Chapter V: Part 5

My uncle, since his father’s advanced years and decay pointed to his speedy death, had torn himself away from the diversions of London and society, of which he was adjudged an ornament. Penniless, while he played devoted son, he had established an advantageous understanding with Blunt and his folk, who would alternate long voyages to America and the Indies, on Lord knows what nefarious traffic, with running smuggled stuff from the Continent to the English coast. That my uncle fretted under the yoke of duty manifested itself daily in his covert sneers at his father; the chagrin of Charles, my grandfather remarked to me, had lent a zest to living.

The days I spent in Craike House passed dully and without noteworthy event. I did not lose my dread of the house in the night; the impressions of my first night under its roof abated in no way, but the good-humour of my uncle, the servility of Thrale and his fellow-rogues, the companionship of Oliver, and the sports which I shared with him, lent me a confidence which was to prove groundless. I passed much of my time in playing chess with my grandfather, in reading to him from old voyagers and romancers—of whose works he had by him a great store, or in listening to his narrative of his own sailings, which, if incomplete, gave me a portrait of him by no means calculated to advance my affection for him. Yet that I advanced daily in his favour was patent; my uncle masked his chagrin under a bland demeanour, and a display of the graces and accomplishments which surely rendered his absence deplored by society. But though my grandfather assured me of protection, and though my uncle professed a truce, I would have been wise to follow my first inclination—not to remain under the roof of Craike House, as I shall now relate.

One morn, a month, I should say, from my coming to Rogues’ Haven, my grandfather informing me, through Thrale, that I was free to pass the day as I pleased, I bade Thrale unlock the door for me, and passed out of the house. The gold sunlight lay upon the garden; if it dispelled for a time the gloom, it emphasised the disrepair of the old house, the ivy climbing to the chimney stacks and lacing the windows; a few it had obscured wholly. As I looked up, I saw the sinister face of Mrs. Barwise looking from a high window; she bobbed back instantly. I estimated the covert hostility of the rogues of Craike House; and, having a certain apprehension of walking abroad unarmed, I took out my knife and speedily fashioned me a heavy cudgel. I went down then by a flight of stone steps into the old sunken garden to the right from the house,—steps crumbling and green with moss, and overshadowed by a tangle of roses and honeysuckle, descending into a cool depth which had been laid out once in ornate flower beds and lawns, but was now overrun with fox-gloves, prevailing through their sturdy strength over other flowers. Yet the air was sweet with the white-starred jasmine over the crumbling walls, shutting the deep garden from the old plantation, which had become a dense wood.

Once paths had curved to the sundial at the heart of the garden. The dial was broken and corroded now; a bramble had caught it in its claws; sparrows fought and chirruped upon it in the sun. Arbours had become thickets; through the broken wall I saw the wood go deep, but the sunlight struck through the trees upon a path among tall grasses and flowers spilled from the garden.

I climbed the broken wall and sauntered down the woodland path, taking delight in beauty, and presently departing from the track, passed down to left into a deep glade—silver and green in the sunlight; the dew was not yet dry on fern and grass. And suddenly I saw the girl Evelyn Milne,—she sat upon a fallen log, moss-grown and bramble-clustered. Her head was bare; her bonnet lying on the turf beside her; she sat bent with her hands clasped at her knees—a picture of melancholy and loneliness; yet the sun found the glossy sheen in her dark hair, and the whiteness of her neck and hands. At the crack of a stick under my feet, she started up, and stood regarding me with sullen eyes. I swept off my hat, but she offered me no greeting.

I stammered, “I ask your pardon, Miss Milne. I did not think to disturb you.”

She looked about her hurriedly; leaning towards me then, she whispered, “Now you’re out of the house—away from them all, why not go on and on through the wood, and never return?”

“You mean,” I said, staring at her pale face, at her white hands fluttering at her bosom, “it would be safer for me, that I’ll never be safe in the house?”

“I mean—it doesn’t matter what I mean. Only, were I you, and had any friends away from here—were not alone as I am alone—I’d go. I’d never return.”

“Miss Milne,” said I, “I do assure you that I’m not afraid. Why should I run away?”

“Afraid!” she whispered still. “You’re only a fool. You’re only a boy. Your life’s before you. Why would you stay? Hoping to profit, and be rich, when that old man is dead? Is that why you’d stay? There’s no price that’s worth your life—to you. Why did you ever come to such a house, or, knowing them for what they are, remain?”

“They are my folk,” I muttered, thinking her—from the wildness of her look, the sudden fevered shining of her eyes, the ceaseless fluttering of her thin hands—distraught from the terrors of the house; recalling how, day after day, she sat by me at table, uttering not a word, and addressed by no one; going then from table to be seen no more, till the next meal was served. She had been no more to me than a pale grey shadow in the house of shadows.

Nor had I felt in her more interest than to ask Oliver carelessly how she spent her days; and he had answered, “Hid in her room for the most, haunting the garden; she’s lifeless, bloodless, the wraith of a maid.”

“They are my folk,” then, I muttered, staring at her.

“Your folk! Are you as they?” she whispered still. “You think only of the money the old man has, and care not how ’twas come by. You’ll smile and fawn on him—that man, that evil old man—as his son smiles and fawns. Knowing—as you must know—”

“The manner of man he is, and the manner of the men about him? The danger I’m like to meet? Miss Milne, I’m not afraid. They failed once; do you know that?”

“I know—yes, I know. They failed once; they’ll not fail again”—suddenly leaning forward clasping her hands, peering at me with wild bright eyes, and whispering, “Go! Go now ere it’s too late. Go! and take me with you from this house—this wicked house!”

