Part 2

“Have you turned advocate for rogues and vagabonds, Bradbury?” asked Mr. Chelton, solemnly, though his eyes were twinkling once more, as much from the glass of wine, no doubt, as from Tim Kerrick’s indignation and discomfiture.

“Nay, Mr. Chelton,” cried Mr. Bradbury, “only consider the facts! The parson’s son and, doubtless, excellently schooled by his father.”

“Vining’s a worthy fellow,” Mr. Chelton admitted, grinning. “I could tell you a rare story, Bradbury—” but broke off, as recollecting Tony’s presence, yet continuing to chuckle to himself. Mr. Vining, though devout, was a fox-hunting parson after the Squire’s own heart.

“Ay, and the lad Howe?” Mr. Bradbury asked, observing me steadily.

“A young varmint!” Tim asserted, vengefully.

“His folk, Mr. Chelton?”

“Mother’s a widow woman—a decent body,” Mr. Chelton answered readily. “Never a day behind with her rent. The lad was well enough till he turned poacher with young Vining there.”

“Village folk? Chelton folk?”

“The mother and the lad have lived here these ten years. From London, I’ve heard say, Bradbury.”

Mr. Bradbury took snuff. “Now, Mr. Chelton,” he said, laughing, “these lads have done no more than a taste of Tim’s ash-plant should have corrected in them. And would have corrected, but that I ordered them to be brought to the Hall,—I’ll have a word with you, sir, presently, on my reason. But for two hours or so they’ve been in Tim’s hands; they’ve been locked up in the dark, maybe, and they’ve been haled before you. The lesson should serve ’em, sir.”

“Ain’t I to baste ’em properly, Squire?” asked Tim, aghast. “They’re varmint—varmint, sir!”

“No doubt,” said Mr. Bradbury. “But they’ll need no further lesson. Admonish them as you will, Mr. Chelton, and send them packing home to make their peace with their folk as they may. It’ll meet the purpose, I promise you. You’ll not be troubled with them again,” and standing up, he laughed shrilly and snapped his snuff-box lid. I realised that Mr. Bradbury’s purpose—to satisfy some passing curiosity—had been fulfilled. He stood peering at me still, his eyes darting like the jewels upon his fingers. “You’re long away from your guests, Mr. Chelton,” he said, with a wave of his hand toward the door.

The Squire hesitated a moment; then, with sudden roaring laughter, cried to us, “Oh, get away home, you dogs! Don’t let me have you here again. Out of this!—No, you don’t, Kerrick! You’ll remain here,” as Tim started for the door, purposing, I assumed, still to exercise justice upon us.

We did not stay to thank the Squire or Mr. Bradbury, but slinking out of the room, scurried through the hall, and presently were racing down the drive apace, lest Kerrick with his ash-plant pursue and overtake us.

_Chapter III_. _Mrs. Mary Howe_

My mother was looking out from the gate into the moonlit street when I reached home.

I saw her white cap poking from among the evergreens, as I rounded the corner. She was white and shaking when she hurried to meet me.

“My dear, where have you been?” she cried. “I’ve been waiting for you these three hours or more. I’ve been so much afraid.”

“I’m sorry, mother,” I answered, as I kissed her. “I’ve been with Tony. Nothing’s amiss. I went with him up to the Hall, and saw the Squire, that’s all.”

“You’ve been in trouble, then? Oh, you’ve been caught poaching with young Vining! That’s what you mean, isn’t it?” she said, indignantly.

“Yes, that’s it, mother, but Squire only laughed.”

She said no more, but stepped before me through the garden—now all silvered with the moon and scented with gillie-flowers and stocks and sweet moss-roses—into the cottage. She kept our dwelling as neat and trim within as the garden about it. The room we entered was freshly lime-washed; the windows were hung with snow-white curtains and gay with flowers in boxes. Settle and chairs and table were oaken, and dark with age; an old Dutch clock, brass candlesticks and canisters stood on the chimney-piece; blue and white ware and lustre were ranged upon the shelves, with pewter polished silver-white even as the brasses shone like gold. My supper was set on bleached white linen—a cold pasty, bread and cheese, and cider in a covered jug; though I was well-nigh starving for the lateness of the hour, and though my mother hastened to cut a wedge from the pasty for me, I could not eat or drink till I had told the tale of our adventure and of Mr. Bradbury’s interest. At the first mention of Mr. Bradbury’s name, I believed that she started, and that the colour crept into her cheeks. My mother was pale and tall and fine,—all white and black, ivory-white of skin, dark of eye and hair—wearing black stuff gowns, snow-white mob-caps and aprons, save of a Sunday, when she put on her silk dress, in which she made a figure fitter to the Hall than to the village,—so it seemed to me.

