Chapter VI: Part 6

I sped to the door and turned the key, and set the iron bar across it in its sockets, noting how massive was the door, and how great the lock; feeling safer then, though dreading the mad humour of my grandfather.

As I would have sat down, he called out, “Find the bottle and the glasses. Pour me a dram! Pour yourself a dram; ’twill put heart in you.”

Taking bottle and glasses from the press, I poured the drink; he took his glass in his shaking hand and raised it to his lips, but scarcely tasted the liquor, muttering to me, “Drink, lad! You’re not afraid of your grog, are ye? You can carry it.”

I made pretence of drinking the fiery stuff; and piling up the fire, I sat down facing him. He remained mute awhile thence, his head poked forward, and his look intent, as though he listened for sounds below. But no sound rose distinguishable from the tumult of the wind; ever the wind cried out, and beat upon the windows; and the moon, breaking from the driving clouds, illumined the green panes; the lashing ivy cutting its pale gleam. Weird lights and shadows flickered on the floor, and seemed to glide towards the bed, cower and leap back, as the clouds took the moon once more, and darkness fell without. So with the fitful moon, the waving candles and the leaping fire, the whole room seemed awhirl with ghostly lights and shadows; and with the draughts, the curtains of the bed, the tapestries upon the walls, continually were stirred; rustled and flapped like wings, or bulged as though some rogue or visitant were secreted behind them. I sat and shivered by the fire, my mind oppressed with terror and forebodings.

My grandfather, breaking the silence fallen between us, muttered at last, “I’ve thought to die on such a night as this. Lad, what’s after, d’ye think? What’s after?”

I answered awkwardly, “We’re told mercy to the repentant.”

“Repentance!” he said, laughing. “What’s repentance but fear? When I was young and strong, I didn’t fear aught; I repented nothing. What use now—hey? What d’ye think?”

“I do not know. Yet—”

“Ay, to be safe, be penitent,” he mocked. “You think me near my death, lad, and I am. To-night a knife seemed to stick into my heart, and the knife’ll strike again, till my heart’s broken for the pain of it. I die, soon—maybe this night. I go into the dark. I know not whither. Repent! I’m no such fool or coward. Hey, John, but I lived my life as it pleased me, till I was old. I sinned what sins I would. Repent, ay,—and mutter prayers,—make a good death of it—for fear! I’ve had no god save my own self. I’ve owned no other judge.” He lifted up his shaking hand, and the red jewels seemed blood upon it, “For all my sins I’m ready for the reckoning, repenting nothing, unafraid!”

It seemed as though the very storm took up the challenge. For the wind smote upon the house with a great sound, as seas upon a cliff, or thunder from the heaven. The old house shuddered; the chimneys rumbled; the casement was blown back; the wind struck cold as death upon us. Instantly the candlelight was gone; the room was black save for the red glow upon the hearth; horror of darkness and chaotic sound were all about us. I started up, and rushing to the window sought to close the casement; momentarily the wind prevailed; vainly I fought against it; looking back, I saw my grandfather stagger from his chair; the red flames blowing up from the hearth seemed to burn all about him. Still his laughter sounded like a madman’s defiance to the wind.

The wind lulled for the time. I closed the casement; I hurried back to relight the candles. The curtains of the bed flapped yet like the wings of death about me. With light I saw him lying in his chair; he shuddered now; he muttered, “For the time—I thought—death came. And yet—and yet—I live!”

He remarked then the curtains moving, and pointed to the bed, “When the wind came,” he croaked, “I heard the beating of the wings of death. I saw the dark take shape and thought to die, and go out on the storm. ’Twas nothing—nothing but the curtains and the darkness and the cold! Ay, ay, though never have I known ghosts or terrors in the dark and storm until to-night . . . I could tell you . . . We were off the Cape just such a night, with the winds and the seas sounding so. I remember them—Barwise and Thrale and the rest—crying out, and comin’ scuttlin’ all about me. They’d seen the ghost-ship—the Dutch ship—that seeks to weather the Cape, while time is. I remember the moon riding white through the clouds, as it rides this night. Ay, they vowed that they saw the Dutchman still, the ghosts on the decks, and the lights burning blue,—we’d never make port again, they swore; and they all fell to prayers—Barwise and Thrale and the rest. They to pray! But I said no prayers. For I saw no phantom-ship. And I brought my own ship safe to port. . . . Hark, the wind comes again. Like voices on it! Hark!”

The wind came crying from the sea. Again it forced the casement open; as I reached the window, momentarily I saw the garden illumined by the moon. I saw dark shadows hurrying to the house; I forced the window to, believing for the instant that I had seen only the shadows of the wind-tossed trees; remembering then Blunt’s threat to take me from the house, I feared.

When I re-lit the candles, my grandfather perceived my concern, and caught me by the arm, muttering, “What did ye see? Or think to see?”

I answered, “Shadows, maybe, or men—Blunt’s men.”

“Blunt’s men? Or do ye think ’em ghosts? Why do ye look so white, lad? Why should Blunt’s men come here this night? Look again!”

Returning to the window, opening the casement, and peering down, I saw only the leaping shadows of the trees, much as those dark, hurrying figures. I called back to him, “Shadows—only shadows!” and secured the casement.

We sat in silence then by the fire. The storm was nearing its height; wave of sound following upon wave of sound as breaker upon breaker; the house appeared to reel under the succession of shocks, always the voices sounded on the wind. If there were sound below, if drunken voices, menacing voices, were uplifted, as seemed to me, I could not be assured; the wind usurped all sounds, in or without the house. My grandfather lay back in his chair with his hands clutching its arms; I saw him lift his right hand from time to time, and eye it shaking with the palsy, the red gems leaping into flame upon it; for all his will and his professed hardihood, I believed that the terror of the night grew on him, even as on me. He leaned forward at last, and quavered, “What’s death, d’ye think, lad? What comes after?”

