Part 13

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.

“Ten years since!” repeated Mr. Bradbury; and, as understanding of his theory came upon me, I gasped, and stared wildly at him,—he cried out sharply, “Sir Gavin! Bid a couple of fellows go with my men from Bow Street, and seek Charles Craike. His rooms are immediately above us! Bid them seek him there, and, if he have not fled yet, bring him here! That will do, Galt. Go!”

I caught at Mr. Bradbury’s arm, and would have sought an answer of him to my thoughts and terrors; he did not heed me, but, speaking swiftly and with agitation growing upon him, he burst out, “Sir Gavin, at whatever risk of falling in with Blunt’s men, and being worsted by them and the rogues of this place and the Stone House—for surely they’ve all gone scurrying for the Stone House this night—we must ride for the Stone House. I’ve sent for Charles Craike here, to question him; for surely he’ll lie to us—and to delay him, if he think to go thither this night. For, ten years since, Mr. Richard Craike disappeared from home and wife and son in London; and for ten years has not been heard of. If, Sir Gavin, it should be—it is the wildest fancy—that Richard Craike went overseas in place of Adam Baynes? If this should be?”

“Bradbury—surely!” gasped Sir Gavin. “It could not be!”

“Ay, ay; but if it should be, and if Richard Craike’s escaped—come home to England; if Richard Craike was on his road to Craike House yesterday; and Martin Baynes, Blunt’s men—came upon him? For, surely, Richard Craike coming home, and seeking wife and son in London, and finding no trace of them, would hurry hither. And if Richard Craike’s again in the hands of his enemies at the Stone House?”

“If! If!” cried the justice. “The maddest of fancies, Bradbury!”

“No! For the woman comes in the night to Charles Craike. And the woman says ‘Adam Baynes’ come home again!’ And Charles Craike—looks like death—at the very words!”

“I would,” growled Sir Gavin, “that I’d more men with me. It’s damnably unfortunate, Bradbury, that the coastguard should be held to the shore to-night, while that young whipper-snapper of a lieutenant—Abbott—seeks to cut out Blunt’s brig in the dark.”

“Whatever be the peril,” Mr. Bradbury declared, “we needs must ride for the Stone House this night. For I tell you that, if this be Richard Craike, and he be in the hands of Martin Baynes and the rogues whom we’ve beaten at their game to-night, he is in peril—peril of death.”

“Ay, but you’ll hear Charles—if he’s not gone,” Sir Gavin muttered, rising. “I hear them coming down the stair.”

My uncle had not fled the house, but he was dressed for riding—booted and spurred. He came in with his hat pressed down upon his brows, a hunting crop in his right hand, his left thrust deeply into his greatcoat pocket. He was livid yet; his face wore the cruel and implacable aspect he had shown when first I looked upon him from the window of the Stone House, and I had known that none whom he feared or hated might look for mercy from him. He strode in boldly, the fellows who had brought him down to us hung doubtfully in the doorway—standing back at a wave of Sir Gavin’s hand. He looked upon me, and the hate he showed struck me with terror; his gaze passed from me to Mr. Bradbury and Sir Gavin—to the black box lying on the table by them, with the light of candle and lamp playing upon its silver mountings. He said angrily, “What’s this, Bradbury? Why have you sent your rogues breaking into my room, Masters? Would you lay me by the heels for a thief?”

“I would—ay, surely I would!” roared Sir Gavin, starting to his feet, and pushing forward; at Mr. Bradbury’s plucking at his sleeve, he growled, purple with choler, “Ay, ay, by the Lord, if I had my way. As I will!”

“We sent for you, Charles Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury swiftly, “to ask these questions of you: This man Adam Baynes—who is he? Has he risen from the dead? Or has one come back in place of Adam Baynes? Charles Craike, should not this man—of whose arrival you were warned this night—whom we think held a prisoner at the Stone House, as the lad was held by you, prove to be Richard Craike—your brother?”

My uncle answered instantly, “Bradbury, you had my answer in my father’s hearing—that I’ve no knowledge of my brother—of his death, his disappearance, or his flight from England. The message of that hag conveyed to me no more than that her son is back again from transportation.”

“Galt says the fellow died in England years since!” Sir Gavin growled.

“Galt is a liar and rogue, whom you, Sir Gavin, were you an active justice, would have clapped in gaol long since.”

“Charles Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, seeking to restrain Sir Gavin, “you wear a brave face and use a bold tone to us for all your villainy. Whither would you ride this night?”

“Whither should I ride,” my uncle cried, “than away from this house—for London? Knowing that the boy has all—damn him!—has all that should be mine”—and still he stared at the black box lying on the table.

“You do not think to ride to London,” said Mr. Bradbury. “You think to ride to the Stone House to-night. You shall not leave the house! Sir Gavin, give orders to your men! Bid them hold the door!”

