“But why not accept a——” began my uncle.
“No, no,” he interrupted him, gasping. “I understand your generosity, sir. I have stood, I can stand the rack. There are limits to my endurance of benignity—such human consideration. I have a good bed at the Flask. I entreat you to let me go—to——”
He left hurriedly. I would have accompanied him; but Uncle Jenico, with a better delicacy, detained me. The moment the door slammed on him he smacked one hand decisively in the palm of the other.
“That man a murderer!” he cried. “Richard, I wish your Mr. Quayle no worser fate than to die in refuting such another calumny!”
CHAPTER VII.
“FACILIS DESCENSUS AVERNI.”
I had forgotten all our late troubles in this wonderful encounter. Aaron’s snake had swallowed the others. This peaked wintry little ghost out of the past, starved and frost-bitten and shabby as it looked, had yet a strange suggestion of vicious force about it which, inasmuch as it seemed sworn for good or evil to my service, comforted me unconsciously in the sense of fear and helplessness which had got me in grip. Somehow Rampick seemed less formidable, my feeling of bondage to an ugly responsibility less acute, in the knowledge of this new acrid ally.
But, beyond this, there was curiosity—still-breathing, wide-eyed curiosity to know what enduring mystery yet held the footsteps of that ancient tale of The King versus Joshua Pilbrow. I had learned something, had had my adventure tooth tickled with a taste of the truth. It had whetted my hunger for more, had tantalized me with that sharpest spur to youthful appetite—the dream of hidden treasure. When would Joshua serve up the whole dish—or would he ever? It seemed incredible that a man who had pursued such a secret, morose and self-contained, for six years, could yield it at last to a sentiment. Yet he had promised, and, though I sickened of the delay, I must not dare to risk making that eternal by over-precipitation.
In the meantime, as there could be no harm in the attentions natural to hospitality, I walked over to the Flask inn, after breakfast the following morning, to see how our visitor had slept.
It was within three or four days of Christmas, and sharp, beautiful weather. I have always since associated the deadliest scheming of Fate with such tranquillity. The robin, like a tiny phœnix, burned, singing on a spray. There was a glaze of rime on the ground, and the sweetest coldness to take into the lungs. The ringers were already practising their carols; the ruddiness of the holly was reflected in the genial cheeks of the wives; the prospect of holiday and fat fare smiled from every door. One had thought that the village, like its geese, had been gutted of the last foulness, and that Nature beamed approval. Alas! it is not the blackest thought that rides the storm. Nature, like the man, may “smile and smile and be a villain.”
The younger Miss Fleming had made herself a sad misalliance, running away with the ostler, and coming to grief and indigence. But her fate had wrought no impression on her sister, who remained as pert and coquettish as ever, and wore the same gaudy finery and shoes down at heel. She always rather courted me because of Harry, of whom she was gigglingly enamoured, and who detested her.