I was silent, and stared at her, colouring; thinking her surely mad—such the wildness and terror of her look; as realising, she seemed to struggle to control herself; facing me white and quivering, she said at last more calmly, “Mr. Craike, I hear so many secrets in the house. I have lived here so many years—so many lonely years, and am so little accounted, that they do not heed me, or care, if I hear many things that, if they feared me, I would not hear and know. Knowing—I do beseech you, do not stay within the house! Oh, let no thought of loss, if you offend your grandfather, prevail with you! Go!—ere it is too late!”

I said, standing clumsily before her, no longer meeting her look, “Miss Milne, you ask me to assist you. I know—surely by now I know—the house is no house for a maid; I’ll aid you to leave it. Have you no kin or friends out of the house?”

“No kin, no friends. I have lived in this house since I was a little child. No friends within the house; none in all the world.”

“I’ve a purse of gold,” I said. “I’ll give it to you. With it you may make your way to London and seek out Mr. Bradbury. With this message from me—that he conduct you to my mother, who will befriend you. Come—here’s the purse. I’ll go with you through the wood. You may take a coach from the village inn and drive to London. But I stay here.”

She drew back from me. She whispered, “No! Go now, and take me with you! How should I find my way to London alone, or seek out this man Bradbury, or your mother? I have lived nigh all my life in this house; I am afraid. Go with me!”

“Miss Milne, I must remain,” I said.

“For money?” she said, with scorn; but I answered, “Think that if you will. For adventure, for a promise.”

“It’s like to end in death,” cried she, and drew back from me.

“Well, then, what have you heard?” I asked.

“Plots! Plots! What use to tell you, if you will not heed me? If I tell you, will you go from this house? Will you take me out of it?”

“I do not say I’ll go. But I’ll help you, surely!”

She looked at me with her eyes now dark and sullen; bitterly she said, “I’ve given you warning. I’ll not tell you more. Why should I tell you aught I know? What do I know of you save that you seem a boy—a fool—and not yet lost as they. Though coming of their stock—”

“I do assure you,” I stammered, “I—”

She burst out, “Stay—if you will! Stay! And yet I warn you.” She slipped from me, and vanished like a wraith into the shadows of the wood.

_Chapter XXV_. _Insistence of Captain Blunt_

Now attempting to follow Miss Milne, and have further conversation with her, I found myself presently in a wild tangle of the wood, so that I had much difficulty in forcing my way through it. Not finding her, bramble-scratched and moss-stained at last I reached the wall, and followed it down, thinking to find the breach by which I had left the garden. But as I approached it, I halted suddenly, hearing voices from the garden; and, knowing them for the voices of Blunt and Martin Baynes and my uncle, engaged in an unseemly wrangle, I rejoiced that I was still hidden by the creepers hanging over the wall.

Blunt was growling, “Ay, ay, you’ve given me to know you’ll be rich, when the old man’s gone. You think to lay your hands then on the spoil he’s piled up and held all these years. Ay, but the old man’s alive, and I’m sailin’ again with never a penny of profit to me.”

“And the lad’s come to the old man,” Martin broke in, “and by all saying he’s likely to have every penny, and you not the colour of a farthing. What d’ye say to that, Mr. Craike? what d’ye say?”

My uncle answered disdainfully, “You get nothing from me. You’re a pretty pair of rogues to come and threaten. I trust you, Baynes, to hold the rogue and you to take him aboard, Blunt; and he slips through your hands. I wonder at your audacity.”

“Fine talk!” cried Blunt; and Martin burst out, “You’ll pay nothing! Will you not? What if I go to old Sir Gavin? What if I give him the tale? He’d listen and he’d set you by the heels, as gladly as he’d set Roger Galt. Though you’re one of his kind—”

“You have it,” my uncle assented, “one of Sir Gavin’s kind. Do you threaten me, Martin Baynes, you, for all the repute of the Stone House and Mistress Baynes and her grandsons? Are there not strange tales of the Stone House—of travellers lost on the moors? Of a pedlar whose dog was heard wailing at the gates of the Stone House, as dogs wail for their dead masters? Do you threaten me, Martin Baynes? And you, Blunt? Did you never sail further than the coasts of France? Did you never plunder an English ship? Were you never more than smuggler?”

“Never more,” cried Blunt, “than Edward Craike, and never so much.”

“A gentleman of fortune,” said my uncle, “a voyager born a hundred years and odd after his time. Tush, that my father profited by his voyages is nothing, Blunt; he plundered no English ships; if his men spilt any blood, it was not English.”

“Barwise in his cups—” Blunt began.

“Barwise is just such a besotted fellow,” cried my uncle, “as should pitch you the tale you’d wish to hear, Blunt. Now ere you two presume to threaten me, think who’ll believe you? If I sought to keep John Howe out of the house, and have him shipped overseas—what of it? What should this count against me save with a few virtuous fools to whose praise or blame I am indifferent? D’ye think I’ve no credit with His Majesty’s Ministers? D’ye think that the Town would ever regard me as other than a man of birth and fashion? What if there be rumours of my father’s past, or scandal against me? Your words would avail you nothing. But you, you rogues; the word from me would hang you both. Tush, when you threaten me, you’re fools.”

“We want no more than payment,” Blunt growled.

“That I’d not have to give you, if you’d earned it.”

“There’s money in the house,” Blunt urged. “There’s plate. There’s talk of a great chest of gold and jewels.”

“I would,” said my uncle softly, “I might dip my hands into it.”

“D’ye not know of it?” Blunt asked. “D’ye not know it’s talk among all the folk of the house that the old man hid the richest stuff he ever took?”

