Chapter IV: Part 4

One painting only hung within the room, above the black marble chimney-piece. It might have been a portrait of my Uncle Charles, yet if the painter had depicted faithfully the manner of the man, this cavalier wore no such mask as my uncle affected; the face was boldly evil. The sinister gaze seemed to follow me from hearth to window-seat, the head to bend forward from the rich lace collar; the jewelled hands of this cavalier in green and silver to touch the sword in menace. A hateful portrait, yet I had less dislike of it than of my uncle’s aspect; the portrait might well have revealed the soul of Charles Craike, hid in him by his smiling and composed demeanour, his distinction of person, mode and manner, even as the beauty of the body conceals the skeleton. The ceiling of my room, painted after the manner of my grandfather’s room, suggested by its riot of bodies, gold gleam of wine cups and brocades, the taste of a dead kinsman; mayhap, the cavalier over the chimney-piece had had the decoration of Craike House. Like the hangings of the bed, the tapestries upon the wall—recording the devoutness of some kinswoman by depicting the quest of the Sangreal—were riddled with moth and dull with dust. Over all the room, as over the house and the wood about it, a cloud seemed to brood; still, in the whipping of the ivy against the panes, the whistling of the wind, and the stir of the hangings, I seemed to hear the whispering voices; the gloom prevailed over the pale candlelight or the spurts of flame upon the smoking hearth. “The doomed house—the doomed house”—I repeated my mother’s words. I found resemblance between the house of Craike and my grandfather,—in the decay upon them both, the storms scored on the front of man and house; the breaking frames concealing secret sins, the end approaching. The doomed house—so from my first knowledge of it I thought of my kinsmen’s home amid the darkling wood.

And here was I to remain after Mr. Bradbury’s departure from the house that night. I had the assurance of my grandfather’s protection, against my uncle, who hated me, as he had hated my father. What was this treasure old Edward Craike had amassed that for it—surely for it—Charles should have sold his soul? Now, for the fear of losing this treasure, compelled by the threatening of an old and breaking man to hold his hand from me—his rival; the irony of it brought a bitter smile to my lips. I had no definite terror yet of the house and its folk; terror I might have on the moors, terror in the Stone House—to be done to death in my sleep, or terror in the hands of Blunt—shipped aboard his brig, for, it might be, the port of death; but here I was no more afraid of the event than a man may be afraid of life’s adventure. I understood easily that the will of one man—though this man near to dying—held in thrall the folk of Rogues’ Haven; that this will decreed that I should dwell securely in the house; I believed my uncle, for all his jealous hate of me, would not dare lift his hand further to do me hurt. The mystery of the house, even as the mystery of life to be, allured me; I was glad to be in the Rogues’ Haven, and in the company of its folk, even as I was glad to be alive.

As yet my grandfather had not addressed me directly. The fluttering ghost, Thrale, ere leaving me in my room, had said no more than that a bell would summon me to dinner; that he would then have the room properly prepared for me; and that a groom would bring my baggage over from the inn that night. I had laved my face and hands, and smoothed my hair; this was all the toilet I might make for dinner, and I was resting in a chair by the hearth when there came a knocking on my door. At my call “Come in!” my uncle entered. He stood an instant in the doorway; from my subsequent knowledge of him he had a just appreciation of the advantages of his appearance,—a superb figure of a man, even as in the niceties and preciseness of his dress and his courtly manners he bore the semblance of a gentleman. He had made a change of his dress; he wore still sober black, which he affected ever; but his coat and breeches were cut very elegantly; his linen was of a silver whiteness, and illumined by a fine diamond in his cravat; the snuff-box in his delicate fingers was set with brilliants. He made me a little bow and smiled upon me.

“Pray be seated, nephew,” he said, as I rose from my chair. “I trust that I do not intrude on your repose.”

I sought to match my manners with his own, but failed lamentably; bowing with an ill grace, drawing a chair forward for him with a clatter, and feeling myself colour to the tips of my ears, I said, “I’m not so weary for the want of rest these past few nights, sir, that I’d be sleeping now. Pray sit down!”

