I slept towards morning, and did not wake until the sun was rising; the light came golden-green through the stained windows. I rose from my bed, and, opening the casement, looked out over sunlit woods; afar, through the break in the trees, I could make out the glittering waters of the sea. In the decaying garden I saw the colours of many flowers among weeds; a hawthorn by an overgrown walk was a silver fount of blossom. The gloom of the garden and the wood had passed with the darkness and the sea wind; only the pines and firs were sombre yet and sighing in the breeze.
I was still in my shirt when a rapping sounded on my door. I hastened silently to pull away the chair, asking, “Who’s there?”
My cousin Oliver answered gruffly, “It’s I, cousin,” and I let him in. He was in shabby riding-rig, his black hair tumbled over his nose; he stood awkwardly in the doorway. With the flush of drink off him he seemed not so ill a fellow, though his look was lowering and sullen, and hepossessed none of his father’s elegance, but only a hard strength such as must have been my grandfather’s in his youth. “Get into your breeches, cousin,” he muttered, “and ride with me.”
“Why, I’ll be happy,” said I.
“We’ll ride down to the sea and swim in it, if you’ve a mind for it.”
“I’ve a mind for it, yes.”
“Dress then. I’ll wait for you,” and moved over to the window-seat and lounged there, till I had pulled on my clothes. He sat sullenly regarding me; I could not estimate his disposition to me, believing that his father had instructed him to treat me with civility; from time to time I stole a glance at him reflected dully in the mirror, noting the health and strength of him, and could not find it in me to hate the fellow as with cause I hated his father. Dressed at last, a towel about my neck, I said, “At your service, cousin,” and he, lurching up from his seat, strode before me down the gallery, and brought me by a dark stair out of the house into the courtyard. I had a certain hesitation in accompanying him—with my escape from being shipped overseas with Blunt on theBlack Waspfresh in my mind; but reassured that I was safe now through my grandfather’s direction, I set my dread aside.
He had anticipated my hesitation, it seemed, for he swung round, and demanded curtly, “Are you afraid to go with me, cousin?”
“No, I’m not afraid,” I answered.
He cast a look about him, shot out his hand and gripped my sleeve. He said, in that harsh tone of his, “You’ve no need to be, whatever others may do. D’ye understand me?”
“I’m happy to understand.”
“You saw me swilling last night.”
“Ay, I saw.”
He said simply, “Wouldn’t the house and the folk in it drive a man to the devil?”—and turned abruptly and crossed the courtyard with me at his heels.
The courtyard was deserted. Neglect and decay marked it; the moss grew green in crevices and cracks of the paving stones; the ivy held the out-buildings as it held the house. The great stables were bare but for three horses in the stalls; a fellow ill of look, of middle-age, but seeming young by comparison with the old men about my grandfather, was plying a broom.
“Saddle the mare for Mr. Craike, Nick,” Oliver ordered. “I’ll get my horse out.”
Nick responding, “Ay, ay, sir,” set down his broom, and stared at me. A seaman surely, he was as brown as the old rogues; the silver ringsin his ears, and the tattoo-marks on his bare arms, accorded ill with his shabby rig of a groom.
I waited by the stable-door until Nick brought out the mare; Oliver followed, leading a powerful black horse; and making down to the gates, he leaped to saddle. I, rejoicing at the prospect of a better mount than ever it had been my lot to ride, disdained Nick’s assistance into saddle, and rode out after Oliver. I had already a hope of friendship with this strong, uncouth, young kinsman of mine. I thought to find him in his disposition no more a pattern of my uncle than he resembled the gentleman in his fashion and graces. Yet I feared to confide in any of the folk of the house, and I resolved to keep my own counsel until I knew more of my cousin. Indeed, he gave me no opportunity for conversation. He made off at a gallop down the drive; and I had much ado to keep within sight of him. He did not ride for the gates, but swerving off to the left, he rode down through the park to the wall, where it was crumbling and broken. Setting his horse to the breach, he leaped it; and I following, he led me at a gallop down towards the sea.
The joy of the morn dispelled for a time my thoughts of the gloomy house and its folk. The sun was now clear; the breeze blew sweetly from the sea; little white clouds sailed over a blueheaven. We came out of the wood into open country; we swept through green meadows and drained lands; he rode like the very devil, taking hedge and ditch; he did not pause till we were riding out through a break in the cliffs. The shingly beach of a little cove was before us; the waters rolling in and the foam scudding. I saw the white gulls wheel and dip; fishing boats were out at sea; no dwelling was in sight; the beach was all our own. Oliver, dismounting, secured his bridle to a stunted tree, and silently walked down with me over the rocks to the beach; drawing apart from me to strip. I had no proper realisation of his strength till I saw him racing out into the sea—it seemed to me to break with a dangerous wash upon the beach; he splashed out with the sunlight white upon him, and the waters foaming against him; he swam far out then and rode back with the breakers. I, being accustomed only to inland waters, was nigh drowned, when I attempted to follow him; I was no more his match as swimmer than as horseman. I was dressed, and glowing with warmth and health, ere he desisted and pulled on his clothes.
“Faith, cousin,” said I, “I would I had your strength and courage. Had I dared swim out as you, I’d have drowned for sure.”
He nodded, not ill-pleased, and said, grinning, “I should have wagered you you’d not dare. If you’d have drowned—” but broke off and turned from me.
“You mean, if I’d have drowned,” said I, “it would have been all to the advantage of other folk?”
“What does it matter what I meant? Hark’ee, cousin, while you’re in the house, whatever’s done to get you out of it, I’m not for profiting by it.”
“You mean you’re my friend.”
“I didn’t say so,” he answered heavily. “I’m saying that I’m not for profiting at your cost—d’ye understand me?” He did not face me, but stood staring seawards. I said nothing, but waited. He burst out presently, “You’ve a notion by now how old Edward came by his money. If he have money? If all this talk among the rogues about him be more than the chattering of old fools? They talk of a secret store he keeps by him at the house. They talk, when they fancy none’s listening to ’em, of gold and jewels. They vow he’s hid his store in the house, and none knows where save himself. From their talk ’twas evilly come by. There’s blood upon it—every coin and gew-gaw; there’s a curse upon it; they say no man’ll ever profitby it; and every rogue among them itches to set his claws upon it, curse or no curse.” He laughed and waved his hand seawards. “We’re an ill race, we Craikes,” he muttered. “We’ve been of the sea and the coasts year in, year out. The sea calls every man of us down to it—you and I’ll be sailing yet, cousin; the sea calls us and the sea has us in the end. Did you hear the beat of the sea like drums through the night, cousin? Did you hear the wind crying?”
