We went out presently to descend the stairs in search of Sir Gavin Masters and his men. My uncle strode out ahead of us, Oliver slipped away; I held Mr. Bradbury’s arm as he would have hurried off, to direct search for Mother Mag, and to insure that if Mistress Barwise and the rogues left the house, they did not bear their plunder of plate away with them. I whispered to him, “There’s in the room—in the wall there—a box—stuffed with gems. My grandfather revealed them to me, ere he died. My uncle knows of them; he sought to rob me of them. I’ll not trust them here!”
“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Bradbury, “I had some notion of them,—by the old man’s talk this night. Where are they hid?”
I dragged the hangings back. I took the key, unlocked the iron door, and drew the box out of its hiding place. “Pray take my pistol, sir,” said I. “The box is heavy—bursting with the jewels in it. I’ve never looked upon suchjewels—like fire! My uncle will not rest till he’s laid hands on them.”
Mr. Bradbury took my pistol; he paused an instant to pull back the curtains from the bed, and reverently draw the coverlet over the old man’s body. Blowing out all the candles then, save one to light us down the stair, he went before me from the room, pausing to lock the door upon the dead; and cried out to Roger and the runners, still searching for old Mag along the corridors, to go with us down the stairs. As we descended, I heard voices muttering in the hall; and saw the gleam of lanterns, and made out it might be half-a-dozen stout fellows. I saw, as we passed by them, that every man was armed with cutlass, pistol or bludgeon. Sir Gavin Masters, emerging from the doorway, cried out jovially, “Ah, John Craike! So your throat’s not cut yet, and ye’re not kidnapped. Where’s the old man, Bradbury? The devil of a time you’ve been!”
“Pray step with us into the dining-room, Sir Gavin,” said Mr. Bradbury. “Old Mr. Craike is dead—an hour or more since!”
“Murdered!” the justice roared.
“Nay, nay—though there’s been wild doings here this night,” said Mr. Bradbury. “The rats are scuttling all about the house.”
“Ay, I’ve heard them scurrying, squeaking. Have we men enough with us to trap ’em, Bradbury?”
“I think not—no!” said Mr. Bradbury hastily. “Pray, sir, come with us. Bid your men keep on guard still, and let no one enter! Come, sir, come!”
But I hung back and called out, “Sir Gavin—Mr. Bradbury, there’s the girl—my uncle’s ward, Miss Milne! What’s chanced to her I fear to think.”
“Oh, the maid,” Sir Gavin answered, laughing. “She’s safe enough. ’Twas she opened the door for us, when we were thinking to break it down. She’s safe. She’s in the room here!”
Thus reassured, I passed with them into the dining-room. Lord, the reek of drink, and the disorder of it!—the presses open and broken, for the plate they held; the shattered glass and crystal on floor and table; bottles from the broached cellars. The silver candlesticks were gone from the chimney-piece; the mirrors starred or shivered wholly; the tapestries rent from the wall; the pictures torn down, as if the rogues had searched even behind them for any sign of treasure. By the hearth, where a few coals blackened, Evelyn Milne was sitting; the candle borne by Mr. Bradbury showed me howdeathly pale she was, her hair blown all about her shoulders, her eyes feverish yet from terror and lack of sleep. She started up, as we came in; I set the box down on the table, and took her hands, and cried out, “Miss Milne! Thank God, you’re safe!”
“Ay, ay, and have served us well this night,” Mr. Bradbury declared; and Sir Gavin added gallantly, “Upon my soul she has!”
She smiled, and drew her hands from mine; looking at Mr. Bradbury, she asked, “Would you have me go, sir? Would you be alone?”
“Nay, nay,” said he, hastily. “Stay here, my dear! The house is not yet safe for you. Stay here!”
She bowed and returned to her seat. Mr. Bradbury, setting down the candle by the box, drew up a chair to the table, and dropping wearily into it, said, “Sir Gavin, with the few fellows you’ve been able to bring here, it’s well that we remain here till the dawn; it cannot be far off.”
“Ay, but all these rogues?” the justice grumbled. “Not a rat among them have we trapped. I thought to take the nest full of them. What’s chanced to the old man? What passed to-night ere we came, young John? Where’s the villain, Charles?”
“We’ll have the tale from Mr. John Craike later,” said Mr. Bradbury impatiently. “Old Mr. Craike was near to death when I left him, and he died to-night. I know not whether Charles Craike is yet in the house, or whether he’s gone sneaking away, as I take it all the old rogues have by now. Nay, Sir Gavin, I am troubled more by the coming of the woman Baynes but now, and the word she brought Charles Craike from the Stone House, and the effect of her tidings on him!”
