Roger Trewinion
by Joseph Hocking · English · Gutenberg #24976 · 520,805 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Roger Trewinion
Author: Joseph Hocking
Illustrator: Gunning King
Release date: April 2, 2008 [eBook #24976]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24976
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROGER TREWINION ***
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[Frontispiece: "She lifted her skinny arm above her head."]
ROGER TREWINION
By
JOSEPH HOCKING
_Author of "All Men are Liars" "The Scarlet Woman"_
_"A Flame of Fire" etc. etc._
_ILLUSTRATIONS BY GUNNING KING_
LONDON
WARD LOCK & CO LIMITED
1905
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
ALL MEN ARE LIARS
FIELDS OF FAIR RENOWN
ISHMAEL PENGELLY
THE STORY OF ANDREW FAIRFAX
JABEZ EASTERBROOK
THE MONK OF MAR-SARA
ZILLAH: A Romance
WEAPONS OF MYSTERY
MISTRESS NANCY MOLESWORTH
THE BIRTHRIGHT: A ROMANCE
AND SHALL TRELAWNEY DIE?
THE SCARLET WOMAN
THE PURPLE ROBE
THE MADNESS OF DAVID DARING
LEST WE FORGET
O'ER MOOR AND FEN
GREATER LOVE
ESAU
FOLLOW THE GLEAM
A FLAME OF FIRE
THE COMING OF THE KING
CONTENTS
CHAP.
PROLOGUE
I THE PROPHETIC WARNING
II THE WITCH'S WARNING
III THE MARCH OF EVENTS
IV THE WRECK ON THE "DEVIL'S TOOTH"
V THE SHAPING OF EVENTS
VI LINK TO LINK
VII THE WITCHES' CAVE
VIII THE BEGINNING OF THE END
IX OMENS OF DARKNESS
X THE GATHERING DARKNESS
XI THE CALL TO RENOUNCE
XII NIGHT
XIII A WANDERER
XIV "A HOME ON THE ROLLING DEEP"
XV THE VOICE OF THE SOUL
XVI AFTER LONG YEARS
XVII REVENGE!
XVIII HELL!
XIX TOWARDS RUTH'S GRAVE
XX "VISIT HER TOMB"
XXI THE VAULT UNDER THE COMMUNION
XXII THE VOICE OF THE DEAD
XXIII THE SHADOW OF EVIL'S REWARD
XXIV CAIN
XXV THE VOICE OF A FRIEND
XXVI THE VOICE OF GOD
XXVII WITHIN THE OLD HOME
XXVIII TREWINION'S CURSE
XXIX MOTHER AND SON
XXX THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT
XXXI TO THE RESCUE
XXXII TWO HEARTS
XXXIII THE DAWNING OF THE MORNING
EPILOGUE
ILLUSTRATIONS
"She lifted her skinny arm above her head." . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
"'Hurl him over!' said the devil within me."
"'What have 'ee got there?' he gasped."
PREFACE
When visiting my native county some time since, I was struck with the
modern, "up-to-date," aspect of men and things. In this respect
Cornwall has much changed even during the twenty years since I left it.
The quiet, old-world feeling which I can remember has gone, and instead
there is a spirit of eagerness, almost amounting to rush. I
discovered, too, that the old stories, dear to me, are forgotten. All
the old superstitions have passed away. I remember asking a man
whether there were any witches or ghosts in his vicinity. "Look," he
said, in reply, pointing at a telegraph post, "they things 'ave
destroyed boath witches and ghoasts." And yet, less than four decades
ago, when I was a child, ghosts, witches, charms, omens, and the like
were firmly believed in. Perhaps the most vivid remembrance I have of
my childhood's days, are those connected with the weird stories of the
supernatural which my mother used to tell us, as I with my brothers and
sisters sat around a roaring fire on winter evenings. I called to
mind, too, the haunted places, which I feared to pass after dark; but
on inquiring of the new generation concerning these same places, I
found an utter ignorance of their old-time reputation. Old Tommy Dain,
the famous wizard, is forgotten, while Betsey Flew, she who could
blight corn, cause milk to turn sour, and ill-wish all but the eldest
son of a family, has no part in the life of the present generation.
And yet I remember wearing, for months, a charm which old Betsey had
prepared for me, with what result I cannot tell, save that I never had
the disease from which the charm was to save me. As for curing warts,
crooked legs, weak backs, and other ailments by the means used in the
good old days--well, they are utterly forgotten. In short, Cornwall,
which even in my boyish days was the very Mecca of Folklore and
superstition, has been completely changed. The spirit of "modernity"
is everywhere, and thus the old West Country has gone, and a new West
Country has taken its place.
Whether this has been an unmixed blessing, or not, I have grave doubts;
anyhow, the Cornwall I love to think about is the Cornwall of my
boyhood, when apparitions from the spirit-land were common, when omens
and charms were firmly believed in, and when the village parson had
power to "lay a ghost," by reading the burial service a second time
over a grave, and taking great care to turn the prayer-book
"up-side-down."
Much of the story which is here offered to the public was written some
years ago, when the memory of the old time was more vivid than it is
now; and although it has been re-written, I trust I have retained in
its pages something of the atmosphere of mystery and romance for which
my native county was once so famous. Indeed, the prologue, while not
absolutely true to fact, is true in spirit. The story is not mine at
all, but was told me long years ago by those who were old when I was
but a boy, and who had no doubt of the truth of what they related. I
am afraid I have not pieced their somewhat confused narratives together
very well, although one told me by an old dame with wild eyes, and a
strong love for a "bit ov bacca," which is reproduced in the chapter
entitled "The Vault under the Communion," haunts me even yet.
JOSEPH HOCKING.
TREVANION,
WOODFORD GREEN,
_The New Year_, 1905.
PROLOGUE
I
The following story came to my knowledge under somewhat curious
circumstances:--
I had gone to Cornwall, my native county, to spend my summer vacation,
and there met with an old college chum, who asked me to accompany him
on a walking tour.
"Where?" I asked.
"Let us do the Cornish coast," he replied, "it is the finest and most
rugged coast in England. The scenery around is magnificent; there are
numberless old legends told about many of the places we shall see; and
I know that legends have always had a great attraction for you."
I must confess to a weakness for anything romantic, and was attracted
by the proposal. Accordingly, we journeyed by train and coach to the
most northern watering-place on the eastern coast of Cornwall, viz.,
Bude, and commenced our journey southward.
As this personal reminiscence is only written to tell how I came by the
remarkable history which follows, I shall say nothing of our journey
that has not a direct bearing on that history.
We had been walking some days, I need not say how many, when we saw,
standing on a rough headland, and yet some little distance from the
sea, an old house. It caught my attention the moment I first glanced
at it. Grey and lonely, it looked the residence of some misanthrope or
hermit, and its tower and battlements gave it the appearance of some
feudal castle.
"That's a strange looking old place, Will," I said to my companion.
"It is, indeed," he replied. "It looks in good repair, too. I wonder
if it's inhabited?"
"The best way to know is to go and see," I replied, and accordingly we
bent our steps thither.
As we drew nearer we saw a hollow, which looked as though it had been
scooped out by some giant's spade. In it were built two or three
cottages, and by the fact of there being some tumbled-down houses near,
we came to the conclusion that at one time a little village must have
stood there.
"What in the world have people to do or live for here?" said Will. "We
are five miles from any place that can be called a town, and there's
scarcely a house near. Everything is as weird and lonely as the
wilderness of Judea."
"I expect they live on the fish they catch, and the produce of their
little farms," I said; "but come, there's a man yonder, we'll question
him."
Accordingly we hailed him and he waited, evidently with some degree of
curiosity, until we came up.
"What's the name of this place?" asked Will.
"Trewinion," was the reply.
"Trewinion? Is it in the parish of Trewinion?"
"Iss."
"Is there a parish church anywhere near?"
"Iss."
"Where?"
"There," pointing southward.
We saw a little grey tower about half a mile away, evidently a part of
the building after which we had been inquiring.
"Are there any houses there?" we asked.
"Five."
"Whose are they?"
"Passon Teague's, Muster Yelland's, Bill Treloar's, Tom Williams's, and
Jack Jory's."
"And what's the name of yonder place?" asked Will, pointing to the old
house we had seen on the great headland.
The man looked at us curiously, and then replied:
"Trewinion Manor."
"It looks old," I said. "Is it?"
"Ould's Mathusla," was the brief reply.
"Who lives there?"
"Th' oull Sir Nick."
"Sir Nick" is the term usually applied by the Cornish people to his
Satanic Majesty. Scenting a story I eagerly inquired what he meant.
"Well, he d' live there," was the reply.
"And what does he do?"
The man shook his head gravely. "Nobody knows but hisself," was the
reply.
"But does the devil live there alone?" asked Will.
The man looked at us again, as though he wondered who we were.
"Who be you?" he said.
"We are simply out for a holiday," I replied, "and, as we were walking
along, we saw that old place, and wondering what it was, and to whom it
belonged, we thought we'd ask."
"Then you be'ant no friend or 'lation to un up there?" he said.
"None."
"Nor you wa'ant say nothin' to un ef I tell 'ee?"
"Not a word."
"Well, then, ould Squire Trewinion do live there."
"Alone?"
The man shook his head.
"Two ould servants," he said, solemnly.
"Is there anything strange about him?" I asked.
"Shud think ther es," he replied.
"What?"
"What! Why he've sold hisself to tho'ull Sir Nick, who do stick to un
like a limpet to a rock."
As this mediaeval belief has scarcely died away among the Cornish
people, I attached no importance to it, but asked in a jocular way for
what he had sold himself.
"Nobody knows," the man replied, "but he hev sould hisself, and now he
do never come out to shaw hisself nor nothin'. He wa'ant speak to
nobody, and is as ugly as sin."
"Are these Trewinions important people?" asked Will.
"'Portant!" said the man, "sh'd think they be; why oal the land round
do belong to un, and I've heerd my faather say as 'ow in th' ould days
it was the grandest plaace in oal Cornwall; but now--m--m--m!"
"Now, what?" I asked.
"Hunted!"
"Hunted! Haunted, I suppose you mean. By what?"
"Ghoasts and evil sperrits, as well as with th' oull Sir Nick."
"Do you ever go up there?"
"No; I kip away in the daytime, and as fur goin' ther after dark, I
wouldn't for a crock of gould."
We asked the man many more questions, but could get nothing much
further from him. All I could gather was that the Trewinions had been
a great people, but had fallen on evil days as the result of their own
sinning, and that the present representative of the family was a
recluse, living alone in the old Manor House, and that many curious
stories were told about him.
"Well," said Will to me, "I think we've heard enough; let us get away
from this outlandish place."
"Not until I've inquired at the place itself," I replied.
"You are mad," said he. "Evidently this old man is some strange
creature, who prefers living alone, and will no doubt think it a piece
of impudence on our part if we call. Perhaps he will set the dogs
after us."
"Nevertheless, I'm going," I replied. "If you like to remain behind,
you may do so; but I want to know the truth of this. I suspect a good
story."
"Oh, well, if you will be foolish, I'll go," said Will, "but remember
we have to walk twelve miles before we get to our resting-place
to-night."
I did not reply, but went away in the direction of Trewinion Manor,
while Will, grumbling, came on behind.
As we ascended the hill the view became wondrously grand. At least
fifteen miles of coast were to be seen, with great rugged cliffs,
hundreds of feet high, while huge rocks stood out in the sea as if
inviting the fury of the waves as they broke upon them. In winter it
must be almost terrible to live there, but now it was beautiful beyond
compare. We found, too, that the old house was somewhat sheltered, on
the one hand by the great headland which rose higher as it neared the
sea, and on the other by a thick, lofty wall. Besides this, a hill
which rose up landward broke the force of the wind, so that it was not
so exposed as I had at first thought.
There was no way of entering the grounds save by a door that was
locked. It was thick and heavy, made of oak, and iron studded.
"Evidently those within are determined to keep out intruders," I said,
as I saw the grim forbidding wall.
"I should think so," replied Will. "Now let's go on, for it's only
waste of time to stay here."
My love for the mysterious, however, was too strong to allow Will's
words to have due effect, and seeing a breach in the wall I climbed it.
I found that this enclosure had so far sheltered the grounds of the
house that a quantity of vegetation of various kinds had grown there,
and although the place was now in a very neglected condition, it must
in past years have provided for a great household. The house looked
extremely lonely, and no soul was to be seen. I confess I was taken a
little aback at this. To gain admittance did not seem either as
pleasant or as easy as at first sight. I did not like to shout. The
silence of the place, only broken by the sobbing of the waves, hundreds
of feet below, forbade it, while to knock at the old iron-studded door
was equally unseemly.
Yet I did not like to go away. My curiosity continued to increase, so
I came down from the wall and began to examine the door. To my delight
I saw fastened to a great gray rock, on which the door was partly hung,
a piece of iron at the end of a chain.
Evidently this was in some way a means of communication with the house.
I seized, and pulled it.
No sooner had I done so than I heard the clanging of a bell away up in
the old house.
"There," I said to Will, who had kept on protesting, "perhaps that is
like the bells in the old monasteries; it will frighten away all evil
spirits."
Will grumbled about my having "plenty of cheek," while I waited,
somewhat anxiously, I confess, for an answer.
Presently I heard a murmur of voices within, and then the withdrawing
of bolts. After a few seconds the door turned on its rusty hinges and
revealed two men both about fifty years of age.
"What do you want?" asked one sternly.
"I want to see Squire Trewinion," I replied boldly. I felt it would be
of no use hesitating, and although I had no earthly business there I
determined to get admittance.
"Why do you wish to see him?" was the next question.
"I will answer that to Mr. Trewinion himself," I said.
"Your names, then?"
"They are unknown to you," I replied, "and my telling them could serve
no purpose. Lead the way to your master."
They looked at us suspiciously; but seeing two young men, well dressed
and with plenty of assurance, they seemed inclined to let us in.
Consequently a minute after we stood within the walls that surrounded
this place of evil repute, the door being carefully locked behind us.
The two men, evidently servants, led the way up an unused road, by
which we reached the tower entrance. Neither spoke a word.
On coming close to Trewinion Manor we found that it was built of
granite, and had evidently been standing for hundreds of years. The
stones of the doorways were curiously carved, and even the exterior of
the place looked as though it contained a hundred secrets. It was
large, too, and must at some time have been the home of people of
wealth.
The view was wonderful. In front of us stretched the mighty Atlantic,
whose murmuring song told of the peaceful waves that now splashed on
the shore. I had seen the Atlantic in a tempest, however, and so could
easily fancy what a sight there must be when the waters beneath were
lashed into fury by great storm clouds.
Arrived at the door, our guides stopped.
"We can show you no further without permission," said the spokesman.
"I will tell the master you are here, and see if he will receive you."
Accordingly he went away, while the other stood at some little distance
watching us.
"I've caught your mystery fever," said Will. "I'm longing to get
inside now; but what excuse are you going to make for intruding?"
"I've settled that," I replied. "Our visit is an ordinary one, and I
shall tell no lies."
I had scarcely spoken when the man returned, telling us to follow him,
as his master would see us.
A minute later we stood within the silent walls of Trewinion Manor.
II
There was a cold vault-like atmosphere within the place, and as we went
along the dark corridors, every footstep sounding on the granite floor
and echoing through the great empty house, I felt like shuddering.
Outside the sun was shining and the west wind blowing, making
everything bright and glad; but within all was cold and forbidding.
Still we followed the man curiously, and I must confess I felt my heart
beat loudly against my ribs as he knocked at a dark, forbidding looking
door. I do not think I am usually nervous, but on this occasion I was
getting excited.
The knock was followed by a response.
"Come in," said a voice.
The old servant opened the door, and ushered us into a room that was on
every side lined with books. There were thousands of volumes on the
shelves. Some I saw were old and scarce, and exceedingly valuable.
Others again were new and well bound. I gave them but little attention
at the time, however, for my mind was drawn towards the lonely occupant
of the room, the master of the house.
He looked about sixty years of age, but was large-boned, tall, and
vigorous. His hair was iron grey, but had evidently been black. His
eyes were black, and his great rugged forehead was fringed with bushy
eyebrows, which gave him a somewhat fierce appearance. His nose was
large, his mouth was large, and his chin, too, was large, square, and
determined. He was no ordinary man. There was the stamp of unusual
power upon him. He was no trifler, and yet beneath his look of
determination and energy something was lacking. He seemed as though
his determination needed to be roused, his energy to be stimulated.
Yet I could see nothing in his appearance which justified the opinions
we had heard expressed about him, nor could I discover anything which
suggested a misanthrope.
He placed chairs for us both, and then politely asked what he could do
to serve us. He had a strong, deep, somewhat musical voice, and had I
not been otherwise informed, I should have regarded him as one who
often entertained visitors, so free from restraint did he seem.
"I hope you will excuse us for calling," I said, "but my story must
explain my rudeness. I follow literature as a profession, and have for
some months been engaged on a work dealing with the legends and
superstitious beliefs of Cornwall. I am, however, enjoying my vacation
now, and my friend and I are on a walking tour along the coast. Seeing
this old grey mansion, and thinking there might be some story in
connexion with its early days, I have taken the liberty of calling."
He looked at me curiously, as though he suspected me of some sinister
motive, and his black eyes glittered.
"Have you heard anything which would lead you to think this house had a
story? or have you come here out of pure speculation?" he said,
brusquely.
"I suspected there must be legends about a house as old as this," I
replied, "and a man we met some distance from here told us
that--that----"
"You need not go further," he said, grimly, "I know all the stories
that are afloat among the people who live within a few miles of the
place. You have heard that I have sold myself to the devil, and that
the house is haunted by evil spirits?"
I did not reply.
"You are bold fellows to come here," he continued, "for I am reported
to have wonderful powers, being able to call to my aid the might of the
king of darkness. But I do not know your names and so cannot talk
freely with you."
I told him our names.
"I know you both by reputation," he said. "You," turning to Will, "are
a barrister, and bidding fair to donning silk, while you," turning to
me, "are making your name known as a novelist."
"I have read your books," he continued; "and--well"--he stopped and
mused a minute, and then, pointing to the bookshelves, continued--"I
get nearly everything. Science, religion, history, travel, poetry,
romance, I see them all. That's how I know your names and professions.
I send one of my servants to Plymouth every month, and thus I get all I
need."
We soon fell to talking about books, and I found that intellectually
this Squire Trewinion was a man of more than ordinary power. We had
not conversed long however, before I saw a great change come over him.
He seemed possessed by some nervous dread, and was evidently anxious to
drop the subject of books.
Seeing this, I turned the conversation to the old house in which we
stood, and asked him the year of its erection.
"It dates from the time of Charles II," he said, "and is, perhaps, the
best built house in the whole county. And it had need to be so, for
the storms which sometimes beat upon us are terrific."
"Are there any stories or legends about it?" I said, laughingly.
He looked at me as though he would read my heart's inmost secrets, and
then burst out:
"Yes, there are stories, there are legends, there are mysteries, and
they are true."
I thought at first that he was joking, but he continued:
"Yes, there is truth in the wildest story afloat, not perhaps in the
exact way that the ignorant clowns think; but, sir----"
He stopped again for a second, as if making up his mind upon some
point. Evidently, his lonely mode of living caused him to act
differently from the conventional society man.
"We Trewinions are an old race, sir, and some of my ancestors have been
very violent," he continued.
"That is not to be wondered at," I replied. "Life here, a century ago,
must have been far different from the life of to-day, while earlier
still, when smugglers sought the caves around, and pirates sailed the
seas, it must have been almost impossible for anyone to live in such a
neighbourhood as this without leading a strange life."
"You are interested in mysterious stories and legends, are you not?" he
said.
I told him that I had almost a passion for the supernatural, the
mysterious, and the occult.
He looked at me again, long and steadily.
"I have read some things you have written," he said at length. "You
dabbled a little in the mysterious in them; but I have in my possession
a history----"
Again he stopped, and I begged him to go on, for I felt he had
something of importance to tell me.
"You said you were writing a book on the superstitions and legends of
Cornwall," he said, "and were anxious to collect anything that might be
of interest."
I told him that this was so.
At this he went to the window and looked out over the blue expanse of
the sea, after which he turned towards me, and looked steadily into my
face.
"I have a strange impulse on me," he said.
I made no answer to his words, but frankly met his gaze.
"You are an utter stranger to me in one way," he went on, "but both
your personal appearance and your writings suggest that you and I have
much in common. Besides, great God! although I live the life of a
hermit, I long at times for the companionship of a kindred soul."
I was still silent, deeming that this was the best means of obtaining
his confidence.
"It seems like pure madness," he said at length, "but, look here, would
you care to look at a manuscript, which not only contains suggestions
of one-time superstitions and customs, but something of the history of
an old Cornish family?"
"I should be more than delighted to see it," was my reply.
For a moment he muttered as if to himself, then, like a man taking a
great resolution, he turned to a large safe and unlocked it. His hand
trembled as he did so, as though he were afraid.
"I have only read the manuscript once," he said, "and I have not seen
it for twenty years. I tremble as I look for it now. You will know
why when you have read it."
