And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand.… A fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.
And Cain said to the Lord, My punishment is greater than I can bear.—The Book of Genesis.
At last, I had told her. The dread truth which I had trembled for her to know was made known. Word by word, sentence by sentence, often hesitating, often stammering, I related our meeting, the awful struggle on the cliff with its terrible ending.
Then I felt her tremble.
"And Wilfred is dead?" she gasped.
"Dead," I repeated.
"And you killed him?"
"I—I killed him."
"Then you are a—a——"
"Yes, I am. My God, I am a murderer!"
I felt her shrink from me, I saw the blood recede from her face, and in another second she lay motionless in my arms.
I laid her gently down in an old settle, and ran into the hall shouting for help. The two women servants who had attended upon lier quickly appeared.
"Your mistress!" I gasped. "Make haste."
They hurried to the room and found Ruth lying as one dead.
I could not stay there while they tried to restore her. I felt I had killed her, and my head whirled so that I could scarcely stand. Until then I did not know what a man could bear and still live. No tongue or pen can describe what I suffered. I had been in hell the night before; it was worse now. Then only the death of the man whom I had hated pressed on my conscience, now, I feared, I had by the same deed killed my darling, whom only a few hours before, I had taken from a living grave.
Presently I heard the sound of horses' hoofs on the gravel outside the house, and in another minute the village doctor entered. Unknown to me, Mr. Inch had sent for him, thinking Ruth might need his advice. Evidently, too, the servant who had been to fetch him had told him of the strange event that had happened, for when he saw me he exclaimed:
"Great heavens, you did it, did you? Well, its the most wonderful thing that ever happened."
I think he would have stayed a few minutes with me had I allowed him, but I hurried him quickly to the room where Ruth was, while I stayed at the door and listened.
At length I heard a woman's voice say, "She's coming to," and a great burden rolled away from my heart. At all events, Ruth's death would not lie at my door, and so far my mind was at rest. By and by I heard more whispering, and then I heard Ruth speak. Was she not asking for me? I thought so; certainly, I heard my own name.
I entered the room, and found Ruth sitting up, while the doctor was walking excitedly round the room, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
She looked up and our eyes met. Then I knew that a great gulf was between us, as great as the gulf that lies between Heaven and hell. She could not come to me, I could not go to her. We were divided, not by distance, but by my guilt. We were in the same room, and yet, now that she knew what I had done we could not be as we were.
In spite of this, however, I made a step towards Ruth as if to take her hand, but I saw as I came nearer a look of terror came into her eyes, and she shrunk from me with a cry of pain. Now I knew my doom was sealed, and without a word I turned and walked away from her. I loved her still; God only knows how; but I could not stay with her when my presence caused her so much pain. Nay, I felt that if my love were worthy the name, she must never see me again. Would she not feel that she had loved a man whose hands were stained by his brother's blood?
I did not even say "good-bye." I do not think I could have done so, for weights seemed to hang upon my lips. Yet it was terribly hard to go. We had been separated for more than ten long years, and then we had met, as perhaps lovers never met before, met for a few brief hours only to be again divided.
I stood alone in the hall, as if waiting for some voice to recall me, but I heard none, so I placed my hat upon my head to go out alone. As I walked towards the door I thought of the sweet hours we had spent together, and of the Heaven of which my sin had deprived me. But nothing could undo the past. I must reap the harvest of my sin. Before I had gone far, however, Mr. Inch stepped out of one of the rooms and met me.
"Are you going out," he said in astonishment.
"Yes."
"But why? Surely there is no reason."
"Yes there is."
"But you are not going far? You will soon return?"
"I do not know how far I shall go; but I shall never return."
He looked at me in wonder; then a look of intelligence came into his face as though he had guessed the reason of my departure.
"Perhaps you do not know Miss Morton's feelings toward you," he said, with a smile. "This wonderful night has doubtless made us all half-mad; but don't forget what it was that caused her illness and, as we thought, her death."
"I know all," I said, "but I must go."
I placed my hand on the door handle when a thought struck me, and I turned to him again.
