The brave man is not he who feels no fear;For that were stupid and irrational;But he whose noble soul its fear subduesAnd 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.
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.
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 frostIn 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.