"Curses," he sneered; "all old wives' tales. I wonder at you thinking about them. Were I the eldest son I would throw all that to the wind, I would see the world; I would enjoy myself, and spend some of the hoarded gold of generations."

He looked at me closely as he said this, and I began to feel that perhaps the old stories were foolishness. All my father had told me seemed real in the night time, but in daylight it was shadowy and unreal.

"Do you know about these stories?" I said.

"Yes."

"How?"

He looked a little confused, and then said, hurriedly:

"Oh, I have read the history of our house, and have hunted up the family documents. You see, while you have been climbing the 'Devil's Tooth' I have been grinding away at the story of the devil's curses. But, bah, Roger, what are curses to you? Surely, you can laugh at them all."

Throughout the conversation I felt that he had some purpose in his talk. It seemed as though he were sifting me and seeking to read my thoughts, and so I was silent.

"Do you know anything about little Ruth's family?" he went on.

"No," I replied.

"Her father owned miles of land," he said, "and it is all left to her. Your estate, Roger, is but a patch on hers. Morton Hall, too, is about twice as big as this house. Eh, but you were lucky to save her life."

Looking back after a long lapse of years I feel that this is not the natural talk of a boy of sixteen, and as I write, I ask myself whether I have not incorrectly recorded our conversation. It is true I only write from memory; nevertheless, I think I have faithfully described what was said. Really, Wilfred was never a true boy. He was always older than I, though born two years later, and when quite a child he had an old-fashioned way of speaking. The villagers were in the habit of saying that Wilfred had the brains of the family, while I had the heart. Anyhow, he could always outwit me, and if ever we were matched against each other, I, in the long run, always came off second best.

A few days later I was able to be out again, and once more lived my old, free, untrammelled life. My father and I still continued friends and companions; but Wilfred was little with me. I noticed, however, that he was always anxious to please me. He ceased to sneer when speaking of me, and I thought he looked sad and downhearted. This made me gentle and forbearing towards him; so much so, that I often went out of my way to help him.

I often thought of old Deborah Teague's words as to whether he were or were not my brother; but I could find no answer to my questionings. That we both had the same father I did not doubt; but was his mother my mother? Was that tall, stately woman who always treated me so coldly really and truly my mother? I asked old Deborah again and again, but my father I dared not ask.

My mother's demeanour to me was always the same. I never had a mother's cares, never realised a mother's love, and so I could do no other than to watch, even as old Deborah told me to watch.

Ruth Morton and I did not become friendly. Evidently she did not like me. I noticed that she looked at me furtively, and would never be alone with me by choice. I could not help feeling that in some way her mind had been poisoned concerning me, and I was not long in deciding who was the poisoner.

It is true that I did not try to win her liking.

I felt it rather hard that she should treat me so harshly, and so I never forced my company upon her.

This state of things existed for nearly two years. Wilfred was friendly, and, evidently, beloved by her, but I was disliked. Often my brother took her and my sisters for long walks, but I never did. I was busy on my father's estate and learning the secrets of agriculture, while he in the hours not devoted to study would be away with them, and became, I thought, more than ever a favourite with Ruth and my sisters.

During these two years I had become quite a man in stature, while Wilfred had likewise grown to be a tall, handsome fellow. I remember that all this time my mother encouraged the growing friendship of Ruth and Wilfred, and seemed delighted when she noticed her evident dislike for me.

I was now twenty. Wilfred was more than eighteen, Ruth was sixteen, and had grown quite a young woman. Katherine, too, who was the same age, had become a splendid example of a healthy, happy, country girl, while Elizabeth promised to become the beauty of the family.

At this time an event happened which made us better friends.

One afternoon I was sitting on the great headland overlooking the sea. It was a glorious day. The sky was clear, the sun was shining brightly, and the bright waves beneath were laughing and playing in the light of the sun. To me, as I sat there, the great sea was singing a wondrous song, full of a rich, rare music, which touched the deepest feelings of my nature. I had not heard much in my life about religion, and I am afraid I had not thought much about God, but as I sat there that day, a great rock above me and hundreds of feet of cliff beneath, while the sea chanted a song which the tones of a thousand organs could not reproduce, I felt a longing in my heart to serve my Maker and to do my duty while here below such as I had never felt before.

While I sat there I heard voices above me. Someone was standing on the great rock in a crevice of which I sat.

"Let's ask Roger to go with us?" said a voice.

I recognised it in a second as my sister Katherine's and I waited for the answer.

"No," I heard Wilfred say, "he hates girls; besides, he'll be as ugly as a bear with a sore head."

"That's not fair, Wilfred," said Katherine. "Roger does not hate us, and as for his being ugly, you know he's not."

"Well, we can't find him, anyhow," said Wilfred, "so let us go."

I must confess I felt angered by this, for I should have liked to accompany them. I strove to banish my brother's unkind words from my mind, however, and again tried to listen to the music of the sea; but it was all driven from my heart. For I have learnt this is truth: we must have music within us if we are to realise music in anything without.

I could not sit there long. My brother's words began to burn and sting; I would go for a walk, too.

I had not gone far when I saw someone running towards me. It was Wilfred.

"Help, Roger!" he shouted.

"What's the matter?" I said.

"Ruth has fallen down the cliff!"

"Fallen down the cliff! where?"

"Up here. Come with me."

We started running together and quickly came to a place where Elizabeth was weeping bitterly, while Katherine was descending the steep declivity as if to try and render help.

"Where is she?" I said excitedly. "And how did she get where she is?"

"She wanted a plant," cried Wilfred. "I told her it was not to be obtained, or I would get it; but she would not listen to me, and said she would fetch it herself. She went down a little way all right, but when she reached out her hand for the plant she slipped and fell."

"Fell! Fell where?" I asked, excitedly.

"To a ledge a few feet below."

"Did you see her?"

"Yes."

"And did you not try to reach her?"

"Why, how could I do anything? I could only go for help."

It is true Wilfred was younger than I, but I thought this conduct cowardly. He seemed to fear for himself, and dared not risk his own limbs. Katherine, on the other hand, though but a girl of sixteen, was trying to rescue her friend.

I quickly scrambled down the declivity, and was not long in reaching the point from which Ruth fell. Katherine was here also, but she could go no farther, for the ledge beneath, although only about eight or nine feet down, was narrow, and to fall from there meant certain death. The mystery was how Ruth had fallen on to this ledge, and for a time I was afraid she had been precipitated on the rugged rocks beneath. I heard a moan, however, and saw a bit of her white dress, so my mind was comparatively at ease.

I sent Katherine back, and told her to run for a rope, as it might be necessary, and then prepared to reach the narrow rock on which Ruth lay.

"Keep a good heart, Ruth," I said; "I am coming to help you."

There was no reply, but I still struggled to get to her. Time after time I essayed to reach her, and time after time I failed. I climbed around and around, and from different points tried to get a footing on the rock where she lay, but in vain. It was isolated, and was at least nine feet from any point above it, and nearly as many from any standing place on the same level.

There was only one way by which she could be reached, and that was by gaining a rock nearly on the same level, and then leaping over the chasm that lay between. This I determined to do, for how could I do less? Ruth was lying like one dead, and if I did not help her who could? I got on the point after some difficulty, and then found that I was in nearly as much danger as she. I had jumped down to this jutting rock, but I could not jump up again; the distance was too great. Could I get on the rock where she lay there seemed a possibility to get down, for the cliff looked slanting from that point.

Beneath me were two hundred feet of rugged cliff, and if I failed to reach Ruth I should fall from point to point on the rocks beneath and be killed.

I took off my coat and prepared to leap.

At this moment she awoke to consciousness and looked around her, and seeing her position she gave a scream of affright.

"Don't move," I said, "I'm going to save you."

Her eager eyes gave me strength and courage. I disencumbered myself of everything that would hinder me and placed my feet in the best position for a leap.

By this time I began to be excited. The sound of the sea seemed cruel, while the rocks looked like so many giant gaunt spectres that would lure me to destruction. There was no time for wild fancyings, however, so I nerved myself for what lay before me.

Then I took the leap.



CHAPTER VI

LINK TO LINK

I shall never forget the feeling which possessed me when I made this terrible leap. If my foot should slip, if I should fall short, if I should fall and be dashed to pieces! It was only a second; but I seemed to live a whole lifetime in that second. I landed safely, however, and was soon by Ruth's side.

To my delight she was scarcely hurt at all, except that she had received a shock. She was trembling violently, but she was a brave little thing, and as soon as I came she conquered her weakness.

"Can we get away from here, Roger?" she said, at length.

"I think so," I replied. "If we can't get down from here they will get us a rope, which I will fasten around you, so that you may be easily drawn up."

"Oh, I do not think I dare be drawn up," she said, with a shudder. "Can we not get down? I dare try with you to help me."

I examined the rocks, and decided to make the attempt. It was a long and tedious journey, especially as I had to clamber from rock to rock, and then lift Ruth. We managed it, however, and after a time stood safely on the hard beach.

No sooner had we done so than I heard my father's voice above. He had come with a rope and other means by which we might be helped; but right glad was he when he saw that we were not needing his help.

"The tide is out," I shouted in answer to his query as to how we should get home, "and I shall walk down to Trewinion Cove, and thus escape climbing any cliffs."

We started together.

"This is the second time you have saved my life, Roger," Ruth said.

"Do you think so?" I answered. "You might have got on all right without me."