"But remember for all that," I said, "that Miss Morton is not without a friend. Remember that I know how false have been your dealings with her, and now, if she be defrauded of one penny in the future, or if you in any way seek to take advantage of her, you shall be thrown into a felon's cell. Your past shall only be forgiven on the condition that your future be blameless."
"Roger Trewinion!" he cried, "I know it may sound cowardly to shift a sin upon another's shoulders, but your brother is guilty of all the real wrong. I was only a weak tool in his hands. But for the future, so help me God, I will serve my mistress faithfully."
"See that you do," I said, and then, leaving him half dazed, I went out of the house.
Thus I was alone again, alone in the night! My sin had driven me away, and now I was cast upon the world again, with no one to help me, no one to love me. For I could not for a minute think that Ruth could love me now that she knew what I was, and of what I had been guilty.
Down the long avenue I tramped, thinking all the time of what might have been, and hating myself for what I had done. For a time I went heedlessly, and then I began to decide which course I should take.
I have heard it said that murderers are always possessed by the ghastly desire to look on the face of their victim, to visit the scenes which are associated with the deed that cursed them for ever. Whether this be true or not I cannot say, but I had not gone far, before I was filled with the dread longing to go back to the spot where Wilfred and I had struggled, and yielding to it I started to retrace the weary steps which I had trodden only a few hours before.
After walking two or three miles in a vague, half conscious sort of way, I felt a great desire to sleep, and seeing by the light of the moon a haystack in a field close by, I clambered over the hedge and walked, towards it. I found it to be only half-built; evidently, there was a late crop of hay being carried, and most likely the stack would be finished the next day. A pile of hay was lying on one side, waiting to be thrown on the stack, and on this I threw myself, and quickly fell asleep.
When I awoke it was broad daylight, and from the sound of voices near me, the haymakers were evidently at work. I rose up from my resting-place, and as I did so, those who had been partaking of croust[1] gazed at me in astonishment.
I was not dressed like an ordinary tramp, however, and so was treated civilly.
"Will you tell me what time it is," I said, after some remarks had been passed.
"Nearly leben o'clock in the vorenoon," said one of the men. "'Ave 'ee bin slaipin' here oal night?"
I nodded.
"Then you must be awful ungry."
"Yes," I said, "have you anything to eat?"
For reply, a basket containing a good deal of wholesome food was placed before me. I ate heartily, for I was hungry, and after making a good meal prepared to go on.
The men did not ask me who I was, or where I was going, but looked smilingly on the few coins I gave them, and wished me a good journey.
I went on in a dazed way the whole of the day, stopping only once for refreshment at a little wayside alehouse. I inquired of the landlord if he had heard any news, but he said, No, nothing had happened except that his sister-in-law had got another, her eleventh baby. As I did not regard this of much importance, I trudged on again as soon as I had finished my meal. That I might be going in the teeth of danger did not occur to me; in fact, I never troubled about any punishment for my deed, except the terrible punishment of my conscience.
About eight o'clock in the evening, I entered the parish of Trewinion, and soon, as if drawn by a magnet, I found my way to the place where Wilfred and I had met.
How vividly everything came back to me, and yet I seemed to have lived long years since we met. Only two days had elapsed; and I had seemed to have grown old in that time. In my excited imagination I pictured him coming towards me again; but soon my illusions were dispelled.
I looked up towards my old home, wondering if I should see any signs of what had happened, but the house was quiet, and, except for a few lights that flashed from the windows, I saw no signs of life. The prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" still lifted themselves in the air, but no light was there; evidently Betsey Fraddam was not visiting her old haunt that night.
Again I stood on the place on which we had wrestled, again I looked from the dizzy heights on the rocks below, as if trying to see Wilfred, but nothing was visible. The rocks told no stories; the moaning sea did not recount what had become of my brother's body.
Had he been found, I wondered? It could scarcely be otherwise. Fisherman were constantly tramping along the beach, and when he was missed search would certainly be made. Still it might not have so happened; I would go down to the beach to see. The tide was ebbing out, and I could easily walk along the sands at the foot of the cliffs.
