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 p. 220pistol 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 p. 221us, 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, p. 222as 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 p. 223pointed 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 p. 224to 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.
