The Project Gutenberg eBook ofRoger TrewinionThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Roger TrewinionAuthor: Joseph HockingIllustrator: Gunning KingRelease date: April 2, 2008 [eBook #24976]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROGER TREWINION ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Roger TrewinionAuthor: Joseph HockingIllustrator: Gunning KingRelease date: April 2, 2008 [eBook #24976]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Roger Trewinion
Author: Joseph HockingIllustrator: Gunning King
Author: Joseph Hocking
Illustrator: Gunning King
Release date: April 2, 2008 [eBook #24976]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROGER TREWINION ***
"She lifted her skinny arm above her head.""She lifted her skinny arm above her head."
"She lifted her skinny arm above her head.""She lifted her skinny arm above her head."
ALL MEN ARE LIARSFIELDS OF FAIR RENOWNISHMAEL PENGELLYTHE STORY OF ANDREW FAIRFAXJABEZ EASTERBROOKTHE MONK OF MAR-SARAZILLAH: A RomanceWEAPONS OF MYSTERYMISTRESS NANCY MOLESWORTHTHE BIRTHRIGHT: A ROMANCEAND SHALL TRELAWNEY DIE?THE SCARLET WOMANTHE PURPLE ROBETHE MADNESS OF DAVID DARINGLEST WE FORGETO'ER MOOR AND FENGREATER LOVEESAUFOLLOW THE GLEAMA FLAME OF FIRETHE COMING OF THE KING
When visiting my native county some time since, I was struck with the modern, "up-to-date," aspect of men and things. In this respect Cornwall has much changed even during the twenty years since I left it. The quiet, old-world feeling which I can remember has gone, and instead there is a spirit of eagerness, almost amounting to rush. I discovered, too, that the old stories, dear to me, are forgotten. All the old superstitions have passed away. I remember asking a man whether there were any witches or ghosts in his vicinity. "Look," he said, in reply, pointing at a telegraph post, "they things 'ave destroyed boath witches and ghoasts." And yet, less than four decades ago, when I was a child, ghosts, witches, charms, omens, and the like were firmly believed in. Perhaps the most vivid remembrance I have of my childhood's days, are those connected with the weird stories of the supernatural which my mother used to tell us, as I with my brothers and sisters sat around a roaring fire on winter evenings. I called to mind, too, the haunted places, which I feared to pass after dark; but on inquiring of the new generation concerning these same places, I found an utter ignorance of their old-time reputation. Old Tommy Dain, the famous wizard, is forgotten, while Betsey Flew, she who could blight corn, cause milk to turn sour, and ill-wish all but the eldest son of a family, has no part in the life of the present generation. And yet I remember wearing, for months, a charm which old Betsey had prepared for me, with what result I cannot tell, save that I never had the disease from which the charm was to save me. As for curing warts, crooked legs, weak backs, and other ailments by the means used in the good old days—well, they are utterly forgotten. In short, Cornwall, which even in my boyish days was the very Mecca of Folklore and superstition, has been completely changed. The spirit of "modernity" is everywhere, and thus the old West Country has gone, and a new West Country has taken its place.
Whether this has been an unmixed blessing, or not, I have grave doubts; anyhow, the Cornwall I love to think about is the Cornwall of my boyhood, when apparitions from the spirit-land were common, when omens and charms were firmly believed in, and when the village parson had power to "lay a ghost," by reading the burial service a second time over a grave, and taking great care to turn the prayer-book "up-side-down."
Much of the story which is here offered to the public was written some years ago, when the memory of the old time was more vivid than it is now; and although it has been re-written, I trust I have retained in its pages something of the atmosphere of mystery and romance for which my native county was once so famous. Indeed, the prologue, while not absolutely true to fact, is true in spirit. The story is not mine at all, but was told me long years ago by those who were old when I was but a boy, and who had no doubt of the truth of what they related. I am afraid I have not pieced their somewhat confused narratives together very well, although one told me by an old dame with wild eyes, and a strong love for a "bit ov bacca," which is reproduced in the chapter entitled "The Vault under the Communion," haunts me even yet.
JOSEPH HOCKING.
TREVANION,WOODFORD GREEN,The New Year, 1905.
The following story came to my knowledge under somewhat curious circumstances:—
I had gone to Cornwall, my native county, to spend my summer vacation, and there met with an old college chum, who asked me to accompany him on a walking tour.