He sat down, lolling back in his chair, and crossing his shapely legs. “Surely between kinsmen,” he said, smiling, “frankness is natural. Your meaning is patent. Having had so little sleep through my detention of you at the Stone House, you’re weary, and would rest alone. My dear nephew, selfishness has always been my failing—indeed, it is a failing of our family. Forgive me, then, if I trespass, having a word or two to say to you. Will you hear me?”

“Surely.”

He said deliberately, “For aught that I have done to keep you from this house; for aught that I have said concerning you, your parentage and birth, I offer no excuse and ask no pardon. I am no hypocrite at least, my nephew. Indeed, I did believe, when I read Bradbury’s letter to my father, that though our blood might run in you, you could have no legitimate claim upon us. I do not question Mr. Bradbury’s assurance now”—with a hasty wave of his hand, as if to pacify my swift resentment. “You took affront—natural affront—at words of mine you overheard in the Stone House; accepting Mr. Bradbury’s assurance, I own myself mistaken. I tell you, nephew, believing as I then believed, I still would do what I have done to keep you from my father, and to prevent any marks of favour he may show you. Am I frank with you?”

“You’d have me believe so,” I muttered, vengefully.

He laughed, and made me a bow. “Nephew,” he said, “you’re here; you’ve caught the fancy of your grandfather; how long you’ll retain it I’ll not conjecture, knowing so little of you. He’ll have no hurt come to you at my hands; it is my habit to obey him,”—with a bitter sneer.

“Fearing him?” I ventured.

“As much as I fear any man,” he answered, carelessly. “It’s to my advantage to be dutiful; it is to the advantage of any man to be dutiful to a rich kinsman, as of the place-hunter to fawn upon a personage with star or ribbon. Tush, nephew, my practice is the practice of all wise men: to accept the fact, and shape myself to the fact, to seek advantage, and employ what wit I have for the attainment of it. I’m not prepared to love you, nephew; there is no need for that hypocrisy.”

“None!” I assented bitterly.

“But while my father lives,” he proceeded, “we’re to be inmates of this house. We’re to meet daily; to live our lives together; to appear in public together. It would be tedious to me that we should be for ever wrangling. Let us then be frank with each other,—hate each other, but let us not show our lack of breeding by impoliteness. John, while we’re together in this house, I am prepared to play dutiful kinsman, preceptor, friend. And you?”

For my very hate of him I could only seek to match my wit with his own. I answered, “And I, my dear uncle, am prepared to ape the part of dutiful nephew—to assume all the respect, affection, trust, I do not feel for you.”

He laughed; he rose from his chair. “We understand one another, nephew. I compliment you upon your breeding. Let us join the gentlemen.”

He took my arm with a gay show of cordiality; arm in arm we went down to dinner, as the bell was clanging through the house.

_Chapter XIX_. _Company at Dinner_

The dining-room was gloomy as a vault. The candles, burning in branching silver sticks on the white cloth, might have been tapers burning for the dead. A tapestry of flickering lights and shadows seemed to drape the room; ever and anon the leaping firelight or the waving candle-flame would be reflected from some piece of plate, or crystal, or gilded frame. I saw the colour show like blood from one great canvas. In the dimness, the servants moving to and fro in final preparation for the meal, seemed ghostly figures. I wondered that all should be old men, till I recollected Mr. Bradbury’s explanation to me of the name of Rogues’ Haven, the fact that my grandfather retained about himself his associates and servitors in the making of his fortunes.

I found my grandfather seated in a chair by the fire, and engaged in conversation with Mr. Bradbury. Mr. Craike had put off his gown for an old-fashioned coat of black, gold-braided and gold-buttoned, and a flapped waistcoat of black silk, flowered with gold; the red jewels glittered still upon his hands, and a brooch of red stones secured the fine laces at his throat. He presented a singular, almost barbaric figure in contrast to the precision of my uncle and Mr. Bradbury.

Waiving formality, all the company at dinner was assembled in the dining-room; two young folk were seated a little apart,—a girl of about my own years and a youth perhaps a year older—him I knew, by his dark likeness to my uncle, for his son Oliver, whom Mr. Bradbury had already mentioned to me; but he had not spoken to me of the girl. My uncle, leading me forward, presented me to her; I scarcely caught his words for my confusion, as I bowed awkwardly to her curtsy; but I gathered that she was his ward, Miss Milne; and I recollected that Milne was his wife’s name. I remember that I was repelled by my impression of a dark, sullen face; her black hair fell in ringlets about thin white shoulders, her lips were pale, her grey eyes seemed sunken. Her grey gown became her ill, and she wore no ornament.