I went to the place where a rough track had been made, and soon got on the beach. It was a glorious night; the sea shone beneath the silvery light of the moon, and had I any melody in my heart the splash of the water on the beach must have made music to me; but there was nothing but remorse and despair within me, thus, what would have otherwise have been a song of gladness was only a wail of misery.
When I came to the place beneath the point where we had wrestled, I looked for a sign of Wilfred's body, but there was nothing to be seen, nor was there any marks on the sand, not even a footmark was visible. This was not altogether strange, for the tide would have washed away any such marks, and yet I wondered at none being visible when such a terrible tragedy had taken place.
Near here was a cave, and, scarcely knowing what I was doing, I entered it. I spoke, but was frightened by the echo of my own voice. I dared not stay there long. Every sound was magnified so, and as the waves broke upon the shore their echo thundered around the walls of my grim resting-place, until it seemed filled with thousands of dark spirits of the dead.
I went out again into the night, and wandered on until I came to the witches' cave. I seemed drawn, as if by a charm, and for a minute I had a strong desire to go where I had gone long years before, when Deborah Teague tried to make me promise ever to be her friend; but fancying I heard sounds within the dark confines of the cavern, I hurried away filled with superstitious fears.
Then a new feeling possessed me. I must get away from England and never return. There was no hope; no peace for me here. Wilfred was dead—destroyed by my hand, and Ruth loathed me. I would go away on the wild seas again, and perhaps, although I could never know happiness, I might find forgetfulness. Here I should be ever haunted by fears; here, too, I was in danger of the law, once away I should be safe.
The thought brought relief, it gave me something to do. It was an escape valve for my feelings, and without waiting a second I started on the road to Falmouth.
A few days later I was sailing down the Bay of Biscay, bound for Barcelona, where I hoped I might find Salambo, who had been captain of the pirate ship.
[1] "Croust" is a corruption of the word "carouse." This designates a meal which harvesters and haymakers have between ordinary meals on account of specially hard work.—EDITOR.
The journey to Barcelona was uneventful, at any rate for me. During the whole time I lived in a kind of hideous dream. I was ever thinking of what I had seen and done during the little time I had been in England, but nothing was real save a horrible weight that oppressed me. I know that the captain sought to be friendly, while some of the passengers seemed to be interested in the sad, silent man who ever sought to be alone, but I paid little heed to their overtures. How could I when two ghastly passions, hatred and remorse, possessed me?
Sometimes I caught myself thinking of what Ruth had told me during those two or three sweet hours we were together. I remember asking her why she had seemed to love Wilfred the better, and why, when she saw how I loved her, she did not in some way let me know that she cared for me. And blushingly she told me that, besides the reports about my boasting that she would have to marry me, which she only half believed, she was afraid I would think her forward and immodest. This set me thinking how it had all ended. How through misunderstandings our lives had been ruined, until life seemed a tragedy, and Providence only a dream. But no relief came to me, the burdens which I had myself made still crushed me to the earth, and I could see no brightness in the future.
We reached Barcelona at length, and I set out to find Salambo. I knew that if all had gone well with him I should have little difficulty in this. He had given me instructions which were unmistakable as to his whereabouts, so I started at once for the house at which he told me to inquire.
I found that this house was occupied by his own parents, and no welcome could be warmer than mine when I told them my name.
I asked them if their son was well, and I quickly found that he was well and happy, that he had found Inez, that they had been wedded, and were living not far away from them.
Quickly I found my way thither, and soon Salambo and I stood face to face. Only one look at him was enough to convince me that his parents had told me the truth.
"All is well with you, Salambo?" I said.
"Ah, all is well," he cried, "the saints have been good to me. You must see my Inez, she will be here directly."
This gave me a little hope. Salambo had committed a sin similar to mine, and yet he was happy. He had become wedded to the woman he loved, in spite of the terrible past. Might there then be some chance for me? Not that I expected to wed Ruth, I gave up all thoughts of seeing her again; but I might find rest from the terrible pangs which now made life almost unbearable. I resolved before the day was over to have a long talk with my old captain, and, if possible, to seek the same means to obtain ease and happiness.