“Ay, as if the spirits of the dead were in it. Ay, and I feared.”
He said slowly, “I’ve heard it, many a night about the old house. I’ve heard the voices growing louder. D’ye think old Edward lies awake, and listens and fears? He’s near to death. He’s turned eighty years. And all the old rogues about him know him breaking and cease to fear him. He was their captain once by the strength and the will of him. He would have died at their hands but for his strength and will, and never have brought his ship and his treasure home. He’s breaking. What’s to be the end, cousin?”—he laughed savagely to himself. “D’ye think me mad, John Craike?”
“No, having passed a night in the house.”
“We’re like to see the end, you and I and myfather,—he has wit enough to win. But that fellow Blunt.”
“A damned rogue!”
“Blunt and his men of theBlack Wasp, Thrale and old Mistress Barwise, will see to it yet there’s wild doings at the house. She’s housekeeper, to be sure. Blunt was ship’s boy with old Edward. They think a treasure’s hid in the house. What d’ye think of it all?”
“Think! That I’d have you for my friend, cousin?”
“You’re like to be the heir of all this,” he said, laughing. “Why should I be your friend?”
“Being what I think you,” I told him; “not what you’d have me think. Your hand, cousin.”
He swung round, his brows scowling, his face flushed. He muttered, “D’ye mean it, John Craike? After seeing me as I was last night? You’ll see me so any night of the week. You’ll see me a butt for my father. You’ll find me a cross-grained, ill-mannered fellow.”
“I think you as you are,” I answered steadily. “Your hand, cousin.”
My grandfather summoned me to his presence before noon. I breakfasted with Oliver; my uncle did not honour us; it was his habit, his son informed me, to lie abed late. The girl Evelyn Milne came down, slim and pale in her black gown; she gave us the chillest of “good mornings,” and sat silent and obscure through the meal. Thrale waited on us; recalling all Oliver had said to me on the beach, I eyed the old man in the light of day—observing the brownness of his shrivelled skin, the bony hands serving us so deftly; and from time to time I saw him peer at me, his eyes gleam sinister; his face expressed nothing; his voice was thin and reedy. The girl passed not a word with us, ere she rose from breakfast; she seemed a poor, scared, fluttering thing, afraid of Oliver and me.
“How do we pass the day, cousin?” I asked, as Oliver pulled back his chair. “Do we ride abroad?”
Thrale interrupted swiftly, “Will you pardon me, sir?”
“Surely, Thrale.”
“Your grandfather, sir, desires a word with you. He asks you to remain here. He’ll send for you when he’s ready for you.”
I nodded. Oliver, without a word, marched out, leaving me to yawn the morning away by the fire. Thrale, clearing the table, vanished presently; I sat waiting glumly; silence had fallen over the house. The sunlight filtered through the dull panes, revealing the decay of the house, the tattered tapestries, the mouldering oak, the green-specked mirrors and the paintings dark with smoke and grime. I pondered heavily, feeling the gloom descend once more upon me, and hearing stealthy footsteps through the house, and muttering voices. The air of the room was thick with the musty odours of decay; the windows, when I would have opened them, proved bound with ivy. I grew so weary that at last I would have pulled the bell-rope for Thrale, and asked him to bring me a book, or let me out into the air, until my grandfather should summon me. I started to find Thrale was in the room and beckoning to me, “Your grandfather will see you now, sir,” he said.
I followed him readily up the stairs and down the corridor to my grandfather’s room. He announced me with all formality, “Mr. John,sir,” and left me standing before the grim old figure in the brocaded gown. He sat huddled by the fire, his jewelled hands seemed palsied, as he warmed them at the blaze; his lips scarcely to support his tobacco pipe—the air was heavy with smoke. He pointed to the chair before him; when I sat down, he regarded me for awhile in silence. He said at last, “Well, grandson—Bradbury swears you’re my grandson, and Bradbury has no cause to lie.”
“I’m happy that you think so, sir,” I flashed, colouring.
He chuckled to himself, “You’ve Richard’s look,” he said. “You’ve his evil temper—I’ve horsed him for it many a time. Ay, and he’s dead—isn’t he?”
“For all I know. Or overseas.”
“Or overseas!” he repeated slowly. “Your mother now—does she know?”
“My mother thinks him dead.”
“She was a fine, upstanding lass,” he said, pulling at his pipe. “Ay, ay, years since. And she wedded Richard—he-he—for all that Charles and his wife might do. She feared and hated us all, except Richard. She’s paying Charles coin for coin. What’s she said of us to you.”
“Little, and that’ll I’ll not say, sir, by your leave.”
His brow grew dark; he muttered, “Years since—not so many—and you’d not have answered so. You’re bold—hey, you’re bold. Little she said, but no good—hey?”
“Why should she speak well of you?” I said, quietly. “You were her enemies.”
He chuckled, “Ay, and so she kept you hid from us all these years. You’d not be in the house but for Bradbury. Cunning dog, Bradbury.”
“And even for Mr. Bradbury,” said I, “I’ll not be staying, sir.”
“Why? D’ye fear Charles? Has Charles done aught—after my word to him?” He lurched up from his chair and stood glowering down on me; the tobacco pipe, dropping from his grasp, smashed on the hearth.
“No, he’s done nothing.”
“Why would you go then? Are you afraid—our ways not being yours? Why would you go?”
I answered, “I do not like the house or the folk around you. What’s there about this house, sir? What’s it in the very wind of a night? What’s all the muttering in the dark?”
He returned to his chair, and leaning forward in it, watched me intently with his red-lidded eyes.
“I feared the house,” I went on, “when I firstcame up through the woods with Mr. Bradbury, and saw it in its cobweb of ivy and the black pines at its back. I’ve no cause to remain here, and I’ll not remain.”
He muttered, “Yet you’ll remain.”
“I’m gaoled here, then. Is that it?”
“You’ll remain,” he repeated, “though you’ll be free to ride abroad with the young cub Oliver. You’re safe here; there’s naught in the house to fear. There’s none dares do you hurt.”
“None of those old men, your servants?” said I. “Those old brown men with the evil eyes, and the rings in their ears, and the tattoo-marks on their arms? I’m afraid, maybe, of Blunt and his crew—not of these old men.”
“Once,” he chuckled. “Ay, but once.”
“Once these old rogues were to be feared, you mean?”
