any commission with which you care to entrust me? My letter to your mother at least will be delivered.”
“No more than a message to her,” I answered, with a sudden longing for the peace and happiness of Chelton and my mother’s cottage, and for the companionship of Tony Vining. “That I’m all eagerness to return to her. That I’ll not long remain here.”
“I shall assure her,” he said, smiling at me,“that you’re safe with your grandfather, and that you’ve commended yourself to his favour, and are happy.”
“You interpret me too freely, Mr. Bradbury,” I said.
“Nay, now,” he protested, smiling. “I’m anxious only to convey to your good mother a message that may allay her fears, and set her mind at rest.” Lowering his tone, that only I might hear him, he added, “You’re safe here, lad. Your grandfather’s will is law. I assure you that you have won his favour by your looks and speech, your resemblance to your father. You will be safe; a year or so, a few months—nay, days, maybe—and you’ll be rich and free to live your life where and how you will. And I’ll be accurately informed of your condition here; I’ll be at hand.”
He broke off, observing that from the hearth my grandfather and my uncle watched us closely. And at the moment Thrale stepped forward to announce that dinner was served; my uncle gave my grandfather his arm to assist him to his chair at the head of the table. The old man presided, with Mr. Bradbury on his right and my uncle on his left; I sat with the girl beside me, my cousin Oliver frowned darkly at us from across the board.
Mr. Bradbury had prepared me for my grandfather’s wealth—the neglect and disorder of house and grounds might have served to negative this; I wondered yet at the magnificence of the silver upon the table and at the luxury of the meal. I wondered at the richness, and the fantastic design and chasing of this massy plate, at the curious goblets of crystal, as at the rare wines and meats and fruits. But I was amazed and more concerned at my grandfather’s servants—old men, old rogues—I looked on wrinkled faces, brown as with the burning of tropic suns and the lashing of tropical seas; brown hands offered me dishes and filled my glass; a sleeve slipping back from a bony wrist showed me dull blue tattoo marks; glancing over my shoulder I saw an evil brown face, and believed that the old man leered at me. All the while the girl beside me uttered not a word; Oliver devoted himself to his dinner; and my grandfather conversed in low tones with Mr. Bradbury. Not till the girl had left us silently, and the cloth was drawn, and we sat over our wine, did aught come to break the silence about me. My cousin, I saw, was drinking deeply; his face was flushed with wine; once, as he looked up suddenly, and our eyes met, he scowled blackly at me. My uncle was sitting watching his son, his lookexpressive of contempt; now, as if to divert my attention from Oliver’s intoxication, he leaned forward, and with a tolerable show of cordiality, bade me draw in my chair, and take wine with him.
But my grandfather broke in, “I’ve a toast, Bradbury—a toast, Charles,” and rose unsteadily, and lifted his glass in a shaking hand. Mr. Bradbury raised his glass, my uncle watched the old man, smiling; Oliver was muttering thickly to himself; I saw the old brown men watching from the shadows.
“A toast,—I’ll drink few more, Bradbury—I’ll drink few more. I’ll give ye the fortunes of our family—Charles, and the rest of ye. I’ll drink to my son Dick’s home-coming—hey, Charles—hey, Bradbury? Or, if he’s dead, I’ll have ye drink to my heir—whosoever he may be!”
He laughed harshly, and drank his wine. The stem of the crystal snapped suddenly in my uncle’s fingers; the wine ran blood-red from his white hand. Oliver burst into a roar of drunken laughter.
Mr. Bradbury took his leave shortly after dinner, driving off in his coach, attended by the Bow Street runners. He was allowed no further opportunity of speech with me, my uncle engaging him in conversation; my grandfather sitting grim and silent by the fire. From time to time, I found his eyes studying me, as I sat glumly apart; his face was expressionless of his sentiment to me. My cousin Oliver had been aided from the room by Thrale on my uncle’s direction. On Mr. Bradbury’s departure, the old man went to his room, leaning on his son; and I was left alone by the fire.
The fire was burning down into coals; the candles flickered on the chimney-piece; the reflections flitted like white moths over the mirrors; else the room was draped with shadows. All about me I heard furtive sounds; out of the gloom I believed that the bleared eyes of the old rogues who served my grandfather surveyed me secretly,—this may have been no more than a phantasm of my mind, yet I could have swornthat, when the coals fell, and the red flame splashed into the well of darkness about me, I saw those wrinkled brown faces—surely burnt by the suns of the Spanish Main or the Indies. Rogues’ Haven! I was realising what manner of man was my grandfather; I was conjecturing that he had sailed across the seas in his heady youth, and grown rich with plunder.
I have a belief—it dates from the time I passed at Rogues’ Haven—that the spirit of a man is stamped upon the house in which he dwells. Surely the spirit of old Edward Craike impressed itself upon his gloomy home, and the mystery of the man was the mystery of the house. Ay, the past of our race and the past of my grandfather alike affected the ancient house, meshed in a monstrous web of dark green ivy, clouded by gloomy woods, and blown upon by melancholy winds. Now did faces peer our of the shadows at me, seated drearily by the fire? Did I hear whispering, muttering, or did I but imagine voices in the wind come up from stormy sea to the black woods, to cry about the dwelling, and moan and sigh, and to creep in by breach and crack and cranny, to stir the dusty, moth-corrupted hangings, and fill the house with secret rustling, sighing?