“I do not know this, Blunt—upon my honour.”

“And I know,” Martin struck in, “that whatsoever the old man has is like to go to his grandson. And that the old man’s threatened you, if you so much as lift a finger against the boy, he’ll not spare you. I have it from old Thrale.”

“Tush,” said my uncle, “I’ve listened too long, my friends. Your threats do not perturb me. I hold the cards, not you. I know nothing of such a chest. Pray, go! Well for you to be sailing, Blunt. Sir Gavin is no fool, and the _Wasp_ lies off the coast too long for your security. And well for you, Martin Baynes, to be sailing with Blunt; you’re idle; you’re mischievous; you’d be well away.”

“Ay, and the lad?” Blunt asked. “Would you have him sail with us yet?”

“I have no preference.”

“Ay, but if you knew he was safe aboard, and sailing with me—not for France, for pickings in the Indies—would you find me the hundred guineas then, Mr. Craike, ere I sailed?”

“I should find one hundred guineas with ease,” my uncle answered. “I suggest nothing, direct nothing—have no share in any plot against my nephew. Yet if I knew—and none here knew—that he was safely under hatches, Blunt, I’d pay this hundred guineas ere you sailed.”

“He’ll be out of the house this night, aboard by the morning,” Blunt vowed.

I heard my uncle’s light laughter; I heard him humming a tune as he walked away. Blunt and Martin came scrambling over the wall, and not detecting me hidden under the creepers, tramped away through the wood.

_Chapter XXVI_. _Sir Gavin Masters_

Now for a space I lay hid under the wall, having no mind to enter the garden and meet my uncle, but seeking time to review the perils threatening me, and the steps by which I should avoid them. I believed that Blunt, ere he made his offer to my uncle, had already planned with the old rogues my removal from the house, and that of this the girl Evelyn Milne would have warned me. I thought first of going immediately to my grandfather and of laying the plot before him; having with me always the thought of the broken figure, of the will striving ever to prevail over decay, I could perceive little hope from such a course. Had Miss Milne faced me now; had she appealed to me to take her out of the house, and escape with her to my friends, I should have hesitated not at all; my concern for myself urged me to instant flight; yet I was no such coward as to take to my heels, and leave her friendless in a house of which she had expressed such terror. I could devise no better plan than further to search the wood for her, and if I failed to find her, proceed to seek out Sir Gavin Masters, tell my tale to him, and urge his intervention and protection for us, and his immediate communication with Mr. Bradbury. I marvelled that one so acute as Mr. Bradbury, knowing the character of the house and its folks, and the peril I must encounter, should have thought fit to leave me at Rogues’ Haven.

I remained hid under the wall, till Blunt and Martin should be well away; crawling back then to the wood I sought the girl as best I might, fearing to call her name, lest I bring my enemies upon me. Failing, I forced my way out of the old plantation; struggled through a ditch; climbed through a sunken fence, and muddy and torn with brambles, sought the road by which Mr. Bradbury had brought me to Craike House.

It was now toward noon of a clear day; the wood was green about me; the sunlight and the sense of freedom after the terrors of the close old house restored my spirits speedily. I had a certain compunction at my flight—leaving the girl, and, indeed, my grandfather, old and broken, among the covetous rogues. I told myself that I should save them better by reaching Sir Gavin Masters, yet I could not rid my mind of the thought that by running off in fear of Blunt I played the coward. So much at last this thought concerned me, that even on the very bank above the road I stood irresolute. Not yet was I resolved when the sound of hoof-beats made me cower into the grass, for fear lest any of my enemies should ride that way. Peering through the covert, I saw a stout red-coated gentleman mounted on a cob; with joy I recognised Sir Gavin Masters. He paused below me, sheltering his eyes with his hand against the sun, he was staring up toward Craike House, whose chimney stacks alone showed above the wood. As I rose out of the grass, he uttered an exclamation; his hand sought the pistol in his holster.

“Sir Gavin,” cried I, “don’t you know me—John Craike?”

“Aha, Master Craike—aha!” He laughed and touched his hat with his whip. “What are you doing here, lad? Walking abroad?”

“Seeking you, Sir Gavin. Asking your help and advice. Purposing as soon as I may to seek Mr. Bradbury in London.”

“Oho, not liking the house and the folk in it,” drawing in by the bank, and beckoning me to him.

Standing beside him, I saw that his face, which I had thought dull as worthy Mr. Chelton’s, was marked by a certain strength and intelligence; his eyes watched me shrewdly. He muttered, “So you’ve had trouble, lad! You want advice from me and Bradbury. Well then!”

“Mr. Bradbury being now in London—” I began.

“Mr. Bradbury,” he laughed, “is no further away than at my house. That’s for your ear alone. He’s within your reach whenever you may have need of him.”

“I’ve need of him at once,” I said, overjoyed.

“Must you have speech with him?” he asked, “or is it a word that I may carry to him?” I looked at him doubtfully; he went on swiftly, “Mr. Bradbury made no mention to you of his association with me, I being newly-appointed justice of the peace for these parts, and bent on enforcing His Majesty’s laws, and putting an end to a variety of evil-doings. I’m well-informed of Bradbury’s wishes. It’s his wish that you remain at Craike House. You’re running away. Why?”

“Having overheard a pretty plot to put me aboard Blunt’s ship and get me out of England. Fearing—ay, fearing though you think me a coward, sir, to stay in the house with never a friend.”

“Young Oliver! You’ve been riding abroad with him; you were swimming in the sea with him this morn. You seemed friends.”

