Chapter III: Part 3

Now, the grey afternoon of the fourth day, I was looking drearily out of my window, when I heard a voice calling from the gate. Mother Mag, hobbling from the house, admitted Roger Galt; he rode up, mounted on his great horse; by the flush of his reckless face and by his rolling in saddle, he had been drinking deeply. Spying me at the window, he essayed to flourish his hat, and almost fell from his horse in this endeavour. I heard him presently wrangling with Martin in the room below, the deep booming of his voice, the smash of a glass, as if he had failed to pour himself a dram, or had slung a goblet at Martin’s head. But I paid little heed to him, for my acute interest in the fellows whom Mother Mag admitted on Roger’s heels into the courtyard. Twenty or more,—sunburned seamen in loose breeches, rough jackets and red caps, a cutlass at every man’s belt; a few country folk, men and women, driving a train of laden pack-horses. Smugglers! I knew then the use of the Stone House, lonely and near the sea, and guessed how the silks and laces and brandies and what-not were secreted in its old cellars for distribution through the countryside. There rode with these folk a rakish red-faced fellow on a cob; his blue cloak, blown back in the wind, showed me his blue coat ornate with gold lace and buttons, his white breeches poked into high, mud-stained boots; he had a black hat thrust down upon his brows. All these folk, entering the yard with much sound and clatter, passed about the house, and out of view, Mother Mag following and calling for Bart. I heard from beyond the house, presently, the rolling of barrels over cobbles, the voices of the smugglers, and the baying of the hound. So Blunt was come, with his seamen and his smuggled goods; so I was soon to be handed over to him to be shipped overseas. Trembling, I waited by the window, till the grey afternoon gave place to dusk and dark, with a cold wind blowing, ever gaining strength and ever crying out around the house, as though to share in the ever-swelling tumult of the smugglers. For the quiet of the Stone House was at an end; it seemed that Captain Ezra Blunt—if the fellow with the copper-red face were Blunt—and his folk would spend a gay night ashore.

When the rolling of the barrels and the trampling of the horses ceased, I heard the company clatter into the kitchen,—Mother Mag’s voice was shrill as a fiddle-string over their laughter and the baying of the hound. Their leader left them soon to join Martin and Roger in the room below me; lying with my ear to the crack in the floor, I heard Martin address him as “Blunt.” It appeared that Galt was now lying drunk by the fire, for said Martin, “Our friend here’s been unloading an earlier cargo of yours, Mr. Blunt. Don’t mind him! Sit you down and taste a dram!”—and I heard the clink of glasses, and Blunt’s voice at first so low that I could not make out his words.

“Will you be making back to the _Black Wasp_ to-night?” Martin asked. “Mr. Craike would have a word with you at the Haven.”

I believed that Blunt answered that he had already met Mr. Craike. Martin proceeded, “Don’t let these men of yours get too drunk, then. You know what you’re to take away with you.”

“Ay, ay,” Blunt answered. “Young Craike.”

“Howe’s his name,” Martin asserted. “We’ve kept him safe for you. So don’t let your men get too drunk!”

“Oh, they’ll be sober enough by dawn,” Blunt answered easily. “If not, you and Bart can give me a hand down to the ship with him. Galt’s very drunk.”

“He’s always drunk nowadays,” said Martin. “Don’t trouble about him. But Mr. Craike surely gave you to understand that the lad was to be got aboard in the dark. He must have told you of the old fool Bradbury, and the hunt he’s making. Gavin Masters is backing him. There’s talk over at the Haven of runners down from London. We’ll be having ’em here, if Masters sets his wits to work. We’ll get the lad away now, if you’re wise and willing, Blunt.”

“I’m not willing,” Blunt answered angrily. “I’m weary to death. I’ll have supper and a bottle or more from old Mag’s cupboard, before I stir this night. Damn Craike! What’s Craike to me?”

“Your master,” Martin snarled; then, as though apprehensive of my listening, he lowered his voice; Blunt following suit, I heard them muttering together; and, drearily, I rose and sat down on the bed. I was to be taken out of the Stone House that night, and be set aboard Blunt’s ship, _Black Wasp_, and that under the very nose of Mr. Bradbury and his folk. Unless they came that night! I lifted my hands to heaven then, and prayed that they might come to the house in time, or intercept my captors on the way down to the sea. But I sat in the dark for hours, and none came nigh me; below, the carousal rose to tumult.

I heard their voices roaring a chanty; I heard drunken laughter; once I heard the sounds of strife, smash of bottles, clash of steel, fierce cries; this uproar ceasing presently, the uproar and the singing continued far into the night. All the while the wind rolled about the Stone House; when I peered out, I saw the moon, now at the full, cloud-chased; the light alternated swiftly with dark in the room, as the wind blew the sacking to and fro. Ever the smugglers rioted within, and the wind was riotous without.

Other folk came to the house in the night; at every cry at the gate I would leap to my feet, hoping against hope that Mr. Bradbury and the searchers after me were there; peering out, I saw in the moonlight only seamen come, bringing still the smuggled cargo from the ship, and country folk with teams to carry it away for distribution; the sounds of discharge and loading from the courtyard were added to the sounds of carousal in the house itself.

Not till long after moonrise did Mother Mag bring me my supper; this night, she brought a mug of steaming spirits with bread and meat; when she had set it down, she giggled shrilly at me; caught at my sleeve with her skinny claw, and cried, “Eat and drink, young master,—drink while your grog’s hot! You’re to travel far this night, and it’s bitter cold. Drink!”

Her eagerness warned me, of course, against the grog. I answered, “I’m not thirsty. I’ll not drink. Leave it there!”