“How can I answer? Who should tell?” I said, being in no mood now to preach faith or penitence to him.

“You’re honest!” he said, nodding. “Charles would have turned priest. Charles would have talked of Judgment Day. Ay, you’re honest! Eighty years I’ve lived, and till these weeks past never thought of what came after; or of to-morrow but as to-day or yesterday. I never thought of myself as dead. John”—with sudden starting terror—“doesn’t that show it?”

“What, sir—what?”

“When we die and rot and the worms have us, it’s not the end of us. We’re never able to think of ourselves as dead! Whether we’re strong and lusting with life, or whether we’re old and breaking, we never think of ourselves as dead. Because we never die!”

He mumbled on, “Ay, there’s voices in the wind to-night! Voices I’ve heard! I do remember a merchantman—from the East it was—and full to the decks with rich stuffs. Many folks aboard. We boarded it at noon, and we sunk it at eve. None could live; there were men aboard as had known me. I remember the sunset—blood-red it was—and the seas were like blood about us. And the great cry when the ship went down; and the crying of the wind that night, as we sailed away. How the wind cries!”

I saw the sweat again upon him. I saw his brows wet, and his wet hands stained with the red gems. He gasped, “I’ve never thought to die! . . . Ah, Christ, that I rot in the ground and end so! . . . But to blow with the winds about the world, forever about the world—knowing no rest—no rest!”

I rose and held his glass to his lips. He drank, and for the time his courage and strength were restored to him; he gibed and mocked the crying wind, the voices that were about the house, in the house; surely now I heard sounds from below, laughter, and roaring chorus of drunken voices. No one yet sought admission to the room.

Now leaning forward, plucking at my sleeve, he whispered, “You’ve been wondering why I kept you here this night?”

“Surely because you loved my father, and would have me by you! Will you not lie down on your bed and rest?”

“No! No! But to show you—give you—what’s mine, what’s to be yours. Help me up! I’m weak! I fear the pain. Bring a light, boy!”

Wondering, I gave him my arm, and propped by me he made his way from the hearth to the wall beyond his chair. I saw him clutch at the tapestry and tear it aside; the cloud of dust nigh blinded me. Drawing from my support, he tapped and clawed at the old oaken panels; they parted suddenly, revealing a deep recess in the stones of the wall. Leaning against me, he fumbled at his breast, and took forth two slim keys on a silken ribbon strung about his neck, and groped in the recess, muttering, “The light, boy! Show the light!”

And while I held the candle, I saw in the recess a little iron door built into the stone; he set a key at last in the lock, and opening the door drew out a black box. This box was deep, but of no great length; it was heavy, for he nigh dropped it when he pulled it out; he clutched it to his breast and bore it to his chair with him. He cried to me, “Pull the curtain back. Hide the panels! Come and see!”

He sat with the black box resting on his knees; it seemed of ebony, and was bound plainly with silver. He set the key in the lock, and lifted the lid. Leaning over him, I saw that the contents of the box were packed in black silk. At his word, I aided him to lift this package out, and set the box down at his feet. The silk reeked with spices; with clawing fingers he unfolded the wrapper of silk, till it draped about his knees to the hearth—a flag of black silk it seemed, wrought with a design in silver thread and ringed with silver. And suddenly the grim thing shrouded in this black silken flag, broidered with the death’s head and cross bones, lay bare to me; for he gripped between his palms a white skull. Now this skull was fashioned into the form of a casket overwrought with silver, having a silver lid upon the crown, and in the sockets of the eyes two blue jewels burning to the reflection of the candles and the fire with an unholy light. The jaws were banded with silver, so that the skull resting on his palms, grinned at me, as shuddering I drew back, and dared not look upon the old man’s face and feared his laughter. Lowering the skull upon his knees, he touched the silver crown of it with his fingers; the lid flew up; and instantly, at the wonder of it, I cried out, for it seemed that fire burned from the casket—a miracle of light and colour, as the flame upon the hearth and from the candles gave life to the gems within. My grandfather’s fingers seemed to dip in fire. He laughed to himself; he drew out wonderful gems; held them gorgeous and glowing on his palms; he let them fall back into the skull.

He muttered, “Only a little store, only a little store,—and yet half the years of my sinning, child, are told in this odd little box. I had it fashioned to my fancy; they’re rare gems for its eyes. D’ye understand what’s hid in it? D’ye understand there’s not a man but would sell his soul for what’s in this little box? D’ye see this white stone—this big white stone? Did ever the moon or the sun shine like it? Was ever blood so red as this red stone, or leaf so green as this, or ever the Main so blue? Ay, there’s diamonds, there’s rubies, emeralds and sapphires; and there’s wonderful pearls. And thirty years and odd went to fill this box. Gold and plate, and many a precious thing that was scarce safe to sell—ivory and silks and spices—ay, they’re all told in the stones of this little box. There’s been blood on these stones—many of ’em. They’ve been plucked from white necks and dead fingers—ay, many of them! Charles has lost his soul for the bare tell of ’em. All my rogues are lost for the lust of ’em—Barwise and Thrale and the rest. Knowing I held my hoard—though where ’twas hid no one knew, and feared to seek, and feared to murder me, lest where ’twas hid should never be known. Ay—What’s that?”

“Knocking upon the door!” I whispered, shuddering.

