This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler

[Picture: Book cover]

_Rogues’ Haven_

BY

_ROY BRIDGES_

_Author of_

“_The Bubble Moon_,” “_The Vats of Tyre_,” _etc._

* * * * *

_HODDER AND STOUGHTON_

_LIMITED_ _LONDON_

* * * * *

_To my friend_

_M. A. MINOGUE_.

* * * * *

Printed in Great Britain by C. TINLING & CO., LTD.,

53, Victoria Street, Liverpool,

and at London and Prescot.

* * * * *

_Contents_

CHAPTER PAGE

I. MR. BRADBURY 9

II. AT THE HALL 15

III. MRS. MARY HOWE 29

IV. A JOURNEY PLANNED 39

V. THE JOURNEY BEGUN 45

VI. THROUGH THE DARKNESS 53

VII. THE RIDERS 59

VIII. THE GREEN-CURTAINED ROOM 65

IX. MR. CHARLES CRAIKE 75

X. SCRUPLES OF ROGER GALT 83

XI. EVENTS AT THE STONE HOUSE 89

XII. CAPTAIN EZRA BLUNT 97

XIII. OUT OF THE STONE HOUSE 105

XIV. MODESTY OF MR. GALT 111

XV. THE DOOMED HOUSE 119

XVI. OLD MR. EDWARD CRAIKE 129

XVII. CREED OF MR. CHARLES 139

XVIII. COMPACT OF TOLERANCE 147

XIX. COMPANY AT DINNER 155

XX. SOUL OF A MAN 161

XXI. MY COUSIN OLIVER 169

XXII. THE WEB OF IVY 177

XXIII. DYING FIRES 185

XXIV. THE WOOD 191

XXV. INSISTENCE OF CAPTAIN BLUNT 201

XXVI. SIR GAVIN MASTERS 207

XXVII. SUSPICIONS OF MR. CHARLES CRAIKE 213

XXVIII. SPILT WINE 219

XXIX. INTERVENTION OF MR. BRADBURY 225

XXX. NOT YET 233

XXXI. THE NIGHT WATCH 239

XXXII. WILL OF A MAN 251

XXXIII. CARRION CROWS 259

XXXIV. FLIGHT OF CROWS 269

XXXV. DEPARTURE OF MR. CHARLES CRAIKE 279

XXXVI. DAWN 291

XXXVII. MY UNCLE COMES TO HIS OWN 299

XXXVIII. LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT 305

_Chapter I_. _Mr. Bradbury_

But for the coach and pair carrying Mr. Bradbury to Chelton, Tony Vining

and I would not have been haled before the Squire, but would have got off

scot-free as any time before. Tony and I had made the round of our

snares. Tony had poked a young rabbit into his jacket-pocket; I was

carrying a hare in my bag, and we were sneaking homewards through the

dusk, when Tim Kerrick, ash-plant in hand, and brace of keepers at heel,

stepped out of the coppice.

“What be you lads doin’ here?” Tim demanded, barring our way. “You’re

after no good, I’ll warrant. What’s in your bag, John Howe?”

I did not stay to answer. I swung round and was away. Tony raced off

with me; old Tim and his keepers followed. We led them about the

coppice, but they pressed us hard, Tim roaring, “Stop, ye young varmint!

Stop! It’ll be all the worse for ye. Stop, I say!”

Dreading Tim’s ash-plant, we ran on with all speed. The hare in the bag

hung heavily on me; when we were out in the furze, I let the bag slip

from me, and ran more swiftly. I had need, for Tony was now well ahead,

and Tim and the keepers were hot at my heels; I could hear Tim’s snorting

as much for anger as the rigour of the chase. Furze tore my breeches and

stockings; as we took the bank above the road, a bramble almost led to my

undoing; it caught the tail of my jacket, and for the moment held me.

Tim charged forward with a yell of triumph; it was premature, for,

kicking his toe against a root, he tumbled forward on his nose; on the

evidence of his curses he pitched headlong into the bramble. I tore

myself away from the thorn, and dashed up the bank after Tony.

Down then we plunged into the road; the keepers, not staying to help Tim

to his feet, pressed closely on us. And as we shot down into the road,

destiny in a coach and pair—to wit, Mr. Bradbury—encountered us. For

scarcely were we on the road, and racing on, than with a flash of yellow

lamplight through the dusk, cracking of whip, and rattle of wheels, the

coach was driven round a bend in the way, blocking our path, and sending

us up against the bank to save ourselves. Tony cried out, for the horses

almost trod him down; instantly the pair took fright, and swerved to

left. A wheel descending into a deep rut, the coach toppled over; a

horse fell, and the driver was lost in a swirl of dust, confusion of

struggling, plunging horses and smashing vehicle. On this disaster we

might have sped away; no more than my curiosity, or maybe, desire to give

a hand to the driver, held me there leaning against the bank and for the

moment staring. But then I darted back with Tony, and caught at the

bridle of the plunging horse; by then the driver was the master of its

fellow. Scarcely had we prevailed, than old Tim, cursing still, was upon

us, roaring to his keepers, “Hold the young varmints! Don’t let ’em get

away!” Promptly the keepers had Tony and me as securely as we held the

horse; Tim was standing glowering at us, ash-plant quivering in his right

hand, when out of the wrecked coach stepped Mr. Bradbury.

Now in the days to be from my first meeting with Mr. Bradbury the

demeanour and the characteristics of the gentleman were to be stamped so

vividly upon my mind that perhaps I write of him here with a detail

beyond my perception in the dusk, for the light of the carriage lamps had

been put out. I picture him as a keen-faced gentleman,—then of sixty

years of age,—as lean and stooping slightly; his black cloak lined with

white silk blowing out from his shoulders; his long white hands striving

now to secure it at his breast, and now to hold his hat upon his head.

He would be wearing his coat of fine black cloth, black, flapped

waistcoat, black silken breeches and black silken stockings, shining

silver-buckled shoes, linen of superfine quality and whiteness,—I recall

the glint of white jewels on his fingers. His hair was snow-white, and

bound with a black ribbon; his spectacles were as two owl-like eyes.

“Ha-ha!” the gentleman exclaimed, observing Tony and me in the grip of

the keepers. “Whom have we here? Gentlemen of the road?”—and chuckled

in a dry, crackling way.

“Poachers,—lads from the village, Mr. Bradbury, sir,” Tim growled,

touching his hat. “These young dogs has been poachin’, and I be goin’ to

dust their jackets, as they’ve needed dustin’ many a day. ’Twas them as

frightened the hosses, an’ nigh broke your honour’s neck and the lad’s

there. You’ve took no hurt, sir, I hopes and trusts.”

“None! None!” Mr. Bradbury answered, indifferently. “But my driver?”

“Well enough, sir, thank ’ee,” the fellow said, busying himself with the

traces of the fallen horse. “No thanks to these young rascals.”

“Ay! Ay! I’ll be walking on then to the hall,” said Mr. Bradbury,

glancing at the ruined coach. “And I’ll leave you free, Tim Kerrick, to

dust the jackets and whatsoever else of the attire of these lads as may

occur to you.” He chuckled again, and pulled his flapping cloak about

him.

“The road’s rough and broken with the rains, Mr. Bradbury,” said Tim.

“As like as not you’ll be tumblin’ into the ditch, or missin’ your way.

I’ll send one of my lads with you. Hey, you Dick, have you your lantern

there?”

“Yes, I’ve it here, Mister Kerrick,” the keeper answered.

“Light it, lad, light it, and go along with Mr. Bradbury! Joe and me can

finish our business with these varmint.”

The keeper, relinquishing me to Tim’s custody, lit his lantern, and stood

forward to attend Mr. Bradbury, who, leaning on his cane, was

scrutinising Tony and me.

“Show the light on this lad here,” said Mr. Bradbury, suddenly, pointing

to me. As the light flashed on me, Mr. Bradbury peered at me through his

spectacles; his face expressed nothing of his thought; shamefaced I stood

before him. “What’s your name, boy?” Mr. Bradbury demanded, sharply.

“John Howe, sir,” I answered.

“Howe!—H’m—Kerrick!”

“Sir?” said Tim, touching his hat.

“Bring this lad to the Hall.”

“After I’ve basted him, sir?”

“Let the penalty be suspended. Later, maybe. Jacket or breeches then,

as you will,” said Mr. Bradbury, chuckling. “Who’s the other lad?”

“Parson’s son, sir,—young Vining.”

“Bring them both before Mr. Chelton at the Hall,” Mr. Bradbury ordered.