“Once, I was feared, as—by God!—I am yet to be feared. I’m master of my house, grandson, as I was master of my ship. Master of Blunt—any who’d do you hurt. You’ll stay!”—poking out his shaking hand, the red gems gleaming, “You’ll stay, as your father would have stayed by me, till the breath’s out of my body. Not so very long!” His tone was quavering and eager, “You’ll bear me company, and you’ll profit by it. I’ll soon be dead, and you’ll soon be rich. Wouldyou have me think you care nothing to be rich?”
“Why, surely we all care.”
“Ay,” nodding his head. “I could tell of a treasure a man would sell his soul for”—lowering his tone, peering about him, and muttering. “You can come by it honestly, if that’s aught to you, and more than if only you come by it. D’ye see these red rings?”
“Like blood upon your hands,” I ventured, shrinking from him.
He laughed to himself, “Like blood! Rubies! I’ll show you yet—when it’s fitting—and tell you a tale.”
“Plundered treasure!”
“What of it? What gives a man the right to the treasure of the earth except the strength to take and hold it?”
“As any of the rogues about this house would take.”
“Ay, if they dared. And knew where I hold it. Fearing me yet and not knowing. Will ye not stay?”
“And yet I’ll not stay in this house.”
He said heavily, but without anger, “You’re like your father in more than looks. I’d have you by me, till I die. You fear the dark and the sounds of the wind and sea. You’reyoung-what should you hear in the wind, or see moving in the dark? What should you see stepping over the floor, when the moon comes up? I fear nothing in the winds or the dark or the moon. Ay, and I’ve sailed in uncharted seas, and I’ll sail the sea that shall never have a chart. Not fearing! But I’d have you by me, till I embark.”
He fell to silence; awhile I sat and watched him. He said then, musing, “I’ve rotted in this accursed house, since I left the sea. The house with the green ivy webbed about it; I’ve a sense of being caught in the weed—held to die and rot. There’s talk among seamen of waters where the weed’s taken many a ship—I’m held so by the weed. Its roots ’ll strike into my heart. It battens on dead men.”
I knew his mind was decaying with the breaking body. I pitied remembering that he had loved my father. I knew now that, black with guilt, he feared the uncharted sea on which he must soon set sail. And I thought of the old rogues about him watching, waiting, until they feared no longer, and might take what long ago they would have taken, had they dared. Yet I think not pity, not the desire that all men have to be rich, would have prevailed against the terror of the house in the night—the doomed house. I thinkthat I, being of his blood, was led by the spirit of adventure to stay by him. Adventure, and desire to see the play to its end.
“I’ll stay here, sir,” I said, “if you’ll have it so. On a condition—that I be free to go about and abroad as I will.”
“Ay, so long as you bear me company when I’ve need of you,” he answered, with a show of satisfaction.
My grandfather, pulling the bell-rope, summoned Thrale, and ordered curtly, “Send Barwise and her man to me!” As Thrale vanished, the old man said to me, “I’ve orders for ’em, John—orders. She’s housekeeper; he’s butler, and their son Nick’s groom. Rogues all!”
He chuckled, and sought his snuff-box; so he made play with it that I observed it cut from ebony, with a silver skull and bones patterned upon it. He ceased his senile chuckling at the rapping on the door; I saw him grip the arms of his chair and hold his head high, as if to make a show of strength and sanity before Barwise and his wife.
The woman held my attention rather than the man. She had been a fine handsome woman in her day; she bore herself still stiffly erect, though she was very old. A black silken gown hung loosely about her shrunken body; keys in a little basket on her arm rattled like fetters. She had a high, white mob-cap on her thick, iron-grey hair; the skin was drawn and withered about thebones of her face; her mouth was firm yet, and her eyes clear and black,—of all the rogues who served my grandfather, I came to like none so ill as the Barwise woman. Her husband was a fat, bald, old rogue, clad in shabby black, his paunch protruding; rolls of fat beneath his chin; his hands were fat and oily. His sunburn was ripened to the rich glow of wine; his little eyes were bloodshot. The woman made a curtsy; the clash of her keys startled me with a notion that all her bones were rattling. Barwise bowed.
My grandfather addressed the woman with the strong and measured utterance he had employed to Mr. Bradbury. “I’ve sent for you, Barwise, and your man there,” he said, “as I’d have you know that this young gentleman, my grandson, is to be obeyed.”
She curtsied once more; for an instant her eyes rested balefully on me.
“I’d have you so instruct your folk,” my grandfather proceeded. “While he’s in my house, you’ll all treat him as your master—d’ye understand me?”
She nodded, staring at him curiously as if remarking a strength become strange to her.
“He’s likely to be master after me, d’ye hear?” my grandfather added. “You take your ordersnow from me; whatever orders he chooses to give, you take them as from me.”
The woman croaked, “It’s well for you, Mr. Craike, to have the young gentleman by you. I mark a change in you already.”
Her bold eyes warred with his; as understanding her meaning that she knew him near to decay and that this assumed strength was no more than the flash of a dying fire, he roared out, “I want no words from you, mistress! You’re old; you’re presuming on your service. Mark me, I’ll be obeyed!” and started to his feet, and rapped his cane upon the floor with such bullying wrath and strength that she quailed before him and shrank back, her husband staring at him and quivering like a jelly.
She muttered, “I meant nothing!”
“Ay, meant nothing! Time was—” but he broke off, hesitated, at last cried out, “Ay, and the time is yet. I’ll be obeyed. You’ve thought me old, Barwise—you and the lazy crew I support here of my bounty. Take care I don’t make a sweep of ye all—of ye all—d’ye mark me?” Mastering himself then and dropping heavily back in his chair, “That’s all, Barwise. You’ll obey Mr. John Craike—all of ye!”
Propping his chin upon his cane, he sat glaring at them, till, with a venomous look at me,the woman whisked from the room, her husband shuffling after. So he sat stiffly till the door was shut; then lay back in his chair and fell again to senile chuckling. “Eh, John; but they think me near to dying,” he said. “Eh, John, did ye mark how I took the wind from her sails? Eh, but I’m stronger for having Richard’s son beside me. I thought to die captain of my ship many a time. And I think to die master of my own house,” and so, sat chuckling and shaking, his strength leaving him as suddenly as his will had summoned it. He rambled on, “She’s an ill fowl—eh, John? She’s a skeleton held together by her skin—no more. Barwise’s woman,—she’d looks once,—hair black as the storm and eyes as black. She’d wear silks and gold rings. She took a fat picking from my men, when I sailed my ship. She’d a tavern Shadwell way.” He broke off, and looked dully at me. He muttered, “Can you not see, lad, the manner of man I was? Can you not see the wreck I am? How I ruled ’em once and how now that they think me broken—they’d mutiny, they’d rob me; they’d have what they’ll never set their fingers on?”