"I do not think I have been just to you," she went on.

"How?" I asked, abruptly.

"Perhaps I ought not to tell you," she said, "but I cannot help it now."

I asked her to explain.

"I have sudden likes and dislikes," she said, "and when you saved me in the storm, and I heard that you were going to be my brother, I was glad—more glad than I can say. Then when I was getting well your mother came and told me that you had neither fear nor feelings. That you had risked your life out of mere love of danger, that you were cruel and vindictive. That, although you were the heir of the Trewinions, you were totally unfit for its responsibilities. That your brother Wilfred was in reality robbed of the position which he alone was fit to take. That you had ever been cruel to him, that, although you were superior in strength, you took advantage of his weakness. Thus, when I saw you, although you had saved my life, I was prepared to dislike you."

"And then?" I asked.

"I thought you verified what your mother had said. You seemed rough and uncouth, and very different from your brother."

I suppose most of us like to be thought well of. None of us wish to be looked upon as objects of repugnance. Anyhow, I was in no pleasant frame of mind, and I had hard work to keep from bursting out with some strong invective against my brother, but I held my tongue and waited for her to continue.

"Since then," she went on, "I have been finding out my mistake, and I have wanted to tell you so; but you have always been so cold and repellent that I dared not. You are rough and stern, Roger, not a bit like Wilfred."

I bit my lip angrily.

"Yes, I know you have saved my life again," she said, as if divining my thoughts. "I know that Wilfred dared not do what you have done; but what I meant was that anyone who does not understand you would think you harsh. Besides, it takes some time to know you."

"But I always felt friendly towards you, Ruth, even though you seemed to dislike me."

"And I shall always be more friendly to you in the future. I want you to forgive me, Roger. Will you?"

She looked at me, and her great grey eyes were full of kindness, and her voice was so gentle that I felt quite uncomfortable.

"Don't talk about forgiving," I said, rather roughly, I expect, "let us be good friends."

She looked very pale as I said this, and then I saw that she was more shaken and hurt than I had at first thought. She would have fallen, I believe, had I not upheld her. I led her to a rock, where she sat down for a rest, and when I had found some fresh water for her, she was quite refreshed. She took hold of my arm as we walked home, however, and I felt a strange pleasure in helping her. She had grown just like one of my sisters to me, and she seemed to regard me as a brother.

We talked quite pleasantly on our way, until we forgot the great danger in which we had both been a little while before. I forget just now what we were talking about; but I know that while we were laughing heartily at something she had been saying we were startled by a voice telling us to stop.

We looked up, and Deborah Teague stood before us. She eyed us keenly, and when she saw how friendly we were, she said, "Maaster Roger, mind what ould Debrah said."

"I always do mind what you say, Deborah," I replied; "you have always been a friend to me."

"Maaster Roger," she continued, "ould Debrah hev vollied the fortins of yer family for years, and she ought to knaw."

"Well, what's wrong now?"

"It wur a woman as tempted Adam, it wur a woman as tempted Samson, it wur a woman as tempted Ahab. Lev Maaster Roger be keerful."

"I hardly know what you mean," I said, a little astonished at this strange speech.

She lifted her skinny hand above her head.

"Mind," she said, "mind Trewinion's curse! Oh, tes comin', tes comin'. I see it now. Mind, Maaster Roger, my deer, mind. Doan't 'ee forgit what ould Debrah tould 'ee on the night of the storm, years agone. 'Twas the mawther that was too cunning for Esau, ah, and ef Maaster Roger ed'n keerful the mawther'll be too cunnin' for him."

Try as I would I could not help shuddering at her words, while Ruth clutched my arm convulsively.

"Keep boath yer eyes oppen, Maaster Roger, or the curse'll be upon 'ee, for as sure as ould Debrah spaikes tes comin'."

She waddled away when she said this, leaving us to wonder at her words.

What caused her to speak like this? How could she know what she did?—for her words came true. Did she possess some power to peer into the future? Were things clear to her vision to which I was blind? Or was it simply that she was clear headed and clever and her statements amounted only to a shrewd guess?

I will not dare to answer. I have seen so many strange things happen, which I have been unable to explain, that to say she was possessed of a power that was not natural would be unwise. And yet I have been fed upon strange mental food, and have been led to believe in things at which some laugh.

"What does she mean, Roger?" said Ruth, when she had gone.

I was silent.

"Do you think she is a witch?" she continued; "she looks like one."

"She is a strange old woman," I said, as lightly as I could, for I did not want Ruth to be made anxious, "and some think she is a witch; but Mr. Polperrow says she is only a clever old woman who knows more than the common run of villagers."

She was about to ask more questions when we saw my father, Wilfred, and my sisters coming towards us. Both my sisters gave a shout of joy, and I saw a glad look in my father's eyes. But Wilfred's face was black as night, and the gleam of a devil flashed in his eyes. He did not speak, and while the others were anxiously asking questions as to what we did and how we had managed, Wilfred stood and glared savagely at me. His eyes became red, and his face like the face of a corpse.

I asked myself whether my father had accused him of being a coward, or if my sisters had been foolishly praising me, as they sometimes did, for neither Katherine nor Elizabeth seemed to realise how rough and uncouth I was. I noticed, however, that when Ruth began to magnify what I had done, as in her exaggerated notions of things she did, he gave a cynical, sarcastic laugh, and walked back to the house alone.

Did Wilfred care so much about praise, I wondered, or was he bitter towards me because I was heir to the Trewinion lands? Why else should he be so unbrotherly to me?

I do not think my sisters did Ruth any good by talking to her about her danger, for it brought back to her that faintness which she experienced upon the sands, so we soon took her indoors, where, being able to rest in quietness, she recovered.

I do not think it is my nature to remain unfriendly with any one, so I made an opportunity of trying to find Wilfred, in order to know what I had done to offend him. I found, however, that he was with my mother, and did not wish to be seen.

Again Deborah Teague's words came back to me. Was Wilfred's mother my mother? If so, why was it she never allowed me into her private room? Why were there no confidences between us as there were between her and my brother? Was she the cause of my brother's anger?

That evening we all sat together in the library, as we generally did before going to rest. Ruth still looked pale, and complained of pains. Evidently her fall had hurt her more than we had thought. My mother sat near her, and lovingly held her hand, often saying soft loving words, as though she wanted to be a mother to her. I was glad of this, for I was sure that Ruth must often feel sad and lonely, and it must comfort her to know that although she was an orphan she was still beloved.

We all joined in conversation, with the exception of Wilfred. He sat behind his mother, never speaking a word. I forget now what were the subjects of discussion; it does not matter much. Still I cannot but wish that some clever painter could have put the gathering on canvas, for to me it looked beautiful. My father was so stately and grand, while my mother was, I think, the handsomest woman I ever saw; and behind her was the clear, Greek-like face of my brother. The three girls, too, looked the picture of contentment. It was a home scene in a quiet old house, and worthy of a painter's skill.

We had been sitting there some little time, when the vicar walked in. He was always a welcome visitor and I regarded him as a sort of second father. He joined in our conversation quite naturally, and we soon became quite merry together.

Presently there was a lull in our talk, and then Wilfred, without any warning, broke out excitedly, and in a loud voice,

"Father, I want to go to Oxford."

We all looked at him in astonishment. He had been so silent all the evening that this made us think something was the matter.

My father eyed him keenly, and then replied quietly.

"I had arranged for you to go next year, Wilfred."

"Yes, but I want to go now," he said, excitedly. "I've been home here long enough; I've wasted enough time."

"You've not wasted so much time, my boy," said my father, kindly. "Mr. Polperrow has had you in hand, and has given you a good drilling; besides, you are only just turned eighteen."

"I know," he said; "but I am the younger son, and so shall have no fortune. Thus, I think, I should waste no time in getting an education. Mr. Polperrow told me, not long since, that he could not do much more for me, and as I am to be 'penniless Wilfred' I think I might have a chance to earn my bread."

"You will not be penniless, Wilfred," said my father. "You will be as well endowed as most young men, and I have my plans for the future."

"But I can't stay here longer," he cried. "If I have talents why should I waste them here? Give me a chance, and then the second son may turn out to be as good as the elder."

This was spoken both bitterly and sadly, as if he felt his lot to be hard.

"I have come about this very matter," said Mr. Polperrow. "Wilfred has very great gifts, and the sooner he goes to Oxford the better. I have some little influence there, and if you thought fit I would make arrangements at once."

My mother's eyes fairly shone with joy as he said this, and then she too joined in the plea that Wilfred should be allowed to leave home so that his powers might have a fair chance of being tested.

My father at length gave his consent, and Mr. Polperrow went away with the commission to procure for Wilfred an entrance into this ancient seat of learning.

When we retired to rest I thought long over the events of the day. What was the meaning of this sudden desire to depart? Was there a league between the three who had advocated this step? Only a few days before Wilfred had been speaking of going to Oxford a year later. Why then this sudden resolution?

I fell asleep, however, without solving the problem, and as during the next few days Wilfred wore a grieved expression and seldom spoke to any one but his mother and Ruth, I was still deeper in mystery. When we were all together, if he spoke to me, he spoke kindly, but when we were alone he betrayed a hatred for me that I could not understand.

A month later my mother was in great sorrow. Wilfred had started for Oxford.