She mouthed at me, and shook her fist at me; but, going out, paused at the door to shriek at me, “Whether you drink or no, master, you’re going from here to-night. Going, and never coming back!” Dragging the door to with a crash, she descended the stair.

_Chapter XIII_. _Out of the Stone House_

As the night wore on, the clamour dulled; the roisterers were surely drunken or wearied; few seemed astir. I heard the mumble of voices still from the room below me; occasionally the shred of a chanty from the kitchen; at times, the clatter of shoes over the cobbles of the yard, and the outcry of the hound. But ever the wind blew through the night, seeming to cry to me concerning great waters storm-tossed, whereon I should be sailing after this night to the port of no return. Night drew toward the hour before dawn; the moon was long since lost in massing clouds packed high against the heaven by the wind. Lord, how the wind battered at the house, making new clamour when the clamour died below; always it cried to me of storm-tossed waters,—I had this sense upon me, even when my overwrought mind growing dull, I fell asleep upon the bed, and I had the sense still in my dreams. But suddenly I woke with a start and a cry, to understand that pebbles were pattering through the bars and falling into the room, and that a voice was muttering below the window, “Young Craike,—hey, young Craike!” I snatched the sacking back, and in the grey dawn saw a dark figure perched upon a ladder, his head a foot or so below the sill.

“Galt!” I whispered.

“Hist! They may have heard the stones. Lord, how you slept! D’ye hear them stirring?”

“No! No! Help me!”

“Can you slip through the bars?”

“No, they’re set too close and firm.”

He muttered, “Bart’s sleepin’ on the stair and Martin’s in the hall. The woman’s got the key. Can you reach the roof by the chimney?”

“Blocked with brick!”

“No other way?”

“A manhole in the ceiling. If I could only reach it.”

“If you can only break out of that room, I’ll take you out of this. My horse is saddled, waiting. I forgot those bars.”

I pressed my face down against the bars and whispered, “If you could raise the ladder, we could pass it through the bars. It’d get me to the trap-door. There’s sure a way out through the old roof. And a coil of rope, if there’s one at hand. Tie that to the ladder.”

Grunting he descended; presently I saw him setting a barrel below the window, and fixing a coil of rope to a rung of the ladder. He climbed on to the barrel, gripped the ladder, and raised its head towards the window. I caught the ladder, tilted it, and presently, rejoicing, had it in the room, with no more sound than the wind should hide from the drunken rogues below. Setting the ladder against the wall, and hitching the coil of rope about my arm, I climbed, and to my joy reached easily the trap-door above me. Exerting all my strength, I strove to force the trap-door upwards. Lord, the shower of dust that descended, as the door lifted, blinded me; broken slate or brick fell with the dust, and the crash on the floor seemed fit to wake the dead. But, blindly struggling upwards, and gripping a rafter, I pulled myself from the ladder, and squeezed under the half-opened trap into the loft above my room.

An instant I lay in the dust and litter, exhausted,—the rats went scurrying all about me; I heard the flapping of birds under the roof. Struggling to my shaking knees, I forced the trap back into its place, and without pausing to listen whether the fall of rubbish into the room had roused the house, I groped forward through the blackness, my hope being that I should find a trap opening on the roof itself, or that, with the rottenness of the slates and the timbers I might break through, and coiling my rope about a chimney, lower myself sufficiently to drop to the ground. But as yet all was dark about me; a thick litter of dust and feathers lay under my feet; groping still, I touched the slanting roof, but thrusting with my hand found it yet set firmly for all the decay of the years; I believed that I heard hoarse voices without the house, or the growling of the wind upon the roofs. Creeping forward still, I rejoiced to feel a cold draught of air blow upon me, and to see pale light through many chinks. Loose slates, rotten wood, surely a decaying patch in the roof, I dared to stand erect then, though fearing that the mouldering, worm-eaten rafters would give way beneath me, and I should crash into one of the upper rooms of the Stone House.

And as I lurched up, with a crash and splintering of slates, I broke through the rotten roof; I was nigh the chimney stack; I could see the leaden gutters below me,—birds flew out in a whirl. I could see Roger Galt standing by his horse away from the house; I could hear the outcry of the hound,—none of the folks save Roger seemed astir. I wriggled out from the hole in the roof, though at first the slates cracked like thin ice beneath me; and I began slowly to creep towards the chimney stack, finding my hold in the breaks of the slates and the thick growths of moss stuck closely to them. The roof held me; but, ere I reached the chimney, the light was strong; had anyone come out of the Stone House I must have been clear to view, though the sound of the wind hid the rasping of my body over the slates. And slowly, with the wind beating upon me as if to cast me down, I brought the rope about the chimney, and, securing it, let myself slide down gradually to the gutter; gripping rope and gutter, I lowered myself over the edge. On the instant, the hound broke into furious clamour; a cry sounded below me; Martin was roaring, “Bart! Blunt! Come here! Damn you—here!”

I was swinging now down the rope; at the end of the length I was little below the gutter. At the alarm I lost my grip, and fell—by some chance into a pile of bales of smuggled stuffs that they had left lying under the wall; though the breath was knocked out of my body, and I lay there gasping an instant, I was unhurt. I started up; dropped from the bales on to the cobbles, and was staggering off; but, coming in a rush from the house, the rogues were upon me. Martin and Bart had gripped me; struggling wildly, I was borne backwards; on the instant came Roger Galt, riding thunderously upon them. His riding-whip cracked upon Bart’s head; his horse nigh trod Martin down; Roger’s great hand gripped my collar, and swung me up before him.