He took from the safe a large parcel, wrapped in paper, on which were
written the following words:
"THE CONFESSIONS
OF
ROGER TREWINION,
OF
TREWINION MANOR,
CORNWALL.
"May the Lord have mercy upon me a miserable sinner."
"Roger Trewinion was my grandfather," said he, as he saw me looking at
the name. "My father was called Roger--I am called Roger--the last of
my race. If--ah--if--but I daren't think of that."
"And may I read these confessions?" I asked eagerly, for I longed to
get away alone and commence them.
"Yes, I am going to let you. How I dare trust you with them I don't
know, except that I've read one or two of your books, and, well I am a
man of strong impulses. It is characteristic of my race. Besides, I
feel like trusting you.
"After you've read it," he continued, "you will know why I live here as
I do; you will understand something of the web of mystery that is woven
about this place. You will see the curse that rests upon my life."
"Curse?" I said questioningly.
"When you have finished with it," he went on, without heeding my words,
"bring the old manuscript back, and I will lock it up again. Much as I
wish it had never been written, or rather, the deeds it recalls had
never been done, I would not like to lose it now, for it possesses a
strange fascination for me."
We stayed an hour longer at Trewinion Manor, not liking to decline the
hospitality which was proffered us. But I was anxious to be alone.
The story of the grandfather of the present owner of this strange place
was of paramount interest to me, and so, after many promises, many
questions and many requests, I hastened away with my precious burden
under my arm.
I remember nothing of the journey along the coast that day, except that
I was constantly hurrying Will along so that we might more quickly
reach the watering-place where our luggage had been sent, and where we
had engaged rooms.
Arrived there I went immediately to the apartment allotted to me, where
I left "the Confessions." After a hasty meal, I ordered candles and
returned to my room to read, while Will went out to see the town.
I read on all the night, nor did I cease until I had finished the
manuscript which Roger Trewinion had placed in my hands.
It is not now my purpose to tell you my impressions concerning it. The
fact that the story therein told follows this chapter bears witness to
the interest I found in it. Whether it will prove equally interesting
to the reader is not for me to say.
I have now told how I came by these confessions of Roger Trewinion, so
I need write little more concerning them.
Let it be understood, however, that my only share in the story is that
of editor and reviser. Much of it had to be re-written and much of the
dialect transposed into ordinary English. Still, the history stands
practically as I found it, and, wherever I have re-written or revised,
I have endeavoured to retain the spirit in which Roger Trewinion
originally wrote.
Of the belief and deeds of the writer, I may have a few words to say by
and bye; but my only duty at present is to lay before you the history
he wrote at a time when strange deeds were done in this western county,
and when its people were influenced and bound by strange and sometimes
cruel superstitions.
THE END OF PROLOGUE.
CHAPTER I
THE PROPHETIC WARNING
"_And the boys grew, and Esau was a cunning hunter, a man of the field;
and Jacob was a plain man, dwelling in tents. And Isaac loved Esau;
but Rebekah loved Jacob._"
What I, Roger Trewinion, am about to write is true. I tell what I have
seen, and heard, and have been.
I was born in the year of our Lord, 1750. I am now sixty years of age.
My family is an ancient one; not that I boast of it, for families
reckon as little when the terrible realities of life press heavily upon
us. Still, in mentioning the fact that my family is ancient and
honourable, I do not do so without a purpose. Events will show that it
matters not much what name we bear if the man within us be not strong
to resist temptation.
Our family included, besides myself, one son and two daughters. The
son, my brother, was called Wilfred, my two sisters, Katherine and
Elizabeth. I am the elder son, and am called Roger after my father.
Wilfred was born two years after me. Katherine and Elizabeth were
respectively four and six years younger than myself.
People always said I was a true son of my father. From my childhood I
was big, strong, and daring. I must add, too, that I was passionate
and revengeful. My brother was neither so tall nor so daring as I; but
he was, nevertheless, exceedingly strong and wiry, and although, being
the older, I was the stronger of the two, I often had difficulty in
proving myself the master. Especially was this seen when we used to
wrestle on the soft, spongy grass that grows on the headland. I could
lift him from the ground and throw him over my head, such was my
advantage in weight and strength. Yet so cunning was he, and so agile,
that he would cling around me, and twine his limbs around mine, so that
I had to be very careful or I should have been disgraced by being
thrown.
Our dispositions, too, were different. I was noisy, boisterous,
passionate and outspoken. Wilfred was quiet and thoughtful. I often
did deeds without thinking; but not so Wilfred; he weighed and
considered both his words and actions. Consequently I was ever getting
into scrapes, but Wilfred seldom or never.
I was my father's favourite. I was a sturdy young dog, he said, just
like the rest of the Trewinion race, and would be an honour to my name.
Wilfred, on the other hand, received but little notice from my father,
but was the darling of my mother's heart. My father saw little or no
fault in me and saw plenty in Wilfred. My mother saw only perfection
in Wilfred and only imperfections in me. This, I am afraid, raised a
barrier between my mother and my father, for which I was then, and am
now, truly sorry.
In spite of these differences I loved Wilfred very much. Was he not my
brother? were we not born in the same room? did not the same mother
suckle us? and did we not both bear the name of Trewinion? Wilfred,
however, did not love me so much. I think it was because he was a
little jealous of me. The jealousy came about in this way.
Maidens love strength and daring; and as I was able to do for my
sisters many thing which Wilfred was unable to do--such as scaling the
cliffs for rare plants, getting precious stones, and so forth--I was
more beloved by them than Wilfred was. Thus, as he saw Katherine and
Elizabeth ever clinging to me, and avoiding him, he would look darkly
at me, and go with his sorrows to our mother, who, in her kindness of
heart, would give him comfort and sometimes indulgences which I do not
think were always good for him.
Still, we were fairly good friends, and sometimes after I had fought a
boy for teasing him, we would be quite happy together.
I am writing these things now because I think they have a bearing on
some of the events that happened in my after life.
We were educated at the vicarage of Trewinion by the vicar, the Rev.
Thomas Polperrow. The living of Trewinion was only worth about £100
per annum, and so Mr. Polperrow was glad to augment his salary by
taking pupils. There were eight boys besides ourselves, who came from
places some three or four miles around; so we were able to have right
merry times together.
I was not a very good scholar. I found it difficult to apply myself to
any task; Wilfred, on the other hand, was the best pupil the vicar had.
At twelve years of age he was quite a Latin scholar and was great at
Euclid, and mathematics generally. This was exactly as it ought to be,
my father said, for Wilfred was to be a clergyman, and when Mr.
Polperrow died could be installed into the living. But although
Wilfred had the advantage as far as scholarship went, I had the
advantage of him in other ways. To save my life I could not conjugate
a Latin verb; but I knew every creek and cove on our rockbound coast;
and had gone into every cave that honeycombed the cliffs. This was
considered exceedingly daring on my part, by those who believed, as
many did, that these caves were the nocturnal homes of witches and dark
spirits of the dead. It was true that I did not go after dark, for the
sobbing waters of the sea wailed and made terrible noises as they swept
into the caves at night time, and it was then that I used to hear
strange cries as I stood on the top of the cliffs and listened.
I had no doubt then, nor do I doubt now, that spirits from the
invisible world do appear in such places, and what I have to relate
will fully bear out my belief. Mr. Polperrow, the vicar, has proved on
many occasions that the belief in spirits appearing on earth is
scriptural.
I had reached the age of fifteen when my father came to me as I rambled
about the great headland on which our house is built.
"This is your birthday, Roger," he said.
"Yes, father," I replied. "Thank you for the new pony. I have just
ridden over to Rosecarrow to see Tom Tremain. He goes like the wind."
"Ay, I saw you ride away. You have a firm seat, Roger. I am glad to
see you ride so well."
"Well, I ought to ride well, father, for you taught me," I replied.
"Let's see, you are fifteen to-day, Roger, are you not?"
"Yes, fifteen to-day."
"What a big lad you are. What weight are you?"
"Nearly eight score pounds, father," I replied.
"So much, eh? Well, well, the Trewinions are a big race. I weighed as
much when I was your age."
"And see what a big man you are now."
My father did not reply for a minute; then he said slowly--
"Roger, my boy, when I was fifteen my father took me into the library
and read to me something which closely affected my welfare. There is
no knowing how long I may live, and I think that what was read to me
then should be read to you now, for it applies to all the Trewinion
heirs. Come with me."
I followed my father into the house, and we entered the library
together.
"Ours is a curious race, Roger," my father began. "Our name began
strangely. God grant that it may not end with you."
"I hope it may not, father."
"Cherish the hope, my lad, for the last son of the Trewinions will die
a terrible death, haunted by evil spirits."
I shuddered.
"The Trewinion race sprang from the Trevanions," he went on. "The
mother of our people was a Trevanion, and she, while but a child in
years--for she was scarcely seventeen--married a nameless nobody, who,
fearing the wrath of her brothers, ran away like a coward as soon as
their wedding was found out. When it was known that she was going to
be a mother, Lord Trevanion built a house and sent her here with a
nurse, blessed with the gift of second sight. When the child was
born--a son--the nurse, who was held in great respect by the family,
sent for Lord Trevanion, who came, wondering at her message. Then she
told him that many things had been revealed to her on the night of the
child's birth, which she thought he ought to know.
"On being asked what she meant, she replied that messengers from the
spirit land had revealed to her that the boy was to be called Roger
Trewinion, and that he was to have certain lands in that neighbourhood,
then owned by Lord Trevanion.
"So much was he moved by the nurse's story that this manor house was
built, and the lands now belonging to it were handed over to this
child. And thus, Roger, your name and mine began to be, and thus we
own the lands belonging to Trewinion Manor."
"And what became of the mother of this child, father?" I asked eagerly.
"She lived many years with her son; lived with him, indeed, until she
died."
"And he?"
"He married a lady belonging to the Penwardle family, one of the best
families in the county."
"And so our race has lived here ever since?"
"Ever since. They dare not leave it. If, for six months at a time,
the master of the family, or the son and heir, live away from this
place, built at the command of Heaven, he brings a curse on the race of
Trewinion which shall last unto the third generation."
I felt very grave, for this was strange news to me. In my young,
careless life I had not troubled to ask the history of my family.
"There are many things I have to say on another occasion," said my
father, "but most of them can wait. One thing, however, I must tell
you. The nurse who was with the first Trewinion at his birth lived
until he was blessed with a son, then, according to the records of the
house of Trevanion, she uttered these words:"
My father here took a piece of paper from a strong box and began to
read:
Trewinion's land so rich and free,
Stretching out against the sea,
So Trewinion's name shall stand,
Like the rocks which on the sand
Defy the angry breakers' power,
While Trewinion's heir is pure.
And so Trewinion's heir and pride
A power shall be in the country side.
And his enemies one and all
Shall for ever droop and fall.
"This refers to us, father, does it not?" I said.
"It refers to me and to you; and if God gives you children it refers to
your eldest son and to his eldest son. But I have not read all yet,
Roger, my son. Pay good heed to what follows next.
But let Trewinion's heir observe
Never from the right to swerve,
If from God's pure laws he stray
Trewinion's power shall die away;
His glory given to another;
And he be crushed by younger brother.
Then his son, though born the first,
By the people shall be cursed.
And for generations three
Trewinion's name shall cursed be,
Trewinion's heir must never hate,
Never from this law abate.
Trewinion's son must e'er forgive
Or 'twill be a curse to live.
If he take unlawful ways,
Dark, indeed, shall be his days.
His loved one taken by his brother,
His power given to another,
Who will surely seal his doom,
Unless he claim the powers of wrong.
The course cannot be turned aside
While evil feeling doth abide.
--------
Let these words be ever read,
Ere Trewinion's lord be dead,
To the true and lawful heir,
And so Trewinion's blessings share.
"It seems very curious, father," I said, when he had finished. "It is
poor poetry, and has little or no meaning."
"I will say nothing about the poetry," replied my father; "no doubt it
seems to you poor, silly doggerel; but I have no doubt of this, Roger,
your interest and mine lie in abiding by what it says."
"But it seems so vague, father," I urged.
"Not so vague, Roger. Your grandfather took to unlawful ways. He kept
a smuggling vessel, which in some cases ought to have carried a black
flag, and the maiden he loved was given to another, who died of a
broken heart. For twenty years my father's life was a curse. His mind
was filled with the most horrible fancies. Dark dreams haunted his
pillow, and then, although he married my mother, he was until the day
of his death harassed by difficulties and crushed by oppressors."
"And did he die happy, father?"
My father looked very strange as I asked this question, and for a
moment did not reply. Then he said, slowly:
"Roger, my boy, I was with him at the last, and never shall I forget
the scene. It was as if a terrible dread rested upon him; and he
seemed to feel an awful presence in the room.
"'Can I do anything for you, father?' I asked.
"'Send for the parson, Roger,' said he, 'and let him give me rest, or
the curse that rests on me will rest on you.'
"It was midnight, and no one would dare to go, so I rode away alone to
the vicarage. It was an awful ride. The powers of darkness seemed to
know my object, for the elements were against me and I heard terrible
howling along the sea coast; but I feared lest the curse of the
Trewinions should fall upon me. The vicar was afraid to come when I
told him about my father; but I threatened to drag him thither by the
hair of the head if he refused. At length I got him to ride in front
of me, and we came to my father.
"Ah, Roger, his cries were fearful! 'Take away Trewinion's curse!' he
screamed, and he looked as though he saw angry spirits around him.
"The parson prayed, and, in the name of One above, commanded all evil
to depart; but for a long time no ease came. Then there was a noise
outside--three raps against the window, as though a bird had flown up
against it. The moment after the light in the room changed.
"'Do you forgive everyone?' said the vicar.
"'No,' said my father, 'I can never forgive the man who stole from me
the woman I loved.'
"'But,' said the vicar. 'Trewinion's curse cannot be removed while
unforgiveness is in your heart.'
"My father looked at the blue light on the table, and then said, 'I'll
try and say the Lord's Prayer.' He went steadily until he came to the
words, 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass
against us.'"
"'I can't say the words,' he groaned.
"'Say them with all your heart and the curse will be taken away,' said
the vicar.
"My father tried again and succeeded, and no sooner had he done so than
the light changed and a holy calm rested upon us all.
"'It's gone,' said my father. 'May God bless you, Roger, and do you
never forget the Trewinion's warning.'
"By this he meant the lines we have been reading.
"'I will never forget, father,' I said, and soon after he died happily."
My father left me then, placing in my hands the old nurse's lines. For
a long time I mused over what he had said, and wondered about my
grandfather's death-bed scene. Was it as my father had said? Was it
Trewinion's curse that rested upon him? I began to think of what the
vicar, my schoolmaster, had told us only the day before--that every sin
brought a curse, brought misery, brought remorse, and while sin or
unforgiveness was cherished in our hearts we could not realise
happiness or forgiveness. Was this the case with my grandfather, or
was my father's belief right?
The interview made a deep impression upon me, however, and a great awe
rested on me for days. I felt that as the heir of the Trewinions I was
surrounded by terrible powers, and I did not know whether they were
good or evil. So my young mind was fed, and so my imagination was
stimulated.
What was to be my future? What had the powers which took such an
interest in my race in store for me? Looking back over the years that
are gone I ask, Were the things told me superstitious fancies, or is
the Trewinion curse a reality? Remembering what has happened between
then and now, I dare not answer the question.
CHAPTER II
THE WITCH'S WARNING
_Ban._ The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, and these are
of them. Whither are they vanished?
_Macbeth._ Into the air; and what seemed corporal, melted,
As a breath of wind. Would they had stayed!
_Ban._ Were there such things here as we do speak about?
Or have we eaten up the root
That makes the reason prisoner?
_Macbeth_, Act. I, Scene 3.
Let it not be supposed that Wilfred and I ever had any quarrels, at any
rate before my fifteenth birthday. I do not remember even one. This,
however, was not my fault. Ofttimes when I was displeased I said
things which, if said to many brothers, would have provoked a quarrel;
but Wilfred apparently took no heed of my angry words; save to give me
a peculiar look, which sometimes almost made me shudder. But he never
lost his temper in return, or indulged in violent speech. This was
peculiarly trying to me, for I was passionate, and longed to give vent
to my feelings; but he would shrug his shoulders at my rage and, with a
strange smile, walk away.
Consequently, although my brother never spoke angrily to me, there were
no confidences between us. We never told each other our thoughts, as
most brothers do, and we were never companions in any escapades or
adventures. Thus I did not speak to him about the curse of the
Trewinions, nor of what my father had communicated to me about the
history of our house. Yet Wilfred seemed to know far more than I did
about everything appertaining to our people.
At first I wondered about this, but after a while I began to realise
how much my mother and Wilfred were to each other, and how often they
walked together. Besides, I often saw him in the library conning over
books that to me contained no interest whatever.
About three years after the interview with my father, that is to say,
when I was eighteen years of age and Wilfred sixteen, I had gone out on
the headland, and, in a dreamy way, was watching the sea birds as they
soared around and around, ever and anon making a dive into the water.
Up to this time I had remained a pupil of the Rev. Thomas Polperrow,
but had been told by my father that my school days were over. He
would, he said, have sent me either to Cambridge or Oxford but for the
fact that the Trewinion heir was forbidden by the laws of the family to
leave the house for six months together. In my case it did not matter
so much, as Mr. Polperrow had given me all the advantages of his
University education; and as I was not to be a man of letters like my
brother Wilfred, I had all the learning that was necessary for filling
the position of Squire of Trewinion Manor.
I was thinking of these things when my brother Wilfred came to me on to
the headland.
"It's fine to be you, Roger," he said.
"Why, Wilfred?"
"Because your cares are over. Your life will be one long holiday, you
will have everything you need, and will be the most important man in
the country side."
"Yes," I said, "and you, Wilfred, will be a great scholar. You will be
a clergyman and write books. Your name will live long after I am dead
and forgotten."
"It is false," he said. "My prospects are of the dreariest nature.
You will give me the living of Trewinion when Mr. Polperrow dies, and I
shall drone out my life on your bounty. Ah! The thought makes me mad."
"No, don't say that, Wilfred," I replied, "you will inherit the
vicarage as your right, while you know that everything I can give you I
shall. Besides, I cannot help being the eldest."
"No, no, you can help nothing, Roger; but there, although I shall be
'Wilfred, the penniless' I shall go to Oxford, and perhaps something
will turn up there for me."
"And even if nothing does turn up, Wilfred, and you have to bury your
talents down here, we shall still be brothers, and we shall still have
each other."
I said this because my heart was very tender towards him. I felt sad
that I should have so much and he so little; but he only looked
curiously at me, and a strange light played in his eyes.
He left me for a minute, and, walking to the very edge of the cliff,
stood watching the waves; then he came back to me again and I thought
his sadness was gone.
"What a long time since we've wrestled, Roger," he said; "let's have a
hitch now."
Wrestling was then, as it is to-day, the favourite sport of Cornish
youths; so I gladly took off my coat, and we began our fun. I soon
saw, however, that Wilfred did not regard it as fun. He strained every
muscle of his body in order to throw me, until I had to put forth my
whole strength. Although I was stronger and heavier than he I had not
much advantage. He was so supple and knew so many clever tricks that
he was constantly in fair way of obtaining the mastery.
The grass on which we stood was as soft as a sponge, so no harm could
befall either of us should we be thrown. At any rate, such was my
thought. So becoming a little exasperated at Wilfred's clever
strategems, I became somewhat rough, and taking him from a vantage
point I had gained I threw him down with great force.
I do not think that I hurt him very much, but as chance would have it
he fell on a rock that was concealed by the spongy turf, and when he
rose he was pale and trembling.
"You do well," he said at length, "to show your strength in such a way.
First you seek to throw me unfairly, and then you choose a rock by
which I could be hurt."
"Nay, Wilfred," I said, "I did not throw you unfairly; nor did I know
there was a rock there. They are so much hidden by the turf that it
would take a wizard to tell where they are. But I'm sorry you are
hurt; let me help you home."
He looked at me strangely again.
"Help me home?" he said; "no, I can go without help; and I tell you
this, Roger, big as you are I'm as strong as you."
This pricked my pride. "As strong as I, Wilfred, why I could throw you
over my head."
"Yes, you say that now because my arm has been hurt on this rock; but
you wouldn't dare to wrestle again if I were well."
This put me into a passion. "Not dare!" I cried. "If I daren't it
would be because I should be afraid of hurting your poor, thin body.
Name any day you like and I'll take you."
"No," he said, "I've had enough of you. Never mind, my turn will come."
I again challenged him, and said all the things I could to vex him; but
he would not reply, and giving me another of his strange looks he went
towards the house.
He had not been gone long before my temper began to cool down, and
loving my brother very much I began to blame myself a great deal. I
condemned myself for not letting him throw me. I was a coward and a
brute, I thought within myself, to hurt my younger brother, and acting
on the impulse of the moment I hurried towards the house in order to
ask his forgiveness.