“What of the hag?” Sir Gavin muttered. “What’s all this, Bradbury?”
“She brought this message from Martin Baynes: ‘Adam Baynes’ come home again!’—and Charles went grey with terror.”
“Adam Baynes! Old Mag’s son,” said the justice. “Shipped overseas ten years or so since, with Captain Phillip from Portsmouth for Botany Bay. How should the rogue have ever come back from New South Wales? He went overseas for life.”
Mr. Bradbury rose swiftly, and, hurrying to the door, called, “Roger Galt! Come here! And bring a lantern! We need more light.”
Roger Galt came slowly and unwillingly into the room, and stood blinking before us, watching Sir Gavin apprehensively.
“You dog!” growled the justice. “I’ve sworn to clap you in gaol till you’re hanged. But for this night’s work—”
“For this night’s work, Sir Gavin would tell you, Galt,” Mr. Bradbury interrupted with impatience, “that all will be forgotten. Don’t interrupt me, pray, Sir Gavin—that is your meaning. Galt, a while since you said that Adam Baynes was never shipped overseas; that actually he remained in England; and that he died from a bullet in some highway robbery.”
“That’s so, master,” Roger muttered, glancing round at the door, as if prepared to break away from the justice and possible custody at any moment.
“What more do you know of this, Galt?” Mr. Bradbury persisted. “How should this rogue, sentenced to transportation, have been free in England? Did he escape and return, or did he never sail?”
“He never sailed,” vowed Roger. “Guineas went to get him out of the hands of them as was taking him to Portsmouth to put him aboard.”
“He escaped, and no search was ever made for him?” cried Mr. Bradbury. “Do you expect us to believe that, Roger Galt? Why, man, it’s unbelievable!”
Galt muttered, “I’ve heard tell—Mother Mag’scackled over it when in drink—another was put aboard in his place; another went overseas as Adam Baynes—someone they wanted to get out of England.”
“How long,” asked Mr. Bradbury, “since Captain Phillip sailed?”
“Ten years since, to my thinking,” the justice answered reflectively.
“Ten years since!” repeated Mr. Bradbury; and, as understanding of his theory came upon me, I gasped, and stared wildly at him,—he cried out sharply, “Sir Gavin! Bid a couple of fellows go with my men from Bow Street, and seek Charles Craike. His rooms are immediately above us! Bid them seek him there, and, if he have not fled yet, bring him here! That will do, Galt. Go!”
I caught at Mr. Bradbury’s arm, and would have sought an answer of him to my thoughts and terrors; he did not heed me, but, speaking swiftly and with agitation growing upon him, he burst out, “Sir Gavin, at whatever risk of falling in with Blunt’s men, and being worsted by them and the rogues of this place and the Stone House—for surely they’ve all gone scurrying for the Stone House this night—we must ride for the Stone House. I’ve sent for Charles Craike here, to question him; for surely he’ll lie to us—and todelay him, if he think to go thither this night. For, ten years since, Mr. Richard Craike disappeared from home and wife and son in London; and for ten years has not been heard of. If, Sir Gavin, it should be—it is the wildest fancy—that Richard Craike went overseas in place of Adam Baynes? If this should be?”
“Bradbury—surely!” gasped Sir Gavin. “It could not be!”
“Ay, ay; but if it should be, and if Richard Craike’s escaped—come home to England; if Richard Craike was on his road to Craike House yesterday; and Martin Baynes, Blunt’s men—came upon him? For, surely, Richard Craike coming home, and seeking wife and son in London, and finding no trace of them, would hurry hither. And if Richard Craike’s again in the hands of his enemies at the Stone House?”
“If! If!” cried the justice. “The maddest of fancies, Bradbury!”
“No! For the woman comes in the night to Charles Craike. And the woman says ‘Adam Baynes’ come home again!’ And Charles Craike—looks like death—at the very words!”
“I would,” growled Sir Gavin, “that I’d more men with me. It’s damnably unfortunate, Bradbury, that the coastguard should be held to the shore to-night, while that youngwhipper-snapper of a lieutenant—Abbott—seeks to cut out Blunt’s brig in the dark.”
“Whatever be the peril,” Mr. Bradbury declared, “we needs must ride for the Stone House this night. For I tell you that, if this be Richard Craike, and he be in the hands of Martin Baynes and the rogues whom we’ve beaten at their game to-night, he is in peril—peril of death.”
“Ay, but you’ll hear Charles—if he’s not gone,” Sir Gavin muttered, rising. “I hear them coming down the stair.”