Martin was screeching, “Galt! You’ll hang for this! Galt! Damn you! Stop!” His pistol cracked after us, as Roger, turning his horse, set him at full speed from the house. After us they came pell-mell,—Martin and Blunt and his crew; I heard shots and their roaring voices. The gate was barred against us; swinging back under the wall, Roger Galt suddenly put his horse to it, and with a shock that almost drove my senses from me, the horse brought us safely over.

We were away then at a gallop, and the clamour from the Stone House was dying on the wind.

_Chapter XIV_. _Modesty of Mr. Galt_

Roger Galt was laughing triumphantly. He roared in my ear, “So you’ll not go sailing overseas yet awhile, John Craike, to pleasure Uncle Charles. Blunt’ll never earn his guineas for your kidnapping.”

“Thanks to you! Will they come after us, do you think?”

“There’s not a man among ’em has a horse can match mine. Save Martin! And he’ll not dare. I vow by now Martin’s gallopin’ like the devil to Craike House with the bad news for Charles.”

“Yes, and you’re like to suffer for it at Craike’s hands.”

He answered lugubriously, “Ay, I’m like to suffer for it if I remain in this part of the country. But I’ll be riding elsewhere,—when I’ve set you down. I’m not so much afraid of Craike or aught that he may do, that I’ll dance to his fiddling always.”

“Why d’ye help me now?”

“For no more than knowin’ that you’re Dick Craike’s son.”

“He was your friend?”

“Ay, friend and master.”

“You said that he’d been put out of the way, as I’d be put out of the way. What did you mean by that?”

“He was shipped overseas, I’ve heard tell.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“Whither do you take me now?”

“Come to think of it now,” he answered, laughing, “I hadn’t thought of it before. Not to Rogues’ Haven.”

“Do you know Mr. Bradbury?”

“I’ve heard tell of him.”

“He’s with old Gavin Masters—whoever he may be. Will you take me to him, or set me down on the way to Masters’ house?”

He answered uneasily, “I’ll set you down near his house. I’ll not wait on old Sir Gavin, I’m that modest, Mr. Craike. He’s a gentleman. He’s a justice—as Charles Craike’s a justice.” His laughter sounded out on the wind. “Ay, I’ll take you near enough. Get on, old horse! Get on!”

We were out then from the green cup in which the Stone House lay. Looking back from the ridge, ere the trees took us into their company, I saw the old house stand grey to the morning; I saw a confusion of figures all about it; I saw a rider dashing from the gate and galloping of apace.

“Martin!” growled Roger. “He’s riding of for Rogues’ Haven to give Craike word. I’ve a mind to cut him off.”

“Who is Martin? Bart and he are brothers, aren’t they?”

“Martin and Bart Baynes, ay, they’re brothers, both rogues, spawn of old Mag Baynes’s son Adam,—he that was transported and died some year back. Ay, transported he was, but died. Craike’s men, Mart and Bart—rogues both!”

“Where does Rogues’ Haven lie?”

“That way”—with a sweep of his hand towards the rocky uplands. “Away, with the wood all about it.”

“Why the name?”

“Didn’t you see and hear enough, young sir, in Mag’s house?”

“Smugglers—ay, and worse—is that why?”

“Ay, ay; and there’s odd tales of old Edward, how his money come—” but he broke of—“I’m not forgettin’ you’re the old man’s grandson.”

“Forget that I am, and tell me.”

“There’s odd tales. Maybe he made his fortune in the East, like any India merchant. He came as honest by it as many another, I’ve no doubt.”

“You mean dishonestly. What was my grandfather?”

He answered, laughing, “A gentleman of fortune, folk say”—and galloped on through the trees and out upon the open moorlands.

Seated before him in saddle, with nigh as much discomfort to me as when he had borne me on to Mag’s farm in the night, I fell to pondering over the mystery of old Edward Craike. How had he come by his money? Mr. Bradbury would never tell me, fencing me delicately; Roger Galt would not, but “gentleman of fortune”—it might mean buccaneer, freebooter, pirate, as Henry Morgan or many another. Ever my mother’s words recurred to me, “the doomed house”—“ill-gotten wealth”—the thought of her hate of Charles and terror of Rogues’ Haven. And the name and the company old Edward kept? Howbeit, I should know soon. When once I was safe with Mr. Bradbury, and the justice Sir Gavin Masters, and the thief-catchers from London. And how would my uncle take all this, and what should be his punishment, after his plot against me-defeated by this gentleman of the road whom he had vowed to hang, if he should play him false, as Roger Galt had played him!

But my thoughts were yet all awhirl, even as my body was jolted and jarred before Roger Galt on his great black horse, as now putting his mount to its full speed he galloped over the moors. He descended at last on to a rough and broken road, striking back, as nearly as I might guess, for the highway on which Mr. Bradbury and I had been intercepted. And, suddenly, rounding a bend in the road, we came face to face with four riders, at the sight of whom Roger pulled up abruptly—to snatch a pistol from his holster, loosing his hold upon me, and muttering, “Jump down! Quick! I’ll not stay!”

They came onward riding swiftly, as I dropped stiffly to my feet. Roger Galt, with a wave of his hand and a cry, “Good day to ye, lad,” turned his horse and was off at a gallop, ere I understood who came and why he fled. And standing in the road, I swung round to meet the riders. I saw Mr. Bradbury come riding swiftly through the morning; beside him a stout gentleman in a scarlet coat as flushed as his jovial face; after them two hard-looking fellows, who, by their grim visages and rigs, I took for the runners whom Mr. Bradbury had called down from London.

Mr. Bradbury, with an exclamation, pulled up beside me; but the red-coated gentleman, roaring, “After him! After him! There’s Galt! There’s our man!” set spurs to his mount and galloped apace down the track, with the two fellows clattering after.