I had gone about half the distance when I met an old woman who was
almost bent double with old age and rheumatism. We recognised each
other in a minute. The old woman was Deborah Teague, the terror and
yet the blessing of the whole neighbourhood. To her friends there
could be no greater comfort than Deborah. She was acquainted with
medicine that cured almost every disease save that of old age. She
knew all the healing qualities of every herb that grew in the
neighbourhood. Deborah was doctor and nurse to all the people round
about. Fever, colds, ague, rheumatics, scarlatina, jaundice, bile;
Deborah could cure them all, and a dozen diseases besides. But this
was not all. What she could not cure by her medicine she could by her
charms, for with these she was abundantly supplied. Ringworms, warts,
gout, adder's stings, whooping cough, measles, she could charm every
one of them, and what was more, no one who was a friend of Deborah's
went away uncured, if a cure were possible.
Consequently she was much thought of when her helpful qualities were
taken into consideration, but, as I said, she was feared as well as
loved, for Deborah made her enemies tremble. Not only did she possess
the power to heal, but also the power to curse. Her eye was like that
of the fabled serpent, called the basilisk, and in her anger she ever
struck terror. She could stop horses from drawing, and keep cows from
yielding their milk. For her to "ill wish" anyone was a sure sign that
ruin would befall them. Nor was this all. Everyone throughout the
whole countryside believed that Deborah had been seen walking along the
beach towards the haunted cove, and it was reported again and again
that she held intercourse with the powers of darkness. It was also
believed that other women, possessing similar power to hers, likewise
met there, and conversed about unlawful things.
She also had the power of telling fortunes and reading the future, and
thus nearly all the lads and girls in the district came to her at one
time or another for advice and help.
I had always been taught to be careful not to offend Deborah Teague,
for she had once nursed me through a serious illness, and looked on me
as a favourite.
No sooner had we come close together than she lifted her hand as if to
tell me to stop; then when I obeyed her gesture, she looked me straight
in the eyes.
"Cain and Abel," she said, mysteriously.
"No, Mrs. Teague," I replied, catching her meaning, "nothing of the
sort."
"Yer brother es gone to his mawther," she muttered. "I axed un what
was the matter, and he said you'd took advantage and hurt un."
I accordingly told Mrs. Teague what had taken place.
No sooner had I spoken than she seized my hand, and with her bony
fingers began to draw the skin together over my joints, peering
curiously all the while.
"Maaster Roger'll av to be keerful," she said.
"What do you mean?" I said.
"Maaster Roger'll av to be keerful," she repeated, in a half wheedling,
half chuckling voice. "Maaster Roger es the ouldest and the biggest,
and the strongest; but Maaster Wilfred ev got the eyes to zee."
"Oh, don't trouble, Mrs. Teague," I said; "I'm going to Wilfred now, to
tell him I'm sorry I've hurt him."
"And mark my words, Maaster Roger," she said, "when you go, oal you zay
will be took no noatice ov, but yer mawther and Maaster Wilfred 'll
look black."
"How do you know, Mrs. Teague?" I said.
"Know!" she repeated, "what do'ant I know? Tell me that!"
I looked at her and was silent.
"I'll tell ee," she cried, and then stopped. "We musn't talk here,"
she continued. "Will'ee come to th'oull Debrah's house to-night,
Maaster Roger, and I'll tell ee something for yer good? No, not
to-night; but to-morrow night at nine o'clock."
I promised her I would do so, and Deborah hobbled away. As soon as she
had gone I went straight home with a heavy heart. Although I was a
full-grown man I dreaded my mother's anger, and Deborah's words rang in
my ears. Besides, I feared that Wilfred might be prejudiced against me
and not see things in their true light.
No sooner had I entered the dining-hall than I saw my mother bathing
Wilfred's head, my father looking on gravely meanwhile. Even my
father's presence could not quell my mother's anger against me.
"You the elder brother!" she cried. "You, the heir to the Trewinions!
The name will be disgraced if you are master of the Manor. You, a
great strong monster, to punish a younger brother who is not full
grown!"
I tried to explain, but she would not allow me to do so, while Wilfred
looked at me with that strange expression which always appeared on his
face when he was not well pleased.
Shortly after, I went away with my father to whom I told my story.
"Roger," he said, when I had finished, "you must be very careful, my
lad. You will be either a blessing or a curse to your family. Future
generations will either bless your memory or they will remember your
name with loathing."
"Why," I said, "does so much depend on me?"
"Everything depends on you, Roger. You are the first-born son, and if
you turn out bad, everything will turn out bad. So, my boy, whatever
you are, or whatever you do, be truthful, be pure, and be forgiving."
"God helping me, I will, father," I replied.
Some time after we all gathered together in the library, where we
usually sat in the evening. My father made it a rule to send the
servants to bed early when we had no company, so although it was only
eight o'clock and scarcely dark he had taken down the old family Bible
in order that we might hear the Scriptures and join in prayer before
retiring. My mother sat by Wilfred, her hand locked in his, while I
sat near to my father, as was the usual custom, and we waited for the
servants to come to prayers.
Instead of all coming together, only one came, and announced that
Deborah Teague had something to tell us.
Father, in spite of all the complaints against Deborah, regarded her
with much favour, and told the servant to show her in.
The old woman came in mumbling as usual. She waited for no greeting,
and took no notice of my mother's harsh look.
"Maaster Trewinion," she said, lifting the forefinger of her skinny
right hand, "expect!"
She stood up nearly straight as she spoke, and I thought of the Jewess
prophetess whose name she bore.
"Expect!" she repeated. "Expect a stranger and expect a storm."
"What do you mean, Deborah?" asked my father kindly.
"Just that," she replied. "I ha'ant a vollied the fortins of this eer
ous for nothin', and I say expect."
"A stranger and a storm," repeated my father. "The storm would be
nothing to wonder at, the weather is so changeable, but the
stranger----"
"Es a woman," said the old crone, "and a young woman. I cud tell--but
I wa'ant."
"Could tell what?"
"Clouds, and storms, and darkness!"
"Come, tell us."
"No, Maaster Trewinion, I be'ant zackly sure, but this I zay, git yer
booats ready to help the perishin', and it may be as ow the stranger
and the storm'll be together, like."
The old woman went away at this, while father, always heedful of what
Deborah might tell him, asked me to order some men to get the strongest
and best boats in readiness.
As I went down to the village which lies in the hollow near our house,
I remembered the curious looks that passed between my mother and
Wilfred while Deborah had been talking, and then I thought of my
promise to meet Deborah at nine o'clock the next night. I wondered
whether I ought to do so or not, and as the night gathered around I
almost shuddered at the thought of meeting her alone. Had she, I asked
myself, intercourse with evil spirits? Had she given herself to the
devil for knowledge and evil power, as it was reported she had done?
I reached the village at length and went in search of the men my father
had mentioned. There was a harbour near, and as at the time of which I
write a good number of people lived in the village, most of whom
managed to do a great deal of fishing throughout the year, a number of
boats had been built.
After telling the men to make preparations for a storm, I was about to
go back to the Manor House, when the question of Deborah Teague came
into my mind again. What had she to tell me? And ought I to listen to
what she had to say?
I could not for a long time make up my mind. On the one hand was a
great curiosity as to what she had to tell me, besides an anxiety to
please the old woman; on the other I felt sure she gained her knowledge
by unlawful means.
I decided at length. I would go to the vicar that very night. It was
not late yet, only half-past eight, and daylight had barely gone.
Surely the Rev. Thomas Polperrow would settle the matter for me. If
her power were evil he could guard me against it; if it were good, then
all was well.
It was a beautiful night. The moon was nearly full, although it was
encircled by a large misty ring, which betokened a change in the
weather; but the sea was calm and bright, and shone like glass. All
along the coast I could see the misty outlines of the cliffs, while
here and there a giant rock jutted into the water.
What was that? A wail!
Was it the night cry of a sea bird telling of the foretold storm? Or
was it----stop!
A figure all in white stood near me!
I could not move. I was riveted to the place. Surely it was a
visitant from the spirit land!
Slowly it moved away. It went to the edge of the cliffs and
disappeared from my sight.
I was not so much surprised at this, for there was more than one spot
along the coast where those acquainted with the place could disappear
as if by magic. Still, my nerves were shaken. Perhaps some evil was
portended. I would rather have returned home, but I felt drawn to go
to the vicar. He could explain. He could tell me what I wanted to
know.
Does anything happen in one's life without a meaning? Is the Great
Spirit of God in every event, ever trying to warn us from evil and draw
us towards good? If so, these things of which I am now writing must be
in some way connected with the after events of my life. But I shall
not try to connect them now. All I purpose to do is to write just what
happened, so that my children and my children's children may learn
lessons from my history.
I hurried on to the vicarage, therefore, and was soon admitted to the
study, I anxious to ask Mr. Polperrow's advice, he evidently wondering
what I had to say to him.
CHAPTER III
THE MARCH OF EVENTS
"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."--_Ex._ xxii. 18.
"Then said Saul unto his servants, Seek me a woman that hath a familiar
spirit, that I may go to her and inquire of her. And his servants said
unto him, Behold there is a woman with a familiar spirit at Endor."--1
_Sam._ xxviii. 7.
"Well, Roger, and what do you wish to see me about?" asked Mr.
Polperrow as soon as we were comfortably seated.
"I am somewhat in a dilemma," I replied. "The truth is, I want to do
something which I am not sure is right, and so I have come to you about
it."
"You have done right, Roger. I hope you will always be as mindful of
your old friend. But what's the matter?"
"Do you think there are any witches living to-day?"
"Witches! Witches, why certainly, my boy; and yet I don't know
exactly----"
And the vicar broke off abruptly, as though he were exceedingly
doubtful about the matter.
"What do you mean, Mr. Polperrow?"
"I mean this, Roger. There are a great many women who have been
condemned as witches when they have simply had the gift of second
sight. During the reign of the Stuarts, hundreds were put to death as
witches and wizards, and yet I am not sure, but they were innocent
people. Don't mistake me, my boy; I'm not going against the
Scriptures. I know that witches get their power from the devil--that
is, real witches; but I verily believe that a lot of women who suffered
in the time of James I were good women, who, through their goodness,
obtained knowledge unknown to the generality of people."
"And ghosts, what about them?"
"Roger, I would rather not talk about them now." The vicar's voice was
low and husky.
I thereupon told him about my encounter with Deborah Teague and what
she had said, after which I asked him if I should go and see her.
Mr. Polperrow was some time before he answered. "I am not sure," he
said, at length, "that old Deborah deserves all that has been said
about her. She is a sensible old dame, and has searched out the
healing qualities of many of the plants growing around, and thus has
gained her reputation as a doctor; besides this, she has a curious way
of making the silly folk here do as she tells them; but beyond this I
believe a great deal of the talk is so much nonsense."
"Then you think it would be no harm going to see her?"
"Roger, my boy," said the vicar, "the world in which we live is full of
mystery, full of shadows. We cannot understand the occult forces that
everywhere exist, we cannot read the mystic writing which is everywhere
appearing on the lives of men. Before I went to college I was a firm
believer in many things which I have since discredited. Once I
believed in supernatural events, but since I have seen what can be
produced by purely natural and explainable means, I have begun to
doubt, and yet I cannot deny some things which the most superstitious
and ignorant believe."
"Then what would you advise?"
"I would go and see this old woman; perhaps she knows things, not by
any supernatural means, but by keeping her eyes open."
"But if she should possess evil power, Mr. Polperrow?"
"Read your Bible and say your prayers before you go, and in your heart
defy all that's wrong."
I went away from the vicarage with a strange feeling that my life was
surrounded by mystery, and that unseen forces were hemming me in.
What are we, after all, but the creatures of circumstance? Forces over
which we have no control make us what we are. I was born the elder son
and Wilfred the younger. I was born with a strong, healthy body, and
an impulsive, passionate nature. Wilfred was more delicate, more
thoughtful. What had we to do with the choosing of all this? Could I
help doing the things that I did? Could I resist the life-forces which
moved me, even as a mighty wave moves a ship that sails thereupon? Are
we, then, the architects of our own fate, or is our destiny fixed? Is
it man who moulds the circumstances, or circumstances that mould the
man? Who shall answer these questions? Looking back over my life I
cannot, and yet in some way I am conscious that there has been a
beneficent hand helping me, and making me strong, even stronger than
circumstances.
As I went home I thought the moon became dimmer, while sad, moaning
sounds were mixed with the musical splash of the waters, as they played
upon the hard sea sand. I slept well that night. No thought of the
figure in white haunted my pillow, no thought of my visit to the
village witch hindered my sleep. I was young, I was innocent, my blood
coursed joyfully through my veins, and the future looked bright, and so
I feared not.
The next day the sky was overcast. The sea looked smooth as glass,
save that now and then it gave a mighty heave, as if some terrific
monster beneath sought to lift a weight from his tired shoulders.
Sometimes we heard a moan sweeping across the waters; but we were
familiar with the sound, living as we did close to the broad Atlantic.
As evening came on the sky grew darker, while my mind became full of
the visit I was to make to old Deborah Teague. I made only a light
meal, and as soon as I was able to do so, went alone to her cottage.
It was a little tumble-down shanty, standing beneath a hillock, and was
as lonely a place as it was possible to be. Eighteen years of age
though I was, my heart beat faster as I thought of Deborah living alone
in a house that had the reputation of being haunted. What was I doing?
In spite of what the vicar had said, was it not wrong for me to hold
converse with the strange old woman?
But I would not go back; and so making straight for the little window,
through which I could see a candle dimly burning, I was soon face to
face with her.
"Maaster Roger was 'fraid," said the old woman, half questioningly,
half wheedlingly.
"No," I said, "I don't think so."
"The Trewinions was never 'fraid ov th' livin', my deer," said the old
woman, "but the dead, ah, the dead."
"They can do me no harm, so why should I be afraid?"
"Ah, why! ah! ha!" she giggled. "But Maaster Roger es weth wawn that
can do lots ov things."
"Oh, yes, lots, Deborah," I said; "you can cure more diseases than any
doctor in Truro."
"And more than that, Maaster Roger; but don't you be 'fraid, my deer, I
wa'ant hurt you."
"No, I don't think you will; but why have you brought me here to-night?"
"Because I want to tell ee summin, my deer. Ah, Maaster Roger, tes
terrible fur theer to be favourites in a house."
I was silent.
"They say how maaster is maaster; tedn't allays so, my deer. Missus es
maaster sometimes. They say I'm a witch, my deer, do'ant um? I read
the Bible, Maaster Roger. Iss, an ould woman like me, and theer I've
seed that Isaac loved Esau best, and 'Becca, she loved Jacob best.
Well, who got off best, my deer, hi? Iss, my deer, and they was twins,
they both had wawn mawther."
"What do you mean?"
"I main that Maaster Roger'll have to be keerful, my deer. Ah, theer's
jillusy in curious plaaces."
"I don't at all understand what you mean."
"No, but you will, my deer. Do'ee mind what I zed to 'ee 'esterday
arternoon, dedn't I tell 'ee as 'ow you'd git nothin' but black looks
for all yer explainin'?"
"Yes, I remember."
"Well, ded 'ee un. Was ould Debrah right or wrong?"
"You were right, Deborah; but then, I was in the wrong. I should not
have hurt him so."
The old woman chuckled as I spoke, as though I were trying to hoax her.
"And ef you wadn't in the wrong, they'd make ee in the wrong between
'em."
"Deborah," I said, "you must be in the wrong. You talk as though my
mother were my enemy."
"Mawther!" she repeated, "who zed she was yer mawther?"
For a minute I did not know what to say. Was she not my mother? Of
course she was. I had ever been taught to call her mother, and my
father had ever called her his wife.
"Do you know what you are talking about?" I said, excitedly.
"Knaw!" she repeated. "Knaw! Iss, and I cud tell 'ee lots ov things,
Maaster Roger, my deer."
"But what do you mean by hinting that my mother--that is--that--that
she isn't my mother at all?"
"Why es it that she've bin allays agin 'ee, hi? Why have she allays
tried to shaw that you was in the wrong and yer brother in the right?
Why es it that your eyes es black and yer hair brown and curly, while
yer brother and sisters ev got blue eyes and yella hair, tell me that,
will 'ee, my deer?"
This had never struck me before; certainly there was no likeness
between my brothers and sisters and myself.
"B--but," I stammered.
"No buts, my deer, I be'ant goin' to tell 'ee nothin' more, though ould
Debrah do knaw lots ov things. There's no time, now, you've got other
things to do, and a terrible lot to go through as soon as you git away.
Hark, do 'ee 'ear that?"
It was the sound of the breakers upon the rugged rocks and hard sea
sand, while the wind blew and moaned dismally.
"Dedn't ould Debrah tell 'ee ov a storm? Well, tes come, and, Roger,
yer dark days es comin' on."
"But what did you mean by telling me to come here to hear what I have?
I am sure of nothing."
"Main! I main this. Maaster Roger'll have to bee keerful of the woman
he do call mawther. Watch her every day and watch Maaster Wilfred,
too. Hark, do 'ee 'ear that?"
I heard nothing but the roar of the rising storm.
"I can hear nothing but the wind," I said.
"But I can, I can," she said. "I can hear the screech ov the
sufferin'; oa tes wisht, terrible wisht, Maaster Roger, but tes yer
fate, my deer. I'll tell 'ee more another time, but you must go now,
go and help em, you father wants 'ee go, and be keerful of they I've
tould 'ee about."
She pushed me out as I spoke, all the time looking around as though she
saw sights unseen by me.
"You'll want oal yer strength and oal yer courage, my deer, oa tes
terrible. May Roger be protected; but oa, if 'ee saves her 'ee 'll
have to suffer."
Wondering at her words, I rushed out into the wild night, and had
scarcely done so before I saw a dark form rise from under the window in
the cottage, and hurry away right in the teeth of the wind. I started
and followed, but whoever he might be, he was more fleet than I. The
night was dark because of the storm, but the figure looked like that of
my brother Wilfred.
Full of conflicting thoughts, I hurried home, where I found my father
dressed as if to go out.
"What's the matter, father?" I asked.
"There's a vessel round the point, Roger, and she's signalled for help."
"Let me go with you. Is it a large one?"
"No, and I am afraid that my friend's child is in her."
"What child?"
"Did you see that horseman this morning, Roger?"
"Yes, father."
"He came to tell me that an old friend was dead, and that in his last
hours he had expressed a wish that I should take care of his child."
"Yes, father; what then?"
"She started to come here by boat, and should have arrived in our
little landing-place by this. Hark! that's another signal for help.
Come, Roger; where's Wilfred."
"Wilfred cannot help on such a night as this, especially as his brother
hurt him so yesterday," said my mother, who had just come into the room.
"Come, let us go alone, then, Roger," said my father.
We hurried down to the little harbour, where a dozen hardy Cornishmen
were preparing to launch a boat on the angry sea.
"Not gone yet, men?" said my father.
"No, Maaster Trewinion, and ted'n no good. We should be knocked to
pieces in two minutes," said one.
"But we're goin' to have a try," said another.
It was, indeed, a dangerous undertaking. The seas were now rising up
like great hills and again falling into deep valleys. It seemed
impossible for a boat to live.
"We ca'ant do no good," said the first speaker.
"But they've signalled for help," said the second, "and I ca'ant stand
that!"
As he spoke we heard a sound like a crack of a musket, which faintly
reached us above the roar of wind and wave.
"We'll man the biggest boat somehow," said my father. "Come here,
everyone; who will go with Roger and me?"
To the honour of the brave Cornish boys, a crew was ready in a minute.
We jumped into the boat and soon were out in the boiling surf.
"Hold your oars firmly," cried my father, "now, then, pull while you
may, the storm is rising every minute."
Bravely those noble lads strained and tugged; but it was terrible work.
We were tossed about as though the boat in which we sat were a chip or
a bit of cork.
For a minute no word was spoken. Every man breathed hard, and laboured
with all his strength, while my father watched, grasping the rudder in
his hand. Time after time I thought we should have been thrown into
the sea, but luckily we caught no side winds.
Presently we heard my father's deep voice:
"I see her," he cried. "My God, she's going straight upon the 'Devil's
Tooth.'"
The "Devil's Tooth" was one of the most dangerous rocks on the coast.
It was called "devil's tooth" because it was thought to possess evil
power, and because it had been the means of wrecking many vessels as
they tried to get into our harbour.
He had scarcely spoken when we heard a most awful crash. It was far
louder than the roar of the storm, and immediately afterwards we
fancied we caught the cry of people in distress.
"There, it's on! Pull!" cried my father, "we may reach them yet. God
help and preserve us all."
Every man pulled with all his might towards the great rock with the
terrible name.
"The great God will help us," said one solemnly.
"Amen," cried the rest; "but this is terrible."
Meanwhile, inch by inch, we drew nearer to the doomed vessel.
CHAPTER IV
THE WRECK ON THE "DEVIL'S TOOTH."
At the best of times the rock called the "Devil's Tooth" was by no
means beautiful. It stood with five points towering into the air like
the prongs of a great tooth, and at its feet were scores of smaller
rocks, mostly hidden by the water.