"Where?" I asked.
"Let us do the Cornish coast," he replied, "it is the finest and most rugged coast in England. The scenery around is magnificent; there are numberless old legends told about many of the places we shall see; and I know that legends have always had a great attraction for you."
I must confess to a weakness for anything romantic, and was attracted by the proposal. Accordingly, we journeyed by train and coach to the most northern watering-place on the eastern coast of Cornwall, viz., Bude, and commenced our journey southward.
As this personal reminiscence is only written to tell how I came by the remarkable history which follows, I shall say nothing of our journey that has not a direct bearing on that history.
We had been walking some days, I need not say how many, when we saw, standing on a rough headland, and yet some little distance from the sea, an old house. It caught my attention the moment I first glanced at it. Grey and lonely, it looked the residence of some misanthrope or hermit, and its tower and battlements gave it the appearance of some feudal castle.
"That's a strange looking old place, Will," I said to my companion.
"It is, indeed," he replied. "It looks in good repair, too. I wonder if it's inhabited?"
"The best way to know is to go and see," I replied, and accordingly we bent our steps thither.
As we drew nearer we saw a hollow, which looked as though it had been scooped out by some giant's spade. In it were built two or three cottages, and by the fact of there being some tumbled-down houses near, we came to the conclusion that at one time a little village must have stood there.
"What in the world have people to do or live for here?" said Will. "We are five miles from any place that can be called a town, and there's scarcely a house near. Everything is as weird and lonely as the wilderness of Judea."
"I expect they live on the fish they catch, and the produce of their little farms," I said; "but come, there's a man yonder, we'll question him."
Accordingly we hailed him and he waited, evidently with some degree of curiosity, until we came up.
"What's the name of this place?" asked Will.
"Trewinion," was the reply.
"Trewinion? Is it in the parish of Trewinion?"
"Iss."
"Is there a parish church anywhere near?"
"Iss."
"Where?"
"There," pointing southward.
We saw a little grey tower about half a mile away, evidently a part of the building after which we had been inquiring.
"Are there any houses there?" we asked.
"Five."
"Whose are they?"
"Passon Teague's, Muster Yelland's, Bill Treloar's, Tom Williams's, and Jack Jory's."
"And what's the name of yonder place?" asked Will, pointing to the old house we had seen on the great headland.
The man looked at us curiously, and then replied:
"Trewinion Manor."
"It looks old," I said. "Is it?"
"Ould's Mathusla," was the brief reply.
"Who lives there?"
"Th' oull Sir Nick."
"Sir Nick" is the term usually applied by the Cornish people to his Satanic Majesty. Scenting a story I eagerly inquired what he meant.
"Well, he d' live there," was the reply.
"And what does he do?"
The man shook his head gravely. "Nobody knows but hisself," was the reply.
"But does the devil live there alone?" asked Will.
The man looked at us again, as though he wondered who we were.
"Who be you?" he said.
"We are simply out for a holiday," I replied, "and, as we were walking along, we saw that old place, and wondering what it was, and to whom it belonged, we thought we'd ask."
"Then you be'ant no friend or 'lation to un up there?" he said.
"None."
"Nor you wa'ant say nothin' to un ef I tell 'ee?"
"Not a word."
"Well, then, ould Squire Trewinion do live there."
"Alone?"
The man shook his head.
"Two ould servants," he said, solemnly.
"Is there anything strange about him?" I asked.
"Shud think ther es," he replied.
"What?"
"What! Why he've sold hisself to tho'ull Sir Nick, who do stick to un like a limpet to a rock."
As this mediaeval belief has scarcely died away among the Cornish people, I attached no importance to it, but asked in a jocular way for what he had sold himself.
"Nobody knows," the man replied, "but he hev sould hisself, and now he do never come out to shaw hisself nor nothin'. He wa'ant speak to nobody, and is as ugly as sin."
"Are these Trewinions important people?" asked Will.
"'Portant!" said the man, "sh'd think they be; why oal the land round do belong to un, and I've heerd my faather say as 'ow in th' ould days it was the grandest plaace in oal Cornwall; but now—m—m—m!"
"Now, what?" I asked.
"Hunted!"
"Hunted! Haunted, I suppose you mean. By what?"
