An hour thence I sat in the room which was to be mine while I remained in Craike House, and to which the shadowy Thrale had conducted me. It was a great bed-chamber, its windows overlooking dark woods and hills, and afar through the dropping dusk the leaden greyness of the sea. On entering, I had hastened to throw wide the casement, regardless of the coldness of the wind, but seeking by its freshness to dispel the thick, dead mustiness of the room. A gloomy chamber—the fire smoking on the hearth, the furniture of old dark oak, a great four-poster hung with sombre green silk, presses like tombs, the mirrors, so dull with damp, neglect and age, as scarcely to reflect the pale gleam of the candles, which I had lit against the approaching darkness.

One painting only hung within the room, above the black marble chimney-piece. It might have been a portrait of my Uncle Charles, yet if the painter had depicted faithfully the manner of the man, this cavalier wore no such mask as my uncle affected; the face was boldly evil. The sinister gaze seemed to follow me from hearth to window-seat, the head to bend forward from the rich lace collar; the jewelled hands of this cavalier in green and silver to touch the sword in menace. A hateful portrait, yet I had less dislike of it than of my uncle’s aspect; the portrait might well have revealed the soul of Charles Craike, hid in him by his smiling and composed demeanour, his distinction of person, mode and manner, even as the beauty of the body conceals the skeleton. The ceiling of my room, painted after the manner of my grandfather’s room, suggested by its riot of bodies, gold gleam of wine cups and brocades, the taste of a dead kinsman; mayhap, the cavalier over the chimney-piece had had the decoration of Craike House. Like the hangings of the bed, the tapestries upon the wall—recording the devoutness of some kinswoman by depicting the quest of the Sangreal—were riddled with moth and dull with dust. Over all the room, as over the house and the wood about it, a cloud seemed to brood; still, in the whipping of the ivy against the panes, the whistling of the wind, and the stir of the hangings, I seemed to hear the whispering voices; the gloom prevailed over the pale candlelight or the spurts of flame upon the smoking hearth. “The doomed house—the doomed house”—I repeated my mother’s words. I found resemblance between the house of Craike and my grandfather,—in the decay upon them both, the storms scored on the front of man and house; the breaking frames concealing secret sins, the end approaching. The doomed house—so from my first knowledge of it I thought of my kinsmen’s home amid the darkling wood.

And here was I to remain after Mr. Bradbury’s departure from the house that night. I had the assurance of my grandfather’s protection, against my uncle, who hated me, as he had hated my father. What was this treasure old Edward Craike had amassed that for it—surely for it—Charles should have sold his soul? Now, for the fear of losing this treasure, compelled by the threatening of an old and breaking man to hold his hand from me—his rival; the irony of it brought a bitter smile to my lips. I had no definite terror yet of the house and its folk; terror I might have on the moors, terror in the Stone House—to be done to death in my sleep, or terror in the hands of Blunt—shipped aboard his brig, for, it might be, the port of death; but here I was no more afraid of the event than a man may be afraid of life’s adventure. I understood easily that the will of one man—though this man near to dying—held in thrall the folk of Rogues’ Haven; that this will decreed that I should dwell securely in the house; I believed my uncle, for all his jealous hate of me, would not dare lift his hand further to do me hurt. The mystery of the house, even as the mystery of life to be, allured me; I was glad to be in the Rogues’ Haven, and in the company of its folk, even as I was glad to be alive.

As yet my grandfather had not addressed me directly. The fluttering ghost, Thrale, ere leaving me in my room, had said no more than that a bell would summon me to dinner; that he would then have the room properly prepared for me; and that a groom would bring my baggage over from the inn that night. I had laved my face and hands, and smoothed my hair; this was all the toilet I might make for dinner, and I was resting in a chair by the hearth when there came a knocking on my door. At my call “Come in!” my uncle entered. He stood an instant in the doorway; from my subsequent knowledge of him he had a just appreciation of the advantages of his appearance,—a superb figure of a man, even as in the niceties and preciseness of his dress and his courtly manners he bore the semblance of a gentleman. He had made a change of his dress; he wore still sober black, which he affected ever; but his coat and breeches were cut very elegantly; his linen was of a silver whiteness, and illumined by a fine diamond in his cravat; the snuff-box in his delicate fingers was set with brilliants. He made me a little bow and smiled upon me.

“Pray be seated, nephew,” he said, as I rose from my chair. “I trust that I do not intrude on your repose.”

I sought to match my manners with his own, but failed lamentably; bowing with an ill grace, drawing a chair forward for him with a clatter, and feeling myself colour to the tips of my ears, I said, “I’m not so weary for the want of rest these past few nights, sir, that I’d be sleeping now. Pray sit down!”

He sat down, lolling back in his chair, and crossing his shapely legs. “Surely between kinsmen,” he said, smiling, “frankness is natural. Your meaning is patent. Having had so little sleep through my detention of you at the Stone House, you’re weary, and would rest alone. My dear nephew, selfishness has always been my failing—indeed, it is a failing of our family. Forgive me, then, if I trespass, having a word or two to say to you. Will you hear me?”

“Surely.”

He said deliberately, “For aught that I have done to keep you from this house; for aught that I have said concerning you, your parentage and birth, I offer no excuse and ask no pardon. I am no hypocrite at least, my nephew. Indeed, I did believe, when I read Bradbury’s letter to my father, that though our blood might run in you, you could have no legitimate claim upon us. I do not question Mr. Bradbury’s assurance now”—with a hasty wave of his hand, as if to pacify my swift resentment. “You took affront—natural affront—at words of mine you overheard in the Stone House; accepting Mr. Bradbury’s assurance, I own myself mistaken. I tell you, nephew, believing as I then believed, I still would do what I have done to keep you from my father, and to prevent any marks of favour he may show you. Am I frank with you?”

“You’d have me believe so,” I muttered, vengefully.

He laughed, and made me a bow. “Nephew,” he said, “you’re here; you’ve caught the fancy of your grandfather; how long you’ll retain it I’ll not conjecture, knowing so little of you. He’ll have no hurt come to you at my hands; it is my habit to obey him,”—with a bitter sneer.

“Fearing him?” I ventured.

“As much as I fear any man,” he answered, carelessly. “It’s to my advantage to be dutiful; it is to the advantage of any man to be dutiful to a rich kinsman, as of the place-hunter to fawn upon a personage with star or ribbon. Tush, nephew, my practice is the practice of all wise men: to accept the fact, and shape myself to the fact, to seek advantage, and employ what wit I have for the attainment of it. I’m not prepared to love you, nephew; there is no need for that hypocrisy.”

“None!” I assented bitterly.

“But while my father lives,” he proceeded, “we’re to be inmates of this house. We’re to meet daily; to live our lives together; to appear in public together. It would be tedious to me that we should be for ever wrangling. Let us then be frank with each other,—hate each other, but let us not show our lack of breeding by impoliteness. John, while we’re together in this house, I am prepared to play dutiful kinsman, preceptor, friend. And you?”

For my very hate of him I could only seek to match my wit with his own. I answered, “And I, my dear uncle, am prepared to ape the part of dutiful nephew—to assume all the respect, affection, trust, I do not feel for you.”

He laughed; he rose from his chair. “We understand one another, nephew. I compliment you upon your breeding. Let us join the gentlemen.”He took my arm with a gay show of cordiality; arm in arm we went down to dinner, as the bell was clanging through the house.