My uncle, since his father’s advanced years and decay pointed to his speedy death, had torn himself away from the diversions of London and society, of which he was adjudged an ornament. Penniless, while he played devoted son, he had established an advantageous understanding with Blunt and his folk, who would alternate long voyages to America and the Indies, on Lord knows what nefarious traffic, with running smuggled stuff from the Continent to the English coast. That my uncle fretted under the yoke of duty manifested itself daily in his covert sneers at his father; the chagrin of Charles, my grandfather remarked to me, had lent a zest to living.
The days I spent in Craike House passed dully and without noteworthy event. I did not lose my dread of the house in the night; the impressions of my first night under its roof abated in no way, but the good-humour of my uncle, the servility of Thrale and his fellow-rogues, the companionship of Oliver, and the sports which I shared with him, lent me a confidence which was to prove groundless. I passed much of my time in playing chess with my grandfather, in reading to him from old voyagers and romancers—of whose works he had by him a great store, or in listening to his narrative of his own sailings, which, if incomplete, gave me a portrait of him by no means calculated to advance my affection for him. Yet that I advanced daily in his favour was patent; my uncle masked his chagrin under a bland demeanour, and a display of the graces and accomplishments which surely rendered his absence deplored by society. But though my grandfather assured me of protection, and though my uncle professed a truce, I would have been wise to follow my first inclination—not to remain under the roof of Craike House, as I shall now relate.
One morn, a month, I should say, from my coming to Rogues’ Haven, my grandfather informing me, through Thrale, that I was free to pass the day as I pleased, I bade Thrale unlock the door for me, and passed out of the house. The gold sunlight lay upon the garden; if it dispelled for a time the gloom, it emphasised the disrepair of the old house, the ivy climbing to the chimney stacks and lacing the windows; a few it had obscured wholly. As I looked up, I saw the sinister face of Mrs. Barwise looking from a high window; she bobbed back instantly. I estimated the covert hostility of the rogues of Craike House; and, having a certain apprehension of walking abroad unarmed, I took out my knife and speedily fashioned me a heavy cudgel. I went down then by a flight of stone steps into the old sunken garden to the right from the house,—steps crumbling and green with moss, and overshadowed by a tangle of roses and honeysuckle, descending into a cool depth which had been laid out once in ornate flower beds and lawns, but was now overrun with fox-gloves, prevailing through their sturdy strength over other flowers. Yet the air was sweet with the white-starred jasmine over the crumbling walls, shutting the deep garden from the old plantation, which had become a dense wood.
Once paths had curved to the sundial at the heart of the garden. The dial was broken and corroded now; a bramble had caught it in its claws; sparrows fought and chirruped upon it in the sun. Arbours had become thickets; through the broken wall I saw the wood go deep, but the sunlight struck through the trees upon a path among tall grasses and flowers spilled from the garden.
I climbed the broken wall and sauntered down the woodland path, taking delight in beauty, and presently departing from the track, passed down to left into a deep glade—silver and green in the sunlight; the dew was not yet dry on fern and grass. And suddenly I saw the girl Evelyn Milne,—she sat upon a fallen log, moss-grown and bramble-clustered. Her head was bare; her bonnet lying on the turf beside her; she sat bent with her hands clasped at her knees—a picture of melancholy and loneliness; yet the sun found the glossy sheen in her dark hair, and the whiteness of her neck and hands. At the crack of a stick under my feet, she started up, and stood regarding me with sullen eyes. I swept off my hat, but she offered me no greeting.
I stammered, “I ask your pardon, Miss Milne. I did not think to disturb you.”
She looked about her hurriedly; leaning towards me then, she whispered, “Now you’re out of the house—away from them all, why not go on and on through the wood, and never return?”
“You mean,” I said, staring at her pale face, at her white hands fluttering at her bosom, “it would be safer for me, that I’ll never be safe in the house?”
“I mean—it doesn’t matter what I mean. Only, were I you, and had any friends away from here—were not alone as I am alone—I’d go. I’d never return.”
“Miss Milne,” said I, “I do assure you that I’m not afraid. Why should I run away?”