I saw my uncle leap forward; the pistol gleam in his hand; his hunting crop swing high—Sir Gavin roaring out as the two old gentlemen recoiled from, him, “Galt! Any of you! Seize him!”

But the hunting crop smote down upon the lantern and the candle; instantly the room was dark; all was a confusion of rushing, struggling figures. I leaped towards the box, but was thrown back by a plunging body, and went headlong to the floor. Sir Gavin was roaring, “Hold the door! Don’t let him go! Light! You dolts! Light!”—And I, rolling on the floor, squealed out, “The box! Look to the box! Sir Gavin, Mr. Bradbury!”

A roar of voices; a smash of glass from the window; lanterns flashing in at the door. As dazed I rose to my feet, I saw that my uncle and the box of gems were gone.

_Chapter XXXVI_. _Dawn_

A half-hour thence we were in saddle—Sir Gavin, Mr. Bradbury, and I—and riding with the two runners, and four of Sir Gavin’s servants, as swiftly as we might through the dark for the Stone House. Roger Galt had not waited for us; but, taking horse, had ridden off immediately in pursuit of my uncle escaping with the jewels. We conjectured that Mr. Charles would not proceed now to the Stone House, but would ride for London, hoping to out-distance us, and lie hid there, till he might find a ship and escape for the Continent.

Ere we dared leave Craike House, we assured ourselves that the Haven was emptied of its rogues. My cousin Oliver remained with two of Sir Gavin’s folk, to guard Miss Milne, lest any of the carrion crows fly back thither. Now fully assured from my uncle’s speech and action that the Stone House held the secret of my father’s disappearance from England—that, indeed, he had returned and was held a prisoner by Martin Baynes and his fellow-rogues, Mr. Bradbury, with an activity beyond his years, was bent himself on riding thither; I—for all my bitter chagrin that the gems should have fallen into my uncle’s hands—was shaking with excitement for the thought that my father was at last come home, yet lay at the Stone House in peril of his life. The horses were gone from the stables; my uncle had ridden away on Sir Gavin’s own horse—to the justice’s choler; he must needs mount his servant’s horse, and I the other fellow’s.

We rode out then in the dark; swept down the avenue, and out the open gates—the woods yet roaring about us in the straining wind, though the strength of the gale had abated.

So long as we held to the open road and to the byeways by which Roger Galt had brought me off the moors on the morn of my escape from the Stone House, we went at high speed—not pausing or drawing rein. And the wind blowing from the sea smote roundly on us; the beating of the breakers on the cliff rolled up like thunder; once, as we passed in view of the sea, I saw a red flash out of the blackness, and thought that, belike, the King’s ship fired upon Blunt’s brig; but I could be sure of nothing for the pitch blackness or distinguish sound of cannon over the thunderous beat of the seas and crying of the wind.

Coming out on the wastes, we were compelled for the dark to go more cautiously for the broken ground; Sir Gavin pressed on steadily a little ahead, guiding us for the Stone House. We went in silence—intent upon our purpose; I wondering over the grim events of the long night, and dreading yet the event—that we should come too late, and that the rogues fleeing from Craike House, and black with rage at their defeat, should wreak their vengeance on my father—if indeed they held him at the Stone House—ere we might arrive.

I thought of Charles Craike flying through the night: he who had wrought this evil; victorious yet, the plundered jewels in his possession,—the jewels for which, as surely as my grandfather, he had sold his very soul. I thought of his triumphant laughter, as he fled through the night; I thought of all the cunning and the tricks by which he surely would escape us yet, and fly to France, and spend the treasure as he would, and where upon the Continent he would. But I thought, too, of black Roger racing grimly after through the night; I trusted yet that he, with all his knowledge of the roads, mounted on his great horse which many a time had carried him to safety, would come up with my uncle, and take him and the treasure.

On in the dark we rode. The way over the moorlands seemed unending; black coppice and rock, black upland appeared to join the blackness of the moonless, starless night; the bleak winds blowing at our backs, the lash of rain now falling on our shoulders. On and on, the blackness giving place to the one greyness of clouded skies and moorlands; the pale dawn coming.

And with the dawn we came out on the height above the Stone House, and saw it lie grey in the hollow below us; no gleam of firelight showed from its windows; no smoke curled up. No one was stirring; the house seemed deserted. The baying of the hound sounded up to us. But, as we paused and drew together, Sir Gavin Masters, pointing with his whip, growled out, “They’re here—some of the rogues. See the horses feeding down by the wall there”—and suddenly bellowing with triumph, “Ay, and by God, Charles Craike himself is here; that’s my nag with the saddle on its back—inside the wall!”

Mr. Bradbury cried out sharply, “Come down, Sir Gavin! Come down! We dare not wait! What may be done within?”—and rode off apace.

Sir Gavin, following with the rest of us, gasped, “But what of Roger Galt? What’s come to the fellow?”