“Nephew,” he said, with mock severity, “I abhor duplicity. I confess
myself mistaken in you. Pray go! You stand between me and the
sunshine!”
I swung upon my heel and left him. I heard him humming his little tune
as I climbed the steps.
_Chapter XXVIII_. _Spilt Wine_
I passed the remainder of the day in my room with a book. Now I have
since found agreeable entertainment in the works of Mr. Fielding; but
though I had before me _The History of Amelia_, I heeded little of aught
I read. I had good cause for reflection. That I was yet in the old
house; that all about me were my enemies; though I had Sir Gavin’s
assurance no hurt should befall me, I yet dreaded that steps would be
taken to spirit me away, and Blunt, having laid hands on me, would elude
pursuit. I looked for Mr. Bradbury’s arrival; Mr. Bradbury did not come.
None came nigh me; my grandfather did not summon me to his presence. The
day closed clouded; the darkness of the sky and the rising wind promised
storm to follow on the sunshine of the day. At dusk, Thrale came with
lighted candles; but for the warmth of the evening I bade him leave the
fire unlit. I made my toilet hurriedly for dinner at the clangour of the
bell through the house; secreting the loaded pistol in my tail-pocket,
and praying God that I should not sit upon it forgetful, I went down into
the dining-hall. My grandfather, leaning upon his son, entered ahead of
me; he gave me no word or nod in greeting. I stood apart with Oliver,
and Evelyn Milne, who did not glance at me or speak to me; Oliver seemed
to have returned half-drunken from the alehouse in the village, whither
he had ridden that day.
Regarding my grandfather, as his son assisted him to his chair, I saw
with apprehension that his face was livid; his eyes were dull and heavy;
the rubies blazed upon his shaking hands. And from the gloom behind his
chair the old rogues watched him. I heard them mutter and whisper among
themselves; I knew that the sickness so plainly on my grandfather could
not be lost even to their dull eyes and wits. The girl was whispering by
me, “He’s sick! To death! Had you but listened to me!”
I paid her no heed. I set myself to my meal; seeking by exercise of will
to hide my perturbation from my uncle, whom I saw watching me with eyes
triumphant and malignant. The old man sat staring before him. The
tapers waved in the draughts of cold air. I know not what my grandfather
saw in that pale light or in those shadows seeming to dance a wild dance
all about us, as the ever-rising wind beat on the house, and found its
way into the room by chink and broken pane. I had a prescience that
death was in the wind that night; that the dead from the deep called him
at last to be of their company for ever.
My uncle essayed gay conversation; the old man sat beside him like the
very figure of death; he uttered not a word; he would have lifted a glass
to his lips, and the spilt red wine dyed his mouth and hands. As the
glass broke upon the board, my uncle, with assumed concern, said in a
loud, clear voice, as if to be assured it reached the ears of all the
rogues, standing peering from the shadows like so many carrion crows.
“You’re sick, sir! Shall I aid you to your room?”
He cried out angrily, “I’m well! I’m well! Another glass!”
Thrale, filling a glass, handed it to him; I understood from the working
of the old man’s face and by the sweat upon his brow the bitter struggle
of the breaking will to assert itself. My grandfather lifted the wine to
his lips, and sipped a little of it. He sought then to eat, but ate
nothing; he sat stiffly in his chair, until the girl had gone like a pale
ghost from the room; and the cloth was drawn. She cast a look at me, as
I rose at her departure; and there was terror in her eyes,—as there was
terror in my mind. For the ending struggle of the old man’s will and
body, for the clamour of the winds about the house, for all the faces
peering malevolently from the dark, for the ghostly dance of lights and
shadows; always the cold draughts struck in and set the candles
flickering.
My uncle, filling his glass, invited me to take wine with him; Oliver was
drinking heavily. “A glass of wine, nephew!” cried my uncle, gaily. “A
glass of wine with me.”
My grandfather muttered suddenly, “Do you make a play for me, Charles?”
“Make a play, sir!” Charles repeated. “Forgive me. I am dull. I do not
understand you.”
“Ay,—do you pretend friendship—affection, for—for your brother’s son, or
your brother, sitting over there?”
My uncle, looking at me, cried out in amaze, “My brother, sir! My
nephew, surely!”
“Nay! Nay!” the old man insisted, testily. “Your brother!”
“The lad, sir?” Charles faltered.
“The lad! Damn the lad! Are you blind, Charles? Are you blind? Your
brother sitting there!” His shaking hand stole out; he pointed not at
me, but at the empty chair beside me, “Your brother—Richard!”