Presently his wife came into the room. They had only been wedded a short time, and she blushed at being introduced as his wife; but I saw, in spite of everything, that she was happy. Not that she looked free from pain. There was a look in her great black eyes which told me that she had suffered terribly in the past, and the silver streaks in her raven black hair told the same story.
She was very beautiful, and I did not wonder that Salambo loved her. From the way her eyes rested on him I knew that he reigned king of her heart.
We sat together during the evening, sometimes talking and sometimes listening to Inez—for such Salambo would have me call her—as she sung some sweet Spanish love songs, until the time came for her to retire, and then we two men, who had passed through many strange scenes, were left together.
"You are very happy," I said, when she had left the room.
"Happy as man can be," he replied. "My Inez through all these long years was faithful to me, and has ever been as pure as an angel. And you, Tretheway, or rather, Trewinion, how did you find affairs at home? not well, I fear."
I told him, just as I have written it in these pages, all that had happened since I left him. When I described my meeting with Bill Tregargus, and how I had heard that Ruth had died of a broken heart, driven to death by Wilfred, I saw the tears start to Salambo's eyes, and he eagerly asked what followed next. Then I told him of my meeting with Wilfred, what we had said to each other, and how we had engaged in a deadly struggle on the cliff.
"And didn't you kill him?" he cried, clenching his hands nervously; "didn't you hurl the viper on the rocks beneath?"
"Would you?" I said.
"Would I?" he cried, "ay, and be proud that I had rid the world of such a one. The saints would sanction such a deed."
I told him what had happened, at which he gave a great sigh as if of relief, after which a scornful smile played around his mouth as I told him of the terrible sufferings I had endured.
He did not speak a word during the recital of the visit to Ruth's home, but gave a start as I told him of my determination to visit her grave. Then he sat like one entranced as I described my entrance into the church, and related how I lifted back the stone from the vault. Breathlessly he sat while I narrated how I had removed the clasps from the coffin and looked on the still face of my darling; and then leapt like a madman from his chair as I told how I felt her hand move. After that, while I related the remainder of my story, he walked up and down the room excitedly, sometimes laughing and again giving a cry of gladness, until I came to that part where I told Ruth of my sins, whereupon he sat down again, still staring at me wildly.
"And you left her because of that?" he said in astonishment, when I had finished.
"I could do no other," I replied.
"Ah, but you could," he cried.
"How?" I asked.
"Why, that action of hers did not express her aversion of you, or if it did it could be easily overcome. You should have remained with her and she would soon have forgiven you."
"How could she when I could not forgive myself? Besides, if I had stayed in England I should have been arrested as a murderer, and that would have brought her worse sorrow still."
"That need not have been," he replied. "You could have brought her here, ay, and she would have gladly come, too."
I dismissed this suggestion, for I knew it was not possible.
For three weeks I remained with Salambo, then I felt that I could stay in Barcelona no longer, and must be on the move. Bitter memories still urged me to go somewhere, it mattered not where, in search of peace.
I told Salambo this, and he did his best to persuade me to stay with him, Inez adding her entreaties to his; but I felt I could not. Something, I knew not what, impelled me to leave them, so I got a berth on board a vessel, and went away again to follow the calling I had followed so many years.
We shook hands at the vessel's side; he to go back to his home and to happiness, and I to sail down the Mediterranean, still in search of rest and peace.
Alone, alone, all, all alone,Alone on a wide, wide sea!And never a saint took pity onMy soul in agony.—The Ancient Mariner.
For a year I sailed the Mediterranean as a common seaman. I thought, or rather, I hoped, that by hard work and mixing in the society of men who had borne something of the brunt of life, besides visiting different towns at which we had to call along the coast, I should banish from my mind what became more and more terrible to me. It was a vain hope.
At the end of the year I despaired of finding happiness or peace again. "There is no such thing as forgiveness of sins!" I said, "and life is but a bitter mockery."