He closed and hid his terrible casket in the black flag, and thrust the bundle back into the box. He muttered to me, “For you! D’ye hear me? For my son’s son! Set the box back; keep ye the keys”—and thrust box and keys into my hands, and whispered, “Haste! Haste! Quiet as you go. They’re out there—mayhap all of ’em!”

Loud and insistent the knocking sounded, as I sped across the room to set the box back; close the panel, and draw the hangings into place once more.

_Chapter XXXII_. _Will of a Man_

My grandfather asking, “What hour is it?” stretched out his hand to a press beside him and drew forth a pistol, and set this by him on the arm of his chair.

“Midnight!” I answered, glancing at the clock.

“Bradbury should have returned,” he said. “Go to the door, lad, and ask who knocks.”

I hurried to the door, and to my question “Who’s there?” my Uncle Charles replied, “I, to be sure, nephew. Pray open the door!”

“Let him come in,” my grandfather said. “I bade him keep away. Yet let him in.”

I drew the bar and opened the door, and instantly was thrust aside. There entered, indeed, my uncle; there entered with him Blunt, Thrale, Mistress Barwise and her man and sons; and at their heels there came a surging crew, striving so one to precede the other that they blocked the doorway momentarily; cursing, struggling, contending, they came on,—all the old rogues of Rogues’ Haven, and with them seamen of Blunt’s crew. Fired with drink, disorderly they came, with clatter of shoes, roar of voices, sounding above the very wind; all so intent upon their purpose—all so covetous for plunder, that though they flung me back against the wall, they passed me by. I realised that Oliver was by me; that his hands gripped my arms, and pulled me back, when I would have struggled to reach my grandfather; he was growling thickly, “Get away! Now’s your chance! Get away! They’re mad with drink. God knows what they’ll do.”

“I’ll stay here,” cried I. “Don’t hold me, Oliver! What of Miss Milne?”

“Locked in her room or fled the house. I’ve not heard or seen her. They’ve been looting. Get away!”

I shook my head; his strong hands held me back against the wall; I must stand and watch, nor bear a hand to aid my grandfather. He needed none, for though they burst in with a rush after my uncle, they paused, and fell to silence, seeing the old man sitting grimly in his chair. Charles, slipping from them, held himself behind his father’s chair; the rogues crowding about the hearth approached no nearer.

My grandfather roared out in so full and strong a tone that for the shock of it they fell back from him, “What in the devil’s name is this? Have ye gone mad? Why d’ye come bursting into my room in the dead of night? Speak, some of ye! Charles, what is this?”

“I do assure you,” said my uncle clearly, “I have no part in this.”

“No part,” the woman Barwise jeered. “Ay, then, no share in what we’ve come for, and what we’ll surely have.” She thrust herself forward, her face enflamed; she pointed her skinny hand at my grandfather and cried:

“D’ye hear me? What we’re going to have! What we’ve waited for too long. What you took when you was pirate, and sunk English ships, and murdered—what you stole!”

He broke out with a bellow of anger, “Mutiny, hey? Mutiny! Thinking me dead or dying. Thinking now you’ll take what you never had the courage to take—ay, and you’ve all grown old waiting for. Mutiny! Hey, you dogs? Mark me, you dogs—am I broken? Am I broken yet?”

And then it seemed that the will of the man triumphed over the wreck of his body. Watching him from the wall, I saw him rise up from his chair, his hand gripping his pistol; I saw his eyes blaze and his face take colour; I saw the old rogues cower and break before him,—only the Barwise sons and the men who had never sailed with him yet held their ground; and Blunt watched unfaltering. He laughed upon them trembling before him; he pointed his pistol at Thrale, and the fellow quivered like a leaf, and seemed the palsied dotard, while the master was yet strong.

“Hey, Thrale,” my grandfather mocked him, “you were bold with drink when you came in; but you never had the heart of a man. You’d slit a throat in the dark; you’d no stomach for a red deck, and you’d vomit at the smoke of powder—rogue! Hey, Barwise,—hey, your woman took you, for you’d not the heart to refuse her. Ay, you’re drunk now, and you thought you were brave, but you sweat for terror. Mistress, you were a bold wench once, and you did many things in your thieves’ kitchen at Shadwell a man would shudder for the very thought of. Hey, you rogues, mutiny is it? Mutiny? You’d rob me—murder me—thinking me sick and weak? D’ye mind a night off Malabar? Roger Quirk it was—he’d a mind to be master of my ship. And he came sneaking into my cabin in the night, thinking to find me sleeping, and some of you were shuddering in the dark at his back, and ready to call him captain, and sail under him, if so be he murdered me. But Roger Quirk died; at midnight he died, and it’s midnight now. Hey, Roger Quirk led you then; who leads you now?”

They answered nothing; Charles leaned indolently against his father’s chair. My grandfather grinned at the cowering rogues; he pointed at Mistress Barwise, “Is it old Bess Barwise? D’ye shelter behind her skirts? Blunt—you, why the devil do you break into my house in the night? Answer me!”

But Mr. Blunt met him boldly, “I’m no servant of yours, Craike,” he said. “I’ve no cause to fear you. Nor have I ever feared.”

“Ay, you were cabin-boy on my last cruise, and profited by it.”

“And kept my eyes and ears open. And know what you put away. More, I’ve a right to come into the house when I will, and I’ve come. You’ve profited by me. Your son’s profited. Your cellars are stocked with my cargoes. I’ll not go out of this house to-night till I have what I’ve come for. Where’s the loot? That’s what you’ll hand over to us before we go to-night”—and suddenly swung round, and called to his seamen, “Where’s the boy?”