Strange stories have been told about it. Some have said that on stormy
nights emissaries of Satan sit there, and lure vessels on to
destruction; but at the time I had no thought for such stories. The
terrible crash of the vessel was still echoing in my ears, and, in my
fancy, I heard above the howling of the storm the shrieks of the
perishing.
We could not see much. The moon was full, but had been hidden by the
clouds. Only by the light of the storm, which was nearly darkness,
could we perceive anything. I know that my words are almost
paradoxical, but I can express my meaning in no better way. Still, our
eyes were accustomed to the darkness of a storm, and thus both my
father and I had some idea of what we were doing.
Slowly we made our way. Carefully my father sought to evade
unnecessary danger.
It was terrible work. Now we were lifted on the pinnacle of a wave,
and again we sank deep in dark gulfs, until I thought we should never
rise again. But every man was strong and hardy, every man had braved a
dozen storms, and so we struggled on.
But for my father's thorough knowledge of the coast we must have
perished. With his knowledge there was hope. Suddenly we found
ourselves in comparatively smooth water and out of the beat of the
wind. We had shot into the "lew" (sheltered) side of the rock, and
were able for a moment to rest.
"She is just around the point," said my father.
"Iss, Maaster Trewinion," was the reply.
"The question is, How can we get to them?" said my father. "If we try
to get our boat around there it means death for all of us. The only
means of saving the poor souls, if they are not all gone already, is
for us to scale the rock here and make our way to those on board. Then
they might be brought here one by one."
"You see'd her break on the rock didn' 'ee, Maaster Trewinion?" said
one.
"Yes," replied my father, "she broke close against the long prong."
"Then ef she edn't gone to pieces there may be hope," replied the man;
"but who can climb up here?"
"Two will be enough," said my father; "who'll go first?"
"Let me," said I.
"Not yet, Roger," said my father.
Two others immediately volunteered, and started to climb, but the rock
was slippery, and there was only one way by which the top could be
reached.
They failed in their attempt.
"Tie a rope round my waist, father," I cried. "I've climbed it many
times and know the way."
"Go, then, Roger, my boy, and may God preserve you."
It was only because of my boyish freaks that I knew the easiest way to
reach the summit of the rock. One day I had laid a wager with Wilfred
that I could climb to its summit, and so I had carefully examined it
when the tide was low, and after once climbing it, I had often gone
thither to hunt for the nests of sea-birds.
All my knowledge was necessary now. The stones were slippery as glass,
and I had to feel carefully for the jutting rocks in order to get from
one point to another. A false step, a bit of crumbling rock, a slip of
the hand would have destroyed our hopes, and perhaps have maimed me for
life, if not killed me. Providence, however, was in my favour. After
many a strain and many a struggle I reached the top.
I shall never forget the sight that met me. Even in the hour of death
I think I shall remember the terrible scene. Holding fast by a rugged
peak I could in the stormlight dimly see the five huge prongs of the
"Devil's Tooth," grim and ghastly; while upon them broke the great
black waves!
How the breakers roared! How the wind howled as it beat upon the great
rock on which I stood! Whenever the waves receded I could see the
white foam all round, while the spray beat pitilessly upon me. I had
never seen the like before. It is an awful thing to watch a storm from
the shore; but to stand in the midst of it, to hear it all round you,
is more awful!
I heard a shout from beneath. "Do you see the wreck?" was the query.
I looked in the direction of the long prong and saw the outline of the
vessel.
"Yes," I replied, "but I shall want help to get to her. There! I've
fastened the rope to a rock, let Bill Tregargus come up."
Instantly, by the tugging of the rope, I knew that some one was coming,
and a little later the giant form of Bill Tregargus was beside me.
We made our way to the wreck, and as we drew nearer I was sure I saw
people clinging to the half broken mast. Nearer and nearer we came,
and then, to our joy, we saw that two men had got from the vessel and
were now trying to scale the rock.
"There's hope yet, Bill," I said. "Have you brought the rope with you?"
"Part on't, Maaster Roger, and part I tied to the rock."
I shouted as loud as I could, but I was unable to make them hear. The
thunder of the storm made my little shout of no avail. I called to the
people on the vessel, but there was no response.
Meanwhile the waves swept over the doomed vessel, and roared along the
cruel rocks. There seemed but little chance of our rendering help.
Even we, sheltered as we were by the great prongs of the rock, found it
difficult to stand.
I took the rope from Bill, and, holding one end in my hand, I threw it
straight to the men, who I could see were struggling below. The effort
succeeded. It was immediately caught, and soon we got a man on the top
of the rock.
"Many on board?" I asked.
"Twelve," he gasped.
"Can you make the other one tell the crew to do as you have done?"
We looked again, seeking for the best method to signal, and to our
delight saw that those on the vessel realised that help was come. In
the dim light I could see that they were leaving the vessel.
It was only a question of time. One by one, we pulled them up, some
bruised and beaten, but still hopeful, others gasping for life, and
others again dazed and faint.
We asked no questions; it was our work to save them first and question
them afterwards; and so, one after another, man by man, they reached
the summit of the rock.
At length we came to the last man. He was getting old and stiff. Even
in the night I could see that he was bent and weak.
"Are you all here?" I asked, when he had reached the top.
The old man who had last come up looked around him, and then cried out:
"But where is Miss Ruth?"
"Miss Ruth?" gasped two or three; "is she not here?"
"No woman has come up," I replied.
"Then Miss Ruth is still on the vessel," cried the old man. "Wretch,
wretch, that I am to leave her."
"But she left the vessel," replied another; "why, Tom Poltewan said he
was going to help her down."
"She said she must get something from the cabin," said another, "and I
didn't see her. I thought Mr. Inch would be sure to take care of her."
Then followed a confusion of tongues, and in the storm I did not
distinguish what was said. Evidently in the great anxiety to escape
death a woman had been overlooked. But she must be rescued. The work
which had been begun must be completed. Surely God who had helped us
thus far would not desert us now?
What was to be done, however, had to be done quickly. The vessel had
struck on a great rock, the billows were sweeping over her, and she
might go to pieces any minute. The storm, although it had not yet
reached its full height, was rapidly rising, the wind blew louder and
louder, until we could scarcely hear each other speak. The men we had
saved were battered and bruised and nearly unconscious. As I think of
it now it is a wonder to me that they escaped death.
I tied the rope round my waist, and then asked Bill to lower me down by
the slippery rock. At first he objected to this, but I insisted, and
soon stood upon a broad flat ledge which was close to the wreck.
My object now was to get upon the vessel, but that was not easy of
accomplishment; the great breakers were constantly sweeping over the
vessel, and I began to despair of rendering assistance. I determined
to try, however, and after many vain attempts, reached the deck. To
look for anyone there was madness. No woman could stay in such a
place. Either she had been swept away or she must be down below. In
spite of storm and darkness I found my way there. The vessel was half
full of water, and I felt that it would be worse than useless to
attempt to find anyone in the darkness. Just then I heard a cry for
help.
I cannot describe what followed. I have a dim recollection of grasping
a cold hand, of struggling to the deck, of holding fast by the broken
mast, and of a terrible wave that swept me quite away. After that all
was oblivion.
When I woke to consciousness I was in my own bed, with my father and
Deborah Teague sitting near me. At first everything seemed hazy, then
things became more real, until all the events of the storm flashed
before my mind.
"How did I come here?" I asked.
"God helped us to save you, Roger, my boy," said my father.
"How?" I asked, faintly.
"I got impatient of your being away so long, and so one of the other
lads succeeded in getting on the rock, while I, wanting to be near you,
followed him. I got to the long prong in time to see you swept off the
deck."
"And then, father?"
"Then I went down to the broad ledge and found you both unconscious.
You had been stunned by the awful force with which you were hurled on
the rock."
"And she, father, the--the--one who was with me?"
"We got you both in the boat after awhile. God only knows the
difficulty we had, for the storm rose every minute. Had the rock been
further out at sea I don't think we could have weathered it; but the
gridiron point broke the force of the wind just a little!"
"And is she well, father?"
"A great deal bruised, my boy, and very weak, but she'll recover."
"Who is she?" I asked after being silent for a few moments.
"Her name is Ruth Morton; she is my old friend's only child," answered
my father, slowly.
I turned on my pillow wearily. I was tired and sore, and wanted rest.
"That's right," said my father, "go to sleep again, I'll send the
doctor to you, and he, together with Mrs. Teague, will soon make you
well."
He left the room as he spoke. Deborah looked keenly at me.
"You'll soon git well, Maaster Roger," she said presently.
"I think I shall," I replied, "I am far from dead yet."
"Iss, iss," she repeated, "you'll soon git well, Maaster Roger, but old
Deborah was right. The storm and the stranger comed together, ded'n
um?"
I did not answer.
"Maaster Roger must be of good heart," she continued, "for he ain't a
seed the end of this ere matter yet."
I asked her to explain herself, but she would not. She sat silently by
my bedside until the doctor came and gave me a sleeping draught, after
which I remembered nothing for a long while.
I lay in my bed for more than a week. During that time my mother came
to see me twice, while Wilfred came only once. Evidently they did not
care much about my recovery. I was grieved at this, for in my heart I
loved them sincerely. My father told me, however, that Ruth Morton was
recovering, and was anxiously looking forward to the time when she
would be able to see me, and thank me for what I had done. In spite of
this, however, I did not ask many questions about her, and when, after
some days, I was pronounced well enough to see her, I cannot say I
looked forward with any pleasure to our meeting. Perhaps the reason
for this was that I hated to be thanked, or perhaps it was that I did
not like talking to girls, but be that as it may I was in no happy
frame of mind when my father led me to the room where she sat. I
remember that my blood rushed to my face as for the first time I saw
the one I had probably saved from death.
Perhaps my sadness foreboded the dark days that came afterwards.
CHAPTER V
THE SHAPING OF EVENTS
The brave man is not he who feels no fear;
For that were stupid and irrational;
But he whose noble soul its fear subdues
And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.
--_Joanna Baillie._
Ruth Morton was fourteen years of age, but looked far younger. To me
she appeared only a child of twelve. She was diminutive in stature,
and had an innocent childish face. I did not think her beautiful, and
yet I remember that her face was pleasing. I remember, too, that her
mouth looked very sensitive, and was indicative of a gentle nature; but
what struck me most were her eyes. They were large and grey, and
seemed to contain a world of meaning. Her hair was dark brown and fell
in heavy masses on her shoulders.
She looked at me curiously, as if striving to read my character, and
when my father mentioned my name she timidly held out her little hand.
"You must be friends," said he; "indeed, you must be brother and
sister, and I shall look to you, Roger, to take care of her."
I scarcely know now what I answered, but I daresay it was little to the
point. During the next few minutes I was very uncomfortable, for she
tried to thank me for saving her life.
As soon as I could I led her to talk of other matters, chiefly because
I knew not what to say or how to act.
By and by she spoke of her father's death, and what she felt when she
was informed she must leave her home and come to Trewinion Manor. She
told me, also, of her desire to come by boat, and how Mr. Inch, an old
trusted servant, had arranged to get a crew together, and how they had
sailed along in sight of the giant cliffs.
She had a sweet, childish voice, and talked in a way that was quite
fascinating. By and by, as she told how the storm came on suddenly, of
the dread feelings she had as she saw the waves rise higher and higher,
and how she lost hope when the little vessel with an awful crash was
swept upon the great rock, I could fancy myself again out on the angry
sea.
In a little while my father left us, and then I wished I were again
back in my room, for I knew not how to talk. She, too, seemed ill at
ease.
"I'm sorry you and your brother are not better friends," she said,
after we had been silent a few seconds.
I was surprised at this, and wondered who could have have been talking
to her.
"Have you seen Wilfred?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, I have seen him twice. He came yesterday, and again to-day.
Your mother was here, too."
"I am glad they have been to see you," I replied, "but I did not know
that Wilfred and I were not friendly."
She looked at me, I thought, suspiciously, as though she doubted my
words, but did not speak.
Had my mother and Wilfred, I wondered, been saying evil things about
me. I hoped not, and yet it might be. Certainly, their conduct
towards me had been strange. I would not talk of this, however, and so
asked her if she liked my sisters.
"Very much," she replied. "They have been with me every day; and the
first two days when I was ill they were with me nearly all the time. I
think, I see them coming now."
As she spoke Katherine and Elizabeth entered the room. They were
bright, buxom maidens, well-grown and healthy. The latter, though two
years younger was quite as well grown as the stranger who had come to
live amongst us. Yet there was a difference. Ruth Morton possessed a
dignity and a grace which were foreign to both my sisters. Children
they all were, pretty they all were, yet the beauty of Ruth Morton was
of a different nature. She had been cast in another mould, and thus
presented a contrast to my sisters.
I was a great favourite both with Katherine and Elizabeth; but I did
not stay with them. Stiff and weak as I was I found my way back to my
room, where, throwing myself on the bed, I tried to rest.
I knew nothing whatever of the arrangements that had been made about
Ruth staying with us, except that Mr. Inch, the old servant, was to
remain, that the crew had been sent back to Penwingle, and that the
steward was taking care of the Morton estate. I took no interest in
the matter, however. From all I could gather her mind had been
prejudiced against me, and there was a look of satisfaction on her face
when I left her. She was as transparent as the day, so I had no
difficulty in seeing that in spite of my having risked my life to save
her, she had a bad opinion of me. Well, it did not matter much; in a
few years she would be of age and would return then to her old home.
I had banished all unpleasant thoughts from my mind when the door
opened and Wilfred entered.
"Well, Roger," he said, "getting better?"
"First rate, Wilfred," I replied.
"Lucky, as usual," he said.
"How?"
"Why, in the first instance, you were privileged to save Ruth Morton's
life, and secondly, you are the hero of the neighbourhood for miles
around. The talk of the whole countryside is the bravery and daring of
Roger Trewinion."
This was said bitterly I thought, but I was not sure. Wilfred had
sometimes a way of talking which entirely hid his real feelings and
meaning.
"I don't know," he went on, "if the parson isn't going to preach a
special sermon next Sunday, when his subject will be 'Roger Trewinion's
Bravery and the Mercy of Providence.'"
He spoke mockingly, and I began to think that something had displeased
him. I was not sure of this however, so merely said that I hoped
nothing of the sort would be done.
"Oh, but I hope it will," he said. "Why, the people are saying that
you jumped from the top of the highest prong of the 'Devil's Tooth' on
to the wreck, that you waded through water several feet deep, and that
just when you had carried little Ruth on the deck the vessel broke in
pieces, upon which you plunged into the sea and carried her ashore. I
had no idea I had such a brother."
He laughed jeeringly.
His manner of speaking made me feel that if Wilfred had ever possessed
any love for me it was becoming embittered.
"Have you seen Ruth?" he went on.
"Yes, I saw her to-day."
"Father introduced you to her, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"And no doubt she was exceedingly anxious to glorify the hero who saved
her."
"No, I don't think she was, but I did not stay long with her. I fancy
she doesn't like me."
"No?" he said, questioningly. "I wonder at that, for she seems to like
me a great deal; indeed, we are great friends."
"I am glad to hear it," I replied, "for somehow I can't be friendly
with strange girls."
"No," he said, "I don't think you are cut out for a girl's friend, and
you are not the kind of fellow a girl would like."
There is something in every man's heart which causes him to feel hurt
when he hears another say something about him that he would have no
hesitation in saying about himself. I had said many times that I was
not a lad whom girls liked, and yet when Wilfred said it I was annoyed.
"After all, it's right," he went on. "It is not fair that you should
have everything and I, nothing. You have the Trewinion name, its
houses, its lands, and its blessings, while I have nothing but my
brains, and people's love."
"There are curses in connexion with Trewinion's heir as well as
blessings," I said. "I am fettered on every hand."
"Curses," he sneered; "all old wives' tales. I wonder at you thinking
about them. Were I the eldest son I would throw all that to the wind,
I would see the world; I would enjoy myself, and spend some of the
hoarded gold of generations."
He looked at me closely as he said this, and I began to feel that
perhaps the old stories were foolishness. All my father had told me
seemed real in the night time, but in daylight it was shadowy and
unreal.
"Do you know about these stories?" I said.
"Yes."
"How?"
He looked a little confused, and then said, hurriedly:
"Oh, I have read the history of our house, and have hunted up the
family documents. You see, while you have been climbing the 'Devil's
Tooth' I have been grinding away at the story of the devil's curses.
But, bah, Roger, what are curses to you? Surely, you can laugh at them
all."
Throughout the conversation I felt that he had some purpose in his
talk. It seemed as though he were sifting me and seeking to read my
thoughts, and so I was silent.
"Do you know anything about little Ruth's family?" he went on.
"No," I replied.
"Her father owned miles of land," he said, "and it is all left to her.
Your estate, Roger, is but a patch on hers. Morton Hall, too, is about
twice as big as this house. Eh, but you were lucky to save her life."
Looking back after a long lapse of years I feel that this is not the
natural talk of a boy of sixteen, and as I write, I ask myself whether
I have not incorrectly recorded our conversation. It is true I only
write from memory; nevertheless, I think I have faithfully described
what was said. Really, Wilfred was never a true boy. He was always
older than I, though born two years later, and when quite a child he
had an old-fashioned way of speaking. The villagers were in the habit
of saying that Wilfred had the brains of the family, while I had the
heart. Anyhow, he could always outwit me, and if ever we were matched
against each other, I, in the long run, always came off second best.
A few days later I was able to be out again, and once more lived my
old, free, untrammelled life. My father and I still continued friends
and companions; but Wilfred was little with me. I noticed, however,
that he was always anxious to please me. He ceased to sneer when
speaking of me, and I thought he looked sad and downhearted. This made
me gentle and forbearing towards him; so much so, that I often went out
of my way to help him.
I often thought of old Deborah Teague's words as to whether he were or
were not my brother; but I could find no answer to my questionings.
That we both had the same father I did not doubt; but was his mother my
mother? Was that tall, stately woman who always treated me so coldly
really and truly my mother? I asked old Deborah again and again, but
my father I dared not ask.
My mother's demeanour to me was always the same. I never had a
mother's cares, never realised a mother's love, and so I could do no
other than to watch, even as old Deborah told me to watch.
Ruth Morton and I did not become friendly. Evidently she did not like
me. I noticed that she looked at me furtively, and would never be
alone with me by choice. I could not help feeling that in some way her
mind had been poisoned concerning me, and I was not long in deciding
who was the poisoner.
It is true that I did not try to win her liking.
I felt it rather hard that she should treat me so harshly, and so I
never forced my company upon her.
This state of things existed for nearly two years. Wilfred was
friendly, and, evidently, beloved by her, but I was disliked. Often my
brother took her and my sisters for long walks, but I never did. I was
busy on my father's estate and learning the secrets of agriculture,
while he in the hours not devoted to study would be away with them, and
became, I thought, more than ever a favourite with Ruth and my sisters.
During these two years I had become quite a man in stature, while
Wilfred had likewise grown to be a tall, handsome fellow. I remember
that all this time my mother encouraged the growing friendship of Ruth
and Wilfred, and seemed delighted when she noticed her evident dislike
for me.
I was now twenty. Wilfred was more than eighteen, Ruth was sixteen,
and had grown quite a young woman. Katherine, too, who was the same
age, had become a splendid example of a healthy, happy, country girl,
while Elizabeth promised to become the beauty of the family.
At this time an event happened which made us better friends.
One afternoon I was sitting on the great headland overlooking the sea.
It was a glorious day. The sky was clear, the sun was shining
brightly, and the bright waves beneath were laughing and playing in the
light of the sun. To me, as I sat there, the great sea was singing a
wondrous song, full of a rich, rare music, which touched the deepest
feelings of my nature. I had not heard much in my life about religion,
and I am afraid I had not thought much about God, but as I sat there
that day, a great rock above me and hundreds of feet of cliff beneath,
while the sea chanted a song which the tones of a thousand organs could
not reproduce, I felt a longing in my heart to serve my Maker and to do
my duty while here below such as I had never felt before.
While I sat there I heard voices above me. Someone was standing on the
great rock in a crevice of which I sat.
"Let's ask Roger to go with us?" said a voice.
I recognised it in a second as my sister Katherine's and I waited for
the answer.
"No," I heard Wilfred say, "he hates girls; besides, he'll be as ugly
as a bear with a sore head."
"That's not fair, Wilfred," said Katherine. "Roger does not hate us,
and as for his being ugly, you know he's not."
"Well, we can't find him, anyhow," said Wilfred, "so let us go."
I must confess I felt angered by this, for I should have liked to
accompany them. I strove to banish my brother's unkind words from my
mind, however, and again tried to listen to the music of the sea; but
it was all driven from my heart. For I have learnt this is truth: we
must have music within us if we are to realise music in anything
without.
I could not sit there long. My brother's words began to burn and
sting; I would go for a walk, too.
I had not gone far when I saw someone running towards me. It was
Wilfred.
"Help, Roger!" he shouted.
"What's the matter?" I said.
"Ruth has fallen down the cliff!"
"Fallen down the cliff! where?"
"Up here. Come with me."
We started running together and quickly came to a place where Elizabeth
was weeping bitterly, while Katherine was descending the steep
declivity as if to try and render help.
