I went up to him and touched him upon the arm.

"You seem to be a man of some importance here," I said.

Bill looked very modest, but nodded.

"I want to have a little talk with some respectable man in the parish," I said: "one who knows the worth of land and one who knows the people."

"Wal, I think as 'ow I knaws everybody," said Bill; "I've bin ere oal my life, and don't owe nobody nothin'. I've got three booats, and a daicent little farm."

"I can quite fancy that," I said, "by the way people regard you. Is your farm your own land now, or do you rent it?"

"Nobody farms their own land in this ere parish," replied Bill, "it do oal belong to Squire Trewinion, but who be you and what do you want to knaw about the parish for?"

"I'm a stranger," I said, "and I used to know young Roger Trewinion; can you tell me anything about him?"

"Knaw young Maaster Roger, did 'ee?" cried Bill, "why he was a friend to me; ain't 'ee 'eard un spaik of Bill Tregargus?"

"Bill Tregargus?" I said; "many a time! why, did you not go out with him one night and rescue a young lady whose ship was wrecked upon a great rock?"

"Why, iss," said Bill excitedly, "ded a ever tell 'ee 'bout that?"

"How should I know it else?" I said; "but now I want to know about him and the family."

He took me away from the people by a pathway that led through a meadow.

"You was a friend of Maaster Roger's," said Bill, "zo I can tell 'ee. He's dead, and there's been foul play."

"Foul play? How?"

"It's my belief 'ow 'e've bin murdered, zur."

"Murdered! Why should you think that?"

"When did you knaw Maaster Roger, sur?"

"Oh, twelve years ago, just before he came of age, I think."

"Well, sur, ther've bin awful doin's up at th' House since then, things, sur, as I'm amooast 'fraid to tell 'ee, 'cause——"

Then a frightened look came into Bill's eyes, and he looked round nervously.



CHAPTER XVII

REVENGE!

"You doan't belong to this neighbourhood, do 'ee?" said Bill, at length.

"I have not been in England for years," was my reply.

"Well, sur, I'll tell 'ee oal about it. Perhaps you knaw that the young lady who was saved was stayin' at the house?"

"Yes, I've heard of it. Miss Morton was her name, wasn't it?"

"Iss, that's it. Well, Maaster Roger and Maaster Wilfred was boath in love wi' her; and Maaster Wilfred he stood the best chance 'cause Mrs. Trewinion dedn't like Roger, and she amoast worshipped Wilfred. Of course, we doan't know all about it, but we've heerd as 'ow there was somethin' in Squire Morton's will which made Miss Ruth marry the Squire of Trewinion. Anyhow the ou'll squire got killed, and jist after that, altho' Maaster Roger wur maaster of everything, he runned away and left Wilfred to be the squire. Of course, everybody wondered at that, and grieved too, for Maaster Roger wur a fav'rit' with us all. Then we heerd from the sarvents that Mrs. Trewinion and Maaster Wilfred had worked it out. She had tould Miss Ruth that young Roger had been boasting that she would 'ave to marry him, although 'ee didn't care anything 'bout 'er, and we heerd as 'ow she tould Maaster Roger that Miss Ruth loved his brother, but couldn't marry him 'cause he was in the way, and that the thought of marryin' him, that is Maaster Roger, was drivin' her mad. We doan't knaw 'bout oal these things, sur, but anyhow, Maaster Roger was missin' dreckly after his father's funerl, and hev never bin seed alive since. Well, after he was gone, Miss Ruth nearly broke her heart. You never see such a pale thing as she went to."

"But I think I heard that she liked Wilfred best; at least, Roger told me so."

"Ded Maaster Roger tell 'ee that, sur? Well, everybody thought so. She would go out a walking with Wilfred, but 'ardly ever with Roger; but wimmin be curus critters, and it 'pears that all the time she wur a dyin' for 'im, only she wur too proud to let 'im know it."

In spite of myself my heart gave a great bound. I saw it now. I had been the tool of my mother and Wilfred. I had spent long years of grief because of them; my life was perhaps wrecked, but I kept calm before Bill, and bade him go on with his story.

"Well, sur," Bill continued, "while everyone was talkin' 'bout Maaster Roger, and was wonderin' what 'ad become ov him, the body of a man wur found at the bottom of the headland oal bruised and battered. Of course, everybody said 'twas Maaster Roger. In fact, Mrs. Trewinion, and the passon, and Maaster Inch swore to him, an' 'cordingly it was took into the house, and in a day or two was buried in the Trewinion vault, under the Communion in the church there," pointing to the grey tower, which we could just see between the trees.

"But were proper steps taken to indentify it?" I asked.

"Well, sur, you see, when a young fella's mawther sweers to 'im there can't be much more zed. Anyhow, everybody believed it but Miss Ruth. She stuck out that 'twadn' Maaster Roger, and wudd'n go to the funeral. Of course, there were a lot of talk, but we people only heerd jist bits of gossip like. For my oan paart, I 'greed with her. I knawed that Maaster Roger knawed too much 'bout the cliffs not to vall over um, while as fur killin' hisself, he wadn't the sort of chap to do that."

"Did you say so?"

"'Course I did, but people laughed at me, and zed I worshipped Maaster Roger, which wur purty nigh true. But what vollied wur strange. People zed as ow a strange figure wur seed in the churchyard, and that it went wailin' up an' down, and then went in through the church door, and then up to the Trewinion vault, where it vanished."

"But how could anyone see it go through the door, and then up to the vault?"

"Dunnaw, sir; but sperrits be curse things. Any-rate, thur wur lots of talk, fur 'twas seed not only in the church, and churchyard, but up at the house."

"Who was it supposed to be?"

"Well, some do say as 'twas this man that was buried that wasn't Maaster Roger. Some do say as 'twas th' oull squire hisself, who come back to tell un that they didn' bury his son; while others do say that the squire com back to tell Miss Ruth to marry Wilfred. Anyhow, things went on like that for a week till the passon was called up to the house, and was tould to lay the ghost."

"How do you know if that is true?"

"Well, sur, that es what people do say. They say that Mrs. Trewinion and the passon went first into the library and then to the church, and there the passon ded read the funeral service over again, and took care to turn the Prayer-book upside down so that the ghost couldn't rise any more."

"And was it seen afterwards?"

"No sur, it weren't; but some don't think 'twas the passon laid the ghost, but 'cause Debrah Teague had summin to do wi' it, and the passon had a row wi' her."

"Well, what happened afterwards?"

"Things went on quiet for a bit, sur; then we heerd as 'ow Maaster Wilfred, who took 'pon him the place ov squire, was plagin' Miss Ruth to marry un, and she wudden, then it laiked out that she said she wudden marry un 'till ten year after Maaster Roger 'ad gone."

"My dream, my dream!" I thought. Surely the hand of God was in this; but I did not know all then!

"Well, are the ten years up yet?" I said, as quietly as I could.

"'Twas up 'bout a month ago, sur; and then, sur we've heerd as 'ow a strange thing happened."

"What?"

"I have to go up to the house a goodish bit, sur. I take fish there, and I'm friendly weth the sarvents, too, and so I heer more'n anybody else."

"Well?"

"They do say as 'ow Mrs. Trewinion and Maaster Wilfred went botherin' 'er again to marry 'im, tellin' her that the ten years was up. They say, too, that Maaster Wilfred got Miss Ruth's old steward Inch into some scrapes, and can make un do moast what he've got a mind to. Anyhow they oal got at her, and got her to promise, when she screeches out 'Roger es ere; I see un!' There were a sarvent in the 'all that eerd her and she tould me!"

"Merciful God," I thought, my dream again.

"What happened afterwards?" I said, excitedly.

"Why, sur, Miss Ruth she fented away, and lyed like one dead for a long time, and when she came to she looked oal dazed."

"And then?"

"The next day she went to her own house."

"What for?"

"To prepare for the weddin'. She believed, so she tould her maid, that Roger must be dead, and so she went home tu fulfil her father's will, and prepare for the weddin'."

"What, did Wil—, that is, the other brother, persist in her marrying him, though he knew she didn't like him?"

"That he did, sur. You see, he've bin livin' wild, and people do zay that the whole estate es mortgaged up to its eyes, and he ded want to get Miss Ruth so as to kep Trewinion."

My heart grew hot with anger, but I only urged the man to go on with his story.

"Well, I do'ant knaw much after that 'ow things went on; but I've heerd that she pined and pined, and still Maaster Wilfred kept her to her promise. The banes (banns) was called in church, and the day fixed; but she got thinner and thinner, till 'bout a week ago she—she——"

"She what? Tell me?"

"She died. Goodness gracious, who be you?"

"Ruth dead! Died of a broken heart! Wilfred, your cup is full! You shall die for this!" I cried wildly. My brain was on fire, my heart was breaking. I had come home for this! The message was a mockery, nothing was before me but despair and—revenge.

"Look you!" cried Bill, "you be—iss, good Lord—you be Maaster Roger!"