The seamen were upon me instantly; Oliver was thrust aside, cursing most foully. Two fellows gripped me and dragged me forward, ranging me a prisoner before my grandfather and Blunt. Said Blunt coolly, “Here’s one who’ll make you speak. Hark’ee, Craike, you tell us where the loot is, or the lad’ll suffer for it. Have you told him, Craike, where it’s hid? Have you? Then, by the Lord, he’ll tell us!”

“Loose the boy!” my grandfather said, quietly, “Hands off the boy!”

“Not till you say where the stuff’s hid. He’ll go down to my ship to-night, except you speak. D’ye hear me, Craike?”

My grandfather’s right hand shot up suddenly from the fold of his gown. His pistol blazed; I heard Blunt scream; I saw him fall and writhe, and struggle on the floor. My grandfather was roaring, “Loose the boy! Loose him!”—and as the seamen recoiled before him, his hand had dragged me from them, and pulled me in beside him. And a great cry arose among them all; and silence fell as suddenly—silence save for the crying of the winds about the house. I snatched my pistol from my tail-pocket and thrust it into his hand; he advanced slowly, and they fell back from him; he towered above them—a man above wolves. I could picture him so upon the deck of his own ship in battle or in storm, or mutineers so cowering before him; peril could be of no account to such a man—no, though he knew himself upon the shores of the eternal sea; though all the night seemed burthened with his sins; though his enemies were all about him, menacing in the house, or risen from the sea, he blenched in no way. The huge figure, the face suffused, the eyes aflame, the head thrown proudly back, the mocking laughter on his lips.

He cried to them, “Would you threaten me, rogues? Would you come like carrion crows about a dying beast? Think you that I am dying—think you? Hey, but I’ve whipped you many’s the time, when you’ve thought to put me from command of my ship, and set another in my place! Hey, and men have died, and backs have run red—hey, and I’ve won; always I’ve won! Blunt would have robbed me! Take your man! You! You!”—pointing to two fellows of Blunt’s crew. “Pick him up and take him out of here. D’ye hear me?”—the pistol quivering in his grasp.

The seamen cowered; bent low, took up Blunt’s body, and so bore him forth—their shipmates slouching after. I heard the muttering of their voices and the clatter of their shoes sound away down the corridor. Mistress Barwise and the old rogues would have scuttled after, but my grandfather roared out, “Stay! I’ve words for your ears—for you who have robbed me. Stay!”

Shuddering, pale-faced, the rogues stood eyeing him,—the old brown men peering like so many ghosts from the dark by the door, the dying candles casting only a dim light, the leaping flame reflected in the puddle of blood where Blunt had lain. My grandfather faced them still, laughing upon them. The wind came rolling up, and struck the house; the crying of the wind was as the crying of many voices; the rushing of the wind as the onrush of the sea. He ceased to laugh; staring at him, while my uncle, white to the lips and wide-eyed, watched him from the hearth, I saw him stagger. The pistols dropped from his hands. He fell with a crash across the hearth.

_Chapter XXXIII_. _Carrion Crows_

My uncle, rushing forward, dropped on his knees beside him, and lifted up his head.

I took the glass from the press, and poured a little of the spirit into it, and handed this to my uncle, who moistened my grandfather’s lips with it, and sought to dribble a few drops down his throat. And nearer, nearer yet, crept the rogues; recoiling from the living, they feared him still, lest even now he should arise, and his voice send them scurrying as so little a while before. But he lay still,—his eyes open and glassy; his lips parted. My uncle lowered his head to the floor, and rising, said, “I think him dead”—but with no tremor in his voice or hint of sorrow or compassion.

And instantly the woman Barwise laughed horribly, and screamed, “Dead, and we’ve naught to fear!”—and pointing her hand at me, “What now, Mr. John—what now?”

My uncle, in a harsh voice cried out, “Be silent, woman! Respect the dead! Out of the room, all of you!”

She answered with defiance, “Not now! While he was livin’, we couldn’t have what we’re here for. And I for one stays here, and don’t stir for you; that’s what I say, and that’s what ye all say, if ye’re men.” Whereat her sons thrust their way forward, and the old men piped shrilly, “Ay, ay, that’s what we all say. Ay, ay!”

My uncle said disdainfully, “I can tell you only that, if you think to find treasure in the house, you deceive yourselves grievously. Do you think that my father was such a fool as to hoard money or jewels in this house with such a company as you about him? I promise you that all he had was long since converted into East India stock and the like; he kept nothing by him.”

“But that’s a lie!” Thrale piped. “He had treasure by him. Many’s the time he’s been laughing to himself for thinking that we who’d fought and bled, and risked the sea and the shot and the rope, sought our share of it, and never took a dollar of it. I’ve been minded to stick this knife into him many a time!”—and his skeleton-hand showed a lean, glittering blade, “Oh, and I come in one day and he don’t hear me, and he has a box and a death’s head, and ’tis all on fire with baubles. All aflame! What’s come of ’em, Mr. Charles, what’s come of ’em?”

“I tell you—” my uncle began; but their yell of derision silenced him; a wicked ring of faces was about us: old faces stained with all the sins, old eyes bright for the lust of treasure, old hands clutching and covetous; their voices sounding as the cawing of crows; like carrion crows they flapped about us, and the dead man lying stretched across the hearth. The tall Barwise sons watched them, grinning and muttering between themselves. Four of Blunt’s men had sneaked back into the room.

My uncle, smiling contemptuously upon the rogues, asked quietly, “Do you know anything of this, nephew?”

I answered steadily, “Nothing! Nothing!”—but must have flushed for my lie; the woman Barwise cried out instantly, “He’s lying! He’s lying! look at him,—all red-faced now, when he was sick and white afore”—and rushing on me, clawing at my jacket, “Where’s it hid? You know! Where’s it hid?”