“Surely my uncle would discipline them at a word from you. Clear the house of them.”
“Ay, ay, Charles! Charles watches me, as they, and thinks to rob me!” He gasped, andhuddled in his chair; ghastly now, and the sweat beading his brow.
I said swiftly, “Shall I ring for Thrale? You’re ill, sir!”
He croaked, “And let ’em see me so!”—and clawed in his pocket and poked a slim key into my hands, and whispered, “Hey! The press there—the bottle—pour me a dram!”
I unlocked the press beside him, and taking out a bloated green bottle—much as the bottle at Mother Mag’s—poured some spirit into a glass; and his hands now shaking, so that he must have spilt the drink, I held it to his lips, until he swallowed it down, choking and coughing. Whatever the stuff, it lent him speedy strength and colour. He sat blinking at me with those evil old eyes of his. I could feel scant pity for him, save for the thought that he had been so strong, and was now old and weak, and that the rogues who had formed his crew, and whom for some odd fancy, or fear, he had kept about him would now tear him down, as they would have torn him down, had he been less strong and ruthless, on his ship.
I said, “You’ve a pretty crew of rogues about you, sir. Give me but the word, and I’ll drive off and have Mr. Bradbury back here, and we’ll make a sweep of the whole company.”
He answered, “No. Rogues, but they serve me well. And I ruled ’em once. And I’ll rule ’em till I’m dead. You’ll stay by me, John—ay, ay, and you’ll profit by it, and Charles shall pay for his sins. Now you may leave me, lad. They’ll obey you. They’ll fear you, fearing me still. There are many books in the old house. There’s a horse in the stable. There’s the wench, Milne; and there’s the whelp, Oliver, who’ll ride with you, and drink with you, and rook you. Ay, and there’s guineas for the spending”—clawing suddenly into the pocket of his gown, and drawing out a purse and slinging it to me. It rang with gold, as I caught it in my hand.
Now I was not fated long to test the efficacy of my grandfather’s control over his son and his servants. I’d have you know that twelve folk served my grandfather at Craike House, and that excepting Nick Barwise, the groom, these rogues were of the crew who served under Mr. Craike when he sailed his own ship, and that in his fantastic spirit he would have them by him after his return to England to assume his position as Craike of Craike House. The gates were kept by Isaac, second son of the Barwise union, and his woman, the swart gipsy, whom I had observed on my arrival with Mr. Bradbury. All this disreputable company, as much as my grandfather’s eccentricities, had won the house its ill-name—Rogues’ Haven, among the folk of the countryside; these rogues, too, were leagued with smugglers such as Blunt, who plied their traffic under the very nose of the justice Gavin Masters, and the coastguards.
My uncle, since his father’s advanced years and decay pointed to his speedy death, had tornhimself away from the diversions of London and society, of which he was adjudged an ornament. Penniless, while he played devoted son, he had established an advantageous understanding with Blunt and his folk, who would alternate long voyages to America and the Indies, on Lord knows what nefarious traffic, with running smuggled stuff from the Continent to the English coast. That my uncle fretted under the yoke of duty manifested itself daily in his covert sneers at his father; the chagrin of Charles, my grandfather remarked to me, had lent a zest to living.
The days I spent in Craike House passed dully and without noteworthy event. I did not lose my dread of the house in the night; the impressions of my first night under its roof abated in no way, but the good-humour of my uncle, the servility of Thrale and his fellow-rogues, the companionship of Oliver, and the sports which I shared with him, lent me a confidence which was to prove groundless. I passed much of my time in playing chess with my grandfather, in reading to him from old voyagers and romancers—of whose works he had by him a great store, or in listening to his narrative of his own sailings, which, if incomplete, gave me a portrait of him by no means calculated to advance my affection for him. Yet that Iadvanced daily in his favour was patent; my uncle masked his chagrin under a bland demeanour, and a display of the graces and accomplishments which surely rendered his absence deplored by society. But though my grandfather assured me of protection, and though my uncle professed a truce, I would have been wise to follow my first inclination—not to remain under the roof of Craike House, as I shall now relate.
One morn, a month, I should say, from my coming to Rogues’ Haven, my grandfather informing me, through Thrale, that I was free to pass the day as I pleased, I bade Thrale unlock the door for me, and passed out of the house. The gold sunlight lay upon the garden; if it dispelled for a time the gloom, it emphasised the disrepair of the old house, the ivy climbing to the chimney stacks and lacing the windows; a few it had obscured wholly. As I looked up, I saw the sinister face of Mrs. Barwise looking from a high window; she bobbed back instantly. I estimated the covert hostility of the rogues of Craike House; and, having a certain apprehension of walking abroad unarmed, I took out my knife and speedily fashioned me a heavy cudgel. I went down then by a flight of stone steps into the old sunken garden to the right fromthe house,—steps crumbling and green with moss, and overshadowed by a tangle of roses and honeysuckle, descending into a cool depth which had been laid out once in ornate flower beds and lawns, but was now overrun with fox-gloves, prevailing through their sturdy strength over other flowers. Yet the air was sweet with the white-starred jasmine over the crumbling walls, shutting the deep garden from the old plantation, which had become a dense wood.
Once paths had curved to the sundial at the heart of the garden. The dial was broken and corroded now; a bramble had caught it in its claws; sparrows fought and chirruped upon it in the sun. Arbours had become thickets; through the broken wall I saw the wood go deep, but the sunlight struck through the trees upon a path among tall grasses and flowers spilled from the garden.
I climbed the broken wall and sauntered down the woodland path, taking delight in beauty, and presently departing from the track, passed down to left into a deep glade—silver and green in the sunlight; the dew was not yet dry on fern and grass. And suddenly I saw the girl Evelyn Milne,—she sat upon a fallen log, moss-grown and bramble-clustered. Her head was bare; her bonnet lying on the turf beside her; she sat bentwith her hands clasped at her knees—a picture of melancholy and loneliness; yet the sun found the glossy sheen in her dark hair, and the whiteness of her neck and hands. At the crack of a stick under my feet, she started up, and stood regarding me with sullen eyes. I swept off my hat, but she offered me no greeting.
I stammered, “I ask your pardon, Miss Milne. I did not think to disturb you.”