"Yes, Roger," I said, "come home for this!"

"Oa, Maaster Roger, I wish I 'ad'n tould 'ee. I'd a bite my tongue out fust; but I ded'n knaw, and yet I thought you was somebody I'd seed before. Oa, Maaster Roger, do'ant 'ee give way so. Oa, to think you should 'ev bin dead, and come back livin', and that Bill Tregargus shud hev bin the fust to tell 'ee the bad news. Ef I'd only knaw'd I'd ev altered it; but I ded'n."

I conquered myself at last. I had been in a hard school during the last ten years, living almost without hope in life, and so I felt it less than if I buoyed myself up with joyful hopes. Still, it was terrible, terrible. If I had come home a month before it might have been different, but I was too late. Ah, I was cursed, cursed with the Trewinion's curse!

"Bill," I said, after many wild questions on my part, and excited exclamations on his, for he could not realise that I was alive, "tell me all about it, all about her death, and everything."

"Well, Maaster Roger," said Bill, "what I knaw is through Jane Treloar, who was Miss Ruth's maid, and she came back yesterday by the coach. She do live here, you do knaw, sur. Well, she tould me and the cook that she only made one request when she got very ill, and that was that Maaster Wilfred shouldn't see her. She got weaker, sur, very fast, and never spoke to anybody, and died without a murmur."

"When was she buried?"

"Two days agone, sur."

"Where?"

"In the church, sur, near her house, in the vault under the Communion, so Jane Treloar said."

For a long time Bill and I remained together, until I saw the evening shadows fall, then I made up my mind I would go to the Hall.

"Bill," I said, "did you know me at all while we were talking?"

"Not until you got wild, sur, then it struck me who you was. Nobody would recognise you at once, sur, you've so altered."

"I don't want you to tell anyone you've seen me until you hear from me again, Bill."

"All right, sur, I won't do nothin' you do'ant want me to do; you be'ant goin' away, be 'ee, sur, y'll stay and be squire!"

"I don't know what I shall do yet," I said, "I'm almost mad; but you'll know by and by."

Then I went away towards the house. I knew Wilfred was home, and I determined that we should meet, and that he should give an account of his dealings with the woman for whom I had left my home.

Daylight was nearly gone when I reached the headland so I went to a spot near the house, where I could watch. It was a glorious September evening, and nature was on every hand beautiful. The flush of summer had gone; but the decay of winter had not set in, and the cornfields which had been shorn of their crops were by no means destitute of loveliness. The fruit trees were laden with their crimson and golden clusters, and the first tinge of brown that was just beginning to appear only added to the beauty of the foliage I felt this rather than saw it. The spell of the night exists more in my consciousness than in my memory. The music of the waters comes back to me rather as a half-forgotten dream than as anything I distinctly remember. My mind was then too busy with other things. I was thinking of Ruth, Ruth loving me through long years, and then dying of a broken heart. Through the wilful deception of my brother and mother I had been bereft of everything I loved. Through them I had sacrificed love, hope and comforts; through them my darling—who loved me all the time—was murdered. Oh! If I had but known. If I had but known we might have been happy—so happy! But no, they had remorselessly pursued their course, until they had killed my darling.

If I felt hatred on the morning I left home, I felt it ten times more now. Then my hatred was blind hatred without knowing the reason, now I knew that it only foreshadowed what should come after. It was a prophetic power in my soul, which told me vaguely perhaps, but truly, what my brother would do; now I realised it. Then, if I may so speak, it was abstract, now it was concrete. What I had only dimly feared was become a fact. Ruth, who had loved me, loved me without my knowledge, had been killed, murdered, as truly as if an assassin had used a knife or cudgel for his devilish work. Nay, it was worse, it was a slower and more cruel death. She had died because of the fear that her life was to be linked to a man she did not love.

I was very calm I remember, even though the fires of hell burnt in my heart. After all, the anger which is most dangerous is not that which raves and cries aloud, but that which makes no noise. Calm as I was, I felt my muscles grow hard, and I had a kind of savage joy within me as I pictured the death agony on his face and heard the death rattle in his throat. Nevertheless, I would not act foolishly, and I set myself to thinking how I could bring my desires to pass.

How should I enter the house? How should I be able to get Wilfred away alone?

Surely, the powers of darkness were on my side, for while I waited and watched I saw him come out of the tower entrance, and walk in the direction of the gate that led out to the headland where I was.

"Ah!" said I, "God is going to give you into my hands. He is a just God! He will not grant me love, but He will grant me hate, and He will find a means of vengeance."

He came out of the gate and wandered slowly on. I was too far away to see his face clearly in the evening light, but could see he moved with the old, careless swing. Ten years had scarcely altered his appearance. He was still the elegant, handsome Wilfred.

He walked towards the vicarage, and took the coast path. So much the better—it was the most lonely path in the countryside. It suited my purpose exactly. I followed silently. No sound of footsteps could be heard, for the grass was soft and spongy; the grass on which we had often played together as boys.

He wandered along aimlessly as though he had come out to be alone. He did not look back; but every now and then stopped and gazed at the "Devil's Tooth," the five great prongs of which could be clearly seen in the evening light.

Presently I thought we had gone far enough for my purpose, and so I went up to him.

"I desire to speak to you," I said.

He turned round sharply, and looked straight at me.

"Who are you?" he cried.

"Look and see," I said.

The moon had risen, the sky was clear, and my features could be plainly seen.

He looked at me steadily with his sharp brilliant eyes, and spoke again.

"I do not know you."

"I think you do," I said. "You and I have often played on yonder headland, often wrestled there; look again."

Then he gave a great start, and trembled.

"My God, it is Roger!" he cried.

"Ah, you remember at last, do you? Yes, it is Roger."

He seemed to detect something fearful in my voice, for he asked harshly:

"Where do you come from, and why are you here?"

"I am come from silence, and from mystery, as far as you are concerned," I replied, "and I am here in the name of righteousness and justice."

Something in my answer seemed to startle him.

"Alive?" he said, with a gasp.

"Yes, alive," I said. "When I left I told you to be careful, or Roger might come to life again. I told you to be kind to the one for whom I sacrificed my all, or the dead would arise. Let your own memory answer the question whether there is cause for me to come back."

He caught my meaning, and began to stammer.

"But, Roger, I—I have done nothing, and——"

"Stop," I cried, "I know all. You know that I was deceived into believing that Ruth loved you, and that I was the hindrance to her happiness. And I know now that it was a lie concocted by my mother and you. I know how you have imposed upon and deceived her. I know that you have tried to frighten her into marrying you, and I know, too, that by keeping her to a promise that her soul abhorred, you have murdered her! I know all this, and now I have come back for revenge."

"What will you do?"

"I do not know as yet. First of all confess to me this; did not you and my mother deceive both Ruth and me to get me away, so that you might have what was mine?"

"You said you knew, why do you ask?"

"I wish to hear what you say; answer me!"

"Mother put in into my mind, and I thought that—that—you didn't care, so I—I——" he stopped in confusion.

"Coward! to put the fault on your mother. Now another question. Did you villify me to Ruth, did you wear away her life by trying to get her to marry you, even when you knew she loved me?"

"Roger, I wanted her so, and you were gone, and we thought you dead, and our affairs got entangled so——"

"You killed her," I said savagely. "But for your accursed cunning and greed she would be alive now."

"I didn't know, Roger. I knew she didn't like me after—after—you went away, but I didn't think I should——"

"Did you hold her to her promise to the last?"

"Yes—that is, I thought she might get better again and so——"

"You drove her to her death, and now my turn has come."

"But you will not hurt me, Roger; you will not hurt your brother! What will you do?"

This touched me to the quick, and for a time I felt I could not hurt him.

Is there unspoken communication of thought? Is there a subtle interchange of mind which is instinctively felt? I think so, for no sooner did I feel that I could not harm Wilfred than his evident fear left him. He acted on the aggressive immediately, and spoke boldly.

"Yes, what will you do?" he said. "I refuse to know you. I refuse to recognise you. My brother Roger is dead, and was buried long years since. You are some impostor come here to claim what is not your own, under the paltry pretence of revenge."

My brother's villainy was now manifest, and my old hatred came surging back.

"Roger is not dead, and that you will soon find out," I said. "All your authority and power are gone, the son and heir has come; but Ruth's avenger is come too! 'An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.' You shall suffer as she has suffered, you shall die as she died. I have a long score to pay. I have ten years of misery in the past to account for. I have a blackened future from which you are not free."

We were standing near the cliff as I said this, but I had my eye upon him, and it is well it was so, for he jumped at me savagely, and, had I not been prepared I should have fallen from the dizzy height to the ragged rocks below.

"Curse you," he cried; "but you have not a child to deal with, or the puny boy whose weakness you used to take advantage of. I am not going to let Trewinion go. I have not enjoyed it for ten years to lose it now. If Roger did not die ten years ago he shall die now."