CHAPTER VII

THE WITCHES' CAVE

As I look back over what I am now about to relate, my mind is strangely confused with the amount of reality and unreality that appeared. At one time I am inclined to think it all real, at another I am led to regard it as pure imagination, or as due to the credulity of a hot-brained youth. Be that as it may, however, I will try and set down what I remember as faithfully as I can.

After Wilfred had gone things were very quiet. My mother seldom spoke to me, but kept Ruth by her side, until the two became, as it seemed to me, almost inseparable. Indeed, she took far more notice of Ruth than she did of her own daughters. As a consequence my sisters and I were often together, until the villagers came to say that Roger Trewinion wanted no sweethearts but his sisters.

On the afternoon of a sultry autumn day, some time after Wilfred had gone to Oxford, I had to walk past Deborah Teague's cottage, and saw the old woman sitting on the doorstep quietly smoking.

"Come ere, Maaster Roger," she said; "I've been waitin' for 'ee a bra long while."

I looked at her in astonishment.

"Iss' my dear, I knawed you was a comin', so I says I'll jist wait for Maaster Roger."

"How did you know I was coming?"

"Knaw!" she replied, "what doan't I knaw? But come in, I want to talk to 'ee."

"What about?"

"Somethin' you're interested in, my deer. Ther set down. Yer brother es gone away to college edn't a?"

"Yes, he's gone."

"Ah, ould Debrah ev for a long time bin thinkin' 'bout it, my dear."

"About what?"

"'Twas a hawful storm, Maaster Roger, wadn't it, then? People do say that ould women ca'ant do nothin', but, law, that storm wur big enough and bad enough!"

"Do you mean to say that you caused the storm then?"

"No, not me, my dear, but I knawed it wur a comin' ded'n I un? And ded'n I give 'ee warnin', my dear? Ef I dedn't, why she would'n ev bin livin' now."

"Deborah," I said, "you are talking in riddles. If you have anything to tell me, let me know about it."

"Doan't 'ee be vexed, Maaster Roger. Ould Debrah is yer friend, and do want for you to be her friend!"

"But I don't understand all this mysterious talk. You are hinting at strange things. Let me know about it. Is there witchcraft in the matter?"

"Ould Debrah do knaw 'bout Trewinion's curse, doan't she, my deer? How should she know that except by—well, we wa'ant say what."

"Yes, you have hinted about it? But what have I to do with it? I have done nothing that will cause it to rest upon me."

"But tes comin', Maaster Roger, ef I and some more doan't help 'ee. Tell 'ee, my dear, things belongin' to the sperrits can onnley be stopped by they who—well, who have got power in they paarts."

I was getting interested.

"Are you a witch, then?" I asked.

"Can 'ee bear to hear it, Maaster Roger?" she whispered.

"I can bear anything," I said.

"Maaster Roger, you've eerd of Farmer Jory?"

"Yes, often."

"Ah, ee died a awful death, my deer."

"So I've heard," I said. "People have told me that his last hours were terrible; that he seemed like one placed upon a rock. And that although at one time he was well off, all his cattle died and his ground refused to grow crops."

"You've eerd that, av 'ee? Well, now, I tell 'ee summin. My old man Pitter used to work for'n, my dear, and my maid went there to sarvice. Pitter and me were 'appy as two turtle doves, my deer, and my maid was the puttiest in the parish. Well, Farmer Jory was a bad man, my deer. He ought to ev married my maid, and he ded'n, an' though I went down on my knees and prayed to 'im to save her frum disgrace, he would'nt, and so she died heartbroken. By this time Pitter wur nearly a cripple and couldn't work much, so that we wur nearly starvin'. He had worked for the Jorys oll his life, and now when they ought to ev 'elped us they left us to starve. Twa'nt more'n three weeks after we berried the maid afore Pitter died of starvation and a brokken heart, and I wur left alone. Oh, Maaster Roger, ef you could ev knawed what I suffered you would pity me. I wur nearly mad wi' grief and shame, and the day after my owld man wur berried I wur sittin' in the doorway theer, when Betsey Tressider comed 'long. I was allays 'fraid of Betsey, cause people said she wur a witch, and did meet with a lot ov others up in the witch ov Fraddam's cave. She axed me what I wur grievin' for and I tould her. Then she laughed and zed I wur a fool not to be revenged on Farmer Jory, and not to make 'im suffer more'n I'd suffered. I axed her ow I cud do it, and she tould me to become a witch. Then I axed her ow I could be a witch, and she tould me to go to Logan Rock nine times at midnight and tich it wi my little vinger, an' she laughed and went away.

"Well, I wur oal alone, and so I thot and thot, and then I went to Logan Rock and tiched it wance, and I veeled a strange shivery feelin' and then I did it every night until the ninth night."

"And what happened then, Deborah?" I asked.

"I shan't tell 'ee that, my dear, but when I comed 'ome I seed Farmer Jory, and I looked top un, and I zed—well, never mind what I zed; but you knaw what happened."

"But witchcraft is of the devil," I said.

"Tes and tedn't," she said, mysteriously. "Who can charm as well as me, and the charms es oal bout goodness. Here, my dear, I'll tell 'ee some charms, and then you'll knaw ef they be good; but never tell a man, Maaster Roger, ef you do you'll break em. You knaw that Tommy Triscott's cheeld came to me t'other day with a scald, and I charmed un, and the charm is this:—

Then came three angels out of the east, One brought fire, and two brought frost; Out fire, and in frost In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost—Amen.

"And is Tommy better?"

"He had aise in three minutes; but he wur cured with a good name. I'll tell 'ee nother. You do knaw when you wur a cheeld you had a great thorn in ye arm through fallin' off a hedge, and you comed to me, and I charmed it and cured 'ee?"

"Very well."

"Well, I'll tell 'ee the charm:—

Christ was of a Virgin born, And He was prick'd by a thorn, And it did never throb nor swell, And I trust in Jesus this never will.

Christ was crowned with thorns; The thorns did bleed but did not rot. No more shall thy finger, In the name of Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

I could not help a creepy feeling coming over me as she uttered the words. I remembered her charming the place where the thorn had been and rubbing some ointment over it, and I also remember how quickly I had ease.

"So, my deer," she went on, "tedn't always a bad power that witches have."

"Well," I said at length, "have you asked me to come in here in order that you might tell me this?"

"Not all, my deer. I've wa'anted to show 'ee as ow I've got power, Maaster Roger, and that tedn't oal bad. And I want 'ee to harken to me so that you may not have the Trewinion's curse."

"Can you stop it?" I asked.

"I weth others can," she said.

"But the curse of the Trewinion's will not come upon me," I said, "for I shall not do anything to incur it."

"Wa'ant 'ee, but you will, Maaster Roger, and ef you doan't do as I tell 'ee you'll rue it to yer dyin' day. I see it comin', I see it comin'," and she lifted her skinny hand above her head. "I zee Maaster Roger beggard, I zee un starvin', I zee un mad wi' shame, I zee un ouseless, and omeless, I zee hes brother where he ought to be oal through Trewinion's curse."

In spite of myself I felt the old woman to be speaking the truth.

"But I will abide by everything written for my safety," I said.

"You ca'ant, you ca'ant," she screamed.

"Why?" I asked.

"You were born in a onlucky month, and the onlucky week of the month, and a onlucky day of the week, and an onlucky time ov the day."

"Why, when was I born?"

"You was born at nine o'clock ov a Friday evenin', in the third week in May," she said.

"And I can do nothing to avert the curse?"

"No, but I can."

"How?"

"Will 'ee come wi' me to Betsey Fraddam's cave?"

"When?"

"To-night."

"At what time?"

"Twelve o'clock."

"No," I said with a shudder.

She glared at me with her evil eye, then she said slowly:

"You'll come."

Betsey Fraddam's cave had an evil reputation. It was the meeting-place for all the evil women in the neighbourhood. Women who possessed terrible power. I had been taught to believe in them and to avoid coming into collision with them.

"Who'll be there?" I asked.

"You'll see," she said.

I went home soon after, pondering over Deborah's words. We retired to bed early at our house, and by ten o'clock quietness reigned everywhere. I could not sleep, however. My mind was excited by what old Deborah had told me, and when eleven o'clock came I had an intense desire to go to Fraddam's cave. The witch of Fraddam was almost a household word among the simple people. It was said that she was constantly raising storms and working mischief, and that if any one saw her thus engaged, woe be to that one for ever after. From my earliest childhood I had been frightened with stories of Betsey Fraddam's cave. It was whispered that the terrible witch herself met the living witches and goaded them on to terrible deeds.

Still I wanted to go. In the silence of the night the curse of the Trewinion's became terrible to me, and I was anxious to know how I could avert it. Besides, so much had my mind been filled with stories of the superstitious and wonderful that I felt afraid to disobey the old woman's summons. It is true I was a young man fairly well educated, and as a consequence disbelieved many of the stories of a priest-ridden age. And it may be that as the years roll by future generations may disbelieve in what we speak of to-day, even as we disbelieve the stories of the past. Nevertheless, at half-past eleven I rose and dressed quietly in order to go down to Fraddam's cave.

I remembered the old vicar's words, however, and said my prayers before starting, and then hurried down the precipitous pathway to the sand. The tide was out, and I could hear the sweet murmur of the sea in the distance. There was no wind, and the pale light of the moon lit up the scene, which was grand in the extreme. On my right hand behind me, rose the giant cliffs, rugged and forbidding, on the great headland stood our house, bluff and bold like an old castle.

