i slept towards morning, and did not wake until the sun was rising; the light came golden-green through the stained windows. i rose from my bed, and, opening the casement, looked out over sunlit woods; afar, through the break in the trees, i could make out the glittering waters of the sea. in the decaying garden i saw the colours of many flowers among weeds; a hawthorn by an overgrown walk was a silver fount of blossom. the gloom of the garden and the wood had passed with the darkness and the sea wind; only the pines and firs were sombre yet and sighing in the breeze.
i was still in my shirt when a rapping sounded on my door. i hastened silently to pull away the chair, asking, “who’s there?”
my cousin oliver answered gruffly, “it’s i, cousin,” and i let him in. he was in shabby riding-rig, his black hair tumbled over his nose; he stood awkwardly in the doorway. with the flush of drink off him he seemed not so ill a fellow, though his look was lowering and sullen, and he p. 170possessed none of his father’s elegance, but only a hard strength such as must have been my grandfather’s in his youth. “get into your breeches, cousin,” he muttered, “and ride with me.”
“why, i’ll be happy,” said i.
“we’ll ride down to the sea and swim in it, if you’ve a mind for it.”
“i’ve a mind for it, yes.”
“dress then. i’ll wait for you,” and moved over to the window-seat and lounged there, till i had pulled on my clothes. he sat sullenly regarding me; i could not estimate his disposition to me, believing that his father had instructed him to treat me with civility; from time to time i stole a glance at him reflected dully in the mirror, noting the health and strength of him, and could not find it in me to hate the fellow as with cause i hated his father. dressed at last, a towel about my neck, i said, “at your service, cousin,” and he, lurching up from his seat, strode before me down the gallery, and brought me by a dark stair out of the house into the courtyard. i had a certain hesitation in accompanying him—with my escape from being shipped overseas with blunt on the black wasp fresh in my mind; but reassured that i was safe now through my grandfather’s direction, i set my dread aside.
p. 171he had anticipated my hesitation, it seemed, for he swung round, and demanded curtly, “are you afraid to go with me, cousin?”
“no, i’m not afraid,” i answered.
he cast a look about him, shot out his hand and gripped my sleeve. he said, in that harsh tone of his, “you’ve no need to be, whatever others may do. d’ye understand me?”
“i’m happy to understand.”
“you saw me swilling last night.”
“ay, i saw.”
he said simply, “wouldn’t the house and the folk in it drive a man to the devil?”—and turned abruptly and crossed the courtyard with me at his heels.
the courtyard was deserted. neglect and decay marked it; the moss grew green in crevices and cracks of the paving stones; the ivy held the out-buildings as it held the house. the great stables were bare but for three horses in the stalls; a fellow ill of look, of middle-age, but seeming young by comparison with the old men about my grandfather, was plying a broom.
“saddle the mare for mr. craike, nick,” oliver ordered. “i’ll get my horse out.”
nick responding, “ay, ay, sir,” set down his broom, and stared at me. a seaman surely, he was as brown as the old rogues; the silver rings p. 172in his ears, and the tattoo-marks on his bare arms, accorded ill with his shabby rig of a groom.
i waited by the stable-door until nick brought out the mare; oliver followed, leading a powerful black horse; and making down to the gates, he leaped to saddle. i, rejoicing at the prospect of a better mount than ever it had been my lot to ride, disdained nick’s assistance into saddle, and rode out after oliver. i had already a hope of friendship with this strong, uncouth, young kinsman of mine. i thought to find him in his disposition no more a pattern of my uncle than he resembled the gentleman in his fashion and graces. yet i feared to confide in any of the folk of the house, and i resolved to keep my own counsel until i knew more of my cousin. indeed, he gave me no opportunity for conversation. he made off at a gallop down the drive; and i had much ado to keep within sight of him. he did not ride for the gates, but swerving off to the left, he rode down through the park to the wall, where it was crumbling and broken. setting his horse to the breach, he leaped it; and i following, he led me at a gallop down towards the sea.