"Ghoasts and evil sperrits, as well as with th' oull Sir Nick."
"Do you ever go up there?"
"No; I kip away in the daytime, and as fur goin' ther after dark, I wouldn't for a crock of gould."
We asked the man many more questions, but could get nothing much further from him. All I could gather was that the Trewinions had been a great people, but had fallen on evil days as the result of their own sinning, and that the present representative of the family was a recluse, living alone in the old Manor House, and that many curious stories were told about him.
"Well," said Will to me, "I think we've heard enough; let us get away from this outlandish place."
"Not until I've inquired at the place itself," I replied.
"You are mad," said he. "Evidently this old man is some strange creature, who prefers living alone, and will no doubt think it a piece of impudence on our part if we call. Perhaps he will set the dogs after us."
"Nevertheless, I'm going," I replied. "If you like to remain behind, you may do so; but I want to know the truth of this. I suspect a good story."
"Oh, well, if you will be foolish, I'll go," said Will, "but remember we have to walk twelve miles before we get to our resting-place to-night."
I did not reply, but went away in the direction of Trewinion Manor, while Will, grumbling, came on behind.
As we ascended the hill the view became wondrously grand. At least fifteen miles of coast were to be seen, with great rugged cliffs, hundreds of feet high, while huge rocks stood out in the sea as if inviting the fury of the waves as they broke upon them. In winter it must be almost terrible to live there, but now it was beautiful beyond compare. We found, too, that the old house was somewhat sheltered, on the one hand by the great headland which rose higher as it neared the sea, and on the other by a thick, lofty wall. Besides this, a hill which rose up landward broke the force of the wind, so that it was not so exposed as I had at first thought.
There was no way of entering the grounds save by a door that was locked. It was thick and heavy, made of oak, and iron studded.
"Evidently those within are determined to keep out intruders," I said, as I saw the grim forbidding wall.
"I should think so," replied Will. "Now let's go on, for it's only waste of time to stay here."
My love for the mysterious, however, was too strong to allow Will's words to have due effect, and seeing a breach in the wall I climbed it. I found that this enclosure had so far sheltered the grounds of the house that a quantity of vegetation of various kinds had grown there, and although the place was now in a very neglected condition, it must in past years have provided for a great household. The house looked extremely lonely, and no soul was to be seen. I confess I was taken a little aback at this. To gain admittance did not seem either as pleasant or as easy as at first sight. I did not like to shout. The silence of the place, only broken by the sobbing of the waves, hundreds of feet below, forbade it, while to knock at the old iron-studded door was equally unseemly.
Yet I did not like to go away. My curiosity continued to increase, so I came down from the wall and began to examine the door. To my delight I saw fastened to a great gray rock, on which the door was partly hung, a piece of iron at the end of a chain.
Evidently this was in some way a means of communication with the house. I seized, and pulled it.
No sooner had I done so than I heard the clanging of a bell away up in the old house.
"There," I said to Will, who had kept on protesting, "perhaps that is like the bells in the old monasteries; it will frighten away all evil spirits."
Will grumbled about my having "plenty of cheek," while I waited, somewhat anxiously, I confess, for an answer.
Presently I heard a murmur of voices within, and then the withdrawing of bolts. After a few seconds the door turned on its rusty hinges and revealed two men both about fifty years of age.
"What do you want?" asked one sternly.
"I want to see Squire Trewinion," I replied boldly. I felt it would be of no use hesitating, and although I had no earthly business there I determined to get admittance.
"Why do you wish to see him?" was the next question.
"I will answer that to Mr. Trewinion himself," I said.
"Your names, then?"
"They are unknown to you," I replied, "and my telling them could serve no purpose. Lead the way to your master."
They looked at us suspiciously; but seeing two young men, well dressed and with plenty of assurance, they seemed inclined to let us in. Consequently a minute after we stood within the walls that surrounded this place of evil repute, the door being carefully locked behind us.
The two men, evidently servants, led the way up an unused road, by which we reached the tower entrance. Neither spoke a word.
On coming close to Trewinion Manor we found that it was built of granite, and had evidently been standing for hundreds of years. The stones of the doorways were curiously carved, and even the exterior of the place looked as though it contained a hundred secrets. It was large, too, and must at some time have been the home of people of wealth.