My attention was claimed instantly by my uncle—“My dear John,—your cousin Oliver”—blandly making us known, yet his tone suggesting to me disfavour, if not actual dislike, for the ungainly figure of his son. Ungainly, yet built strongly, wholly lacking his father’s elegance,—his hair coarse and black, his brows black, his look sullen and lowering—Oliver Craike yet pleased me more than any of my kinsmen to whom I had been made known. I understood the sturdy strength of him for the rippling muscles displayed by the fine cut of his black clothes; his hand gripped mine with a force that was not hostile; his eyes looked as sullenly at me as Miss Milne’s. “You’re welcome, cousin,” he muttered, while my uncle smiled on us urbanely, and expressed a polite wish that as kinsmen we might be friends.

But Mr. Bradbury claimed my immediate attention; with a word of apology to my grandfather, he rose from his chair, and drew me apart from them.

“I’ll be penning a letter to Chelton,” he said. “Have you any commission with which you care to entrust me? My letter to your mother at least will be delivered.”

“No more than a message to her,” I answered, with a sudden longing for the peace and happiness of Chelton and my mother’s cottage, and for the companionship of Tony Vining. “That I’m all eagerness to return to her. That I’ll not long remain here.”

“I shall assure her,” he said, smiling at me, “that you’re safe with your grandfather, and that you’ve commended yourself to his favour, and are happy.”

“You interpret me too freely, Mr. Bradbury,” I said.

“Nay, now,” he protested, smiling. “I’m anxious only to convey to your good mother a message that may allay her fears, and set her mind at rest.” Lowering his tone, that only I might hear him, he added, “You’re safe here, lad. Your grandfather’s will is law. I assure you that you have won his favour by your looks and speech, your resemblance to your father. You will be safe; a year or so, a few months—nay, days, maybe—and you’ll be rich and free to live your life where and how you will. And I’ll be accurately informed of your condition here; I’ll be at hand.”

He broke off, observing that from the hearth my grandfather and my uncle watched us closely. And at the moment Thrale stepped forward to announce that dinner was served; my uncle gave my grandfather his arm to assist him to his chair at the head of the table. The old man presided, with Mr. Bradbury on his right and my uncle on his left; I sat with the girl beside me, my cousin Oliver frowned darkly at us from across the board.

Mr. Bradbury had prepared me for my grandfather’s wealth—the neglect and disorder of house and grounds might have served to negative this; I wondered yet at the magnificence of the silver upon the table and at the luxury of the meal. I wondered at the richness, and the fantastic design and chasing of this massy plate, at the curious goblets of crystal, as at the rare wines and meats and fruits. But I was amazed and more concerned at my grandfather’s servants—old men, old rogues—I looked on wrinkled faces, brown as with the burning of tropic suns and the lashing of tropical seas; brown hands offered me dishes and filled my glass; a sleeve slipping back from a bony wrist showed me dull blue tattoo marks; glancing over my shoulder I saw an evil brown face, and believed that the old man leered at me. All the while the girl beside me uttered not a word; Oliver devoted himself to his dinner; and my grandfather conversed in low tones with Mr. Bradbury. Not till the girl had left us silently, and the cloth was drawn, and we sat over our wine, did aught come to break the silence about me. My cousin, I saw, was drinking deeply; his face was flushed with wine; once, as he looked up suddenly, and our eyes met, he scowled blackly at me. My uncle was sitting watching his son, his look expressive of contempt; now, as if to divert my attention from Oliver’s intoxication, he leaned forward, and with a tolerable show of cordiality, bade me draw in my chair, and take wine with him.

But my grandfather broke in, “I’ve a toast, Bradbury—a toast, Charles,” and rose unsteadily, and lifted his glass in a shaking hand. Mr. Bradbury raised his glass, my uncle watched the old man, smiling; Oliver was muttering thickly to himself; I saw the old brown men watching from the shadows.

“A toast,—I’ll drink few more, Bradbury—I’ll drink few more. I’ll give ye the fortunes of our family—Charles, and the rest of ye. I’ll drink to my son Dick’s home-coming—hey, Charles—hey, Bradbury? Or, if he’s dead, I’ll have ye drink to my heir—whosoever he may be!”

