“I think you as you are,” I answered steadily. “Your hand, cousin.”
Chapter XXII. The Web of Ivy
My grandfather summoned me to his presence before noon. I breakfasted with Oliver; my uncle did not honour us; it was his habit, his son informed me, to lie abed late. The girl Evelyn Milne came down, slim and pale in her black gown; she gave us the chillest of “good mornings,” and sat silent and obscure through the meal. Thrale waited on us; recalling all Oliver had said to me on the beach, I eyed the old man in the light of day—observing the brownness of his shrivelled skin, the bony hands serving us so deftly; and from time to time I saw him peer at me, his eyes gleam sinister; his face expressed nothing; his voice was thin and reedy. The girl passed not a word with us, ere she rose from breakfast; she seemed a poor, scared, fluttering thing, afraid of Oliver and me.
“How do we pass the day, cousin?” I asked, as Oliver pulled back his chair. “Do we ride abroad?”
Thrale interrupted swiftly, “Will you pardon me, sir?”
“Your grandfather, sir, desires a word with you. He asks you to remain here. He’ll send for you when he’s ready for you.”
I nodded. Oliver, without a word, marched out, leaving me to yawn the morning away by the fire. Thrale, clearing the table, vanished presently; I sat waiting glumly; silence had fallen over the house. The sunlight filtered through the dull panes, revealing the decay of the house, the tattered tapestries, the mouldering oak, the green-specked mirrors and the paintings dark with smoke and grime. I pondered heavily, feeling the gloom descend once more upon me, and hearing stealthy footsteps through the house, and muttering voices. The air of the room was thick with the musty odours of decay; the windows, when I would have opened them, proved bound with ivy. I grew so weary that at last I would have pulled the bell-rope for Thrale, and asked him to bring me a book, or let me out into the air, until my grandfather should summon me. I started to find Thrale was in the room and beckoning to me, “Your grandfather will see you now, sir,” he said.
I followed him readily up the stairs and down the corridor to my grandfather’s room. He announced me with all formality, “Mr. John, sir,” and left me standing before the grim old figure in the brocaded gown. He sat huddled by the fire, his jewelled hands seemed palsied, as he warmed them at the blaze; his lips scarcely to support his tobacco pipe—the air was heavy with smoke. He pointed to the chair before him; when I sat down, he regarded me for awhile in silence. He said at last, “Well, grandson—Bradbury swears you’re my grandson, and Bradbury has no cause to lie.”
“I’m happy that you think so, sir,” I flashed, colouring.