My uncle had not fled the house, but he was dressed for riding—booted and spurred. He came in with his hat pressed down upon his brows, a hunting crop in his right hand, his left thrust deeply into his greatcoat pocket. He was livid yet; his face wore the cruel and implacable aspect he had shown when first I looked upon him from the window of the Stone House, and I had known that none whom he feared or hated might look for mercy from him. He strode in boldly, the fellows who had brought him down to us hung doubtfully in the doorway—standing back at a wave of Sir Gavin’s hand. He looked upon me, and the hate he showed struck me with terror; his gaze passed from me to Mr. Bradbury and Sir Gavin—to the black box lying on the table by them, with the light of candle and lampplaying upon its silver mountings. He said angrily, “What’s this, Bradbury? Why have you sent your rogues breaking into my room, Masters? Would you lay me by the heels for a thief?”
“I would—ay, surely I would!” roared Sir Gavin, starting to his feet, and pushing forward; at Mr. Bradbury’s plucking at his sleeve, he growled, purple with choler, “Ay, ay, by the Lord, if I had my way. As I will!”
“We sent for you, Charles Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury swiftly, “to ask these questions of you: This man Adam Baynes—who is he? Has he risen from the dead? Or has one come back in place of Adam Baynes? Charles Craike, should not this man—of whose arrival you were warned this night—whom we think held a prisoner at the Stone House, as the lad was held by you, prove to be Richard Craike—your brother?”
My uncle answered instantly, “Bradbury, you had my answer in my father’s hearing—that I’ve no knowledge of my brother—of his death, his disappearance, or his flight from England. The message of that hag conveyed to me no more than that her son is back again from transportation.”
“Galt says the fellow died in England years since!” Sir Gavin growled.
“Galt is a liar and rogue, whom you, Sir Gavin, were you an active justice, would have clapped in gaol long since.”
“Charles Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, seeking to restrain Sir Gavin, “you wear a brave face and use a bold tone to us for all your villainy. Whither would you ride this night?”
“Whither should I ride,” my uncle cried, “than away from this house—for London? Knowing that the boy has all—damn him!—has all that should be mine”—and still he stared at the black box lying on the table.
“You do not think to ride to London,” said Mr. Bradbury. “You think to ride to the Stone House to-night. You shall not leave the house! Sir Gavin, give orders to your men! Bid them hold the door!”
I saw my uncle leap forward; the pistol gleam in his hand; his hunting crop swing high—Sir Gavin roaring out as the two old gentlemen recoiled from, him, “Galt! Any of you! Seize him!”
But the hunting crop smote down upon the lantern and the candle; instantly the room was dark; all was a confusion of rushing, struggling figures. I leaped towards the box, but was thrown back by a plunging body, and went headlong to the floor. Sir Gavin was roaring,“Hold the door! Don’t let him go! Light! You dolts! Light!”—And I, rolling on the floor, squealed out, “The box! Look to the box! Sir Gavin, Mr. Bradbury!”
A roar of voices; a smash of glass from the window; lanterns flashing in at the door. As dazed I rose to my feet, I saw that my uncle and the box of gems were gone.
A half-hour thence we were in saddle—Sir Gavin, Mr. Bradbury, and I—and riding with the two runners, and four of Sir Gavin’s servants, as swiftly as we might through the dark for the Stone House. Roger Galt had not waited for us; but, taking horse, had ridden off immediately in pursuit of my uncle escaping with the jewels. We conjectured that Mr. Charles would not proceed now to the Stone House, but would ride for London, hoping to out-distance us, and lie hid there, till he might find a ship and escape for the Continent.
Ere we dared leave Craike House, we assured ourselves that the Haven was emptied of its rogues. My cousin Oliver remained with two of Sir Gavin’s folk, to guard Miss Milne, lest any of the carrion crows fly back thither. Now fully assured from my uncle’s speech and action that the Stone House held the secret of my father’s disappearance from England—that, indeed, he had returned and was held a prisoner by Martin Baynes and his fellow-rogues, Mr. Bradbury,with an activity beyond his years, was bent himself on riding thither; I—for all my bitter chagrin that the gems should have fallen into my uncle’s hands—was shaking with excitement for the thought that my father was at last come home, yet lay at the Stone House in peril of his life. The horses were gone from the stables; my uncle had ridden away on Sir Gavin’s own horse—to the justice’s choler; he must needs mount his servant’s horse, and I the other fellow’s.
We rode out then in the dark; swept down the avenue, and out the open gates—the woods yet roaring about us in the straining wind, though the strength of the gale had abated.