Observing her stirred from her placidity, I asked, “Who’s Mr. Bradbury, mother? Squire’s lawyer, I know, but what can be his interest in us? Why didn’t he let Tim baste Tony and me? And why did he question the Squire about you and me, and how long we’d lived in the village? And then the way he watched me!”

She said quietly, though there was a tremor in her voice, “Sit down and eat your supper, John. It’s late and I’m weary. Mr. Bradbury is the servant of many great families. Once—years ago—he knew me, before I was wed to Richard Howe. And—and—he knew your father. You’re very like your father.” Watching her, I believed that I saw dread in her eyes, and that her lips were trembling. Meeting my look, she added steadily, “That is all, John. Promise me that you’ll not go poaching with Tony again!”

“Oh, it’s easy enough to promise, mother,” I said, sitting down to my supper, “but it’s not so easy to keep my word.”

“Why? It should be easy!”

“Yes, and it would be, if I had anything else to occupy me. You see, I’m weary of wasting my days in Chelton. You’d have me a scholar; and that I’ll never be. Mr. Vining would tell you so, for I’m sure he tells me as much every day of the week. And what should Tony and I be doing except getting into mischief?”

“I’ve asked you, John,” she said, simply, “to wait just a little longer. I couldn’t have you go to London. Remembering your father! You’re safe here. I wish you could be happy.”

“But here I am turned seventeen. I’ve not the head for book-learning. And what’s the purpose of it all? Do you want me to be a schoolmaster or a clergyman?”

“No,” she said quickly, “to be a gentleman. This Mr. Bradbury—did he say anything else to you? Anything about your father?”

“Only what I’ve told you.”

She nodded, but said no more; sitting silent and abstracted until I had eaten my supper; rising then to clear away the meal, whilst I, taking down my Latin grammar, set myself to conning my lesson for the morrow, apprehending that Mr. Vining’s cane would make amends for the punishment of which Mr. Bradbury’s intervention had disappointed Tim Kerrick. But if my eyes were fixed on the page, my thoughts were straying back to Mr. Bradbury, from his appearance out of his wrecked coach to the moment when I had left him standing chuckling beside Squire Chelton. My mother, coming back quietly, sat down with her sewing; so we remained till the hands of the clock pointed to the hour of eleven. And even as I shut my Latin grammar to prepare for bed, and my mother rose to set away her sewing, a tapping sounded on the door.

My mother started; whispered to me, “Who should come so late?”—and, going to the door, demanded, “Who is there?”

A low voice answered, “Mr. Bradbury, seeking Mrs. Mary Howe.”

I heard my mother gasp, and saw her throw her hands up; controlling herself then she unbarred the door, and curtsied, as Mr. Bradbury, wrapped in his black cloak, entered the room.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Howe,” he said, with his stiff bow. “I’d not have come so late, but that I desired my business with you and your son to be kept secret, and that it brooked of no delay.”

Whilst I stood gaping at Mr. Bradbury, my mother barred the door, and dusting a chair, then set it by the table for him. When he sat down, she remained standing facing him; though her eyes seemed to regard him with terror, and her breath came swiftly, she uttered not a word, or asked the purpose of his visit. He looked at her, and smiled to himself; sought his jewelled box in his pocket, and took snuff deliberately. He said at last, “I was not mistaken, Mrs. Howe. The boy’s looks and likeness did not mislead me. Need I express myself as very happy to renew our acquaintance?”

My mother, leaning forward, said slowly, “Since my son told me, sir, of your interest, I did not doubt that you would come here. Let me say only this: that had I dreamt that you would ever come to Chelton, and recognise him so easily, I’d not have stayed in the village. I’d have sought another hiding-place.”