With that he sought to drag me nearer the cliff, while I gripped him firmly. He did not fight defensively now. For him, everything depended on the struggle. To rob me of my love, and to rob me of my money, he had schemed to get me away, and now that I had come back he determined to hold by all he had stolen. Nor did I fight defensively. I felt I had lost Ruth, ay, I had lost my life itself through him, and I gripped him with a grip of iron. I thought of misery, and revenge; he of disgrace and the loss of what he held dear.

I soon found out that, as he had said, I had not a child or a puny boy to deal with. His muscles seemed of iron, and he coiled around me like a serpent. If I hated, he hated still more, and with the malignity of a demon he sought to master me. I was, however, the bigger and the stronger man, while the past ten years of my life had developed my physical strength greatly. Toil and exposure had given me power of endurance unknown to him, and soon I felt his grasp weaken. Little by little I mastered him, until with the grip of a giant I crushed him in my arms.

He looked up at me despairingly.

"You will not kill me, Roger?" he gasped.

"Would you not have killed me if you could?" I said, for there was murder in my heart. "You have killed my Ruth, and now——"

I did not finish the sentence, for, in spite of myself, I felt him dragging me nearer the edge of the cliff, nor was I able to stop him until we were within a foot or so from the awful precipice. Then I lifted him from the ground and held him. His strength seemed gone, while mine was unabated.

What should I do with him? He was the destroyer of my life's happiness, he had killed my love, he had filled me with despair; but he was my brother. Should I destroy the venomous life that wrought only evil? or——

"Hurl him over!" said the devil within me, "he is your blight, your curse! Show him no mercy, let him be dashed to pieces, and thus you will avenge your misery, and avenge Ruth's death!"



"No, no, he's your brother, forgive him!" said another voice.

All this passed through my mind in the moment, that I felt him struggle again, then, with an awful shriek, he fell from me.

I stood alone on that dizzy height—alone! I was the conqueror. I was avenged. Ruth's murderer was dead.

I looked around me, and I remembered where I stood.

Long years before I had gone to the vicarage, and on this spot I had seen a shadowy, shapeless figure in white!

On the night my father had died I was standing on this place when I saw between the prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" the omen of darkness.

Now, standing there alone, I realised what had been done on this place of evil memory.

I stood on the edge of the cliff and looked down I could see nothing, but below me I heard the waves break upon the rocks, and they seemed to laugh with fiendish glee, and mock me in my black despair.



CHAPTER XVIII

HELL!

I cried to God, "Oh, I am so weary."

God said, "You have not seen half hell."

I said, "I cannot see more, I am afraid. In my own narrow little path I dare not walk, because I think that one has dug a pit for me; and if I put my hand to take a fruit I draw it back again, because I think it has been kissed. If I look out across the plains the mounds are covered houses; and when I pass among the stones I hear them crying. The time of the dance is beaten in with sobs, and the wind is alive. Oh, I cannot bear hell."—OLIVE SCHREINER.

For some time I was conscious of nothing, but by degrees I realised what I had done. An awful crime rested upon my soul, a crime only the shadow of which had rested upon me before.

The hatred of years had found expression at last. The serpent that had lain in my heart, writhing and turning, and growing for years, had at last lifted its head, the latent devil had asserted itself, and I was a murderer.

A murderer!

The ghastly, terrible truth pressed itself upon me more and more. I was alone on the weather-beaten cliff, around me all was still; beneath me was the ever sobbing sea telling me of what I had done.

A murderer?

Oh! The terror of that thought. Even now, after long years, I trembled at what I then realised. I, Roger Trewinion, trained by a godly father, surrounded during my early life with every good influence, was a murderer. In my madness I had arisen like Cain and taken away my brother's life; in my hatred I had wrought desolation.

Alone! alone; with only the mocking sea to speak to me from without; while within I felt the fires of hell.

I saw, as in a lightning flash, the events of the past twenty years. I saw myself and Wilfred playing, rollicking on the cliffs, I saw us rushing home from school, and nutting among the woods. Again we were together in the waving cornfields, or swimming in the shining seas. We were reared in the same home, and had through our childhood slept in the same room. We both bore the same name, and the same blood ran in our veins.

And I remembered more than that. Thousands of incidents concerning the happy days of childhood flashed through my memory. Then we had few cares and many joys. I saw us sitting in the old family pew in church, and the lines of the old hymns we had sung came back to me, hymns about the love of God and the Cross of Christ.

And I had murdered him! Never, in my wildest moments, did I dream that my hatred of Wilfred would ever take outward form in actual killing. I did not mean to kill him when we stood together, and held him in my arms. But he fell from me—fell from that awful height, down, down, among the cruel jagged rocks, and would be dashed to pieces, while the mocking waves would sweep over him.

Now, where was the purpose of my hate, my revenge? They had not won back the lost years of my life, they had not given Ruth back to me. My evil deed had only made the evil more evil; had poisoned my own soul with a poison more deadly. What right had I to visit vengeance upon my brother's wrong-doing? Was I perfect? Had not hatred mastered my life for years? Had I not allowed my lower nature to conquer my higher? Yet I had dared to avenge my wrong. I had dared to take the work of God into my own hands. "Vengeance is Mine, I will repay," said the Lord.

Bitterly now did I feel the truth of this, for God was taking His vengeance on me! I—I had broken His laws, I had yielded to the devil, I had hurled the crown of my manhood from me.

And I still stood alone, with bare head and burning eyes, while in my heart burned a scorching, tormenting, yet non-consuming fire.

Then a more terrible thought came. What I had done could never be undone. Never! Age upon age might pass away, but that fact, ghastly and black, would remain! It might be possible, I did not think He ever would, but it might be possible that in the far-off future God would forgive me. But then, even God could not undo the fact that I had killed my brother.

But I had not intended to throw him over the cliff. His death was due to an accident; I had not altogether yielded to the strivings of the devil. True, true, and yet murder was in my heart, for did I not hate him and had I not hated him for years.

"Whoso hateth his brother is a murderer." So said the disciple of the Son of God, and I had hated him, and now neither God nor eternity could undo what I had done.

I thought of my mother. Soon she would learn that Wilfred was dead, and then her sky would be black, and it would be I, Roger, who had blackened it. The deed which would bring her grey hair with sorrow to the grave, had been done by me.

"Ah," I thought, "if I could only cease to be, cease to think," but that, I knew, could never be. Had I hurled myself from that dizzy height, so that my battered body might be beside my brother's, the awful thing I had done would remain, and I should remain. I might kill the body, but I could not kill the soul; and self-murder would make my crime greater, not less.

Oh, how desolate the world was. The summer sky had no beauty; the fields, which I could still dimly see, were shorn of every loveliness.

Then I looked seaward, and the only visible object was the ghastly rock which was ever a nightmare to my soul.

What was it I saw there? It was a light, like the light I had seen on the night of my father's death, a weird, ghostly light, moving between the great grey prongs.

I remembered then of what that light was supposed to be the omen, and my senses seemed to leave me. Everywhere, everywhere, I could hear taunting voices crying "Murderer! Murderer!" The winds as they swept by said it, the sea playing with the pebbles on the beach said it, and thousands of voices all around me uttered the same dread word. I put my fingers in my ears to keep away the hideous sound; but not so could I silence conscience. The word came not from without, but from within. It was my guilty soul that repeated it, until I longed to have the power to flee from the self which I loathed.

Not only did my ears hear the word; my eyes saw it. Everywhere it was written. On the broad sky I could see it written from end to end. I turned to the sea, and on its silvery waters the same awful word was traced, in letters that were black as the blackest night. I turned my eyes landward, and it was there, and when I closed them I saw it still.

Yet I was not sorry for what I had done! I suffered the pains of hell, but I was not sorry, nor did I hate my brother the less. Could I have shed one bitter tear or realised one true feeling of repentance I should have suffered less; but I could not, and this made my hell harder to bear, it made my hell a hell of the blackest kind. Dives did not feel the burning so keenly as I, for in his pain he could still love his brothers and long for their salvation; but I was in worse straits than he. I hated all, because of my hatred of one.

And all the time I felt this, I stood on the verge of the cliffs hundreds of feet above the ever-sounding sea. My loneliness was terrible! I longed to hear some voice, to feel the grasp of some friendly hand, yet I dreaded the approach of any one.

My eyes and ears were, after a while, delivered from the terrible word, and looking again I saw the mysterious light moving among the prongs of the "Devil's Tooth," then I saw a form approaching me, a grey, bent, ungainly form.

Trembling I waited as it approached, until it stood close by my side.

"What do 'ee zee?" said a croaking voice.

I did not reply. I felt that I could not.

"Es it the light you be lookin' at? That's Betsey Fraddam's lantern, that es, and that do'ant tell'ee of any good luck."

I knew now that it was old Deborah Teague who spoke. The years had not softened her harsh features, nor did she seem older than when I had left Trewinion, save that she stooped more. My blood curdled when I knew it was she. When I stood on this place last she had come to me and had repeated some lines of the Trewinion's curse; she had told me of the darkness that was approaching, and now on the night that I had come back, the night on which I had been engaged in a deed of darkest dark on this same dread spot, she had come to me again.