So long as we held to the open road and to the byeways by which Roger Galt had brought me off the moors on the morn of my escape from the Stone House, we went at high speed—not pausing or drawing rein. And the wind blowing from the sea smote roundly on us; the beating of the breakers on the cliff rolled up like thunder; once, as we passed in view of the sea, I saw a red flash out of the blackness, and thought that, belike, the King’s ship fired upon Blunt’s brig; but I could be sure of nothing for the pitch blackness or distinguish sound of cannon over the thunderous beat of the seas and crying of the wind.
Coming out on the wastes, we were compelled for the dark to go more cautiously for the broken ground; Sir Gavin pressed on steadily a little ahead, guiding us for the Stone House. We went in silence—intent upon our purpose; I wondering over the grim events of the long night, and dreading yet the event—that we should come too late, and that the rogues fleeing from Craike House, and black with rage at their defeat, should wreak their vengeance on my father—if indeed they held him at the Stone House—ere we might arrive.
I thought of Charles Craike flying through the night: he who had wrought this evil; victorious yet, the plundered jewels in his possession,—the jewels for which, as surely as my grandfather, he had sold his very soul. I thought of his triumphant laughter, as he fled through the night; I thought of all the cunning and the tricks by which he surely would escape us yet, and fly to France, and spend the treasure as he would, and where upon the Continent he would. But I thought, too, of black Roger racing grimly after through the night; I trusted yet that he, with all his knowledge of the roads, mounted on his great horse which many a time had carried him to safety, would come up with my uncle, and take him and the treasure.
On in the dark we rode. The way over the moorlands seemed unending; black coppice and rock, black upland appeared to join the blackness of the moonless, starless night; the bleak winds blowing at our backs, the lash of rain now falling on our shoulders. On and on, the blackness giving place to the one greyness of clouded skies and moorlands; the pale dawn coming.
And with the dawn we came out on the height above the Stone House, and saw it lie grey in the hollow below us; no gleam of firelight showed from its windows; no smoke curled up. No one was stirring; the house seemed deserted. The baying of the hound sounded up to us. But, as we paused and drew together, Sir Gavin Masters, pointing with his whip, growled out, “They’re here—some of the rogues. See the horses feeding down by the wall there”—and suddenly bellowing with triumph, “Ay, and by God, Charles Craike himself is here; that’s my nag with the saddle on its back—inside the wall!”
Mr. Bradbury cried out sharply, “Come down, Sir Gavin! Come down! We dare not wait! What may be done within?”—and rode off apace.
Sir Gavin, following with the rest of us, gasped, “But what of Roger Galt? What’s come to the fellow?”
Roger Galt was nigh the gateway. He stood, hatless, mired, and bleeding from a gash upon his brow, regarding his horse, lying dead on the stones before him. He was dazed yet from his fall, for, as we rode all about him, and Sir Gavin cried out, “What’s chanced to you, Galt?” he stood blinking at us stupidly a moment without answering. He swept his hand across his brow then, and wiped back the blood; and muttered, “That’s his work—damn him! The horse there! I come up with him at the gate. He pulled his barker on me, and I whipped out mine, and blazed at him. He’s away—and his bullet’s in my horse! He tried to take the London road; he couldn’t get away from me in the dark. I know the dark.”
“You’re not hurt, Galt,” cried Sir Gavin. “The fellow’s like to be in the house still. Ah, the gate’s open. See to your barkers, all of ye! Two of you ride to the back of the house. Come now!”
At our head then Sir Gavin rode through the gateway; we clattered after him over the cobbles and up to the house. The front door was shut fast and the windows closed; no sound and no light came from within. Sir Gavin scrambling down, we all dismounted; he, pistol in right, hunting crop in left, strode boldly up to thedoor, and hammered upon it, roaring out, “Open this door! In the King’s name—d’ye hear me? Open the door!”
No sound coming in answer, he turned back, and beckoning to his two fellows, ordered, “Look about ye for a log! We’ll have the door down!” and while they searched about the house, again he approached the door, and beat upon it, roaring out, “Open! Open! In the King’s name! Damn ye all—why don’t ye open the door?”
Roger Galt came staggering up from the gates, a bludgeon in his hand. Mr. Bradbury looked carefully to his pistols. I, staring up at the barred window of the room where I had been held a prisoner, cried out suddenly and pointed upwards. For a hand had drawn aside the sacking, and my uncle stood looking down upon us. My uncle—nay, though in the greyness of the morn the face had seemed my uncle’s for the instant; this face was lean and sunburnt, the eyes sunken, the grey hair was blown back by the wind. The face was gone immediately; crying out, I rushed forward to the door, as Sir Gavin’s men came plunging forward with a great log between them; still crying out I know not what, I gripped it with them, and aided them propel it with a crash against the door.Mr. Bradbury beside me was calling out, “What is it, lad? What did ye see? Who stood at the window?”
