“And yet you’d have me go.”
She answered, “I’d have you go to your own. I’d have you go, thinking I’ve made you man—not as old Edward Craike or his son Charles. Your father’s son.”
“My father, you have heard of him? He is alive?”
“I have heard nothing—nothing. I think him dead. He does not come to me in dreams as living. Charles Craike would have him dead; and he is surely dead. And oh, at last to have my reckoning with Charles Craike—to have my reckoning, as surely I shall have!”
“Tell me more! I do not understand. Why do you hate the Craikes so much? What wrong have they done you? Tell me all!”
She rose up from her chair and drew her hands from mine. “Your father, whom we loved so much,” she said, “was taken from us. Whether he was done to death, or carried out of England by the plotting of Charles Craike, I do not know. I think his brother guilty, knowing his hate for him and me. Charles Craike has thought to profit by your father’s death. I’d have you go with Mr. Bradbury to your grandfather. I am assured by Mr. Bradbury that you shall go in safety and return in safety. I fear Charles Craike—I fear for you, as I have feared these years that we have hidden here. I fear the fortune of old Edward Craike, piled up by sin and cruel wrong to others, will bring no good or happiness to you or any of his house. I fear—and yet because I hate Charles Craike, and I would punish him, and bring his sins to nothing, I’d have you go. Believing that you will avenge your father, and come again to me; believing Heaven wills it so!”
Chapter V. The Journey Begun
By break of day a week thence I waited by the highway for the coach and pair which should carry me with Mr. Bradbury up to London. My mind was yet confused for the swiftness of events. My mother, after her first outburst on the evening of Mr. Bradbury’s second visit, had become secretive; she whose life had seemed to me so open and simple, had grown inscrutable; she would satisfy me fully on none of the matters of most concern to me. This much I gathered—that I was John Craike, son of Richard Craike, who had passed by the name of Howe; that my grandfather was possessed of considerable means, and that for greed of this Charles Craike, my uncle, had plotted against his brother, bringing about his disappearance from England, if not his death. I believed that my mother at the time of her marriage had held some menial position in the service of Mrs. Charles Craike; that the match had excited bitter opposition from the Craike family, and that my father and she had been wedded secretly, and had lived under her name in London, fearing Charles Craike and his hostility. And that she had found from the first the hand of Charles Craike in the disappearance of her husband, and had fled away to live at Chelton through her concern for me and the enmity of Charles.
But of my grandfather’s fortune—“ill-gotten,” she named it,—and of “the doomed house,” she would say no more; her secrecy hung like a shadow over us for that last week of mine at Chelton. She went quietly about her preparations for my journey, refusing to listen to my appeals that I should stay with her; insisting that, if I loved her, I should give myself wholly into Mr. Bradbury’s hands. “For,” she said, “I believe in him—nay, I know him for a friend of yours and mine. And he has great influence with your grandfather, and will insure your safe return to me.” Only from all the week of wondering and doubts unanswered I realised the bitterness of her spirit toward Charles Craike, and the keenness of her desire that I, as only son of the elder son, should come between him and the inheritance for which he had planned; this hate of him and this desire for his punishment outweighed even her fears for me. Though Mr. Bradbury had convinced her that he would insure for me a safe journey and a safe return.
But at the time of parting,—ere the dawn was come,—her hardness passed from her. I saw, as I had never seen, since the day of my father’s disappearance, tears falling from her eyes. She clasped me to her, as if she would never loose me from her arms. Not my first separation from her—I believed then it would be brief, and that, when Mr. Bradbury had made me known to my grandfather, I would return to her; and all would be as before,—alone affected her. I understood now, indeed, she feared for me, and that her terrors surging up almost induced her thus late to break her word to Mr. Bradbury. Looking back, ere I passed out of sight from the cottage, I saw her standing as a grey shadow in the doorway; I waved my hat back to her; and so I left her.