"Where is she?" I said excitedly. "And how did she get where she is?"
"She wanted a plant," cried Wilfred. "I told her it was not to be
obtained, or I would get it; but she would not listen to me, and said
she would fetch it herself. She went down a little way all right, but
when she reached out her hand for the plant she slipped and fell."
"Fell! Fell where?" I asked, excitedly.
"To a ledge a few feet below."
"Did you see her?"
"Yes."
"And did you not try to reach her?"
"Why, how could I do anything? I could only go for help."
It is true Wilfred was younger than I, but I thought this conduct
cowardly. He seemed to fear for himself, and dared not risk his own
limbs. Katherine, on the other hand, though but a girl of sixteen, was
trying to rescue her friend.
I quickly scrambled down the declivity, and was not long in reaching
the point from which Ruth fell. Katherine was here also, but she could
go no farther, for the ledge beneath, although only about eight or nine
feet down, was narrow, and to fall from there meant certain death. The
mystery was how Ruth had fallen on to this ledge, and for a time I was
afraid she had been precipitated on the rugged rocks beneath. I heard
a moan, however, and saw a bit of her white dress, so my mind was
comparatively at ease.
I sent Katherine back, and told her to run for a rope, as it might be
necessary, and then prepared to reach the narrow rock on which Ruth lay.
"Keep a good heart, Ruth," I said; "I am coming to help you."
There was no reply, but I still struggled to get to her. Time after
time I essayed to reach her, and time after time I failed. I climbed
around and around, and from different points tried to get a footing on
the rock where she lay, but in vain. It was isolated, and was at least
nine feet from any point above it, and nearly as many from any standing
place on the same level.
There was only one way by which she could be reached, and that was by
gaining a rock nearly on the same level, and then leaping over the
chasm that lay between. This I determined to do, for how could I do
less? Ruth was lying like one dead, and if I did not help her who
could? I got on the point after some difficulty, and then found that I
was in nearly as much danger as she. I had jumped down to this jutting
rock, but I could not jump up again; the distance was too great. Could
I get on the rock where she lay there seemed a possibility to get down,
for the cliff looked slanting from that point.
Beneath me were two hundred feet of rugged cliff, and if I failed to
reach Ruth I should fall from point to point on the rocks beneath and
be killed.
I took off my coat and prepared to leap.
At this moment she awoke to consciousness and looked around her, and
seeing her position she gave a scream of affright.
"Don't move," I said, "I'm going to save you."
Her eager eyes gave me strength and courage. I disencumbered myself of
everything that would hinder me and placed my feet in the best position
for a leap.
By this time I began to be excited. The sound of the sea seemed cruel,
while the rocks looked like so many giant gaunt spectres that would
lure me to destruction. There was no time for wild fancyings, however,
so I nerved myself for what lay before me.
Then I took the leap.
CHAPTER VI
LINK TO LINK
I shall never forget the feeling which possessed me when I made this
terrible leap. If my foot should slip, if I should fall short, if I
should fall and be dashed to pieces! It was only a second; but I
seemed to live a whole lifetime in that second. I landed safely,
however, and was soon by Ruth's side.
To my delight she was scarcely hurt at all, except that she had
received a shock. She was trembling violently, but she was a brave
little thing, and as soon as I came she conquered her weakness.
"Can we get away from here, Roger?" she said, at length.
"I think so," I replied. "If we can't get down from here they will get
us a rope, which I will fasten around you, so that you may be easily
drawn up."
"Oh, I do not think I dare be drawn up," she said, with a shudder.
"Can we not get down? I dare try with you to help me."
I examined the rocks, and decided to make the attempt. It was a long
and tedious journey, especially as I had to clamber from rock to rock,
and then lift Ruth. We managed it, however, and after a time stood
safely on the hard beach.
No sooner had we done so than I heard my father's voice above. He had
come with a rope and other means by which we might be helped; but right
glad was he when he saw that we were not needing his help.
"The tide is out," I shouted in answer to his query as to how we should
get home, "and I shall walk down to Trewinion Cove, and thus escape
climbing any cliffs."
We started together.
"This is the second time you have saved my life, Roger," Ruth said.
"Do you think so?" I answered. "You might have got on all right
without me."
"I do not think I have been just to you," she went on.
"How?" I asked, abruptly.
"Perhaps I ought not to tell you," she said, "but I cannot help it now."
I asked her to explain.
"I have sudden likes and dislikes," she said, "and when you saved me in
the storm, and I heard that you were going to be my brother, I was
glad--more glad than I can say. Then when I was getting well your
mother came and told me that you had neither fear nor feelings. That
you had risked your life out of mere love of danger, that you were
cruel and vindictive. That, although you were the heir of the
Trewinions, you were totally unfit for its responsibilities. That your
brother Wilfred was in reality robbed of the position which he alone
was fit to take. That you had ever been cruel to him, that, although
you were superior in strength, you took advantage of his weakness.
Thus, when I saw you, although you had saved my life, I was prepared to
dislike you."
"And then?" I asked.
"I thought you verified what your mother had said. You seemed rough
and uncouth, and very different from your brother."
I suppose most of us like to be thought well of. None of us wish to be
looked upon as objects of repugnance. Anyhow, I was in no pleasant
frame of mind, and I had hard work to keep from bursting out with some
strong invective against my brother, but I held my tongue and waited
for her to continue.
"Since then," she went on, "I have been finding out my mistake, and I
have wanted to tell you so; but you have always been so cold and
repellent that I dared not. You are rough and stern, Roger, not a bit
like Wilfred."
I bit my lip angrily.
"Yes, I know you have saved my life again," she said, as if divining my
thoughts. "I know that Wilfred dared not do what you have done; but
what I meant was that anyone who does not understand you would think
you harsh. Besides, it takes some time to know you."
"But I always felt friendly towards you, Ruth, even though you seemed
to dislike me."
"And I shall always be more friendly to you in the future. I want you
to forgive me, Roger. Will you?"
She looked at me, and her great grey eyes were full of kindness, and
her voice was so gentle that I felt quite uncomfortable.
"Don't talk about forgiving," I said, rather roughly, I expect, "let us
be good friends."
She looked very pale as I said this, and then I saw that she was more
shaken and hurt than I had at first thought. She would have fallen, I
believe, had I not upheld her. I led her to a rock, where she sat down
for a rest, and when I had found some fresh water for her, she was
quite refreshed. She took hold of my arm as we walked home, however,
and I felt a strange pleasure in helping her. She had grown just like
one of my sisters to me, and she seemed to regard me as a brother.
We talked quite pleasantly on our way, until we forgot the great danger
in which we had both been a little while before. I forget just now
what we were talking about; but I know that while we were laughing
heartily at something she had been saying we were startled by a voice
telling us to stop.
We looked up, and Deborah Teague stood before us. She eyed us keenly,
and when she saw how friendly we were, she said, "Maaster Roger, mind
what ould Debrah said."
"I always do mind what you say, Deborah," I replied; "you have always
been a friend to me."
"Maaster Roger," she continued, "ould Debrah hev vollied the fortins of
yer family for years, and she ought to knaw."
"Well, what's wrong now?"
"It wur a woman as tempted Adam, it wur a woman as tempted Samson, it
wur a woman as tempted Ahab. Lev Maaster Roger be keerful."
"I hardly know what you mean," I said, a little astonished at this
strange speech.
She lifted her skinny hand above her head.
"Mind," she said, "mind Trewinion's curse! Oh, tes comin', tes comin'.
I see it now. Mind, Maaster Roger, my deer, mind. Doan't 'ee forgit
what ould Debrah tould 'ee on the night of the storm, years agone.
'Twas the mawther that was too cunning for Esau, ah, and ef Maaster
Roger ed'n keerful the mawther'll be too cunnin' for him."
Try as I would I could not help shuddering at her words, while Ruth
clutched my arm convulsively.
"Keep boath yer eyes oppen, Maaster Roger, or the curse'll be upon 'ee,
for as sure as ould Debrah spaikes tes comin'."
She waddled away when she said this, leaving us to wonder at her words.
What caused her to speak like this? How could she know what she
did?--for her words came true. Did she possess some power to peer into
the future? Were things clear to her vision to which I was blind? Or
was it simply that she was clear headed and clever and her statements
amounted only to a shrewd guess?
I will not dare to answer. I have seen so many strange things happen,
which I have been unable to explain, that to say she was possessed of a
power that was not natural would be unwise. And yet I have been fed
upon strange mental food, and have been led to believe in things at
which some laugh.
"What does she mean, Roger?" said Ruth, when she had gone.
I was silent.
"Do you think she is a witch?" she continued; "she looks like one."
"She is a strange old woman," I said, as lightly as I could, for I did
not want Ruth to be made anxious, "and some think she is a witch; but
Mr. Polperrow says she is only a clever old woman who knows more than
the common run of villagers."
She was about to ask more questions when we saw my father, Wilfred, and
my sisters coming towards us. Both my sisters gave a shout of joy, and
I saw a glad look in my father's eyes. But Wilfred's face was black as
night, and the gleam of a devil flashed in his eyes. He did not speak,
and while the others were anxiously asking questions as to what we did
and how we had managed, Wilfred stood and glared savagely at me. His
eyes became red, and his face like the face of a corpse.
I asked myself whether my father had accused him of being a coward, or
if my sisters had been foolishly praising me, as they sometimes did,
for neither Katherine nor Elizabeth seemed to realise how rough and
uncouth I was. I noticed, however, that when Ruth began to magnify
what I had done, as in her exaggerated notions of things she did, he
gave a cynical, sarcastic laugh, and walked back to the house alone.
Did Wilfred care so much about praise, I wondered, or was he bitter
towards me because I was heir to the Trewinion lands? Why else should
he be so unbrotherly to me?
I do not think my sisters did Ruth any good by talking to her about her
danger, for it brought back to her that faintness which she experienced
upon the sands, so we soon took her indoors, where, being able to rest
in quietness, she recovered.
I do not think it is my nature to remain unfriendly with any one, so I
made an opportunity of trying to find Wilfred, in order to know what I
had done to offend him. I found, however, that he was with my mother,
and did not wish to be seen.
Again Deborah Teague's words came back to me. Was Wilfred's mother my
mother? If so, why was it she never allowed me into her private room?
Why were there no confidences between us as there were between her and
my brother? Was she the cause of my brother's anger?
That evening we all sat together in the library, as we generally did
before going to rest. Ruth still looked pale, and complained of pains.
Evidently her fall had hurt her more than we had thought. My mother
sat near her, and lovingly held her hand, often saying soft loving
words, as though she wanted to be a mother to her. I was glad of this,
for I was sure that Ruth must often feel sad and lonely, and it must
comfort her to know that although she was an orphan she was still
beloved.
We all joined in conversation, with the exception of Wilfred. He sat
behind his mother, never speaking a word. I forget now what were the
subjects of discussion; it does not matter much. Still I cannot but
wish that some clever painter could have put the gathering on canvas,
for to me it looked beautiful. My father was so stately and grand,
while my mother was, I think, the handsomest woman I ever saw; and
behind her was the clear, Greek-like face of my brother. The three
girls, too, looked the picture of contentment. It was a home scene in
a quiet old house, and worthy of a painter's skill.
We had been sitting there some little time, when the vicar walked in.
He was always a welcome visitor and I regarded him as a sort of second
father. He joined in our conversation quite naturally, and we soon
became quite merry together.
Presently there was a lull in our talk, and then Wilfred, without any
warning, broke out excitedly, and in a loud voice,
"Father, I want to go to Oxford."
We all looked at him in astonishment. He had been so silent all the
evening that this made us think something was the matter.
My father eyed him keenly, and then replied quietly.
"I had arranged for you to go next year, Wilfred."
"Yes, but I want to go now," he said, excitedly. "I've been home here
long enough; I've wasted enough time."
"You've not wasted so much time, my boy," said my father, kindly. "Mr.
Polperrow has had you in hand, and has given you a good drilling;
besides, you are only just turned eighteen."
"I know," he said; "but I am the younger son, and so shall have no
fortune. Thus, I think, I should waste no time in getting an
education. Mr. Polperrow told me, not long since, that he could not do
much more for me, and as I am to be 'penniless Wilfred' I think I might
have a chance to earn my bread."
"You will not be penniless, Wilfred," said my father. "You will be as
well endowed as most young men, and I have my plans for the future."
"But I can't stay here longer," he cried. "If I have talents why
should I waste them here? Give me a chance, and then the second son
may turn out to be as good as the elder."
This was spoken both bitterly and sadly, as if he felt his lot to be
hard.
"I have come about this very matter," said Mr. Polperrow. "Wilfred has
very great gifts, and the sooner he goes to Oxford the better. I have
some little influence there, and if you thought fit I would make
arrangements at once."
My mother's eyes fairly shone with joy as he said this, and then she
too joined in the plea that Wilfred should be allowed to leave home so
that his powers might have a fair chance of being tested.
My father at length gave his consent, and Mr. Polperrow went away with
the commission to procure for Wilfred an entrance into this ancient
seat of learning.
When we retired to rest I thought long over the events of the day.
What was the meaning of this sudden desire to depart? Was there a
league between the three who had advocated this step? Only a few days
before Wilfred had been speaking of going to Oxford a year later. Why
then this sudden resolution?
I fell asleep, however, without solving the problem, and as during the
next few days Wilfred wore a grieved expression and seldom spoke to any
one but his mother and Ruth, I was still deeper in mystery. When we
were all together, if he spoke to me, he spoke kindly, but when we were
alone he betrayed a hatred for me that I could not understand.
A month later my mother was in great sorrow. Wilfred had started for
Oxford.
CHAPTER VII
THE WITCHES' CAVE
As I look back over what I am now about to relate, my mind is strangely
confused with the amount of reality and unreality that appeared. At
one time I am inclined to think it all real, at another I am led to
regard it as pure imagination, or as due to the credulity of a
hot-brained youth. Be that as it may, however, I will try and set down
what I remember as faithfully as I can.
After Wilfred had gone things were very quiet. My mother seldom spoke
to me, but kept Ruth by her side, until the two became, as it seemed to
me, almost inseparable. Indeed, she took far more notice of Ruth than
she did of her own daughters. As a consequence my sisters and I were
often together, until the villagers came to say that Roger Trewinion
wanted no sweethearts but his sisters.
On the afternoon of a sultry autumn day, some time after Wilfred had
gone to Oxford, I had to walk past Deborah Teague's cottage, and saw
the old woman sitting on the doorstep quietly smoking.
"Come ere, Maaster Roger," she said; "I've been waitin' for 'ee a bra
long while."
I looked at her in astonishment.
"Iss' my dear, I knawed you was a comin', so I says I'll jist wait for
Maaster Roger."
"How did you know I was coming?"
"Knaw!" she replied, "what doan't I knaw? But come in, I want to talk
to 'ee."
"What about?"
"Somethin' you're interested in, my deer. Ther set down. Yer brother
es gone away to college edn't a?"
"Yes, he's gone."
"Ah, ould Debrah ev for a long time bin thinkin' 'bout it, my dear."
"About what?"
"'Twas a hawful storm, Maaster Roger, wadn't it, then? People do say
that ould women ca'ant do nothin', but, law, that storm wur big enough
and bad enough!"
"Do you mean to say that you caused the storm then?"
"No, not me, my dear, but I knawed it wur a comin' ded'n I un? And
ded'n I give 'ee warnin', my dear? Ef I dedn't, why she would'n ev bin
livin' now."
"Deborah," I said, "you are talking in riddles. If you have anything
to tell me, let me know about it."
"Doan't 'ee be vexed, Maaster Roger. Ould Debrah is yer friend, and do
want for you to be her friend!"
"But I don't understand all this mysterious talk. You are hinting at
strange things. Let me know about it. Is there witchcraft in the
matter?"
"Ould Debrah do knaw 'bout Trewinion's curse, doan't she, my deer? How
should she know that except by--well, we wa'ant say what."
"Yes, you have hinted about it? But what have I to do with it? I have
done nothing that will cause it to rest upon me."
"But tes comin', Maaster Roger, ef I and some more doan't help 'ee.
Tell 'ee, my dear, things belongin' to the sperrits can onnley be
stopped by they who--well, who have got power in they paarts."
I was getting interested.
"Are you a witch, then?" I asked.
"Can 'ee bear to hear it, Maaster Roger?" she whispered.
"I can bear anything," I said.
"Maaster Roger, you've eerd of Farmer Jory?"
"Yes, often."
"Ah, ee died a awful death, my deer."
"So I've heard," I said. "People have told me that his last hours were
terrible; that he seemed like one placed upon a rock. And that
although at one time he was well off, all his cattle died and his
ground refused to grow crops."
"You've eerd that, av 'ee? Well, now, I tell 'ee summin. My old man
Pitter used to work for'n, my dear, and my maid went there to sarvice.
Pitter and me were 'appy as two turtle doves, my deer, and my maid was
the puttiest in the parish. Well, Farmer Jory was a bad man, my deer.
He ought to ev married my maid, and he ded'n, an' though I went down on
my knees and prayed to 'im to save her frum disgrace, he would'nt, and
so she died heartbroken. By this time Pitter wur nearly a cripple and
couldn't work much, so that we wur nearly starvin'. He had worked for
the Jorys oll his life, and now when they ought to ev 'elped us they
left us to starve. Twa'nt more'n three weeks after we berried the maid
afore Pitter died of starvation and a brokken heart, and I wur left
alone. Oh, Maaster Roger, ef you could ev knawed what I suffered you
would pity me. I wur nearly mad wi' grief and shame, and the day after
my owld man wur berried I wur sittin' in the doorway theer, when Betsey
Tressider comed 'long. I was allays 'fraid of Betsey, cause people
said she wur a witch, and did meet with a lot ov others up in the witch
ov Fraddam's cave. She axed me what I wur grievin' for and I tould
her. Then she laughed and zed I wur a fool not to be revenged on
Farmer Jory, and not to make 'im suffer more'n I'd suffered. I axed
her ow I cud do it, and she tould me to become a witch. Then I axed
her ow I could be a witch, and she tould me to go to Logan Rock nine
times at midnight and tich it wi my little vinger, an' she laughed and
went away.
"Well, I wur oal alone, and so I thot and thot, and then I went to
Logan Rock and tiched it wance, and I veeled a strange shivery feelin'
and then I did it every night until the ninth night."
"And what happened then, Deborah?" I asked.
"I shan't tell 'ee that, my dear, but when I comed 'ome I seed Farmer
Jory, and I looked top un, and I zed--well, never mind what I zed; but
you knaw what happened."
"But witchcraft is of the devil," I said.
"Tes and tedn't," she said, mysteriously. "Who can charm as well as
me, and the charms es oal bout goodness. Here, my dear, I'll tell 'ee
some charms, and then you'll knaw ef they be good; but never tell a
man, Maaster Roger, ef you do you'll break em. You knaw that Tommy
Triscott's cheeld came to me t'other day with a scald, and I charmed
un, and the charm is this:--
Then came three angels out of the east,
One brought fire, and two brought frost;
Out fire, and in frost
In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost--Amen.
"And is Tommy better?"
"He had aise in three minutes; but he wur cured with a good name. I'll
tell 'ee nother. You do knaw when you wur a cheeld you had a great
thorn in ye arm through fallin' off a hedge, and you comed to me, and I
charmed it and cured 'ee?"
"Very well."
"Well, I'll tell 'ee the charm:--
Christ was of a Virgin born,
And He was prick'd by a thorn,
And it did never throb nor swell,
And I trust in Jesus this never will.
Christ was crowned with thorns;
The thorns did bleed but did not rot.
No more shall thy finger,
In the name of Father, Son and Holy Ghost.
I could not help a creepy feeling coming over me as she uttered the
words. I remembered her charming the place where the thorn had been
and rubbing some ointment over it, and I also remember how quickly I
had ease.
"So, my deer," she went on, "tedn't always a bad power that witches
have."
"Well," I said at length, "have you asked me to come in here in order
that you might tell me this?"
"Not all, my deer. I've wa'anted to show 'ee as ow I've got power,
Maaster Roger, and that tedn't oal bad. And I want 'ee to harken to me
so that you may not have the Trewinion's curse."
"Can you stop it?" I asked.
"I weth others can," she said.
"But the curse of the Trewinion's will not come upon me," I said, "for
I shall not do anything to incur it."
"Wa'ant 'ee, but you will, Maaster Roger, and ef you doan't do as I
tell 'ee you'll rue it to yer dyin' day. I see it comin', I see it
comin'," and she lifted her skinny hand above her head. "I zee Maaster
Roger beggard, I zee un starvin', I zee un mad wi' shame, I zee un
ouseless, and omeless, I zee hes brother where he ought to be oal
through Trewinion's curse."
In spite of myself I felt the old woman to be speaking the truth.
"But I will abide by everything written for my safety," I said.
"You ca'ant, you ca'ant," she screamed.
"Why?" I asked.
"You were born in a onlucky month, and the onlucky week of the month,
and a onlucky day of the week, and an onlucky time ov the day."