Ofttimes I wondered what had become of them at home. At night time especially I found myself thinking of Ruth and how she bore her terrible trials, and this led me to wonder what had become of Wilfred—had he ever been found, and, if so, had I been suspected of his death? Naturally, Bill Tregargus would think of me; but would he tell of his meeting with me? Then again, would Ruth feel it her duty to denounce me as a murderer, even though I had saved her from the most horrible fate imaginable? I knew how great was her sense of right; I knew, too, how much she had loved me, and I did not know what course she would take.
But never one ray of light, or hope, or comfort came in the thick darkness. Sometimes I was tempted to drown my troubles in drink, but I remembered my father's death, and refrained from doing so. Again I was tempted to seek forgetfulness in what was unworthy, but I remembered Ruth and was saved from that.
One day, about a year after I had left Salambo, the vessel in which I was sailing arrived at Smyrna, where we had to stay some days. Towards evening we were at liberty to go into the town, and I as usual strolled away alone. I had not gone far, when, lying on the side of the street, I saw a little crippled child who had apparently lost its way, or was in some trouble, for it was sobbing bitterly. I came close and lifted the child to its feet, and as I did so caught sight of its face. It was a little girl about five years old. She was by no means pretty, on the contrary, her face was almost evil, and for a moment I felt like passing on without taking further notice, when the prayer which had constantly been on my lips of late came to my mind. Hitherto I had received no answer to it, but now I felt that I loved this little crippled, ugly child.
In my constant visits to this coast I had picked up a smattering of Greek, so I spoke to the little maiden, and asked her where she lived, and without hesitation she told me. With a strange feeling in my heart I took her in my arms, and carried her in the direction of her home. As I walked on I met some of my crew, who laughed to see me with my strange burden, but I did not mind, nay, rather, I rejoiced because of what I was able to do. And all the while I continued to breathe this prayer, "Lord, help me to love."
We reached her home at length. A miserable place it was, and I found out that the little maiden had no father. He had died a few months before, but she had a brother and sister, both younger than herself, who lived with their mother. I did not stay long, although I felt a strange feeling of pity for the poor desolate ones, but I left some money with them and walked away alone.
As I did so I remembered the words I had heard often in our old church. "Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these My little ones, ye have done it unto Me." "Unto Me"—unto whom? I called to mind that they were the words of our Lord, and I asked myself what it meant. "Ye have done it unto Me." I repeated again and again. "How have I done it unto the Lord?"
One day while I had been in Barcelona, I had gone into a church, and had made confession of my sins to a priest. I remembered that Salambo was a Catholic, and I wondered if by making confession peace would come to my heart. The priest had told me that I must forgive every one, and do penance. But I was not able to forgive; as for penance, it seemed to me that no man could suffer worse penance than I had already suffered. Besides, I remembered that the priest was an enemy to the faith which I had been taught to believe, and so, perhaps, prejudice hindered him from helping me.
His words returned to me that night, however, and I asked myself for the hundredth time how it was possible for me to forgive Wilfred.
"He is dead, and I have killed him!" I said to myself, "and yet I cannot forgive him. I hate him still. He has robbed me of everything I hold dear. How can I forgive him? How can I find peace?" Then, as if in answer to my cry, came the words, "Come unto Me all ye that labour, and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
I do not know how, but the message of our Lord had a new meaning. I had heard it read a hundred times without ever thinking of its meaning, but now my heart throbbed with a new hope as I thought of it, "Come unto Me, Come unto Me, and I will give you rest." I kept repeating the passage.
"Lord, how can I come!" I cried, "and how can'st Thou hear my voice, the voice of a murderer?" and then, as if in answer to my cry, I seemed to hear the words, "Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out!"
That night for the first time for years I truly prayed. I prayed for light, for penitence, for forgiveness. Ay, I did come to Christ as a poor penitent wayward sinner, and even as I prayed, I caught myself thinking of my brother Wilfred. Without realising what I was doing, I remembered some of our boyish freaks. I thought of the happy days we had spent together and of the times we had knelt side by side and prayed; and then, I know not how, I realised that the hatred I had felt for Wilfred was gone. God had answered my prayer; I had learned to love, and to love my enemy.
Do not imagine that my burden was gone when I felt this. The memory of that terrible night became more vivid; but I was changed. I was not the man I was on the night when I madly wrestled with my brother. God had answered my prayer, and in doing so He had changed me.