And I cried back, as again we staggered under the weight of the log, and again propelled it against the door, “My father! I think my father—held a prisoner here!”
With a crash, the rotten timbers and rusted ironwork broke before us. And we were rushing forward into the house.
In the half dark of the house, as we leaped forward—Sir Gavin and I, the runners and his fellows coming scurrying after—I saw Martin Baynes and Bart spring back before us, and gain the stairway. Martin faced us there—his pistol quivering in his hand, and Bart at his back with cutlass lifted. Sir Gavin cried out, “In the King’s name! Down with your arms! Or, by God, you’ll hang for it.”
Martin spat out a curse in answer and drew trigger; at the blaze and roar of the pistol, Sir Gavin hopped smartly back; flung up his arm and fired. Martin cried out, and fell down before us. Bart, leaning forward, cutlass in hand, leaped down suddenly upon us. I, slipping aside to the wall, heard the clash of his blade upon a tough bludgeon, and the fall of one of Sir Gavin’s fellows; instantly it seemed that the runners were on Bart, and the cutlass was dragged from his hand, and clanking against the stones. I had no thought save only to mount the stair. I saw faces peering down through thedark above me; I knew the folk for Barwise and big Nick; but as Sir Gavin, pushing me aside and snatching my pistol from me, plunged up the stair, they did not stay, and vanished in the dark before the door, scurrying away, I took it, to shelter in one of the rooms. I reached the stair-head; groping in the dark, I found the key yet in the lock, and presently had the door open, and with Sir Gavin was staring into the room where I had been held those days a prisoner. There faced us a tall man, poorly-clad and travel-stained, staring at us with sombre eyes; looking upon my father’s face, I understood the tragedy of weary years of suffering and exile written upon it; feature for feature he seemed like my uncle—yet so unlike.
He said no word as we advanced, but looked upon us dully, as without comprehension; Sir Gavin, gasping for very breathlessness as from excitement, demanded of him, “Who are ye? Aren’t ye Richard Craike?”
“Richard Craike—yes—come from overseas, brought to this place, and gaoled here.”
I sprang forward, stretching out my hands. I cried out, “I am John Craike—your son! Don’t you know me, father? Don’t you know me?”
His hands clasped mine,—rough, toil-wornhands—all trembling; he bent his head and stared down at me, and whispered, “John Craike! Ay, ay—John Craike,” in lifeless tone.
As I drew back, and stared at him in terror, Sir Gavin put his hand upon my shoulder and whispered, “He is mazed yet, lad; he doesn’t know you—he doesn’t understand! Ah—they’re quiet below”—and rushing out, roared down the stairs, “Is all safe there? Have you taken that rogue?”
“Ay, ay, sir—we have him safe!” they shouted up in answer; and Sir Gavin growling, “Ay, but where the devil’s that villain, Charles?” took my father’s arm and brought him with me down the stair. Bart struggled in the grip of one runner, whilst the second bound his hands; Roger Galt and Sir Gavin’s men were standing guard over Martin lying against the wall, and seeking to staunch the flow of blood from his shoulder; Mr. Bradbury, pistol in hand, stood in the doorway. But Mr. Bradbury, at the sight of my father, stepped forward, crying out, “My dear Richard! My dear sir! Alive and well,—that’s brave!”
“Ay, ay—alive, but not too well,” growled Sir Gavin. “He’s dazed yet—sick. Bradbury, get him out in the air! Stay here, boy! Leave him with Bradbury awhile. Now, youhangdog”—to Martin—“where the devil’s Charles Craike?”
Martin cursed him bitterly in answer; Sir Gavin, approaching the door of the living-room, sought to open it; and finding it locked, cried out, “Open the door! Or by the Lord, we’ll have it down! In the King’s name—d’ye understand! Open it! Here, you Charles Craike—if you’re in there, the game is played—d’ye hear? It’s gone against you!”
I believed that I heard my uncle’s voice faintly within. I heard a chair drawn back, and presently the key turn in the lock. And the door was drawn slowly open; and old Thrale, shuddering and ghastly, was looking at us.
“Out of the way!” cried Sir Gavin, and flung the door wide. “See to the stairs and doors. Let no one pass!”—and, pistol raised, he strode into the room with me at his heels.
The green curtain was drawn across the window; the room was dim in green light, as the sunrise struck against the house. I saw three figures in the room: old Thrale slinking back to the wall; Mistress Barwise, cowering in her chair by the fire; my uncle seated at the table—the black box broken open before him. I saw the blue jewels in the skull gleam dully. My uncle said no word, and did not stir in his chair.