“You saw us, sir?”

“Some of my folk. Oliver’s your friend?”

“Yes, my friend, but—”

“I tell you this, John Craike,” he said, impatiently, “if you’ll believe me and trust me and my folk, knowing that Bradbury’s within reach, you’ll go back to the house. I promise you none of the rogues in the house’ll do you hurt, while old Mr. Edward lives, and I promise you Blunt’ll never take you out of it or ship you aboard. For Blunt’ll never sail.” He spoke now in low and earnest tone, his eyes keeping a sharp watch, as if apprehensive lest any overhear or see us together. “Hark ’ee,” he said, “go back! It’s well that you stay to profit by your grandfather’s fancy for you. Take my assurance for it, lad; my plans and Bradbury’s are surely set; they’re one and the same. Take my word for it.”

“Ay, but the old man’s near to dying,” I said, doubtfully.

He muttered, “So! Bradbury gave me no word of it.”

Rapidly I recounted the nature of my interviews with my grandfather, his orders to his servants, his collapse on that first morning, my belief that his reason tottered,—all the whispering menace of the rogues about us. I told him of my uncle’s conversation with Blunt and Martin, and of the warning from Miss Milne.

He heard me attentively, his brows frowning. He said at last, “Ay, ay,—and for all Bradbury’s plans it’s high time to make an end—high time! But first I must have a word with Bradbury. Will you go back this day assured that speedily you’ll hear from us?”

I answered, “If you’ll have it so, Sir Gavin, surely I’ll go.”

He dipped his hand into his holster; drew out a pistol; and handed it to me swiftly. He took a little bag from his pocket, and muttered, “The barker’s loaded. Here’s powder and ball. In case you need it, lad. You go back!”

I answered, “Yes, I’ll go back, and I’ll remain till I hear from Mr. Bradbury and understand his wishes.”

He said, “I promise you you’ll hear from us at once, lad!”—and as I plunged up the bank, he turned his cob and rode off rapidly.

_Chapter XXVII_. _Suspicions of Mr. Charles Craike_

It was afternoon when I climbed back through the breach in the wall and dropped into the garden. I had noted, as I went through the garden that morning, an arbour overgrown with honeysuckle; in the sunshine now it was a pavilion of gold and green. I was hurrying by this arbour when I was startled to hear my uncle’s voice.

“Nephew!” he called; and, turning, I saw him in the arbour, lounging indolently on an old garden seat of marble, yellow with age and stains; his arms outstretched along its back; he seemed bloodless, ivory-white, in the green shade.

“Nephew!” he called again, and beckoned to me. Much as I feared and hated him I obeyed him. He smiled benignly on me; observing my colour and the disorder of my dress, he asked, “Why, nephew, nephew, into what mischief have you been straying? You’re too old for boyish pranks, and I assume too young for philandering.”

I answered, “I’ve been walking in the wood.”

“The wood!” he repeated. “You’re gaining confidence in us, John. A week or two since and you’d not have had the courage to stir from the house. And yet the wood is none too safe, nephew.”

I answered boldly, “I agree with you, sir. For example, I chanced upon two rogues, Blunt and Martin Baynes.”

Maybe my tones confirmed the suspicions he had formed when I came scrambling over the wall. He said drily, “You mean more than your words, John. The encounter should warn you not to walk in the wood, or yet ride down to the coast with my son. Mayhap, Oliver is no more than a decoy”—his lips curling.

“I do not think it of my cousin,” I said.

“Oh, I’m happy to have your assurance, John. You look to find a friend in Oliver. And yet I should not think it, John. My lad’s well enough, but rough, uncouth; I fear he does me poor credit. How he passes his days I know not. He’s dissolute; you’ve observed him with the bottle.”

He broke off, as wearying of the theme; he looked languidly over the sunlit garden to the ivied walls, “Here’s the very wreck and ruin of a great house, John!” he sighed. “I have a notion—nay, since your coming I have it not—of shaping order out of chaos. Here in this garden, with a book on such a sunlit afternoon; but here, with delightful arbours, trim walks and plots of flowers,—a fountain playing silver! Mark that old fountain, John—the form of it, the seamaids who support the sea-green shells; the fountain’s dry; the lovely shapes of bronze corroded. Or the designs on this pale marble: see where the moss grows green in these delicate designs of Italy. The sun-dial where the sparrows chirp—why, here’s an enchanted garden, John, where time stands still, as in the old wives’ tale. Ay, see the hedge of thorns grows all about the castle! Time stands still! Nay, ah nay! I’d picture, John, the garden in the days when the second Charles was King of England. Why, I have looked from my window of a summer night, and I have seen the ghosts walk in the garden, as it was, and I have known the beauty and the colour and the laughter of this garden and this house, as once they were. I have thought of the beauty of Craike House restored, the greatness of our race—ah me! Here am I, penniless son of—Mr. Edward Craike; penniless parent of—Oliver! I’d tell my hope to you, John Craike, that, if you win, you yet may care to carry out my own ambition.”

He had spoken earnestly; while his fine, melancholy voice sounded, I did believe him,—knowing him for a rogue. His mood did not endure. He laughed, and eyeing me, he said, “So you’ve progressed, my friend, in the favour of your grandfather. So you’re a master in the house, and his retainers take their orders from you as from himself!”

“He did no more than insure me against insolence,” I answered uneasily. “You’re well served, my uncle!”

“Oh, I am!” he conceded. “To be sure, the woman Barwise came raging to me that morning. They’re servile to you, nephew, are they not? Thinking my father not yet in his dotage! And yet he is so near to breaking.” His eyes held mine; he said quietly, “Nephew, I’ve a proposal to you, more than truce—alliance. Liking you!”