But instantly my uncle intervened—concerned now for my knowledge, and by the dread that all these rogues should share the secret. He ordered her, “Stand back, woman! Do you hear me? Stand back!” in so threatening a tone that she recoiled and loosed me.

My uncle, gripping me by the shoulder, drew me beside him; I had taken up the pistols fallen from his father’s hands; now we stood with our backs against the chimney-piece, and my grandfather’s body lay between us and the rogues. Oliver came shouldering his way among them to our side, a hunting crop clutched in his hand. Mistress Barwise, as beside herself, screamed out a curse at us, and shook her fist, so inciting them that in a sullen surge they were sweeping forward, when my uncle, livid with rage, cried out, “Back, you fools,—back! Do you know this, that while you waste your time here, Bradbury returns, with Gavin Masters and his folk, who’ve sworn to smoke us out of this hold? Do you know this and palter?”

“Ay, then stand aside,” retorted Mistress Barwise, “and let us have the handling of the lad there. He knows for sure, and we have the means to make him talk”—and pointed to the fire. “He’ll speak for the burning of his bare flesh. He’ll speak, if he knows to keep his mouth shut now, means to keep it shut come Judgment Day!”

“You’ll not lay hands upon him!” said my uncle, as I made play with the loaded pistol. “Give me a word with him alone! All of you out of the room now! Let me but reason with him!”

“And plot to rob us!” Thrale squeaked.

“Nay, nay!” my uncle protested, smiling.

The Barwise woman, swinging round, muttered and whispered with old Thrale; turning back to us presently to say, “We’ll go—but only outside the door. But we’ll keep the key, lest you think to lock us out.” Oliver had drawn away from the hearth to the wall.

“Surely take the key, Barwise,” said my uncle. “But a few words with my nephew, and you’ll know whether he will confide in me or no. And if he prove intractable, I promise you that I’ll hand him over to you for discipline”—I believed that the gentleman found himself at a loss to prevent their participation in my secret.

“Out of the room, then, all of you,” she ordered them, and drove them before her like so many hens; they protested with many oaths; she screaming at them in kind so berated them that they were out at last. She paused by the door to take the key from the lock. Of a sudden Oliver leaped forward and thrust her after them; banged the door with a crash, and turned the key. Her cry of rage was shrill as the wind itself; she plunged against the door and beat upon it like a madwoman, screaming out, “Break it down! Break it down! They’re tricking us!”

Oliver set the bar in its place, and turned back to us grinning.

My uncle smiled his approval, “I never gave you credit for any wit,” he said; “I offer you apology. I confess I was at a loss,—I thank you for having given me the opportunity of a little talk with my nephew. Be sure of the bar, Oliver; the door will hold them out, I trust, till Bradbury returns.”

Oliver, coming back to the hearth, growled, “Help me first to lift the old man. Is he to lie here longer in this blood?”

“Nay, nay,” said my uncle hastily; and among us, we lifted my grandfather’s body and laid it upon the bed, and drew the curtains; all the while the clamour at the door continued; the winds yet beat upon the house. My uncle, returning to the fireside, sat down in his father’s chair—for all the raging of the rogues without seeming as indolent and unruffled as in the arbour.

“Nephew,” he said, “I would our conversation could have been conducted with proper privacy. Oliver, oblige me by withdrawing to the door.”

Oliver answered boldly, “I stay here!”

“You heard me, Oliver!”

“I heard you, sir! And you have never heard me ere this night. By God, sir, you should have taught me by now to be ashamed at nothing; yet—yet—to know the part that you have played this night,—you to have raised these rogues against my cousin and the old man there!”

My uncle smiling, though his brow grew black, cried out, “If I’d my cane, sir, I’d discipline you now. Are you drunk yet from dinner? Or do you think to win your cousin’s patronage at my expense? You think him heir to Craike and all my father had. I having nothing, you range yourself beside him!”

“I am ashamed,” said Oliver, regarding him with dark and lowering look. “By God, sir, I’ve been silent long enough. I’ll endure no more. Now this I’ll say to my cousin—if he’ll believe me; if he’ll think I have no motive but to be his friend, and save my father from fresh roguery and shame—I stand beside him.”

“When the door goes down, my good fellow, as presently it will,” my uncle sneered, “they’ll have your life and his.”

Oliver stretched out his hand to me; I gripped it; side by side we faced my uncle.

He said, “I have no time to bandy words with you, my son. I say this to you, John, that the Barwise sons are pledged to me, and will obey me, and Blunt’s men also will obey me! It is my condition only that you tell me where my father’s hoard is hid; for clearly he revealed it to you while you were with him; and that the agreement between us be, that we shall share this treasure. It’s hid in the house,—I assume in this very room.”

“And you assume,” I said, “my grandfather revealed it to me. You assume too much, sir.”

“Dear lad, your very face reveals your knowledge to me. Come, write, sign—there are pens and paper in the press there!”

“I answer this,” I said; “whatever come or have come to me from my grandfather, you shall not share. You would have had me kidnapped and shipped out of England. You have ever been an enemy to mine and me. What of my father?”

“Nephew,” he said, “hark to the pack outside the door!”

He rose; his look surveyed the room—the hangings were waving in the draught. He pointed suddenly to the tapestry drawn yet a little aside from the sliding panel; and at my start and confusion he laughed triumphantly, and strode forward. I lost my head; I sought to interpose; he thrust me from him, and rushing to the wall drew back the hangings. All this while the rogues without battered upon the door; I heard it groan and split, and knew that it was going down before their blows.

