The wind came crying from the sea. Again it forced the casement open; as I reached the window, momentarily I saw the garden illumined by the moon. I saw dark shadows hurrying to the house; I forced the window to, believing for the instant that I had seen only the shadows of the wind-tossed trees; remembering then Blunt’s threat to take me from the house, I feared.
When I re-lit the candles, my grandfather perceived my concern, and caught me by the arm, muttering, “What did ye see? Or think to see?”
I answered, “Shadows, maybe, or men—Blunt’s men.”
“Blunt’s men? Or do ye think ’em ghosts? Why do ye look so white, lad? Why should Blunt’s men come here this night? Look again!”
Returning to the window, opening the casement, and peering down, I saw only the leaping shadows of the trees, much as those dark, hurrying figures. I called back to him, “Shadows—only shadows!” and secured the casement.
We sat in silence then by the fire. The storm was nearing its height; wave of sound following upon wave of sound as breaker upon breaker; the house appeared to reel under the succession of shocks, always the voices sounded on the wind. If there were sound below, if drunken voices, menacing voices, were uplifted, as seemed to me, I could not be assured; the wind usurped all sounds, in or without the house. My grandfather lay back in his chair with his hands clutching its arms; I saw him lift his right hand from time to time, and eye it shaking with the palsy, the red gems leaping into flame upon it; for all his will and his professed hardihood, I believed that the terror of the night grew on him, even as on me. He leaned forward at last, and quavered, “What’s death, d’ye think, lad? What comes after?”
“How can I answer? Who should tell?” I said, being in no mood now to preach faith or penitence to him.
“You’re honest!” he said, nodding. “Charles would have turned priest. Charles would have talked of Judgment Day. Ay, you’re honest! Eighty years I’ve lived, and till these weeks past never thought of what came after; or of to-morrow but as to-day or yesterday. I never thought of myself as dead. John”—with sudden starting terror—“doesn’t that show it?”
“What, sir—what?”
“When we die and rot and the worms have us, it’s not the end of us. We’re never able to think of ourselves as dead! Whether we’re strong and lusting with life, or whether we’re old and breaking, we never think of ourselves as dead. Because we never die!”