“Pull back the curtain!” cried Sir Gavin to Thrale.
Thrale’s shaking hands plucked the green curtain from before the window. The room was illumined instantly by the sun. The yellow light woke the blue jewels in the eye sockets of the skull to life, and the gems spilt from the casket on to the black flag into a many-coloured flame.
My uncle sat staring at us; his eyes flickering, his lips smiling, blood-smeared; his face ghastly as death. His white hands fluttered over the black silk; touched the skull; clawed among the jewels. He stood up from his chair; pressed his hands against his red-stained breast, and fell forward suddenly among the gems.
“Galt’s bullet—by God!” Sir Gavin cried, rushing towards him, whilst I stood trembling and aghast, and Mistress Barwise cowered by the fire, and Thrale shuddered by the wall.
My uncle’s lips had smiled before he died, lying upon the black flag, by the death’s head, among the scattered gems. It was a bitter piece of irony—well might his lips have smiled for it—that he laid hands upon the treasure only the morning of his death. For the lust of the treasure all his gifts of mind and body had been spent in vain; surely this treasure—this ill-gotten treasure—had corrupted his whole life, worked as a disorder in his blood; turned his mind to infamy and black plots against his kin, and steeled his heart to desperate purpose. He had wit as he had courage; he might have served well his King and country, and won fame and riches honourably. He had but attained his forty-fifth year; he lay there dead—his lifeblood spilt among the gems, staining the fell design in silver upon his father’s flag.
We rode from the Stone House—my father, Mr. Bradbury, and I—leaving Sir Gavin and his folk to bring away my uncle’s body, and to march the rogues—Martin and Bart and bigNick Barwise—off to the county gaol. But though Sir Gavin stormed and blustered, Mr. Bradbury had his way with him, that Thrale and Mistress Barwise and her man should be left free to go whither they would—so long as never again they came nigh Craike House. Mr. Bradbury would have none of these old rogues laid by the heels, and the scandal of Rogues’ Haven, its master and its old servitors, noised through the kingdom. So these three were left to go their way with Mother Mag, when she should come tottering home; what chanced to them I know not to this day; for I was never to set eyes upon them more. Long ere I pen these words all those old rogues, who served my grandfather afloat and ashore, must surely have followed him underground.
As we rode from the Stone House, I had the black box securely in the saddle before me; Roger Galt rode ahead of us, lest we should yet fall in with any of Blunt’s men on our way back to Craike. Let me say here and now that Blunt’s brig, theBlack Wasp, slipped from the coast under cover of the storm and the darkness, eluding the revenue cutter despatched against her at the instance of Sir Gavin Masters; no trace was found of Blunt’s body and Blunt’s men; we assumed that the seamen who had comeashore with him must have gone safely aboard. What was the truth of this, or what the end of theBlack Wasp, I may not tell, for Blunt’s brig and Blunt’s men never again sailed back to the coast nigh Craike House, to my knowledge.
We rode in silence, Mr. Bradbury jaded and weary; I, for all the perils of my sleepless night, and all the rigours of our ride to the Stone House, borne up for the joy of my father’s safe return, and for the thoughts of happiness awaiting mine and me. He rode beside me—bent and broken, seeming an old man though he was not yet in his forty-eighth year, sorrowful lines about his mouth, his eyes haunted surely by the memories of his sufferings overseas. From time to time I saw him watching me intently; his lips smiled at me when my eyes met his; he said no word through all our ride across the sunlit moors and by the woodlands back to Craike House. Ay, the sun burned on the house that morn, lighting the sombre ivy, and flowing in through the shattered window of the dining-hall, where Evelyn Milne had spread a meal in readiness for our return.
It fell to Mr. Bradbury to draw Oliver apart, and tell him of his father’s death; my cousin said no word, but, brushing past us, left the house, and was not seen by me again that day. My father sat down with us to our meal, remainingsilent and dejected still. I watched him with increasing apprehension, dreading the result upon him of his long sufferings; though Mr. Bradbury—now almost dropping from his chair for very weariness—sought to assure me all would yet be well.
I must have fallen asleep in my chair, and so been carried off by Sir Gavin’s fellows left to guard the house; certainly I woke to find the candles burning in my room, and the fire blazing, and to observe a figure seated in my chair—him for a moment I thought my uncle, and cried out in terror. My father rose up from his chair, and came toward me swiftly, his hands outstretched, his eyes alight now with intelligence and joy; and his voice cried to the very heart strings of me, “John! My lad! My son!”