She looked about her hurriedly; leaning towards me then, she whispered, “Now you’re out of the house—away from them all, why not go on and on through the wood, and never return?”
“You mean,” I said, staring at her pale face, at her white hands fluttering at her bosom, “it would be safer for me, that I’ll never be safe in the house?”
“I mean—it doesn’t matter what I mean. Only, were I you, and had any friends away from here—were not alone as I am alone—I’d go. I’d never return.”
“Miss Milne,” said I, “I do assure you that I’m not afraid. Why should I run away?”
“Afraid!” she whispered still. “You’re only a fool. You’re only a boy. Your life’s before you. Why would you stay? Hoping to profit,and be rich, when that old man is dead? Is that why you’d stay? There’s no price that’s worth your life—to you. Why did you ever come to such a house, or, knowing them for what they are, remain?”
“They are my folk,” I muttered, thinking her—from the wildness of her look, the sudden fevered shining of her eyes, the ceaseless fluttering of her thin hands—distraught from the terrors of the house; recalling how, day after day, she sat by me at table, uttering not a word, and addressed by no one; going then from table to be seen no more, till the next meal was served. She had been no more to me than a pale grey shadow in the house of shadows.
Nor had I felt in her more interest than to ask Oliver carelessly how she spent her days; and he had answered, “Hid in her room for the most, haunting the garden; she’s lifeless, bloodless, the wraith of a maid.”
“They are my folk,” then, I muttered, staring at her.
“Your folk! Are you as they?” she whispered still. “You think only of the money the old man has, and care not how ’twas come by. You’ll smile and fawn on him—that man, that evil old man—as his son smiles and fawns. Knowing—as you must know—”
“The manner of man he is, and the manner of the men about him? The danger I’m like to meet? Miss Milne, I’m not afraid. They failed once; do you know that?”
“I know—yes, I know. They failed once; they’ll not fail again”—suddenly leaning forward clasping her hands, peering at me with wild bright eyes, and whispering, “Go! Go now ere it’s too late. Go! and take me with you from this house—this wicked house!”
I was silent, and stared at her, colouring; thinking her surely mad—such the wildness and terror of her look; as realising, she seemed to struggle to control herself; facing me white and quivering, she said at last more calmly, “Mr. Craike, I hear so many secrets in the house. I have lived here so many years—so many lonely years, and am so little accounted, that they do not heed me, or care, if I hear many things that, if they feared me, I would not hear and know. Knowing—I do beseech you, do not stay within the house! Oh, let no thought of loss, if you offend your grandfather, prevail with you! Go!—ere it is too late!”
I said, standing clumsily before her, no longer meeting her look, “Miss Milne, you ask me to assist you. I know—surely by now I know—the house is no house for a maid; I’ll aid you toleave it. Have you no kin or friends out of the house?”
“No kin, no friends. I have lived in this house since I was a little child. No friends within the house; none in all the world.”
“I’ve a purse of gold,” I said. “I’ll give it to you. With it you may make your way to London and seek out Mr. Bradbury. With this message from me—that he conduct you to my mother, who will befriend you. Come—here’s the purse. I’ll go with you through the wood. You may take a coach from the village inn and drive to London. But I stay here.”
She drew back from me. She whispered, “No! Go now, and take me with you! How should I find my way to London alone, or seek out this man Bradbury, or your mother? I have lived nigh all my life in this house; I am afraid. Go with me!”
“Miss Milne, I must remain,” I said.
“For money?” she said, with scorn; but I answered, “Think that if you will. For adventure, for a promise.”
“It’s like to end in death,” cried she, and drew back from me.
“Well, then, what have you heard?” I asked.
“Plots! Plots! What use to tell you, if youwill not heed me? If I tell you, will you go from this house? Will you take me out of it?”
“I do not say I’ll go. But I’ll help you, surely!”
She looked at me with her eyes now dark and sullen; bitterly she said, “I’ve given you warning. I’ll not tell you more. Why should I tell you aught I know? What do I know of you save that you seem a boy—a fool—and not yet lost as they. Though coming of their stock—”
“I do assure you,” I stammered, “I—”
She burst out, “Stay—if you will! Stay! And yet I warn you.” She slipped from me, and vanished like a wraith into the shadows of the wood.
Now attempting to follow Miss Milne, and have further conversation with her, I found myself presently in a wild tangle of the wood, so that I had much difficulty in forcing my way through it. Not finding her, bramble-scratched and moss-stained at last I reached the wall, and followed it down, thinking to find the breach by which I had left the garden. But as I approached it, I halted suddenly, hearing voices from the garden; and, knowing them for the voices of Blunt and Martin Baynes and my uncle, engaged in an unseemly wrangle, I rejoiced that I was still hidden by the creepers hanging over the wall.
Blunt was growling, “Ay, ay, you’ve given me to know you’ll be rich, when the old man’s gone. You think to lay your hands then on the spoil he’s piled up and held all these years. Ay, but the old man’s alive, and I’m sailin’ again with never a penny of profit to me.”
“And the lad’s come to the old man,” Martin broke in, “and by all saying he’s likely to haveevery penny, and you not the colour of a farthing. What d’ye say to that, Mr. Craike? what d’ye say?”
My uncle answered disdainfully, “You get nothing from me. You’re a pretty pair of rogues to come and threaten. I trust you, Baynes, to hold the rogue and you to take him aboard, Blunt; and he slips through your hands. I wonder at your audacity.”
“Fine talk!” cried Blunt; and Martin burst out, “You’ll pay nothing! Will you not? What if I go to old Sir Gavin? What if I give him the tale? He’d listen and he’d set you by the heels, as gladly as he’d set Roger Galt. Though you’re one of his kind—”
“You have it,” my uncle assented, “one of Sir Gavin’s kind. Do you threaten me, Martin Baynes, you, for all the repute of the Stone House and Mistress Baynes and her grandsons? Are there not strange tales of the Stone House—of travellers lost on the moors? Of a pedlar whose dog was heard wailing at the gates of the Stone House, as dogs wail for their dead masters? Do you threaten me, Martin Baynes? And you, Blunt? Did you never sail further than the coasts of France? Did you never plunder an English ship? Were you never more than smuggler?”
“Never more,” cried Blunt, “than Edward Craike, and never so much.”
“A gentleman of fortune,” said my uncle, “a voyager born a hundred years and odd after his time. Tush, that my father profited by his voyages is nothing, Blunt; he plundered no English ships; if his men spilt any blood, it was not English.”