I looked in the direction of the cave of evil repute, but could see nothing. My heart throbbed wildly. As old Deborah had said, we Trewinions never feared the living, but we trembled at the thought of the dead.

As I drew near Fraddam's cave I saw a twinkling light, and on coming up to its mouth I saw the bent form of an old woman.

"Trewinion's heir!" said a voice, and the light was taken into the cave.

As if drawn on by a charm I entered. It was the first time I had ever dared to do so. Often had I passed by the cave; but its reputation for evil was so terrible that I had avoided entering it. I doubt whether any inhabitant for miles around would ever think of intruding in a place which, it was believed, belonged to the powers of darkness.

The cave became larger the farther I penetrated into it, and was lit up by a ruddy kind of light. I noticed, too, in spite of my fears, that the main cave led to smaller ones, and that on each side of the entrance the ground was honeycombed. Presently the light became brighter, and, turning a sharp angle, I saw a good sized fire, on which a crock was steaming round about which weird forms sat. The ground was quite dry and it was evident the tide seldom came so far. As my eyes became more accustomed to the light, I recognised some of the women who sat there. Betsey Flue, Mally Udy, and Tory Bone lived within a mile of Trewinion Manor, and had doubtful reputations.

None of them looked at me for some time. They were intent on watching the fire and the steaming crock. The smell from this article was by no means unpleasant, evidently some savoury meat was being cooked, and I began to feel the place to be less gruesome than I had at first anticipated. I noticed, too, that a great many things were stowed away which could have no connection with the unseen world. Evidently the cave was used by smugglers as well as witches.

"Let Debrah Teague spaik," said an aged crone.

"Maaster Roger do knaw what I main," said Deborah. "There's an awful curse for the Trewinion 'ouse, and unless Maaster Roger do as we do tell un he'll ave it."

Ghastly as was the sight, uncanny as was the place, this speech of the old woman dispelled much of my fear. The nocturnal gatherings of witches were in my idea always associated with mysterious incantations. Although Shakespeare was a forbidden book to us boys, I had read "Macbeth," and this meeting was altogether dissimilar from the meeting of witches therein described. In spite of everything, I could not help thinking these old women were met for some sinister purpose far removed from the mysteries of witchcraft, so I said boldly:

"Old Deborah wanted me to come here; I have come. What do you want?"

"The curse is comin'. We can remove it," said the old woman who went by the name of Mally Udy.

"How?" I asked, for the sound of their voices and the sound of my own made me bolder still.

"We've worked a charm," said Mally, the oldest woman in the party. "We stole into Trewinion Church and took some water that the parson had used fur christenin' his oan grancheeld, an' we've made a broth of it. We've boiled a piece of lamb in it, with some sycamore leaves and some hagglet (white thorn) leaves, and we've said nine charms, nine times aich, and it'll ondo any curse."

"Where is it?" I said.

"Here, a boilin' now," was the reply.

I began to feel fearful again.

"But Maaster Roger must make a vow afore he drinks," said Mally.

"What?" I asked.

"You must say this," she said, shaking her skinny finger. "I, Roger Trewinion, promise never to hurt the women here to-night, or their children. I promise it by the sperrits of the place. And I make a vow that I'll allays protect they and their children as fur as I can."

There was a cunning look on her face as she spoke. I felt now that these were evil women, and that I would have nothing to do with them.

"I refuse to make the promise," I said.

"You'm afraid, you'm a coward," cried Deborah.

"No, I'm not afraid, I'm not a coward," I said, "and I'll stop these proceedings of yours. You have other reasons than witchcraft for coming here, and I'll know what they are."

This roused their passion.

"Evil sperrits shall tear 'ee," they said, "and oal your tribe."

"You are a set of evil hags," I said, furiously; "and the mysteries of this cavern shall be brought to light."

"Stop!" said old Mally Udy, "this broth here was fur yer good. I'll turn it to something bad and make 'ee drink it. The spirit of Betsey Fraddam is here, and she'll make a mixture for 'ee."

I had worked myself up into a passion and I kicked the crock and overturned it.

Never shall I forget the terrible words they said to me, or the curses they called upon me. They cursed me in body and mind, they cursed me in love and hate, in living and dying.

What was it, I wonder? Meaningless jargon, or not? When my story is told you will be able to judge better.

I went out of the cave in fear, and when outside I fancied I saw the terrible form of Betsey Fraddam. Then I went back to my home trembling.



CHAPTER VIII

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

O beware of my lord of jealousy; It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on: that cuckold lives on bliss Who, certain of his fate, love not its wronger. But O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes yet doubts; suspects yet fondly loves. —Othello.

Alone in my room that night I began to think again. I had hurried back from the cave with fearful speed, never daring to stop or think. Now I could do both, and for hours I tried to solve the problem before me. What was the meaning of this night's adventure? Had these women the power to rid me of a terrible calamity, or were they seeking simply the protection I should be able to afford in the future years? They were all in bad repute, and ofttimes the anger of the people was aroused against them, thus if they could gain my friendship they would be comparatively safe. Did they seek to frighten me into a promise, or was there some dread meaning in their words?

These questions drove me to pray, or rather, to say my prayers. I did not, could not, really pray. To me there was no real God. All was as misty and unreal as the mythical stories I had read about the fabled Greek gods. For hours I sought light, and help, and strength; but none came, and when daylight came I was still in doubt.

The next day I passed by old Deborah's cottage. I thought she might have something to say to me, but when she saw me she, bent her head and would not answer to my "good-day." Try as I would I could not help feeling that she had ill-will against me, and would lose no opportunity to do me an injury. Once I thought of speaking to my father about it; but I dared not tell him that I had been to Fraddam's cave at midnight; that act was in itself enough to bring darkness to my future, if there were any truth in the stories which floated in the very atmosphere of my life.

Days lengthened into weeks, and weeks into months, and nothing happened. Old Mally Udy passed and re-passed me, but she gave no sign of our midnight encounter. She dropped her usual curtsey of respect when she saw me. Thus it was that the awe of the night in Fraddam's cave died out. I gave up seriously thinking about it, and as the affairs of the Trewinion estate began to rest on me my mind was fully occupied.

During the months that followed, I believe I was moody and taciturn. At any rate, my sisters did not find so much pleasure in being with me as formerly, while Ruth was still my mother's companion. She was always kind to me, and seemed glad if she were able to do little sisterly acts, but we were never alone together, and never were there any confidences between us.

On my twenty-first birthday there were great festivities at our house. All the tenant farmers, their wives, and their children, together with the cottagers and labourers on the estate, were invited. These, with the neighbouring gentry, made a gay scene. There was one vacant place, however, which largely spoiled the enjoyment of the day. This was my brother Wilfred's. He had been pressed to return home, but had refused to do so, even for the celebration of my coming of age. Indeed, he intimated that he did not wish to do so until his three years of college life should come to an end.

My father was annoyed at this; but my mother said not a word. It seemed to me that she had expected things to turn out so, and was not at all surprised. Her behaviour to me after my birthday was more cold than ever. She took no pains to make herself friendly towards me, yet, unless Deborah Teague were right, she was my mother.

The months slipped rapidly by, until three years had elapsed since Wilfred had gone to Oxford, and now he was daily expected to return.

During that time none of us had seen him except my father and mother, who had travelled to Oxford specially for that purpose. My two sisters often speculated what he would be like, how he would act, while Ruth, too, seemed to look forward with great pleasure to his return.

Ruth had grown to be a beautiful woman. She was by no means tall or stately, but she was as fair as a spring morning, and lovely beyond compare. Great pains had been taken with her education, and this, added to her personal charms, caused her to be envied for miles around by girls of her own age.

Her old friend Mr. Inch had remained at our house all this time, and tried to gratify her every wish. He was friendly with Wilfred, and I found out that they corresponded regularly. With me, however, he was not nearly so friendly. He was always polite, almost painfully so; but he never looked me straight in the face, and often, I thought, regarded me with dislike. I explained this, partly by the fact of my uncouth ways, and partly by his intimacy with my mother, who regarded him with great favour.

At length the day arrived when Wilfred came back. I shall never forget it, for it began a new era in my existence. I awoke on the morning of that day bright and cheerful, with not a cloud that was worth the mentioning upon the sky of my life. When I retired to rest all was changed. I awoke a boy, I went to sleep a man. But for that day these confessions would never have been written; the events I shall relate would never have come to pass. Even now, as I look back, my heart beats more rapidly at the thought of it, and a strange feeling possesses me, which reminds me of what I felt then.

I remember how anxiously I saw the horses being attached to the old family carriage, and with what joy I saw my father and mother driven away to meet the coach by which Wilfred was to come. I longed, as much as any of them, to see him, although I said but little about it, for, in spite of his apparent dislike of me, he was still my brother, and I loved him very much.

We all stood at the old hall door as the carriage drove up, and watched my father alight. Then another form stepped on the hard gravel, and carefully assisted my mother.

I should scarcely have recognised him as my brother. He had gone away but little more than a boy, he had returned a handsome, cultured man. He was not big and clumsy like myself, but tall and lithe, and yet exceedingly muscular. There was grace in his every movement, while refinement was stamped upon his handsome face. I could not help feeling the contrast between us. I was a great boorish country clown, he was as handsome as a Greek god. Surely, too, there was a look of malicious satisfaction on my mother's face as she saw the difference between us. He seemed to change the very atmosphere of the house. Everything had a new meaning when associated with him. My sisters looked at him with admiration, while Ruth was evidently fascinated by the charm of his presence.

