That afternoon I drove with Mr. Bradbury to my grandfather’s house, and the two thief-catchers rode beside us. The house stood at a distance of five miles from the little village that looked down upon the sea; from the inn window I had caught sight of Blunt’s brig already putting out. It was an ancient dwelling of the Craike family, that my grandfather, enriched by trade in the East, Mr. Bradbury now assured me, had set in repair for his habitation.

For all the outrage of my imprisonment, Mr. Bradbury would have me keep a secret from old Sir Gavin Masters my detention in the Stone House. Let it remain a secret, and let the scandal be hushed, he insisted, until we had had our interview with my grandfather. I had an uneasy suspicion that he believed the old man himself implicated in the plot against me, or at least feared his resentment at interference with a crew of smugglers, with whom he and his son were associated. Committing my cause to Mr. Bradbury, I pleaded exhaustion; left him to tell what tale he would to Sir Gavin, and kept my room until the hour of our departure from the inn. I contented myself with insistence that Roger Galt should have due credit for returning me to safety, and should not be held guilty of the sins of Charles Craike and his rogues. What tale Mr. Bradbury told, I knew not; as we drove away, he gave me to understand that Sir Gavin had relinquished the search after Roger; I assumed that the justice himself would not welcome an open breach with the smuggling fraternity—with whom, indeed, I took it from furtive whisperings and black looks at me, the folk at the inn—as, no doubt, the fisher-folk at the village—were in league.

But what was my grandfather’s share in the plot of my kin against me I conjectured bitterly. Mr. Bradbury observed that my uncle had established great influence over the old man; that, indeed, the one thought and acted habitually as the other. But he was bent still on my presentation to my grandfather, as if he hoped that Mr. Craike might take a liking to me, and my favour with him counteract the influence of my Uncle Charles. So, cleanly-clad, well-dressed once more, I sat by Mr. Bradbury in his coach, and proceeded with him to Craike House, as if none of the events of the Stone House had happened; indeed, my curiosity to learn what manner of man was my grandfather prevailed for the time over perplexity and dread.

We drove always within sound of the sea, though it was hid from our sight for the most; our way taking us over an old stone road; but at times, where the cliffs were broken, we saw the waters grey and leaden still for hanging clouds; the violence of the wind had abated, yet it blew keenly; always the tang of the sea was in my nostrils. Our road struck at last from the sea inland; we were driving soon through a deep wood; this was unbroken, ere we came to iron gates in an old brick wall. A woman, coming out of the gate-keeper’s cottage at the sound of coach and riders, stared at us through the bars, but at the sight of Mr. Bradbury’s head poking out of the window, and at his curt order, “Open the gates, woman. Mr. Bradbury to see Mr. Craike!” she unlocked and opened the gates, staring at us as we passed by. I saw her for a big woman, as nut-brown as a gipsy, and as vivid in her red shawl and green kirtle; a swath of orange-coloured stuff was about her black hair. We drove on, and the runners clattered after us. Looking back, I saw the woman run into the cottage, and reappear presently with a bearded fellow, rubbing his eyes sleepily; I saw the glint of big rings in his ears, his rig of wide blue breeches and red-striped shirt,—both remained staring after us, till the trees hid them from us. The coach rolled on through a park, ill-tended, overgrown, a very wilderness; green darkness dropped about us till we came in sight of Craike House.

It stood amid tall pine and fir trees—a sombre, dreary house; the ivy holding it in a green net, webbed across shuttered windows, climbing to the very leads, and gripping the chimney stacks. An ancient, crumbling house,—I had a notion that but for the ivy it must fall in ruins to the ground; a house of gloom from the dark ivy—the evil green ivy, with the black pines and fir trees all about it, with weeds and tangle of flowers before it, where once had been rose gardens; with nettles and lank green grass upon its lawns. We drove up, seeing no one; we pulled up before the flight of stone steps leading up to its door,—steps worn by rains of centuries, and by the feet of generations; steps guarded by stone dragons, wingless and earless from their years, their eyes blinded and their jaws stopped with green moss. Sombre and secret stood the house amid the black cloud of pine and fir trees; I saw the black clouds lower above it; I heard the winds cry out about it; the old trees strain and sigh, and toss their boughs like arms, in lamentation or in terror for the house,—the doomed house, where my kinsmen dwelt. Afar I heard the drumming of the sea against the rock-bound coast. I had a curious shapeless notion—prescience—that even as all the evil of the house—the ill-gotten fortunes of the house—came from the sea, out of the sea should retribution—vengeance—come.

Mr. Bradbury bade the runners and the coach-boy wait for us. Taking my arm, he climbed the steps with me to the door; its oak was bound with iron in fantastic pattern, and studded with copper nails; the knocker was of copper in the form of a satyr’s grinning face,—and all this copper was corroded, and the green stained the door as the evil green of the ivy stained the front of the house. Mr. Bradbury raised the knocker with difficulty; though it clashed heavily, it failed to bring response from the house; whispering to me, “I’d have thought Charles would have been keeping a sharper look out for our arrival than this,” he knocked double knocks, until the clank of a chain and the screech of bolts sounded within. The door opened, and an old man stood blinking out at us—an old man, his clean-shaven face shrivelled and brown, and his eyes palely blue; his white hair was powdered, and his suit of black on his bent and withered body as neat and precise as his linen.