“As you’ve surely proved, sir!”

“Yet hear me out,” he said. “You stand in favour with your grandfather. But you’re no fool; what should you say would happen, were the old man’s wits to go wandering, or were he to die, suddenly, as old men die, if they be fortunate? How should you fare at the hands of all these rogues, John?”

“Or at your hands?” I muttered.

“Or at my hands! I compliment you, nephew, on your wit. Or at the hands of Blunt, or Barwise? This old man so near to dying or to dotage, nephew! I put this to you.”

“Why, I’d suffer no more,” said I, “than Mr. Bradbury would speedily call you to account for.”

“A lonely house,” he muttered, “so near the coast. And none save old Sir Gavin within miles of us. Should we not work our will with you, and set our fingers on what’s hid in the house, and be away—in France, or whither in the world we would—ere Bradbury might lift a finger.”

“What’s hid in the house!” I repeated.

With sudden impatience he cried out, “Ay, what’s hid in the house! Why not be frank with me, nephew? You know this—Bradbury knows, as I—there’s in this house more than a moiety of all my father ever took on his voyages. There’s treasure in this house, about this house; and one man knows where it is hidden. And one man knows, and this one man may die, or his mind grow dark, and he forget, and it never be known. You know of the existence of this treasure, nephew, this secret hoard of his—and yet you lie to me!”

Unguardedly I answered, “I’ve heard no more than a talk of the treasure.”

“When? From whom?” he took me up instantly, and his face was livid, and his eyes were two evil gems. “This morn! Surely you heard this morn. Talk near the wall there. Or do you know from him?”

I said coolly, “I’ll tell you nothing.”

He mastered himself; he lay back on the seat; his lips sneered at me. “I would have made alliance with you, nephew,” he said. “I would have shared with you—as kinsman. I would have offered you security. Ay, I offer it now.”

I answered deliberately, “I’ll have no dealings with you. None!”

“Nephew,” he said, with mock severity, “I abhor duplicity. I confess myself mistaken in you. Pray go! You stand between me and the sunshine!”

I swung upon my heel and left him. I heard him humming his little tune as I climbed the steps.

_Chapter XXVIII_. _Spilt Wine_

I passed the remainder of the day in my room with a book. Now I have since found agreeable entertainment in the works of Mr. Fielding; but though I had before me _The History of Amelia_, I heeded little of aught I read. I had good cause for reflection. That I was yet in the old house; that all about me were my enemies; though I had Sir Gavin’s assurance no hurt should befall me, I yet dreaded that steps would be taken to spirit me away, and Blunt, having laid hands on me, would elude pursuit. I looked for Mr. Bradbury’s arrival; Mr. Bradbury did not come.

None came nigh me; my grandfather did not summon me to his presence. The day closed clouded; the darkness of the sky and the rising wind promised storm to follow on the sunshine of the day. At dusk, Thrale came with lighted candles; but for the warmth of the evening I bade him leave the fire unlit. I made my toilet hurriedly for dinner at the clangour of the bell through the house; secreting the loaded pistol in my tail-pocket, and praying God that I should not sit upon it forgetful, I went down into the dining-hall. My grandfather, leaning upon his son, entered ahead of me; he gave me no word or nod in greeting. I stood apart with Oliver, and Evelyn Milne, who did not glance at me or speak to me; Oliver seemed to have returned half-drunken from the alehouse in the village, whither he had ridden that day.

Regarding my grandfather, as his son assisted him to his chair, I saw with apprehension that his face was livid; his eyes were dull and heavy; the rubies blazed upon his shaking hands. And from the gloom behind his chair the old rogues watched him. I heard them mutter and whisper among themselves; I knew that the sickness so plainly on my grandfather could not be lost even to their dull eyes and wits. The girl was whispering by me, “He’s sick! To death! Had you but listened to me!”

I paid her no heed. I set myself to my meal; seeking by exercise of will to hide my perturbation from my uncle, whom I saw watching me with eyes triumphant and malignant. The old man sat staring before him. The tapers waved in the draughts of cold air. I know not what my grandfather saw in that pale light or in those shadows seeming to dance a wild dance all about us, as the ever-rising wind beat on the house, and found its way into the room by chink and broken pane. I had a prescience that death was in the wind that night; that the dead from the deep called him at last to be of their company for ever.

My uncle essayed gay conversation; the old man sat beside him like the very figure of death; he uttered not a word; he would have lifted a glass to his lips, and the spilt red wine dyed his mouth and hands. As the glass broke upon the board, my uncle, with assumed concern, said in a loud, clear voice, as if to be assured it reached the ears of all the rogues, standing peering from the shadows like so many carrion crows. “You’re sick, sir! Shall I aid you to your room?”

He cried out angrily, “I’m well! I’m well! Another glass!”

Thrale, filling a glass, handed it to him; I understood from the working of the old man’s face and by the sweat upon his brow the bitter struggle of the breaking will to assert itself. My grandfather lifted the wine to his lips, and sipped a little of it. He sought then to eat, but ate nothing; he sat stiffly in his chair, until the girl had gone like a pale ghost from the room; and the cloth was drawn. She cast a look at me, as I rose at her departure; and there was terror in her eyes,—as there was terror in my mind. For the ending struggle of the old man’s will and body, for the clamour of the winds about the house, for all the faces peering malevolently from the dark, for the ghostly dance of lights and shadows; always the cold draughts struck in and set the candles flickering.