And now my uncle’s triumphant look had fled. Now staring fearfully, now
in turn shaking, he whispered, “Sir, you’re sick! No one sits there.
Pray let me aid you from the table,” and rose and offered his hand.
The old man thrust it from him, and pointed still. “Sick! Are you
drunk, Charles, that you do not see? Richard!”
“Sitting there!”
“Ay, sitting there! Would you have me think him a ghost, Charles? Would
you have me think him dead?”
“I pray not!” my uncle whispered. I saw that he was ashen, and stared at
nothing wildly, as the old man stared at nothing, pointed at no one.
Suddenly my grandfather lowered his hand; the light seemed to die out
from his eyes. He sat mute and stiff; his fingers with the red gems
flaming upon them gripping the board. My uncle lifted his glass hastily
to his lips.
“To whom would you drink, Charles?” my grandfather muttered. “What
toast?”
“Surely your health, sir! Your health!”
“You lie!” he roared, and started from his chair. An instant I saw him
standing with the aspect of a madman upon him: the rush of blood to his
dark face lent him the appearance of youth; his right hand was raised
high. A moment I saw him—surely I saw him—for the manner of man he had
been.
He clutched at his breast, cried out; and fell back in his chair.
_Chapter XXIX_. _Intervention of Mr. Bradbury_
At the immediate confusion and rush of figures I started up to assist my
uncle; Thrale and his fellow-servants were before me. My uncle cried
out, “Stand back, nephew! Stand back all of you; let him have air!”—and
the crowding of the old men about the chair withheld me from my
grandfather. So the event held me that I was insensible to other sound
than the gasping of the old man; I caught a glimpse of his face, livid
and sweating, as his head rested against my uncle’s breast; his eyes were
agonised. I saw Nick Barwise thrust the old men aside; supported by him
and my uncle my grandfather was aided from the room, while the old rogues
fluttered and squeaked and gibbered about him. As they led him past me,
I realised that Evelyn Milne was back in the room and was plucking at my
sleeve and crying in my ear, “Are you deaf? Are you daft? Hark to the
knocking on the door! Why don’t you bid them open?”
And I heard the clashing of the knocker and the beating on the door above
the wind, as if death or the devil came in the storm, and clamoured for
admission. I heard my uncle crying out, “Keep the door fast! No one
comes in this night!” I stood confused, hoping that the knocking told
the arrival of Mr. Bradbury at the house, and dreading lest Blunt and his
rogues were come to take me openly and violently; still the knocking
sounded over the beating wind. The old men, crowding out after my
grandfather, muttered and laughed in wicked glee, that surely at last the
end was come. And only the girl and Oliver and I were left in the room
with the candles casting their ghostly lights upon us; and the weird
shadows, dancing all about us; always the gale cried out about the house;
the heavy, steady knocking sounded on the door.
“Who should come?” the girl cried to me. “Who should knock so? Your
friends—have you friends like to come? Or friends of Charles Craike and
the folk within the house?”
Dazed yet, but calling to mind Sir Gavin’s promise, I said, “I think my
friends—I hope—I’ll go and open the door!”
“No, no!” cried she. “Stay here in the light! You’re safer in the
light. I’ll go!” and instantly sped from the room.
With my back to the fire, and my fingers set upon the pistol, I stood and
looked at Oliver; he sat at table still, seeming drunken and insensible
of the old man’s sudden sickness, the tumult of the storm, the knocking
at the door. But his dull, tragical, young eyes meeting mine, I was
amazed to hear him give expression to my first fantastic thought, “Death
and the Devil knock! They’re come for him! Hark!”
The door from the hall swung open. I saw the faces—the old brown faces
and the evil eyes of the rogues; I knew how they hated me; what shift I
should have at their hands, if but the word came down that their stricken
master was dead. I heard them gibe and mutter; I heard the woman
Barwise’s voice cracked and shrill, “Ay, he’ll not lord it over us. No
longer! Ay, by the Lord he’ll not!”—but her sudden scream, “Who’s that?
Who let you in?”
Mr. Bradbury cried out from the hall, “By your leave, Mistress
Barwise,—by your leave!”
At this I rushed to the door, and met him thrusting his way among the
crowding rogues. He came in calm and trim, flinging back his cloak, and
drawing off his gloves. He gave me his hand, and exclaiming, “Ah, my
dear sir!” demanded, “What’s to do here? What’s all this chattering and
clattering? Why am I kept waiting at the door on a night like this?
What’s to do?”
“My grandfather!” I gasped. “Sick! Dying maybe—”
“So!” he said, swiftly, and an instant I saw perturbation in his look.
