Whereat Siddartha turned,And lo! the moon shone by the crab! the starsIn that same silver order long foretoldStood in range to say, "This is the right!—Choose thouThe 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.
"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 went away—not that I should, but considering it suppositiously merely—if I went away, what would be the result? Wilfred would claim to be master; he would be Trewinion's heir; he would wed Ruth, who would gladly join her life to his—for were they not affianced lovers?—my mother would rejoice, and all would be happy. My black shadow would be taken from their lives, and they could for ever live in the sunshine.
The picture seemed bright, and for a moment the thought of it gave me pleasure. Then I remembered that I should be leaving Ruth for ever; I should be leaving my old home for ever; I should not die in the great chamber where all my ancestors had died. I should be a wanderer, a vagrant, homeless and friendless.
Besides, what could I do? Strong and hardy I was, as a man could well be, but I had no trade or profession. That is the curse which befalls eldest sons who expect fortunes; if anything happens to them they have no profession on which to rely. What did I know? Something of the management of an estate, but not enough for a steward, nor would anyone hire a steward without an assurance as to his abilities and past career. I was not fit for that, and if I went away the name of Roger Trewinion must be sunk for ever, so that I could not seek such a post. The only thing I could say I was fit for was the post of a sailor. If I went away I must try and get a place in a trading vessel.
I thought of all this, but would not confess to myself that I was seriously thinking of leaving my home, the sacrifice was too great.
Meanwhile the storm was raging, and flakes of foam were blown against my face. Then I felt some raindrops falling, and the sky became more lowering.
I would go in and go to bed, and on the morrow I would speak to Ruth.
Then came the moment of final struggle. Ruth was leaving the house because of me, because she loathed the thought of being my wife, and because she wished to be free from me as long as she could.
This thought took away much of my interest in home, as well as my desire to remain among the scenes of my early childhood. It chilled those warm feelings of attachment for the homestead, and for the people who had become a part of my life.
Ruth leave because of me! And yet it was because of Ruth I wanted to stay. I would look at the matter again. I wanted to make Ruth happy; but what was the course I must take in order to do that? The great hindrance to her happiness was myself. I was the black cloud that hid her sun. If I did not exist her joy would be complete, for then she would be free to wed the man she loved.
And while I was fighting this battle the storm beat furiously upon me. Never shall I forget how the wind blew, nor how the waves became more and more maddened. Dimly I could see the great mountains of waters, as with thundering roars they hurled themselves on the rockbound coast and became churned into foam. How stern and pitiless nature was, how careless of all human joys or sorrows! It was well I had my dying father's assurance that God was love, or I could never have believed it then. To me there was an almighty devil ruling the universe. A being who hated us, and sought our destruction.
I was however glad of the storm. It helped me. I had to resist, to exert myself. It gave play to my active nature; it kept me from succumbing to the dark cloud of sorrow in which I was enveloped.
I know not how, nor can I tell the exact moment when the decision was made; but, in the end, I decided to leave the old homestead and to give Ruth happiness. I claim no virtue for my act. There was not much in it after all. I should never be happy if I remained at home; nay, Trewinion Manor would be hell to me, while spectres that I should constantly be raising would haunt my life. Besides, I might find some relief away. I would go, I would roam the world all over, and, perhaps, away from the scene of my misery, I should find peace. My heart was breaking, and it was not worth while for me to add misery to that which was already felt by those by whom I was surrounded.
It may be said by those who read this that my act was one of great self-denial; but if it was it brought none of that peace and inward satisfaction which are said to come from such deeds. My misery, if possible, became more intense, and the storm seemed to mock me with shrieks and howls of derision.
With a great weight on my heart I crept back to the house, and slowly went to my room. When should I go?
"To-morrow" was the response of my weaker nature. "Get a good night's rest, make an impressive scene before Ruth, and go away with a flourish of trumpets." But that would not do. I doubt whether I could have had the heart to go away in the daylight if I saw Ruth near me. Besides, I did not want to go away openly; I would leave in secret, when no eye should see me, and when no one should be able to trace me. When should I go?
"Now!"
That was the answer of my stronger and sterner nature. Leave in the night, alone, and at once. Never look at the sweet face of Elizabeth and Katherine, never be weakened by the beauty of Ruth, never be shaken in my resolve by the patronising pride of Wilfred or the unloving look of my mother. Delay would be dangerous. On the one hand were influences leading me to stay, by making me defiant, hard, and bitter; on the other, by making me weak and yielding. I would go at once then.
Where?