“It’s only just that they should suffer equally, as Mr. Chelton thinks

fit; one’s as culpable as the other. Bring them both after me, Kerrick!

Now, my man, go ahead with the lantern.”

Wrapped in his cloak, hat pressed down over his brows, Mr. Bradbury went

up the road, leaving Tim to curse, since justice and an overdue vengeance

on our skins had been taken arbitrarily from his hands.

_Chapter II_. _At the Hall_

It was dark long before Tony and I were marched up the drive to the Hall.

The great house stood out a grey mass against the starry sky; the windows

fronting us were golden with light; and light flowed from the open door

and down the steps. I heard loud laughter; the Squire had company, as he

might any night of the week. He favoured fox-hunting gentlemen of a like

pattern to himself, seasoned to drink under the table any gentleman of

fashion and Tory out of session who should quit the Town for the

hospitality of Chelton. Hearing the voices and the laughter, and seeing

the blaze of light from the dining-room, I had little fear of the temper

of Mr. Chelton, before whom Tony and I were presently to be haled. None

the less, for the thought that the Squire might think fit to parade us

before his company to provide sport for them, I would have begged Tim

Kerrick to deal with us summarily; I would have endured the ash-plant

about me for all my seventeen years of age but that the sudden interest

of Mr. Bradbury had excited my natural curiosity. I pictured Mr.

Bradbury standing by us, chuckling to himself, and his piercing look,

while the lantern light was playing across my face; and I recalled his

queer, sharp tone when he ordered me to be brought on to the Hall. What

should the gentleman want with me? Squire’s family lawyer, Tim told me,

gruffly, in answer to my eager question. How we should fare with Mr.

Chelton was of less concern.

I knew Mr. Chelton for a good-humoured gentleman. I did not fear that,

though Tony and I had been found poaching on his preserves, the Squire

would do worse than bid Tim Kerrick dress us down with his ash-plant. I

did not dread committal, the Assizes and the terror of their Lordships,

the Judges. Indeed, I believed that unseen I had dropped the hare out of

sight in the furze; and I took it that Tony had long since rid himself of

the rabbit from his pocket. Only when we were before the house did I

find the chance of a word with Tony. Tim, loosing his grip then, and

staring up doubtfully at the door, as if not knowing whether or not to

conduct us before the Squire and Mr. Bradbury immediately, I poked my

head forward and whispered to Tony, “Did you get rid of that rabbit?”

He whispered back, “No! It’s stuck in my pocket;” but he could add

nothing, for Tim gripped me instantly, and shook me, with the

observation: “No talkin’! If it’s the rabbit you’re thinkin’ of, it’s in

his pocket yet, for I’ve felt it there. And I saw you drop the bag with,

belike, another inside. So don’t go thinkin’ yourself clever, John Howe!

It’s gaol, or transportation, or at the very least a basting you’ve never

felt the like of, and’ll never want to feel again. Squire’s at dinner.

You’ll wait till Squire’s dined and wined, you will.”

With this cheerful augury Tim Kerrick propelled me before him, and the

keeper following with Tony, we were marched about the house to the

stables and into the harness-room. “You’ll be safe and snug here,” Tim

said, ere he turned the key upon us, “Squire’ll deal with you, but not

for a good two hours or more. So you can just think it all over in the

dark.”

Slamming the door Tim locked us in, and stumped away. His assertion that

Mr. Chelton would not deal with us, till he had dined, gave me instant

concern for my mother’s anxiety at my failure to return for supper. I

pictured her dolefully—with my meal set all ready for me; sitting

listening for my steps, peering up at the clock, and running out to the

gate and waiting there, but seeing still no sign of me. And dreading, I

guessed well, lest I should have disappeared as from the face of the

earth—vanished with never a word to her, even as my father—of whom I

shall tell presently. I cursed Tim Kerrick, Squire Chelton, and Mr.

Bradbury.

“What’s going to happen to us now, John?” Tony muttered through the dark.

“What’ll the Squire do with us, do you think?”

“Oh, he’ll laugh, for he’s sure to be half drunk when he sees us. Tell

us we’ll be hanged, if we’re not shot for poachers first. And if Tim

Kerrick makes the case black enough, Squire’ll give him leave to baste

us.”

“Yes, but Tim would have basted us properly, and let us go,” said Tony.

“Why should that old black crow want to spoil Tim’s sport and bid him

bring us here, unless he’s a notion of having us clapped in gaol? But

for him we’d have been through Tim’s hands by now, and been limpin’ home.

Do you know him, John?”

“Oh, I only know he’s Squire’s lawyer. You heard Tim say so, if you

didn’t know before. I’d never heard of him or clapped eyes on him.”

“He seemed to know you.”

“Yes, he did. But I don’t know how. We’ll hear, when Squire’s dined.

Pray God, he doesn’t spare the bottle! Sit ye down, Tony, while you’re

able.”

And in the dark we sat down on the cold, flagged floor. I tell you the

harness-room was like a vault for gloom and chill. The time we were held

there seemed unending; only Tim came near us, and then merely to be

assured that we were safe, and to growl vengefully at us, as he flashed

his lantern down on us. We wearied soon of conjecturing what should

happen to us. We sat huddled together silently, and while Tony sought to

pull the rabbit from his pocket, and at last succeeded to sling it from

him with a curse, I set myself to pondering over Mr. Bradbury’s

mysterious interest in me, and to striving to recollect when, if ever, I

had set eyes on the gentleman before. Never, so far as my memory served

me, though my mother and I had lived ten years at Chelton.

To my seventh year we had lived with my father in London. I remembered

my father clearly, tall and darkly handsome, his black hair

silver-threaded, though at the time of his mysterious disappearance he

was not more than thirty-seven years of age. I remembered the moods of

brooding melancholy darkening the natural liveliness of his disposition;

his strength, his tenderness with my mother and myself. I remembered, as

the most sorrowful time of my childhood, the day of his disappearance,—my

mother waiting the hours through from eve till dawn, hoping against hope

for the sound of his return,—the days succeeding of alternate hopes never

fulfilled and terrors not allayed.

My father had held a poor clerkship with the East India Company. He had

left the House late in the day to carry a letter down to the docks for

the master of an Indiaman; but had never delivered the letter, and had

vanished without trace or word. I remembered my mother’s pitiful

distress, as day succeeded day without tidings, and the cloud of mystery

was in no way lifted. A countrywoman and friendless, she could make

little search for him; it was assumed by the gentlemen of the East India

House, that he had been pressed aboard one of the King’s ships; even so,

none of his name was ever found among the crews, though the interest of

the Company secured inquiry from the Commissioners of His Majesty’s Navy.

And my mother, distraught for many days, seemed stricken with terror of

the Town and its associations, and took coach and fled away with me to

Chelton; all the years since we had had no word of my father and did not

know whether he was alive or dead. We had lived quietly in a little

cottage on the edge of Chelton—the last dwelling, indeed, of the village

ere the street passed into the great highway. My mother was possessed of

small means—a legacy, I believed, from a kinsman, though she would tell

me nothing either of my father’s family or of her own. She had not

sufficient for our needs; she added to our means by fine needlework for

the Squire’s lady and her folk; how she found the five guineas a year for

which the Rev. Mr. Vining allowed me to share the studies and the

discipline of his son Tony I did not know. Yet, though I, lazy and

graceless young dog as I was, urged her to let me seek employment in

Chelton or in London itself, she would not hear of this. She declared,

dear soul, that she would have me first a scholar; even though I had

turned seventeen, there was time and to spare for me to choose a calling.

So with Tony I had become an equally indifferent scholar, in spite of Mr.

Vining’s cane, and as abandoned a rogue and poacher. So I sat now with

the parson’s son awaiting Squire Chelton’s summary justice, and most like

Tim Kerrick’s execution of it. But Mr. Bradbury—?

Mr. Bradbury sat in a cushioned chair by the fire; Mr. Chelton supported

his huge body more or less steadily against the chimney-piece, when at

last Tim Kerrick paraded us before them in the library. It was a vast

room,—its shelves lined with books, none of which, I fear, Mr. Chelton

had ever opened from the day when his father’s death put him into

possession of the Hall and its acres. Old Mr. Gilbert Chelton’s portrait

looked coldly down from its gilded frame above the chimney-piece on his

stout son, flushed from his drink—his red coat, buckskins and high boots

all mud-splashed from the cross-country ride of the day. Squire Chelton

had not changed his rig to do honour to his guests, who, I took it from

the roars of laughter yet sounding in the dining-room, were gentlemen of

tastes similar to his own. His iron-grey hair was wind-blown; his

blood-shot eyes were as unsteady as his legs. He exuded good

humour—natural to him, but stimulated by as liberal an indulgence in the

contents of his cellar as he expected from any gentleman of his company.

