now the event proved the truth of my assumption that mr. bradbury had about him that which he was eager to convey immediately from the house to safety, lest charles, or blunt, or any other rogues should lay their hands upon it. he feared to leave me in the house, but believing that my grandfather had a secret purpose in his insistence, he consented, thinking to return speedily with assistance.
my grandfather cried out to my uncle, as he took my candle to light mr. bradbury from the room, “you’ll not return, charles, unless i ring!”
charles, eyeing him askance, nodded, and went out with mr. bradbury.
my grandfather, looking cunningly at me, chuckled and muttered, “good lad! good lad! you’re not afraid of charles. you’ll profit by stayin’. hey, you will! we’ll have the merriest of nights of it. hark to the wind on the house. like as if the crew below were knocking. lock the door and bar it!”
i sped to the door and turned the key, and set p. 240the iron bar across it in its sockets, noting how massive was the door, and how great the lock; feeling safer then, though dreading the mad humour of my grandfather.
as i would have sat down, he called out, “find the bottle and the glasses. pour me a dram! pour yourself a dram; ’twill put heart in you.”
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 p. 241ghostly 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 p. 242death 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 p. 243muttered, “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!”
the wind came crying from the sea. again it p. 244forced 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. p. 245if 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 p. 246strong and lusting with life, or whether we’re old and breaking, we never think of ourselves as dead. because we never die!”
he mumbled on, “ay, there’s voices in the wind to-night! voices i’ve heard! i do remember a merchantman—from the east it was—and full to the decks with rich stuffs. many folks aboard. we boarded it at noon, and we sunk it at eve. none could live; there were men aboard as had known me. i remember the sunset—blood-red it was—and the seas were like blood about us. and the great cry when the ship went down; and the crying of the wind that night, as we sailed away. how the wind cries!”
i saw the sweat again upon him. i saw his brows wet, and his wet hands stained with the red gems. he gasped, “i’ve never thought to die! . . . ah, christ, that i rot in the ground and end so! . . . but to blow with the winds about the world, forever about the world—knowing no rest—no rest!”
i rose and held his glass to his lips. he drank, and for the time his courage and strength were restored to him; he gibed and mocked the crying wind, the voices that were about the house, in the house; surely now i heard sounds from below, laughter, and roaring chorus of drunken voices. no one yet sought admission to the room.
p. 247now leaning forward, plucking at my sleeve, he whispered, “you’ve been wondering why i kept you here this night?”
“surely because you loved my father, and would have me by you! will you not lie down on your bed and rest?”
“no! no! but to show you—give you—what’s mine, what’s to be yours. help me up! i’m weak! i fear the pain. bring a light, boy!”
wondering, i gave him my arm, and propped by me he made his way from the hearth to the wall beyond his chair. i saw him clutch at the tapestry and tear it aside; the cloud of dust nigh blinded me. drawing from my support, he tapped and clawed at the old oaken panels; they parted suddenly, revealing a deep recess in the stones of the wall. leaning against me, he fumbled at his breast, and took forth two slim keys on a silken ribbon strung about his neck, and groped in the recess, muttering, “the light, boy! show the light!”
and while i held the candle, i saw in the recess a little iron door built into the stone; he set a key at last in the lock, and opening the door drew out a black box. this box was deep, but of no great length; it was heavy, for he nigh dropped it when he pulled it out; he clutched it to his breast and bore it to his chair with him. he p. 248cried to me, “pull the curtain back. hide the panels! come and see!”
he sat with the black box resting on his knees; it seemed of ebony, and was bound plainly with silver. he set the key in the lock, and lifted the lid. leaning over him, i saw that the contents of the box were packed in black silk. at his word, i aided him to lift this package out, and set the box down at his feet. the silk reeked with spices; with clawing fingers he unfolded the wrapper of silk, till it draped about his knees to the hearth—a flag of black silk it seemed, wrought with a design in silver thread and ringed with silver. and suddenly the grim thing shrouded in this black silken flag, broidered with the death’s head and cross bones, lay bare to me; for he gripped between his palms a white skull. now this skull was fashioned into the form of a casket overwrought with silver, having a silver lid upon the crown, and in the sockets of the eyes two blue jewels burning to the reflection of the candles and the fire with an unholy light. the jaws were banded with silver, so that the skull resting on his palms, grinned at me, as shuddering i drew back, and dared not look upon the old man’s face and feared his laughter. lowering the skull upon his knees, he touched the silver crown of it with his p. 249fingers; the lid flew up; and instantly, at the wonder of it, i cried out, for it seemed that fire burned from the casket—a miracle of light and colour, as the flame upon the hearth and from the candles gave life to the gems within. my grandfather’s fingers seemed to dip in fire. he laughed to himself; he drew out wonderful gems; held them gorgeous and glowing on his palms; he let them fall back into the skull.
he muttered, “only a little store, only a little store,—and yet half the years of my sinning, child, are told in this odd little box. i had it fashioned to my fancy; they’re rare gems for its eyes. d’ye understand what’s hid in it? d’ye understand there’s not a man but would sell his soul for what’s in this little box? d’ye see this white stone—this big white stone? did ever the moon or the sun shine like it? was ever blood so red as this red stone, or leaf so green as this, or ever the main so blue? ay, there’s diamonds, there’s rubies, emeralds and sapphires; and there’s wonderful pearls. and thirty years and odd went to fill this box. gold and plate, and many a precious thing that was scarce safe to sell—ivory and silks and spices—ay, they’re all told in the stones of this little box. there’s been blood on these stones—many of ’em. they’ve been plucked from white necks and dead fingers—ay, many of them! p. 250charles has lost his soul for the bare tell of ’em. all my rogues are lost for the lust of ’em—barwise and thrale and the rest. knowing i held my hoard—though where ’twas hid no one knew, and feared to seek, and feared to murder me, lest where ’twas hid should never be known. ay—what’s that?”
“knocking upon the door!” i whispered, shuddering.
he closed and hid his terrible casket in the black flag, and thrust the bundle back into the box. he muttered to me, “for you! d’ye hear me? for my son’s son! set the box back; keep ye the keys”—and thrust box and keys into my hands, and whispered, “haste! haste! quiet as you go. they’re out there—mayhap all of ’em!”
loud and insistent the knocking sounded, as i sped across the room to set the box back; close the panel, and draw the hangings into place once more.