In his boyish days he had often seemed sulky, but that was all gone. His demeanour towards my father was at once respectful and affectionate, to his mother he was kind and loving, to the girls he was gallant and considerate, while to me I thought he extended an air of patronage.

The old Wilfred had gone, and a new Wilfred had taken his place; a Wilfred who was brilliant, gallant, scholarly.

I remember that we dined early that day, and after dinner I went out alone, as I often did, and sat upon the great headland which stood out against the sea. I remained there some time thinking, and wondered what kind of a life we should lead now that Wilfred had come back. I felt in some way that I had no right to my father's estate; I was not fit for it, and that I lived there on my brother's bounty.

These thoughts were disturbed by the sound of voices, and looking up I saw a sight that caused my brain to whirl and my heart to throb violently.

Wilfred and Ruth were walking arm-in-arm, and he was looking at her at once tenderly and with an air of proprietorship. Then I knew what I did not know before, then I realised what nearly drove me mad. I loved Ruth Morton with all the strength of my being, while she, I could tell from the tender confiding look on her face, was in love with my brother Wilfred.

I staggered to my feet, scarcely knowing what I was doing, and stared them in the face foolishly.

"Ah, Roger," said Wilfred, lightly, "enjoying yourself in the old way? All play and no work. Happy fellow, you, Roger; but then, some people are born lucky."

I felt myself treated as a child. There was a jeering look upon his face as he spoke, and his tone was that of a man speaking to another of inferior intellect.

I did not answer his sally. I only felt desirous of joining in their walk, of having a chance, no less than he, of speaking to Ruth; so I stammered out:

"You are going for a walk; let me go with you."

He did not hesitate a minute before replying, and in the same tone as he spoke before.

"You won't mind, I'm sure, Roger, when I tell you that we prefer taking this walk alone. We haven't met for three years, and have so much to say to each other."

Again I was treated as a child, and I became angry. I was about to say something very foolish, but before I could utter the words they were gone, and I heard Wilfred laugh a low, jibing kind of laugh.

I think I was mad during the remainder of that afternoon. My brain was on fire, and everything seemed to whirl around me. My love was no sooner known to myself than the object of it was snatched from me by another, and that other my other brother.

I tried to convince myself that he was more worthy than I. I told myself that I was a country bumpkin, an ignorant clown, and unworthy to aspire to a maiden like Ruth Morton. That I was under a curse, that I dared not leave the Trewinion lands for six months at a time, and that it was better she should love Wilfred. This however, did not satisfy me. Try as I would to stifle it, I could not help thinking I had more claims to her love than he. What had he done for her? Nothing! I, on the other hand, had twice risked my life for hers. But for me she would have died, and yet she had bestowed her love on another. Had she? I was not sure, and yet there could be little or no doubt about it. Wilfred was capable of winning any woman's affection, and I felt certain she would not resist his wishes. The very first day of his return they had gone away together, and no doubt he would impress her with his cleverness and greatness.

I would know the truth and that soon. Such was my determination. I would ask her to walk alone with me as she had done with Wilfred, and then I would find out.

I cannot describe my new found love, or, rather, the knowledge of the love I had felt for years. It was so strange, so great. I had from the first taken a special interest in Ruth; from the first I had regarded her as a very dear sister. Now she was a thousand times more than a sister. Nothing was too good for her. My one great thought was to give Ruth happiness and joy. Why, then, did I not without a murmur sacrifice her to Wilfred. Surely he could give her more happiness and joy than I? Strange as it may seem, I felt that he could not. I shuddered at the thought of her belonging to him in any way, and I ground my teeth at the thought of their being together.

Perhaps this was because of my jealousy. Nevertheless, I am sure that rough, uncouth, ay, half savage as I was, I would willingly have laid down my life to save her from pain.

I had no chance to speak to her that day, nor the next, nor indeed for many days. When my chance came, something stepped in between us. Either Wilfred was with Ruth, or my mother claimed the girl as her companion. I need not say that this maddened me more than ever and made me act in anything but a creditable way. I would leave the merry family party and go down to the village to talk with the fishermen. I would seek to forget my own sorrows by laughing at their jokes, or entering into their lives. Again, I would indulge in long, lonely walks, or go away fishing alone. I knew I was fighting against my own interests by doing this. I knew I was allowing my brother to use every fascinating art in his power.

At length, my time came. We had all been out in the harvest fields together, watching the reapers cut the golden wheat and gather it into sheaves.

Surely the earth has few fairer sights than this! I have travelled over a great deal of the globe, but I have seen nothing fairer than our old Trewinion fields at harvest time. Especially was this so beneath the light of the harvest moon. I shall never forget it. As twilight faded, a thin mist rose from the earth, which, as the pale moon's rays shone through it, looked strangely beautiful. The corn moughs (stacks), too, looked weird and ghastly in the dim light, while the silver sea in the distance made a low, delicious music as it gently rippled on the shore.

In the distance I could hear the men and women singing on their homeward way some plaintive Cornish songs, which to me blended sweetly with the low sighing of the wind.

Ruth and I had by some means became separated from the rest, and my heart fluttered rapidly, for I had determined to find out if she loved my brother Wilfred. It has never been my way to lead up slowly to a subject. What I have to say I must blurt out at once, ofttimes in a way that gives pain to those to whom I speak.

"Ruth," I said, "I have long wished to tell you something."

"Have you, Roger?" she said, cheerfully "then tell me at once, for you have made me curious. What can you wish to say to me?"

There was no hesitation, no trembling in her voice.

She spoke as naturally as my own sisters might have spoken.

"Let us go home by Pentvargle Cove," I said, "and turn in at Honeysuckle-lane."

"Very well," she said, gaily; "and you'll pluck some of the honeysuckle for me, won't you? I can smell it from here; how delicious it is. Wouldn't Wilfred enjoy this?"

She was thinking of Wilfred even now, when she was alone with me, and I was about to burst out with an angry remark about my brother when I looked down into her face.

To me it seemed like the face of an angel. Her large, lustrous grey eyes had a far-away look in them, and an expression of sweet, placid contentment rested on every feature. Never have I seen a face so sweet, so beautiful. Tenderness, truth, purity were there, mingled with courage, sacrifice, daring. It was a face never to be forgotten when once seen. Never did I love her as I did then, and I could not say angry words about my brother.

I have said I was clumsy in my mode of expression. I could say nothing as it should be said; and now, when I felt I ought to be more than usually careful, I was more than ever confused.

"Come Roger," she said, "what is it you want to tell me?"

"I want to know, Ruth," I said, my voice trembling, "why you shun me, dislike me, hate me so?"



CHAPTER IX

OMENS OF DARKNESS

Look here upon this picture, and on this; The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See what grace was seated on his brow; Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself. An eye like Mars to threaten or command. —Hamlet, Act III, Scene 3.

She looked up as if surprised at my question.

"Hate you, shun you, Roger," she repeated. "Whatever led you to ask such a question?"

"How can I help asking it," I said, "when it is true? You never have a word for me now. Your every thought is given to my brother. I suppose it is because Roger is a boor, Roger is a clown, Roger is ugly."

"What can possess you to speak in such a way?" she said.

I knew I had spoken foolishly; but I could not help it. I was mad with rage and jealousy. Having once begun to speak, all judgment and discretion were gone. I was determined to know my fate, determined to know if she loved my brother Wilfred.

"Possess me!" I answered. "Well, I hardly know; but this I know. Ever since my prig of a brother has come home from Oxford with his affected smile and flattering ways, Ruth has had no ears or eyes for any one else."

"Still I fail to understand you," she said.

"I do not doubt," I replied, savagely, "that I am too ignorant a clown to make my meaning clear. Were Wilfred speaking, you would understand him. He would put his thoughts in such poetic language, and speak in such cooing tones, that little Ruth would be made to think as he thought, and feel as he felt; but I—I am nobody."

"Roger," she said, "you are not kind, you are not speaking like my big brother."

"No, I cannot," I said, "I do not feel that I am your brother. What kind feeling have you towards me? Not a jot. It is Wilfred, Wilfred, ever Wilfred."

She walked on by my side in silence, I feeling that I had been a brute, a savage. What right had I to speak so roughly, and thus to annoy her? I looked down at her face, and I saw that her eyes were filled with tears and her lips trembled. For a moment my jealousy and anger were gone.

"Forgive me, sister Ruth," I said, "I ought not to speak so. Try and forget what I have said. See, we are in Honeysuckle-lane, and here is some."

I picked a sprig of honeysuckle as I spoke and gave it to her, which she received kindly. This emboldened me. Perhaps after all I was not so hateful to her.

I have not a very poetical nature; but I think the scene by which we were surrounded aroused what little I had. The birds were finding their way to the hedgerows to seek rest for the night, ever and anon giving a faint chirp of content. The beetles went humming heedlessly by, the bees laden with honey returned to their hives, and all nature seemed to be at peace. The honeysuckle and the hedge flowers that grew in wild confusion perfumed the lane in which we walked; the nuts hung in thick clusters on the fences, blackberries everywhere abounded. One by one the stars came out of their obscurity until the heavens became glorious; and as we walked on, the evening became more still. The harvesters reached their homes, and we no longer heard the sound of their voices. The night wind served only to make delicious music as it played with the leaves on the trees and hedges or coquetted with the golden corn. Now and then we could hear the sea murmur its old, old song. To me it told of peace, and calm, and beauty.