While Mr. Gilbert’s portrait looked its disapproval, the paintings of

four other dead and gone Cheltons of a marked resemblance to the Squire

seemed to regard him enviously from their old frames.

Mr. Bradbury, if he had not been permitted to spare the bottle at dinner,

made no show of it in his complexion. He sat by the fire, his legs

crossed; he had a silver snuff-box set with some glittering gem in his

left hand; his face was almost as white as his linen. Observing him, I

had a sense that the mind at the back of his broad brow was as keen and

as sparkling as the jewels on his fingers. With his leanness, his

bloodlessness, his coldly impassive face, his cunning eyes peering

through his spectacles, he was as odd a contrast to his stout,

drink-flushed patron in his riding-rig as were his air of precision and

the trimness of his dress to the frank disorder of the rich furniture in

the room. Squire Chelton’s desk was littered with papers and parchments;

an inkhorn was overset among them; goose quills had blown to the carpet;

hats, cloaks, riding-whips, and gloves were tossed pell-mell on chairs

and table. On this dark oaken table a half-emptied flagon of crystal and

silver was set, and a circle of glasses stained with the red dregs of

wine. The library was lit by many tall candles in silver sticks, and by

the leaping flames from the hearth before which Mr. Bradbury warmed

himself, with the reflections flashing from his jewelled hands, his

snuff-box and the silver buckles of his shoes. I noted the keenness of

Mr. Bradbury’s gaze immediately Tim thrust us forward; all the while I

remained in the room, I fancied that his eyes never left me.

“Here’s the young varmints, sir and Mr. Bradbury,” Tim announced,

touching his forelock.

“Young Vining and young Howe,—hey?” cried Mr. Chelton, essaying to frown

majestically. “Caught poaching! Ye’re a credit to the parson who has

the schooling of the pair of ye. What have ye to say for yourselves?

Come!”

We stared up at Mr. Chelton; grinned foolishly, but said nothing.

“Answer the Squire, varmint! Answer the Squire!” Tim muttered hoarsely

at our backs.

“Tell the story for them, Kerrick,” said Mr. Chelton. “Maybe when they

hear your account they’ll be ready enough to answer for themselves and

call you a liar”—chuckling.

Tim, stepping forward, briskly told his tale—no, he told the tale of

poachings from Chelton for the twelvemonth past, not limiting himself to

the matter of the evening, the rabbit in Tony’s jacket or the conjectured

content of my bag. Not a pheasant, not a hare, not a rabbit had been

poached from Chelton, but had gone—on Tim’s assertion—in company with

Tony and me,—the worst pair of varmints, Tim dubbed us, as never was.

Meanwhile, Squire Chelton from ruddy grew purple, from good-humoured

choleric and from choleric nigh choking with passion. From time to time,

as Tim proceeded, Mr. Chelton would burst out, “D’ye hear this,

Bradbury?” or “D’ye hear that?” Mr. Bradbury nodded; said nothing, and

took snuff, while he peered at me through his spectacles. Tim wound up

with a narration of the affair of the evening,—glowering at him I

rejoiced to see the damage wrought by the bramble to his nose and chin.

“Now, you rogues,—now!” Mr. Chelton stormed. “What have ye to say to me?

D’ye know this is a matter for Assizes? D’ye know that ye may be hanged

for this? D’ye know that at the least ye’ll be shipped overseas? What

d’ye think of it, Bradbury?”

“I think, my dear sir,” said Mr. Bradbury, smoothly, “that Kerrick

overstates his case. Indeed, so much he overstates it, that did I

instruct counsel for the defence of these lads, I promise that it would

end with the committal of Kerrick here on a charge of perjury”—Mr.

Bradbury laughed shrilly to himself, and took more snuff.

Tim stared at him with his eyes goggling, his jaw dropping. Mr. Chelton

growling thunderously, “Upon my soul, Bradbury! Upon my soul!” lurched

to the table, and poured himself a glass of wine. Tony and I rejoicing

fixed our eyes on Mr. Bradbury.

“Mr. Chelton,” Mr. Bradbury proceeded, “there’s no more in this matter

than the roguery of these lads to-night,—a rabbit or so snared; these

lads are poachers, and, no doubt, have taken a pretty picking off

Chelton. But Kerrick here would lay to their account the poachings of

the countryside,—of gipsies, vagrants, village folk and odd. Without a

tittle of proof, Mr. Chelton, without a tittle of proof that would hold

good in a court of law.”

“Askin’ your pardon, Mr. Bradbury, sir,” Tim protested, “Parson’s son had

a rabbit in his pocket, when we caught ’em, and young John Howe was

carryin’ summat in his bag. He dropped it over in the furze.”

“Maybe,” said Mr. Bradbury, testily. “We’ll admit these facts, Tim

Kerrick, we’ll admit them; but to seek, as you’ve done, my man, to prove

against these lads the losses of a year past—losses which you’ve failed

to prevent,—why, it’s preposterous, Kerrick,—it’s rank perjury!”

“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.

The morn came chill and grey. A drear wind was abroad; the pale dust

whirled down the highway. I waited in the cold for a good half-hour—the

sun was up, and the countryside leaping in its light from blackness and

greyness into the rich green of spring—ere the coach and pair bearing Mr.

Bradbury approached, driven rapidly from Chelton. As the driver pulled

up for me, Mr. Bradbury’s gloved hand let down the glass; nodding his

head to me in welcome, he hastened to admit me into the coach. It had

been repaired from the damages of its overthrow; it was cushioned

luxuriously; my body sank into its warm depth, and Mr. Bradbury, with all

politeness, hastened to wrap a robe of furs about me for the chill of the

morning. He embarrassed me by his close scrutiny; I assumed that he

regarded superciliously my rustic appearance in the best clothes I had;

realising my confusion, he said, laughing, “Forgive me, Mr. Craike, I

marvel only that a lady of your mother’s intelligence should ever have

thought to keep your kinship to the Craikes a secret.”

“She has left me, sir, very much in the dark,” I told him. “A week since

I was John Howe. To-day I am John Craike and ride with you. I do not

understand your interest in me.”

“Mr. Craike,” he said, leaning towards me, “if you have your father’s

look, you have a little of your mother’s, too. I esteem highly her

prudence and intelligence. And, sir, your likeness to your mother

encourages me to be frank and open with you, realising that, whatever

passes between us is said in confidence,—I, acting in your interest, and

in the interest of Mr. Edward Craike, whose adviser I have the honour to

be.”

“To be sure, sir, I ask for frankness, and pledge my word of honour to

you.”

He said earnestly, “Mr. Craike, in serving your interest I believe that I

shall best serve the interest of my client. I purpose, to be sure, to

take you to London and prepare you for presentation to your grandfather.

I purpose to accompany you to his house. You are by no means assured of

a welcome from him; you are assured only of the hostility of your Uncle

Charles,—your mother’s enemy—and mine! Ay,—and mine! I have a purpose

in promoting your interests. I have the purpose of keeping from the

inheritance of a great estate—Charles Craike!”

“A great estate!”

“No great acreage, but wealth such as few commoners in England own. I

would keep this from the hands of Charles Craike, knowing that if it pass

to him, it becomes a force for evil, surely it becomes.”

“Why?”

He answered swiftly, “A week or more from now, Mr. Craike, you’ll know

Charles Craike. Judge for yourself.”

“But from where did my grandfather derive his fortunes?” I asked,

remembering my mother’s words after Mr. Bradbury had left her that night

at the cottage. “By trade, or as an inheritance?”

I believed that his eyes flickered and that he hesitated. He answered

glibly, “The fruits, Mr. Craike, of his own industry.”

I stared at him and muttered, “What should my mother mean, Mr. Bradbury,

by the words ‘that doomed house’ and ‘the wealth ill-gotten’?”

He said swiftly, “Doomed, if the inheritance go to Charles Craike!

Surely doomed! Ill-gotten! Gotten as honestly as most!”

“Mr. Bradbury, forgive me,—are you frank with me?”

He took snuff ere he replied. “Mr. John Craike, at your grandfather’s

house you’ll learn the answers to your questions. Will you forgive me if

now I do not answer you?”

“Well, then, concerning this house—its whereabouts? I know nothing.”