And ere we parted that night, I had from him the story: how by my uncle’s plotting he was taken out of England—seized in London, borne away to Portsmouth, and shipped aboard theSiriusof Captain Phillip’s Fleet on the very eve of its departure for the distant clime of New South Wales. Now this Adam Baynes, in whose place he was shipped out of England, had been laid by the heels for highway-robbery and sentenced at Assizes to be transported overseas for life. Taken out of the county gaol forconveyance to Portsmouth, he had been rescued on the road by his associates of Rogues’ Haven from his bribed guards; another man had been given, bound and stunned from blows, into their keeping; this man had been borne to Portsmouth, and put aboard the prison-ship. Rogues of Rogues’ Haven had carried out my uncle’s plot; my uncle’s guineas had surely paid; bribes and the dread of punishment had kept the mouths of the Bow Street runners shut. For many days my father had lain nigh to death aboard theSirius; when his senses were restored to him, and he declared himself not Adam Baynes but Richard Craike, the master and his officers pronounced him rogue or madman, and, indeed, for his agony of thought and from the blow upon his head, he believed now that he was indeed bereft of reason for many months of the voyage out to Botany Bay. Not Captain Phillip or any of his officers believed his tale, or would send off a letter to his folk in England. He was held in bondage; toiling as any slave about the Settlement at Sydney, for the torment of his mind and body, he told me sadly now, he was no better than a madman much of his time. But so at last he won the interest of Captain Hunter, Governor of the Colony, that slowly and by degrees he convinced him that there might betruth in his story, so that, though hesitating, the Governor took upon himself to send him back to England, penning and forwarding to the Secretary of State a letter setting forth this case and desiring his investigation. My father had landed in London a week since; reference to the East India office, in Mr. Bradbury’s absence from Town, had proved to the Secretary that he was indeed Richard Craike; he had been set instantly at liberty. And failing to find my mother at the lodging where we had dwelt in London, or to learn aught of her or me, he had come hurrying down to Craike, to fall in with Martin Baynes and Blunt’s men near his home, and to be borne off a prisoner to the Stone House. He had been nigh beside himself with rage and terror, that again he should have fallen into the hands of his enemies, and be again at his brother’s mercy. “Surely,” he said quietly, as he wound up his tale, “my wits were wandering again this morn, that seeing my son I should not have known him my son, or Bradbury for Bradbury!”
Now, though our thoughts were only for my mother—to hurry away to Chelton and bring joy and peace to her heart, Mr. Bradbury would have us remain at Craike House, till my grandfather and my uncle were laid in their graves, and the old man’s last will and testament readto us. Indeed, Mr. Bradbury took proper credit to himself at breakfast next morning, that he had so far anticipated our wishes, that his coachboy and his coach and pair were already travelling apace for Chelton to bring my mother across country to Craike House. I found myself wondering whether my mother would credit the news conveyed in Mr. Bradbury’s letter; and whether she was not likely to suspect the hand of Charles Craike in it, and refuse to come to Craike House, whose doors she had vowed to me never again to enter. But four days thence she came.
That morn my grandfather and my uncle were borne out from Craike House to be laid in the grim vault which the old man had directed to be built for himself and his sons, nigh the village church where lay the bones of so many of our kin. Above the church the cliffs rose high; here he had set his rock-built tomb in the sound of the sea, and in the track of the winds from the sea; and he had placed upon its side a broad tablet of bronze, bearing the design of a ship amid great waters. All through the burial service I heard the beat of the seas on the cliff; I thought of seas and sea winds sounding through his sleep till Judgment Day.
Now if I could feel for my grandfather no love,or sorrow, I had before me always the recollection of him as he had faced the rogues and saved me out of their hands, and of the power of the will which had triumphed for the time over decay of mind and body; kindled old fires in him, and conjured up odd strength,—to break and end in death.
But on my return with my father, Oliver, and Mr. Bradbury to Craike House, my thoughts were diverted instantly to the arrival of my good mother in Mr. Bradbury’s coach. I sped down the steps to welcome her; I caught her in my arms as she descended from the coach; I led her, trembling and tearful, to the doorway where my father stood. And so I left them, and did not again approach them, till we must assemble for the reading of my grandfather’s will.
We assembled in the dining-hall; my mother seated hand in hand with my father; my cousin Oliver, dark and sullen to all seeming as ever; the girl Evelyn Milne,—into whose cheeks these past few days colour had seemed to steal, as light into her eyes. Mr. Bradbury, taking my grandfather’s chair, would have me sit by him. The change upon the house was surely marked by the windows opened wide to the light of day. The sunlight played into the room, with sweet air scented from the flowers in the garden.