My uncle’s fingers strayed over the panels; touched the spring; the panels parted. He cried out gaily, “Oh, ’tis here, nephew—’tis here! And I asked but a half, nephew,—what now? What now?”

“Would you steal?” Oliver growled. “Are you thief?”

He answered, snarling, “Ah, God, what I’ve endured these years, and now this boy would rob me. I’ll have what’s mine. I care not how you fare, nephew—whether they do you to death, or drag you aboard the _Black Wasp_—I care not. I’ll have what’s mine, and be away ere Bradbury comes!”—and thrust the panels back, and fumbled with the lock, but could make nothing of it.

I laughed at him. “My uncle,” cried I, “it’s for me to dictate terms. Your interest with these rogues for me, and I’ll make you rich; but the secret of the lock I’ll keep!”

He whirled round upon me, his mask off, his face malignant, his lips snarling. He let the tapestry fall before the hollow in the wall. He pointed to the door. It had parted asunder, the wreckage fell against the bar.

_Chapter XXXIV_. _Flight of Crows_

Mrs. Barwise headed them still—Lord, what a strength must have been hers in youth; even now her withered hands tore at the wreckage of the door. Her sons and she had cleared a way presently; the bar was drawn, and all the rogues were in the room once more. But, setting my back against the chimney-piece, with Oliver beside me, I levelled my pistol as they came on, menacing, and I cried out, “Keep back! You’ll not lay hands on me. Back, I say!”

At this Mrs. Barwise checked her onrush; and whirled round towards my uncle stepping back from the wall. The rogues at her back halted and peered at us, muttering among themselves; Nick and Isaac Barwise and Blunt’s men yet held apart. The woman demanded furiously of my uncle, “Well? Well? What’s the answer? You’ve not tricked us after all, d’ye see? D’ye see? What’s his answer?”

He said coolly, “I’ve no answer for you. Ask him!”

As she swung round and faced me, I said, as bravely as I might, though shaking still for terror of them, “My answer is that there’s no treasure. Ay, and were there treasure, every gold piece or jewel of it would belong to me, even as, now my grandfather is dead, this house belongs to me. And I say to you you’d best be packing while you may. You there from the _Black Wasp_, d’ye know that while you’re paltering here your ship’s cut out? D’ye know the King’s men are aboard her?”

“Bold words, but lies!” cried Mistress Barwise.

“No! For but yesterday I was with old Sir Gavin, who’s sworn to put an end to smuggling on the coast here. Your ship was never to put to sea. Not Blunt himself would have got her from the teeth of the King’s ship. Would you be taken here?”

The four seamen muttered among themselves; I saw them drawing to the doorway—scuttling out; only the old rogues and the Barwise sons yet held their ground, and Mrs. Barwise sought still to enflame them to her purpose.

“Words—ay, but we’ve not come for words from you, master,” she burst out. “Where’s the baubles, master? Where’s the gold? Our baubles and our gold!”

“Ay, ay, ours! That’s what we’re here to know! Where’s the stuff hid?”—came the chorus.

I faced them still,—Oliver with his swinging whip beside me. I said, “Keep back! I’ve a word for you, as a word for Blunt’s men. I tell you Mr. Bradbury comes this night, with his men, and Sir Gavin’s folk, and all the gentry round. He comes to make an end here—to sweep this house clean—for me! You’ve threatened murder; you’ve robbed and broken; you’ve set every man of you his neck in reach of a rope to-night; I warn you all, for you served my grandfather, that soon, perhaps now, the house must be surrounded. You’ve escaped hanging so long, how d’ye like the prospect of swinging at the end of a rope at the end of your days? Take what you’ve looted—plate and what not?—and go! You’ll take no more. There is no treasure!”

“Lies!” screamed the woman, as they quailed and wavered. “Where’s the blunt first? Don’t go till you’ve laid hands on what’s your own.”

“Go now!” I shouted, to be heard above the instant uproar. “Go now before it is too late!”

As they wavered, she shrieked out, “Pull him down! Take him and hold him but the moment, and I’ll have the truth out of him—with the irons and the fire!”

They surged forward, but before my levelled pistol and Oliver’s uplifted hunting crop, they wavered still; having each and every man of them so little left of life, and valuing it at a price above visionary treasure. My uncle, leaning unconcerned against his father’s chair, neither incited them nor assisted us; Nick and Isaac Barwise seemed to await their orders from him, yet holding themselves apart from the old rogues.

And suddenly I saw Mr. Bradbury standing within the doorway, his hair all blown with the wind—else, as cool and unperturbed as ever I had known him; seeing him come in, with Galt and the two runners at his back, I cried out triumphantly, “Too late! Too late!”

Mistress Barwise uttered a shrill scream, and rushed back among the rogues; they broke, fell back; scuttled like rats about the room; seeking the door, and finding Roger and the runners standing grimly before it, they huddled together against the wall. Mr. Bradbury, stepping forward, demanded swiftly, “What is this? Where is Mr. Craike?”

I pointed to the bed, “My grandfather lies there,” I said. “He died an hour since, sir—died while he faced these rogues. What now?”

Mr. Bradbury whispered, “Sir Gavin waits below! We hold the hall-door and the stair. We come well-armed,—we’re none too many.”

“And these rogues!”

“Bid them go! If they go quietly, so much the better for us, so much the less scandal. We’re not so many that they may not pass,—unless you’d hold them here! Yet bid them go! We’re not too many!”

I faced them then; I cried out, to be heard above a gust of the falling wind, “You’ve yet a chance to get away. Go now—all of you—out of this house! You served my grandfather, and for that I’ve no mind to punish you for what you’ve done this night. Take what’s your own—no more, and be away from this house within an hour. D’ye hear me? Go!”