That mattered not for the time. I would leave the house at once, and decide my course when once away and alone.
Should I let any one know what had become of me, should I write a letter to Ruth, or Wilfred, or mother? I dared not. To do that would weaken me at once. Still, it would be better that I should let them all know that I was gone away, never to return.
I clothed myself in a strong plain suit of clothes, which I had used when shooting on our boggy rough moors, put twenty guineas in my pocket, and then went down into the library again. I did not look around me and think of the hours I had spent there. If I did Ruth could not be happy, for I should not have sufficient courage to remove my black shadow from her life. I went to the writing desk and began to try to say good-bye. That I found I could not do, so I simply wrote the words:
"From this time Roger Trewinion is no more. He ceases to be so that Wilfred can be Trewinion's heir and Ruth can be happy. Let Wilfred do his duty, or Roger Trewinion may come to life again."
That was all, and after I had written it I felt more calm. Then I took a stout oak stick, on which was engraven my father's name, and one which he usually took when out walking and went away from the house, in my heart bidding it good-bye for ever.
I walked rapidly northwards, keeping close to the cliffs. It was now early morning, but the sun had not yet risen. The black clouds had passed away, but the sea forgot not its anger, and still broke furiously upon the shore.
I must have walked five miles when I saw signs of day. The sky changed from nearly black into a sombre grey, while the sea became like unto the sky. The birds creeping from their night resting-places, began to sing, and from the farms by which I passed I heard the sound of the cocks crowing.
On I tramped, anxious to get away from the neighbourhood where I was known, the light becoming clearer and clearer as I went, until I could see the outline of the coast. Then before me I saw a great jutting headland, similar to the one on which our house was built, thence I should be able to see my old home.
By the time I got there it was broad day, I think about five o'clock, and wistfully I scanned the coast. Yes, there was Trewinion clear and plain, although miles away. The grey, rugged walls stood out distinctly and striking, while the tower lifted its head proudly into the sky. And this home I had given up. Back from it stretched broad acres that were mine, and these I had renounced for a woman.
"Treat her well, Wilfred, or by the Creator of us both you shall curse the day on which you were born."
I muttered this between my closed teeth, for at that moment I knew I hated him.
Then I remembered the Trewinion's curse.
Do I believe in supernatural agencies, in witchcraft? Am I prey to superstitious fancies? I cannot answer. The unseen world is so linked with the seen that they are but one world. I cannot tell where to draw the line between natural and supernatural. To me the two are one. But this I know; the moment I realised that I hated Wilfred, I was cursed with a terrible curse. Evil passions surged within me, I planned dark deeds, murder did not seem hateful, and hell far worse than that which I had felt when I had been struggling on the cliff was now my doom.
A bottomless pit! I was in it. A pit of slavery to evil desire, of savage joy which was not joy, at the thought of evil. This was where I was.
He, the miserable sneak, had robbed me of my love, my all. And yet I could not go back. The house was mine, the lands were mine, yet I could not claim them. I was bound, yet I could not see the fetters which chained me.
Does a curse like unto mine follow the footsteps of men who hate, or does the Trewinion race stand alone. Be that as it may, I felt cursed, the clear fountains of my manhood were gone. Roger Trewinion was more demon than man. For hatred poisons the soul.
And yet I loved Ruth. This, I think, was the power that kept me from going back and doing evil, and yet this love did not make me hate the less. Nay, it made hatred more intense.
Long I stood alone in the grey morning, watching the bleak house that stood in the distance, while the sea moaned and sobbed miserably, as if to add another feeling to the misery of my heart. I seemed riveted there. I looked at the five prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" like one entranced, and thought of their associations. I saw the place where I had saved Ruth, when she had fallen from the cliffs. I fancied I detected the place where the witches' cave stood, and I remembered all that had been said.
"Ah," I cried, "Deborah Teague is indeed a true prophet. Dark omens have a meaning. I am indeed homeless, friendless, forsaken, and the Trewinion curse is come. I go now, never to return, while my love is given to another, and my power is taken by my younger brother. Yet seemingly I have done nothing to merit this."
For a time I was mad. I shook my fist and called down curses upon Wilfred and my mother. I prayed that they should never have rest or joy, and that the ghost of my father should haunt them. And yet I could give no real reason for this, only that my heart was black.
I felt I must go on. I must get farther away from the place where my life had been spent; so I gave one look more, one long hungering look that was full of agony, and as at last I turned my eyes away, my heart strings seemed to snap.
Then I set my teeth together, clasped my stick firmly, and, with lowering brow and a black heart, trudged wearily northward.