I went back to the vessel a new man, with new feelings, new desires, new aspirations.
Night came on again, and still the vessel remained in the harbour at Smyrna. I sat on the deck alone, looking sometimes at the lights of the town, and again at the moonlit sea, still longing and praying for rest. Hour after hour I remained, until my heart grew so sad that I began to realise a misery as great almost as that I had known before the hatred I had for my brother was taken away.
"Oh, God, what shall I do?" I cried at length.
What was it that answered me? A voice from Heaven, or was it my own heart? All I know is that, sounding from I know not where, I heard the words, "Go home."
I felt I could not do this. I could not bear to go back to the scenes of my misery and sin. I should be ever seeing the dead face of my brother; there would be less rest for me there than here. Nor it would not be safe to do so. Perhaps even now the officers of the law were in— But I would not think of that.
All through the night I struggled and prayed, but ever in answer came the same dread message:
"Go home. Confess your sins."
At length strength came; at length the battle was fought. I made up my mind to go home, to give myself up to the officers of the law as my brother's murderer, and in a moment the burden was gone, and I was a free man.
I will not try to describe with what feverish anxiety I made my way back to England. I only know that some secret power seemed to be urging me back, and although I felt I was going to my death, I was glad when I landed in Falmouth harbour.
Once on my native soil my love for life became strong, and I had to fight my battle over again, or I should have had to do so if I had allowed myself time to think of it; but I stifled all thoughts of escape, and hurried on to my old home.
When I arrived within a mile or so of Trewinion, I paused, and began to ponder as to what course would be best. Should I go to the village constable, Philip Pinch? I knew him well as a lad, and had seen him when I had been home the year before. Or should I go straight to the old house on the cliff, and there, before my mother and servants, confess my sins.
The desire to see the old place was so strong that I determined to take the latter course. If I surrendered myself to Philip Pinch I should be taken at once to the lock-up, and thence to Bodmin gaol, while if I went home I should have one more sight of the old rooms which I had not seen for more than eleven years.
And so, with fast-beating heart and limbs trembling, I hurried onward. Feverishly I opened the postern door which admitted me into the grounds surrounding the house, and then, with a pain at my heart which no words can describe, I went up to the tower entrance and rang the bell.
Eleven long years. Yes, it was that since I had last stood by the hall door. I had left it with a mad passion in my heart, with fierce grief raging within me; I returned saddened by sin, stained by crime, yet subdued and repentant and hopeful.
I could not help thinking of this as the bell clanged within the wide hall and echoed through the silent house, while memories of the old days flashed like lightning through my excited brain.
How singular it was, that I, the rightful owner, should stand ringing for admission like a stranger, and more singular still it seemed at the time, that I should for long years have been a wanderer away from the home of my fathers. And I stood there as a culprit. I was about to enter my home, only to come out a prisoner, a man accused of an awful crime. I was not sure if they would hang me, for his death was an accident. I did not hurl him from me; he slipped from my hands in spite of me, and yet murder was in my heart.
And thus I stood at my own door after eleven years of weary wandering, of lonely agony, of God-forsaken life, waiting excitedly, yet with a numbing pain at my heart, for the meeting with my mother. Ah, how should I look her in her face when she asked me for her son; how should I withstand her withering scorn, her terrible wrath? It was eventime, and the October winds had shorn much of the foliage from the trees, what remained being russet brown. The wind, too, as it played amongst the shivering leaves, told only a tale of decay and death.
At length I heard a step along the stone, corridor, an aged step, as though the one who came was weary and tired. All this I noted as I stood waiting while the door opened.
It was Peter Polperrow, who had been servant of Trewinion long before I was born. He looked at me with some astonishment, not unmixed with fear.
"Whom do you want to see, sir?" he asked.
"Mrs. Trewinion," I said.
He eyed me from head to foot, as if afraid that by admitting me, he should be doing wrong.
"I cannot admit a stranger," he said at length, "and I cannot let you see my mistress until I know who you are."
"Is she well?" I asked.
