He broke off, observing that from the hearth my grandfather and my uncle watched us closely. And at the moment Thrale stepped forward to announce that dinner was served; my uncle gave my grandfather his arm to assist him to his chair at the head of the table. The old man presided, with Mr. Bradbury on his right and my uncle on his left; I sat with the girl beside me, my cousin Oliver frowned darkly at us from across the board.
Mr. Bradbury had prepared me for my grandfather’s wealth—the neglect and disorder of house and grounds might have served to negative this; I wondered yet at the magnificence of the silver upon the table and at the luxury of the meal. I wondered at the richness, and the fantastic design and chasing of this massy plate, at the curious goblets of crystal, as at the rare wines and meats and fruits. But I was amazed and more concerned at my grandfather’s servants—old men, old rogues—I looked on wrinkled faces, brown as with the burning of tropic suns and the lashing of tropical seas; brown hands offered me dishes and filled my glass; a sleeve slipping back from a bony wrist showed me dull blue tattoo marks; glancing over my shoulder I saw an evil brown face, and believed that the old man leered at me. All the while the girl beside me uttered not a word; Oliver devoted himself to his dinner; and my grandfather conversed in low tones with Mr. Bradbury. Not till the girl had left us silently, and the cloth was drawn, and we sat over our wine, did aught come to break the silence about me. My cousin, I saw, was drinking deeply; his face was flushed with wine; once, as he looked up suddenly, and our eyes met, he scowled blackly at me. My uncle was sitting watching his son, his look expressive of contempt; now, as if to divert my attention from Oliver’s intoxication, he leaned forward, and with a tolerable show of cordiality, bade me draw in my chair, and take wine with him.
But my grandfather broke in, “I’ve a toast, Bradbury—a toast, Charles,” and rose unsteadily, and lifted his glass in a shaking hand. Mr. Bradbury raised his glass, my uncle watched the old man, smiling; Oliver was muttering thickly to himself; I saw the old brown men watching from the shadows.
“A toast,—I’ll drink few more, Bradbury—I’ll drink few more. I’ll give ye the fortunes of our family—Charles, and the rest of ye. I’ll drink to my son Dick’s home-coming—hey, Charles—hey, Bradbury? Or, if he’s dead, I’ll have ye drink to my heir—whosoever he may be!”
He laughed harshly, and drank his wine. The stem of the crystal snapped suddenly in my uncle’s fingers; the wine ran blood-red from his white hand. Oliver burst into a roar of drunken laughter.
Chapter XX. Soul of a Man
Mr. Bradbury took his leave shortly after dinner, driving off in his coach, attended by the Bow Street runners. He was allowed no further opportunity of speech with me, my uncle engaging him in conversation; my grandfather sitting grim and silent by the fire. From time to time, I found his eyes studying me, as I sat glumly apart; his face was expressionless of his sentiment to me. My cousin Oliver had been aided from the room by Thrale on my uncle’s direction. On Mr. Bradbury’s departure, the old man went to his room, leaning on his son; and I was left alone by the fire.
The fire was burning down into coals; the candles flickered on the chimney-piece; the reflections flitted like white moths over the mirrors; else the room was draped with shadows. All about me I heard furtive sounds; out of the gloom I believed that the bleared eyes of the old rogues who served my grandfather surveyed me secretly,—this may have been no more than a phantasm of my mind, yet I could have sworn that, when the coals fell, and the red flame splashed into the well of darkness about me, I saw those wrinkled brown faces—surely burnt by the suns of the Spanish Main or the Indies. Rogues’ Haven! I was realising what manner of man was my grandfather; I was conjecturing that he had sailed across the seas in his heady youth, and grown rich with plunder.
I have a belief—it dates from the time I passed at Rogues’ Haven—that the spirit of a man is stamped upon the house in which he dwells. Surely the spirit of old Edward Craike impressed itself upon his gloomy home, and the mystery of the man was the mystery of the house. Ay, the past of our race and the past of my grandfather alike affected the ancient house, meshed in a monstrous web of dark green ivy, clouded by gloomy woods, and blown upon by melancholy winds. Now did faces peer our of the shadows at me, seated drearily by the fire? Did I hear whispering, muttering, or did I but imagine voices in the wind come up from stormy sea to the black woods, to cry about the dwelling, and moan and sigh, and to creep in by breach and crack and cranny, to stir the dusty, moth-corrupted hangings, and fill the house with secret rustling, sighing?
My uncle did not rejoin me till the night was far advanced. He came in stepping so stealthily that at the sudden sight of him standing beside me, and watching me with haunted eyes, I started from my chair, and scarcely repressed a cry. He smiled at me, but his gaiety of the early evening had passed from him; he dropped heavily into a chair facing me, giving me not a word. I watched the shadows fall about his face, as the coals blackened out, and the candles, waving in the draughts, guttered, burned down, and smoked. If a light leaped high from silver stick, I saw him white as ivory, lips twisted, eyes brooding. He looked at me malevolently at times; I understood how much in truth he hated me; how my resemblance to my father tormented him; what was the repression compelled upon him by his father.