appearance in Craike House and his inevitable hostility to me. Already, indeed, I hated my Uncle Charles, and was ardent to avenge on him my parents’ sufferings at his hands; else, I had only a natural curiosity in these kinsfolk of mine, and a lively interest in the prospect of adventure. “Rogues’ Haven”—so the country folk named Craike House; Mr. Bradbury would tell me only that the name resulted from rustic curiosity and from the eccentricities of my grandfather’s servants; the gentleman’s very reticence concerning my kinsmen, the stock from which they were sprung, and the sources of their wealth, intrigued me the more.

p. 54

Mr. Bradbury had treated me handsomely at his fine house in London; a country lad, I had enjoyed the wonders and diversions of the Town. He had put me into the hands of his tailor; so that now I was dressed, if not as fastidiously, at least with a fashion equal to his own. I had not ceased to admire my blue cloth coat, silver-buttoned and braided, or my white breeches, or to appreciate the ease of silken stockings on my legs and fine linen on my body. Now wrapped warmly in greatcoat and shawls I sat with Mr. Bradbury in his coach, driven through the night towards Craike House. We should have arrived at our destination on the second afternoon p. 55of our journey, but delayed by a cast shoe, here were we now seated still in the coach, stiff and weary; I felt my stomach sinking from the lack of a meal; and the dark was come. Ay, the night was come with a rough gale from the sea; the mud from the wet roads obscured the glass; this mattered nothing, for the night was inky black with clouds wind-driven. We were out, Mr. Bradbury told me, on a wild and lonely stretch of road, and not more than nine miles from our destination. But when the lash of rain washed clear the carriage-glass, and the light of the lamps flashed on his face, I saw him anxious and his eyes alert; I understood his concern, which I had remarked throughout our journey, over a little oaken box by his side. I had assumed that it contained documents; now that it was open on his knees, I saw that it held a pair of pistols; he was looking at the priming of them as the light allowed him. I cried out, to be heard above the roll of the wind and the rumble of the wheels, “What d’ye fear, sir? Highwaymen?”

p. 55

He cried back, “A mere precaution, Mr. Craike. I’m always cautious on these roads,—lonely and dark, and no one within hail.”

“Pray let me handle one,” I called; but he answered, smiling, “Nay, my dear sir, I’ll not trust you with ’em, if you’ll allow me. For 

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