"Why, when was I born?"
"You was born at nine o'clock ov a Friday evenin', in the third week in
May," she said.
"And I can do nothing to avert the curse?"
"No, but I can."
"How?"
"Will 'ee come wi' me to Betsey Fraddam's cave?"
"When?"
"To-night."
"At what time?"
"Twelve o'clock."
"No," I said with a shudder.
She glared at me with her evil eye, then she said slowly:
"You'll come."
Betsey Fraddam's cave had an evil reputation. It was the meeting-place
for all the evil women in the neighbourhood. Women who possessed
terrible power. I had been taught to believe in them and to avoid
coming into collision with them.
"Who'll be there?" I asked.
"You'll see," she said.
I went home soon after, pondering over Deborah's words. We retired to
bed early at our house, and by ten o'clock quietness reigned
everywhere. I could not sleep, however. My mind was excited by what
old Deborah had told me, and when eleven o'clock came I had an intense
desire to go to Fraddam's cave. The witch of Fraddam was almost a
household word among the simple people. It was said that she was
constantly raising storms and working mischief, and that if any one saw
her thus engaged, woe be to that one for ever after. From my earliest
childhood I had been frightened with stories of Betsey Fraddam's cave.
It was whispered that the terrible witch herself met the living witches
and goaded them on to terrible deeds.
Still I wanted to go. In the silence of the night the curse of the
Trewinion's became terrible to me, and I was anxious to know how I
could avert it. Besides, so much had my mind been filled with stories
of the superstitious and wonderful that I felt afraid to disobey the
old woman's summons. It is true I was a young man fairly well
educated, and as a consequence disbelieved many of the stories of a
priest-ridden age. And it may be that as the years roll by future
generations may disbelieve in what we speak of to-day, even as we
disbelieve the stories of the past. Nevertheless, at half-past eleven
I rose and dressed quietly in order to go down to Fraddam's cave.
I remembered the old vicar's words, however, and said my prayers before
starting, and then hurried down the precipitous pathway to the sand.
The tide was out, and I could hear the sweet murmur of the sea in the
distance. There was no wind, and the pale light of the moon lit up the
scene, which was grand in the extreme. On my right hand behind me,
rose the giant cliffs, rugged and forbidding, on the great headland
stood our house, bluff and bold like an old castle.
I looked in the direction of the cave of evil repute, but could see
nothing. My heart throbbed wildly. As old Deborah had said, we
Trewinions never feared the living, but we trembled at the thought of
the dead.
As I drew near Fraddam's cave I saw a twinkling light, and on coming up
to its mouth I saw the bent form of an old woman.
"Trewinion's heir!" said a voice, and the light was taken into the cave.
As if drawn on by a charm I entered. It was the first time I had ever
dared to do so. Often had I passed by the cave; but its reputation for
evil was so terrible that I had avoided entering it. I doubt whether
any inhabitant for miles around would ever think of intruding in a
place which, it was believed, belonged to the powers of darkness.
The cave became larger the farther I penetrated into it, and was lit up
by a ruddy kind of light. I noticed, too, in spite of my fears, that
the main cave led to smaller ones, and that on each side of the
entrance the ground was honeycombed. Presently the light became
brighter, and, turning a sharp angle, I saw a good sized fire, on which
a crock was steaming round about which weird forms sat. The ground was
quite dry and it was evident the tide seldom came so far. As my eyes
became more accustomed to the light, I recognised some of the women who
sat there. Betsey Flue, Mally Udy, and Tory Bone lived within a mile
of Trewinion Manor, and had doubtful reputations.
None of them looked at me for some time. They were intent on watching
the fire and the steaming crock. The smell from this article was by no
means unpleasant, evidently some savoury meat was being cooked, and I
began to feel the place to be less gruesome than I had at first
anticipated. I noticed, too, that a great many things were stowed away
which could have no connection with the unseen world. Evidently the
cave was used by smugglers as well as witches.
"Let Debrah Teague spaik," said an aged crone.
"Maaster Roger do knaw what I main," said Deborah. "There's an awful
curse for the Trewinion 'ouse, and unless Maaster Roger do as we do
tell un he'll ave it."
Ghastly as was the sight, uncanny as was the place, this speech of the
old woman dispelled much of my fear. The nocturnal gatherings of
witches were in my idea always associated with mysterious incantations.
Although Shakespeare was a forbidden book to us boys, I had read
"Macbeth," and this meeting was altogether dissimilar from the meeting
of witches therein described. In spite of everything, I could not help
thinking these old women were met for some sinister purpose far removed
from the mysteries of witchcraft, so I said boldly:
"Old Deborah wanted me to come here; I have come. What do you want?"
"The curse is comin'. We can remove it," said the old woman who went
by the name of Mally Udy.
"How?" I asked, for the sound of their voices and the sound of my own
made me bolder still.
"We've worked a charm," said Mally, the oldest woman in the party. "We
stole into Trewinion Church and took some water that the parson had
used fur christenin' his oan grancheeld, an' we've made a broth of it.
We've boiled a piece of lamb in it, with some sycamore leaves and some
hagglet (white thorn) leaves, and we've said nine charms, nine times
aich, and it'll ondo any curse."
"Where is it?" I said.
"Here, a boilin' now," was the reply.
I began to feel fearful again.
"But Maaster Roger must make a vow afore he drinks," said Mally.
"What?" I asked.
"You must say this," she said, shaking her skinny finger. "I, Roger
Trewinion, promise never to hurt the women here to-night, or their
children. I promise it by the sperrits of the place. And I make a vow
that I'll allays protect they and their children as fur as I can."
There was a cunning look on her face as she spoke. I felt now that
these were evil women, and that I would have nothing to do with them.
"I refuse to make the promise," I said.
"You'm afraid, you'm a coward," cried Deborah.
"No, I'm not afraid, I'm not a coward," I said, "and I'll stop these
proceedings of yours. You have other reasons than witchcraft for
coming here, and I'll know what they are."
This roused their passion.
"Evil sperrits shall tear 'ee," they said, "and oal your tribe."
"You are a set of evil hags," I said, furiously; "and the mysteries of
this cavern shall be brought to light."
"Stop!" said old Mally Udy, "this broth here was fur yer good. I'll
turn it to something bad and make 'ee drink it. The spirit of Betsey
Fraddam is here, and she'll make a mixture for 'ee."
I had worked myself up into a passion and I kicked the crock and
overturned it.
Never shall I forget the terrible words they said to me, or the curses
they called upon me. They cursed me in body and mind, they cursed me
in love and hate, in living and dying.
What was it, I wonder? Meaningless jargon, or not? When my story is
told you will be able to judge better.
I went out of the cave in fear, and when outside I fancied I saw the
terrible form of Betsey Fraddam. Then I went back to my home trembling.
CHAPTER VIII
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
O beware of my lord of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on: that cuckold lives on bliss
Who, certain of his fate, love not its wronger.
But O, what damned minutes tells he o'er
Who dotes yet doubts; suspects yet fondly loves.
--_Othello._
Alone in my room that night I began to think again. I had hurried back
from the cave with fearful speed, never daring to stop or think. Now I
could do both, and for hours I tried to solve the problem before me.
What was the meaning of this night's adventure? Had these women the
power to rid me of a terrible calamity, or were they seeking simply the
protection I should be able to afford in the future years? They were
all in bad repute, and ofttimes the anger of the people was aroused
against them, thus if they could gain my friendship they would be
comparatively safe. Did they seek to frighten me into a promise, or
was there some dread meaning in their words?
These questions drove me to pray, or rather, to say my prayers. I did
not, could not, really pray. To me there was no real God. All was as
misty and unreal as the mythical stories I had read about the fabled
Greek gods. For hours I sought light, and help, and strength; but none
came, and when daylight came I was still in doubt.
The next day I passed by old Deborah's cottage. I thought she might
have something to say to me, but when she saw me she, bent her head and
would not answer to my "good-day." Try as I would I could not help
feeling that she had ill-will against me, and would lose no opportunity
to do me an injury. Once I thought of speaking to my father about it;
but I dared not tell him that I had been to Fraddam's cave at midnight;
that act was in itself enough to bring darkness to my future, if there
were any truth in the stories which floated in the very atmosphere of
my life.
Days lengthened into weeks, and weeks into months, and nothing
happened. Old Mally Udy passed and re-passed me, but she gave no sign
of our midnight encounter. She dropped her usual curtsey of respect
when she saw me. Thus it was that the awe of the night in Fraddam's
cave died out. I gave up seriously thinking about it, and as the
affairs of the Trewinion estate began to rest on me my mind was fully
occupied.
During the months that followed, I believe I was moody and taciturn.
At any rate, my sisters did not find so much pleasure in being with me
as formerly, while Ruth was still my mother's companion. She was
always kind to me, and seemed glad if she were able to do little
sisterly acts, but we were never alone together, and never were there
any confidences between us.
On my twenty-first birthday there were great festivities at our house.
All the tenant farmers, their wives, and their children, together with
the cottagers and labourers on the estate, were invited. These, with
the neighbouring gentry, made a gay scene. There was one vacant place,
however, which largely spoiled the enjoyment of the day. This was my
brother Wilfred's. He had been pressed to return home, but had refused
to do so, even for the celebration of my coming of age. Indeed, he
intimated that he did not wish to do so until his three years of
college life should come to an end.
My father was annoyed at this; but my mother said not a word. It
seemed to me that she had expected things to turn out so, and was not
at all surprised. Her behaviour to me after my birthday was more cold
than ever. She took no pains to make herself friendly towards me, yet,
unless Deborah Teague were right, she was my mother.
The months slipped rapidly by, until three years had elapsed since
Wilfred had gone to Oxford, and now he was daily expected to return.
During that time none of us had seen him except my father and mother,
who had travelled to Oxford specially for that purpose. My two sisters
often speculated what he would be like, how he would act, while Ruth,
too, seemed to look forward with great pleasure to his return.
Ruth had grown to be a beautiful woman. She was by no means tall or
stately, but she was as fair as a spring morning, and lovely beyond
compare. Great pains had been taken with her education, and this,
added to her personal charms, caused her to be envied for miles around
by girls of her own age.
Her old friend Mr. Inch had remained at our house all this time, and
tried to gratify her every wish. He was friendly with Wilfred, and I
found out that they corresponded regularly. With me, however, he was
not nearly so friendly. He was always polite, almost painfully so; but
he never looked me straight in the face, and often, I thought, regarded
me with dislike. I explained this, partly by the fact of my uncouth
ways, and partly by his intimacy with my mother, who regarded him with
great favour.
At length the day arrived when Wilfred came back. I shall never forget
it, for it began a new era in my existence. I awoke on the morning of
that day bright and cheerful, with not a cloud that was worth the
mentioning upon the sky of my life. When I retired to rest all was
changed. I awoke a boy, I went to sleep a man. But for that day these
confessions would never have been written; the events I shall relate
would never have come to pass. Even now, as I look back, my heart
beats more rapidly at the thought of it, and a strange feeling
possesses me, which reminds me of what I felt then.
I remember how anxiously I saw the horses being attached to the old
family carriage, and with what joy I saw my father and mother driven
away to meet the coach by which Wilfred was to come. I longed, as much
as any of them, to see him, although I said but little about it, for,
in spite of his apparent dislike of me, he was still my brother, and I
loved him very much.
We all stood at the old hall door as the carriage drove up, and watched
my father alight. Then another form stepped on the hard gravel, and
carefully assisted my mother.
I should scarcely have recognised him as my brother. He had gone away
but little more than a boy, he had returned a handsome, cultured man.
He was not big and clumsy like myself, but tall and lithe, and yet
exceedingly muscular. There was grace in his every movement, while
refinement was stamped upon his handsome face. I could not help
feeling the contrast between us. I was a great boorish country clown,
he was as handsome as a Greek god. Surely, too, there was a look of
malicious satisfaction on my mother's face as she saw the difference
between us. He seemed to change the very atmosphere of the house.
Everything had a new meaning when associated with him. My sisters
looked at him with admiration, while Ruth was evidently fascinated by
the charm of his presence.
In his boyish days he had often seemed sulky, but that was all gone.
His demeanour towards my father was at once respectful and
affectionate, to his mother he was kind and loving, to the girls he was
gallant and considerate, while to me I thought he extended an air of
patronage.
The old Wilfred had gone, and a new Wilfred had taken his place; a
Wilfred who was brilliant, gallant, scholarly.
I remember that we dined early that day, and after dinner I went out
alone, as I often did, and sat upon the great headland which stood out
against the sea. I remained there some time thinking, and wondered
what kind of a life we should lead now that Wilfred had come back. I
felt in some way that I had no right to my father's estate; I was not
fit for it, and that I lived there on my brother's bounty.
These thoughts were disturbed by the sound of voices, and looking up I
saw a sight that caused my brain to whirl and my heart to throb
violently.
Wilfred and Ruth were walking arm-in-arm, and he was looking at her at
once tenderly and with an air of proprietorship. Then I knew what I
did not know before, then I realised what nearly drove me mad. I loved
Ruth Morton with all the strength of my being, while she, I could tell
from the tender confiding look on her face, was in love with my brother
Wilfred.
I staggered to my feet, scarcely knowing what I was doing, and stared
them in the face foolishly.
"Ah, Roger," said Wilfred, lightly, "enjoying yourself in the old way?
All play and no work. Happy fellow, you, Roger; but then, some people
are born lucky."
I felt myself treated as a child. There was a jeering look upon his
face as he spoke, and his tone was that of a man speaking to another of
inferior intellect.
I did not answer his sally. I only felt desirous of joining in their
walk, of having a chance, no less than he, of speaking to Ruth; so I
stammered out:
"You are going for a walk; let me go with you."
He did not hesitate a minute before replying, and in the same tone as
he spoke before.
"You won't mind, I'm sure, Roger, when I tell you that we prefer taking
this walk alone. We haven't met for three years, and have so much to
say to each other."
Again I was treated as a child, and I became angry. I was about to say
something very foolish, but before I could utter the words they were
gone, and I heard Wilfred laugh a low, jibing kind of laugh.
I think I was mad during the remainder of that afternoon. My brain was
on fire, and everything seemed to whirl around me. My love was no
sooner known to myself than the object of it was snatched from me by
another, and that other my other brother.
I tried to convince myself that he was more worthy than I. I told
myself that I was a country bumpkin, an ignorant clown, and unworthy to
aspire to a maiden like Ruth Morton. That I was under a curse, that I
dared not leave the Trewinion lands for six months at a time, and that
it was better she should love Wilfred. This however, did not satisfy
me. Try as I would to stifle it, I could not help thinking I had more
claims to her love than he. What had he done for her? Nothing! I, on
the other hand, had twice risked my life for hers. But for me she
would have died, and yet she had bestowed her love on another. Had
she? I was not sure, and yet there could be little or no doubt about
it. Wilfred was capable of winning any woman's affection, and I felt
certain she would not resist his wishes. The very first day of his
return they had gone away together, and no doubt he would impress her
with his cleverness and greatness.
I would know the truth and that soon. Such was my determination. I
would ask her to walk alone with me as she had done with Wilfred, and
then I would find out.
I cannot describe my new found love, or, rather, the knowledge of the
love I had felt for years. It was so strange, so great. I had from
the first taken a special interest in Ruth; from the first I had
regarded her as a very dear sister. Now she was a thousand times more
than a sister. Nothing was too good for her. My one great thought was
to give Ruth happiness and joy. Why, then, did I not without a murmur
sacrifice her to Wilfred. Surely he could give her more happiness and
joy than I? Strange as it may seem, I felt that he could not. I
shuddered at the thought of her belonging to him in any way, and I
ground my teeth at the thought of their being together.
Perhaps this was because of my jealousy. Nevertheless, I am sure that
rough, uncouth, ay, half savage as I was, I would willingly have laid
down my life to save her from pain.
I had no chance to speak to her that day, nor the next, nor indeed for
many days. When my chance came, something stepped in between us.
Either Wilfred was with Ruth, or my mother claimed the girl as her
companion. I need not say that this maddened me more than ever and
made me act in anything but a creditable way. I would leave the merry
family party and go down to the village to talk with the fishermen. I
would seek to forget my own sorrows by laughing at their jokes, or
entering into their lives. Again, I would indulge in long, lonely
walks, or go away fishing alone. I knew I was fighting against my own
interests by doing this. I knew I was allowing my brother to use every
fascinating art in his power.
At length, my time came. We had all been out in the harvest fields
together, watching the reapers cut the golden wheat and gather it into
sheaves.
Surely the earth has few fairer sights than this! I have travelled
over a great deal of the globe, but I have seen nothing fairer than our
old Trewinion fields at harvest time. Especially was this so beneath
the light of the harvest moon. I shall never forget it. As twilight
faded, a thin mist rose from the earth, which, as the pale moon's rays
shone through it, looked strangely beautiful. The corn moughs
(stacks), too, looked weird and ghastly in the dim light, while the
silver sea in the distance made a low, delicious music as it gently
rippled on the shore.
In the distance I could hear the men and women singing on their
homeward way some plaintive Cornish songs, which to me blended sweetly
with the low sighing of the wind.
Ruth and I had by some means became separated from the rest, and my
heart fluttered rapidly, for I had determined to find out if she loved
my brother Wilfred. It has never been my way to lead up slowly to a
subject. What I have to say I must blurt out at once, ofttimes in a
way that gives pain to those to whom I speak.
"Ruth," I said, "I have long wished to tell you something."
"Have you, Roger?" she said, cheerfully "then tell me at once, for you
have made me curious. What can you wish to say to me?"
There was no hesitation, no trembling in her voice.
She spoke as naturally as my own sisters might have spoken.
"Let us go home by Pentvargle Cove," I said, "and turn in at
Honeysuckle-lane."
"Very well," she said, gaily; "and you'll pluck some of the honeysuckle
for me, won't you? I can smell it from here; how delicious it is.
Wouldn't Wilfred enjoy this?"
She was thinking of Wilfred even now, when she was alone with me, and I
was about to burst out with an angry remark about my brother when I
looked down into her face.
To me it seemed like the face of an angel. Her large, lustrous grey
eyes had a far-away look in them, and an expression of sweet, placid
contentment rested on every feature. Never have I seen a face so
sweet, so beautiful. Tenderness, truth, purity were there, mingled
with courage, sacrifice, daring. It was a face never to be forgotten
when once seen. Never did I love her as I did then, and I could not
say angry words about my brother.
I have said I was clumsy in my mode of expression. I could say nothing
as it should be said; and now, when I felt I ought to be more than
usually careful, I was more than ever confused.
"Come Roger," she said, "what is it you want to tell me?"
"I want to know, Ruth," I said, my voice trembling, "why you shun me,
dislike me, hate me so?"
CHAPTER IX
OMENS OF DARKNESS
Look here upon this picture, and on this;
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See what grace was seated on his brow;
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself.
An eye like Mars to threaten or command.
--_Hamlet_, Act III, Scene 3.
She looked up as if surprised at my question.
"Hate you, shun you, Roger," she repeated. "Whatever led you to ask
such a question?"
"How can I help asking it," I said, "when it is true? You never have a
word for me now. Your every thought is given to my brother. I suppose
it is because Roger is a boor, Roger is a clown, Roger is ugly."
"What can possess you to speak in such a way?" she said.
I knew I had spoken foolishly; but I could not help it. I was mad with
rage and jealousy. Having once begun to speak, all judgment and
discretion were gone. I was determined to know my fate, determined to
know if she loved my brother Wilfred.
"Possess me!" I answered. "Well, I hardly know; but this I know. Ever
since my prig of a brother has come home from Oxford with his affected
smile and flattering ways, Ruth has had no ears or eyes for any one
else."
"Still I fail to understand you," she said.
"I do not doubt," I replied, savagely, "that I am too ignorant a clown
to make my meaning clear. Were Wilfred speaking, you would understand
him. He would put his thoughts in such poetic language, and speak in
such cooing tones, that little Ruth would be made to think as he
thought, and feel as he felt; but I--I am nobody."
"Roger," she said, "you are not kind, you are not speaking like my big
brother."
"No, I cannot," I said, "I do not feel that I am your brother. What
kind feeling have you towards me? Not a jot. It is Wilfred, Wilfred,
ever Wilfred."
She walked on by my side in silence, I feeling that I had been a brute,
a savage. What right had I to speak so roughly, and thus to annoy her?
I looked down at her face, and I saw that her eyes were filled with
tears and her lips trembled. For a moment my jealousy and anger were
gone.
"Forgive me, sister Ruth," I said, "I ought not to speak so. Try and
forget what I have said. See, we are in Honeysuckle-lane, and here is
some."
I picked a sprig of honeysuckle as I spoke and gave it to her, which
she received kindly. This emboldened me. Perhaps after all I was not
so hateful to her.