The view was wonderful. In front of us stretched the mighty Atlantic, whose murmuring song told of the peaceful waves that now splashed on the shore. I had seen the Atlantic in a tempest, however, and so could easily fancy what a sight there must be when the waters beneath were lashed into fury by great storm clouds.
Arrived at the door, our guides stopped.
"We can show you no further without permission," said the spokesman. "I will tell the master you are here, and see if he will receive you."
Accordingly he went away, while the other stood at some little distance watching us.
"I've caught your mystery fever," said Will. "I'm longing to get inside now; but what excuse are you going to make for intruding?"
"I've settled that," I replied. "Our visit is an ordinary one, and I shall tell no lies."
I had scarcely spoken when the man returned, telling us to follow him, as his master would see us.
A minute later we stood within the silent walls of Trewinion Manor.
There was a cold vault-like atmosphere within the place, and as we went along the dark corridors, every footstep sounding on the granite floor and echoing through the great empty house, I felt like shuddering.
Outside the sun was shining and the west wind blowing, making everything bright and glad; but within all was cold and forbidding.
Still we followed the man curiously, and I must confess I felt my heart beat loudly against my ribs as he knocked at a dark, forbidding looking door. I do not think I am usually nervous, but on this occasion I was getting excited.
The knock was followed by a response.
"Come in," said a voice.
The old servant opened the door, and ushered us into a room that was on every side lined with books. There were thousands of volumes on the shelves. Some I saw were old and scarce, and exceedingly valuable. Others again were new and well bound. I gave them but little attention at the time, however, for my mind was drawn towards the lonely occupant of the room, the master of the house.
He looked about sixty years of age, but was large-boned, tall, and vigorous. His hair was iron grey, but had evidently been black. His eyes were black, and his great rugged forehead was fringed with bushy eyebrows, which gave him a somewhat fierce appearance. His nose was large, his mouth was large, and his chin, too, was large, square, and determined. He was no ordinary man. There was the stamp of unusual power upon him. He was no trifler, and yet beneath his look of determination and energy something was lacking. He seemed as though his determination needed to be roused, his energy to be stimulated. Yet I could see nothing in his appearance which justified the opinions we had heard expressed about him, nor could I discover anything which suggested a misanthrope.
He placed chairs for us both, and then politely asked what he could do to serve us. He had a strong, deep, somewhat musical voice, and had I not been otherwise informed, I should have regarded him as one who often entertained visitors, so free from restraint did he seem.
"I hope you will excuse us for calling," I said, "but my story must explain my rudeness. I follow literature as a profession, and have for some months been engaged on a work dealing with the legends and superstitious beliefs of Cornwall. I am, however, enjoying my vacation now, and my friend and I are on a walking tour along the coast. Seeing this old grey mansion, and thinking there might be some story in connexion with its early days, I have taken the liberty of calling."
He looked at me curiously, as though he suspected me of some sinister motive, and his black eyes glittered.
"Have you heard anything which would lead you to think this house had a story? or have you come here out of pure speculation?" he said, brusquely.
"I suspected there must be legends about a house as old as this," I replied, "and a man we met some distance from here told us that—that——"
"You need not go further," he said, grimly, "I know all the stories that are afloat among the people who live within a few miles of the place. You have heard that I have sold myself to the devil, and that the house is haunted by evil spirits?"
I did not reply.
"You are bold fellows to come here," he continued, "for I am reported to have wonderful powers, being able to call to my aid the might of the king of darkness. But I do not know your names and so cannot talk freely with you."
I told him our names.
"I know you both by reputation," he said. "You," turning to Will, "are a barrister, and bidding fair to donning silk, while you," turning to me, "are making your name known as a novelist."
"I have read your books," he continued; "and—well"—he stopped and mused a minute, and then, pointing to the bookshelves, continued—"I get nearly everything. Science, religion, history, travel, poetry, romance, I see them all. That's how I know your names and professions. I send one of my servants to Plymouth every month, and thus I get all I need."
We soon fell to talking about books, and I found that intellectually this Squire Trewinion was a man of more than ordinary power. We had not conversed long however, before I saw a great change come over him. He seemed possessed by some nervous dread, and was evidently anxious to drop the subject of books.
Seeing this, I turned the conversation to the old house in which we stood, and asked him the year of its erection.