“Barwise in his cups—” Blunt began.
“Barwise is just such a besotted fellow,” cried my uncle, “as should pitch you the tale you’d wish to hear, Blunt. Now ere you two presume to threaten me, think who’ll believe you? If I sought to keep John Howe out of the house, and have him shipped overseas—what of it? What should this count against me save with a few virtuous fools to whose praise or blame I am indifferent? D’ye think I’ve no credit with His Majesty’s Ministers? D’ye think that the Town would ever regard me as other than a man of birth and fashion? What if there be rumours of my father’s past, or scandal against me? Your words would avail you nothing. But you, you rogues; the word from me would hang you both. Tush, when you threaten me, you’re fools.”
“We want no more than payment,” Blunt growled.
“That I’d not have to give you, if you’d earned it.”
“There’s money in the house,” Blunt urged. “There’s plate. There’s talk of a great chest of gold and jewels.”
“I would,” said my uncle softly, “I might dip my hands into it.”
“D’ye not know of it?” Blunt asked. “D’ye not know it’s talk among all the folk of the house that the old man hid the richest stuff he ever took?”
“I do not know this, Blunt—upon my honour.”
“And I know,” Martin struck in, “that whatsoever the old man has is like to go to his grandson. And that the old man’s threatened you, if you so much as lift a finger against the boy, he’ll not spare you. I have it from old Thrale.”
“Tush,” said my uncle, “I’ve listened too long, my friends. Your threats do not perturb me. I hold the cards, not you. I know nothing of such a chest. Pray, go! Well for you to be sailing, Blunt. Sir Gavin is no fool, and theWasplies off the coast too long for your security. And well for you, Martin Baynes, to be sailing with Blunt; you’re idle; you’re mischievous; you’d be well away.”
“Ay, and the lad?” Blunt asked. “Would you have him sail with us yet?”
“I have no preference.”
“Ay, but if you knew he was safe aboard, and sailing with me—not for France, for pickings in the Indies—would you find me the hundred guineas then, Mr. Craike, ere I sailed?”
“I should find one hundred guineas with ease,” my uncle answered. “I suggest nothing, direct nothing—have no share in any plot against my nephew. Yet if I knew—and none here knew—that he was safely under hatches, Blunt, I’d pay this hundred guineas ere you sailed.”
“He’ll be out of the house this night, aboard by the morning,” Blunt vowed.
I heard my uncle’s light laughter; I heard him humming a tune as he walked away. Blunt and Martin came scrambling over the wall, and not detecting me hidden under the creepers, tramped away through the wood.
Now for a space I lay hid under the wall, having no mind to enter the garden and meet my uncle, but seeking time to review the perils threatening me, and the steps by which I should avoid them. I believed that Blunt, ere he made his offer to my uncle, had already planned with the old rogues my removal from the house, and that of this the girl Evelyn Milne would have warned me. I thought first of going immediately to my grandfather and of laying the plot before him; having with me always the thought of the broken figure, of the will striving ever to prevail over decay, I could perceive little hope from such a course. Had Miss Milne faced me now; had she appealed to me to take her out of the house, and escape with her to my friends, I should have hesitated not at all; my concern for myself urged me to instant flight; yet I was no such coward as to take to my heels, and leave her friendless in a house of which she had expressed such terror. I could devise no better plan than further to search the wood for her, and if I failedto find her, proceed to seek out Sir Gavin Masters, tell my tale to him, and urge his intervention and protection for us, and his immediate communication with Mr. Bradbury. I marvelled that one so acute as Mr. Bradbury, knowing the character of the house and its folks, and the peril I must encounter, should have thought fit to leave me at Rogues’ Haven.
I remained hid under the wall, till Blunt and Martin should be well away; crawling back then to the wood I sought the girl as best I might, fearing to call her name, lest I bring my enemies upon me. Failing, I forced my way out of the old plantation; struggled through a ditch; climbed through a sunken fence, and muddy and torn with brambles, sought the road by which Mr. Bradbury had brought me to Craike House.
It was now toward noon of a clear day; the wood was green about me; the sunlight and the sense of freedom after the terrors of the close old house restored my spirits speedily. I had a certain compunction at my flight—leaving the girl, and, indeed, my grandfather, old and broken, among the covetous rogues. I told myself that I should save them better by reaching Sir Gavin Masters, yet I could not rid my mind of the thought that by running off in fear of Blunt I played the coward. So much at last thisthought concerned me, that even on the very bank above the road I stood irresolute. Not yet was I resolved when the sound of hoof-beats made me cower into the grass, for fear lest any of my enemies should ride that way. Peering through the covert, I saw a stout red-coated gentleman mounted on a cob; with joy I recognised Sir Gavin Masters. He paused below me, sheltering his eyes with his hand against the sun, he was staring up toward Craike House, whose chimney stacks alone showed above the wood. As I rose out of the grass, he uttered an exclamation; his hand sought the pistol in his holster.
“Sir Gavin,” cried I, “don’t you know me—John Craike?”
“Aha, Master Craike—aha!” He laughed and touched his hat with his whip. “What are you doing here, lad? Walking abroad?”
“Seeking you, Sir Gavin. Asking your help and advice. Purposing as soon as I may to seek Mr. Bradbury in London.”
“Oho, not liking the house and the folk in it,” drawing in by the bank, and beckoning me to him.
Standing beside him, I saw that his face, which I had thought dull as worthy Mr. Chelton’s, was marked by a certain strength and intelligence; his eyes watched me shrewdly. He muttered,“So you’ve had trouble, lad! You want advice from me and Bradbury. Well then!”
“Mr. Bradbury being now in London—” I began.
“Mr. Bradbury,” he laughed, “is no further away than at my house. That’s for your ear alone. He’s within your reach whenever you may have need of him.”
“I’ve need of him at once,” I said, overjoyed.
“Must you have speech with him?” he asked, “or is it a word that I may carry to him?” I looked at him doubtfully; he went on swiftly, “Mr. Bradbury made no mention to you of his association with me, I being newly-appointed justice of the peace for these parts, and bent on enforcing His Majesty’s laws, and putting an end to a variety of evil-doings. I’m well-informed of Bradbury’s wishes. It’s his wish that you remain at Craike House. You’re running away. Why?”
“Having overheard a pretty plot to put me aboard Blunt’s ship and get me out of England. Fearing—ay, fearing though you think me a coward, sir, to stay in the house with never a friend.”
“Young Oliver! You’ve been riding abroad with him; you were swimming in the sea with him this morn. You seemed friends.”