Mr. Bradbury dismounted stiffly; hands outstretched, he came to me, crying in that shrill voice of his, “Why, Mr. Craike—my dear sir! My dear sir!”

“Good morning, Mr. Bradbury,” I answered, as he took my hands. “I’m glad to see you.”

“But where in the devil’s name had they hid you? With whom were you riding? He had cause to fear my friend here, Sir Gavin.”

“He’s Roger Galt. He took me out of Charles Craike’s hands, when he held me prisoner in a farmhouse away on the moors miles from here.”

“Galt! A notorious fellow. Highwayman! There’s a price on his head.”

“Yet my father’s friend and mine. I’m safe through him. But for him I should be aboard the ship of one Blunt, smuggler—may be worse; oh, it’s been the prettiest of plots, Mr. Bradbury, and I’ve the wildest of tales for you.”

“So!” he said swiftly. “So! Charles Craike thought to trick us, and you’ve tricked Charles Craike. By heaven, he’ll answer for this—by heaven! My dear sir, I’ve hunted high and low for you. Charles Craike denied all knowledge of you. Old Mr. Edward would not lift a finger. Lord knows and I guess the story our precious gentleman has told him of you. But I’ll lay Charles Craike by the heels yet.”

“Mr. Bradbury,” said I, “your friend here and the runners follow after Galt. I’d have no hurt come to him, for through him, and him only, despite Craike, I’m here and safe ashore. Not that they’re like to take him,” as I stared up the road and saw the riders pulling in, while Roger vanished from view. “Charles Craike has sworn that Roger Galt shall pay for this; I’d not have your friend there play Craike’s part, and set his hands on Galt.”

“I’ll have a word with Sir Gavin,” Mr. Bradbury assented. “Not that ’twill count, for Sir Gavin is set against the fellow, he’s been swearing indeed, for all I might say to the contrary, that not Charles Craike but Galt was responsible for the outrage upon us.”

“You took little hurt from your fall, I trust, Mr. Bradbury.”

“Little save a bad shaking. I was afoot almost at once. And must step it every foot of the way to the village—there’s a tolerable inn there, whither I’ll now lead you, Mr. Craike.”

“And what then?” I asked.

“Why, surely, we’ll proceed to wait upon your grandfather, sir.”

“Unless my Uncle Charles plans otherwise.”

“Nay, we’ll ride thither this afternoon, sir, if you’re rested and well. But the runners shall go beside our coach, lest Mr. Charles Craike still desire that we shall not meet your grandfather.”

_Chapter XV_. _The Doomed House_

That afternoon I drove with Mr. Bradbury to my grandfather’s house, and the two thief-catchers rode beside us. The house stood at a distance of five miles from the little village that looked down upon the sea; from the inn window I had caught sight of Blunt’s brig already putting out. It was an ancient dwelling of the Craike family, that my grandfather, enriched by trade in the East, Mr. Bradbury now assured me, had set in repair for his habitation.

For all the outrage of my imprisonment, Mr. Bradbury would have me keep a secret from old Sir Gavin Masters my detention in the Stone House. Let it remain a secret, and let the scandal be hushed, he insisted, until we had had our interview with my grandfather. I had an uneasy suspicion that he believed the old man himself implicated in the plot against me, or at least feared his resentment at interference with a crew of smugglers, with whom he and his son were associated. Committing my cause to Mr. Bradbury, I pleaded exhaustion; left him to tell what tale he would to Sir Gavin, and kept my room until the hour of our departure from the inn. I contented myself with insistence that Roger Galt should have due credit for returning me to safety, and should not be held guilty of the sins of Charles Craike and his rogues. What tale Mr. Bradbury told, I knew not; as we drove away, he gave me to understand that Sir Gavin had relinquished the search after Roger; I assumed that the justice himself would not welcome an open breach with the smuggling fraternity—with whom, indeed, I took it from furtive whisperings and black looks at me, the folk at the inn—as, no doubt, the fisher-folk at the village—were in league.

But what was my grandfather’s share in the plot of my kin against me I conjectured bitterly. Mr. Bradbury observed that my uncle had established great influence over the old man; that, indeed, the one thought and acted habitually as the other. But he was bent still on my presentation to my grandfather, as if he hoped that Mr. Craike might take a liking to me, and my favour with him counteract the influence of my Uncle Charles. So, cleanly-clad, well-dressed once more, I sat by Mr. Bradbury in his coach, and proceeded with him to Craike House, as if none of the events of the Stone House had happened; indeed, my curiosity to learn what manner of man was my grandfather prevailed for the time over perplexity and dread.

We drove always within sound of the sea, though it was hid from our sight for the most; our way taking us over an old stone road; but at times, where the cliffs were broken, we saw the waters grey and leaden still for hanging clouds; the violence of the wind had abated, yet it blew keenly; always the tang of the sea was in my nostrils. Our road struck at last from the sea inland; we were driving soon through a deep wood; this was unbroken, ere we came to iron gates in an old brick wall. A woman, coming out of the gate-keeper’s cottage at the sound of coach and riders, stared at us through the bars, but at the sight of Mr. Bradbury’s head poking out of the window, and at his curt order, “Open the gates, woman. Mr. Bradbury to see Mr. Craike!” she unlocked and opened the gates, staring at us as we passed by. I saw her for a big woman, as nut-brown as a gipsy, and as vivid in her red shawl and green kirtle; a swath of orange-coloured stuff was about her black hair. We drove on, and the runners clattered after us. Looking back, I saw the woman run into the cottage, and reappear presently with a bearded fellow, rubbing his eyes sleepily; I saw the glint of big rings in his ears, his rig of wide blue breeches and red-striped shirt,—both remained staring after us, till the trees hid them from us. The coach rolled on through a park, ill-tended, overgrown, a very wilderness; green darkness dropped about us till we came in sight of Craike House.