My uncle did not rejoin me till the night was faradvanced. He came in stepping so stealthily that at the sudden sight of him standing beside me, and watching me with haunted eyes, I started from my chair, and scarcely repressed a cry. He smiled at me, but his gaiety of the early evening had passed from him; he dropped heavily into a chair facing me, giving me not a word. I watched the shadows fall about his face, as the coals blackened out, and the candles, waving in the draughts, guttered, burned down, and smoked. If a light leaped high from silver stick, I saw him white as ivory, lips twisted, eyes brooding. He looked at me malevolently at times; I understood how much in truth he hated me; how my resemblance to my father tormented him; what was the repression compelled upon him by his father.
He said suddenly, “It’s a cruel trick of fate, nephew, brings you to this house!”
“How?” I asked. “I’m not here by any wish of mine.”
“Or by any wish of mine,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “Fate, in the form of Bradbury! Odd, kinsman, that my father should be so near to death, and I who have endured him all these years bid fair to lose in these last days of his my profit on it. I’ve a notion, nephew, that in the few weeks you will remain here you’ll benefit byall I looked for. Estimate my sentiment towards you!”
“The hate that looked from your eyes a moment since.”
“A poor expression of it, nephew,” he said. “There is no look, or word spoken or written, shall reveal a man’s soul. The fellow Rousseau has essayed to reveal his soul, to be sure, and has revealed but the body of an ape. I have a philosophy of my own, John Craike,—that my soul is not my body’s own; that aught I do, while my soul is in my body, counts nothing in the score against me. If I do aught—pride myself on it or am ashamed—I need not plume myself, or fret me. For it is not my deed.”
“A comfortable creed,” said I. “It would absolve you from aught that you have done or plan to do against your brother or your brother’s son.”
“I take it so,” he answered, coolly. “Nephew, this will of mine—I name it ‘will’—is no more mine, no more controllable by me than that wind blowing from the sea, and crying out about this dreary house. The actions of our lives are inevitable as storm or summer sun. My very promise to my father to do no hurt to you, while you are in this house, is no more mine than the injury I have essayed and failed to do you. Weare predestined, nephew, as surely as any hapless wretch who walked the plank, or drowned in scuttled ship, or burned with its burning—at my father’s hands.”
“I did not know,” I whispered, “the manner of his past. And do you tell me?”
“I tell you nothing that you must not know,” he said indifferently. “Rogues’ Haven—this house is but a haven for old rogues,—rogues who were young and lusty with him once, and sinned at his command. Sinned! Nay, there is no sin; there is no virtue that is a man’s own. Predestined!”—his laughter rang out over the winds that beat against the shutters—“Will you tell all this to my father, nephew? Will you seek to blacken me to him that you may profit by it? It will not change a whit his disposition to me. He is not wholly past all love or hate, though he is near to death. And lacking my philosophy, he is not past all terror. He fears death; he fears dead men who, living, troubled him not at all. He is afraid to go down to their company—their company—the maw of the worm or the fish, the decay of all who go down into the ground or sink in the sea. His soul—it never was his soul! He loved your father; he ever hated me. Till he grew old, his will was stronger than my will. My will grows stronger, nephew;I warn you my will may yet prevail over his old affection for your father, on which your hope with him rests wholly.”
“Will!” I repeated. “It accords ill with your creed, my uncle.”
“Will!” he said, laughing. “Oh, it’s no more than the force given to the wind or the wave. Predestined! If I win yet, nephew, so it is fated; not any act of yours or mine may stay it. I do not see the event. No man may look beyond the minute that is now. Nephew, I vow I saw you yawning; I prose; I weary you; I am a dull fellow,—and who would not be, living in this house?”
“No, I am tired, that’s all. I’ll go to bed.”
He caught the bell-rope, and old Thrale answering, he bade him light me to my room. The fire upon its hearth burned brightly; the bed was warm and soft, but my comfort lulled in no way my apprehension of the night. Though I locked the door and set a chair against it, I did not feel secure. Knowing myself friendless in the house, with no more than the decaying will of an old man between me and my enemy. Knowing the house peopled with old rogues, who, I conjectured, had been seamen on my grandfather’s ship, when he was young, and sinned unpardonable sins, and grew rich under a black flag.I fell to picturing him in his youth and strength—the dark ruthless face, the powerful body, the strong, cruel hands. I pictured him on the deck of his ship,—I conjured up its build for swiftness, its rakish masts, the swell of its white sails. I conjured up illusions of glittering seas, blue as the sheen on copper in the sun; a phantasm of those old rogues, withered, bloated, tottering now, as lusty with youth. Stark to the waist I saw them, their bodies muscular and brown as iron, and lithe as steel; the wicked aged faces that had peered at me out of the shadows now young, and red with drink and lust and greed; I saw these rogues now toiling at the guns,—through smoke I saw them: their hands grip cutlass, or knife, or pistol now for dish or glass or bottle. I saw such treasure, as the massy plate upon the board that night, piled on red decks with bursting chests of rich apparel—dyed silks and satins, laces; gold pieces, precious gems, even as the red gems upon my grandfather’s fingers. And I heard piteous lamentation in the wind screaming from the sea; cries of the dying and tormented in its wailing round the house, and in its rumbling above the chimney stacks the roar of guns; and the wash of waters in the sweeping of the pine and fir boughs. The dark curtains of my bed were half-drawn; when themoon shone in, I saw a black flag flying and a death’s head on it.
For my terrors, born of the evil brooding in this house, I could not rest. I fell to wondering whether my grandsire slept soundly in his bed, or whether phantoms crowded upon him, and the winds cried menace to him—an old man black with sins and nigh to dying.