"It dates from the time of Charles II," he said, "and is, perhaps, the best built house in the whole county. And it had need to be so, for the storms which sometimes beat upon us are terrific."
"Are there any stories or legends about it?" I said, laughingly.
He looked at me as though he would read my heart's inmost secrets, and then burst out:
"Yes, there are stories, there are legends, there are mysteries, and they are true."
I thought at first that he was joking, but he continued:
"Yes, there is truth in the wildest story afloat, not perhaps in the exact way that the ignorant clowns think; but, sir——"
He stopped again for a second, as if making up his mind upon some point. Evidently, his lonely mode of living caused him to act differently from the conventional society man.
"We Trewinions are an old race, sir, and some of my ancestors have been very violent," he continued.
"That is not to be wondered at," I replied. "Life here, a century ago, must have been far different from the life of to-day, while earlier still, when smugglers sought the caves around, and pirates sailed the seas, it must have been almost impossible for anyone to live in such a neighbourhood as this without leading a strange life."
"You are interested in mysterious stories and legends, are you not?" he said.
I told him that I had almost a passion for the supernatural, the mysterious, and the occult.
He looked at me again, long and steadily.
"I have read some things you have written," he said at length. "You dabbled a little in the mysterious in them; but I have in my possession a history——"
Again he stopped, and I begged him to go on, for I felt he had something of importance to tell me.
"You said you were writing a book on the superstitions and legends of Cornwall," he said, "and were anxious to collect anything that might be of interest."
I told him that this was so.
At this he went to the window and looked out over the blue expanse of the sea, after which he turned towards me, and looked steadily into my face.
"I have a strange impulse on me," he said.
I made no answer to his words, but frankly met his gaze.
"You are an utter stranger to me in one way," he went on, "but both your personal appearance and your writings suggest that you and I have much in common. Besides, great God! although I live the life of a hermit, I long at times for the companionship of a kindred soul."
I was still silent, deeming that this was the best means of obtaining his confidence.
"It seems like pure madness," he said at length, "but, look here, would you care to look at a manuscript, which not only contains suggestions of one-time superstitions and customs, but something of the history of an old Cornish family?"
"I should be more than delighted to see it," was my reply.
For a moment he muttered as if to himself, then, like a man taking a great resolution, he turned to a large safe and unlocked it. His hand trembled as he did so, as though he were afraid.
"I have only read the manuscript once," he said, "and I have not seen it for twenty years. I tremble as I look for it now. You will know why when you have read it."
He took from the safe a large parcel, wrapped in paper, on which were written the following words:
"Roger Trewinion was my grandfather," said he, as he saw me looking at the name. "My father was called Roger—I am called Roger—the last of my race. If—ah—if—but I daren't think of that."
"And may I read these confessions?" I asked eagerly, for I longed to get away alone and commence them.
"Yes, I am going to let you. How I dare trust you with them I don't know, except that I've read one or two of your books, and, well I am a man of strong impulses. It is characteristic of my race. Besides, I feel like trusting you.
"After you've read it," he continued, "you will know why I live here as I do; you will understand something of the web of mystery that is woven about this place. You will see the curse that rests upon my life."
"Curse?" I said questioningly.
"When you have finished with it," he went on, without heeding my words, "bring the old manuscript back, and I will lock it up again. Much as I wish it had never been written, or rather, the deeds it recalls had never been done, I would not like to lose it now, for it possesses a strange fascination for me."
We stayed an hour longer at Trewinion Manor, not liking to decline the hospitality which was proffered us. But I was anxious to be alone. The story of the grandfather of the present owner of this strange place was of paramount interest to me, and so, after many promises, many questions and many requests, I hastened away with my precious burden under my arm.
I remember nothing of the journey along the coast that day, except that I was constantly hurrying Will along so that we might more quickly reach the watering-place where our luggage had been sent, and where we had engaged rooms.
Arrived there I went immediately to the apartment allotted to me, where I left "the Confessions." After a hasty meal, I ordered candles and returned to my room to read, while Will went out to see the town.
I read on all the night, nor did I cease until I had finished the manuscript which Roger Trewinion had placed in my hands.
It is not now my purpose to tell you my impressions concerning it. The fact that the story therein told follows this chapter bears witness to the interest I found in it. Whether it will prove equally interesting to the reader is not for me to say.