He laughed a little. “Craike House,” he said, “passes among the folk of

the neighbourhood—it is far from here—by an odd name. ‘Rogues’ Haven,’

sir. ‘Rogues’ Haven.’”

“From the reputation of my kinsfolk?”

“Surely not,” he answered, “but from the retired nature of your

grandfather’s life, and from the practice of the vulgar to ascribe

mystery and evil where their curiosity is not satisfied. And from the

charity of your grandfather in keeping about him his old servants and

dependants. An odd company, maybe, Mr. John—a very odd company. But

judge of the house and its inmates yourself, sir. I warn you only—I am

bound to warn you—against Mr. Charles Craike.”

_Chapter VI_. _Through the Darkness_

Three weeks thence I accompanied Mr. Bradbury on the journey down from

London to my grandfather’s house. Mr. Bradbury had sent off a letter to

Mr. Craike announcing that he purposed to visit him, and to present his

grandson to him. He had received only a few lines of a letter in reply,

penned, he believed, not by the old man but by his son Charles,—to the

effect that Mr. Bradbury’s information astounded Mr. Edward Craike, but

that he consented to receive Mr. Bradbury and the young gentleman when it

should be convenient for them to journey down to Craike. Mr. Bradbury

seemed ill-pleased with the nature of the letter; he took pains to

impress on me the desirability of my commending myself to my

grandfather’s favour and affection.

From Mr. Bradbury’s first admission to me, on our journey up to London,

that he had no liking for Charles Craike, and that his purpose was to

prevent his inheriting his father’s fortune, he had stressed repeatedly

my uncle’s certain chagrin at my appearance in Craike House and his

inevitable hostility to me. Already, indeed, I hated my Uncle Charles,

and was ardent to avenge on him my parents’ sufferings at his hands;

else, I had only a natural curiosity in these kinsfolk of mine, and a

lively interest in the prospect of adventure. “Rogues’ Haven”—so the

country folk named Craike House; Mr. Bradbury would tell me only that the

name resulted from rustic curiosity and from the eccentricities of my

grandfather’s servants; the gentleman’s very reticence concerning my

kinsmen, the stock from which they were sprung, and the sources of their

wealth, intrigued me the more.

Mr. Bradbury had treated me handsomely at his fine house in London; a

country lad, I had enjoyed the wonders and diversions of the Town. He

had put me into the hands of his tailor; so that now I was dressed, if

not as fastidiously, at least with a fashion equal to his own. I had not

ceased to admire my blue cloth coat, silver-buttoned and braided, or my

white breeches, or to appreciate the ease of silken stockings on my legs

and fine linen on my body. Now wrapped warmly in greatcoat and shawls I

sat with Mr. Bradbury in his coach, driven through the night towards

Craike House. We should have arrived at our destination on the second

afternoon of our journey, but delayed by a cast shoe, here were we now

seated still in the coach, stiff and weary; I felt my stomach sinking

from the lack of a meal; and the dark was come. Ay, the night was come

with a rough gale from the sea; the mud from the wet roads obscured the

glass; this mattered nothing, for the night was inky black with clouds

wind-driven. We were out, Mr. Bradbury told me, on a wild and lonely

stretch of road, and not more than nine miles from our destination. But

when the lash of rain washed clear the carriage-glass, and the light of

the lamps flashed on his face, I saw him anxious and his eyes alert; I

understood his concern, which I had remarked throughout our journey, over

a little oaken box by his side. I had assumed that it contained

documents; now that it was open on his knees, I saw that it held a pair

of pistols; he was looking at the priming of them as the light allowed

him. I cried out, to be heard above the roll of the wind and the rumble

of the wheels, “What d’ye fear, sir? Highwaymen?”

He cried back, “A mere precaution, Mr. Craike. I’m always cautious on

these roads,—lonely and dark, and no one within hail.”

“Pray let me handle one,” I called; but he answered, smiling, “Nay, my

dear sir, I’ll not trust you with ’em, if you’ll allow me. For you might

easily be pistoling one of your own folk, not knowing.”

“Have no fear, sir, I’ve had the handling of a pistol ere this,” I

assured him. But, smiling that odd smile of his, he answered nothing.

Now it seemed that Mr. Bradbury’s coachboy knew the road well—the

gentleman having travelled over it often before; for, without direction

from his master he drove on as steadily through the dark as the roughness

of the way and the weariness of the horses would allow. Ay, and the

wildness of the night—the great wind from the sea; we were travelling

near to the coast; once when Mr. Bradbury let down the glass to peer out,

the salt tang and the reek of mud flats was borne in on the chill air. I

realised that Mr. Bradbury’s apprehension grew with the darkness and the

storm. When he drew up the glass and sat down, he did not lie back on

his cushions or muffle his shawl about his ears; he leaned towards the

window, staring forth into the dark, seeming, too, by his impatient wave

of his hand when I would have spoken, to be listening intently. I

strained my ears to hear, but for the time heard nothing save the rumble

of wheels, and the rushing of the wind; afar a thunderous sound as the

beating of the sea, no more, until the wind was cut from us in a dip of

the road, as if we drove among great trees, or between high hedgerows;

then it seemed I heard the pounding of hoofs upon the road, as if the

riders were at no great distance in the rear. The sound was

indistinguishable, when presently we swept out into the open country; and

the wind had its way with us once more. As we drove on apace, Mr.

Bradbury remained intent by the window; committing myself to Providence

and Mr. Bradbury, I lay back on my cushions. Indeed, I attached little

import to the sounds; I was dull with weariness and hunger; I had been

travelling for nigh two days. I had spent the worst of bad nights

through the suffocation of a deep feather bed at the inn in which we had

lodged for the night. I tell you the desire for sleep prevailed over

uneasiness at the loneliness of our way and sounds of riders through the

night; or my excitement at the thought of presentation to my kinsfolk. I

lay back; pulled my greatcoat about me, and slept. From time to time,

the jolting of the coach, as the wheels dipped in the ruts or struck on

stones, would rouse me; always I saw dully that Mr. Bradbury sat stiffly

by the window, and that his left hand strayed towards the case of pistols

open on the seat beside him.

I was awakened by the crash and splintering of glass. As I started up, I

was flung backwards by the shock of plunging horses and reeling coach;

half-dazed, I believed that I heard hoarse voices above the roaring wind.

I believed that the door of the coach was dragged open; that Mr. Bradbury

sought to hold it; failing, swung round and gripped his pistols; but at

that instant the coach reeled, and he was flung out into the road; I saw

the flashes of his discharging pistols as he fell.

The coach came to a standstill. I remember crying out, and leaping to my

feet, to spring down into the road to Mr. Bradbury. I remember then only

a flash of light—no more.

_Chapter VII_. _The Riders_

I remember that once an itinerant showman, passing through Chelton,

essayed _Mazeppa_; none the less, the sorry performance took my fancy.

Now, when I became conscious, I had a sense that I was borne forward so

through the night bound upon a horse; my next sensation, after the

throbbing of my head, was the friction of the saddle beneath me. I

realised at last that I was, indeed, held upon the horse; not cords, but

the strong arm of the rider held me before him in saddle; he was riding

with me at a great speed through the night. I must have cried out, for I

recall his hoarse voice in my ear, “Keep your mouth shut, my lad, or

’twill be the worse for you!”—and the grip of his arm tightened about me.

Now I was no light burden, and I was stoutly built for a stripling; even

so, he carried me easily, and when my head cleared and my strength came

back, the grip of his arm held me securely. I must needs sit before him

helpless, though the saddle galled me sorely; my brows throbbed, and my

mind was dark with apprehensions. To be sure my coming to Rogues’ Haven

must have been dreaded by my uncle; and to be sure this was some trick of

his to prevent my presentation to my grandfather; but what should be the

end of this adventure, and to what fate would my enemies consign me? I

told myself that surely, if they had planned to make an end of me, they

would have done so immediately on the taking of the coach, and not have

borne me off in this mysterious manner through the night.

And what of Mr. Bradbury? Had he died in his fall? Had they done him

further violence? I had grown to have a high regard for the gentleman,

yet I fear my immediate concern for his fate was chiefly that he should

be alive to bring me speedy aid. Lying passive in the grip of that

strong arm, I believed that one other horseman bore us company; I could

hear hoof-beats and the jingle of accoutrements; once, as the moon

flashed through the racing clouds, I caught a glimpse of a dark rider a

little ahead. My captor pushed his horse forward at scarcely less speed,

though the moon, ere the clouds hid it, revealed to me that we were

riding over rough country. I saw the boughs of gnarled and twisted trees

toss to the stormy heaven; I saw a waste of rock and furze before me; I

believed that we were yet at no great distance from the coast, for the

salt was upon my lips, as though the gale sweeping up bore scud with it.