the joy of the morn dispelled for a time my thoughts of the gloomy house and its folk. the sun was now clear; the breeze blew sweetly from the sea; little white clouds sailed over a blue p. 173heaven. we came out of the wood into open country; we swept through green meadows and drained lands; he rode like the very devil, taking hedge and ditch; he did not pause till we were riding out through a break in the cliffs. the shingly beach of a little cove was before us; the waters rolling in and the foam scudding. i saw the white gulls wheel and dip; fishing boats were out at sea; no dwelling was in sight; the beach was all our own. oliver, dismounting, secured his bridle to a stunted tree, and silently walked down with me over the rocks to the beach; drawing apart from me to strip. i had no proper realisation of his strength till i saw him racing out into the sea—it seemed to me to break with a dangerous wash upon the beach; he splashed out with the sunlight white upon him, and the waters foaming against him; he swam far out then and rode back with the breakers. i, being accustomed only to inland waters, was nigh drowned, when i attempted to follow him; i was no more his match as swimmer than as horseman. i was dressed, and glowing with warmth and health, ere he desisted and pulled on his clothes.
“faith, cousin,” said i, “i would i had your strength and courage. had i dared swim out as you, i’d have drowned for sure.”
p. 174he nodded, not ill-pleased, and said, grinning, “i should have wagered you you’d not dare. if you’d have drowned—” but broke off and turned from me.
“you mean, if i’d have drowned,” said i, “it would have been all to the advantage of other folk?”
“what does it matter what i meant? hark’ee, cousin, while you’re in the house, whatever’s done to get you out of it, i’m not for profiting by it.”
“you mean you’re my friend.”
“i didn’t say so,” he answered heavily. “i’m saying that i’m not for profiting at your cost—d’ye understand me?” he did not face me, but stood staring seawards. i said nothing, but waited. he burst out presently, “you’ve a notion by now how old edward came by his money. if he have money? if all this talk among the rogues about him be more than the chattering of old fools? they talk of a secret store he keeps by him at the house. they talk, when they fancy none’s listening to ’em, of gold and jewels. they vow he’s hid his store in the house, and none knows where save himself. from their talk ’twas evilly come by. there’s blood upon it—every coin and gew-gaw; there’s a curse upon it; they say no man’ll ever profit p. 175by it; and every rogue among them itches to set his claws upon it, curse or no curse.” he laughed and waved his hand seawards. “we’re an ill race, we craikes,” he muttered. “we’ve been of the sea and the coasts year in, year out. the sea calls every man of us down to it—you and i’ll be sailing yet, cousin; the sea calls us and the sea has us in the end. did you hear the beat of the sea like drums through the night, cousin? did you hear the wind crying?”
“ay, as if the spirits of the dead were in it. ay, and i feared.”
he said slowly, “i’ve heard it, many a night about the old house. i’ve heard the voices growing louder. d’ye think old edward lies awake, and listens and fears? he’s near to death. he’s turned eighty years. and all the old rogues about him know him breaking and cease to fear him. he was their captain once by the strength and the will of him. he would have died at their hands but for his strength and will, and never have brought his ship and his treasure home. he’s breaking. what’s to be the end, cousin?”—he laughed savagely to himself. “d’ye think me mad, john craike?”
“no, having passed a night in the house.”
“we’re like to see the end, you and i and my p. 176father,—he has wit enough to win. but that fellow blunt.”
“a damned rogue!”
“blunt and his men of the black wasp, thrale and old mistress barwise, will see to it yet there’s wild doings at the house. she’s housekeeper, to be sure. blunt was ship’s boy with old edward. they think a treasure’s hid in the house. what d’ye think of it all?”
“think! that i’d have you for my friend, cousin?”
“you’re like to be the heir of all this,” he said, laughing. “why should i be your friend?”
“being what i think you,” i told him; “not what you’d have me think. your hand, cousin.”
he swung round, his brows scowling, his face flushed. he muttered, “d’ye mean it, john craike? after seeing me as i was last night? you’ll see me so any night of the week. you’ll see me a butt for my father. you’ll find me a cross-grained, ill-mannered fellow.”
“i think you as you are,” i answered steadily. “your hand, cousin.”