I have now told how I came by these confessions of Roger Trewinion, so I need write little more concerning them.
Let it be understood, however, that my only share in the story is that of editor and reviser. Much of it had to be re-written and much of the dialect transposed into ordinary English. Still, the history stands practically as I found it, and, wherever I have re-written or revised, I have endeavoured to retain the spirit in which Roger Trewinion originally wrote.
Of the belief and deeds of the writer, I may have a few words to say by and bye; but my only duty at present is to lay before you the history he wrote at a time when strange deeds were done in this western county, and when its people were influenced and bound by strange and sometimes cruel superstitions.
"And the boys grew, and Esau was a cunning hunter, a man of the field; and Jacob was a plain man, dwelling in tents. And Isaac loved Esau; but Rebekah loved Jacob."
What I, Roger Trewinion, am about to write is true. I tell what I have seen, and heard, and have been.
I was born in the year of our Lord, 1750. I am now sixty years of age.
My family is an ancient one; not that I boast of it, for families reckon as little when the terrible realities of life press heavily upon us. Still, in mentioning the fact that my family is ancient and honourable, I do not do so without a purpose. Events will show that it matters not much what name we bear if the man within us be not strong to resist temptation.
Our family included, besides myself, one son and two daughters. The son, my brother, was called Wilfred, my two sisters, Katherine and Elizabeth. I am the elder son, and am called Roger after my father. Wilfred was born two years after me. Katherine and Elizabeth were respectively four and six years younger than myself.
People always said I was a true son of my father. From my childhood I was big, strong, and daring. I must add, too, that I was passionate and revengeful. My brother was neither so tall nor so daring as I; but he was, nevertheless, exceedingly strong and wiry, and although, being the older, I was the stronger of the two, I often had difficulty in proving myself the master. Especially was this seen when we used to wrestle on the soft, spongy grass that grows on the headland. I could lift him from the ground and throw him over my head, such was my advantage in weight and strength. Yet so cunning was he, and so agile, that he would cling around me, and twine his limbs around mine, so that I had to be very careful or I should have been disgraced by being thrown.
Our dispositions, too, were different. I was noisy, boisterous, passionate and outspoken. Wilfred was quiet and thoughtful. I often did deeds without thinking; but not so Wilfred; he weighed and considered both his words and actions. Consequently I was ever getting into scrapes, but Wilfred seldom or never.
I was my father's favourite. I was a sturdy young dog, he said, just like the rest of the Trewinion race, and would be an honour to my name. Wilfred, on the other hand, received but little notice from my father, but was the darling of my mother's heart. My father saw little or no fault in me and saw plenty in Wilfred. My mother saw only perfection in Wilfred and only imperfections in me. This, I am afraid, raised a barrier between my mother and my father, for which I was then, and am now, truly sorry.
In spite of these differences I loved Wilfred very much. Was he not my brother? were we not born in the same room? did not the same mother suckle us? and did we not both bear the name of Trewinion? Wilfred, however, did not love me so much. I think it was because he was a little jealous of me. The jealousy came about in this way.
Maidens love strength and daring; and as I was able to do for my sisters many thing which Wilfred was unable to do—such as scaling the cliffs for rare plants, getting precious stones, and so forth—I was more beloved by them than Wilfred was. Thus, as he saw Katherine and Elizabeth ever clinging to me, and avoiding him, he would look darkly at me, and go with his sorrows to our mother, who, in her kindness of heart, would give him comfort and sometimes indulgences which I do not think were always good for him.
Still, we were fairly good friends, and sometimes after I had fought a boy for teasing him, we would be quite happy together.
I am writing these things now because I think they have a bearing on some of the events that happened in my after life.
We were educated at the vicarage of Trewinion by the vicar, the Rev. Thomas Polperrow. The living of Trewinion was only worth about £100 per annum, and so Mr. Polperrow was glad to augment his salary by taking pupils. There were eight boys besides ourselves, who came from places some three or four miles around; so we were able to have right merry times together.