Momentarily we paused upon an upland; such was the force of the wind that

it seemed the horse must be rolled over with us; then, with the wind

blowing at our backs, we struck away inland.

The blow had torn my scalp; the blood was wet upon my brows; my head was

racked with the movement of the horse beneath us; my body cruelly galled.

All this was nothing to the ever-increasing terror of the thought—what

would they do to me, now that they had me captive? Once I cried out,

“What’s your purpose with me, in God’s name?” but the sole answer was the

tightening of the grip upon me. Bending back my head, I tried to make

out in the dark what manner of man was holding me; save for the

shoulders, the thick neck, and the great head, I could discern nothing; I

heard his jeering laughter above me. How long, how far we rode, I could

not conjecture; the time seemed endless for my pains and terrors. Ever

the thought tormented me—what would they do with me? Put me aboard some

ship to carry me overseas? No, for it seemed that they were bearing me

away from the coast, and mounting slowly to wild and rugged country;

would they hold me prisoner there, or murder me out of the ken of folk?

And, if Mr. Bradbury lived, how would he endure defeat by Charles Craike,

through whose agency surely I came to be in this plight?

We were riding at last over more level country from the increasing

swiftness of our flight; we slackened speed going among trees; I heard

the rushing of the wind through their complaining boughs. We mounted a

low hill, and swiftly descended. Again the moon was clear; I believed

that we were going down into a cup in the moors; that rocks and woods

were all about us. And ahead at last I saw a light flicker like a

will-o’-the-wisp,—a spark of light that increased to the square shining

of a window—a greenish light; the moon breaking again from the clouds I

saw that we rode down to a house alone in this lonely hollow of the

moors. We rode soon over level ground; we reached a high stone wall; the

rider ahead of us had leaped down and was unlocking an iron gate; we

passed through, and the gate crashed to behind us. At a walk now we

clattered over cobbles up to the front of the house; I saw the green

shining off the curtained window from the grey front of moonlit stone.

It was a house of two stories in height, a drear grey house, grey-roofed

and over-topped by chimney stacks; looking up I believed that I saw iron

bars before the unshuttered windows. My captor roared out, “Hallo,

there!” as we pulled up before the door; and gripping me by my collar

lowered me to the ground, dropping down after me, and lugging me with him

into the porch. The door opened with a clash and clatter like the

iron-bound door of a prison. And blinking for the light from a lantern,

I saw peering out a crone, bent nigh double, one skinny claw holding up

the lantern, so that it shone upon her shrivelled livid face, her

red-lidded, pale green eyes, on her grey hair wind-blown, and the blue

shawl she clutched at her throat. I saw her looking malevolently at me,

and heard her tittering laughter, as my captor thrust me past her into

the house.

The door clashed after us. He lugged me through a dark stone hall, and

brought me into the green-curtained room; so thick was the air with the

smoke of peat and the reek of an oil-lamp that in a moment my eyes were

blinded; and I was coughing, choking.

_Chapter VIII_. _The Green-Curtained Room_

When my sight cleared, I found myself in a long, low grey room—grey from

the smoke and the stone walls. It was lit by a curious hanging lamp of

iron, black with soot and oil; a fire of peat smouldered on the deep

hearth; for furniture the room had in it a long table black with age, and

grease, and oil dribbling from the lamp; heavy black chairs were set on

either side of the hearth and at the table, and a black press standing

against the wall, its brass fittings green and corroded. The brass

candlesticks upon the chimney-piece were green and corroded, too; the

curtain drawn before the window was green and moth-eaten; the floor was

sanded; the rafters above were black with soot and dusty cobwebs. My

captor pulling me forward,—as the old woman waited by the door presently

to admit the other rider—dropped me like a sack of meal on to a chair;

and straddled before the fire, stretching his arm cramped by the weight

of me all that while in saddle.

Blinking up at him I saw him for a huge fellow; he must have stood six

feet in height, and was of a great breadth of shoulder and depth of

chest. As his sleeve slipped back from his hairy forearm I saw its

swelling muscles, and understood ruefully the ease with which he had held

me. His face was handsome in a rough, bold way, though coarse and

besotted; his chin and jaws were blue-black from the razor; his hair

black and curling; his eyes blood-shot from drink. He wore a battered

brown hat, a rough, brown riding coat, with leather breeches and

mud-splashed riding boots; his soiled cravat was held by a brooch of

flashing red stones. Looking up at him, understanding the strength of

the man, for something of good humour in his coarse drunken face I did

not fear him, as I feared the crone, whose evil green eyes had glittered

at me when my captor thrust me into the house. He grinned down at me,

and growled, “So you’re well enough for the time, eh, young sir?”

“Well enough but what’s your purpose with me? Why have you brought me

here?”

“When you know that,” said he, “you’ll know as much as I do. Nay, you’ll

know more.”

“You mean that you’re hired for this? You’re only the servant of an

enemy of mine, whose interest it is to keep me out of Rogues’ Haven?”

“Rogues’ Haven! So you’ve caught the name?”

“To be sure I know the name,” I answered boldly for the good humour of

the fellow. “And know the reason for it. And think I know the name of

your principal.”

“Oh, ho! Though he plays his game in secret. You’ll be knowin’ more’n

it’s safe for you to know, young sir. And”—with a sudden gesture towards

the door—“if you’ll take a word from me, you’ll be wiser, if you keep

your mouth shut.”

While yet I blinked at him, I heard the old woman once more unlock the

door to admit the big fellow’s companion, who presently entered the room.

I saw him for a lean, cadaverous, young man of no great height; his

high-crowned hat, his coat, his buckskins, the laces at his throat

dandified; he was jauntily flicking his top boots with his riding switch,

and his spurs were jingling. An ill-looking fellow,—I marked his pale

sneering lips and the sinister light of his green eyes; I feared him as

an enemy even as I feared the crone with the blue shawl about her black

rags, her evil eyes peering at me, and her jaws working, as she hobbled

after him.

“So-ho, Martin, here we are, all safe and snug,” cried the big man from

the hearth. “Find us the tipple in that cupboard of yours, Mother Mag,

and then I’ll be packing.”

“You’ll be staying here, my friend Roger,” said Martin, coolly, dropping

into a chair by the table. “You’re to wait until he comes.”

“I tell you I’ll have my drink and be off,” Roger growled, scowling at

him. “Who the devil are you to be givin’ me orders? I’ve an affair

twenty miles off as ever was by break o’ day.”

“Yet you’ll be staying,” the young man insisted quietly. “I’m giving you

his orders, not mine. What’s it to me whether you go or stay?”

“I’m damned, if I’ll wait!” Roger asserted.

“You’re damned, if you go,” sneered Martin, his eyes flashing up suddenly

like two wicked green gems. “Get him the drink, Mother Mag, and he’ll be

staying—not risking his neck by going.”

I saw the red blood rush to Roger’s face. I heard him growl and mutter

to himself; he straddled still across the hearth. Laughing hoarsely then

he cried out, “Ay, the drink, Mother Mag—the drink,” and turning his back

on Martin, kicked savagely at the fire.

While I sat blinking at them, and wondering whether it should be my Uncle

Charles expected at the house, and what bearing his arrival should have

upon my fortunes, the hag, taking a key from the jingling ring at her

side, unlocked the press; and out of its recess drew a bloated bottle of

violet-coloured glass; hugging this to her, she set out four thick, blue

goblets, and poured into them some dark spirit or cordial, pausing ere

she filled the fourth to point her skinny fingers at me, and then peer at

Martin, as if to gather from him whether I was to drink with them.

He replied curtly, “Ay, pour him a dram,—half a glass—Mother Mag; he

looks about to croak,” and sneered at me.

Roger, swinging round from the fire, took up his glass and tossed off the

contents; snatching the bottle then from Mother Mag he filled up a glass

which he handed to me, growling, “Drink it down, lad! it’ll put heart

into you.” The woman, with a shrill cry, leaped like a cat upon him,

seeking to snatch the bottle from him; holding it above her reach and

fending her off from me, he refilled and drained his glass, and set the

bottle down once more. She clutched it to her, set in the stopper, and

poked it away in the cupboard, all the while chattering to herself and

mouthing like some gibbering ape. Taking her own glass then, with so

palsied a hand that she surely spilt half the contents, she hobbled to

the hearth and crouched down by it, alternately licking her fingers and

sipping her grog,—her green eyes glinting at Roger and me.