It stood amid tall pine and fir trees—a sombre, dreary house; the ivy holding it in a green net, webbed across shuttered windows, climbing to the very leads, and gripping the chimney stacks. An ancient, crumbling house,—I had a notion that but for the ivy it must fall in ruins to the ground; a house of gloom from the dark ivy—the evil green ivy, with the black pines and fir trees all about it, with weeds and tangle of flowers before it, where once had been rose gardens; with nettles and lank green grass upon its lawns. We drove up, seeing no one; we pulled up before the flight of stone steps leading up to its door,—steps worn by rains of centuries, and by the feet of generations; steps guarded by stone dragons, wingless and earless from their years, their eyes blinded and their jaws stopped with green moss. Sombre and secret stood the house amid the black cloud of pine and fir trees; I saw the black clouds lower above it; I heard the winds cry out about it; the old trees strain and sigh, and toss their boughs like arms, in lamentation or in terror for the house,—the doomed house, where my kinsmen dwelt. Afar I heard the drumming of the sea against the rock-bound coast. I had a curious shapeless notion—prescience—that even as all the evil of the house—the ill-gotten fortunes of the house—came from the sea, out of the sea should retribution—vengeance—come.

Mr. Bradbury bade the runners and the coach-boy wait for us. Taking my arm, he climbed the steps with me to the door; its oak was bound with iron in fantastic pattern, and studded with copper nails; the knocker was of copper in the form of a satyr’s grinning face,—and all this copper was corroded, and the green stained the door as the evil green of the ivy stained the front of the house. Mr. Bradbury raised the knocker with difficulty; though it clashed heavily, it failed to bring response from the house; whispering to me, “I’d have thought Charles would have been keeping a sharper look out for our arrival than this,” he knocked double knocks, until the clank of a chain and the screech of bolts sounded within. The door opened, and an old man stood blinking out at us—an old man, his clean-shaven face shrivelled and brown, and his eyes palely blue; his white hair was powdered, and his suit of black on his bent and withered body as neat and precise as his linen.

“Mr. Bradbury, sir,” he quavered.

“Your ears are not as sharp as they might be, Thrale,” said Mr. Bradbury, drily. “Pray, open the door to Mr. Craike and me, and tell your master that we have the honour to wait upon him in obedience to his wish.”

Thrale answered in that shaking voice of his—though his eyes looked keenly and wickedly at me, “To be sure, gentlemen, to be sure! Pray step inside!”—and opened the door slowly into the hall. It was a dark and gloomy vault; ere old Thrale closed the door, I caught a glimpse of a hall panelled all in oak, of canvases mouldering in mildewed frames, and of a wide black stairway opposite the door, leading up into darkness. If fanlight above the door or windows at the head of the stair should have lit the hall, all light was kept out by curtains, shutters, or netted ivy; the darkness of night fell with the closing of the door.

Mr. Bradbury, grasping my arm hurriedly, cried out, “Gad, how dark and cold this house is, Thrale! I’m not prepared to take my death of a chill waiting here till you announce us to your master. Go ahead of us, man, and show us into his room immediately—d’ye hear me?” He adopted a tone of brusque good humour, though well I understood his apprehension of what might yet befall me, if we were left standing in the dark. The dark hung mysterious all about us; I could feel cold draughts of air; I believed that I could hear furtive whisperings and footsteps, doors softly opening and closing, hangings waving; all this might have been the wind without. Certainly I heard Thrale chuckle behind me, as he locked the door and fixed the chain; he answered Mr. Bradbury, “As you wish, sir.”

“Strike a light, Thrale,—d’ye hear me?—a light. I’ve no mind to break a leg or my neck in the dark! A light, Thrale!”

“Certainly, sir,” Thrale’s answer floated back to us, as he flitted away in the dark.

“Why, damn the fellow, he’s leaving us after all,” gasped Mr. Bradbury. “Thrale, you hear me? Thrale! Come back, man!”

But there came no sound save of the whisperings, gliding footsteps, rustlings of hangings waving in the dark, or of the ghostly wind that seemed to haunt the House of Craike. Mr. Bradbury’s left hand grasped my arm; I understood that his right groped in his coat pocket for his pistol. The impress of the blackness and gloom of the house was upon me, while I had good cause to dread my uncle’s plotting; I stood straining my eyes and ears in the darkness, imagining that figures advanced upon us in the dark. Mr. Bradbury drew me back against the door, muttering, “By the Lord, if the old rogue’s not back presently, I’ll take upon me to make a dash for the stair and force my way into the master’s room.”

But he was silent, as a glimmer of light showed through the darkness. Thrale was returning, carrying a silver candlestick; his face was villainous and livid in the pale light.

“Where the deuce have you been, Thrale?” cried Mr. Bradbury. “Didn’t you hear me call after you?”

Thrale answered quietly, “I asks pardon, Mr. Bradbury, sir. As you said, I don’t hear as well as I might. I’d flint and steel to find,”—and stood blinking at us, with the candlestick lifted high in his bone-white hands.

A skeleton’s hands—mere bone—they seemed to me, as the old rogue, at Mr. Bradbury’s peremptory order, lit us up the stairs. The glimmer of pale light, the lime-white head, the bone-white hands, the silver candlestick, seemed from his noiseless movement to glide before us. From the head of the stair wide galleries led off to right and left and before us,—galleries shrouded with dark tapestries. I saw rusty armour standing against the walls. I kicked against a pile of tumbled mail as the old man flitted before us by many fast-shut doors down the corridor to the left. He paused at a high black door, the glimmer of the candle showed me grotesque carvings and tarnished gilding upon it; he rapped smartly on this door with his bony fingers. No one answering, he opened the door, and swept aside the thick green curtains hanging before it.