Galt and the runners stood aside at a wave of Mr. Bradbury’s hand. Like a flight of carrion crows the rogues sped from the room; save only Mistress Barwise, and she, her eyes blazing, her mouth spitting curses, her hands clawing the air, as she backed from the room, wore rather the aspect of an aged cat than of a carrion crow. Pell-mell they fled, as swiftly as their withered shanks would bear them; clattered along the corridor, and were gone.

So there were left in the room with the dead only Mr. Bradbury and his men, my kinsfolk and myself. My uncle, lounging in his father’s chair, with a poor assumption of his old effrontery, asked of Mr. Bradbury, “By what authority, pray tell me, does this lad ape the master of the house? As heir to Craike?”

“I shall leave the question unanswered, Charles,” said Mr. Bradbury gravely, motioning towards the bed. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

“By what authority?” my uncle repeated, his eyes suddenly alight.

“Surely as your elder brother’s son,” said Mr. Bradbury. “My honoured and lamented client’s will—signed by his hand this night—and taken by me from this house and lodged in safety, will be produced and read by me in due course.”

“By what authority?” cried my uncle, with bitter anger. “Answer my question, Bradbury!”

“Till I read this will, and divulge its provisions to you,” said Mr. Bradbury steadily, “may I say that Mr. John Craike must enjoy in this house an authority not inferior to your own? By no means inferior, my dear sir!”

But ere my uncle might retort, there came a sound of scuffling from the door—a shrill scream—one of the runners growling, “You’ll not go in, mistress—I tell you you’ll not go in!”

And the shrill voice piping, “I’ll see Mr. Charles, I will see Mr. Charles!”—with a string of oaths ending in choking, coughing; surely ’twas Mother Mag.

My uncle rose from his chair, and demanded angrily, “What’s this to-do? What does the woman want? Let her come in!”

“Let her come in!” repeated Mr. Bradbury; and, while I stared, Mother Mag, escaping from the runner, was in the room. She stood there, bent nigh double, her skinny hands clawing at her shawl; she said no word, but spying Charles, crept forward to him.

“What is it, woman?” Mr. Bradbury asked, sharply; she blinked still at Charles, muttering, “I’ve a word for Mr. Craike—no more!”

“Speak!” said my uncle, indifferently.

“Martin would have me come!” croaked she. “Martin would have me come every step o’ the way, though it’s a weary, weary way, and the devil’s loose to-night. With a word for Mr. Charles.”

“Speak!” cried my uncle again.

“No more than this—no more: ‘Adam Baynes’ come home again!’ Adam Baynes—!”

But I recalled the words of Roger Galt as he bore me away from the Stone House, that Adam Baynes, this woman’s son, had been transported overseas and had died; and I wondered that, if the man lived and Roger had lied, the woman showed no joy in her son’s return—surely he had escaped—but only terror; that, shuddering and shaking, she stood blinking at my uncle, and muttering to herself, clutching her blue shawl about her throat, and sweeping her wind-blown hair from her face.

Mr. Bradbury cried out sharply, “What is the meaning of all this, Charles? Who is this Adam Baynes? What concern is it of yours?”

“He is this woman’s son,” my uncle answered, seeming to strive for mastery of himself. “He was a servant of this house—once; that is all! Well, mistress, well? You’ve brought your grandson’s message. Tell Martin Baynes he’ll hear from me! That is all! Go now! I’ve other concerns.”

She peered at him; muttered to herself; and tottered towards the door. Mr. Bradbury started forward as though to stay her; instantly my uncle intervened, protesting, “Let the woman go, Bradbury. She’s of no concern to you or me.”

While Mr. Bradbury hesitated, the woman slipped past the runners, and was gone; my uncle turned back to the fire, and again sat down in his father’s chair. I watched him, wondering at the terror on his face, his twisting lips, his flickering eyes—at what new dread was borne upon him by the woman’s words, “Adam Baynes’ come home again!”

Roger Galt was growling from the doorway. “Who’s Adam Baynes? Mother Mag’s son never went overseas, after all. Mother Mag’s son stayed here and died from a pistol-ball in the breast!”

Mr. Bradbury, turning back to my uncle, cried out sharply, “Who’s this fellow, Charles? Why should this woman bring word to you? Who should come from overseas, that you should fear, and shudder so?”

My uncle answering nothing, Mr. Bradbury called out sharply to the runners, “Hold that woman! Don’t let her leave the house. Hold her! There’s more in this.”

But though we started to the door, and Roger and the runners went scurrying down the corridor, Mother Mag had vanished like a ghost in the darkness of the house.

_Chapter XXXV_. _Departure of Mr. Charles Craike_

We went out presently to descend the stairs in search of Sir Gavin Masters and his men. My uncle strode out ahead of us, Oliver slipped away; I held Mr. Bradbury’s arm as he would have hurried off, to direct search for Mother Mag, and to insure that if Mistress Barwise and the rogues left the house, they did not bear their plunder of plate away with them. I whispered to him, “There’s in the room—in the wall there—a box—stuffed with gems. My grandfather revealed them to me, ere he died. My uncle knows of them; he sought to rob me of them. I’ll not trust them here!”

“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Bradbury, “I had some notion of them,—by the old man’s talk this night. Where are they hid?”

I dragged the hangings back. I took the key, unlocked the iron door, and drew the box out of its hiding place. “Pray take my pistol, sir,” said I. “The box is heavy—bursting with the jewels in it. I’ve never looked upon such jewels—like fire! My uncle will not rest till he’s laid hands on them.”