I tasted the liquor in the glass, and finding it a spirit that burnt my

very lips, I did not drink it, but handed the glass back to Roger, who,

muttering “Your health, young master,” drained it for me. Martin sat

drinking slowly; Roger, as warming from the stuff, began to stamp

impatiently to and fro over the stone floor. Pausing at last by Martin,

he demanded, thickly, “What hour’s he like to be here? How long am I to

wait in this stinkin’ den?”—at which Mother Mag cackled sardonically,

choked and spat, lying back against the chimney-piece red-eyed and

gasping.

“He did not say what hour,” Martin answered, indifferently. “How should

he know what hour the coach would come, or we be here? Sit down by the

fire, man. Get your pipe; there’s tobacco in the jar on the shelf.”

“Am I to be kept here all night, when by break o’ day I should be about

my business?”

Martin lifted his glass as though to admire its colour in the lamp-light.

“Go then, my friend,” he said smoothly. “Oh, go by all means! Only

blame yourself, not me, for aught that may happen in the course of a day

or so. You’d make a pretty figure in the cart, Roger, and ’twould need a

double rope to hold your body.”

“Damn you!” roared Roger, swinging up his hand, but Martin’s eyes,

watching him intently, and the smile flickering still upon his lips, the

big man swung round once more and pointed to me. “You’re makin’ a sweet

song o’ hangin’, Martin,” he muttered. “You’re sayin’ what your precious

gentleman may do or mayn’t, as the case may be. Peach on me, you mean—if

so be I don’t wait for him, and if so be I don’t do as I’m told. Only,

don’t you be forgettin’, that ’twas him as told us to hold up old

Skinflint’s coach, and nab the lad there. And that’s robbery by the

King’s highway,—and get that into your head, and keep it there. And, by

God, Martin, if he’s got his claws on me, I’ve got my claws on to him

from this night forth; and if he talks of hangin’, there’s others—ay,

there’s others. You, Martin, and old Mag here, and him.”

“Pish, man,” said Martin, coolly, though his look was livid. “Who’d

listen to you? Who’d believe you? Old Gavin Masters—eh? He loves you,

Roger. He has confidence in you.”

Roger stood cursing to himself, demanding finally, “And the lad

here,—what’s he goin’ to do with the lad?”

“How in the devil’s name does it concern you, Galt?” cried Martin, with

sudden flaming anger. “You’ve done your share of the work and you’ll be

paid for it.”

“Ay, but you answer me! What’s to be done with the lad? Hark ’ee,

Martin, I’m sick to death of the whole crew of ye. And of none more than

yourself, unless it’s himself. I’ve done my work on the roads, and

there’s a few the poorer for it; but I’ve never done aught of a kind with

this. Kidnappin’ an’ maybe murder at the finish.”

“What d’ye mean?” Martin asked, drawing back his chair, to be out of

reach of Roger Galt’s rising rage, as the drink worked within him.

“What’s he goin’ to do with the lad there?” Roger growled. “Get him out

of the way—oh, ay, I know that, and can guess for why. From the looks of

him! But how’s he goin’ to rid himself of him? Ship him overseas with

Blunt, or what? Martin, I’ll have no hand in aught that don’t give the

lad a chance for his life,—d’ye hear me? Who’s he? Dick Craike’s lad as

ever was! And they did for Dick Craike—ay, they did, they did, years

agone.”

Martin, starting up, screeched out, “Shut your fool’s mouth! You’re

drunk, Roger Galt. The lad’s to be kept here, till he comes. He’ll be

here to-night. Tell him what you’ve said to me! Tell him! Get the

lantern and give me the keys, Mother Mag. We’ll lock the lad away

upstairs; when the master comes he’ll not be wanting him taking his ease

here like a gentleman!”

_Chapter IX_. _Mr. Charles Craike_

Directing me with a gesture to rise and follow, Martin opened the door

into the hall. The woman, taking the lantern, lit it from the fire with

a twig. A moment I hesitated, preferring to remain with big Roger Galt,

who was inclined to make my cause his own, to following the sinister

Martin and old Mother Mag, but Roger had lurched to a chair, and sat

there glowering and muttering to himself without further regard for me.

Moreover, Martin, observing my hesitation, plucked a pistol from his

pocket, and cocking it, swore with a bitter oath to blow out my brains

unless I followed him. Roger still paying no heed, I slouched out into

the hall.

The woman crept before me; Martin followed with the pistol pointing at my

head; the lantern showed me presently a dark wooden stairway. It was

rotten and riddled with decay; it creaked dismally beneath us; the

balusters were broken; as I set my hand against the wall to steady me,

going up after the slowly climbing light, I touched grime and cobwebs;

the startled rats came squeaking and tumbling down the stair. Presently

we reached the head of the stair—I have said that the house was two

stories only in height; Mother Mag unlocked a door before me, and the

cold air blowing in from the glassless window of the room struck on my

face. The crone, standing aside for me to enter the room, leered and

mumbled at me as I passed in, urged forward by the prodding of Martin’s

pistol. I heard the rats scurrying over the floor before me. The wind

blowing out the sacking before the window, the moonlight illumined the

room,—it was big and bare as the room below it, but the rafters were high

above me. A narrow wooden bedstead, with a pile of rags upon it, was

propped against the wall; there was no other furniture save a

three-legged stool. An open hearth with a rusted iron brazier stuck in

it was at the farther end of the room. Martin, stepping in, demanded of

the woman, “You’re sure the fellow will be safe here?”

“You should know, my dear,” the woman tittered, holding to the doorway.

He strode to the window, plucked aside the sacking and tried the iron

bars; satisfied then stepped over to the hearth, asking, “What of the

chimney? Could he climb it?”

“If he should try,” Mag answered, laughing shrilly, “he’d only stick

there and choke for soot. More, it’s near blocked with the bricks fallen

in it. I heard ’em tumble in a gale two year back, and thought the Stone

House was all comin’ down about my ears. Ay, but you knows the Stone

House well as I do, Martin, and for why are you askin’?”

“For why, Mother Mag,” he snarled. “You should know for why. Not the

devil, your master, could save you from—you know from whom—if he comes,

and finds the young dog missing. Ay, and he knows enough to stretch that

scraggy neck of yours, well as big Roger Galt’s below. Look to it,

Mother Mag,—d’ye look to it!”

She cowered and mumbled to herself; he, poking his head forward to look

up the chimney, brought down a shower of soot upon him, and, cursing

foully, he drew back, and made for the door.

“You’ll lie here for the night,” he said to me. “You’ll be safe and snug

here for the night. Don’t be trying to break out and get away, for I’ll

be within hearing of you the night through. Out of this, Mother Mag.”

“What’s your purpose with me?” I asked, dully. “Why was I brought here?”

“You’ll know,” he answered, laughing his hateful laugh. “You’ll know.

But I’m paid only to catch and cage you, not to answer questions.”

“If it’s only pay,” said I, “a word from me to Mr. Bradbury—”

“Bah, I’d not trust Bradbury living, and Bradbury lying in the road when

we left him looked more like a corpse than Mother Mag there. Lie down

and sleep, you’ll get nothing from me,” and pulling the door to with a

crash, he left me.

I ran instantly to the window, and dragged back the sacking; the bars of

iron, set there, I took it, for defence in the old days, were bedded

firmly in the stone; there was no hope for me to crawl between them. The

recurrent light of the cloud-harried moon showed me the nature of my

prison; the dust lay thick upon the rotting floor; the oaken panels were

riddled by the rats, and dropping in decay from the stone walls; the

black, cobwebbed rafters, were high above me. I believed that a

trap-door in the ceiling opened beneath the roof; I could hear the rats

scurrying over my head. I turned back to the window; and the moon showed

me the cobbled courtyard, the high stone wall, the rim of the bowl, in

which the house lay, rising blue-black beyond; boughs tossing in the wind

upon the rim; through the wild crying of the gale overhead, its battering

on the house, I thought I heard the distant drumming of the sea. Again I

tried to wrench the bars apart; their red rust had run into the stone and

mortar and set them there only the more firmly; though I tested each bar

with the full strength of my arms, none shifted. Could I but force them

sufficiently apart for me to wriggle through, the drop to the ground

would be dangerous but not impossible for me. Staring upwards then I

could see nothing of the roof owing to the thickness of the wall and the

depth of the window. No, I was held securely; when I tried to peer up

the chimney, I found it blocked as Mother Mag had said; the door of thick

oak, though mouldering, was clamped with iron. I took it that the house

had been built years since, maybe in the troublous times of Charles the

Martyr—built stoutly for protection against marauders in that lonely

hollow of the moorlands. On the thick high wall about the courtyard I

believed that I could discern rusting iron spikes. And knowing myself

held fast in a prison chosen for me by my Uncle Charles—surely by him—and

guarded by his rogues, I must have despaired but for my hope that Mr.