And I was alone with the maiden whom I loved more dearly than my life.

I said that her kindness emboldened me, so with great trembling hands I took her bonnet from her head and wove a piece of honeysuckle amid her nut-brown hair.

Beautiful, beautiful Ruth! Yes, after the long stretch of weary years I still call her so; but that night she was to me more than beautiful, she was like an angel. I was young and unsophisticated, and—and I did not know what was coming.

For fully five minutes we did not speak. Slowly we walked side by side in the calm still eventide, until we emerged from the lane, and went towards Pentvargle Cove. Then the sight of the rugged cliffs seemed to alter my feelings, and the old jealous passion returned. I could see the five great prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" towering into the sky, and I could not help thinking of the time, years ago, when I had scaled its slippery precipitous sides to save the girl at my side. Again the old desire to know the worst came back to me. Did Ruth love my brother Wilfred?

"Do you see the 'Devil's Tooth' yonder, Ruth?" I said.

"Yes," she said, "how calm the sea is now. How different from when I saw it first. Then—but I cannot bear to think about it, can you?" and she shuddered as she spoke.

"Oh, yes," I said. "I like to think about it. Why, Ruth, I was able to save you, you know."

She was silent, and again a bitter feeling crept into my heart.

"Don't you wish it had been Wilfred who saved you, instead of Roger?" I asked, a little bitterly.

"Why?" she said, quickly.

"Because you seem to think so much more about him. You like to be in his company, and you treasure every word that he says."

I thought she looked confused, as she said hurriedly, "Why should I not?"

At this answer I was as much the slave to my mad feelings as when we had commenced our walk. It was bitter hard for me. There, in sight of the very place where I had saved her, she admitted her preference for him who had done nothing for her.

"Why should you not?" I answered, boisterously, "why not indeed. There is every reason why you should. No doubt you wish Wilfred were the elder son and I the younger. No doubt you wish he were Trewinion's heir, and that I were penniless."

"No, Roger," she said, "were you penniless, and were your father to die, you would have no means of obtaining a livelihood. It is best as it is."

Blunt and dull of perception as I was I could not help seeing the purport of this. She thought me too much of a fool to earn a living; that it was only by the money which I inherited as a birthright I was saved from starving.

"I see the point of your answer, Ruth," I said. "You think Wilfred far more fit for the position of Trewinion's heir than I, and that I am too ignorant a clown to get a living for myself."

"I cannot help what conclusions you draw from my words, Roger," she replied.

"There is only one conclusion to be drawn," I answered. "You think Wilfred better than I. You think he should be master, and not I. You think I am a brute, a savage."

"I think no such thing," she replied, "but you must yourself feel the difference between you and him. He is kind, thoughtful, gentle; he is cultured and refined. He gives way to no fits of passion, nor does he seek to hurt one's feelings."

"Yes, yes," I said, bitterly. "He has been to Oxford, and has learnt tricks dear to a woman's heart, and, having learnt them, he knows how to practise them. He can quote poetry, and make soft speeches; he can please you with flattery. His face is pale and interesting, his hands are soft and white; and Ruth is very fond of him."

"You are unkind, and you are unjust, Roger. If he has been fonder of study than you, and if he has learnt to govern his temper, don't be jealous or cruel. Better try and emulate him. You call yourself boorish and clownish. Try and improve yourself; and then, perhaps, you will not feel so much inferior to your brother."

As I have said before, no one cares to hear another say what in self-disparaging moments he often says about himself. A dozen times in the last fortnight had I spoken of myself as inferior to my brother, but for another to say it was wormwood and gall to me.

"Copy my brother!" I said, savagely. "Be a soft-fingered coward like him! To be afraid of my own shadow like him! Copy him! Why he is but a mere woman disgracing the clothes he wears. Had I been a puny thing like him I should have ran away just as he did, and left you to die on yon rocks. And yet you talk of my copying him. Why, he's just a soft-muscled contemptible coward."

"I scarcely know which I like less," she cried, "a coward—although I don't admit that your brother is one—or one who boasts of his own bravery and taunts you with his own kind deeds. Roger, do you think because you cannot appreciate your brother's nobleness that it does not exist?"

This silenced me. I had been answered. She had championed my brother. She had declared in so many words that she preferred him to me. She regarded what I had done for her as nothing.

I found then that my passion had been inflamed by hope, that my jealousy was due to this reason. No sooner did Ruth speak in the way I have described than a dull despair laid hold of my heart, and I was dumb. I could see now that she loved Wilfred, and that she saw nobility in him, which, in her opinion my nature was too poor to see, that the fact of my having saved her life was to her little more than the action of an animal, who acted instinctively without a thought of danger. Well, on the whole I was glad to know the worst. I knew how to act now, I was not upheld by any false hope.

"I am glad you have told me this, Ruth," I said quietly. "It is best that I should know. I am afraid I have behaved very rudely! forgive me and you shall have no reason to complain again."

She clutched my arm tightly, and seemed about to protest, but I did not allow her to speak.

"It was mean and unmanly of me to say what I have," I said, "but I was excited and almost beside myself; let us walk more rapidly towards home."

At this Ruth looked at my face as if in surprise, and began to speak.

"I hope I have not hurt your feelings, Roger, but I—that is——"

"Pray, don't distress yourself, Ruth," I said. "It is well you have spoken and let me see the truth. Perchance I shall be thankful some day that you have spoken. Look, what's that?"

I pointed towards the "Devil's Tooth," which we could still see rising clearly against the sky. On its very summit was a small flickering light, and in my fancy I saw a dark form moving among its rugged peaks.

"It's a light," said Ruth, as if glad to change the subject; "what can it mean?"

"It means death," I said.

"Death! I don't understand, Roger."

"Whenever any one sees a light on the 'Devil's Tooth' it means death to some one belonging to the man or woman who first saw it," I replied with a shudder.

"But that's only a superstition," replied Ruth, "surely you will pay no attention to such stories."

I knew it was only a superstition; but such is the power of education and association that I could do no other than believe the warning to be real. Why should it come just now when I was so little able to bear it? Why should a darker cloud blacken my sky than was already there?

I looked again. The light was gone, but surely I saw even in the pale moonlight a dark moving figure. Try as I would to banish the feeling I could not help fearing that a dread calamity was about to fall on me. I felt ill able to bear it. I had been stunned by the fact of Ruth's love for Wilfred and her dislike for me. It is true she had not told me in as many words that she disliked me, or that she loved Wilfred better, but I was convinced that she thought him more noble and true, and that there was no hope of her ever coming to love me.

It was quite dark now, and we were away from the soothing influences of the green honeysuckle lane and the rustling of the ripe corn. We were walking on the top of the cliff and could see the misty outline of the coast. We walked slowly on for some distance, and then we both stopped, trying to see if the dark form were a reality or only a fancy. Scarcely had we done so when I felt my arm touched.

"What be 'ee lookin' for, Maaster Roger, my dear?" said a half-wheedling, half-mocking voice.

I turned and saw Deborah Teague.

I must confess that seeing her there alone made me feel strangely. She had not spoken to me since the night when we met in the cave of evil repute. Whenever we did chance to meet she looked steadily on the ground, never answering any words I might address to her. I did not wonder at this, for I fancied she had some ill-will towards me for not complying with her wishes, but I did wonder at her coming now and speaking to me in this familiar way. Nevertheless, I answered quietly:

"I thought I saw some one on the 'Devil's Tooth,' but I'm not sure."

"Ded 'ee zee a light jist now?" she continued.

"Yes, I did," I replied.

"Do 'ee knaw who made the light?"

"No," I replied. "I have been wondering what it meant."

"Iss, and you've bin tellin' Miss Ruth 'bout it, aint 'ee, Maaster Roger? I'll tell 'ee what you've zid (seen). You've zid Betsey Fraddam, my dear, and you do knaw what that do main."

"I know what foolish people say it means," I replied, "but I do not know what it really means."

"Do'ant 'ee? But you will. 'Tis nearly come, Maaster Roger. You defied and got vexed with they who would kip this from comin'; but 'tis comin' now!"

"What's coming now?"

"Trewinion's curse," she screamed.

"You hag," I cried, aroused into a passion. "You have ill-wished me."

"Ill-wished 'ee? No, I ain't, and that you do knaw. We can't ill-wish a eldest son; but the curse es comin', and that we could have kipt off."

"See there, see there!" she continued, pointing towards the great forbidding-looking rock, "do 'ee zee the light? I can!"

Again I saw the flickering light on the rock between the great prongs, and my flesh crept with fear.

"Ted'n too late, is it?" she said. "Come to th' ould plaace to-night at the same time, and we may do summin."

"Do you think I'm a fool?" I said. "You cannot gull me with your stories, for I know your tricks."

She laughed in my face, revealing gums that were toothless save for one yellow fang that rested on her lower lip.

"Oa, I remember it, Maaster Roger," she said. "Ould Debrah do knaw the curse. La me zee, how do it go?—

His power be given to another, And he be crushed by younger brother, Then his son, though born the first, By the people shall be cursed; And for generations three Trewinion's heirs shall cursed be!

The old woman recited these lines glibly, as though they had been often on her lips, and she chuckled as she repeated them.

"Go home," I said, angrily, "and trouble me no longer with your ugly face."