Again he seemed to wonder why I should ask such a question, and he answered sadly:
"Yes, considering all things; but what is that to you? Who are you and what do you want?"
I suppose I was not of a very prepossessing appearance. Like most of my race, I was large and strong, but my clothes were somewhat coarse, and my hands were brown and bare. Then my face was covered with a huge brown beard, and I was tanned by long years of exposure to sea air.
"Take me to some room where we can talk together, Peter Polperrow," I said.
"Peter Polperrow!" repeated the old man; "Who are you that you know my name?"
"I will tell you soon, Peter," I answered; "meanwhile lead me to Mr. Roger's old room. I will promise you no harm."
"Master Roger!" repeated the old man; "he has not been here for long years. He has gone away, God only knows where for that matter; nearly everybody believes him to be dead, and so I suppose he'll never return any more. But what do you know of Master Roger?"
"Lead me there and I'll tell you. I can tell you many things you would like to know."
He seemed to be staggered at my words.
"Do you know him?" he asked.
"Yes; I have seen him, and spoken with him."
"What! Seen Mr. Roger!"
"Yes."
New life seemed to come into his withered, aged form, a new interest came into his aged face.
"Seen him! When, oh when did you see Mr. Roger?"
"I have been with him to-day."
Still the simple old man did not catch my meaning. He evidently could not think that I was Roger.
"Where did you see him? Is he coming home?" he asked anxiously.
"Take me to his room and I'll tell you."
Without another word he led me to the room I used to call mine, I feeling a kind of shiver as I stood within the walls of the old house.
At length we were alone, but it was dark there; we could scarcely see each other's faces.
"Get a light, Peter," I said.
He hobbled away, and soon returned with a candle, revealing the furniture of the room just as I left it years before.
"No one has slept here since Mr. Roger left," said Peter tremulously. "I don't think that anyone dare that knew him, and certainly no one should with my consent."
"No one but me, Peter," I said.
"What do you mean? Who are you, and—and when did you see Mr. Roger? Tell me quickly."
"Peter," I said, "does nothing tell you? Hold the light to my face and then think. Have you never seen me before?"
The old man held the candle as I had desired him, and looked steadily at me, but there was no flash of recognition, no look of joyful surprise.
"I doan't remember; I never seed 'ee before."
He said this dreamily, and in so doing relapsed into the old Cornish vernacular.
"Look again, Peter. Remember how Wilfred and I used to wrestle on the headland. Remember how I frightened you by telling you that Deborah Teague had ill-wished you. Think of an awful storm, and that wreck on the 'Devil's Tooth,' and of the young lady I saved. Can't you recognise me now?"
Then old Peter knew me, and tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks.
"Oh, Master Roger," he said, "thank God you've come home; but to come like this, to come home as a——" But he could say no more, he sobbed like a child.
He had heard then. Somehow it must have been rumoured abroad that I had killed my brother, and so my presence was painful to him. Perhaps Bill Tregargus had told that he had seen me, and heard me vow vengeance. Perhaps Ruth had in a moment of madness revealed the terrible truth!
"Do you think my mother will see me, Peter?" I said to the faithful old servant as gently as I could.
"Oh, Mr. Roger," he sobbed, "you was so young, so beautiful, so happy in the old days, and I always looked forward to you becoming master, and servin' you till I died, and now to see you come home like this, a ringin' at the door, when you should have walked straight in, and to be asked questions by me when——when——"
"Never mind, Peter," I said, "it cannot be undone now, but still you won't mind doing something for me now, for the sake of old days."
"Do! I'll do anything," he cried.
"I'm going down to the library," I said; "will you go and tell my mother to come there? but don't tell her it is I who want to see her. Simply say that a stranger is asking for her."
I found my way into the library. Candles which cast a flickering light were placed on the table, making the room ghostly enough.