My uncle, filling his glass, invited me to take wine with him; Oliver was drinking heavily. “A glass of wine, nephew!” cried my uncle, gaily. “A glass of wine with me.”

My grandfather muttered suddenly, “Do you make a play for me, Charles?”

“Make a play, sir!” Charles repeated. “Forgive me. I am dull. I do not understand you.”

“Ay,—do you pretend friendship—affection, for—for your brother’s son, or your brother, sitting over there?”

My uncle, looking at me, cried out in amaze, “My brother, sir! My nephew, surely!”

“Nay! Nay!” the old man insisted, testily. “Your brother!”

“The lad, sir?” Charles faltered.

“The lad! Damn the lad! Are you blind, Charles? Are you blind? Your brother sitting there!” His shaking hand stole out; he pointed not at me, but at the empty chair beside me, “Your brother—Richard!”

And now my uncle’s triumphant look had fled. Now staring fearfully, now in turn shaking, he whispered, “Sir, you’re sick! No one sits there. Pray let me aid you from the table,” and rose and offered his hand.

The old man thrust it from him, and pointed still. “Sick! Are you drunk, Charles, that you do not see? Richard!”

“Sitting there!”

“Ay, sitting there! Would you have me think him a ghost, Charles? Would you have me think him dead?”

“I pray not!” my uncle whispered. I saw that he was ashen, and stared at nothing wildly, as the old man stared at nothing, pointed at no one. Suddenly my grandfather lowered his hand; the light seemed to die out from his eyes. He sat mute and stiff; his fingers with the red gems flaming upon them gripping the board. My uncle lifted his glass hastily to his lips.

“To whom would you drink, Charles?” my grandfather muttered. “What toast?”

“Surely your health, sir! Your health!”

“You lie!” he roared, and started from his chair. An instant I saw him standing with the aspect of a madman upon him: the rush of blood to his dark face lent him the appearance of youth; his right hand was raised high. A moment I saw him—surely I saw him—for the manner of man he had been.

He clutched at his breast, cried out; and fell back in his chair.

_Chapter XXIX_. _Intervention of Mr. Bradbury_

At the immediate confusion and rush of figures I started up to assist my uncle; Thrale and his fellow-servants were before me. My uncle cried out, “Stand back, nephew! Stand back all of you; let him have air!”—and the crowding of the old men about the chair withheld me from my grandfather. So the event held me that I was insensible to other sound than the gasping of the old man; I caught a glimpse of his face, livid and sweating, as his head rested against my uncle’s breast; his eyes were agonised. I saw Nick Barwise thrust the old men aside; supported by him and my uncle my grandfather was aided from the room, while the old rogues fluttered and squeaked and gibbered about him. As they led him past me, I realised that Evelyn Milne was back in the room and was plucking at my sleeve and crying in my ear, “Are you deaf? Are you daft? Hark to the knocking on the door! Why don’t you bid them open?”

And I heard the clashing of the knocker and the beating on the door above the wind, as if death or the devil came in the storm, and clamoured for admission. I heard my uncle crying out, “Keep the door fast! No one comes in this night!” I stood confused, hoping that the knocking told the arrival of Mr. Bradbury at the house, and dreading lest Blunt and his rogues were come to take me openly and violently; still the knocking sounded over the beating wind. The old men, crowding out after my grandfather, muttered and laughed in wicked glee, that surely at last the end was come. And only the girl and Oliver and I were left in the room with the candles casting their ghostly lights upon us; and the weird shadows, dancing all about us; always the gale cried out about the house; the heavy, steady knocking sounded on the door.

“Who should come?” the girl cried to me. “Who should knock so? Your friends—have you friends like to come? Or friends of Charles Craike and the folk within the house?”

Dazed yet, but calling to mind Sir Gavin’s promise, I said, “I think my friends—I hope—I’ll go and open the door!”

“No, no!” cried she. “Stay here in the light! You’re safer in the light. I’ll go!” and instantly sped from the room.

With my back to the fire, and my fingers set upon the pistol, I stood and looked at Oliver; he sat at table still, seeming drunken and insensible of the old man’s sudden sickness, the tumult of the storm, the knocking at the door. But his dull, tragical, young eyes meeting mine, I was amazed to hear him give expression to my first fantastic thought, “Death and the Devil knock! They’re come for him! Hark!”

The door from the hall swung open. I saw the faces—the old brown faces and the evil eyes of the rogues; I knew how they hated me; what shift I should have at their hands, if but the word came down that their stricken master was dead. I heard them gibe and mutter; I heard the woman Barwise’s voice cracked and shrill, “Ay, he’ll not lord it over us. No longer! Ay, by the Lord he’ll not!”—but her sudden scream, “Who’s that? Who let you in?”

Mr. Bradbury cried out from the hall, “By your leave, Mistress Barwise,—by your leave!”

At this I rushed to the door, and met him thrusting his way among the crowding rogues. He came in calm and trim, flinging back his cloak, and drawing off his gloves. He gave me his hand, and exclaiming, “Ah, my dear sir!” demanded, “What’s to do here? What’s all this chattering and clattering? Why am I kept waiting at the door on a night like this? What’s to do?”

“My grandfather!” I gasped. “Sick! Dying maybe—”

“So!” he said, swiftly, and an instant I saw perturbation in his look. He had not come alone. I saw three tall fellows, great-coated armed with bludgeons, standing in the doorway, and at their back the malignant, baffled faces of the rogues. The two runners and a third fellow—a huge figure, vaguely familiar to me, though he was muffled about his jaws, and kept his hat tilted over his nose, so that I could not see his face. Oliver lay back in his chair, seeming sodden with drink.