Bradbury might have survived the attack upon the coach, and would not

rest till he found and rescued me. I recalled his apprehension when we

were overtaken by the darkness, and his play with the pistols before our

disaster. I remembered seeing him flung out from the door of the coach,

and the red discharge of his pistols, as they struck the road. How had

the astute Mr. Bradbury come thus to underestimate his man, Charles

Craike, with consequences disastrous to himself and likely to prove

disastrous to me?

I was in no mood for lying down on the wretched pallet. I tore off my

cravat and bound it about my broken head. I was sick and weary, but I

feared to sleep, lest they come upon me silently in the dark, and make an

end of me. And I knew that he, whose name they would not utter before

me, but who was surely Charles Craike, was expected at the house that

night; I determined to overcome my heavy weariness, and stay awake

awaiting his coming. I heard their voices, as I stood by the bed. Roger

growling yet, and Martin laughing his mocking laugh, while they sat

waiting in the room below, whence came that thin smoke rising through the

rotting floor. I knelt down then, and with my hands I widened the breach

in the rotting wood, hoping to hear what passed between these rogues, and

what they plotted against me. The light shone soon more clearly; a chink

in the ceiling below was visible; surely I had only to lie down and press

my ear against the breach to hear their very words.

I was deterred from my purpose by a sudden cry from the gate, and the

loud baying of a hound at the rear of the house. Starting up, I stole to

the window, and drawing back the sacking, set me to watch who came. I

heard the doors below me open and clash; presently I saw the lantern

shine through the dark, for the clouds held the moon, though it seemed

rapidly to approach to a break between cloud and cloud. Overhead the

wind went wailing; it beat against the house, as though to tumble it to

ruins; I stood shivering, for the bitter cold of the night and for my

terrors; the strip of sacking bellied out like a sail as I clung to it.

And to the crying of the wind he came.

The moon broke through the clouds; the wet cobbles of the court below me

gleamed like a pool of silver water. He came riding swiftly to the

house, leaving Mother Mag to secure the gate; I saw him sitting stiffly

upon a great black horse, a black cloak flapping all about him. A gust

swept his hat from his head, but his hand caught it; his silver-white

hair was blown out in disorder. He looked up, as he drew in before the

door; momentarily I saw a proud and baleful face; cut like a piece of

fine white ivory. I saw the very shining of his eyes, as moonlight and

the lamplight from the house played fully on him; and on the instant,

indeed, I understood from that cruel face—like, yet so much unlike, my

father’s—none whom this man hated or feared might hope for mercy from

him.

And thus for the first time I looked upon my Uncle Charles Craike of

Rogues’ Haven.

_Chapter X_. _Scruples of Roger Galt_

As the gentleman entered the house, I slipped back to the bed, purposing,

when I was assured that he would not come directly to my room, to test

whether I could hear through the break in the ceiling of the room below

and the parting of the flooring under my feet what should pass among my

enemies. I heard him enter the room; I heard Mother Mag’s return to the

house and the clashing of the doors, as she made all fast. I dropped

down then, and lying prone, found that by pressing my ears against the

parting in the floor I could hear distinctly. And I found the gentleman

berating Roger by the fire.

“Mark you, my man, I’ll have no more of this,” he was declaring, in

clear, authoritative tone. “You’ll serve me when I will, or how I will,

or take the consequences.”

“Mr. Charles Craike,” growled Roger, “I tell you I’ll not endure too much

from you or any other man. I’ll serve you when I will, and as it suits

me. Set the runners on to me—ay, set them—it won’t be the first time by

a many as I’ve shown ’em a clean pair of heels. I’ve an affair of my own

callin’ me miles from here; I should have been off long since.”

“Peace, fool!” said Mr. Craike, contemptuously.

“And listen to me,” Roger blustered, “if you’d peach on me, I know enough

to pull you down.”

“My good Roger Galt,” said my uncle, laughing easily. “I’m not

questioning that you’ve served me as well this night as you’ve served me

on any other occasion. And I’ll pay you well, as I’ve paid you always.

Where’s the boy, Martin?”

“Fast up above,” Martin replied.

“And Bradbury?”

“Lying in the road like a dead man when we left him.”

“I trust,” said Mr. Craike, piously, “that you’ve done him no hurt beyond

repair.”

“No more than he did himself,” said Martin, laughing. “He’d a pair of

barkers with him, when the coach pulled up. He fell out into the road;

his pistols fired; and he lay there in the mire.”

“And you took the boy and have him safely here. Ay, ay.”

“Would you see him?” Martin asked.

“Oh, not I! What’s he like, though?”

“As like his father,” Roger broke in heavily, “as one barker’s like its

pair.”

“His father! Ay! His father was passionate—lacked discretion; the boy’s

the offspring of his father’s folly,” with a laugh at which I raged

silently, understanding the slur he put upon me.

“And what now of the lad?” Roger persisted. “What would you do with him,

now he’s here?”

“Friend Roger Galt, you’re asking too much of me and my affairs!”

“Ay, ay, but what’s the answer? You’ve kidnapped him; would ye ship him

overseas? That I’ll not quarrel with; he’d have a chance for his life,

and he’d fare none so ill, for a rope’s end’s well for a lad.”

“Maybe that is my purpose,” my uncle said, coldly.

“But no more than that!” cried Roger Galt. “By God, Mr. Craike, I’ll not

have him done to death by Mart and Mother Mag or any other of your

rogues. I’ll not!”

“He’s so commended himself to you,” my uncle sneered.

“He’s like his father. Your brother Dick treated me kind as a lad. He’d

give me a guinea when you’d have no more for me than a fine word.”

“And you’d stand a friend to his bastard, eh?”

“I’m none too sure as the lad’s base-born,” said Roger, stoutly. “He’s

something of the look of Mary Howe about him, as well as the looks of you

Craikes. And Mary Howe was not the lass to listen to the talk of Dick

Craike, or any man, unless a ring and a book went with it. No, it’s

because the boy’s born a Craike you’ll not have him meet old Edward.”

“Silence!” Mr. Craike’s command cut through the air like a whip. “I’m

accountable to no man, Galt, for what I do. You presume to preach to

me—you, my hang-dog; you’ve threatened me a while since. Threatened!

Would any take your word for aught?”

“Any knowing you, Mr. Craike.”

“Have it so, then! Match yourself against me. At least this is assured

your hanging for a highwayman; are you so confident that you will lay me

by the heels? Come! Are you so confident—knowing me?”

But Roger Galt answered only with a string of oaths.

“You’re not so confident,” my uncle said, coolly. “You bluster only,

Roger, when the drink’s in you. And when you’re sober—seldom,

Roger—you’re no fool; you’re ready to serve me, knowing I pay. Your

interests are mine, friend Roger.”

“Ay, that’s well enough. But what of the boy, now you’ve got him in this

ken?”

“The boy,” said Mr. Craike, “will come to no hurt at my hands. Have it

so, if you will! He does not come yet to my father’s house; have that

so! He goes overseas with Ezra Blunt, when the rogue makes port. He’ll

go overseas and be set ashore to work his way home as he may. He’ll

suffer no worse; but he’ll not make Rogues’ Haven in these two years to

be. And till Blunt is here, Mother Mag and you, Martin, look to it that

the fellow lie snugly at the Stone House. And if Bradbury live,—God rest

him, body and soul—and raise the hue and cry, look to it that no one find

the fellow here. Keep him fast, keep him hidden—d’ye hear me?—fast and

hidden! I’ve your wage with me, Roger, though not yours yet, Martin, or

yours, Mother Mag. Hark to the chink of the coin, Roger! Did you ever

empty such saddle-bags?—Why, what the devil—?” for the hag had screeched

out shrilly.

“What’s fallin’? What’s fallin’?” cried Mother Mag. “Where’s the dust

all fallin’ from?”

“Rats gnawin’ through,” said Roger. “The ken’s haunted with ’em.”

“Or the boy? What’s he doing this while?” Mr. Craike demanded,

furiously.