He laughed harshly, and drank his wine. The stem of the crystal snapped suddenly in my uncle’s fingers; the wine ran blood-red from his white hand. Oliver burst into a roar of drunken laughter.

_Chapter XX_. _Soul of a Man_

Mr. Bradbury took his leave shortly after dinner, driving off in his coach, attended by the Bow Street runners. He was allowed no further opportunity of speech with me, my uncle engaging him in conversation; my grandfather sitting grim and silent by the fire. From time to time, I found his eyes studying me, as I sat glumly apart; his face was expressionless of his sentiment to me. My cousin Oliver had been aided from the room by Thrale on my uncle’s direction. On Mr. Bradbury’s departure, the old man went to his room, leaning on his son; and I was left alone by the fire.

The fire was burning down into coals; the candles flickered on the chimney-piece; the reflections flitted like white moths over the mirrors; else the room was draped with shadows. All about me I heard furtive sounds; out of the gloom I believed that the bleared eyes of the old rogues who served my grandfather surveyed me secretly,—this may have been no more than a phantasm of my mind, yet I could have sworn that, when the coals fell, and the red flame splashed into the well of darkness about me, I saw those wrinkled brown faces—surely burnt by the suns of the Spanish Main or the Indies. Rogues’ Haven! I was realising what manner of man was my grandfather; I was conjecturing that he had sailed across the seas in his heady youth, and grown rich with plunder.

I have a belief—it dates from the time I passed at Rogues’ Haven—that the spirit of a man is stamped upon the house in which he dwells. Surely the spirit of old Edward Craike impressed itself upon his gloomy home, and the mystery of the man was the mystery of the house. Ay, the past of our race and the past of my grandfather alike affected the ancient house, meshed in a monstrous web of dark green ivy, clouded by gloomy woods, and blown upon by melancholy winds. Now did faces peer our of the shadows at me, seated drearily by the fire? Did I hear whispering, muttering, or did I but imagine voices in the wind come up from stormy sea to the black woods, to cry about the dwelling, and moan and sigh, and to creep in by breach and crack and cranny, to stir the dusty, moth-corrupted hangings, and fill the house with secret rustling, sighing?

My uncle did not rejoin me till the night was far advanced. He came in stepping so stealthily that at the sudden sight of him standing beside me, and watching me with haunted eyes, I started from my chair, and scarcely repressed a cry. He smiled at me, but his gaiety of the early evening had passed from him; he dropped heavily into a chair facing me, giving me not a word. I watched the shadows fall about his face, as the coals blackened out, and the candles, waving in the draughts, guttered, burned down, and smoked. If a light leaped high from silver stick, I saw him white as ivory, lips twisted, eyes brooding. He looked at me malevolently at times; I understood how much in truth he hated me; how my resemblance to my father tormented him; what was the repression compelled upon him by his father.

He said suddenly, “It’s a cruel trick of fate, nephew, brings you to this house!”

“How?” I asked. “I’m not here by any wish of mine.”

“Or by any wish of mine,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “Fate, in the form of Bradbury! Odd, kinsman, that my father should be so near to death, and I who have endured him all these years bid fair to lose in these last days of his my profit on it. I’ve a notion, nephew, that in the few weeks you will remain here you’ll benefit by all I looked for. Estimate my sentiment towards you!”

“The hate that looked from your eyes a moment since.”

“A poor expression of it, nephew,” he said. “There is no look, or word spoken or written, shall reveal a man’s soul. The fellow Rousseau has essayed to reveal his soul, to be sure, and has revealed but the body of an ape. I have a philosophy of my own, John Craike,—that my soul is not my body’s own; that aught I do, while my soul is in my body, counts nothing in the score against me. If I do aught—pride myself on it or am ashamed—I need not plume myself, or fret me. For it is not my deed.”

“A comfortable creed,” said I. “It would absolve you from aught that you have done or plan to do against your brother or your brother’s son.”

“I take it so,” he answered, coolly. “Nephew, this will of mine—I name it ‘will’—is no more mine, no more controllable by me than that wind blowing from the sea, and crying out about this dreary house. The actions of our lives are inevitable as storm or summer sun. My very promise to my father to do no hurt to you, while you are in this house, is no more mine than the injury I have essayed and failed to do you. We are predestined, nephew, as surely as any hapless wretch who walked the plank, or drowned in scuttled ship, or burned with its burning—at my father’s hands.”