Yet did I not reply.

"Who be you?" she continued.

I remained silent, looking again towards the "Devil's Tooth," where angry flames leaped up.

The old dame laughed when she saw my evident fear, and continued in her hoarse, croaking voice:

"That's ou'll Betsey cookin' her broth, that es; and it was made where you do'ant want to go. I shudn't stay there much longer or ou'll Betsey 'll bring'ee some, and nobody ever refuses her."

With that she hobbled away, leaving me again alone. But I did not stay long. A maddening desire came into my heart to get away, and with eager feet I rushed landward.

Where should I go? Somewhere, anywhere away from Trewinion, away from this dark deed of my life. For a mile I rushed blindly on. Then I stopped. I must make up my mind what was to be my destination.

Morton Hall! I had not been thinking of it, but that was the place that impressed itself on my thought and memory. I would go there. For what purpose I did not know, but in my misery that one place seemed to invite me. I could do no good, for Ruth was dead, and laid in the cold tomb. Dead, dead, and she had died loving me! The thought softened my hell, and yet it made it harder to bear, for while it put tenderness into my heart, it made me feel more than ever unworthy even to mention her name.

I stopped in my journey again, for I had started in the direction of Ruth's home, and, looking upward, I saw a star that was nearer to me than any other, and it seemed to look lovingly upon me; then my heart was subdued, and I sobbed like a child.

Again a mad frenzy possessed me, and I rushed away in the direction of Ruth's home as though the powers of darkness pursued me.



CHAPTER XIX

TOWARDS RUTH'S GRAVE

But if you look into it, the balance is perfectly adjusted, even here. God has made His world much better than you and I could make it. Everything reaps its own harvest; every act has its own reward. And before you covet the enjoyment which another possesses, you must first calculate the cost at which it was procured.—FREDERICK W. ROBERTSON.

Morton Hall was about thirty-five miles from Trewinion, in a south-easterly direction. It lay on the opposite side of the county, and the country between was hilly, but fertile. I did not know the road well, but I knew it well enough for my purpose. By travelling at the rate of four miles an hour I could reach the Hall in nine hours. I could give no reason for going thither except that I was drawn by an irresistible power, a power by means of which I hoped to quench the awful fires in my soul.

The night was clear, and the stars shone brightly overhead. These I had studied through the long years of my seafaring life and so knew their location well. Fixing on one which lay in the direction in which I desired to go, I followed it as my guide.

To analyse the feelings that possessed me that night would be impossible. One hears sometimes of a murderer "escaping." That may never be. The officers of the law may not suspect him, the hangman's rope may never come near him, but no murderer escapes. He never escapes the terrible undefinable fear which constantly dogs him, the ghastly gnawing which eats at his heart.

At every step I saw my brother Wilfred. I constantly heard his voice, and every footfall spoke of what I had done. The hedges were full of grinning devils, which mocked me, while the stars that spangled the sky spelt the word that was dragging me deeper into hell.

Time after time I tried to comfort myself with the thought that I did not intentionally kill him, that it was an accident which caused him to fall upon those cruel rocks hundreds of feet below, but I found no comfort in the thought. I could not get rid of the fact that I hated my brother, and that whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer. Even had I not done the deed, even had Wilfred been alive, I was still a murderer at heart. I had hated him alive, I hated him still, and even now I had no sorrow at what I had done.

On, on I went, wildly yet wearily; tired I was, but I never rested, nor abated my speed, and ever as I went ghastly thoughts tormented me. Now I pictured him lying bruised and bleeding among the rocks, alive yet helpless; and as he lay I saw the tide rising all around him, and laughing at his cries for help. Then I saw him a ghastly, mis-shapen mass, crushed and battered beyond all recognition, with eyes red as blood and bursting from their sockets. Again I saw him, and the scene was more terrible still. He was entering a great gulf which I knew to be the mouth of hell, and as he went I saw that he was attended by ghastly, pallid creatures, who were cold and clammy in spite of the fires that burned in their breasts.

"Who sent you here?" they cried, in harshly grating voices.

"My brother Roger!" he answered.

"Breathe the prayer dearest to your heart!" they grinned.

"May he wallow in a hell a thousand times blacker and more painful than this," he said.

"Your prayer shall be granted," they screamed.

Then I lost him amidst gloomy caverns, that burned with fires giving no light, and I realised that I was still tramping madly on towards the south-east, but I knew his prayer was answered—my hell was blacker than his.

Oh! the length of that awful night. Every second seemed a minute, every minute seemed a day, nay, a night, a thousand dark nights! I was in eternal punishment! I had died into eternal death!

How many hours I had tramped on I knew not, when I saw in the eastern sky a red tinge which made the whole horizon seem a wall of heated steel, set in diamonds. North and south the sky appeared more blue because of the brighter colour in the east, and it looked more distant, more unfathomable. Of what moment was this earth of ours in this vast space which separated it from the nearest star? It was but as the fine dust of the balance, and yet I, the loathsome thing that walked the earth, could feel—could suffer—I was something more than the earth!

Slowly the day dawned, brighter and brighter became the flush in the east, one by one the stars sank out of sight, and suddenly I saw a golden streak of light flash across the hills, then another, and still others, until a disc of the king of day became visible. A minute more and it was day! Day! and yet I was still in night, the gloomy fires of my heart were still unquenched, the darkness of my soul was still unillumined.

I now began to think about what my mother would say, what she would feel. When Wilfred did not come home a search would naturally be made, and in time he would be found. And what then? I dared not think of that!

Presently I saw a labourer with hedging tools on his shoulder. I would speak to him, it would relieve my feelings to hear the sound of a human voice.

Closer and closer we came until we were within a few yards of each other. I could not speak to him. I was ashamed. I was a guilty wretch, and could not look an honest man in the face, so I passed by without looking at him or speaking a word. Another mile I tramped, then I saw a farmer coming in his cart; evidently he was going to some distant market. I would speak to him. I had now got over the shock which the sight of the other man had given me.

"Could you tell me," I said as he came near, "how far Morton Hall is from here?"

"Morton Hall," he replied, "I' sh' think I cud. I ain't a lived in this ere neberhood for vive and vorty year wiout knawin' that?"

I waited for him to go on, but he did not speak another word, and then, looking at me strangely, prepared to drive on.

"Will you tell me, then?" I said.

"You asked me if I cud," he said, "not ef I wud. Es, I'll tell 'ee, tes nine mile'n haaf," and the farmer drove on.

Nine miles and a half! I had walked twenty-five miles then, and more. I was very tired, and I knew not why I should go there; but, impelled by a strong power, I hurried on.

By this time the day was quite warm, and soon I began to feel the perspiration ooze from my forehead, so seeing a stream of clear water running by the roadside I stooped down and washed myself. It helped and refreshed me much, and enabled me to think more calmly. Then I remembered that many a long hour had passed since I had tasted food. I felt hungry and faint, but I walked on, for there seemed small hope of obtaining food for some time. Happening, however, to pass near a farmhouse I heard some one singing. It was a milkmaid sitting among her cows, singing as she worked, and her song was the expression of a light heart free from guilt. Jumping over a stile I made my way towards her, and seeing me coming she stood up and curtsied.

"Can you sell me some milk, Mary?" I said.

"No sur, I can't sell any, and my name edn't Mary but Em'ly, but I can give 'ee zum."

With that she ran to the house, and soon appeared with a quart jug, which she dipped into the bucket and filled, then handed it to me. I drank it greedily, and I did not take my lips from the jug until I had nearly emptied it. To me it was both meat and drink, and it gave me new life. I offered the girl money, but she refused it indignantly.

"As thoa," she said, "anybody cud taake money vur a drap a milk."

I had no difficulty in accomplishing the remaining distance after this, and soon after I came to the park gates of Morton Hall. Then the real difficulty of my position was revealed to me. What should I do now I had travelled these thirty-five long miles? what object could I have in visiting the house? what should I say if any one asked me my business?

Although I could not settle this in my mind, I opened the gate and strode up the long drive. It was a fine house, and had been kept in good repair. Great trees bordered the way, but hid not the colossal pile that was plainly to be seen at the end of the widening avenue.

Without waiting a second, or being able to give a reason for what I was doing, I went to the main entrance and rang the heavy bell.

An old, grey-headed servant appeared, looking exceedingly solemn, and asked my business.

"I want to see the owner of this place," I said, speaking on the impulse of the moment.

"There is no owner," was the reply.

"How is that?" I asked, abruptly.

He looked at me keenly for a minute, as though to sum up my social position and qualities before answering. Evidently he was an old and trusted servant.

"It is not a matter for strangers," he said, "but if you have any business I will convey it to the person who is at present in charge."

"My business is of importance," I said, speaking from secret impulse, and not knowing what I should have to say next. "I can only entrust it to the owner."