“Thrale!” cried Mr. Bradbury, “Mistress Barwise—some of you!”

The woman, pushing her way forward, stood before him, her arms akimbo, demanding, insolently, “Well, sir—well?”

“Announce to Mr. Charles Craike my arrival. Tell him that I require to see him at once. At once! D’ye hear me?”

“Hoity-toity!” cried the woman, bridling. “Who are you to be orderin’ me?”—but quailed and recoiled before Mr. Bradbury’s sudden darkling anger.

“D’ye hear me?” Mr. Bradbury repeated. “D’ye understand me, baggage? At once!”

“What is this?”—and my uncle, seeming to have been summoned on the admission of Mr. Bradbury and his men, stood in the doorway.

“Ah, my dear sir!” Mr. Bradbury exclaimed, stepping forward, his hand outstretched.

“Mr. Bradbury,” said my uncle coolly, “your coming’s most inopportune!”

“I realise it,” Mr. Bradbury agreed readily. “Most inopportune!”

“My father’s sudden seizure! He’s nigh to death.”

“My profound sympathy, sir, with you in your natural grief. My profound sympathy! Pray conduct me to him!”

“Mr. Bradbury, you assume an extraordinary air of authority,” my uncle protested. “My father cannot see you.”

“Authority!” said Mr. Bradbury, coldly. “My dear sir, I take my authority from my clients. I take it from Mr. Edward Craike. I am here to act at once in his interests, and in the interests of my client here, Mr. John Craike.”

The gentleman faced him, and barred his way. He said, “I regret, Mr. Bradbury, that you cannot see my father.”

“And I say to you, Mr. Craike, that I insist on seeing him.”

“By gad, sir, you insist! Will you force your way to him, dying?”

“I ask you, sir, to spare me the necessity. I am here this night by Mr. Craike’s desire, expressed to me on my lash visit. His business with me, he instructed me, would be of supreme importance.”

“I tell you he’s near death.”

“Who then?” said Mr. Bradbury, with a wave of his hand, “should give orders in this house except his grandson and heir?”

I heard the mutter of voices and the shrill, crackling laughter from the door; I saw my uncle’s eyes blaze at me like gems; the woman Barwise glare at me and clench her hands in her skirts. I took my cue instantly from Mr. Bradbury. “And I,” I said, “insist that Mr. Bradbury accompany me at once to my grandfather. Come, sir!”

My uncle looked upon me; the mask was lifted; and all his hate of me was revealed upon his face. I took a candle from the shelf, and signed to Mr. Bradbury to follow me. I thought that Charles Craike would bar my way, or strike me down, or cry out to the rogues not to let me pass; to my amaze my uncle stepped aside with a contemptuous bow.

“Bid your men follow us!” I said to Mr. Bradbury; so we went out among the rogues in the hall, and up the stairway and by the gallery to my grandfather’s room.

“Wait here,” said Mr. Bradbury to his men; and opening the door, drew back the curtain and stepped with me into the room. My grandfather, wrapped in his gown, lay in his chair. He seemed the very figure of death; the candlelight and the dancing fire showed his face livid; his eyes staring at us were anguished; no one was with him except Thrale, who held a glass. My grandfather’s hands gripped the arms of his chair; the sweat dripped from his face. All the while the lamenting winds were beating on the windows, the curtains of the bed were waving; the flickering lights and shadows dancing a ghostly dance about the room. His voice came gasping. “Bradbury! Ah, not too late,—though death’s crying out for me this night.”

“I am here,” said Mr. Bradbury simply, “somewhat ahead of the appointed time, Mr. Craike. I have with me the document drawn in accordance with your instructions. I ask but your approval and signature, sir. Go, Thrale! Your grandson, sir, must not remain.”

“Nay, bid him wait outside the door. Go, lad, go!”

I went out after Thrale, and Mr. Bradbury locked the door upon me. I waited in the corridor with the three fellows standing grim about me. I wondered that presently Mr. Bradbury should summon the two runners into the room, leaving me with his third attendant. I heard the tempest battering upon the old house, and shuddered for the deathly chill of the corridor and for the shadows seeming to cower beyond the radius of the candlelight. The tall fellow by me was growling presently at my ear, “D’ye not know me, master? Roger Galt, as got ye out of the Stone House. Didn’t think to see me here, did ye? ‘Set a thief to catch a thief,’ says Mr. Bradbury. Hist!”

_Chapter XXX_. _Not Yet_

But ere I might question Roger Galt, I saw my uncle come swiftly out of the darkness of the corridor; remarking me holding a candle high he gave me not a word and only a malignant glance, and without knocking he would have thrust open the door. But Mr. Bradbury had turned the key; and the gentleman turning to me, his face revealing his rage, though his voice was smooth, he said, “So, nephew, though you’re heir of Craike, you permit Bradbury to lock you out in the cold! What’s the gentleman’s business then?”

“Business at which he’d not have you or me disturb him,” I answered.

He assented, “Ay, no doubt! But would he keep me from my father’s death-bed?”—and knocked angrily upon the door.

Awhile Mr. Bradbury paid no heed; my uncle, knocking repeatedly and failing to obtain an answer, drew away from the door; and, mastering his choler, said quizzically to me, “Well for you, John, you’re telling yourself, no doubt, that Bradbury and his hinds found their way into this house to-night. You’re bidding fair to lose your guardian and protector—eh?”

“Well for me,” I answered, “as you know, sir.”

“And does Bradbury think to keep me shivering here?”—he was beginning, but ceased, as Mr. Bradbury unlocked the door.

