I wondered at the composure of my Uncle Charles. He had risen with Mr. Bradbury, and now stood leaning against the chimney-piece, his face revealing nothing of the rage which surely racked him.
“I beg to take my leave of you, Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, bowing to my grandfather. “Come, lad!”
But as I started up, glad enough to be away, the old man’s cane smote heavily upon the hearth. “The lad,” he growled, “stays here, Bradbury!”
“Mr. Craike, were you alone in this house,” said Mr. Bradbury, swiftly, “nothing could give me keener pleasure than that your grandson should remain with you. But Craike House is Craike House, and the lad goes with me.”
“He stays here!” cried the old man, with sudden stormy anger. “Damn you, Bradbury, he stays here!”
“Mr. Craike, I am answerable for the lad’s safety.”
“Really, Bradbury, really!” Charles deprecated.
“The lad will come to no hurt in this house,” the old man said, and his eyes blazed suddenly at Charles. “You hear me, Charles? No hurt shall come to him! If hurt come to him,—if, in defiance of me you seek to injure him, and separate my son’s son from me, as they took my son from me,—look to it, Bradbury, that no concern for me, and no desire further to keep the secrets of this house, shall stand between my grandson’s enemies and justice! Justice, Bradbury! The boy stays here. You remain to dine with me, Bradbury. There are affairs.”
Smiling triumphantly, Mr. Bradbury bowed.
“I am honoured, Mr. Craike,” he said; and with a flourish, offered his snuff-box to my Uncle Charles, who accepted a pinch, maintaining an ineffable composure.