I was not a very good scholar. I found it difficult to apply myself to any task; Wilfred, on the other hand, was the best pupil the vicar had. At twelve years of age he was quite a Latin scholar and was great at Euclid, and mathematics generally. This was exactly as it ought to be, my father said, for Wilfred was to be a clergyman, and when Mr. Polperrow died could be installed into the living. But although Wilfred had the advantage as far as scholarship went, I had the advantage of him in other ways. To save my life I could not conjugate a Latin verb; but I knew every creek and cove on our rockbound coast; and had gone into every cave that honeycombed the cliffs. This was considered exceedingly daring on my part, by those who believed, as many did, that these caves were the nocturnal homes of witches and dark spirits of the dead. It was true that I did not go after dark, for the sobbing waters of the sea wailed and made terrible noises as they swept into the caves at night time, and it was then that I used to hear strange cries as I stood on the top of the cliffs and listened.
I had no doubt then, nor do I doubt now, that spirits from the invisible world do appear in such places, and what I have to relate will fully bear out my belief. Mr. Polperrow, the vicar, has proved on many occasions that the belief in spirits appearing on earth is scriptural.
I had reached the age of fifteen when my father came to me as I rambled about the great headland on which our house is built.
"This is your birthday, Roger," he said.
"Yes, father," I replied. "Thank you for the new pony. I have just ridden over to Rosecarrow to see Tom Tremain. He goes like the wind."
"Ay, I saw you ride away. You have a firm seat, Roger. I am glad to see you ride so well."
"Well, I ought to ride well, father, for you taught me," I replied.
"Let's see, you are fifteen to-day, Roger, are you not?"
"Yes, fifteen to-day."
"What a big lad you are. What weight are you?"
"Nearly eight score pounds, father," I replied.
"So much, eh? Well, well, the Trewinions are a big race. I weighed as much when I was your age."
"And see what a big man you are now."
My father did not reply for a minute; then he said slowly—
"Roger, my boy, when I was fifteen my father took me into the library and read to me something which closely affected my welfare. There is no knowing how long I may live, and I think that what was read to me then should be read to you now, for it applies to all the Trewinion heirs. Come with me."
I followed my father into the house, and we entered the library together.
"Ours is a curious race, Roger," my father began. "Our name began strangely. God grant that it may not end with you."
"I hope it may not, father."
"Cherish the hope, my lad, for the last son of the Trewinions will die a terrible death, haunted by evil spirits."
I shuddered.
"The Trewinion race sprang from the Trevanions," he went on. "The mother of our people was a Trevanion, and she, while but a child in years—for she was scarcely seventeen—married a nameless nobody, who, fearing the wrath of her brothers, ran away like a coward as soon as their wedding was found out. When it was known that she was going to be a mother, Lord Trevanion built a house and sent her here with a nurse, blessed with the gift of second sight. When the child was born—a son—the nurse, who was held in great respect by the family, sent for Lord Trevanion, who came, wondering at her message. Then she told him that many things had been revealed to her on the night of the child's birth, which she thought he ought to know.
"On being asked what she meant, she replied that messengers from the spirit land had revealed to her that the boy was to be called Roger Trewinion, and that he was to have certain lands in that neighbourhood, then owned by Lord Trevanion.
"So much was he moved by the nurse's story that this manor house was built, and the lands now belonging to it were handed over to this child. And thus, Roger, your name and mine began to be, and thus we own the lands belonging to Trewinion Manor."
"And what became of the mother of this child, father?" I asked eagerly.
"She lived many years with her son; lived with him, indeed, until she died."
"And he?"
"He married a lady belonging to the Penwardle family, one of the best families in the county."
"And so our race has lived here ever since?"
"Ever since. They dare not leave it. If, for six months at a time, the master of the family, or the son and heir, live away from this place, built at the command of Heaven, he brings a curse on the race of Trewinion which shall last unto the third generation."
I felt very grave, for this was strange news to me. In my young, careless life I had not troubled to ask the history of my family.
"There are many things I have to say on another occasion," said my father, "but most of them can wait. One thing, however, I must tell you. The nurse who was with the first Trewinion at his birth lived until he was blessed with a son, then, according to the records of the house of Trevanion, she uttered these words:"
My father here took a piece of paper from a strong box and began to read:
Trewinion's land so rich and free,Stretching out against the sea,So Trewinion's name shall stand,Like the rocks which on the sandDefy the angry breakers' power,While Trewinion's heir is pure.And so Trewinion's heir and prideA power shall be in the country side.And his enemies one and allShall for ever droop and fall.