"But the owner is dead," he replied, "and who the new owner will be is not known yet. There are many claiming to be next-of-kin, and Mr. Inch and the lawyers are busy at work."

"Mr. Inch is the steward, I suppose?"

The man nodded, but did not speak.

"The late owner was a lady," I said, speaking more calmly than I had thought myself capable. "I used to know her. Miss Ruth Morton was her name. I have a message of great importance; but you say she's dead."

Again the servant looked at me keenly.

"I know Mr. Inch too," I went on, "and I must see him. Perhaps he was not as faithful to his mistress as he should have been; he must answer me that."

This I said as one in a dream, for I had not thought of it before. It caused a light to flash from the man's eyes, however, and he spoke more freely.

"I will tell Mr. Inch you are here," he said, "and I will answer any question I can. I have been a servant in this house all my life, and I loved Miss Ruth like as if she were my own child."

"Did she ever live here after her father's death?" I asked.

"Not until she came of age; then she used to come here through the summer months, but returned to Trewinion, I believe, because of her father's wish."

"What did your mistress die of?" I asked, abruptly.

The old man was silent.

"Can you not tell me?" I urged.

"I cannot," he said, stiffly. "I dare say you could know by applying to the doctor."

I could not help noticing a strange look in his eyes as he spoke, but I said quietly.

"Then you will, perhaps, tell Mr. Inch I wish to see him."

"Yes sir. What name?"

"No name."

"No name? He will not see you."

"Tell him a friend of the Trewinion family wishes to see him."

He gave me a searching look and then went away, and in a minute more came back and showed me into a room, telling me that Mr. Inch would see me immediately.

I had not to wait long. Soon I heard a slow, measured step along the hall; then the handle of the door turned, and Mr. Inch and I were gazing steadily into each other's face.



CHAPTER XX

"VISIT HER TOMB"

O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended! Who through death have to God ascended! Ye have risen From the cares which keep us still in prison. —LONGFELLOW.

"I am at your service for a few minutes," he said stiffly; "but our interview must be short, for I have much to do."

"And I have much to speak to you about," I said, still confused as to the issues of our interview, but dimly feeling that he was in some way responsible for Ruth's death.

"I am ignorant as to what it can be," he said, looking at me curiously, "for certainly I do not remember ever seeing you before."

"You do not remember," I said, "but you have nevertheless seen me."

"Yes?" he said, still questioningly.

"Yes!" I replied. "I am at present travelling like that ancient god of night whom men call Nemesis. I was for years lost to the earth, now I am come back, if not to restore the righteous to their true position, at any rate to punish betrayers and oppressors, and you are both a betrayer and an oppressor."

"Do you know to whom you are speaking?"

"Yes."

"Then I will call a servant and see that you are shown off the premises."

"No, you will not."

He looked at me strangely. "A friend of the Trewinions," he murmured, "surely he must be mad."

"Yes, I am nearly mad," I replied, "but I am sane enough to know that Ruth Morton was not fairly treated, and although there is nothing but darkness for me in the world, and although every deed I do leads me further into the thick darkness, it shall be my work to unmask villainy."

"Unmask villainy?" he said, as if in surprise, and then made a movement towards the door.

"No," I said. "Think one minute before you call a servant. Let your mind go back a few years. Remember a dark, wild night many years ago, when you and your mistress were shipwrecked upon a rock on the northern coast. Think of who saved you."

"It cannot be!" he said, staring amazedly at me.

"You did not like him, did you?" I said. "You cared more for the younger brother, and played on the elder's trusting nature and helped to get him away. You swore that a body which was washed on the shore was his, although in your heart you knew it was not. You persecuted your mistress by constantly trying to make her marry the man she did not love, and on the tenth anniversary of his departure you appeared armed with her father's will and drove her to the promise which killed her."

He grew as pale as a sheet.

"You are Roger!" he gasped.

"I am Roger," I said.

"But what will you do?" he said, his face ashy pale.

"Do?" I cried. "I will destroy Ruth's destroyers, and then destroy myself. I will sift your dealings to the bottom and then——"

"Stop, Roger," he cried; "stop! I have sinned, but I have also been sinned against. I loved Ruth, ay, loved her like my own child; but Wilfred got me into his power, and then, like the devil he was, he made me do his will. Oh, I have suffered as well as you, more than you! He found out the one weak place in my life, as he found out everything else, and then he held me fast. Oh, I have waded through the blackest slime for him. But for his power over me I should have scorned to do what I did; I would have died before I would have taken advantage of her loyalty to her father's slightest wish; and now——"

"Now, because you had no mercy on her or on me, I shall have no mercy on you," I said. "Everything shall be made known, all your deeds shall be dragged into the light of day."

"No, no, Roger; she would not have done that. She forgave me everything, for at the last I confessed to her all that had been done. She suffered terribly at your departure, and more, I believe at the thought of wedding Wilfred, and yet she forgave me. Oh, I wish you had seen her at the last, so calm, so patient, and so beautiful. She loved you to the last, Roger, and one thought that cheered her in the hour of death was that she would soon see you again."

"Did she think I was dead?"

"She believed you died soon after you left home," he replied. But I did not believe him.

"And she loved me; did she confess it?"

"Not to me, but to the maid who was with her; her whole life and being seemed to be gone over to you; and thus it was that the thought of obeying her father's will killed her."

And I had been away from her all these years; I had been robbed of what was most dear. I was glad I had been revenged on Wilfred now, and the gladness was fiendish. This man, too, should reap as he had sown; as he had helped to make me suffer I would make him suffer. I knew that sooner or later my struggle with Wilfred would be made known, and that I should be suspected of his death; but I did not care, madness was in my heart again.

I burst forth with expressions of hatred and determinations of revenge, the old man still cowering meanwhile before me. Then he spoke.

"Roger, who are you that you should seek revenge? Is your life wholly pure and free from stain? Think, you, if you ruin my life by bringing me to disgrace, or if you destroy your brother Wilfred, that Ruth could welcome you to Heaven, if God should even allow you to go there? She died with the look of a glorified angel on her face; I wish you had seen her, you would not talk of revenge."

All the time I had been living as in a dream. A vague feeling of darkness and revenge possessed me. I felt drawn on by unknown influences—whither, I could not say.

These words of the old steward and friend to the Morton family aroused me. Who was I, indeed, that I should seek revenge? I was the murderer of my brother, I had yielded to as low impulses as they, and yet I talked of myself as Nemesis. How, indeed, should I dare to meet Ruth again with such a sin on my soul?

Without a word I left the house, Mr. Inch staring amazedly after me. I strode down the drive towards the park gates, and had gone, perhaps, half the distance, when I was chained to the earth by the memory of the old man's words:—"She died with the look of a glorified angel on her face; I wish you had seen her."

No sooner had these sounded in my memory than another voice seemed to speak.

"Go and see her," it said. "Visit her tomb."

At first I was almost stunned by the thought. To see my Ruth again would indeed be ecstasy, but even as I so thought I heard another voice speaking in cruel mockery. That which I should see would not be Ruth, she would be far away, where I might never go. Yet the idea still haunted me. I would go. It might ease the terrible madness of my soul if I could see even in death the lips that had confessed their love for me.

How should I accomplish my object? I remembered Bill Tregargus's words, "She was buried in the vault under the Communion." To the church then I would go, and I would see her face again, although it was the face of the dead.

My first work was to go to the village sexton and get the church keys, so when I arrived at the village I enquired for his house. I discovered that he was a bachelor, and lived alone on the outskirts of the village. I quickly made my way thither, and, on arriving, found the door locked. Evidently he was out. On making further enquiries, I found that he had that day gone to the nearest market town, and probably would not be home until dark. It was now about noon, and, faint and hungry, I found my way to the village alehouse, where, after having had something to eat, I tried to think.

Since yesterday, I had lived a lifetime. Yesterday at that time I had not arrived home, I had not seen Bill Tregargus, I knew nothing of what had occurred. Now I was branded with the brand of a murderer. The wild deeds I had done when I sailed the seas as a pirate scarcely weighed on my conscience at all; but this deed, though I did not repent, and though my hatred remained unabated, made life unendurable.

Hour after hour I sat in the parlour of the village inn, thinking, wondering and fearing. Would the landlord be so obliging, I wondered, if he knew what I had done; would he not loathe my presence, and deliver me to the justice of man?

Yet who are the murderers of the world? Are they to be found among those only who do actual murder, or are murderers a class of people who are capable of murder? Is not every man who is not filled with Divine love capable of murder, and are not many free from the stain of murderous deeds merely because they have never been provoked, tempted? Who shall judge as to who are real murderers? None but God alone!

Night drew on at length, and full of the thought which became dearer each hour, I found again my way to the sexton's house. This time he was at home. He stared at me in astonishment when I told him what I wanted.

"Want to go in th' oul church after dark!" he said. "You must be mazed."

"Why?"

"Why! You cudden git more'n two people in the parish to do it. Me and the passen be the only two that be'ant afraid."