“Mrs. Howe,” he said, smiling, “you’re frank with me. I’m happy that you should be. You will be frank with me in answering all I have to ask you.” She watched him silently; he waved his hand towards me, asking, “Isn’t it time for the lad to be abed?”

“He stays here, Mr. Bradbury,” she answered with composure. “What you may have to say need be no secret from him.”

He nodded, his look expressing satisfaction, but his keen eyes darting at her, as though to read her thought; she continued steadily to watch him. He said, “Your answer gives me confidence, Mrs. Howe. I’m happy that you’re willing that the boy remain.”

“Mr. Bradbury,” cried she, with mounting colour, “pray ask your questions!”

“First let me put this to you—the boy’s father—?”

“I think him dead. He passed by the name of Richard Howe in London. When he left me I believed at first that he must have returned to his home. He has gone out of my life. I—I cannot think him living”—with a sudden gasp and start of tears. “Mr. Bradbury, you do not come from him?”

“Alas no!”

“From whom, then? From them?”

He did not answer, saying, as if he had not heard her question, “To anyone knowing my honoured client, old Mr. Edward Craike, this young gentleman would pass unquestionably as his grandson.—His look would establish his identity as Richard’s son. If—forgive me—proof of your marriage were available? You use—your maiden name!”

I felt my cheeks burn, and started forward; he waved me impatiently aside; my mother interrupted hastily, her face expressionless, but the colour staining her face, “You need not ask your question, Mr. Bradbury.”

He proceeded coolly, “Mr. Richard Craike has been lost to his family for many years. Having known Richard I appreciate easily the reasons which actuated him in cutting himself wholly from his family and in passing under an assumed name. Richard’s death—again forgive me, madam, should render his son heir to Mr. Edward Craike,—a gentleman of considerable fortune,—as I need not remind you.” He smeared his lip with snuff, and paused, eyeing her closely. She answering nothing, he said swiftly, “You do not help me, Mrs. Craike.”

“Pray, sir, go on,” she said, impatiently. “Say what you have to say.”

He said, still in that hard tone of his, “From one who had suffered at the hands of the Craike family—more particularly at the hands of Mr. Charles Craike, and at the hands of Mrs. Charles,—since deceased,—of Mr. Charles, then, heir in the event of Richard’s death, it might be idle for me to seek any assistance only to serve the interests of my client—Mr. Edward—as I conceive these interests. Idle to plead the loneliness of an old, unhappy man, having lost the one thing that made life precious to him—his elder son, the very light of his eyes. But if I urge, Mrs. Craike, that the opportunity presents itself,—not only of insuring the fortunes of Richard’s son-but also of retaliating upon Charles Craike, of excluding him, his son, Oliver, from a rich inheritance,—what then, Mrs. Craike?”

She looked up at him, her eyes curiously alight, her lips curling, but for the moment did not answer.

“And Charles Craike being responsible—possibly responsible—for the disappearance of his brother”—he proceeded, tapping impatiently upon his snuff-box, “what then, Mrs. Craike?”

“Mr. Bradbury,” she said instantly, “this is a question I shall not answer now.”

“Mr. Edward Craike is of advanced years and broken health. His death is shortly to be expected,” he said. “Your decision is of some urgency. Nor do I desire my visits to you to be a matter of gossip at Chelton.”

“You may come to-morrow night,” she answered indifferently, “as you have come to-night.”

“Ay, surely,” he said, rising stiffly, “but you should be able to answer me immediately.”

“I have said to-morrow night.”

“You, madam, guaranteeing that you will remain here in the meantime on my assurance that I do not seek to promote the interests of Mr. Charles Craike. You will not seek to elude me?”

“You have my promise, Mr. Bradbury,” she said quietly; and moving to the door, unbarred it. She curtsied to his stiff bow; wrapping his cloak about him he passed out swiftly.

_Chapter IV_. _A Journey Planned_

When Mr. Bradbury returned to the cottage on the following evening, my mother would not allow me to remain in the room to hear what passed. She would have had me go to bed immediately on Mr. Bradbury’s knocking at the door; recollecting then, that from my room I must inevitably hear all that passed, she bade me wait in the garden, until her conversation with him was ended.