Mr. Bradbury took my pistol; he paused an instant to pull back the curtains from the bed, and reverently draw the coverlet over the old man’s body. Blowing out all the candles then, save one to light us down the stair, he went before me from the room, pausing to lock the door upon the dead; and cried out to Roger and the runners, still searching for old Mag along the corridors, to go with us down the stairs. As we descended, I heard voices muttering in the hall; and saw the gleam of lanterns, and made out it might be half-a-dozen stout fellows. I saw, as we passed by them, that every man was armed with cutlass, pistol or bludgeon. Sir Gavin Masters, emerging from the doorway, cried out jovially, “Ah, John Craike! So your throat’s not cut yet, and ye’re not kidnapped. Where’s the old man, Bradbury? The devil of a time you’ve been!”

“Pray step with us into the dining-room, Sir Gavin,” said Mr. Bradbury. “Old Mr. Craike is dead—an hour or more since!”

“Murdered!” the justice roared.

“Nay, nay—though there’s been wild doings here this night,” said Mr. Bradbury. “The rats are scuttling all about the house.”

“Ay, I’ve heard them scurrying, squeaking. Have we men enough with us to trap ’em, Bradbury?”

“I think not—no!” said Mr. Bradbury hastily. “Pray, sir, come with us. Bid your men keep on guard still, and let no one enter! Come, sir, come!”

But I hung back and called out, “Sir Gavin—Mr. Bradbury, there’s the girl—my uncle’s ward, Miss Milne! What’s chanced to her I fear to think.”

“Oh, the maid,” Sir Gavin answered, laughing. “She’s safe enough. ’Twas she opened the door for us, when we were thinking to break it down. She’s safe. She’s in the room here!”

Thus reassured, I passed with them into the dining-room. Lord, the reek of drink, and the disorder of it!—the presses open and broken, for the plate they held; the shattered glass and crystal on floor and table; bottles from the broached cellars. The silver candlesticks were gone from the chimney-piece; the mirrors starred or shivered wholly; the tapestries rent from the wall; the pictures torn down, as if the rogues had searched even behind them for any sign of treasure. By the hearth, where a few coals blackened, Evelyn Milne was sitting; the candle borne by Mr. Bradbury showed me how deathly pale she was, her hair blown all about her shoulders, her eyes feverish yet from terror and lack of sleep. She started up, as we came in; I set the box down on the table, and took her hands, and cried out, “Miss Milne! Thank God, you’re safe!”

“Ay, ay, and have served us well this night,” Mr. Bradbury declared; and Sir Gavin added gallantly, “Upon my soul she has!”

She smiled, and drew her hands from mine; looking at Mr. Bradbury, she asked, “Would you have me go, sir? Would you be alone?”

“Nay, nay,” said he, hastily. “Stay here, my dear! The house is not yet safe for you. Stay here!”

She bowed and returned to her seat. Mr. Bradbury, setting down the candle by the box, drew up a chair to the table, and dropping wearily into it, said, “Sir Gavin, with the few fellows you’ve been able to bring here, it’s well that we remain here till the dawn; it cannot be far off.”

“Ay, but all these rogues?” the justice grumbled. “Not a rat among them have we trapped. I thought to take the nest full of them. What’s chanced to the old man? What passed to-night ere we came, young John? Where’s the villain, Charles?”

“We’ll have the tale from Mr. John Craike later,” said Mr. Bradbury impatiently. “Old Mr. Craike was near to death when I left him, and he died to-night. I know not whether Charles Craike is yet in the house, or whether he’s gone sneaking away, as I take it all the old rogues have by now. Nay, Sir Gavin, I am troubled more by the coming of the woman Baynes but now, and the word she brought Charles Craike from the Stone House, and the effect of her tidings on him!”

“What of the hag?” Sir Gavin muttered. “What’s all this, Bradbury?”

“She brought this message from Martin Baynes: ‘Adam Baynes’ come home again!’—and Charles went grey with terror.”

“Adam Baynes! Old Mag’s son,” said the justice. “Shipped overseas ten years or so since, with Captain Phillip from Portsmouth for Botany Bay. How should the rogue have ever come back from New South Wales? He went overseas for life.”

Mr. Bradbury rose swiftly, and, hurrying to the door, called, “Roger Galt! Come here! And bring a lantern! We need more light.”

Roger Galt came slowly and unwillingly into the room, and stood blinking before us, watching Sir Gavin apprehensively.

“You dog!” growled the justice. “I’ve sworn to clap you in gaol till you’re hanged. But for this night’s work—”

“For this night’s work, Sir Gavin would tell you, Galt,” Mr. Bradbury interrupted with impatience, “that all will be forgotten. Don’t interrupt me, pray, Sir Gavin—that is your meaning. Galt, a while since you said that Adam Baynes was never shipped overseas; that actually he remained in England; and that he died from a bullet in some highway robbery.”

“That’s so, master,” Roger muttered, glancing round at the door, as if prepared to break away from the justice and possible custody at any moment.

“What more do you know of this, Galt?” Mr. Bradbury persisted. “How should this rogue, sentenced to transportation, have been free in England? Did he escape and return, or did he never sail?”

“He never sailed,” vowed Roger. “Guineas went to get him out of the hands of them as was taking him to Portsmouth to put him aboard.”

“He escaped, and no search was ever made for him?” cried Mr. Bradbury. “Do you expect us to believe that, Roger Galt? Why, man, it’s unbelievable!”

Galt muttered, “I’ve heard tell—Mother Mag’s cackled over it when in drink—another was put aboard in his place; another went overseas as Adam Baynes—someone they wanted to get out of England.”

“How long,” asked Mr. Bradbury, “since Captain Phillip sailed?”

“Ten years since, to my thinking,” the justice answered reflectively.