“You saw us, sir?”
“Some of my folk. Oliver’s your friend?”
“Yes, my friend, but—”
“I tell you this, John Craike,” he said, impatiently, “if you’ll believe me and trust me and my folk, knowing that Bradbury’s within reach, you’ll go back to the house. I promise you none of the rogues in the house’ll do you hurt, while old Mr. Edward lives, and I promise you Blunt’ll never take you out of it or ship you aboard. For Blunt’ll never sail.” He spoke now in low and earnest tone, his eyes keeping a sharp watch, as if apprehensive lest any overhear or see us together. “Hark ’ee,” he said, “go back! It’s well that you stay to profit by your grandfather’s fancy for you. Take my assurance for it, lad; my plans and Bradbury’s are surely set; they’re one and the same. Take my word for it.”
“Ay, but the old man’s near to dying,” I said, doubtfully.
He muttered, “So! Bradbury gave me no word of it.”
Rapidly I recounted the nature of my interviews with my grandfather, his orders to his servants, his collapse on that first morning, my belief that his reason tottered,—all the whispering menace of the rogues about us. I told him of myuncle’s conversation with Blunt and Martin, and of the warning from Miss Milne.
He heard me attentively, his brows frowning. He said at last, “Ay, ay,—and for all Bradbury’s plans it’s high time to make an end—high time! But first I must have a word with Bradbury. Will you go back this day assured that speedily you’ll hear from us?”
I answered, “If you’ll have it so, Sir Gavin, surely I’ll go.”
He dipped his hand into his holster; drew out a pistol; and handed it to me swiftly. He took a little bag from his pocket, and muttered, “The barker’s loaded. Here’s powder and ball. In case you need it, lad. You go back!”
I answered, “Yes, I’ll go back, and I’ll remain till I hear from Mr. Bradbury and understand his wishes.”
He said, “I promise you you’ll hear from us at once, lad!”—and as I plunged up the bank, he turned his cob and rode off rapidly.
It was afternoon when I climbed back through the breach in the wall and dropped into the garden. I had noted, as I went through the garden that morning, an arbour overgrown with honeysuckle; in the sunshine now it was a pavilion of gold and green. I was hurrying by this arbour when I was startled to hear my uncle’s voice.
“Nephew!” he called; and, turning, I saw him in the arbour, lounging indolently on an old garden seat of marble, yellow with age and stains; his arms outstretched along its back; he seemed bloodless, ivory-white, in the green shade.
“Nephew!” he called again, and beckoned to me. Much as I feared and hated him I obeyed him. He smiled benignly on me; observing my colour and the disorder of my dress, he asked, “Why, nephew, nephew, into what mischief have you been straying? You’re too old for boyish pranks, and I assume too young for philandering.”
I answered, “I’ve been walking in the wood.”
“The wood!” he repeated. “You’re gainingconfidence in us, John. A week or two since and you’d not have had the courage to stir from the house. And yet the wood is none too safe, nephew.”
I answered boldly, “I agree with you, sir. For example, I chanced upon two rogues, Blunt and Martin Baynes.”
Maybe my tones confirmed the suspicions he had formed when I came scrambling over the wall. He said drily, “You mean more than your words, John. The encounter should warn you not to walk in the wood, or yet ride down to the coast with my son. Mayhap, Oliver is no more than a decoy”—his lips curling.
“I do not think it of my cousin,” I said.
“Oh, I’m happy to have your assurance, John. You look to find a friend in Oliver. And yet I should not think it, John. My lad’s well enough, but rough, uncouth; I fear he does me poor credit. How he passes his days I know not. He’s dissolute; you’ve observed him with the bottle.”
He broke off, as wearying of the theme; he looked languidly over the sunlit garden to the ivied walls, “Here’s the very wreck and ruin of a great house, John!” he sighed. “I have a notion—nay, since your coming I have it not—of shaping order out of chaos. Here in this garden,with a book on such a sunlit afternoon; but here, with delightful arbours, trim walks and plots of flowers,—a fountain playing silver! Mark that old fountain, John—the form of it, the seamaids who support the sea-green shells; the fountain’s dry; the lovely shapes of bronze corroded. Or the designs on this pale marble: see where the moss grows green in these delicate designs of Italy. The sun-dial where the sparrows chirp—why, here’s an enchanted garden, John, where time stands still, as in the old wives’ tale. Ay, see the hedge of thorns grows all about the castle! Time stands still! Nay, ah nay! I’d picture, John, the garden in the days when the second Charles was King of England. Why, I have looked from my window of a summer night, and I have seen the ghosts walk in the garden, as it was, and I have known the beauty and the colour and the laughter of this garden and this house, as once they were. I have thought of the beauty of Craike House restored, the greatness of our race—ah me! Here am I, penniless son of—Mr. Edward Craike; penniless parent of—Oliver! I’d tell my hope to you, John Craike, that, if you win, you yet may care to carry out my own ambition.”
He had spoken earnestly; while his fine, melancholy voice sounded, I did believe him,—knowing him for a rogue. His mood did not endure. He laughed, and eyeing me, he said, “So you’ve progressed, my friend, in the favour of your grandfather. So you’re a master in the house, and his retainers take their orders from you as from himself!”
“He did no more than insure me against insolence,” I answered uneasily. “You’re well served, my uncle!”
“Oh, I am!” he conceded. “To be sure, the woman Barwise came raging to me that morning. They’re servile to you, nephew, are they not? Thinking my father not yet in his dotage! And yet he is so near to breaking.” His eyes held mine; he said quietly, “Nephew, I’ve a proposal to you, more than truce—alliance. Liking you!”
“As you’ve surely proved, sir!”
“Yet hear me out,” he said. “You stand in favour with your grandfather. But you’re no fool; what should you say would happen, were the old man’s wits to go wandering, or were he to die, suddenly, as old men die, if they be fortunate? How should you fare at the hands of all these rogues, John?”
“Or at your hands?” I muttered.
“Or at my hands! I compliment you, nephew, on your wit. Or at the hands of Blunt,or Barwise? This old man so near to dying or to dotage, nephew! I put this to you.”
“Why, I’d suffer no more,” said I, “than Mr. Bradbury would speedily call you to account for.”
“A lonely house,” he muttered, “so near the coast. And none save old Sir Gavin within miles of us. Should we not work our will with you, and set our fingers on what’s hid in the house, and be away—in France, or whither in the world we would—ere Bradbury might lift a finger.”
“What’s hid in the house!” I repeated.