“I did not know,” I whispered, “the manner of his past. And do you tell me?”

“I tell you nothing that you must not know,” he said indifferently. “Rogues’ Haven—this house is but a haven for old rogues,—rogues who were young and lusty with him once, and sinned at his command. Sinned! Nay, there is no sin; there is no virtue that is a man’s own. Predestined!”—his laughter rang out over the winds that beat against the shutters—“Will you tell all this to my father, nephew? Will you seek to blacken me to him that you may profit by it? It will not change a whit his disposition to me. He is not wholly past all love or hate, though he is near to death. And lacking my philosophy, he is not past all terror. He fears death; he fears dead men who, living, troubled him not at all. He is afraid to go down to their company—their company—the maw of the worm or the fish, the decay of all who go down into the ground or sink in the sea. His soul—it never was his soul! He loved your father; he ever hated me. Till he grew old, his will was stronger than my will. My will grows stronger, nephew; I warn you my will may yet prevail over his old affection for your father, on which your hope with him rests wholly.”

“Will!” I repeated. “It accords ill with your creed, my uncle.”

“Will!” he said, laughing. “Oh, it’s no more than the force given to the wind or the wave. Predestined! If I win yet, nephew, so it is fated; not any act of yours or mine may stay it. I do not see the event. No man may look beyond the minute that is now. Nephew, I vow I saw you yawning; I prose; I weary you; I am a dull fellow,—and who would not be, living in this house?”

“No, I am tired, that’s all. I’ll go to bed.”

He caught the bell-rope, and old Thrale answering, he bade him light me to my room. The fire upon its hearth burned brightly; the bed was warm and soft, but my comfort lulled in no way my apprehension of the night. Though I locked the door and set a chair against it, I did not feel secure. Knowing myself friendless in the house, with no more than the decaying will of an old man between me and my enemy. Knowing the house peopled with old rogues, who, I conjectured, had been seamen on my grandfather’s ship, when he was young, and sinned unpardonable sins, and grew rich under a black flag. I fell to picturing him in his youth and strength—the dark ruthless face, the powerful body, the strong, cruel hands. I pictured him on the deck of his ship,—I conjured up its build for swiftness, its rakish masts, the swell of its white sails. I conjured up illusions of glittering seas, blue as the sheen on copper in the sun; a phantasm of those old rogues, withered, bloated, tottering now, as lusty with youth. Stark to the waist I saw them, their bodies muscular and brown as iron, and lithe as steel; the wicked aged faces that had peered at me out of the shadows now young, and red with drink and lust and greed; I saw these rogues now toiling at the guns,—through smoke I saw them: their hands grip cutlass, or knife, or pistol now for dish or glass or bottle. I saw such treasure, as the massy plate upon the board that night, piled on red decks with bursting chests of rich apparel—dyed silks and satins, laces; gold pieces, precious gems, even as the red gems upon my grandfather’s fingers. And I heard piteous lamentation in the wind screaming from the sea; cries of the dying and tormented in its wailing round the house, and in its rumbling above the chimney stacks the roar of guns; and the wash of waters in the sweeping of the pine and fir boughs. The dark curtains of my bed were half-drawn; when the moon shone in, I saw a black flag flying and a death’s head on it.

For my terrors, born of the evil brooding in this house, I could not rest. I fell to wondering whether my grandsire slept soundly in his bed, or whether phantoms crowded upon him, and the winds cried menace to him—an old man black with sins and nigh to dying.

_Chapter XXI_. _My Cousin Oliver_

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 he possessed 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 the _Black Wasp_ fresh 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 rings in 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 blue heaven. 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 profit by 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 my father,—he has wit enough to win. But that fellow Blunt.”

“A damned rogue!”

“Blunt and his men of the _Black 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.”

_Chapter XXII_. _The Web of Ivy_

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 first came 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. Would you 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’re young-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 think that 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.

_Chapter XXIII_. _Dying Fires_

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 the bones 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 orders now 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, and huddled 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.

_Chapter XXIV_. _The Wood_

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.