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, p. 234“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, p. 235hark ’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 p. 236huskily 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!”
p. 237“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 p. 238dead 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?”