He had not come alone. I saw three tall fellows, great-coated armed with
bludgeons, standing in the doorway, and at their back the malignant,
baffled faces of the rogues. The two runners and a third fellow—a huge
figure, vaguely familiar to me, though he was muffled about his jaws, and
kept his hat tilted over his nose, so that I could not see his face.
Oliver lay back in his chair, seeming sodden with drink.
“Thrale!” cried Mr. Bradbury, “Mistress Barwise—some of you!”
The woman, pushing her way forward, stood before him, her arms akimbo,
demanding, insolently, “Well, sir—well?”
“Announce to Mr. Charles Craike my arrival. Tell him that I require to
see him at once. At once! D’ye hear me?”
“Hoity-toity!” cried the woman, bridling. “Who are you to be orderin’
me?”—but quailed and recoiled before Mr. Bradbury’s sudden darkling
anger.
“D’ye hear me?” Mr. Bradbury repeated. “D’ye understand me, baggage? At
once!”
“What is this?”—and my uncle, seeming to have been summoned on the
admission of Mr. Bradbury and his men, stood in the doorway.
“Ah, my dear sir!” Mr. Bradbury exclaimed, stepping forward, his hand
outstretched.
“Mr. Bradbury,” said my uncle coolly, “your coming’s most inopportune!”
“I realise it,” Mr. Bradbury agreed readily. “Most inopportune!”
“My father’s sudden seizure! He’s nigh to death.”
“My profound sympathy, sir, with you in your natural grief. My profound
sympathy! Pray conduct me to him!”
“Mr. Bradbury, you assume an extraordinary air of authority,” my uncle
protested. “My father cannot see you.”
“Authority!” said Mr. Bradbury, coldly. “My dear sir, I take my
authority from my clients. I take it from Mr. Edward Craike. I am here
to act at once in his interests, and in the interests of my client here,
Mr. John Craike.”
The gentleman faced him, and barred his way. He said, “I regret, Mr.
Bradbury, that you cannot see my father.”
“And I say to you, Mr. Craike, that I insist on seeing him.”
“By gad, sir, you insist! Will you force your way to him, dying?”
“I ask you, sir, to spare me the necessity. I am here this night by Mr.
Craike’s desire, expressed to me on my lash visit. His business with me,
he instructed me, would be of supreme importance.”
“I tell you he’s near death.”
“Who then?” said Mr. Bradbury, with a wave of his hand, “should give
orders in this house except his grandson and heir?”
I heard the mutter of voices and the shrill, crackling laughter from the
door; I saw my uncle’s eyes blaze at me like gems; the woman Barwise
glare at me and clench her hands in her skirts. I took my cue instantly
from Mr. Bradbury. “And I,” I said, “insist that Mr. Bradbury accompany
me at once to my grandfather. Come, sir!”
My uncle looked upon me; the mask was lifted; and all his hate of me was
revealed upon his face. I took a candle from the shelf, and signed to
Mr. Bradbury to follow me. I thought that Charles Craike would bar my
way, or strike me down, or cry out to the rogues not to let me pass; to
my amaze my uncle stepped aside with a contemptuous bow.
“Bid your men follow us!” I said to Mr. Bradbury; so we went out among
the rogues in the hall, and up the stairway and by the gallery to my
grandfather’s room.
“Wait here,” said Mr. Bradbury to his men; and opening the door, drew
back the curtain and stepped with me into the room. My grandfather,
wrapped in his gown, lay in his chair. He seemed the very figure of
death; the candlelight and the dancing fire showed his face livid; his
eyes staring at us were anguished; no one was with him except Thrale, who
held a glass. My grandfather’s hands gripped the arms of his chair; the
sweat dripped from his face. All the while the lamenting winds were
beating on the windows, the curtains of the bed were waving; the
flickering lights and shadows dancing a ghostly dance about the room.
His voice came gasping. “Bradbury! Ah, not too late,—though death’s
crying out for me this night.”
“I am here,” said Mr. Bradbury simply, “somewhat ahead of the appointed
time, Mr. Craike. I have with me the document drawn in accordance with
your instructions. I ask but your approval and signature, sir. Go,
Thrale! Your grandson, sir, must not remain.”
“Nay, bid him wait outside the door. Go, lad, go!”