I went on heedlessly for a mile or so. I was stunned, and felt strange and giddy; but by and by I felt I must come to such decision in regard to my course. So I struck into the main road, and continued my journey northward. By this time I felt the warmth and brightness of the day. The sun was now clear of the horizon, and revealed the glittering dewdrops that hung on grass and flower. The majestic hills rose on either side of me, the waving cornfields presented a rich and beautiful appearance.
The glories of nature did not soften me, however. My heart was still hard with hatred and disappointment, and I was too busy with my sad thoughts to decide what to do, or to what town to steer.
Presently a man met me, the first I had seen since I started. He was a farm labourer, taking his oxen to the fields to plough, and on looking at my watch I found that I had been walking for about six hours, and that I must be at least twenty miles from home. The man touched his hat, although I was sure he did not know me. Evidently my dress was not that of a workman. If I was to get a place as a workman, I must dress like one.
"Where does this road lead to?" I asked of the man.
"Dun knaw, zur, I'm sure, but they do zay as 'ow it do go to Waadbrudge."
"Wadebridge, eh? Do you know how far it is away?"
"No, zur, I doan't, for I never bin more'n vive mile away from Treloggas, which is my home, zur, but my maaster es a bit of a traveller, zur. He've bin to Bodmun, and he do zay as 'ow Waadbrudge es fifteen mile on."
"Fifteen miles. Is it a good road?"
"Oi, iss, zur. You do git into the turnpike dreckly (directly), and then the roads sa smoove as a booard."
"And is there a publichouse anywhere near?"
"Iss, zur, 'bout three mile on thurs a kiddley-wink (beershop) that do belong to Tommy Dain, he as can raise the devil, you do knaw, zur."
This helped me to decide what to do. Wadebridge was a little seaport, and there I should perhaps get on board a vessel that would take me right away from home. Then, perhaps, when I was away on the rolling seas, I should forget my disappointments, and find ease from the gnawing, bitter hatred that had gripped my heart.
Inspired by this thought I hurried on rapidly. I was beginning to feel hungry and faint after my long walk, so was glad to know of the inn, even although Tommy Dean, the landlord, possessed such powers.
Arrived there I had a good breakfast of ham and eggs, after which Tommy brought out a tankard of ale. I was about to drink it when I reflected. But for drink my father's horse would not have been frightened and I should not now have been fatherless. But for drink I should not now be homeless and friendless. Drink had deprived me of my dearest, best friend, and I would have none of it. So much did this impress me at the time that I made up my mind never to touch intoxicant again; at any rate, until I saw sufficient reason to alter my mind.
After breakfast I felt that the twelve miles which lay before me were as nothing. In three hours, if nothing happened, I should be in Wadebridge.
Nothing of importance happened on the way. Milestone after milestone I passed wearily. I had little object or hope in life. I had sacrificed my all for the sake of others, and it brought me no happiness. When I reached Wadebridge my interest was somewhat aroused. My knowledge of towns was very limited. I had only paid two or three visits to our county towns, which are, to say the least of them, small and to some extent uninteresting. Twice I had been to Truro, and once to Falmouth; thus when I came to Wadebridge, I was somewhat excited. Such a thing seems strange to me now, when I remember the facts of the case. Wadebridge was only a little village composed of one street, which led down to the river Wade, over which a bridge is built, hence the name of the port.
There is a curious story among the Wadebridge people as to how their bridge was built. Many years ago there was a ferry across the river, but it was the frequent custom of farmers to ride their horses or drive their cattle across it when the tide was low, but often men and beasts were lost in the quicksands formed in the rising tide. After one sad accident of this sort, the Rev. Mr. Lovebone, the vicar of Wadebridge, determined that a bridge should be built, and after great pains and struggling it was finished with seventeen arches of stone. But in spite of their great labour, disappointment and defeat followed in their track, for pier after pier was lost in the sands. A "fair structure" was to be seen in the evening, but in the morning nothing was left. Mr. Lovebone was ready to give up in despair; but one night he dreamed that an angel came with a flock of sheep, that he sheared them, let the wool fall in to the water, and speedily built the bridge on the wool. Then the holy man awoke with a new idea. He appealed to the farmers, who sent him all the wool they had, which was put into sacks; these were placed thickly on the sands, and on these piers were built. Thus the wisdom of the angel of the dream was manifest, for the bridge remains to this day.
The harbour is not very wide or large at Wadebridge, and vessels of large dimensions can only come in when the tide is high.