“Your pardon, Charles,” said Mr. Bradbury, smoothly, “but my business with your father was private and particular. Pray step in! Your natural anxiety may be allayed. You’ll find Mr. Craike much easier in mind and body,”—smiling blandly, and ushering my uncle into the room. The thief-catchers coming out, he bade them await him. “Pray step in, Mr. John,” he said to me, laying his hand upon my arm, and leading me in at my uncle’s heels.

My grandfather lay in his chair; though he was ghastly of look, and his body was propped up with cushions, his sweating had ceased; his eyes, if dull, were sane and steady. My uncle, looking down on him, assured him, “I’m happy to see you better, sir! Shall I ring for Thrale? Were there a physician within miles—”

“No! When I need Thrale, I’ll ring,” the old man answered huskily. “But hark ’ee, Charles, hark ’ee”—seeming to labour with his speech, his hands shaking on the arms of his chair.

“I listen, sir,” said Charles.

“Ay, that’s well! You thought me broken, Charles!”

“I am so much relieved that—”

“Oh, ay! We’re all liars, Charles! I promise there was a pretty to-do, when I was taken sick.”

“The natural alarm of your old servants.”

“I picture ’em,” he croaked, chuckling, “thinking me dying. Plotting mutiny, and robbing me of what I have; thinking to lay hands on what they’ve itched for all these years.”

“Sir, you agitate yourself unnecessarily,” Charles protested. “Let me ring for Thrale to help you to bed.”

“No. I’ll have the boy by me. Richard’s son. Hey, Bradbury, you’re going and will soon be back?”

“Immediately I have carried out your instructions, Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury.

“Ay, and you’ll be careful lest Charles or any of ’em seek to rob you by the way,”—chuckling to himself.

“Sir, you wrong me cruelly,” said Charles.

“Take a message down to ’em, Charles,” said the old man malignantly. “This from me—two words, ‘Not yet!’”—and chuckled still; and huskily went on, “Not a night in all my years of sailing they’d not have made an end of me, had they known me sick and broken as they think me now. If I’d have died to-night, they’d have been drunk by now on the best from my cellars; they’d have been searching all over the house for what they’ll never get. Give ’em the words from me, Charles! Not yet!”

“And pray give them this from me, Mr. Charles—under authority from their master,” cried Mr. Bradbury, “that with this night there’s an end of their doings in this house. Tell them that, though I go, I return to make an end!”

“You go!” my uncle repeated, smiling on Mr. Bradbury, “and you return! Surely, Bradbury.”

I had a notion instantly that he contemplated directing attack on Mr. Bradbury, believing that the gentleman bore with him the secret of my grandfather’s hoard—if there were hoard. Or, indeed, that my uncle had remained downstairs after us to give instructions to the stouter rogues.

“I go armed and with my men armed,” said Mr. Bradbury significantly. “Let them understand this for an obvious reason, Charles. And that I have friends at hand. With whom I shall return. Come, John!”

“Nay, the boy stays by me,” my grandfather piped from his chair.

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Bradbury, taken aback.

“John stays by me! Or by God, Bradbury, I’ll—I’ll—you’ll not take away—what you take! Charles, but those words ‘Not yet!’ and there’s not a dog among ’em shall bark this night. Am I not master yet? Am I not, Bradbury?”

He grew so violent, the blood rushing to his face, the sweat starting from him, that Mr. Bradbury hastened to pacify him. “Surely, sir, surely,” he said, “Mr. John will stay, if you’ll have it so.”

“I’ll have it so! Hark ’ee, John, are you afraid to watch the night through with me?”

“I’m not afraid,” I lied. “To be sure I’ll stay!”—though I was shaking in my shoes, and would have given much to be out of the house with Mr. Bradbury.

He nodded approval. He muttered, “Bradbury, I’ve thought to die on a night like this! To go out on the storm. Hark to the wind and the voices in it! And the wind blows from the sea. Oh, God, there’s many a soul of the dead men out of the sea rides with the wind to-night!”

“Sir,” cried Mr. Bradbury, shuddering, “the dead shall not rise from the sea till the last trump sound!”

“I’ll have the boy by me,” the old man whispered. “I’ll have him watch. I’ll lie upon my bed; I’ll rest—if he’ll watch by me.”

“Surely, sir,” said Charles, “I am willing to sit with you!”

“I’ll have the boy,” he growled. “Not you—John here!”

Mr. Bradbury, securing his cloak about him, said in a clear voice, though he looked uneasily at me, “Then, sir, I take my leave of you. Mr. John Craike shall stay by you. But, Charles, let this be known among the folk of this house—it’s no time to mince words: if any harm come to him, I’ll have the reckoning. Gentlemen, I go, and I’ll return with all the speed I may. Good night! Charles, pray, will you light me down the stair?”

_Chapter XXXI_. _The Night Watch_

Now the event proved the truth of my assumption that Mr. Bradbury had about him that which he was eager to convey immediately from the house to safety, lest Charles, or Blunt, or any other rogues should lay their hands upon it. He feared to leave me in the house, but believing that my grandfather had a secret purpose in his insistence, he consented, thinking to return speedily with assistance.

My grandfather cried out to my uncle, as he took my candle to light Mr. Bradbury from the room, “You’ll not return, Charles, unless I ring!”

Charles, eyeing him askance, nodded, and went out with Mr. Bradbury.

My grandfather, looking cunningly at me, chuckled and muttered, “Good lad! Good lad! You’re not afraid of Charles. You’ll profit by stayin’. Hey, you will! We’ll have the merriest of nights of it. Hark to the wind on the house. Like as if the crew below were knocking. Lock the door and bar it!”