"But I don't want you to go with me," I said. "I simply want you to lend me the keys, and I'll bring them back to you again."

"And you we'ant want me to go in the churchyard nuther?"

"No."

"I must'n do it," he said. "The passen 'ud give me the sack straight off ef 'ee was to knaw it."

"No one need know," I said.

For a long time he held out. I could see that he would willingly have let me enter the church at daylight, and would himself have gone with me; but at night he was afraid to do so, and was also afraid to let me have the keys.

"I ca'ant 'ford to lose my place," he said; "not that the burryin' es wuth much. I ain't a berried a livin' soul for a long time, so times es bad in that way; but I git a goodish bit for clainin' the church."

"How much do you get a year?"

"I make so much as ten shillen a week oal the year round," he said. "I do'ant knaw how much that es a year."

I took fifteen guineas from my pocket, and put them before him.

"There is more money than you would get in a whole year," I said. "If I don't bring back the keys in safety, you'll have that money to take you where you like to go, and if I bring back the keys you shall have five of them for your trouble in lending them to me."

"You'm sure you won't do no harm."

"Perfectly."

"Then take 'em," and going to a little recess in the room he took the keys from a nail and gave them to me.

"I expect you to be waiting for me here when I come back," I said.

"Oa, never fear, I sha'ant steer out of the 'ouse," was his reply.

I took a lantern, in which the old man had placed a candle, and prepared to start.

"You'm sure you beant goin' to do nothin' wrong," he said.

"Perfectly," I replied. "You will not regret it for an instant."

He looked at me again, then, as if they were an enormous fortune, at the guineas that lay on the table, and seemed reconciled.

"Tha's the kay of the church," he said, pointing to the biggest in the bunch, "the churchyard gates is allays left unlocked. And I'll be waitin for 'ee when you come back. How long shall 'ee be?"

"I don't know; perhaps an hour," and with a beating heart I went away towards the church. It was a great, grey, gloomy pile, the four steeples on the square tower at the western end reminding me of the prongs of the "Devil's Tooth."

I entered the churchyard gates. All was silent as death. I had expected it to be so; no one ever dared to enter there after dark, unless it was a cluster of worshippers gathered together in church time. Even this did not happen often, for rarely was an evening service held there. Like many other country churches in Cornwall, the time of worship was morning and afternoon. Had I got into the church in the afternoon I should not have been free from observation, for the country folk are courageous in the daytime, and often prowl around the churchyard; but at night I knew if I entered I should be left unmolested.

Slowly I wended my way down the churchyard path. I began to realise now what I was going to do, and for the first time the thought struck terror. Yet did I not hesitate in my purpose. I remembered every superstitious association of my early childhood. Stories of the troubled dead roaming around their graves came back to my mind. I saw the grey tombstones grim and lonely, as if inviting those in whose memory they were erected to bear them company through the silent night.

A lonely churchyard is an awful place, and this one seemed more awful than others to me, who was about to visit the dead!

How plainly my footsteps sounded as I went down the gravelled footpath. I felt as though I were disturbing the dead in their graves.

What was that dark grey form moving among the tombstones? Was it the village witch gathering the nettles that grew on the suicide's grave, in order to work her mystic spells and secret charms? Was that sound I heard her dark laughter, as she plucked the mugwort of evil repute?

No; it was only my excited imagination conjuring up dread objects and noises.

I stood at the door of the belfry tower. It was grey, and iron studded. Should I enter this way? No; my passage among the bell-ropes might set the bells jangling in ghastly discord, and quickly I hurried to the church porch.

I stood and listened; but could hear no sound. The stone seats around the porch looked very cold, and the parish notices that were pasted around its walls looked to me like the letters of departed spirits.

I lit the candle in my lantern, and fumbled among the keys, my hands trembling as I did so. I found the right key at length, and placed it in the door. I tried to turn it, but it would not move. I pushed it a little farther and tried again. The lock was very stiff, it was but seldom moved—once or twice a week at most, and even more seldom oiled. In spite of the rust, it at length yielded to the strength of my hand, the bolt shot back with a rough grating sound, the great door swung back on its rusty hinges, and I entered the silent church.

I withdrew the keys and shut the door. It closed with a bang that sounded terrible in the great building, but I did not heed. I went eastward towards the Communion, under which was the tomb of the Mortons.



CHAPTER XXI

THE VAULT UNDER THE COMMUNION

There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. These the mere romancist must eschew, if he do not wish to offend or disgust. They are with propriety handled only when the severity and majesty of truth sanctify and maintain them. We thrill, for example, with the most intense of "pleasurable pain" over the accounts of the Passage of the Beresina, of the Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague of London, of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, or of the 123 prisoners in the Black Hole at Calcutta. But in these accounts it is the fact—it is the reality—it is the history which excites. As inventions we should regard them with simple abhorrence.—EDGAR A. POE'S Tales of Mystery and Imagination.

I stood alone in the old church. How silent everything was! The great grey granite pillars, surmounted by circling arches, appeared in ghostly array before me; the high-backed pews seemed to be peopled by dim, shadowy figures, who had come back to watch me as I looked on the face of my loved. Everyone of the tablets on the wall was to me a face of warning. My footfall echoed and re-echoed, until I fancied the silent church peopled by innumerable visitants from the spirit land.

A dim light which caused weird shadows to fall across the old building, came in through the small windows, while the light of my lantern made other shadows more dark, more forbidding.

I wended my way towards the Communion, for even there Bill Tregargus's words came back to me. "She was buried in the vault under the Communion," and there I should see all that remained of the only woman I had ever loved. I passed by the reading desk, then came to the pulpit, but I did not pause either to examine the curious carvings on its front or the ancient worm-eaten wood of which it was made.

At length I stood by the Communion, and a great fear laid hold of me. Tremblingly I looked around the church. All was silent save the night winds as they moaned in the tower at the western end. Then an owl hooted dismally, and soon after I heard three distinct raps at a window, as though a large bird had tried to break the glass and thus enter the church.

What did it mean? Deborah Teague had spoken of three raps as a sign of death. To whom could it apply? To me? I was not anxious to live, and yet I shuddered.

"Perhaps I shall die," I thought, "and see my darling again; but how can I meet her? Have I not a murderer's hand and a murderer's heart?"

I turned the light of my lantern upon the altar table, and on it I saw a cloth, on which was embroidered a cross, the symbol of the Saviour's death, and this made me remember how He had spoken to a dying thief. For a moment the thought gave me comfort, but in the next I recollected that the thief was penitent, and that I had no proof he was, as I was, a murderer. And I was not penitent; I still hated Wilfred. He had robbed me of earthly happiness here and Heaven hereafter. I hated him; and I was a murderer. After that the cross brought me no comfort.

Before going to the sexton's I had provided myself with a short pointed piece of iron. It was the only instrument I could procure with which to open the vault without attracting suspicion.

I quickly found the burial place of the Mortons. A tablet was on the wall, on which were written these words:—

"Under this stone, and waiting for a joyful resurrection, lie buried all the mortal remains of

JOHN MORTON,

OF MORTON HALL,

Who lived and died in the fear of the Lord. He was hated by none, and beloved by all."

Then followed a eulogy of his life and works, his gifts to the church, his kindness to the poor, together with many other things.

I looked beneath the tablet on the floor of the Communion, and saw that a large slab had been lately moved. No doubt, then, that Ruth had been buried in the family vault.

With trembling hands I placed my piece of iron beneath the joints of the floor, and with but little difficulty lifted it up; then I slipped my hands beneath the stone and lifted it still higher.

Air, stifling, unwholesome, came from underneath, and again I felt like leaving my purpose unfulfilled; but a stronger impulse urged me to proceed, and I moved the stone still farther. A minute later I had turned it back, and Ruth's grave was opened.

For a minute my heart ceased to beat; then it seemed as though my bosom were not large enough to contain it. Not that I feared the dead, at any rate not Ruth. Had I not been guilty of that awful deed the night before I do not think I should have been so moved; but with murder on my heart, to look on the face of my beloved was terrible. And yet I felt I could never rest until I had seen her.

I stared into the vault.

At one end were steps by which I could descend. At the other was a dark object.

My blood seemed to freeze in my veins, yet I went down the steps, slowly and steadily, until I stood in the abode of the dead.

Never shall I forget how I felt. Never while consciousness remains will the awful sensations that possessed me be altogether taken away.

Around me was the dust of departed generations of the Morton family, while close to me was the face of one whom ten years before I had seen a bright and beautiful maiden. Ruth, whom I had ever loved, and who had died of love for me, was there!

Vague thoughts of how she would look floated in my brain, and in my delirium I fancied that her spirit had come back to watch me as I took one last look at her dead face.

The coffin was placed in a recess in the tomb. I knew it was hers, for it was new, and had been only lately placed there.

I thought I had heard a sound above. I listened for a second, but could hear nothing save the wild beatings of my almost breaking heart. Then I placed my hand on the coffin.