"Iss! Iss! I'll go," she screamed; "but there'll be black days for you. Ah, yer brother'll be wise if you be'ant. Ah, a Trewinion disgraced, starvin', ruined!"

I turned savagely towards her, but old as she was she nimbly stepped out of my way, and pointed to the five-pronged rock.

"The light es gone, and Maaster Roger's hope es gone, unless he do come to Betsy Fraddam's cave at midnight, and there 'ee'll zee strange things."

"You'll suffer for this, Deborah," I said, almost beside myself.

"Zee where you're standin'," she screamed, "and think of what you zeed three years agone, when you went to see the passen."

I looked, and, to my horror, I remembered that long years before I had on this very spot seen a figure in white, which had disappeared on the edge of the cliff.

I was so astonished that for a minute I did not move, and when I recovered my senses Deborah had gone, although I thought I heard her croaking, mocking laugh a little distance away.

"The old woman is mad, Roger," said Ruth; "let us go home quickly."

I was nothing loth. I hurried on as though the furies were behind me, while Ruth was evidently as anxious as I to get indoors.

We had entered the old postern door, and were walking up the drive leading to the house, when a servant met me.

"Mr. Roger," he said, anxiously, "you must please come in at once."

"Why, is anything the matter?"

"Yes, your father has fallen off his horse and is badly hurt."

A great dread laid hold of me, but I hurried towards his room.



CHAPTER X

THE GATHERING DARKNESS

As I made my way along the dim corridors, fear gripped me. The weird form I had seen between the prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" had told me of darkness to come. This accident to my father was the fulfilment of the omen. Arrived at the door of my father's bedroom I heard muffled voices within; but no sooner was my arrival known than I was immediately admitted. I found my father propped up in the bed by pillows. There was a ghastly cut upon his face, and his hair was clotted with blood. Evidently, too, he was suffering great pain, and he breathed with difficulty.

No sooner did he see me than he beckoned me to approach. Although I did not notice them at the time, I found out afterwards that my mother was there, and Mr. Polperrow, the vicar, together with Mr. Inch and the family doctor.

"Roger!" said my father, hoarsely.

"Yes, father," I said, coming up and kneeling by his bedside.

My presence seemed to soothe him, for he gave evidence of less suffering, and a look of peace stole over his face.

He laid his right hand upon my head fondly. "My eldest-born boy," he said, slowly, "my big-hearted son. I am going to die, Roger," he said.

"No, father, no!"

"Yes, Roger, 'twill soon be over. Only a few hours at most. I have met with an accident, my boy. I was riding from Truro, and got near home, when three men, who had been drinking hard at the tavern near by, came out from the hedgeside and frightened Bess; she is a very flighty mare, you know. She gave a side leap and threw me. My foot caught in the stirrup, and I was dragged along the road until I fancy the mare trod on me."

He said this quite calmly, as though it were a matter of everyday occurrence. As for me, I could not speak, my heart was nearly bursting with pain.

"I want to say a few more things to you before I die, my own boy," he continued, slowly.

"Say what you will, father, but don't talk of dying. Surely, surely, the doctor here can make you well again."

"No, no, Roger, no doctor can cure me," and he looked wistfully into the doctor's face, who shook his head sadly. Then I felt sure that my father's words would come true; that soon I should lose him.

The doctor felt his pulse; then said that what my father wished to tell me must be told quickly.

"Yes, yes," said my father. "You, Roger, are my first-born, my own boy," and again he lingered lovingly over the words.

"Your own boy," I repeated, proudly.

"You are Trewinion's heir," he continued, "the master of all the Trewinion lands. You remember what I told you years ago, my boy?"

"Yes, father."

"Ever remember them, Roger. Be careful."

"I will, father."

"There were other things in connexion with the history of our people that I meant to tell you, but I kept putting it off, and now it's too late; but perhaps it's as well as it is. You will find them out in time. God grant you may be prepared. What I want to say now refers to Wilfred, and to Ruth Morton."

I scarcely breathed. I thought I should hear something that would make clear my future relation to Ruth, and would clear up the mystery that I felt existed in regard to my brother and myself.

"Wilfred——" he hesitated a moment, and then his eyes sought my mother's. Instantly she came to his side, and looked at him strangely. He heaved a sigh, and continued:

"Wilfred is younger than you, and does not by law inherit any of the Trewinion lands. I have left him money, however, and given him a good education, still——"

"What, dear father?"

"I fancy he thinks himself hardly treated. If you like, Roger, you might grant him an annuity," and he named a sum.

"God is my witness, father, that I'll be true to your wishes; if I can, I'll give him more."

"That's my own boy, Roger. He will not need it; but it's perhaps best."

I looked at my mother as he said this. There was a terrible look on her face. I cannot describe it. Mockery, disdain, anger, despair, vindictiveness were all stamped there, but I heeded little; I was too intent on catching my father's every word.

"With regard to the girls, Roger, they will live on with you. I have left them a farm each—bought with the money saved through the years. The rents of these farms have been, and are, accumulating. It's all written down, and, when the lawyer comes, you can go into everything. These farms, and the money received from them, will be their wedding portion if they marry; if they don't they will never be in want."

I could only say, "Yes, father."

"If it's God's will," he went on, "Wilfred will succeed Mr. Polperrow and have the Trewinion living, unless anything happens to you, then—then he will be Trewinion's heir."

Involuntarily I again looked at my mother's face. There was exulting triumph on it, mingled with a look of terrible hatred. I did not know what it meant, nor could I conjecture.

"But I hope there's no danger of that," he continued. "You are my eldest born, my own boy."

How fondly he repeated these words, and how proud I felt, in spite of my grief, as I heard him speak them; and so I again repeated:

"I'm your own boy."

"There's just one other matter I'm going to speak to you about," he said, after a pause. "I ought to have spoken to you about it before; but I thought there was plenty of time. Mr. Inch, will you come near?"

The old man came up with a stately step. He had always been treated with great respect in our house, especially as he was Ruth's valued friend, and had much to do with the managing of Ruth's estate.

"You remember," went on my father, and I noticed that he spoke with more difficulty, "the night you saved Ruth?"

"Yes, father."

"I had been in communication with her father prior to that; indeed, as you know, we had been friends for years."

He turned to Mr. Inch when he said this, and went on:

"You know Mr. Morton's wish with regard to Ruth, Mr. Inch; he told you before he died all about it?"

"Yes," said Mr. Inch, "and it was mentioned in his will."

I looked again at my mother. There was a stony look upon her face. It was ghastly to see.

"Yes, to be sure," said my father, "it was mentioned in the will. What was his lifelong wish, Roger, was also mine. His desire and mine was, and is, that our families should be united, that you should wed Ruth."

In spite of the tragic circumstances, my heart gave a wild leap for joy! Ruth, my darling, my life, would be mine! It was her father's wish, and she, I was sure, would be faithful to his least desire. I could bear anything now!

"Will you do this, Roger?"

"Gladly, if Ruth will, father," I said huskily.

"Forgive me for interposing," said Mr. Inch, "but you have not exactly stated the true conditions of Mr. Morton's will."

"In what way?" asked my father.

"What Mr. Morton stated in his will was that he desired his daughter Ruth to marry the heir of the Trewinion estate, so that not only might the families be united, but the estates also be joined."

"Well, is not Roger the heir of the Trewinion lands?"

"Yes, but you mentioned just now the possibility of anything happening to your elder son, then, of course, your second son would take his place."

"Yes, yes. Of course, of course," said my father, wearily.

"Does Ruth know about her father's wish?" I asked.

"No, not yet," replied Mr. Inch, "he thought it best that it should be kept from her until she reached her twenty-first birthday, unless necessity arose for her being told. No such necessity has arisen, and hence she remains in ignorance of the arrangement that was made between her father and Mr. Trewinion."

"Everything else I have stated in my will," said my father, "and all things are arranged in due form. Roger, my boy, you will try and be true to the Trewinion's name?"

"God helping me, I will," I said, "but, father, have you anything to say about my mother?"

"Your mother!" he repeated, vacantly. "Ah, yes, of course, she will live on here—unless—but that is all arranged. You need not worry about her."

Inexperienced as I was, I could not help thinking that this was strange. Why should my mother's welfare be dismissed in such a careless way? I could not understand matters. Perhaps, however, everything was privately arranged, and my father did not care to speak before those who were outside our family circle.

I looked at my mother again, but this time her face told no story. Evidently, I was to know nothing about her future, at any rate, for the present.

After this my father grew weaker rapidly, and although he suffered but little pain we knew that his life was fast ebbing away.

What I felt as I sat and watched I cannot describe, for he desired me to remain to the end. Nor will I try and write about the farewell between him and Wilfred, and my sisters, and Ruth. Such scenes are not to be written about; they cannot be. Even now that solemn hour comes back to me, and I try to realise, as I tried to realise then, that my father's spirit went to be with God.

Oh, this mystery of death! It surrounds us all, and yet we understand it not. There we stood talking with him, who was soon to be no more with us—and we knew it. What would become of his spirit? We did not know, we could only hope. Would father become nothing, or would he live on? I could not realise the fact of his death then. I can barely do so now. For one hour my father talked to us. His brain thought, his tongue spoke, his soul felt, the next—he was gone; and yet he was not gone. He lay there, the father I had embraced, and yet he did not lie there. The body could not love, and my father did love me.