The first thing I did on my arrival was to go to a small shop where seafaring apparel was sold. The owner looked at me curiously, as I asked for a general rig out, but showed me what I wanted nevertheless. I was not long in making a bargain, and then asked for permission to change my attire.
"Ain't bin doin' nothin' wrong, I hope?" he said.
"Not to my knowledge," I replied.
"Cause you do'ant look much like a chap as is used to wearin' a sailor's clothes," he said.
"No," I answered. "What do I look like, then?"
He looked at my hands, then at my shooting suit, and again at my face, and replied slowly:
"Why, you do look look like a passen's son as hev got into trouble and be now runnin' away; ed'n that about right, now?"
"Not exactly," I said, "but I'm sure you'll allow me to change my clothes, won't you?"
He gave an unwilling consent at length, and I confess that, when I had put on a rough suit of seaman's clothes, I hardly knew myself. I went across the bridge to the little village of Egloshayle, and walked towards Slades Bridge, which lay in the direction of Bodmin.
"Now," I said to myself, "you are no longer Roger Trewinion, but a common fisherman, who is desirous of going to sea. Forget the past. Forget that you are the heir to a fine estate, forget that you have given up all for love."
But I could not do this. True, there was a sense in which all seemed like a dream, so that the past was misty; but above all was the fact of my great and burning love for Ruth, a love so intense as to lead me to sacrifice everything that she might be happy with the man whom she loved, and whom I hated, although he was my brother.
The thought was madness. My sacrifice seemed madness, and once I thought of going back again. That, however, was soon banished, for although my coming away might be the action of one who did not know what he was doing, to go back would be to strike despair and anguish into the heart of Ruth, and that would be hell for me.
No, I had fought that battle. I had made Ruth happy. I should soon become as nothing to them, and thus Wilfred and my mother would have their own way, and be joyous because I was no more. That was something, and yet I was sure that Wilfred had schemed for such an end. What definite reason I had for this I could not tell, but I was sure of it, and I hated him. True, I had gone away freely, and yet I had been driven away; things had been so arranged that I could not stay to be a skeleton at the feast, a hindrance to all joy.
I ceased to think about it at length, and tried to bring myself into harmony with my surroundings. What should I call myself? I could not ask for a sailor's position as Roger Trewinion, and yet I did not like to give up my name. Finally I decided to call myself Richard Tretheway. It was a very common name, and by this name I should still retain my initials. Where I came from was a matter of little importance; there were lots of little fishing villages all the way down the coast; so I settled on one near my old home, and made my way to the riverside where some vessels lay. The captain of one of them struck my attention in a minute. He stood quietly watching some men who were loading the boat with corn. He was not swearing or bullying as some of the others were, and I determined to speak to him.
"And what may you want, my lad?" he said as I went up to him.
"A job, sir," I said, with a strong Cornish accent.
He looked at me keenly. "What can you do?" he said.
I named the work I could do on a ship.
"Let's have a look at your hands?" he said.
I showed him my hands. They were not so soft as those of most young men in my position. I had done an amount of harvest work, and thus, with constantly rowing and engaging in other physical exercises, they were almost as hard as an ordinary seaman's.
"What have you been brought up to?" he asked.
"Fishing."
"That's a lie. You are neither a fisherman nor a sailor."
I hung my head.
"Yes, you may hang your head, my lad, for you are not what you seem."
Again in a clumsy way I repeated the duties of both, but the captain would not listen.
"Yes, yes, my young gentleman, you may know about these things as well as I do, but that don't deceive me. You were never brought up to work, you weren't; but you are a strong likely chap for all that."
I tried again to assure him that I could do a sailor's work well.
"Now, look here, young man," he said, "I'm an oldish chap, and have seen a bit of the world, and have learnt to read a little of men and things, and although you are not what you want to pass off to be I like your looks. What you mean by being here I don't know; but that's not my business, and I do want a likely young fellow like you. Answer me square and fair. Are you seeking to get on this vessel because you've done anything wrong, are you in fear of anybody or anything, and is anybody after you now?"
I liked his plain question, and I answered plainly.
"I have done nothing wrong, sir," I said; "I am not afraid of anything or anybody, and no one is after me now."
He looked at me straight in the eyes, but I met his gaze fearlessly.
"What's your name, my lad?"
"Richard Tretheway."
"That is not your real name?"
"No."
"You are sure you are doing nothing wrong in concealing your true name? Be perfectly honest."
"I am doing nothing wrong. I am doing what's right."
"I'll take you," he said.
I thanked him.
