“Grandfather, what's the matter with the house?”
The old man's fingers, sharp like pins, drew Peter close to him.
“Boy, I'm terribly frightened. I've been having such dreams. I thought I was dead—in a coffin....”
But Peter whispered in his ear:
“Grandfather—tell me—what's the matter with every one here?”
The old man's eyes were suddenly sharp, like needles.
“Ah, he wants to know that, does he? He's found out something at last, has he? I know what they were about. They've been at it in here, boy, too. Oh, yes! for weeks and weeks—killing your mother, that's what my son's been doing ... frightening her to death.... He's cruel, my son. I had the Devil once, and now he's got hold of me and that's why I'm here. Mind you, boy,” and the old man's ringers clutched him very tightly—“if you don't get the better of the Devil you'll be just like me one of these days. So'll he be, my son, one day. Just like me—and then it'll be your turn, my boy. Oh, they Westcotts!... Oh! my pains! Oh! my pains!... Oh! I'm a poor old man!—poor old man!”
His head sunk beneath the cushions again and his muttering died away like a kettle when the lid has been put on to it.
Peter had been kneeling so as to catch his grandfather's words. Now he drew himself up and with frowning brows faced the room. Had he but known it he was at that moment exactly like his father.
He went slowly up to his attic.