From Margaret Playford to Caroline Playford, 16th of August, 1859.

Dear Caroline,

I will continue from where we last left off without ado. We had just invited in the old comrade of Mr Charlston, Arthur Cromsley, and led him to the place by the fire near the kitchen where the old man spent his days. George and I could not help but follow, although we kept to the shadows when entering the room to not disturb any further the equilibrium of that volatile specimen, me because the last time he saw me he mistook me for his late wife, as you would recall, and George because we were as yet unsure how his presence would be interpreted.
“Father, an old comrade of yours is here to see you,” said Anne, after arriving with Arthur at the fireside.
“John, you old fig. How are you?” said Arthur, after receiving no answer.
“Hmpf, I don’t know you,” grumbled Mr Charlston, in that way he had of speaking without showing any indication in his body or eyes that he knew the person was there.
“Sure you do, it’s your old mate Arthur.”
“Arthur… “
“That’s right. Arthur Cromsley.”
“Arthur... what was that song?”
“Song, John?”
“The song the midshipmen used to sing.”
“Oh, there were plenty John…”
“…As I was walking down… Paradise Street…”
“Oh, aye, ‘Blow The Man Down’, It’s burned into my memory that one:

As I was a walking down Paradise Street
A pretty young damsel I chanced for to meet.
She was round in the counter and bluff in the bow,
So I took in all sail and cried, ‘Way enough now.’
I hailed her in English, she answered me clear,
‘I'm from the Black Arrow bound to the Shakespeare!’"