With sudden impatience he cried out, “Ay, what’s hid in the house! Why not be frank with me, nephew? You know this—Bradbury knows, as I—there’s in this house more than a moiety of all my father ever took on his voyages. There’s treasure in this house, about this house; and one man knows where it is hidden. And one man knows, and this one man may die, or his mind grow dark, and he forget, and it never be known. You know of the existence of this treasure, nephew, this secret hoard of his—and yet you lie to me!”
Unguardedly I answered, “I’ve heard no more than a talk of the treasure.”
“When? From whom?” he took me upinstantly, and his face was livid, and his eyes were two evil gems. “This morn! Surely you heard this morn. Talk near the wall there. Or do you know from him?”
I said coolly, “I’ll tell you nothing.”
He mastered himself; he lay back on the seat; his lips sneered at me. “I would have made alliance with you, nephew,” he said. “I would have shared with you—as kinsman. I would have offered you security. Ay, I offer it now.”
I answered deliberately, “I’ll have no dealings with you. None!”
“Nephew,” he said, with mock severity, “I abhor duplicity. I confess myself mistaken in you. Pray go! You stand between me and the sunshine!”
I swung upon my heel and left him. I heard him humming his little tune as I climbed the steps.
I passed the remainder of the day in my room with a book. Now I have since found agreeable entertainment in the works of Mr. Fielding; but though I had before meThe History of Amelia, I heeded little of aught I read. I had good cause for reflection. That I was yet in the old house; that all about me were my enemies; though I had Sir Gavin’s assurance no hurt should befall me, I yet dreaded that steps would be taken to spirit me away, and Blunt, having laid hands on me, would elude pursuit. I looked for Mr. Bradbury’s arrival; Mr. Bradbury did not come.
None came nigh me; my grandfather did not summon me to his presence. The day closed clouded; the darkness of the sky and the rising wind promised storm to follow on the sunshine of the day. At dusk, Thrale came with lighted candles; but for the warmth of the evening I bade him leave the fire unlit. I made my toilet hurriedly for dinner at the clangour of the bell through the house; secreting the loadedpistol in my tail-pocket, and praying God that I should not sit upon it forgetful, I went down into the dining-hall. My grandfather, leaning upon his son, entered ahead of me; he gave me no word or nod in greeting. I stood apart with Oliver, and Evelyn Milne, who did not glance at me or speak to me; Oliver seemed to have returned half-drunken from the alehouse in the village, whither he had ridden that day.
Regarding my grandfather, as his son assisted him to his chair, I saw with apprehension that his face was livid; his eyes were dull and heavy; the rubies blazed upon his shaking hands. And from the gloom behind his chair the old rogues watched him. I heard them mutter and whisper among themselves; I knew that the sickness so plainly on my grandfather could not be lost even to their dull eyes and wits. The girl was whispering by me, “He’s sick! To death! Had you but listened to me!”
I paid her no heed. I set myself to my meal; seeking by exercise of will to hide my perturbation from my uncle, whom I saw watching me with eyes triumphant and malignant. The old man sat staring before him. The tapers waved in the draughts of cold air. I know not what my grandfather saw in that pale light or in those shadows seeming to dance a wild dance all aboutus, as the ever-rising wind beat on the house, and found its way into the room by chink and broken pane. I had a prescience that death was in the wind that night; that the dead from the deep called him at last to be of their company for ever.
My uncle essayed gay conversation; the old man sat beside him like the very figure of death; he uttered not a word; he would have lifted a glass to his lips, and the spilt red wine dyed his mouth and hands. As the glass broke upon the board, my uncle, with assumed concern, said in a loud, clear voice, as if to be assured it reached the ears of all the rogues, standing peering from the shadows like so many carrion crows. “You’re sick, sir! Shall I aid you to your room?”
He cried out angrily, “I’m well! I’m well! Another glass!”
Thrale, filling a glass, handed it to him; I understood from the working of the old man’s face and by the sweat upon his brow the bitter struggle of the breaking will to assert itself. My grandfather lifted the wine to his lips, and sipped a little of it. He sought then to eat, but ate nothing; he sat stiffly in his chair, until the girl had gone like a pale ghost from the room; and the cloth was drawn. She cast a look at me,as I rose at her departure; and there was terror in her eyes,—as there was terror in my mind. For the ending struggle of the old man’s will and body, for the clamour of the winds about the house, for all the faces peering malevolently from the dark, for the ghostly dance of lights and shadows; always the cold draughts struck in and set the candles flickering.
My uncle, filling his glass, invited me to take wine with him; Oliver was drinking heavily. “A glass of wine, nephew!” cried my uncle, gaily. “A glass of wine with me.”
My grandfather muttered suddenly, “Do you make a play for me, Charles?”
“Make a play, sir!” Charles repeated. “Forgive me. I am dull. I do not understand you.”
“Ay,—do you pretend friendship—affection, for—for your brother’s son, or your brother, sitting over there?”
My uncle, looking at me, cried out in amaze, “My brother, sir! My nephew, surely!”
“Nay! Nay!” the old man insisted, testily. “Your brother!”
“The lad, sir?” Charles faltered.
“The lad! Damn the lad! Are you blind, Charles? Are you blind? Your brother sitting there!” His shaking hand stole out; hepointed not at me, but at the empty chair beside me, “Your brother—Richard!”
And now my uncle’s triumphant look had fled. Now staring fearfully, now in turn shaking, he whispered, “Sir, you’re sick! No one sits there. Pray let me aid you from the table,” and rose and offered his hand.
The old man thrust it from him, and pointed still. “Sick! Are you drunk, Charles, that you do not see? Richard!”
“Sitting there!”
“Ay, sitting there! Would you have me think him a ghost, Charles? Would you have me think him dead?”
“I pray not!” my uncle whispered. I saw that he was ashen, and stared at nothing wildly, as the old man stared at nothing, pointed at no one. Suddenly my grandfather lowered his hand; the light seemed to die out from his eyes. He sat mute and stiff; his fingers with the red gems flaming upon them gripping the board. My uncle lifted his glass hastily to his lips.
“To whom would you drink, Charles?” my grandfather muttered. “What toast?”
“Surely your health, sir! Your health!”
“You lie!” he roared, and started from his chair. An instant I saw him standing with the aspect of a madman upon him: the rush of bloodto his dark face lent him the appearance of youth; his right hand was raised high. A moment I saw him—surely I saw him—for the manner of man he had been.
He clutched at his breast, cried out; and fell back in his chair.