Mr. Bradbury, breaking the seals of the will, spread the parchment out before him; cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. But ere he read, he said quietly, looking at my father, “My dear sir, before I read, I’d say this to you: that had you come to Craike but a few hours earlier, this will had never borne the signature of my lamented client, Mr. Edward Craike. I do assure you, sir, your father had for you a strong affection; indeed, I feel that you alone—save in the past few weeks, your son—were dear to him.”
My father bowed his head. “I do not question—I shall never question,” he said, “my father’s affection for me. Pray, sir, proceed.”
“If you had come, sir,” Mr. Bradbury went on, “you must have inherited not only Craike House and its lands, but your father’s fortune—by no means represented in the contents of that strange box—the precious stones which Mr. Edward Craike, from some eccentricity of his own, would have by him always, and which, indeed, resulted from certain—ahem—trading ventures conducted by him personally abroad—would surely have passed in its entirety to you. I say this, knowing your father’s affection for you, Richard. Such a will was framed by me before you left Craike House for London; the will was revoked by my lamented client only when youhad disappeared from England, and by no investigation could we ascertain whether you were alive or dead. The second will divided my client’s fortune between you and your brother Charles; your father was at no time assured in his own mind that you were dead; a certain resentment—inevitable resentment, I fear—that you should have deserted him wholly, dictated this later disposition of his estate. Under that will, the death of either of his sons, if proved, would have left the other sole heir to Mr. Edward Craike; and on his father’s death possessor of a fortune representing in money, in East India stock and such, and in these jewels, of not less, I should say, than two hundred thousand pounds. But Mr. Craike grew to suspect the circumstances in which the disappearance, if not the death, of his elder son had taken place.”
Mr. Bradbury paused to clear his throat, and took up the will.
“A few weeks since Mr. Edward Craike had no knowledge that his elder son had married. I myself had the supreme satisfaction of meeting Mr. John Craike at Chelton—recognising him immediately from his likeness to you, Richard—and of presenting him to Mr. Edward Craike as his grandson. Ere I left the house on his reception—favourable reception—of Mr. John, Mr. Craike haddirected me to prepare a fresh will—this will—in the terms I am about to disclose to you. He desired that his grandson should remain in this house for a month, so that he might acquaint himself with him and judge his fitness to enjoy the benefits which he then contemplated bestowing on him. Mr. John Craike was happy in commending himself to his grandfather’s favour. For this will, signed, witnessed, and sealed on the night of Mr. Edward Craike’s death, revokes all previous wills, and leaves Mr. John Craike in possession of his grandfather’s entire fortune—Craike House and lands alone passing, to be sure, in the natural order of inheritance, to you, Mr. Richard.”
And though I gasped, and my mother cried out, and my father leaned forward to clasp my hand, Mr. Bradbury proceeded to read deliberately and with an obvious appreciation of legal phrases as of dry wine. “Mr. John Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, laying down the parchment at last, “I have the honour and the happiness to congratulate you,” and shook hands with me, bowed, and sought his snuff-box.
I remember then blurting out that I’d take not a penny; that all should have gone to my father; and that all was his, will or no will, save only that my cousin Oliver and Miss Milnemust share. Oliver, though shaking hands with me, growled that he would take nothing from me; Mr. Bradbury, chuckling, avowed that as trustees and guardians, Sir Gavin Masters and he would see to it that I did not dissipate my fortune ere I attained my majority. And presently I was left with only my mother and my father by me; and we were falling to planning all that we might do with this fortune that was ours: build up the old house and its race again, and spend wisely and for the happiness of the folk about us out of the treasure which my grandfather had won in the years of his sailing.
Now I might tell our story through the years since that far sunlit afternoon, and find delight in telling. I might tell of the happiness that was ours; I might tell how my kinsman Oliver fought with the Great Duke, and of the honours that were his; I might tell how Roger Galt died by his side years after, at Waterloo; I might tell how I sailed with Nelson to his dying in his most gloriousVictory. Long ere Oliver was come back from the wars, I had quitted the sea to turn country squire, and to win Evelyn Milne, who from pale maid was grown the most desirable of brides and most adorable. I might tell—
Nay, I have set down faithfully only the story of my coming to Rogues’ Haven, and all thathappened to me at my kinsman’s hands. Ay, and the clock strikes midnight; the candles burn down into their silver sticks; through the open window of my library I see the moonlight white upon the terrace,—on the deep lawns, the flowers in the garden, even as my uncle dreamed so long ago.
His words come sounding to me from that far afternoon, when last he walked within the garden: “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.”
I think almost to hear my uncle’s laughter out of the moon-lit garden where his ghost may walk, and take delight in this white, scented night of summer.