"Look you," he said, "expect no favours; you must do your work fair and square like the rest. We go from here to Padstow, then on to Falmouth, from there to Plymouth, then to London. From there, if you behave well, I'll take you to France and down the Mediterranean. Do what you have to do here quickly. It's high tide at six this evening, and then we shall sail."
"Thank you," I said; "I have nothing to do, but I'll go and get some dinner and then come straight back."
As I said this I turned to go; but the captain laughed and called me back.
"Look you, Tretheway," he said, "if I hadn't known you were a greenhorn to this kind of thing before I should know it now. You haven't said anything about wages."
"I'll leave that to you," I said confusedly, and then went back to the town.
I shall not dwell on my experience that evening, nor, indeed, shall I speak of many of my adventures, as I want to relate only those facts of my history which are vitally concerned with the name I bear, with its associations and legends.
The next afternoon we sailed past my old home. Long before we drew near it, I saw the grey tower on the great weather-beaten cliff, and with beating heart I stood on the deck and watched while we drew nearer and nearer. I strained my eyes to catch sight of any of my family, but no one could be seen. Closer and closer we came, the great prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" standing out more clearly as we swept on.
Did anyone there think of me? I wondered. Yes, they would naturally do that. My mother would think of me, and be glad I was gone, for her favourite boy would be master. Wilfred would think of me, and wonder if I should come back, and, perhaps, dread the thought of such a thing happening. My sisters would think of me lovingly, and wonder what had become of Roger. And Ruth—I dared not think of her.
Who had seen my letter? I wondered. My mother was the most likely one to do so, or Wilfred, and they would treasure up the words I had written, they would weigh well their purport. But would it be shown to Ruth or to my sisters?
My dear, dear old home, how I loved it! It was there I was born, it was there my father had died. So near was I to it, and yet so far. Besides, it was mine no longer. I had given it up to make the woman I loved happy, and to keep it from being hell to me.
My thoughts were rudely checked. Two persons stood together on the headland, the headland on which my home stood, and they were evidently looking at the ship in which I was sailing. Who were they? I strained my eyes to see. They looked like Wilfred and—— I dared not think of it, the thought was maddening. I would not believe that Ruth was out walking with Wilfred so soon after my departure, and on the very day when she was reported to be leaving for her home.
Yet why not? By this time they had, perhaps, publicly announced themselves as lovers; and yet they dare not. My departure could not yet be regarded as a settled thing, and my mother had told me that Ruth would be true to her father's wish. As yet I must be regarded among them as Trewinion's heir, and thus she would look upon me as her future husband. How, then, could she be encouraging the man she loved, when she would regard it as a sin to do so?
But was it she, was it Wilfred?
The captain's glass was near me, and I seized it. I brought it to the right focus. I saw them plainly, Ruth and Wilfred standing side by side, with her hand resting on his arm. There could be no mistake.
Yes, she would know all by this time; she would know that I had given up everything for her happiness, and she had accepted it without a pang. She had come out alone with the man who had stepped into my place.
It was base ingratitude. She was not worthy the sacrifice. I would leave the vessel at Falmouth, go home, and destroy their plans; I would claim my own again. As for Wilfred, I would whip him like a dog, and drive him from the place.
I know my thoughts were confused, and unreasonable, but I think I was mad, for I stamped my foot in my rage.
I heard a noise behind me and turned round. The captain stood coolly watching me. Instantly, my position burst upon me, and I was confused.
"Well, Richard Tretheway," he said, "and what have you been using my glass for?"
"It is a fine old headland, sir, and I wanted to see it."
"Ay, and it's a fine old house on the cliff, eh. Whom does it belong to?"
I was silent.
"Ah, well, lad, I will not pry into your secrets; sometime, perhaps, you may want to tell me," and he walked away.
Still I watched, while the couple on the cliff became more and more indistinct, and the old grey tower seemed to melt away in the steely sky, and as it did so my feelings softened, for I felt I was bidding good-bye to it for ever. My love for Ruth began to exert its power, and although I felt bitter, the thought of going back to wreck her happiness was repugnant.
On, on we swept, until Ruth and Wilfred could no longer be seen, and the old house was hidden by the prongs of the "Devil's Tooth." Then I broke down and sobbed like a child. Now, indeed, I was alone and without a friend. There was no brightness in my sky, no hope for the future. Truly I was sad at heart. With that the words of old Deborah Teague came back to me.
"Mind, mind Trewinion's curse, tes comin', tes comin'. I see Maaster Roger homeless, friendless, despised, disgraced. Mind, Maaster Roger, mind."