It was fastened with what looked like golden clasps, large and strong, which pressed closely on the grey oak of which the coffin was made. Mechanically I moved the clasps, and then lifted my lantern nearer.

Again I listened, but all was silent. If the spirits of the dead were there they made no sound.

I lifted the coffin lid.

For a second I held it in my hand, then I turned it back.

Even then I could not bear to look in and see my darling's dead face, and stood trying to gather together sufficient courage.

I let the light fall upon the head of the coffin and looked.

Yes, it was Ruth, little altered from when I had seen her last, except that she looked thin and pale, oh! so pale.

She was not like anyone dead; in spite of her stony stillness, there was the shadow of colour upon her thin cheeks.

I looked at her like one entranced, then glanced fearfully around the vault, which was only faintly lit by the flickering candle burning in my lantern.

A longing came over me to get away, but I felt I dare not, I must remain longer with Ruth. I felt that she was glad I was there, and would not have me leave her so soon.

Yet she lay like a beautiful piece of marble. Her hands were folded on her breast, and she looked peaceful, so peaceful.

How I loved her, and how I longed for one word, one movement whereby I could know she loved me!

I do not know how long I stayed there. I lost all thought of time as I stood gazing at the face of my darling. Everything like fear passed, for in spirit I was with her.

I kissed her cold lips, as if to bid her good-bye, then seeing the candle in my lantern had burnt low, I began to think in a dazed kind of way that I must go. But it was so hard, so terrible! If I could only have some memento to take, something I might aways keep until I, too, should be laid under the cold sod!

What was that?

Flashing from her finger that lay on her heart I saw a ring. Dare I take it?

At first I shuddered at the thought. Robbing the dead seemed sacrilege, yet it did not seem like robbery. And was I not sure that she would wish me to take it? It might comfort me during the little time I had to live, for I could carry it everywhere with me.

I took her hand in mine.

Slowly I began to remove the ornament. It was a thick gold circle, and three large diamonds had been inlaid and flashed brightly.

It was rather hard to pass over the joint, but I was determined to possess it. Then I stopped as if stunned, and trembled like an aspen leaf.

I felt the hand move!

Yet I did not drop it. I could not, it seemed welded to mine.

Was it the judgment of God for seeking to rob the dead? I looked at her face, as if expecting a curse, and my heart seemed to come into my mouth.

Her eyelids began to quiver, her mouth to twitch,[*] and her whole body to give signs of life.

To say that I was awed would be but to hint at my feelings. At first I thought it was her ghost rising to denounce me, but soon I saw it was physical life, and then I thought God was working a miracle.

Almost unconsciously I went on rubbing her hands, while evidence of returning life became plainer and plainer.

Then I trembled lest the shock of seeing me there in that silent vault should kill her, or do her serious injury, and yet I longed to hear her speak, I longed for expressions of her love.

Still more plainly did life appear, until I saw her open her eyes. They were dull and had a blank expression, but by and by they became brighter. She looked around the vault as if in wonder, then her eyes rested on the lantern, and again she turned them towards me. For a minute she gazed, then with a cry she sat upright.



* Although the reader may regard the foregoing as wild and impossible, I can vouch for the truth of a story identical in many points with that told by Roger Trewinion. The wife of a nobleman of the West of England, whose name is well-known in Cornwall, was supposed to be dead, and was buried in the family vault situated in the old parish church. A valuable ring which was on her finger when she died was allowed to remain, and it was known by the servants and villagers that this ornament was in the tomb with her. The sexton determined to get it, and accordingly at midnight made his way to the church. In seeking to remove the ring he caused the latent life to assert itself, and seeing the lady move he ran out of the church, leaving the lantern behind him. She became conscious, took the sexton's lantern, and found her way back to the hall. She lived long enough to become the mother of a son, who afterwards became the heir of his father's estates.—Note by the EDITOR.



CHAPTER XXII

THE VOICE OF THE DEAD

Oh, one more kiss from your lily-white lips, One kiss is all I crave; Oh, one more kiss from your lily-white lips And return back to your grave. —Old Cornish Song.

Long years have passed since the events I am now narrating, yet my flesh creeps as I write. Imagine, if you can, the circumstances that surrounded me; think of the position in which I was placed. I had learnt amidst anguish and despair that the woman I loved, and who I thought had called me home, was dead, and I had determined to visit her grave and to see her dead face. Then when I had found my way to her tomb, and uncovered her resting-place, I had seen the one whom I had thought dead move, and give other signs of life. When she sat up in her coffin my blood froze in my veins.

Was it my Ruth who lived? Was her death only fancied after all? Now I saw a purpose in all my blind wanderings! Now I understood the cry which I had heard sweeping across the weary waste of waters, "Come home and save me, Roger!" Now I saw meaning in my mad impulse to come to Morton Hall, even when the fires of hell burnt in my soul! Now I knew why I had heard the strange words, "Visit her tomb!"

Merciful Heaven, from what had I saved her? Suppose she had regained consciousness while within the narrow confines of that narrow coffin! No air, no room, no light! The horror of the thought is enough to drive one mad; what then must the reality be?

This flashed through my mind in a moment, but I did not stay to think of it. How could I? The dread "might be" had not become a reality, and my Ruth—the Ruth that I had been mourning as dead, Ruth for whom my heart had been weeping tears of blood—was alive; she was sitting up in her coffin, she uttered a cry. Ruth was not lost for ever.

And still I did not know what to do; still I could not act or speak! My mind was confused, my head was dizzy; the very vault in which I stood seemed to whirl around.

For a second we gazed into each other eyes; she with a fearful, yet curious, wondering look, I with a look of madness, at once of joy, of fear, of dread!

Then she spoke, slowly, tremblingly, but still clearly, and I remembered the voice.

"What is this? Where am I? Is this Heaven?"

"All is well!" I whispered.

"It must be," she said, in a dazed kind of way. "I am so rested, so free from pain, and then your voice is so familiar. Where am I, and who are you?"

"Think," I said; "but do not be afraid; remember where you were last, and then know that all is well."

"All is well," she repeated slowly, as if trying to impress the thought on her half-awakened mind, "I am so glad."

"You are safe here," I went on, "no one shall harm you in any way. Do not be afraid whatever you may see."

She looked around the vault, then a look of horror came into her eyes as she saw where she sat.

"I am in a coffin!" she gasped. "Am I dead?"

"No," I said, "it is all a mistake; but all is well. Think, try and remember the past."

I saw that she made a mental effort, and then slowly light came into her eyes.

"I was very ill," she said, "and so weak and weary. I wanted to die because—because—what was it? Oh, I remember now—because I was to wed—Wilfred, and I did not love him, and my wedding robe was made, and the wedding day was fixed, and I gave up hope that he was ever coming home."

My heart began to beat with joy. Life and light came back to my heart. That "he" meant me—Roger.

"And then?" I said, almost unconsciously.

"And then I thought I was going to die, and I was glad, for I felt I could not endure being wedded to another."

She spoke as if dreaming, or as if she unknowingly expressed the thoughts that dimly passed through her mind.

"Well," I said, "you wanted to die; you grew weaker and weaker, until your friends thought you were dead, and you were brought here."

"Here! Here!" and she looked eagerly around. "Where am I? The light is so dim that I cannot see."

The candle was now very low in the socket of the lantern, and I scarcely knew what to do, but I tried to assure her that all was well.

"You need not be afraid," I said, "It was all a mistake. You were thought to be dead, and you were brought to the grave of your family."

"The grave, the family vault," she said, "in the church, under the Communion! But how came you here, and who are you?"

The time had come for me to tell her, and I trembled lest I should say a mistaken word, or arouse a harmful feeling. I felt that the slightest thing might unhinge her delicately-balanced mind, and I scarcely knew what to say.

"Can't you think who I am?" I said at length. "You called me home when I was away on the distant seas. I heard you say 'Roger, come home,' and I came, for I knew that you needed me."

"Roger! Roger!" she said; "what! my Roger?"

The words came out apparently unthinkingly. She did not know what she was saying.

"Yes, Roger," I said, "your Roger. I came back to find you, I heard you were dead, and it drove me nearly mad. I felt I must come and see your dead face, so I came here and found you, not dead, but only asleep, and I—I awoke you."

I watched her face as I spoke, still holding her hand in mine. Slowly she realised things as they were; slowly one fact after another passed through her mind, until she saw clearly.

At first there was an expression of horror on her face, then she looked eagerly at me and I saw tenderness—love in her eyes.

I dropped her hand and opened my arms. She did not hesitate a moment, but struggled to come to me, so I took her in my arms and pressed her to my heart!

Oh, how she clung to me, while I held her fast, my heart trembling for joy as I heard her whisper, "My Roger come home to me!" Then I realised how cold she was, and saw too, that she was wrapped only in a shroud.

"You are cold, Ruth," I said.

"So cold, Roger; but I do not mind now!"

The light in the lantern became dimmer, and I had no more candle. I thought of the candles in the church, and wondered how I could get at them.