I went out after Thrale, and Mr. Bradbury locked the door upon me. I
waited in the corridor with the three fellows standing grim about me. I
wondered that presently Mr. Bradbury should summon the two runners into
the room, leaving me with his third attendant. I heard the tempest
battering upon the old house, and shuddered for the deathly chill of the
corridor and for the shadows seeming to cower beyond the radius of the
candlelight. The tall fellow by me was growling presently at my ear,
“D’ye not know me, master? Roger Galt, as got ye out of the Stone House.
Didn’t think to see me here, did ye? ‘Set a thief to catch a thief,’
says Mr. Bradbury. Hist!”
_Chapter XXX_. _Not Yet_
But ere I might question Roger Galt, I saw my uncle come swiftly out of
the darkness of the corridor; remarking me holding a candle high he gave
me not a word and only a malignant glance, and without knocking he would
have thrust open the door. But Mr. Bradbury had turned the key; and the
gentleman turning to me, his face revealing his rage, though his voice
was smooth, he said, “So, nephew, though you’re heir of Craike, you
permit Bradbury to lock you out in the cold! What’s the gentleman’s
business then?”
“Business at which he’d not have you or me disturb him,” I answered.
He assented, “Ay, no doubt! But would he keep me from my father’s
death-bed?”—and knocked angrily upon the door.
Awhile Mr. Bradbury paid no heed; my uncle, knocking repeatedly and
failing to obtain an answer, drew away from the door; and, mastering his
choler, said quizzically to me, “Well for you, John, you’re telling
yourself, no doubt, that Bradbury and his hinds found their way into this
house to-night. You’re bidding fair to lose your guardian and
protector—eh?”
“Well for me,” I answered, “as you know, sir.”
“And does Bradbury think to keep me shivering here?”—he was beginning,
but ceased, as Mr. Bradbury unlocked the door.
“Your pardon, Charles,” said Mr. Bradbury, smoothly, “but my business
with your father was private and particular. Pray step in! Your natural
anxiety may be allayed. You’ll find Mr. Craike much easier in mind and
body,”—smiling blandly, and ushering my uncle into the room. The
thief-catchers coming out, he bade them await him. “Pray step in, Mr.
John,” he said to me, laying his hand upon my arm, and leading me in at
my uncle’s heels.
My grandfather lay in his chair; though he was ghastly of look, and his
body was propped up with cushions, his sweating had ceased; his eyes, if
dull, were sane and steady. My uncle, looking down on him, assured him,
“I’m happy to see you better, sir! Shall I ring for Thrale? Were there
a physician within miles—”
“No! When I need Thrale, I’ll ring,” the old man answered huskily. “But
hark ’ee, Charles, hark ’ee”—seeming to labour with his speech, his hands
shaking on the arms of his chair.
“I listen, sir,” said Charles.
“Ay, that’s well! You thought me broken, Charles!”
“I am so much relieved that—”
“Oh, ay! We’re all liars, Charles! I promise there was a pretty to-do,
when I was taken sick.”
“The natural alarm of your old servants.”
“I picture ’em,” he croaked, chuckling, “thinking me dying. Plotting
mutiny, and robbing me of what I have; thinking to lay hands on what
they’ve itched for all these years.”
“Sir, you agitate yourself unnecessarily,” Charles protested. “Let me
ring for Thrale to help you to bed.”
“No. I’ll have the boy by me. Richard’s son. Hey, Bradbury, you’re
going and will soon be back?”
“Immediately I have carried out your instructions, Mr. Craike,” said Mr.
Bradbury.
“Ay, and you’ll be careful lest Charles or any of ’em seek to rob you by
the way,”—chuckling to himself.
“Sir, you wrong me cruelly,” said Charles.
“Take a message down to ’em, Charles,” said the old man malignantly.
“This from me—two words, ‘Not yet!’”—and chuckled still; and huskily went
on, “Not a night in all my years of sailing they’d not have made an end
of me, had they known me sick and broken as they think me now. If I’d
have died to-night, they’d have been drunk by now on the best from my
cellars; they’d have been searching all over the house for what they’ll
never get. Give ’em the words from me, Charles! Not yet!”
“And pray give them this from me, Mr. Charles—under authority from their
master,” cried Mr. Bradbury, “that with this night there’s an end of
their doings in this house. Tell them that, though I go, I return to
make an end!”
“You go!” my uncle repeated, smiling on Mr. Bradbury, “and you return!
Surely, Bradbury.”
I had a notion instantly that he contemplated directing attack on Mr.
Bradbury, believing that the gentleman bore with him the secret of my
grandfather’s hoard—if there were hoard. Or, indeed, that my uncle had
remained downstairs after us to give instructions to the stouter rogues.
“I go armed and with my men armed,” said Mr. Bradbury significantly.
