“No, sir,” answered Thrale, his malignant look marking resentment against Mr. Bradbury. “He’s abroad.”
“If he return, tell him to come to my room. Set chairs—damn you! Set chairs! Don’t stand there like a candle in a draught. Like to be blown out any minute—eh, Bradbury, eh?” and passed from sudden passion to loud laughter.
As Thrale set chairs by the fire for Mr. Bradbury and me, I found the opportunity to look about the room. It was lit by those green panes dully for the lateness of the afternoon, and by the leaping flame. It had been a rich, ornate room; I saw dull gold and faded colours in some sombre painting upon the ceiling; faces on the walls—portraits of gloomy folks much of the aspect of the grim old man looking across the green-veined marble hearth at us. A panelled room with heavy tapestries corrupt with moth and grime, with heavy furniture dark with age, a huge four-poster with black silken curtains, black presses, black table; pale gleam of crystal and silver upon a sideboard, old books in a high case. Only a Persian carpet by my grandfather’s chair and his garish gown and gems lent rich colour to the room; all else was gloomy, tarnished, faded. Gloom—surely over all the house was gloom; surely the wind beating on the windows, moaning and sighing, was burdened with a tale of sins; surely a sense of evil brooded in this room,—where sat old Edward Craike to think of life drawing near to death,—to think, maybe, of punishment for years of sinning. For on the face was scored a record of old sins and dead passions; its aspect was evil; the lips were merciless; the brooding eyes, from the sudden blazing wrath at Thrale, could burn with an unholy fire. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood,—I could feel for this old broken man no pity, no affection. I found myself conjecturing only that these eyes would face death—surely so near him—courageously, as an intrepid voyager’s looking on uncharted seas.
Thrale, stepping noiselessly, withdrew.
Mr. Bradbury leaned forward swiftly. “Now, sir,” he said, “I ask you to listen to me patiently.”
“Go on, Bradbury!”
“I ask you to remember your affection for your son Richard—such affection as you have not felt for any other being.”
He said heavily, “Why recall the past, Bradbury? What is the past but a voyage I have made, and come from with an empty hold?”
“Ay, surely,” assented Mr. Bradbury, taking snuff and smiling. “You have a gift of melancholy, Mr. Craike.”
“Bradbury, you speak to me as no man dares to speak.”