How well I remembered the old place, and how memory after memory came back to me as I waited there. I often thought of the time my father had led me there on my fifteenth birthday, and told me of the curse of my race, and many other things which seemed to have cast a shadow over my life. Then I thought of how terribly his words had been fulfilled. The story of the curse was no meaningless jargon. It contained awful truths, which had been fulfilled in me. And yet I was not sure. Perhaps what had happened was the simple outcome of broken laws; perhaps Trewinion's curse was an old wives' fable. Still, the truth that my life was cursed was ever before me. I felt that even then I was, humanly speaking, branded with the hand of Cain. God had forgiven me, but man never would; the sin of my life could only be wiped out by yielding myself up to the hands of justice.
And this I had come home to do. I was waiting there to tell my mother that I had murdered her dearest son, that I had taken all joy and brightness from her life, and then, having brought the greatest sorrow a son can bring upon a mother, I would go to meet my righteous judgment.
Presently I heard the sound of footsteps, and soon my mother entered the room.
I had no difficulty in recognising her. Ten years had worked but little change in her appearance. Certainly her hair was tinged with grey, and the lines on her face were deeper, but otherwise there was no difference. There was still the cold expression—which was ever the same, except when her eyes rested on Wilfred—still the same stately carriage.
She glanced at me for a second, and then asked my business.
"Mother," I said, standing up.
She looked at me keenly for a few seconds, then she cried hoarsely, "My God, what brought you here?"
"Mother, forgive me," I said.
I thought she recoiled from me as if in abhorrence. I know that she stepped back from me.
"Why have you come?" she said, and I saw fierce hate gleaming from her eyes. "Have you not caused misery enough? Are you not content with the lives you have poisoned? You went away; why did you ever come back?"
"I could not rest, mother," I said, humbly, for I felt I deserved her reproach. "I wanted to tell you all; I wanted your forgiveness."
"Tell me!" she cried, "as though I did not know. Forgive you, how can I forgive you when but for you my boy might have been——"
"Let me tell you everything, mother," I cried. "God knows I have suffered much for what I have done, but He has forgiven me, and I wanted your forgiveness before I die."
"Do I not know? Have I not heard?" she went on. "Has it not been the talk of the neighbourhood? Have you not ever been my son's enemy? When you were children it was you who had your father's affections, it was you who saved the life of the only one my Wilfred loved, it was you who stood between Wilfred and his right position. It was you who kept Ruth from loving him, and although you went away you were ever the black blot on his life. And now you have come back again. Why? To breathe more poison, to carry out more of your murderous designs."
"No, mother, I have come to atone for the wrong I have done rather than to do more wrong."
"That can never be. You can never atone for the wrong you have done. You were born to curse my son's life, and you have done it. You have stripped my life of happiness, and now you come again, to take away what paltry right, I suppose, you claim."
"But, mother!"
"Call me not 'mother,' you are no son of mine."
"Not your son!" I cried, "how can that be?"
She did not answer me, and my memory flashed back to the time when Deborah Teague had hinted that she was not my mother. Now her mad jealousy of my position was explained. Now I knew why Wilfred was all and I was nothing. This woman was not my mother, and as a consequence true affection had not existed between us.
"Whose son am I, then?" I continued, after a pause, "and who is my mother."
"I shall not say," she said, "it is enough that you are not my son."
"And my sisters, Elizabeth and Katherine, are they not really my sisters? If not, who are they, and who are you?"
"I shall not tell you," she said, and then stopped, as if in doubt. "Yes, I will though," she continued. "You are not my son, for you are the son of your father's first wife. No one here knew that he was married before he married me, I made him promise none should. He never brought his first wife home here, for he married her privately. He would have brought her home when you were born had she not died. A few months afterwards he married me, and I came home as his wife, and you passed as my child, it being given out that we had been married more than a year. When I had a child of my own I hated you, and when I saw your father loved you best I hated you more. Now you know why I have always been your enemy." This information stunned me. I had not expected this kind of meeting. As yet no definite word had been spoken concerning the real object of my coming all the way from Asia. I determined, however, to do my duty and to confess my sin. Only when I had realised strength to do the right had I realised ease of conscience, and because Wilfred was only my half-brother was no reason why I should keep back the words that seemed to burn my lips.
I was about to speak again and tell all when I saw a form in the doorway which made me think my senses must have left me, and I had become a madman.