The room revealed was high and wide; only a pale green light crept through the diamond panes of its two windows stained by the mosses of the years and netted with the ivy. For the time I had no eye for its furnishings, but only for the figure in the carved black chair by the fire. He was an old man; he had been of great stature and strength, his bulk was supported now by faded purple cushions. He seemed to prop himself upon the arms of his chair; his wide, brown hands were stained with red jewels; I had an uneasy fancy of blood-smeared hands. His clean-shaven face was very broad, bronzed and congested, his brows were framed in white hair tumbling about his immense shoulders; his eyes were coal-black beneath ash-grey brows. His whole aspect suggested decaying will, as his body decaying strength. A quilted gown of green and gold-brocaded silk was corded about his middle; his bent legs were cased in black silken breeches and hose; his shoe buckles were set with smoke-blue jewels; an ebony stick rested by his chair.

“Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, stepping swiftly forward and bowing politely, “I have the honour at last to present your grandson—Mr. John Craike!”

_Chapter XVI_. _Old Mr. Edward Craike_

It may have been only the leaping flame upon the hearth, but it seemed to me that colour rose to the old brown face, and that light burned in the coal-black eyes. An instant only, and his aspect was hard and grim. He did not offer his hand to Mr. Bradbury or me; he seemed still to prop himself upon the arms of his chair; he said, in tones curiously rich and full for so old a man, “You wrote to me, Bradbury, and Charles answered you at my dictation that I would receive you.”

“Well, we are here, sir,” said Mr. Bradbury, easily.

“And you are here! You know me well enough, Mr. Bradbury, to understand my wishes. I do not welcome your visit. I felt bound only to receive you and hear you. Why have you come?”

Mr. Bradbury, standing forward, sought his snuff-box, and made play with it; the cold jewels shining white upon his fingers, his eyes hard and keen as his diamonds. “Mr. Craike,” he said, “our interview with you should surely be in private. Is there any need for Thrale to remain?”

“Set chairs, Thrale, and I’ll ring for you—if I need you. Is Mr. Charles in the house?”

“No, sir,” answered Thrale, his malignant look marking resentment against Mr. Bradbury. “He’s abroad.”

“If he return, tell him to come to my room. Set chairs—damn you! Set chairs! Don’t stand there like a candle in a draught. Like to be blown out any minute—eh, Bradbury, eh?” and passed from sudden passion to loud laughter.

As Thrale set chairs by the fire for Mr. Bradbury and me, I found the opportunity to look about the room. It was lit by those green panes dully for the lateness of the afternoon, and by the leaping flame. It had been a rich, ornate room; I saw dull gold and faded colours in some sombre painting upon the ceiling; faces on the walls—portraits of gloomy folks much of the aspect of the grim old man looking across the green-veined marble hearth at us. A panelled room with heavy tapestries corrupt with moth and grime, with heavy furniture dark with age, a huge four-poster with black silken curtains, black presses, black table; pale gleam of crystal and silver upon a sideboard, old books in a high case. Only a Persian carpet by my grandfather’s chair and his garish gown and gems lent rich colour to the room; all else was gloomy, tarnished, faded. Gloom—surely over all the house was gloom; surely the wind beating on the windows, moaning and sighing, was burdened with a tale of sins; surely a sense of evil brooded in this room,—where sat old Edward Craike to think of life drawing near to death,—to think, maybe, of punishment for years of sinning. For on the face was scored a record of old sins and dead passions; its aspect was evil; the lips were merciless; the brooding eyes, from the sudden blazing wrath at Thrale, could burn with an unholy fire. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood,—I could feel for this old broken man no pity, no affection. I found myself conjecturing only that these eyes would face death—surely so near him—courageously, as an intrepid voyager’s looking on uncharted seas.

Thrale, stepping noiselessly, withdrew.

Mr. Bradbury leaned forward swiftly. “Now, sir,” he said, “I ask you to listen to me patiently.”

“Go on, Bradbury!”

“I ask you to remember your affection for your son Richard—such affection as you have not felt for any other being.”

He said heavily, “Why recall the past, Bradbury? What is the past but a voyage I have made, and come from with an empty hold?”

“Ay, surely,” assented Mr. Bradbury, taking snuff and smiling. “You have a gift of melancholy, Mr. Craike.”

“Bradbury, you speak to me as no man dares to speak.”

“You permit me,” said Mr. Bradbury quietly, “to speak frankly to you, knowing me your friend, Mr. Craike, and honest in my dealings with you. As your friend—as your son’s friend—I am here. Mr. Craike, you’ve sailed over the world in your day; you’ve suffered shipwreck; you’ve been cast away. What would you not have given—even you—to have had with you upon the desert isle you’ve told me of, one of your kind—one of your blood?”

“Allegory, Bradbury?” he said, impassively.

“Allegory, surely! Seeing you sitting here alone—knowing you all these days alone, as surely as were you on your desert isle, longing—as any human being must long—for kith and kin, for friend, at least for one of whose companionship—affection even—you might be assured.”

“You mean this lad here?” in unaltered tone.

“Who else? Look at this lad! Frame a picture in your mind, Mr. Craike—your son Richard’s—set Richard’s likeness and this boy’s side by side. And will you say that this lad seated here is not, feature for feature, colour of eyes and hair and skin, in body, manner—your son, Richard?”

My grandfather said slowly, “Richard was as all our race. The lad is Richard look for look. What is it to me, Bradbury? My son was never wed.”