I have not a very poetical nature; but I think the scene by which we
were surrounded aroused what little I had. The birds were finding
their way to the hedgerows to seek rest for the night, ever and anon
giving a faint chirp of content. The beetles went humming heedlessly
by, the bees laden with honey returned to their hives, and all nature
seemed to be at peace. The honeysuckle and the hedge flowers that grew
in wild confusion perfumed the lane in which we walked; the nuts hung
in thick clusters on the fences, blackberries everywhere abounded. One
by one the stars came out of their obscurity until the heavens became
glorious; and as we walked on, the evening became more still. The
harvesters reached their homes, and we no longer heard the sound of
their voices. The night wind served only to make delicious music as it
played with the leaves on the trees and hedges or coquetted with the
golden corn. Now and then we could hear the sea murmur its old, old
song. To me it told of peace, and calm, and beauty.
And I was alone with the maiden whom I loved more dearly than my life.
I said that her kindness emboldened me, so with great trembling hands I
took her bonnet from her head and wove a piece of honeysuckle amid her
nut-brown hair.
Beautiful, beautiful Ruth! Yes, after the long stretch of weary years
I still call her so; but that night she was to me more than beautiful,
she was like an angel. I was young and unsophisticated, and--and I did
not know what was coming.
For fully five minutes we did not speak. Slowly we walked side by side
in the calm still eventide, until we emerged from the lane, and went
towards Pentvargle Cove. Then the sight of the rugged cliffs seemed to
alter my feelings, and the old jealous passion returned. I could see
the five great prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" towering into the sky, and
I could not help thinking of the time, years ago, when I had scaled its
slippery precipitous sides to save the girl at my side. Again the old
desire to know the worst came back to me. Did Ruth love my brother
Wilfred?
"Do you see the 'Devil's Tooth' yonder, Ruth?" I said.
"Yes," she said, "how calm the sea is now. How different from when I
saw it first. Then--but I cannot bear to think about it, can you?" and
she shuddered as she spoke.
"Oh, yes," I said. "I like to think about it. Why, Ruth, I was able
to save you, you know."
She was silent, and again a bitter feeling crept into my heart.
"Don't you wish it had been Wilfred who saved you, instead of Roger?" I
asked, a little bitterly.
"Why?" she said, quickly.
"Because you seem to think so much more about him. You like to be in
his company, and you treasure every word that he says."
I thought she looked confused, as she said hurriedly, "Why should I
not?"
At this answer I was as much the slave to my mad feelings as when we
had commenced our walk. It was bitter hard for me. There, in sight of
the very place where I had saved her, she admitted her preference for
him who had done nothing for her.
"Why should you not?" I answered, boisterously, "why not indeed. There
is every reason why you should. No doubt you wish Wilfred were the
elder son and I the younger. No doubt you wish he were Trewinion's
heir, and that I were penniless."
"No, Roger," she said, "were you penniless, and were your father to
die, you would have no means of obtaining a livelihood. It is best as
it is."
Blunt and dull of perception as I was I could not help seeing the
purport of this. She thought me too much of a fool to earn a living;
that it was only by the money which I inherited as a birthright I was
saved from starving.
"I see the point of your answer, Ruth," I said. "You think Wilfred far
more fit for the position of Trewinion's heir than I, and that I am too
ignorant a clown to get a living for myself."
"I cannot help what conclusions you draw from my words, Roger," she
replied.
"There is only one conclusion to be drawn," I answered. "You think
Wilfred better than I. You think he should be master, and not I. You
think I am a brute, a savage."
"I think no such thing," she replied, "but you must yourself feel the
difference between you and him. He is kind, thoughtful, gentle; he is
cultured and refined. He gives way to no fits of passion, nor does he
seek to hurt one's feelings."
"Yes, yes," I said, bitterly. "He has been to Oxford, and has learnt
tricks dear to a woman's heart, and, having learnt them, he knows how
to practise them. He can quote poetry, and make soft speeches; he can
please you with flattery. His face is pale and interesting, his hands
are soft and white; and Ruth is very fond of him."
"You are unkind, and you are unjust, Roger. If he has been fonder of
study than you, and if he has learnt to govern his temper, don't be
jealous or cruel. Better try and emulate him. You call yourself
boorish and clownish. Try and improve yourself; and then, perhaps, you
will not feel so much inferior to your brother."
As I have said before, no one cares to hear another say what in
self-disparaging moments he often says about himself. A dozen times in
the last fortnight had I spoken of myself as inferior to my brother,
but for another to say it was wormwood and gall to me.
"Copy my brother!" I said, savagely. "Be a soft-fingered coward like
him! To be afraid of my own shadow like him! Copy him! Why he is but
a mere woman disgracing the clothes he wears. Had I been a puny thing
like him I should have ran away just as he did, and left you to die on
yon rocks. And yet you talk of my copying him. Why, he's just a
soft-muscled contemptible coward."
"I scarcely know which I like less," she cried, "a coward--although I
don't admit that your brother is one--or one who boasts of his own
bravery and taunts you with his own kind deeds. Roger, do you think
because you cannot appreciate your brother's nobleness that it does not
exist?"
This silenced me. I had been answered. She had championed my brother.
She had declared in so many words that she preferred him to me. She
regarded what I had done for her as nothing.
I found then that my passion had been inflamed by hope, that my
jealousy was due to this reason. No sooner did Ruth speak in the way I
have described than a dull despair laid hold of my heart, and I was
dumb. I could see now that she loved Wilfred, and that she saw
nobility in him, which, in her opinion my nature was too poor to see,
that the fact of my having saved her life was to her little more than
the action of an animal, who acted instinctively without a thought of
danger. Well, on the whole I was glad to know the worst. I knew how
to act now, I was not upheld by any false hope.
"I am glad you have told me this, Ruth," I said quietly. "It is best
that I should know. I am afraid I have behaved very rudely! forgive me
and you shall have no reason to complain again."
She clutched my arm tightly, and seemed about to protest, but I did not
allow her to speak.
"It was mean and unmanly of me to say what I have," I said, "but I was
excited and almost beside myself; let us walk more rapidly towards
home."
At this Ruth looked at my face as if in surprise, and began to speak.
"I hope I have not hurt your feelings, Roger, but I--that is----"
"Pray, don't distress yourself, Ruth," I said. "It is well you have
spoken and let me see the truth. Perchance I shall be thankful some
day that you have spoken. Look, what's that?"
I pointed towards the "Devil's Tooth," which we could still see rising
clearly against the sky. On its very summit was a small flickering
light, and in my fancy I saw a dark form moving among its rugged peaks.
"It's a light," said Ruth, as if glad to change the subject; "what can
it mean?"
"It means death," I said.
"Death! I don't understand, Roger."
"Whenever any one sees a light on the 'Devil's Tooth' it means death to
some one belonging to the man or woman who first saw it," I replied
with a shudder.
"But that's only a superstition," replied Ruth, "surely you will pay no
attention to such stories."
I knew it was only a superstition; but such is the power of education
and association that I could do no other than believe the warning to be
real. Why should it come just now when I was so little able to bear
it? Why should a darker cloud blacken my sky than was already there?
I looked again. The light was gone, but surely I saw even in the pale
moonlight a dark moving figure. Try as I would to banish the feeling I
could not help fearing that a dread calamity was about to fall on me.
I felt ill able to bear it. I had been stunned by the fact of Ruth's
love for Wilfred and her dislike for me. It is true she had not told
me in as many words that she disliked me, or that she loved Wilfred
better, but I was convinced that she thought him more noble and true,
and that there was no hope of her ever coming to love me.
It was quite dark now, and we were away from the soothing influences of
the green honeysuckle lane and the rustling of the ripe corn. We were
walking on the top of the cliff and could see the misty outline of the
coast. We walked slowly on for some distance, and then we both
stopped, trying to see if the dark form were a reality or only a fancy.
Scarcely had we done so when I felt my arm touched.
"What be 'ee lookin' for, Maaster Roger, my dear?" said a
half-wheedling, half-mocking voice.
I turned and saw Deborah Teague.
I must confess that seeing her there alone made me feel strangely. She
had not spoken to me since the night when we met in the cave of evil
repute. Whenever we did chance to meet she looked steadily on the
ground, never answering any words I might address to her. I did not
wonder at this, for I fancied she had some ill-will towards me for not
complying with her wishes, but I did wonder at her coming now and
speaking to me in this familiar way. Nevertheless, I answered quietly:
"I thought I saw some one on the 'Devil's Tooth,' but I'm not sure."
"Ded 'ee zee a light jist now?" she continued.
"Yes, I did," I replied.
"Do 'ee knaw who made the light?"
"No," I replied. "I have been wondering what it meant."
"Iss, and you've bin tellin' Miss Ruth 'bout it, aint 'ee, Maaster
Roger? I'll tell 'ee what you've zid (seen). You've zid Betsey
Fraddam, my dear, and you do knaw what that do main."
"I know what foolish people say it means," I replied, "but I do not
know what it really means."
"Do'ant 'ee? But you will. 'Tis nearly come, Maaster Roger. You
defied and got vexed with they who would kip this from comin'; but 'tis
comin' now!"
"What's coming now?"
"Trewinion's curse," she screamed.
"You hag," I cried, aroused into a passion. "You have ill-wished me."
"Ill-wished 'ee? No, I ain't, and that you do knaw. We can't ill-wish
a eldest son; but the curse es comin', and that we could have kipt off."
"See there, see there!" she continued, pointing towards the great
forbidding-looking rock, "do 'ee zee the light? I can!"
Again I saw the flickering light on the rock between the great prongs,
and my flesh crept with fear.
"Ted'n too late, is it?" she said. "Come to th' ould plaace to-night
at the same time, and we may do summin."
"Do you think I'm a fool?" I said. "You cannot gull me with your
stories, for I know your tricks."
She laughed in my face, revealing gums that were toothless save for one
yellow fang that rested on her lower lip.
"Oa, I remember it, Maaster Roger," she said. "Ould Debrah do knaw the
curse. La me zee, how do it go?--
His power be given to another,
And he be crushed by younger brother,
Then his son, though born the first,
By the people shall be cursed;
And for generations three
Trewinion's heirs shall cursed be!
The old woman recited these lines glibly, as though they had been often
on her lips, and she chuckled as she repeated them.
"Go home," I said, angrily, "and trouble me no longer with your ugly
face."
"Iss! Iss! I'll go," she screamed; "but there'll be black days for
you. Ah, yer brother'll be wise if you be'ant. Ah, a Trewinion
disgraced, starvin', ruined!"
I turned savagely towards her, but old as she was she nimbly stepped
out of my way, and pointed to the five-pronged rock.
"The light es gone, and Maaster Roger's hope es gone, unless he do come
to Betsy Fraddam's cave at midnight, and there 'ee'll zee strange
things."
"You'll suffer for this, Deborah," I said, almost beside myself.
"Zee where you're standin'," she screamed, "and think of what you zeed
three years agone, when you went to see the passen."
I looked, and, to my horror, I remembered that long years before I had
on this very spot seen a figure in white, which had disappeared on the
edge of the cliff.
I was so astonished that for a minute I did not move, and when I
recovered my senses Deborah had gone, although I thought I heard her
croaking, mocking laugh a little distance away.
"The old woman is mad, Roger," said Ruth; "let us go home quickly."
I was nothing loth. I hurried on as though the furies were behind me,
while Ruth was evidently as anxious as I to get indoors.
We had entered the old postern door, and were walking up the drive
leading to the house, when a servant met me.
"Mr. Roger," he said, anxiously, "you must please come in at once."
"Why, is anything the matter?"
"Yes, your father has fallen off his horse and is badly hurt."
A great dread laid hold of me, but I hurried towards his room.
CHAPTER X
THE GATHERING DARKNESS
As I made my way along the dim corridors, fear gripped me. The weird
form I had seen between the prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" had told me
of darkness to come. This accident to my father was the fulfilment of
the omen. Arrived at the door of my father's bedroom I heard muffled
voices within; but no sooner was my arrival known than I was
immediately admitted. I found my father propped up in the bed by
pillows. There was a ghastly cut upon his face, and his hair was
clotted with blood. Evidently, too, he was suffering great pain, and
he breathed with difficulty.
No sooner did he see me than he beckoned me to approach. Although I
did not notice them at the time, I found out afterwards that my mother
was there, and Mr. Polperrow, the vicar, together with Mr. Inch and the
family doctor.
"Roger!" said my father, hoarsely.
"Yes, father," I said, coming up and kneeling by his bedside.
My presence seemed to soothe him, for he gave evidence of less
suffering, and a look of peace stole over his face.
He laid his right hand upon my head fondly. "My eldest-born boy," he
said, slowly, "my big-hearted son. I am going to die, Roger," he said.
"No, father, no!"
"Yes, Roger, 'twill soon be over. Only a few hours at most. I have
met with an accident, my boy. I was riding from Truro, and got near
home, when three men, who had been drinking hard at the tavern near by,
came out from the hedgeside and frightened Bess; she is a very flighty
mare, you know. She gave a side leap and threw me. My foot caught in
the stirrup, and I was dragged along the road until I fancy the mare
trod on me."
He said this quite calmly, as though it were a matter of everyday
occurrence. As for me, I could not speak, my heart was nearly bursting
with pain.
"I want to say a few more things to you before I die, my own boy," he
continued, slowly.
"Say what you will, father, but don't talk of dying. Surely, surely,
the doctor here can make you well again."
"No, no, Roger, no doctor can cure me," and he looked wistfully into
the doctor's face, who shook his head sadly. Then I felt sure that my
father's words would come true; that soon I should lose him.
The doctor felt his pulse; then said that what my father wished to tell
me must be told quickly.
"Yes, yes," said my father. "You, Roger, are my first-born, my own
boy," and again he lingered lovingly over the words.
"Your own boy," I repeated, proudly.
"You are Trewinion's heir," he continued, "the master of all the
Trewinion lands. You remember what I told you years ago, my boy?"
"Yes, father."
"Ever remember them, Roger. Be careful."
"I will, father."
"There were other things in connexion with the history of our people
that I meant to tell you, but I kept putting it off, and now it's too
late; but perhaps it's as well as it is. You will find them out in
time. God grant you may be prepared. What I want to say now refers to
Wilfred, and to Ruth Morton."
I scarcely breathed. I thought I should hear something that would make
clear my future relation to Ruth, and would clear up the mystery that I
felt existed in regard to my brother and myself.
"Wilfred----" he hesitated a moment, and then his eyes sought my
mother's. Instantly she came to his side, and looked at him strangely.
He heaved a sigh, and continued:
"Wilfred is younger than you, and does not by law inherit any of the
Trewinion lands. I have left him money, however, and given him a good
education, still----"
"What, dear father?"
"I fancy he thinks himself hardly treated. If you like, Roger, you
might grant him an annuity," and he named a sum.
"God is my witness, father, that I'll be true to your wishes; if I can,
I'll give him more."
"That's my own boy, Roger. He will not need it; but it's perhaps best."
I looked at my mother as he said this. There was a terrible look on
her face. I cannot describe it. Mockery, disdain, anger, despair,
vindictiveness were all stamped there, but I heeded little; I was too
intent on catching my father's every word.
"With regard to the girls, Roger, they will live on with you. I have
left them a farm each--bought with the money saved through the years.
The rents of these farms have been, and are, accumulating. It's all
written down, and, when the lawyer comes, you can go into everything.
These farms, and the money received from them, will be their wedding
portion if they marry; if they don't they will never be in want."
I could only say, "Yes, father."
"If it's God's will," he went on, "Wilfred will succeed Mr. Polperrow
and have the Trewinion living, unless anything happens to you,
then--then he will be Trewinion's heir."
Involuntarily I again looked at my mother's face. There was exulting
triumph on it, mingled with a look of terrible hatred. I did not know
what it meant, nor could I conjecture.
"But I hope there's no danger of that," he continued. "You are my
eldest born, my own boy."
How fondly he repeated these words, and how proud I felt, in spite of
my grief, as I heard him speak them; and so I again repeated:
"I'm your own boy."
"There's just one other matter I'm going to speak to you about," he
said, after a pause. "I ought to have spoken to you about it before;
but I thought there was plenty of time. Mr. Inch, will you come near?"
The old man came up with a stately step. He had always been treated
with great respect in our house, especially as he was Ruth's valued
friend, and had much to do with the managing of Ruth's estate.
"You remember," went on my father, and I noticed that he spoke with
more difficulty, "the night you saved Ruth?"
"Yes, father."
"I had been in communication with her father prior to that; indeed, as
you know, we had been friends for years."
He turned to Mr. Inch when he said this, and went on:
"You know Mr. Morton's wish with regard to Ruth, Mr. Inch; he told you
before he died all about it?"
"Yes," said Mr. Inch, "and it was mentioned in his will."
I looked again at my mother. There was a stony look upon her face. It
was ghastly to see.
"Yes, to be sure," said my father, "it was mentioned in the will. What
was his lifelong wish, Roger, was also mine. His desire and mine was,
and is, that our families should be united, that you should wed Ruth."
In spite of the tragic circumstances, my heart gave a wild leap for
joy! Ruth, my darling, my life, would be mine! It was her father's
wish, and she, I was sure, would be faithful to his least desire. I
could bear anything now!
"Will you do this, Roger?"
"Gladly, if Ruth will, father," I said huskily.
"Forgive me for interposing," said Mr. Inch, "but you have not exactly
stated the true conditions of Mr. Morton's will."
"In what way?" asked my father.
"What Mr. Morton stated in his will was that he desired his daughter
Ruth to marry the heir of the Trewinion estate, so that not only might
the families be united, but the estates also be joined."
"Well, is not Roger the heir of the Trewinion lands?"
"Yes, but you mentioned just now the possibility of anything happening
to your elder son, then, of course, your second son would take his
place."
"Yes, yes. Of course, of course," said my father, wearily.
"Does Ruth know about her father's wish?" I asked.
"No, not yet," replied Mr. Inch, "he thought it best that it should be
kept from her until she reached her twenty-first birthday, unless
necessity arose for her being told. No such necessity has arisen, and
hence she remains in ignorance of the arrangement that was made between
her father and Mr. Trewinion."
"Everything else I have stated in my will," said my father, "and all
things are arranged in due form. Roger, my boy, you will try and be
true to the Trewinion's name?"
"God helping me, I will," I said, "but, father, have you anything to
say about my mother?"
"Your mother!" he repeated, vacantly. "Ah, yes, of course, she will
live on here--unless--but that is all arranged. You need not worry
about her."
Inexperienced as I was, I could not help thinking that this was
strange. Why should my mother's welfare be dismissed in such a
careless way? I could not understand matters. Perhaps, however,
everything was privately arranged, and my father did not care to speak
before those who were outside our family circle.
I looked at my mother again, but this time her face told no story.
Evidently, I was to know nothing about her future, at any rate, for the
present.
After this my father grew weaker rapidly, and although he suffered but
little pain we knew that his life was fast ebbing away.
What I felt as I sat and watched I cannot describe, for he desired me
to remain to the end. Nor will I try and write about the farewell
between him and Wilfred, and my sisters, and Ruth. Such scenes are not
to be written about; they cannot be. Even now that solemn hour comes
back to me, and I try to realise, as I tried to realise then, that my
father's spirit went to be with God.
Oh, this mystery of death! It surrounds us all, and yet we understand
it not. There we stood talking with him, who was soon to be no more
with us--and we knew it. What would become of his spirit? We did not
know, we could only hope. Would father become nothing, or would he
live on? I could not realise the fact of his death then. I can barely
do so now. For one hour my father talked to us. His brain thought,
his tongue spoke, his soul felt, the next--he was gone; and yet he was
not gone. He lay there, the father I had embraced, and yet he did not
lie there. The body could not love, and my father _did_ love me.
After we had sat some time in silence, Mr. Polperrow spoke to my
father. He asked him if he felt himself safe for the next world; but
father answered him not.
"You have always been a good churchman," continued Mr. Polperrow, "and
have always been regular in partaking of the Holy Communion."
My father smiled, I thought sadly, and then he beckoned to me again.
He looked as though he had something to tell me--at least, I thought
so--and I put my ear close to his mouth. He was now very weak, and
spoke with difficulty; but I thought I caught the words:
"Be careful."
I thought he referred to the legend about the curse and assured him
that I would be careful, but he did not seem satisfied.
"Beware of----" he said, and seemed to hesitate before pronouncing the
word that would make the sentence complete. He looked round the room
until his eyes rested on the place where my mother and Wilfred stood,
then he sighed deeply.
"I will beware of everything wrong," I said, in trying to lead his mind
from difficulty or doubt. "You are sure everything is well with you.
No vestige of the curse remains with you."
He looked at me strangely, then a smile lit up his face and a new light
beamed from his eyes.
"There is no curse," he said. "God is love."
These were his last words. Soon after his soul took its flight into
the unseen.
Then I went out into the night alone. One by one the events of the day
flashed through my mind, until I was sick and dizzy.
I was terribly excited; but beneath the excitement was a dull, aching
pain. For hours I walked the headland and tried to realise that my
father was dead, that I should hear his voice no more; but realisation
was impossible. I had seen him ride away in the morning, a handsome,
robust, man in the prime of life, and now----.
In my grief for him everything else had for the time been forgotten.
Everything had been dispelled by this great calamity, and what was
hardest of all to bear was that I was not sure that my father
was--somewhere. I could not think of him as being in hell. I could
not think of God, father, and hell at the same time, but was he
anywhere?