“Let them understand this for an obvious reason, Charles. And that I
have friends at hand. With whom I shall return. Come, John!”
“Nay, the boy stays by me,” my grandfather piped from his chair.
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Bradbury, taken aback.
“John stays by me! Or by God, Bradbury, I’ll—I’ll—you’ll not take
away—what you take! Charles, but those words ‘Not yet!’ and there’s not
a dog among ’em shall bark this night. Am I not master yet? Am I not,
Bradbury?”
He grew so violent, the blood rushing to his face, the sweat starting
from him, that Mr. Bradbury hastened to pacify him. “Surely, sir,
surely,” he said, “Mr. John will stay, if you’ll have it so.”
“I’ll have it so! Hark ’ee, John, are you afraid to watch the night
through with me?”
“I’m not afraid,” I lied. “To be sure I’ll stay!”—though I was shaking
in my shoes, and would have given much to be out of the house with Mr.
Bradbury.
He nodded approval. He muttered, “Bradbury, I’ve thought to die on a
night like this! To go out on the storm. Hark to the wind and the
voices in it! And the wind blows from the sea. Oh, God, there’s many a
soul of the dead men out of the sea rides with the wind to-night!”
“Sir,” cried Mr. Bradbury, shuddering, “the dead shall not rise from the
sea till the last trump sound!”
“I’ll have the boy by me,” the old man whispered. “I’ll have him watch.
I’ll lie upon my bed; I’ll rest—if he’ll watch by me.”
“Surely, sir,” said Charles, “I am willing to sit with you!”
“I’ll have the boy,” he growled. “Not you—John here!”
Mr. Bradbury, securing his cloak about him, said in a clear voice, though
he looked uneasily at me, “Then, sir, I take my leave of you. Mr. John
Craike shall stay by you. But, Charles, let this be known among the folk
of this house—it’s no time to mince words: if any harm come to him, I’ll
have the reckoning. Gentlemen, I go, and I’ll return with all the speed
I may. Good night! Charles, pray, will you light me down the stair?”
_Chapter XXXI_. _The Night Watch_
Now the event proved the truth of my assumption that Mr. Bradbury had
about him that which he was eager to convey immediately from the house to
safety, lest Charles, or Blunt, or any other rogues should lay their
hands upon it. He feared to leave me in the house, but believing that my
grandfather had a secret purpose in his insistence, he consented,
thinking to return speedily with assistance.
My grandfather cried out to my uncle, as he took my candle to light Mr.
Bradbury from the room, “You’ll not return, Charles, unless I ring!”
Charles, eyeing him askance, nodded, and went out with Mr. Bradbury.
My grandfather, looking cunningly at me, chuckled and muttered, “Good
lad! Good lad! You’re not afraid of Charles. You’ll profit by stayin’.
Hey, you will! We’ll have the merriest of nights of it. Hark to the
wind on the house. Like as if the crew below were knocking. Lock the
door and bar it!”
I sped to the door and turned the key, and set the iron bar across it in
its sockets, noting how massive was the door, and how great the lock;
feeling safer then, though dreading the mad humour of my grandfather.
As I would have sat down, he called out, “Find the bottle and the
glasses. Pour me a dram! Pour yourself a dram; ’twill put heart in
you.”
Taking bottle and glasses from the press, I poured the drink; he took his
glass in his shaking hand and raised it to his lips, but scarcely tasted
the liquor, muttering to me, “Drink, lad! You’re not afraid of your
grog, are ye? You can carry it.”
I made pretence of drinking the fiery stuff; and piling up the fire, I
sat down facing him. He remained mute awhile thence, his head poked
forward, and his look intent, as though he listened for sounds below.
But no sound rose distinguishable from the tumult of the wind; ever the
wind cried out, and beat upon the windows; and the moon, breaking from
the driving clouds, illumined the green panes; the lashing ivy cutting
its pale gleam. Weird lights and shadows flickered on the floor, and
seemed to glide towards the bed, cower and leap back, as the clouds took
the moon once more, and darkness fell without. So with the fitful moon,
the waving candles and the leaping fire, the whole room seemed awhirl
with ghostly lights and shadows; and with the draughts, the curtains of
the bed, the tapestries upon the walls, continually were stirred; rustled
and flapped like wings, or bulged as though some rogue or visitant were
secreted behind them. I sat and shivered by the fire, my mind oppressed
with terror and forebodings.
My grandfather, breaking the silence fallen between us, muttered at last,
“I’ve thought to die on such a night as this. Lad, what’s after, d’ye
think? What’s after?”