His voice was rough and hearty but not wholly unpleasant, and the effect on Mr Charlston was significant. He closed his eyes during his comrade's singing and seemed to lose many years in age, falling back into a reverie of youth; which had the additional consequence of making him lucid for a time, if still badly tempered.
“What hearts were on that ship!” Mr Charlston mused, “‘There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me...'”
“Tennyson,” whispered George to me.
“Oh, those were men; I’d have traded my own son for any one of them.”
“Father!” cried Anne.
"Oh, its true – they knew how to roll the waves. ‘We are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven!’”
Anne was indignant, “Just now your son travels those very waves you did! He takes the path of danger around Cape Horn, when he could have been as soft as you claim him, steam boating across the Mediterranean and taking train across Egypt, but no, he follows the path you did, trying to prove to you he is worthy; that he’s as much of a man as you ever claimed to be!”
“He’ll never make it. My Telemachus. He’s always been soft. I bet he’s pampered half to death. I’d take a common man, the lowliest midshipmen...”
“The devil take your midshipman! He’s your son! What happened to your heart father!”
“It died! Don’t you remember! You had a mother once...”
“That’s no excuse for destroying yourself and everything around you!”
“Bah! You know nothing of love and loss little bird. You think you or that boy are special to me,” here he rose from his seat, eyes aflame with a strange passion, which I could only surmise was extreme grief and malice, “you think because you issued from me you mean more to me the one who grew you? I’d lose you a thousand times before I’d lose her again!”
At this most awful of statements Anne burst into tears and turned away, retreating to the shadow. I took her into my arms and comforted her best I could but she was nigh inconsolable.
George, while knowing he had best stay to stay silent and still, had grown red with anger at the injustice of what he heard and stepped forward to confront the despicable old man.
“What father could ever say such a thing?” he said righteously, “How does this prove you were once a man, when those who still love and need you are treated like flies on the corpse of your beloved?”
“Ah! The poet speaks,” growled Mr Charlston, “I’ve heard you stumbling around the house, infecting these walls with foul verses and melodies of hope. Get back to your carriage prince. This is no place for you.”
“Not until you take back what you just said to your daughter!”
I tell you Caroline, I’d never heard George speak so fiercely before! His voice sounded as if it had never had to use such a tone before, but I was proud of him for standing up to the old man.
“You think its that easy,” continued Mr Charlston, “to renounce an infinite passion? To dilute it with half-loves to unworthy sons and daughters?”
“It is your duty to love and care for your children.”
“Says a man with none of his own. How do I know? The lack of conviction in your voice. You see nothing clearly. You write poetry because you cannot see what sits right in front of you. You seek to beatify what is already the most glorious of art. You think you know love and duty. Hah!”
I was surprised and somewhat hurt to see that these words had an effect on George, indicating there may have been some truth to them for him. The old man had a way to cut to root of things most often left unsaid. I asked him later what it was that troubled him so much about but he was truthfully unable to answer, and this troubled himself even more.
After enduring what seemed like a more highfalutin conversation than he was used to, Arthur stepped into the surprising role of mediator.
“Alright now gentleman," he said, "things have been said, rough things, but I think we can just chalk it up to an ill humour.”
“An ill humour!” cried George, still incensed, but said no more in the moment out of respect for the attempt to de-escalate the wild conversation.
“Yes, I’m sure with the weather how it is we’re all feeling a bit of the old oppression on our spirits.”
“Now it’s the weather!” muttered George coming over to me, “next I’ll hear the northern lights are forcing Mrs Cruikshank to poison the stew.”
Arthur laughed, overhearing “That’s good, sir, very good. Nothing like some humor of the gallows to ease the mood. Now John,” he said leaning over Mr Charlston, who had resumed his seat, “you spoke out of turn to your daughter just now.”
“My daughter, you say. That one abandoned me and went to live with her aunt.”
“Well she’s here now, surely that means something? She’s trying John.”
“It’s too late! It’s all too late! She can cannot tend to the damned.”
“Oh, you were always such a mummer with your theatrics John. Give me some of your drink and we’ll reminisce and forget about the last thirty years, for they ain’t been pretty me either.”
Here we three of actual young blood, not two old men pretending to be, decided it was best to make our exit and let Arthur weave whatever spell he was seeking to cast over his old comrade. I was convinced it would end in more harm than good but when a conversation goes so off the rails as the one we had just taken part in any reprieve is considered a blessing.
We made our retreat to the dining room to lick our wounds, which consisted primarily of trying to stop Anne from sobbing, although trying to find the right words to counter the denouncement she received from her father proved difficult. Eventually she recovered, perhaps just through the exhaustion of grief, and I laid her to rest in her room. George and I had a small heated exchange where we wondered how deep we should let ourselves be dug into the mire of this irretrievably broken family. With the unknown factor or Arthur Cromsley being a potential threat to any lady of the house we would have liked to take Anne away, if she would have allowed it, but there was also old, loyal Mrs Cruikshank to consider who could never leave Mr Charlston lest she sentence him to a slow death of self neglect.
We therefore determined that George would stay the night, which turned out to be several nights as things only worsened as the days went on. It seems that Mt Cromsley had assembled a motley crew of vagabonds and wastrels to act as mummers in a sick play he was putting on for the sole benefit of Mr Charlston. You may be alarmed and confused at what I am saying Caroline, so I will explain.
The next day, after the argument, strange and disheveled men started appearing at the front door. At first we refused them entry as they had no grounds for hospitality but Arthur smoothly came to the door and ushered them in without any argument, in fact ignoring any argument put to him and took them straight to Mr Charlston, who, being the man of the house had final stay about who could stay within its walls. Arthur had managed to convince the so called man of the house that these men were the midshipman he spoke so wistfully of the night before, so, of course, Mr Charlston was eager for them to stay.
They then stayed up all the night carousing and singing sea shanties with Mr Charlston being designated captain and Mr Cromsley as first mate. You may think I am joking Caroline but this has been our reality for the last few days. These men have had no business with us young folk as of yet, as we have secluded ourselves away in the west wing of the manor, but I fear that something strange and sinister is brewing in the heart of Mr Cromsley and soon these men will engage in some vile activity to swindle Mr Charlston of whatever still remains of his lost fortune.
Alas, I have no way to send this letter at this time, so by the time you receive this the information contained within will be some days old but perhaps I will extend it by the time I am able to mail it so you will receive more of the story at once.

Your beleaguered cousin,
Maggie.