"Father," I cried, "let me know that you are somewhere! Let me hear
you speak, if only a word; only to know that all is well."
The night was very still. Not a breath of wind stirred, the harvest
moon was just sinking into the sea, and the water was all aglow with
its light. But I heard no voice. Even the sea made no noise, so still
were its waters.
"Ah!" I cried, "my father is gone, for ever gone, and I am cursed with
the curse of my people."
Was it fancy? Was it the voice of man or the voice of God that I heard
in answer to my despairing cry? Fancy it could not be, for it was past
midnight and I stood alone on the great headland. Surely God spoke to
me, for there, alone in the silence, I heard my father's last words
repeated. How they came I know not, but this I know, in tones sweeter
than thought can fancy came the glorious message, "There is no curse,
God is love."
After that I was able to think and connect, link by link, the events of
the evening.
And all this was but the twilight which told of the coming night.
CHAPTER XI
THE CALL TO RENOUNCE
Whereat Siddartha turned,
And lo! the moon shone by the crab! the stars
In that same silver order long foretold
Stood in range to say, "This is the right!--Choose thou
The way of greatness or the way of good;
To reign a King of Kings, or wander lone,
Crownless, and homeless that the world be helped."
--_The Light of Asia._
After this I went back to my room, and tried to realise the true
position of matters. One by one I thought over the events of the day,
and tried to understand their purport. "There's Providence in the fall
of a sparrow," said Hamlet, and I, being to a certain extent a believer
in this, fancied that everything through which I had gone was an
essential part of the drama of my life.
First, there was Ruth's preference for Wilfred and her dislike for me.
Well, I must bear that. Besides, I was not sure. It is always the
function of a true-hearted woman to speak well of the absent one,
especially if he be maligned. I would not yet allow myself to be
downcast.
Then there was the light on the great rock, the rock of evil repute,
the rock that lured vessels to their destruction. I thought again and
again of this. Then there was the appearance of Deborah Teague, who
told me the light foreboded evil, while the weird dark form between the
prongs told the same story. On other occasions I might have laughed at
all this; but that terrible calamity following so soon after the
warning impressed me strangely.
Yet what connexion could these dark omens have with the death of my
father? What link was there between evil women and one of the purest
and best of men. Clearer than all omens and louder than evil words was
my father's last message to me, a message repeated by the voice of
Heaven, "There is no curse; God is Love."
Thus when daylight came, I was calm, and although I had passed a
sleepless night I was not altogether unrefreshed.
Three weary days followed, and then the funeral. Of that time I have
not much to say. I was mostly alone, except when I was obliged to
attend to the business which now devolved upon me, though I declared
that nothing of importance should be dealt with until after my father's
burial.
From the members of the family I received only kindness. My mother
said nothing that could hurt my feelings; indeed, she seemed
considerate and at times almost gentle. Wilfred, too, was more like
the Wilfred of olden times when we were on good terms with each other.
There was no change in my sisters. They always loved me, and were more
than usually loving, while Ruth was the comforting, cheering influence
of the house. Never until now did I realize the sweetness of her
nature, or her power to cheer and help others when her own heart was
almost breaking.
I could not do much; but in my clumsy way I tried to make them all feel
my father's loss less.
And thus the time passed until my father was laid in the old family
vault, and we returned to our old house on the cliff. Then we came
back to the hard material things of life. We had to listen to father's
last will and testament, and hear his latest wishes. All the family
gathered in the library, together with Mr. Inch, Ruth, our solicitor,
who also attended to the legal matters of Ruth's estate, Mr. Tremain,
the doctor, and Mr. Polperrow, the vicar.
I need not here state the terms of the will: they have already been
hinted at. Everything that a loving father could devise for the
welfare of his children my father had done.
Not a word was spoken when the lawyer's voice ceased. If Wilfred was
discontented he said nothing at the time, and my sisters were too
overcome with grief to trouble about what money was left them. No
sooner had the will been read, however, than Mr. Inch spoke.
"It seems to me that this is the time for the wishes of Mr. Morton and
Mr. Trewinion to be made known," he said.
I began to tremble violently, while Ruth evidently wondered what was
coming.
The lawyer complied very graciously with Mr. Inch's request. "This
seems to be the right time," he said.
I could not help thinking that the matter had been arranged beforehand,
especially when Mr. Tremain produced a certain document and began to
read therefrom.
The words he read were very plain and distinct. They stated that it
was the wish of Mr. Morton that his daughter Ruth should in due time
marry the heir of the Trewinion estate, and while he did not enforce it
as a condition of her becoming his sole heiress, he still trusted that
his daughter's love for him would lead her to obedience. After this
the lawyer went on to say that on the night of his death my father had
reiterated the same wish.
When he had finished reading and speaking I looked at Ruth. Her face
was pale as death, and I saw that she was terribly moved. The
revelation had come to her as a great shock, and I could not help
seeing that a look of anger and disgust flashed from her eyes.
"My father wish that I should marry Roger!" she exclaimed, huskily.
"Never! It cannot be!"
My heart sank like lead; but no further word was spoken. Soon the
family conclave broke up, and we adjourned to the dining-hall.
I felt very strange, sitting at the head of the table in my father's
chair, and for a time was almost overcome; but I rallied presently, and
during the dinner was quietly thinking what was best to do. Although
the head of the family, I felt I was quite alone. Everything told me
that all in the house, excepting, perhaps my sisters, were in league
with my mother against me.
I made up my mind, however, that I would not speak for three days to
Ruth concerning her father's wish, and that then I would, if I dared,
say the words my heart was burning to make known.
Nothing worthy of mention passed during the dinner-hour, but
afterwards, having occasion to go into the library, I found Ruth alone.
Instantly I wanted to refer to what had been said concerning us. My
blood rushed madly to my head and my hands trembled.
I do not know, but I think she saw what was in my mind, for she turned
away her face and walked toward the window.
"Ruth," I said, "why do you go away from me?"
She began to sob violently.
"Ruth," I continued, "something must grieve you to make you cry thus.
Is it because of what has been said about us? If so, do not grieve any
more. I will never ask you to do what would give you pain."
Her sorrow was terrible to see. Was it because of me that her grief
was so bitter?
"Don't give way so," I went on. "Shall I leave you alone? I am sure I
do not wish to give you any trouble. After our walk the other night I
determined I would never say another word to hurt your feelings, and
I'll be true to my determination. I did not mean to speak about the
will for some time, but perhaps it would be better if I were to tell
you now. Ruth, it is the dearest wish of my life that we should fulfil
our fathers' wish in this matter. I have loved you ever since--since
that terrible night, when you first came, but I never realized it until
the day that Wilfred came home from Oxford. Then I was nearly mad with
jealousy. I am afraid I have been very rude to you since, but it was
because I love you so, for Ruth, I would do anything to make you happy."
Still she sat leaning forward on a table, her head buried in her hands,
and sobbing as though her heart would break.
"It hurts me to hear you cry so," I said, "and I can see now why it is.
But cheer up, Ruth. I will not speak of this any more. I will never
ask you to obey your father's will. You shall not have the pain of
linking your life to mine. I love you too well for that. God bless
you, Ruth. I will try and find out what will make you happy, and then
you shall see how I love you; for I will do all in my power to give you
what you want."
She held up her head. There was an expression of thankfulness on her
face; a look of intense relief, as though a burden was taken away.
I knew my fate then; and while it gave me joy to give her one minute's
pleasure, yet it was agony to think that the promise of my absence
should be the cause of it. So great indeed was the pain that I could
not bear it, and stumbled blindly out. In spite of the fact that when
I got into the hall I thought I heard her calling "Roger" I rushed away
to the cliffs, whither I always fled in my hours of trouble.
But the events of the day were not yet at an end. As I stood alone
looking at the sea I saw a great cloud rising in the northern sky.
Soon I knew we should be enveloped in it and feel its darkness. In
like manner was there a cloud, darker than all the rest, rising in the
sky of my life. What it was I could not say; but I felt its coining,
and I shuddered. "Coming events cast their shadows before," says the
old adage, and looking backward I can see how true it was in this case.
Aimlessly I wandered on while the evening shadows gathered around, and
the sea sobbed its sad song, telling me of the storm that was surely
coming. As chance or fate would have it, I passed by the cottage of
old Deborah Teague, and there in the grey twilight I saw her, with
Mally Udy, quietly smoking. They looked up at my approach, but spoke
not. A low chuckle escaped both of them, however, but I had no heart
to speak to them. Still, their gruesome appearance added to the dark
feelings that possessed me, and the dark shadows became more real.
At length I made my way back to the house, and although I was its
lawful owner, and although every inch of land for a long distance
around was mine, I felt that I was a stranger and an interloper. It
was cold, too, cold as a vault, and as I passed along, the stone paved
hall made a clanking noise which echoed through the silent rooms. I
heard the wind howling too, and the sea began to roar, and when this
was so there was always a ghostly, weird feeling about our old grey
house.
As if drawn on by a spell, I made my way to the library, and on
arriving there found my mother sitting alone.
"I have been waiting for you, Roger," said my mother quietly. "I felt
there were some things about which I ought to speak to-night, and so
would not retire until I saw you."
"And what about the girls, mother?" I said. "Where are they, and where
is Wilfred?"
"They are all gone to bed. It has been a terrible day for them all,
especially for Ruth, and so I sent them off. Besides, we must speak
alone to-night."
"Speak alone, mother? I thought everything was settled. I am weary,
and desire no business to-night. I have had much to do for three days,
and have more to do to-morrow. I must rest."
"There is such a thing as duty as well as pleasure," said my mother
severely. "You are now Trewinion's lord, and surely it is your duty to
care about the happiness of others. Besides, a mother should ever be
able to command her son?"
"Just so, mother," I said wearily. "Tell me what you wish, and I will
do my best to obey you."
"Roger," she said in an altered tone, "you have had the reputation of
being kind-hearted and generous. I know you have often thought me hard
upon you; but if I have been so, it was only from the desire to make
you gentle as well as generous."
I looked upon her in surprise, and in spite of my sorrow my heart
bounded with hope. Perhaps my father's death had destroyed all hard
feelings, and now I should know the meaning of a mother's love.
"Mother," I said, "I have been rough and harsh. I'll try to be a
better son, and perhaps we may be happy in the future."
A sharp spasm, as if of pain, crossed her face, but she spoke naturally.
"It may be," she went on, "that what I shall say may hurt you, but I
only want to be a kind, loving mother."
My heart warmed more than ever. "I am sure that is your desire,
mother," I said.
She was silent for a minute, and again I saw the look of of pain which
crossed her face.
"Roger," she burst out, "what I have to say nearly kills me," and she
burst into a flood of tears.
I went to her side and soothed her.
"Don't grieve, mother," I said, "and don't say anything that will give
you pain."
"No, no, it's not that," she said, and then cried out, "I can't tell
him, I can't."
"Don't, mother," I cried. "Wait until you are stronger, and then tell
me. These few days have been terrible for you. I have been thinking
too much about myself. I have been remembering that I have lost my
father, but have forgotten that you have lost your husband. I know
it's terrible, mother, but dear father is happy now, and Wilfred and I
will take care of you."
At the mention of Wilfred's name her face changed. A look of
determination came upon her face, and her hands clenched nervously.
"Roger," she said, "I am calm now, and hard as it is to tell you I will
do so."
I sat down before her, wondering what was coming.
"You remember the night of your--your father's--death?"
"Yes, mother."
"He said it was his wish, and the wish of Mr. Morton that you should
wed Ruth."
"Yes," I said, my heart beating violently.
"Roger, that must never be!"
"Why?"
I spoke harshly, for my heart became hard as a stone, and yet it seemed
to grow too big for my bosom.
"Because," she answered, her voice trembling as she did so, "she
loathes, shudders at the thought of marrying you."
"How dare you say this?" I cried angrily, and yet I knew her words were
true. Ruth's face had told me the same story only that very evening.
"If you wish to drive her mad, kill her, murder her!" went on my
mother, "ask her to do as her father wishes."
"What is there in me to drive her mad, or to murder her?" I cried. "I
have always been kind to her."
"Nothing, nothing, Roger. She loves you as a brother. You have been
very good to her. None of us forget that twice you saved her life."
"Then why do you say she loathes me?"
"Can you not see what I mean? She does not loathe you as a brother;
but she loathes the thought of your being her husband, and were you to
insist on a marriage, you would kill her!"
"Why? You say she loves me as a brother; why, then, should the other
thought be so terribly abhorrent? Could she not in time learn to give
me more than a brother's love?"
"Never!"
"Why?"
"Because she loves another!"
"Another! Who?"
"Can you not guess?"
Guess! Ah, yes; I could indeed. Had I not seen it for weeks? My
mother need not tell me more. I knew perfectly well.
"Surely you have seen that they have been lovers from childhood," she
went on. "She has been all in all to him, while--well, you must have
seen how she regarded him. He did not speak to her about it, however,
until he came home from Oxford, and then, on the day of his arrival, he
told her what he had felt for years."
"And she?"
"She told him--that--what in short he had been longing to hear, and,
although we knew it not, they became betrothed."
It was what I had thought, it did not surprise me, and yet I felt sick
and giddy. It was some time before I could speak, and then I could
only stammer out:
"And she promised to be his wife?"
My mother nodded.
No words can describe what I felt, for never until then did I realise
how I loved her, or what pain it was for me to lose her.
"Do you love Ruth very much, Roger?" asked mother.
"Love her!" I cried, "love her! I would die for her."
"And she loves Wilfred, and would never be happy away from him."
I fought it down after a while; crushed all my envy, jealousy, and
hatred--for hate did possess me for a time--and then turned to my
mother again.
"Let Ruth and Wilfred be happy," I said, "I shall put in no claim, her
happiness is more important than mine."
"They cannot," said my mother.
"Cannot!" I cried. "Why?"
"Because it was her father's wish that she should marry Trewinion's
heir, and she will do it, though she dies the next day."
"I do not understand."
"You know how much she has ever thought of her father. No one I ever
saw loved a parent, or a parent's memory, as much as she loved her
father's. And now, although she would have to sacrifice everything
dear to her heart, she will be true to his wish."
"But I will not have it so. I will not call for the sacrifice."
"Then you are hindering her father's wish from being fulfilled, and you
will still be keeping Ruth and Wilfred apart."
"But what can I do?"
My mother was silent.
Then I saw her meaning. My very existence was the great evil. I was
Trewinion's heir, whom her father wished her to marry, and yet she
hated the thought of it; while she could not marry the man she loved
because of her father's will. Meanwhile she was suffering a terrible
torture--and I was causing it.
I tried to look at the whole matter fairly and boldly. What were the
alternatives? I was Roger Trewinion's eldest son, and if I allowed my
father's and Mr. Morton's will to be carried out, I doomed my darling
to a loathsome life--a living death, while, though I should attain the
object most dear to me, I should live in hell, the hell of being with a
woman who loved another man. If I refused to marry her, things would
be nearly as bad. I should still be dooming her to misery; she would
not marry my brother, I should never be free from the thought that I
was keeping others from happiness, while the two houses of Trewinion
and Morton would not be united.
Slowly it came at first! Then the full meaning of the thought flashed
upon me! I could not do it, I could not! And yet it was the only way.
Renounce my name, my possessions, my identity! Go away and never
return!
That was the alternative, the only way by which the houses could be
united, the only way Ruth could be happy.
"I see what you mean, mother," I cried out at last, "but I must have
time, I cannot decide in a moment. I must speak to Ruth, to Wilfred."
"Why speak to Ruth? You will only give her more pain. You spoke this
afternoon. Why cause her to bear more than she is already bearing?"
Ruth had told her, then, and doubtless told her, too, what were her
feelings towards Wilfred! I saw the truth, the force of her words, and
yet it was very hard.
"I must think, mother," I said. "I know you love Wilfred the better; I
know you think him far more fit to be the head of the house than I; you
think I ought to make the sacrifice, but I must have time to think."
"How long, Roger? The day after to-morrow Ruth leaves Trewinion Manor."
"Leave! Why?"
"Need you ask? She cannot wait here in the house with the man she
thinks she has to marry, when the thought of such a thing is terrible."
I was driving Ruth away then. Not only was I giving her pain and
sorrow, but because of me she was going to leave the only home wherein
she could be happy. It was true she could return to her own home,
which had been kept in repair, but I knew she did not intend going
there until she came of age.
"She does not wish to be with me longer than she thinks she is forced
by her father's will?" I said.
"She knows she is not expected to marry you until she is twenty-one.
That will not be for some time, and so she is going away."
This was hardest of all to bear, it drove me to madness. Her
detestation of me was so great that she determined to shun me.
"Just one word more, mother. Have you spoken to me because of Ruth's
desire, or with her sanction?"
A strange look flashed across my mother's face; then she said, "Roger,
never think I can answer that question."
My brain seemed on fire, and I could not tell what to do, I could not
decide. I simply rushed out of the room saying, "You will soon know."
I made my way to my room upstairs, and in passing along a corridor I
saw a light in Mr. Inch's room. Immediately I knocked at his door, and
on receiving permission, entered. I found him busy with a lot of
papers.
"Is it correct that you and Miss Morton are going to leave us, Mr.
Inch?" I said.
He bowed, and said, quietly but distinctly, "It is so decided."
"Might I ask the reason for this abrupt departure?" I said. "I have
heard nothing about it until to-night."
He looked at me for a moment steadily; then he said,
"It is not for me to say; surely you should know that it is next to
impossible for her to remain here now."
He also had told me in words as plain as words could tell what she
felt. I must think, think alone. I found my way to my bedroom, but my
mind would not work there. I must get out under the broad sky, where
all was free. So again I left the house, went away towards the highest
point on the headland, where, hundreds of feet below, the waves were
lashing themselves into foam as they broke upon the great rugged rocks.
CHAPTER XII
NIGHT
"And Esau hated Jacob. . . . And Esau said in his heart, the days of
mourning for my father are at hand; then will I slay my brother
Jacob."--_The Book of Genesis._
It did not rain, but the wind blew a wild hurricane. Now and then it
seemed to cease, and I could hear a kind of moaning sound which the sea
made, but again it came as though it would sweep away the great rocks
that grimly defied the fury of the elements. I did not mind this,
everything accorded with my feelings. I found ease in breasting the
storm, I breathed more freely when the wind blew its loudest.
By and by the thunders began to roar and the lightnings to flash, still
no rain fell, so I did not mind.
But it was terrible to be alone on such a night, and with such a
problem to solve. For hours I think I was mad. I am sure that in my
frenzy my voice could be heard above the wind and wave. Nothing,
however, made me forget what lay before me. The future ever haunted
me, and turned the thunderings of the wave into derisive mocking
laughter.
Now and then I would stand and look at the old house, which I could
dimly see in the stormlight, and when I did so it became dearer than
ever to me. It was the home of my fathers, the place wherein they had
died, and my heart clave unto it. I felt proud of my name--proud that
I was born the representative of my family, and to give it up seemed
like pulling at my heart-strings.
And thus I was tempted in the night; I would maintain my position as
Trewinion's heir. I would wed Ruth. I would brave everything and
carry out the wish of my father. Ruth did not love me now, but she
might learn to love me in time, besides, I could not give her up. I
loved her--loved her supremely. All the strength of my nature, moulded
largely by wild surroundings and an uncultured people, was given to
her. I did not love tamely. It was no tender passion I felt, it was a
mad, passionate adoration. I can call it nothing less. Fer her I
could brave danger, difficulty, death; but I could not give her up.
And I would not!
Why should I? I was master, I would remain so. I would maintain my
rights. I would let Wilfred know that I was the elder brother and he
the younger. And Ruth should be mine. My father wished it, and so did
hers, and so I would claim her. I would take my father's place and
reign righteously. I would be a pattern to the neighbouring gentry,
and my name should be respected far and wide. This was what every
eldest son of my race save one had done--that is, they had all claimed
their position, and so would I. Wilfred's happiness! Well, Wilfred
had always defied me and treated me as an inferior. Wilfred must take
care of himself; he must be thankful that I gave him the annuity my
father had mentioned. I could not help being born the first; besides,
what had I to do with his happiness? What right had he to seek to win
Ruth's affections? Doubtless he who was so friendly with Mr. Inch
would know her father's wish. Thus he must have acted like a sneak to
have sought what could not be fairly given to him. And Ruth! Did I
not love her, would I not humour her every wish, grant her every
desire, and devote my life to make her happy?
And mother?
She had never cared for me, never trusted me, never treated me as a
son, never told me of her intentions. I did not know, indeed, if she
were my mother. Why, then, should I trouble about her? If need be she
could go and live with Wilfred; at any rate, I would be Trewinion's
lord, and maintain my rights.
Then the other side presented itself. If this were carried out what
would be the result? I should see Ruth suffering, pining day by day.
She would loathe my presence, she would shudder at my embrace. By my
selfishness I should wreck her life. I should be her murderer. Then
what happiness should I have? Could I be happy while the woman I loved
was being cursed by my presence?
Then I put it this way: If I
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