She had refused in the interval between his visits to answer any of my eager questions; she offered me no information. To be sure, my head was full of notions; this much I knew: that my grandfather was wealthy; that my father and mother had assumed her name—for what reason I could not conjecture, and that Mr. Bradbury, if he had his will, would surely make me known as the only son of Richard Craike, and, may be, heir to old Edward. Ay, and that Charles, my father’s brother, was an enemy of my mother; that he and his wife had wronged her cruelly in the past; that she hated him, and that the prospect of revenge on him inclined her to accede to Mr. Bradbury’s wish.

Through the day my mother went about her household duties calmly, as was her wont. She insisted that I should go to my studies with Mr. Vining and Tony as on any day; only stressing that I should say nothing to my friend concerning Mr. Bradbury. But, I promise you, I had no mind that day for Latin grammar, or for the _Letters of Cicero_; the event was inevitable,—Mr. Vining caning me soundly, with a display of wrath ill-fitting a clergyman, even as, I took it from Tony’s uneasiness and writhing on his chair, he had chastised his son for his late return the night before. I was all eagerness for the night and the coming of Mr. Bradbury.

He came stealthily—wrapped in his black cloak. As he entered, my mother bade me leave the room and wait in the garden. I waited all impatiently. I could scarcely refrain from sneaking up under the window, and listening to their conversation. An hour or more their voices sounded from within; at no time did my mother raise her tone; often I heard Mr. Bradbury dictatorial, occasionally persuasive; I believed at last from his laughter that he had prevailed. I lounged drearily about the garden, until I heard the door opening, and saw Mr. Bradbury coming out, his cloak about him and his hat bent down over his brows.

As I stepped forward to open the gate for him, he paused in his path, and eyed me smiling. “So, Mr. John Craike,” he greeted me. “So!”

“Mr. John Craike!” I repeated.

“From now on, Mr. John Craike. Or from the moment of your departure from the village, Mr. John Craike. Can you forget, sir, that you were ever John Howe?”

“I don’t understand, sir?”

“Necessarily, no, Mr. Craike. But I am to have your company to London a week from now. You, sir, are to honour my house, until I have communicated with my client, Mr. Edward Craike; then I trust to have the pleasure of presenting you to your grandfather.”

“What has happened, Mr. Bradbury?” I asked eagerly. “What has my mother told you?”

“Nay, there, Mr. Craike, I must be silent. I must leave it to your good mother to satisfy your curiosity, if she will, sir; if she will. Till this day week, sir”—and with a polite bow he slipped past me, and was gone.

I hurried into the cottage. My mother sat by the table, her hands clasped; so rapt was she that she did not hear me when I came in; she did not heed me till I caught her arm, crying, “What has happened, mother? Tell me!”

She said then, “What has happened! What I have prayed would never come to pass!”

“Dear, what is the matter?”

“That for all my prayers,” she went on, as if speaking to herself; “that for all my hope to keep my son from that doomed house,—this yet should be! Dear God, if it be Thy purpose that out of evil shall at last come good—” but broke off and looked wildly at me.

I held her hands, and, wondering, asked, “Who are the Craikes, then? What is the doomed house? Why have we passed for all these years as Howe, and lived as village folk at Chelton, if our name be Craike? Hiding from them—my father’s kinsfolk?”

“Yes, yes, hiding from them, and from their wealth—their ill-gotten wealth.”

“Ill-gotten,—how?”

“You’ll know—oh, soon enough, you’ll know.”

“Mr. Bradbury said a week to-day I go away with him. And you—what of you, mother?”

“I stay here!”

“You stay here alone, and I go to London and on to my grandfather’s house? Not I!”

“Yes, you go! You go to your grandfather—to be rich—his heir. You go to bring to nothing all your uncle’s years of plotting, all the hurt that he has ever done to mine and me. Surely you go! But never shall I set foot in that accursed house.”

“And yet you’d have me go.”

She answered, “I’d have you go to your own. I’d have you go, thinking I’ve made you man—not as old Edward Craike or his son Charles. Your father’s son.”

“My father, you have heard of him? He is alive?”

“I have heard nothing—nothing. I think him dead. He does not come to me in dreams as living. Charles Craike would have him dead; and he is surely dead. And oh, at last to have my reckoning with Charles Craike—to have my reckoning, as surely I shall have!”