“Mr. Bradbury, sir,” he quavered.

“Your ears are not as sharp as they might be, Thrale,” said Mr. Bradbury, drily. “Pray, open the door to Mr. Craike and me, and tell your master that we have the honour to wait upon him in obedience to his wish.”

Thrale answered in that shaking voice of his—though his eyes looked keenly and wickedly at me, “To be sure, gentlemen, to be sure! Pray step inside!”—and opened the door slowly into the hall. It was a dark and gloomy vault; ere old Thrale closed the door, I caught a glimpse of a hall panelled all in oak, of canvases mouldering in mildewed frames, and of a wide black stairway opposite the door, leading up into darkness. If fanlight above the door or windows at the head of the stair should have lit the hall, all light was kept out by curtains, shutters, or netted ivy; the darkness of night fell with the closing of the door.

Mr. Bradbury, grasping my arm hurriedly, cried out, “Gad, how dark and cold this house is, Thrale! I’m not prepared to take my death of a chill waiting here till you announce us to your master. Go ahead of us, man, and show us into his room immediately—d’ye hear me?” He adopted a tone of brusque good humour, though well I understood his apprehension of what might yet befall me, if we were left standing in the dark. The dark hung mysterious all about us; I could feel cold draughts of air; I believed that I could hear furtive whisperings and footsteps, doors softly opening and closing, hangings waving; all this might have been the wind without. Certainly I heard Thrale chuckle behind me, as he locked the door and fixed the chain; he answered Mr. Bradbury, “As you wish, sir.”

“Strike a light, Thrale,—d’ye hear me?—a light. I’ve no mind to break a leg or my neck in the dark! A light, Thrale!”

“Certainly, sir,” Thrale’s answer floated back to us, as he flitted away in the dark.

“Why, damn the fellow, he’s leaving us after all,” gasped Mr. Bradbury. “Thrale, you hear me? Thrale! Come back, man!”

But there came no sound save of the whisperings, gliding footsteps, rustlings of hangings waving in the dark, or of the ghostly wind that seemed to haunt the House of Craike. Mr. Bradbury’s left hand grasped my arm; I understood that his right groped in his coat pocket for his pistol. The impress of the blackness and gloom of the house was upon me, while I had good cause to dread my uncle’s plotting; I stood straining my eyes and ears in the darkness, imagining that figures advanced upon us in the dark. Mr. Bradbury drew me back against the door, muttering, “By the Lord, if the old rogue’s not back presently, I’ll take upon me to make a dash for the stair and force my way into the master’s room.”

But he was silent, as a glimmer of light showed through the darkness. Thrale was returning, carrying a silver candlestick; his face was villainous and livid in the pale light.

“Where the deuce have you been, Thrale?” cried Mr. Bradbury. “Didn’t you hear me call after you?”

Thrale answered quietly, “I asks pardon, Mr. Bradbury, sir. As you said, I don’t hear as well as I might. I’d flint and steel to find,”—and stood blinking at us, with the candlestick lifted high in his bone-white hands.

A skeleton’s hands—mere bone—they seemed to me, as the old rogue, at Mr. Bradbury’s peremptory order, lit us up the stairs. The glimmer of pale light, the lime-white head, the bone-white hands, the silver candlestick, seemed from his noiseless movement to glide before us. From the head of the stair wide galleries led off to right and left and before us,—galleries shrouded with dark tapestries. I saw rusty armour standing against the walls. I kicked against a pile of tumbled mail as the old man flitted before us by many fast-shut doors down the corridor to the left. He paused at a high black door, the glimmer of the candle showed me grotesque carvings and tarnished gilding upon it; he rapped smartly on this door with his bony fingers. No one answering, he opened the door, and swept aside the thick green curtains hanging before it.

The room revealed was high and wide; only a pale green light crept through the diamond panes of its two windows stained by the mosses of the years and netted with the ivy. For the time I had no eye for its furnishings, but only for the figure in the carved black chair by the fire. He was an old man; he had been of great stature and strength, his bulk was supported now by faded purple cushions. He seemed to prop himself upon the arms of his chair; his wide, brown hands were stained with red jewels; I had an uneasy fancy of blood-smeared hands. His clean-shaven face was very broad, bronzed and congested, his brows were framed in white hair tumbling about his immense shoulders; his eyes were coal-black beneath ash-grey brows. His whole aspect suggested decaying will, as his body decaying strength. A quilted gown of green and gold-brocaded silk was corded about his middle; his bent legs were cased in black silken breeches and hose; his shoe buckles were set with smoke-blue jewels; an ebony stick rested by his chair.

“Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, stepping swiftly forward and bowing politely, “I have the honour at last to present your grandson—Mr. John Craike!”