After we had sat some time in silence, Mr. Polperrow spoke to my father. He asked him if he felt himself safe for the next world; but father answered him not.

"You have always been a good churchman," continued Mr. Polperrow, "and have always been regular in partaking of the Holy Communion."

My father smiled, I thought sadly, and then he beckoned to me again. He looked as though he had something to tell me—at least, I thought so—and I put my ear close to his mouth. He was now very weak, and spoke with difficulty; but I thought I caught the words:

"Be careful."

I thought he referred to the legend about the curse and assured him that I would be careful, but he did not seem satisfied.

"Beware of——" he said, and seemed to hesitate before pronouncing the word that would make the sentence complete. He looked round the room until his eyes rested on the place where my mother and Wilfred stood, then he sighed deeply.

"I will beware of everything wrong," I said, in trying to lead his mind from difficulty or doubt. "You are sure everything is well with you. No vestige of the curse remains with you."

He looked at me strangely, then a smile lit up his face and a new light beamed from his eyes.

"There is no curse," he said. "God is love."

These were his last words. Soon after his soul took its flight into the unseen.

Then I went out into the night alone. One by one the events of the day flashed through my mind, until I was sick and dizzy.

I was terribly excited; but beneath the excitement was a dull, aching pain. For hours I walked the headland and tried to realise that my father was dead, that I should hear his voice no more; but realisation was impossible. I had seen him ride away in the morning, a handsome, robust, man in the prime of life, and now——.

In my grief for him everything else had for the time been forgotten. Everything had been dispelled by this great calamity, and what was hardest of all to bear was that I was not sure that my father was—somewhere. I could not think of him as being in hell. I could not think of God, father, and hell at the same time, but was he anywhere?

"Father," I cried, "let me know that you are somewhere! Let me hear you speak, if only a word; only to know that all is well."

The night was very still. Not a breath of wind stirred, the harvest moon was just sinking into the sea, and the water was all aglow with its light. But I heard no voice. Even the sea made no noise, so still were its waters.

"Ah!" I cried, "my father is gone, for ever gone, and I am cursed with the curse of my people."

Was it fancy? Was it the voice of man or the voice of God that I heard in answer to my despairing cry? Fancy it could not be, for it was past midnight and I stood alone on the great headland. Surely God spoke to me, for there, alone in the silence, I heard my father's last words repeated. How they came I know not, but this I know, in tones sweeter than thought can fancy came the glorious message, "There is no curse, God is love."

After that I was able to think and connect, link by link, the events of the evening.

And all this was but the twilight which told of the coming night.



CHAPTER XI

THE CALL TO RENOUNCE

Whereat Siddartha turned, And lo! the moon shone by the crab! the stars In that same silver order long foretold Stood in range to say, "This is the right!—Choose thou The way of greatness or the way of good; To reign a King of Kings, or wander lone, Crownless, and homeless that the world be helped." —The Light of Asia.

After this I went back to my room, and tried to realise the true position of matters. One by one I thought over the events of the day, and tried to understand their purport. "There's Providence in the fall of a sparrow," said Hamlet, and I, being to a certain extent a believer in this, fancied that everything through which I had gone was an essential part of the drama of my life.

First, there was Ruth's preference for Wilfred and her dislike for me. Well, I must bear that. Besides, I was not sure. It is always the function of a true-hearted woman to speak well of the absent one, especially if he be maligned. I would not yet allow myself to be downcast.

Then there was the light on the great rock, the rock of evil repute, the rock that lured vessels to their destruction. I thought again and again of this. Then there was the appearance of Deborah Teague, who told me the light foreboded evil, while the weird dark form between the prongs told the same story. On other occasions I might have laughed at all this; but that terrible calamity following so soon after the warning impressed me strangely.

Yet what connexion could these dark omens have with the death of my father? What link was there between evil women and one of the purest and best of men. Clearer than all omens and louder than evil words was my father's last message to me, a message repeated by the voice of Heaven, "There is no curse; God is Love."

Thus when daylight came, I was calm, and although I had passed a sleepless night I was not altogether unrefreshed.

Three weary days followed, and then the funeral. Of that time I have not much to say. I was mostly alone, except when I was obliged to attend to the business which now devolved upon me, though I declared that nothing of importance should be dealt with until after my father's burial.

From the members of the family I received only kindness. My mother said nothing that could hurt my feelings; indeed, she seemed considerate and at times almost gentle. Wilfred, too, was more like the Wilfred of olden times when we were on good terms with each other. There was no change in my sisters. They always loved me, and were more than usually loving, while Ruth was the comforting, cheering influence of the house. Never until now did I realize the sweetness of her nature, or her power to cheer and help others when her own heart was almost breaking.

I could not do much; but in my clumsy way I tried to make them all feel my father's loss less.

And thus the time passed until my father was laid in the old family vault, and we returned to our old house on the cliff. Then we came back to the hard material things of life. We had to listen to father's last will and testament, and hear his latest wishes. All the family gathered in the library, together with Mr. Inch, Ruth, our solicitor, who also attended to the legal matters of Ruth's estate, Mr. Tremain, the doctor, and Mr. Polperrow, the vicar.

I need not here state the terms of the will: they have already been hinted at. Everything that a loving father could devise for the welfare of his children my father had done.

Not a word was spoken when the lawyer's voice ceased. If Wilfred was discontented he said nothing at the time, and my sisters were too overcome with grief to trouble about what money was left them. No sooner had the will been read, however, than Mr. Inch spoke.

"It seems to me that this is the time for the wishes of Mr. Morton and Mr. Trewinion to be made known," he said.

I began to tremble violently, while Ruth evidently wondered what was coming.

The lawyer complied very graciously with Mr. Inch's request. "This seems to be the right time," he said.

I could not help thinking that the matter had been arranged beforehand, especially when Mr. Tremain produced a certain document and began to read therefrom.

The words he read were very plain and distinct. They stated that it was the wish of Mr. Morton that his daughter Ruth should in due time marry the heir of the Trewinion estate, and while he did not enforce it as a condition of her becoming his sole heiress, he still trusted that his daughter's love for him would lead her to obedience. After this the lawyer went on to say that on the night of his death my father had reiterated the same wish.

When he had finished reading and speaking I looked at Ruth. Her face was pale as death, and I saw that she was terribly moved. The revelation had come to her as a great shock, and I could not help seeing that a look of anger and disgust flashed from her eyes.

"My father wish that I should marry Roger!" she exclaimed, huskily. "Never! It cannot be!"

My heart sank like lead; but no further word was spoken. Soon the family conclave broke up, and we adjourned to the dining-hall.

I felt very strange, sitting at the head of the table in my father's chair, and for a time was almost overcome; but I rallied presently, and during the dinner was quietly thinking what was best to do. Although the head of the family, I felt I was quite alone. Everything told me that all in the house, excepting, perhaps my sisters, were in league with my mother against me.

I made up my mind, however, that I would not speak for three days to Ruth concerning her father's wish, and that then I would, if I dared, say the words my heart was burning to make known.

Nothing worthy of mention passed during the dinner-hour, but afterwards, having occasion to go into the library, I found Ruth alone. Instantly I wanted to refer to what had been said concerning us. My blood rushed madly to my head and my hands trembled.

I do not know, but I think she saw what was in my mind, for she turned away her face and walked toward the window.

"Ruth," I said, "why do you go away from me?"

She began to sob violently.

"Ruth," I continued, "something must grieve you to make you cry thus. Is it because of what has been said about us? If so, do not grieve any more. I will never ask you to do what would give you pain."

Her sorrow was terrible to see. Was it because of me that her grief was so bitter?

"Don't give way so," I went on. "Shall I leave you alone? I am sure I do not wish to give you any trouble. After our walk the other night I determined I would never say another word to hurt your feelings, and I'll be true to my determination. I did not mean to speak about the will for some time, but perhaps it would be better if I were to tell you now. Ruth, it is the dearest wish of my life that we should fulfil our fathers' wish in this matter. I have loved you ever since—since that terrible night, when you first came, but I never realized it until the day that Wilfred came home from Oxford. Then I was nearly mad with jealousy. I am afraid I have been very rude to you since, but it was because I love you so, for Ruth, I would do anything to make you happy."

Still she sat leaning forward on a table, her head buried in her hands, and sobbing as though her heart would break.

"It hurts me to hear you cry so," I said, "and I can see now why it is. But cheer up, Ruth. I will not speak of this any more. I will never ask you to obey your father's will. You shall not have the pain of linking your life to mine. I love you too well for that. God bless you, Ruth. I will try and find out what will make you happy, and then you shall see how I love you; for I will do all in my power to give you what you want."

She held up her head. There was an expression of thankfulness on her face; a look of intense relief, as though a burden was taken away.

I knew my fate then; and while it gave me joy to give her one minute's pleasure, yet it was agony to think that the promise of my absence should be the cause of it. So great indeed was the pain that I could not bear it, and stumbled blindly out. In spite of the fact that when I got into the hall I thought I heard her calling "Roger" I rushed away to the cliffs, whither I always fled in my hours of trouble.

But the events of the day were not yet at an end. As I stood alone looking at the sea I saw a great cloud rising in the northern sky. Soon I knew we should be enveloped in it and feel its darkness. In like manner was there a cloud, darker than all the rest, rising in the sky of my life. What it was I could not say; but I felt its coining, and I shuddered. "Coming events cast their shadows before," says the old adage, and looking backward I can see how true it was in this case.