I felt my cheeks burn; ere Mr. Bradbury might restrain me, I started up, and facing the old man, cried out, “And there you lie! If I be the son of Richard Craike—and that I be I care not—no man shall question or deny my parents’ honour, take their name lightly. You hear me,—you lie!”

He did not stir in his chair; his aspect was unchanged save that the light seemed to burn up in his old eyes. He said coolly, “The lad is Richard’s son, Bradbury.”

“And rightly resentful of your words, sir,” cried Mr. Bradbury, snapping his snuff-box.

“Bradbury, don’t try me too far. You are at liberty to go at once—with Richard’s son.”

“Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, leaning forward in his chair, and looking intently at my grandfather, “knowing you—your sense of justice—I dare to tell you, as the lad has told you, that you lie. Your son was wedded nineteen years back to Mary Howe—you will recall her.”

“Surely—serving-woman to Mrs. Charles.”

“He was wedded to her in London, after Charles and his wife, understanding Richard’s passion for her, had driven her from this house. Their enmity pursued her—from house to house, employment to employment. She was in London—destitute, nigh starving—when Richard, returning from the Continent, sought and found her. He married her in London—nineteen years since, Mr. Craike, nineteen years since. He lived for several years with her in London under her name of Howe, earning his living honestly, not communicating with you and taking nothing from you. He disappeared ten years or so back. Mr. Craike, the agency that robbed you of your son; that took him from his wife and child, that shipped him out of England or hid his body in the ground—for whether he be alive or dead I cannot tell, even as you—I do believe to be the active enmity of your son Charles—his jealousy of Richard Craike, his elder brother and your heir.”

And now at last I saw the cruel lips part; and now I heard the old man gasp and mutter to himself; I saw the red flash upon his shaking hands; I saw his eyes burn up, and flame from Bradbury to me.

“Mr. Craike,” Mr. Bradbury proceeded, “the proofs of this marriage—of the boy’s legitimacy—are in my hands.”

“You have these proofs with you?”

“Mr. Craike, would I be such a fool as to bring them here? Would Mrs. Richard Craike entrust them to me, coming to this house? We have them and we hold them.”

“Fearing me?”

“No! Fearing your son Charles. With cause, sir, with bitter cause! And hear this, sir, we should have been here days since—would have been—but for your son. His agents waylay our coach; his agents carry off the boy and gaol him in the Stone House you may know of. Ay, and would have shipped him overseas with Blunt—smuggler, freebooter—what is he? All this, all this,—to keep the lad from you, sir, while you sit by your fire alone—alone!”

“You’ve proof of this? I have no knowledge of any plot?”

“Proof! Am I fool or trickster, Mr. Craike?”

“I do not think you fool or trickster, Bradbury.”

“Look on this boy: his likeness to your son Richard. Knowing your son Charles, think at what he would stay to keep him from your sight.”

He said deliberately, “I know my son Charles even as I know myself. I am no censor, Bradbury. Charles would have kept this lad away from me, say you? Fearing lest he commend himself to me and profit by it; take more at my death than by the law he must inherit. Money and jewels—knowing on what I have my hand. What of it, Bradbury? Had I been Charles; had I desired to keep my brother’s son out of my father’s sight—for such a reason—I would have done as Charles has done. Only, I was bolder in my day than Charles. Enough, what is all this to me?”

“Yet Charles has failed,” said Mr. Bradbury, grinning, “and you will profit by it, Mr. Craike. Do you love Charles?”

“You need not ask that, Bradbury.”

“And you loved Richard. You should favour Richard’s son. Alone—I said of you—alone, with thoughts—and terrors.”

“Had the sea ever terror for me, Bradbury, or peril, or the dark? What terrors now?”

“Mr. Craike, you are a man, and the unknown after death is terrible to men. Except they have a faith that you have not. Unhappily!”

“I have no faith, or fear.”

“Oh, if you be prepared to sit alone in your last years,—face death alone,” Mr. Bradbury said earnestly, “I appeal still to what was human in you—love for your son Richard. Let your heart turn to Richard’s son.”

“What purpose would you serve?”

Mr. Bradbury did not answer, but was taking snuff, and coldly regarding my Uncle Charles, who had drawn aside the curtain, and was standing in the doorway.

_Chapter XVII_. _Creed of Mr. Charles_

He stepped forward—a handsome, smiling gentleman of middle age, his face ivory-white, his white hair held by a black ribbon, his dress as precise as Mr. Bradbury’s, but set off by his shapely body. He wore no jewel; he had no touch of colour on him, save the red line of his lips and the cold blue of his eyes. He bowed with a courtly grace to Mr. Bradbury; he vouchsafed me the merest lift of his brows.

Mr. Bradbury met him with an equal composure. “It’s as well that you came here, Mr. Charles,” he said. “You formed the subject of our conversation.”

“Indeed,” he answered, indifferently, and, pulling forward a chair, he seated himself beside his father. “I am happy to believe, sir, that you’re prepared to speak of me as freely in my presence as in my absence.”

“I am to take this as your permission, Charles?” asked Mr. Bradbury, smoothly.

“Why not?” my uncle asked, smiling.

“Well, then, I have introduced this young gentleman to your father as your brother’s son, John Craike. I have already informed your father of the steps you took to prevent his arrival at Craike House.”

“My sole concern,” said the gentleman, carelessly, “is that I failed.”

“You admit your culpability?” asked Mr. Bradbury, meeting him with an equal composure.

“Culpability! Pray, your snuff-box, Bradbury—I haven’t mine by me. Thank you!” leaning forward and taking a pinch. “I admit no culpability, my dear Bradbury.”

