And then the spirit of adventure and new experience took me, and I swung out on to the highway. I had put on my best black clothes, and the fine frilled shirt my mother had stitched and starched for me. I carried only a little knapsack containing such few articles as I should need on my journey up to London with Mr. Bradbury; there, my mother had told me, I would be fitted out with garments more suitable to my condition than she could fashion for me. At the first milestone from the village I stood to wait by the highway for the coming of Mr. Bradbury in his coach; it was his wish and my mother’s that my departure with him should not become a matter of village gossip. I had parted regretfully from my friend Tony; giving him only to understand that I journeyed up to London with Mr. Bradbury to be made known to my father’s folk, assuring him that I would soon return, and binding him to secrecy.
The morn came chill and grey. A drear wind was abroad; the pale dust whirled down the highway. I waited in the cold for a good half-hour—the sun was up, and the countryside leaping in its light from blackness and greyness into the rich green of spring—ere the coach and pair bearing Mr. Bradbury approached, driven rapidly from Chelton. As the driver pulled up for me, Mr. Bradbury’s gloved hand let down the glass; nodding his head to me in welcome, he hastened to admit me into the coach. It had been repaired from the damages of its overthrow; it was cushioned luxuriously; my body sank into its warm depth, and Mr. Bradbury, with all politeness, hastened to wrap a robe of furs about me for the chill of the morning. He embarrassed me by his close scrutiny; I assumed that he regarded superciliously my rustic appearance in the best clothes I had; realising my confusion, he said, laughing, “Forgive me, Mr. Craike, I marvel only that a lady of your mother’s intelligence should ever have thought to keep your kinship to the Craikes a secret.”
“She has left me, sir, very much in the dark,” I told him. “A week since I was John Howe. To-day I am John Craike and ride with you. I do not understand your interest in me.”
“Mr. Craike,” he said, leaning towards me, “if you have your father’s look, you have a little of your mother’s, too. I esteem highly her prudence and intelligence. And, sir, your likeness to your mother encourages me to be frank and open with you, realising that, whatever passes between us is said in confidence,—I, acting in your interest, and in the interest of Mr. Edward Craike, whose adviser I have the honour to be.”
“To be sure, sir, I ask for frankness, and pledge my word of honour to you.”
He said earnestly, “Mr. Craike, in serving your interest I believe that I shall best serve the interest of my client. I purpose, to be sure, to take you to London and prepare you for presentation to your grandfather. I purpose to accompany you to his house. You are by no means assured of a welcome from him; you are assured only of the hostility of your Uncle Charles,—your mother’s enemy—and mine! Ay,—and mine! I have a purpose in promoting your interests. I have the purpose of keeping from the inheritance of a great estate—Charles Craike!”
“A great estate!”
“No great acreage, but wealth such as few commoners in England own. I would keep this from the hands of Charles Craike, knowing that if it pass to him, it becomes a force for evil, surely it becomes.”
“Why?”
He answered swiftly, “A week or more from now, Mr. Craike, you’ll know Charles Craike. Judge for yourself.”