Instantly I started up, and dusted my breeches and jacket; I lay down on

the bed, as Martin came rushing up the stairs. But I made no pretence of

sleep when he pulled the door open, and flashed the lantern on me. I sat

up and stared at him. He swung the lantern over me; observing the dust

yet upon me, and the length of my body marked in dust upon the floor, he

muttered, “So you’ve been eaves-dropping, you dog—hey, you dog?”

I answered him boldly, though my heart beat the devil’s tattoo within my

breast, “Ay, I’ve heard every word, my friend. And say this from me to

my kinsman, Charles Craike—as he has not the courage to face me here—that

for all I’ve suffered and am to suffer from him here, he’ll pay me yet.

If further hurt come to me; if I am put aboard Blunt’s ship, I’ve

friends—not Mr. Bradbury alone—who’ll never rest till he’s laid by the

heels. Ay, and tell him this from me: that for his foul lie against me

and my mother, I’ll have a reckoning yet from him and his.”

_Chapter XI_. _Events at the Stone House_

To be sure, I passed the most dismal of nights locked in the upper room

of the Stone House. Whether Martin had had the courage to bear my

message to Charles Craike I could not tell; I heard the mumble of their

voices in the room below, but I did not set my ear again to the breach in

the flooring-boards. I heard the doors creak and crash presently, and,

slipping to the window, I saw the gentleman mount and ride away. I lay

down then on the bed, spreading my greatcoat over the miserable rags; and

when Martin and Mother Mag climbed the stairs, and entered the room, that

the fellow might satisfy himself of my safety, and further test the

security of bars and chimney, I lay there paying them no heed, nor did

they speak to me. But the woman brought me a pitcher of water, and bread

and meat upon a platter, of which I was glad, for I was fainting with

hunger; she set my supper down upon the floor, and they left me, locking

the door upon me.

I ate my supper, and surveyed my fortunes. Indeed, they were of the

poorest. My one hope was that Mr. Bradbury was no more than stunned by

his fall; and would take prompt steps to find and rescue me. Else, I

must be held a prisoner in the Stone House, till the seaman Blunt made

port. I was then to be put aboard his ship and taken overseas. My

uncle’s assumption was—unless he purposed more particularly to instruct

Blunt regarding the disposal of me—that I could not possibly return

during his father’s lifetime; though by entail I might be master of

Rogues’ Haven, I took it that the gentleman by then would be in complete

enjoyment of his father’s private fortunes, and would set me at defiance,

if ever I returned; but I believed that Charles Craike would so plan it

that I should never return. Lying on the miserable bed, hearing the

winds blow drearily about the house, I writhed at the thought that the

man who had done my parents bitter hurt should have me in his toils. Was

there hope from Roger Galt, gentleman of the road, hating Charles Craike?

Though Galt might fret under the yoke, Craike was surely his master.

Awhile I heard the folk of the house stirring below me; once I heard the

stairs creak, and believed that Martin or the woman crept up to my door.

Indeed, I fancied that I caught the sound of breathing by the door; I lay

still, wondering whether they would come upon me secretly in the dark,

and make an end of me. But it seemed that the man or the woman came only

to be assured that I was not endeavouring to break gaol; as satisfied,

the watcher crept presently down the stairs.

But would they yet come upon me in the dark? At the thought I rose and

set the stool, with pitcher and platter, against the door; the crash, if

the door were opened, would surely rouse me. I could not lie awake all

night; I could not for the weariness clouding my brain. I fell at last

asleep; yet, such was the influence of my fears upon me that I woke

repeatedly, believing that my enemies were in the room. At first I woke

only to see moonlight leap white and spectral through the window, as the

sack flapped in the wind; then to lie quaking in the darkness, hearing

the gale, which was violent the night through; always when I woke I heard

it hammering on the house; I heard the rats scurry, and bounce, and

squeak beside my bed.

No one came in the night. I was awake by daybreak, and rose to stare out

on drear grey fog; the gale had abated. All about the house the dank fog

lay in the hollow; I could not see as far as the stone wall from my

window. Looking about the mouldering room, I set my thought upon the

trap-door through the ceiling; it was clouded with dust-weighted cobwebs,

and clearly had not been opened for many years. I believed that I could

raise it, and reach the roof; had there been more furniture within the

room, I might have climbed to it; the bedstead would not reach half-way,

and by its rottenness would crash under my weight.

But the inmates of the Stone House were now astir. I heard the working

and splash of a pump, the sound of an axe, the clatter of heavy boots on

the cobbles. I heard muttering and movement in the room below me.

Hungry and impatient, and less afraid now that the day was come, I waited

until, at last, Mother Mag and a young man climbed the stairs and entered

the room. The fellow seemed of gipsy blood,—black, towsled hair poking

about his ears, his eyes dark and furtive, his skin copper-red,—as

ill-looking a rogue as Martin. He wore leather breeches, leggings, and

hobnails, a fustian jacket over a ragged shirt; he had silver rings in

his ears. He was clearly of a lithe strength; he carried a blackthorn,

and he eyed me with a surly and vengeful look, as if he would use his

cudgel on me for any pretext I might afford him.

Mother Mag, poking her skinny fingers at me, croaked, “You can come

downstairs, young master. You can wash you at the pump, if you will

wash. When you’ve fed, you’ll be free to walk the court, if you will.

But don’t try to run away! Don’t try,”—and laughed shrilly, and pointed

at the young man.

He grinned at me, flourished his blackthorn suggestively, and gripped my

wrist as if to demonstrate his strength; his fingers clasped on my flesh

like a steel trap. But he said not a word, as, nodding, I followed the

woman down the stairs; he came after, pressing my heels.

As we reached the hall, Martin appeared in the doorway of the long room;

seeing him, yellow-skinned and malevolent, I detected still a resemblance

in build and feature to the gipsy lad; and believed them kinsmen, though

Martin aped the appearance of a gentleman, and the rustic was rough and

ragged, and reeked of the stable. Martin gave me no greeting; I followed

Mother Mag through the hall into a great kitchen, damp, close, and

cheerless, but for the peat smouldering on the hearth. Rashers were

frying in a pan; provision of bacon, smoked fish and ropes of onions hung

from the sooty rafters.

“Would ye wash?” Mother Mag asked, leering at me.

“To be sure, I’d wash, thank ’ee,” said I.

She took down a coarse towel from a peg and flung it to me; she pointed

to soap upon the bench, “You can wash at the pump,” she said. “Bart’ll

go with you. Don’t ’ee go tryin’ to run, young master, now don’t ’ee.

For you’ll never get to the wall; and you’ll never climb if you run so

far—” and, unlocking the door, pointed, laughing, at the hound chained at

the foot of the steps.

The hound, leaping up, bayed at me; Bart, clattering down the steps,

struck at it with his cudgel; it leaped and bayed at him, plunging as

though it would snap its chain. He uttered not a word, seeming to take

delight in the torment of the savage brute, and beating it back at last

into the kennel; though, when I descended, it sprang at me, and, but for

my jumping aside, it would have borne me down. Mother Mag laughed

shrilly from the door; Bart said not a word or yet a word while he

mounted guard over me at the pump. I took it that the fellow was dumb,

but, as I plied the towel, I said carelessly, to test him, “How long am I

to be held in this ken, lad?” He answered nothing, only swung his

cudgel, grinning at me. I took a hasty look about me; the stone wall was

built high about the cobbled yard; away from the house were low stone

out-buildings; beyond the wall I could see trees dimly through the

thinning fog.

I said then, “You’re paid to keep me here. Whatever you’re paid, my

friends will pay you more. D’ye understand me? If you’ll take a message

to Mr. Bradbury, whom I think to be at Rogues’ Haven—”

With black and menacing look he gripped my arm, and pointed back to the

house. So I must needs tramp back to my prison; though I was tempted to

make a dash for freedom, when he loosed my arm, I was debarred by the

sight of Martin standing, pistol in hand, by the steps. He, sweeping off

his hat with a mocking bow, as I returned, my endurance left me. While

the hound raved at me, I cried furiously to Martin, “I warn you all

you’ll pay for this. I’ve other friends than Bradbury, who’ll never rest

till they’ve found me. By the Lord, you’ll rue the day!”

“Brave words,” he sneered. “Blunt’ll make port this day or to-morrow.

And you’ll lie snug enough, till you’re set aboard.”

I passed by him into the kitchen. Mother Mag had set bread and bacon and

a mug of ale on the table for me. I sat down and ate hungrily, while the

three watched me from the fireside, saying not a word to me, and the

great hound bayed yet without the door.

_Chapter XII_. _Captain Ezra Blunt_