my grandfather summoned me to his presence before noon. i breakfasted with oliver; my uncle did not honour us; it was his habit, his son informed me, to lie abed late. the girl evelyn milne came down, slim and pale in her black gown; she gave us the chillest of “good mornings,” and sat silent and obscure through the meal. thrale waited on us; recalling all oliver had said to me on the beach, i eyed the old man in the light of day—observing the brownness of his shrivelled skin, the bony hands serving us so deftly; and from time to time i saw him peer at me, his eyes gleam sinister; his face expressed nothing; his voice was thin and reedy. the girl passed not a word with us, ere she rose from breakfast; she seemed a poor, scared, fluttering thing, afraid of oliver and me.
“how do we pass the day, cousin?” i asked, as oliver pulled back his chair. “do we ride abroad?”
thrale interrupted swiftly, “will you pardon me, sir?”
p. 178“surely, thrale.”
“your grandfather, sir, desires a word with you. he asks you to remain here. he’ll send for you when he’s ready for you.”
i nodded. oliver, without a word, marched out, leaving me to yawn the morning away by the fire. thrale, clearing the table, vanished presently; i sat waiting glumly; silence had fallen over the house. the sunlight filtered through the dull panes, revealing the decay of the house, the tattered tapestries, the mouldering oak, the green-specked mirrors and the paintings dark with smoke and grime. i pondered heavily, feeling the gloom descend once more upon me, and hearing stealthy footsteps through the house, and muttering voices. the air of the room was thick with the musty odours of decay; the windows, when i would have opened them, proved bound with ivy. i grew so weary that at last i would have pulled the bell-rope for thrale, and asked him to bring me a book, or let me out into the air, until my grandfather should summon me. i started to find thrale was in the room and beckoning to me, “your grandfather will see you now, sir,” he said.
i followed him readily up the stairs and down the corridor to my grandfather’s room. he announced me with all formality, “mr. john, p. 179sir,” and left me standing before the grim old figure in the brocaded gown. he sat huddled by the fire, his jewelled hands seemed palsied, as he warmed them at the blaze; his lips scarcely to support his tobacco pipe—the air was heavy with smoke. he pointed to the chair before him; when i sat down, he regarded me for awhile in silence. he said at last, “well, grandson—bradbury swears you’re my grandson, and bradbury has no cause to lie.”
“i’m happy that you think so, sir,” i flashed, colouring.
he chuckled to himself, “you’ve richard’s look,” he said. “you’ve his evil temper—i’ve horsed him for it many a time. ay, and he’s dead—isn’t he?”
“for all i know. or overseas.”
“or overseas!” he repeated slowly. “your mother now—does she know?”
“my mother thinks him dead.”
“she was a fine, upstanding lass,” he said, pulling at his pipe. “ay, ay, years since. and she wedded richard—he-he—for all that charles and his wife might do. she feared and hated us all, except richard. she’s paying charles coin for coin. what’s she said of us to you.”
“little, and that’ll i’ll not say, sir, by your leave.”
p. 180his brow grew dark; he muttered, “years since—not so many—and you’d not have answered so. you’re bold—hey, you’re bold. little she said, but no good—hey?”
“why should she speak well of you?” i said, quietly. “you were her enemies.”
he chuckled, “ay, and so she kept you hid from us all these years. you’d not be in the house but for bradbury. cunning dog, bradbury.”
“and even for mr. bradbury,” said i, “i’ll not be staying, sir.”
“why? d’ye fear charles? has charles done aught—after my word to him?” he lurched up from his chair and stood glowering down on me; the tobacco pipe, dropping from his grasp, smashed on the hearth.
“no, he’s done nothing.”
“why would you go then? are you afraid—our ways not being yours? why would you go?”
i answered, “i do not like the house or the folk around you. what’s there about this house, sir? what’s it in the very wind of a night? what’s all the muttering in the dark?”
he returned to his chair, and leaning forward in it, watched me intently with his red-lidded eyes.
“i feared the house,” i went on, “when i first p. 181came up through the woods with mr. bradbury, and saw it in its cobweb of ivy and the black pines at its back. i’ve no cause to remain here, and i’ll not remain.”
he muttered, “yet you’ll remain.”
“i’m gaoled here, then. is that it?”
“you’ll remain,” he repeated, “though you’ll be free to ride abroad with the young cub oliver. you’re safe here; there’s naught in the house to fear. there’s none dares do you hurt.”
“none of those old men, your servants?” said i. “those old brown men with the evil eyes, and the rings in their ears, and the tattoo-marks on their arms? i’m afraid, maybe, of blunt and his crew—not of these old men.”
“once,” he chuckled. “ay, but once.”
“once these old rogues were to be feared, you mean?”
“once, i was feared, as—by god!—i am yet to be feared. i’m master of my house, grandson, as i was master of my ship. master of blunt—any who’d do you hurt. you’ll stay!”—poking out his shaking hand, the red gems gleaming, “you’ll stay, as your father would have stayed by me, till the breath’s out of my body. not so very long!” his tone was quavering and eager, “you’ll bear me company, and you’ll profit by it. i’ll soon be dead, and you’ll soon be rich. would p. 182you have me think you care nothing to be rich?”
“why, surely we all care.”
“ay,” nodding his head. “i could tell of a treasure a man would sell his soul for”—lowering his tone, peering about him, and muttering. “you can come by it honestly, if that’s aught to you, and more than if only you come by it. d’ye see these red rings?”
“like blood upon your hands,” i ventured, shrinking from him.
he laughed to himself, “like blood! rubies! i’ll show you yet—when it’s fitting—and tell you a tale.”
“plundered treasure!”
“what of it? what gives a man the right to the treasure of the earth except the strength to take and hold it?”
“as any of the rogues about this house would take.”
“ay, if they dared. and knew where i hold it. fearing me yet and not knowing. will ye not stay?”
“and yet i’ll not stay in this house.”
he said heavily, but without anger, “you’re like your father in more than looks. i’d have you by me, till i die. you fear the dark and the sounds of the wind and sea. you’re p. 183young-what should you hear in the wind, or see moving in the dark? what should you see stepping over the floor, when the moon comes up? i fear nothing in the winds or the dark or the moon. ay, and i’ve sailed in uncharted seas, and i’ll sail the sea that shall never have a chart. not fearing! but i’d have you by me, till i embark.”
he fell to silence; awhile i sat and watched him. he said then, musing, “i’ve rotted in this accursed house, since i left the sea. the house with the green ivy webbed about it; i’ve a sense of being caught in the weed—held to die and rot. there’s talk among seamen of waters where the weed’s taken many a ship—i’m held so by the weed. its roots ’ll strike into my heart. it battens on dead men.”
i knew his mind was decaying with the breaking body. i pitied remembering that he had loved my father. i knew now that, black with guilt, he feared the uncharted sea on which he must soon set sail. and i thought of the old rogues about him watching, waiting, until they feared no longer, and might take what long ago they would have taken, had they dared. yet i think not pity, not the desire that all men have to be rich, would have prevailed against the terror of the house in the night—the doomed house. i think p. 184that i, being of his blood, was led by the spirit of adventure to stay by him. adventure, and desire to see the play to its end.
“i’ll stay here, sir,” i said, “if you’ll have it so. on a condition—that i be free to go about and abroad as i will.”
“ay, so long as you bear me company when i’ve need of you,” he answered, with a show of satisfaction.