“It is, to be sure, merely a question of phrase,” Mr. Bradbury conceded, drily. “It is enough for me that you failed. Admitting this, then, do you admit equally your responsibility for your brother’s disappearance from England?”

I saw my grandfather lean forward in his chair, his hands now gripping the ebony stick; the movement was not lost upon my uncle.

He answered swiftly, “That, Bradbury, I deny wholly. You are well aware of my affection for my brother, and my natural grief at his disappearance.”

“Well aware,” said Mr. Bradbury, with some show of anger. “And well aware, Charles, that if you were responsible, you would not dare to admit this before your father, knowing his actual affection for your brother as for no other being. Yet you admit before him your culpability—your guilt—in regard to this young gentleman—your brother’s son. Understanding that Mr. Edward Craike here takes a—shall I say tolerant?—view of many things that others,—I,—that the law of England regard as crimes, Charles Craike—as crimes punishable with the utmost rigour.”

“Really, Bradbury, you grow prosy,” Mr. Charles protested.

“You impose upon our friendship, Bradbury,” the old man muttered.

“Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, “would you have me make-believe to you of all men? Your son attempts to put away his brother’s son. He admits his guilt coolly—with effrontery, and you say nothing! I expected you to say nothing. But by his denial of his responsibility for the disappearance of Richard Craike from England, Charles here proves this to me—his realisation of your love for his brother, and the certainty of your righteous anger and his punishment, if it could be proved against him.”

“Bradbury! Bradbury!” Charles Craike murmured, smiling; but for the first time I saw a show of colour in his face, and a tightening of his lips.

“The lad,” persisted Mr. Bradbury, “is Richard’s son. Legitimate! Be silent, Charles”—as the gentleman, with a bitter exclamation, started from his chair. “Don’t think that I, of all men, would come here, present this lad to Mr. Craike as his grandson, unless I were in possession of irrefutable proofs—that Richard Craike was married to Mary Howe, and that the boy is the child of that marriage. Nor would I have brought him to this house, but that I realise, as fully as I understand aught of Mr. Craike—that the best of Mr. Craike—his natural affection—was given wholly to his elder son.”

Mr. Bradbury leaned forward, eyeing the pair keenly. Charles Craike, impassive now, sat back in his chair; the old man had lowered his eyes, and now it seemed at last was moved and trembling; the ebony stick in his grasp clattered upon the hearth.

“I hoped,” said Mr. Bradbury, “to offer my client a little happiness in his last days. If I could not give him back his son, at least I could give him his grandson—look for look, colour for colour—the image of his son.”

Now my grandfather’s eyes burned suddenly upon me; now he leaned forward in his chair; colouring and confused, I sat staring at him in turn. He muttered then, “Bradbury—these proofs!”

“The proofs are in our possession, sir. Necessarily, I could not bring them to this house.”

“Ay, but proofs, proofs—your bare word.”

“Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, disdainfully, “when have you ever had occasion before to question my probity?”

My grandfather was silent; again his eyes were cast down; the ebony stick in his grasp did not cease to clatter on the hearth. Charles Craike sat silent. Mr. Bradbury, snapping his snuff-box, rose from his chair.

“That is all I have to say to you, Mr. Craike,” he said, quietly. “I beg you to give this matter your earnest consideration, realising that at least the boy is the heir of Craike House, and realising that it is in your power to enrich him from your private fortunes as surely, sir, you would have enriched your son.”

I wondered at the composure of my Uncle Charles. He had risen with Mr. Bradbury, and now stood leaning against the chimney-piece, his face revealing nothing of the rage which surely racked him.

“I beg to take my leave of you, Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, bowing to my grandfather. “Come, lad!”

But as I started up, glad enough to be away, the old man’s cane smote heavily upon the hearth. “The lad,” he growled, “stays here, Bradbury!”

“Mr. Craike, were you alone in this house,” said Mr. Bradbury, swiftly, “nothing could give me keener pleasure than that your grandson should remain with you. But Craike House is Craike House, and the lad goes with me.”

“He stays here!” cried the old man, with sudden stormy anger. “Damn you, Bradbury, he stays here!”

“Mr. Craike, I am answerable for the lad’s safety.”

“Really, Bradbury, really!” Charles deprecated.

“The lad will come to no hurt in this house,” the old man said, and his eyes blazed suddenly at Charles. “You hear me, Charles? No hurt shall come to him! If hurt come to him,—if, in defiance of me you seek to injure him, and separate my son’s son from me, as they took my son from me,—look to it, Bradbury, that no concern for me, and no desire further to keep the secrets of this house, shall stand between my grandson’s enemies and justice! Justice, Bradbury! The boy stays here. You remain to dine with me, Bradbury. There are affairs.”

Smiling triumphantly, Mr. Bradbury bowed.

“I am honoured, Mr. Craike,” he said; and with a flourish, offered his snuff-box to my Uncle Charles, who accepted a pinch, maintaining an ineffable composure.

_Chapter XVIII_. _Compact of Tolerance_

An hour thence I sat in the room which was to be mine while I remained in Craike House, and to which the shadowy Thrale had conducted me. It was a great bed-chamber, its windows overlooking dark woods and hills, and afar through the dropping dusk the leaden greyness of the sea. On entering, I had hastened to throw wide the casement, regardless of the coldness of the wind, but seeking by its freshness to dispel the thick, dead mustiness of the room. A gloomy chamber—the fire smoking on the hearth, the furniture of old dark oak, a great four-poster hung with sombre green silk, presses like tombs, the mirrors, so dull with damp, neglect and age, as scarcely to reflect the pale gleam of the candles, which I had lit against the approaching darkness.