“Tell me more! I do not understand. Why do you hate the Craikes so much? What wrong have they done you? Tell me all!”

She rose up from her chair and drew her hands from mine. “Your father, whom we loved so much,” she said, “was taken from us. Whether he was done to death, or carried out of England by the plotting of Charles Craike, I do not know. I think his brother guilty, knowing his hate for him and me. Charles Craike has thought to profit by your father’s death. I’d have you go with Mr. Bradbury to your grandfather. I am assured by Mr. Bradbury that you shall go in safety and return in safety. I fear Charles Craike—I fear for you, as I have feared these years that we have hidden here. I fear the fortune of old Edward Craike, piled up by sin and cruel wrong to others, will bring no good or happiness to you or any of his house. I fear—and yet because I hate Charles Craike, and I would punish him, and bring his sins to nothing, I’d have you go. Believing that you will avenge your father, and come again to me; believing Heaven wills it so!”

_Chapter V_. _The Journey Begun_

By break of day a week thence I waited by the highway for the coach and pair which should carry me with Mr. Bradbury up to London. My mind was yet confused for the swiftness of events. My mother, after her first outburst on the evening of Mr. Bradbury’s second visit, had become secretive; she whose life had seemed to me so open and simple, had grown inscrutable; she would satisfy me fully on none of the matters of most concern to me. This much I gathered—that I was John Craike, son of Richard Craike, who had passed by the name of Howe; that my grandfather was possessed of considerable means, and that for greed of this Charles Craike, my uncle, had plotted against his brother, bringing about his disappearance from England, if not his death. I believed that my mother at the time of her marriage had held some menial position in the service of Mrs. Charles Craike; that the match had excited bitter opposition from the Craike family, and that my father and she had been wedded secretly, and had lived under her name in London, fearing Charles Craike and his hostility. And that she had found from the first the hand of Charles Craike in the disappearance of her husband, and had fled away to live at Chelton through her concern for me and the enmity of Charles.

But of my grandfather’s fortune—“ill-gotten,” she named it,—and of “the doomed house,” she would say no more; her secrecy hung like a shadow over us for that last week of mine at Chelton. She went quietly about her preparations for my journey, refusing to listen to my appeals that I should stay with her; insisting that, if I loved her, I should give myself wholly into Mr. Bradbury’s hands. “For,” she said, “I believe in him—nay, I know him for a friend of yours and mine. And he has great influence with your grandfather, and will insure your safe return to me.” Only from all the week of wondering and doubts unanswered I realised the bitterness of her spirit toward Charles Craike, and the keenness of her desire that I, as only son of the elder son, should come between him and the inheritance for which he had planned; this hate of him and this desire for his punishment outweighed even her fears for me. Though Mr. Bradbury had convinced her that he would insure for me a safe journey and a safe return.

But at the time of parting,—ere the dawn was come,—her hardness passed from her. I saw, as I had never seen, since the day of my father’s disappearance, tears falling from her eyes. She clasped me to her, as if she would never loose me from her arms. Not my first separation from her—I believed then it would be brief, and that, when Mr. Bradbury had made me known to my grandfather, I would return to her; and all would be as before,—alone affected her. I understood now, indeed, she feared for me, and that her terrors surging up almost induced her thus late to break her word to Mr. Bradbury. Looking back, ere I passed out of sight from the cottage, I saw her standing as a grey shadow in the doorway; I waved my hat back to her; and so I left her.

And then the spirit of adventure and new experience took me, and I swung out on to the highway. I had put on my best black clothes, and the fine frilled shirt my mother had stitched and starched for me. I carried only a little knapsack containing such few articles as I should need on my journey up to London with Mr. Bradbury; there, my mother had told me, I would be fitted out with garments more suitable to my condition than she could fashion for me. At the first milestone from the village I stood to wait by the highway for the coming of Mr. Bradbury in his coach; it was his wish and my mother’s that my departure with him should not become a matter of village gossip. I had parted regretfully from my friend Tony; giving him only to understand that I journeyed up to London with Mr. Bradbury to be made known to my father’s folk, assuring him that I would soon return, and binding him to secrecy.