Part 10

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.