Taking bottle and glasses from the press, I poured the drink; he took his glass in his shaking hand and raised it to his lips, but scarcely tasted the liquor, muttering to me, “Drink, lad! You’re not afraid of your grog, are ye? You can carry it.”
I made pretence of drinking the fiery stuff; and piling up the fire, I sat down facing him. He remained mute awhile thence, his head poked forward, and his look intent, as though he listened for sounds below. But no sound rose distinguishable from the tumult of the wind; ever the wind cried out, and beat upon the windows; and the moon, breaking from the driving clouds, illumined the green panes; the lashing ivy cutting its pale gleam. Weird lights and shadows flickered on the floor, and seemed to glide towards the bed, cower and leap back, as the clouds took the moon once more, and darkness fell without. So with the fitful moon, the waving candles and the leaping fire, the whole room seemed awhirl with ghostly lights and shadows; and with the draughts, the curtains of the bed, the tapestries upon the walls, continually were stirred; rustled and flapped like wings, or bulged as though some rogue or visitant were secreted behind them. I sat and shivered by the fire, my mind oppressed with terror and forebodings.
My grandfather, breaking the silence fallen between us, muttered at last, “I’ve thought to die on such a night as this. Lad, what’s after, d’ye think? What’s after?”
I answered awkwardly, “We’re told mercy to the repentant.”
“Repentance!” he said, laughing. “What’s repentance but fear? When I was young and strong, I didn’t fear aught; I repented nothing. What use now—hey? What d’ye think?”
“I do not know. Yet—”
“Ay, to be safe, be penitent,” he mocked. “You think me near my death, lad, and I am. To-night a knife seemed to stick into my heart, and the knife’ll strike again, till my heart’s broken for the pain of it. I die, soon—maybe this night. I go into the dark. I know not whither. Repent! I’m no such fool or coward. Hey, John, but I lived my life as it pleased me, till I was old. I sinned what sins I would. Repent, ay,—and mutter prayers,—make a good death of it—for fear! I’ve had no god save my own self. I’ve owned no other judge.” He lifted up his shaking hand, and the red jewels seemed blood upon it, “For all my sins I’m ready for the reckoning, repenting nothing, unafraid!”
It seemed as though the very storm took up the challenge. For the wind smote upon the house with a great sound, as seas upon a cliff, or thunder from the heaven. The old house shuddered; the chimneys rumbled; the casement was blown back; the wind struck cold as death upon us. Instantly the candlelight was gone; the room was black save for the red glow upon the hearth; horror of darkness and chaotic sound were all about us. I started up, and rushing to the window sought to close the casement; momentarily the wind prevailed; vainly I fought against it; looking back, I saw my grandfather stagger from his chair; the red flames blowing up from the hearth seemed to burn all about him. Still his laughter sounded like a madman’s defiance to the wind.
The wind lulled for the time. I closed the casement; I hurried back to relight the candles. The curtains of the bed flapped yet like the wings of death about me. With light I saw him lying in his chair; he shuddered now; he muttered, “For the time—I thought—death came. And yet—and yet—I live!”
He remarked then the curtains moving, and pointed to the bed, “When the wind came,” he croaked, “I heard the beating of the wings of death. I saw the dark take shape and thought to die, and go out on the storm. ’Twas nothing—nothing but the curtains and the darkness and the cold! Ay, ay, though never have I known ghosts or terrors in the dark and storm until to-night . . . I could tell you . . . We were off the Cape just such a night, with the winds and the seas sounding so. I remember them—Barwise and Thrale and the rest—crying out, and comin’ scuttlin’ all about me. They’d seen the ghost-ship—the Dutch ship—that seeks to weather the Cape, while time is. I remember the moon riding white through the clouds, as it rides this night. Ay, they vowed that they saw the Dutchman still, the ghosts on the decks, and the lights burning blue,—we’d never make port again, they swore; and they all fell to prayers—Barwise and Thrale and the rest. They to pray! But I said no prayers. For I saw no phantom-ship. And I brought my own ship safe to port. . . . Hark, the wind comes again. Like voices on it! Hark!”