"Ruth," I said, "could you bear to stay here while I go into the church for another light? Our candle is nearly out."

"No, Roger," she said, clinging to me, "I could not bear for you to leave me," and she clung to me more closely.

I lifted her out of her narrow bed and prepared to carry her. I had not much difficulty in this. She was very light, very thin.

Taking the lantern in my hand I bore her away from her dread resting-place. With what a sense of relief I lifted my darling through the narrow entrance! With what gladness I realised that she was not dead! When I went down my heart was cold and heavy as lead; now it was warm; it beat with new life. I went down in what seemed to be the darkness of death; I came out into the light of Heaven!

I seized a candle which stood on the Communion table and lit it from the one in my lantern which had almost gone out.

Then I tried to take off my coat to wrap her in, but this she would not allow me to do. She was still unselfish Ruth, suffering herself rather than let another suffer. So I took the cloth that lay on the table, the doth which was marked with a cross. I wrapped her in that, and surely I committed no sacrilege in doing so. It was large and warm, and entirely covered her, all but her white feet that peeped out from under her shroud.

I took another look at her, a longing, loving look. Her old beauty was coming back; she was losing all fear as she realised my presence.

"Ruth," I said, "it is your Roger who asks you, may I kiss you?"

A faint smile came into her face, something like the smile I had seen in the olden days.

"Dare you kiss me in my shroud, Roger?" she said.

Even then she could not repress the quaint, quiet humour I had loved years before.

Dare I! I covered her face with kisses, and as I did so I forgot everything, forgot all I had done, forgot where I was. I only knew that I held Ruth in my arms, and that her lips met mine!

Then, in spite of her protests, I took off my coat and wrapped it around her little feet.

"What are you going to do with me, Roger?" she said.

"I am going to carry you home," I said.

"Home! Home where?"

"Home to Morton Hall."

"Can you?" she said. "It is a long way.

"Can I?" I said with a laugh.

She looked at me as though she gloried in my strength, and was glad she could trust herself to me.

I carried her down the silent church; but no longer did my lantern throw weird shadows on the floor; no longer were the pews filled with forbidding spectres. For now the church was full of bright rejoicing angels.

When I came to the church door, and saw the heavy clanging keys, I wondered what I was to do with them.

The old sexton would lose his senses if he were to see the precious burden I bore. I locked the great door and took her out into the silent night.

I no longer needed the lantern; the light of the moon was clear and bright. It was indeed a relief. To me, after being immured in the church, the clear, pure air was welcome beyond expression. And if it was welcome to me, it was a thousand times more so to Ruth. I do not think she fully realised from what she had escaped until now. She gave a cry of gladness, such as a bird gives when freed from a cage. Behind her were suspense, cruelty, doubt, despair, death and the grave; before her—ah, what?

I bore her on, feeling no weariness, no pain, no sorrow. The gravestones told me no sad stories, the shadows of the trees were only beautiful pictures painted on the green grass.

When I came to the churchyard gate I saw the old sexton.

"What have 'ee got there?" he gasped.



"Take your keys and lantern," I said.

He took them both mechanically, and then looked at Ruth awestruck.

"Where did 'ee take et from?" he said, in a hoarse whisper.

"Her grave," I said.

He took a look at Ruth's face, which was clearly to be seen in the moonlight, and immediately recognised it.

"Great Loard!" he cried, "'tes our dead lady's face, 'tes our dead lady, and the devil have got her."

With a cry which showed how real were both his fear and belief, he rushed away from us.

I did not stop him: I did not think it necessary; soon the truth must come out, and then all his fears would be allayed.

Never shall I forget the journey from the village church to the home of the Mortons. My joy was so great that I did not feel Ruth's weight at all, and when she asked me anxiously, yet lovingly, if she wearied me, I only pressed her more closely to my heart, while she only nestled more contentedly. And small wonder? Had I not brought her back from the dead, and had she not found herself free from the terrible chain that bound her, free to speak to the man she loved?

Nearer and nearer we came to her home, the home which all thought she had left for ever. We came within a few yards of the front entrance, when a great dog came bounding up with a furious growl. I wondered how I should get rid of him; but Ruth spoke only one word, and he did not know how to express his joy; he walked by our side and licked the shroud she wore.

I seized the great bell, the bell I had rung that morning. Soon its clanging voice echoed through the hall, and soon after we heard the sound of voices, and footsteps echoed along the corridors.

A minute later we heard the bolts shoot back from the door at which we stood.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE SHADOW OF EVIL'S REWARD

Avenge not yourselves; but rather give place unto wrath, for it is written, Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord. . . .

Be not overcome of evil; but overcome evil with good. —The Epistle to the Romans.

When the door opened, I saw two men-servants, each bearing a candle, each looking as frightened as men could well look. One I recognised as the man to whom I had spoken in the morning, the other was evidently an under-servant.

Each stared at me and at the burden I bore in amazement. The one recognised me, the other evidently wondered who I was.

"May I ask what you want," said the old servant, "and why you arouse the house at this time of the night?"

"Show me a room where your mistress can rest," I said.

"My mistress?" said the man. "Great God, who are you?"

As he said this he took a look at Ruth's face, and then with a shriek of fear he rushed away from us.

"Come back," I said, "there is nothing of which you need be afraid."

"Afraid!" he gasped, "that is the dead body of my mistress."

"Your mistress is not dead," I said; "she is alive; show me a room where I may rest her, and she will speak to you."

Tremblingly he led the way to a room, where I laid her down, and then, at my command, he went away to get food and drink for her.

Soon after the other servants appeared. The shriek of horror given by the man when he caught sight of Ruth's face had aroused the household. Never shall I forget the expression on their faces as they looked at me as I sat by the side of the precious burden I had borne. Evidently the younger of the two servants had told them what I had said, for they were afraid to speak, and kept gazing at us fearfully, yet wonderingly.

Ruth was now becoming exhausted. After the scene in the church the journey home had been too much for her. Perhaps, also, the awfulness of her position together with dread memories, were too great for her to bear, so I bade the servants hurry in getting refreshments for her.

After taking some food she was, however, strong enough to sit up and to talk.

I will not describe what followed, nor how the servants crowded around her, weeping and trembling. Some I found were on the point of leaving, having received their discharge, while others wondered what their future would be. There had been every probability that the household would be broken up, and those who had grown grey-headed in the service of the family grieved much at the thought of leaving. And now, when all hope was gone, their mistress had come back, and their joy and their astonishment knew no bounds.

Presently we heard a tottering step outside the door, and in another second Mr. Inch appeared on the scene. For a minute I thought he would have fainted; but by a great effort he mastered himself, and came slowly to the place where Ruth sat, looking at her steadily in the face for, I should think, a minute. Then he heaved a great sigh, and said; "Great God, Thy ways are wonderful!"

I had been holding Ruth's hand all the while, and I felt her shudder as Mr. Inch approached. I was sure that she felt that he had not acted as her friend, and now, in spite of herself, she feared him, and unconsciously she came nearer to me.

I think the old man saw this, for a strange look passed over his face, and he did not take her hand, as I was sure he had intended to do. He turned towards me, however, and said:

"Tell me, Roger Trewinion—tell us all, how this great miracle has been accomplished."

A look of intelligence passed over the servants' faces as my name was mentioned. Apparently, it was well known to them, and all listened eagerly for my answer.

Then I told how, in leaving the house that morning, I had heard the voice telling me to visit her tomb, and had determined to do so. I will not describe the excitement and wonder of those who heard my experiences. It would take a pen far more able than mine to convey to the minds of my readers the terrible interest that was taken.

Perhaps I ought not to have told the story before the servants; but we were too excited to know what was right and seemly. Indeed, so overwrought were we that Ruth had not been divested of her strange garments, and soon after I had finished my narrative I felt how thoughtless I had been, and how neglectful of her comforts.

When Ruth was taken to her room, however, with two of the maids to attend her, the excitement began to pass away, and the servants, with the exception of the old man whom I had seen at my first visit, returned to their rooms.

For a few minutes Mr. Inch and I were left alone; he still trembled with fear and wonder, perhaps also because of a troubled conscience, I with a strange joy surging in my heart, thinking only of the blissful present.

"This will cause much talk, and necessitate much investigation," said the old steward.

"I suppose so," said I, absently.

"A great lawsuit would have come on," he said. "Two parties were claiming the property. Lawyers are preparing the case on either side, and the matter has already become public."

"That will all come to an end now," I said.

"I suppose so; but it will be the wonder of the countryside. I wonder what Wilfred will say?"

I had forgotten Wilfred. The feelings aroused by seeing Ruth alive had for the time quieted all my bitter memories of my struggle with Wilfred, together with its awful ending.

"I wonder what Wilfred will say!"

The words struck terror into my soul. Wilfred, unless now discovered, was lying bruised, battered, dead, on the great rocks beneath the cliffs. Perhaps the fishes might know of his presence, and the great sad sea would sweep remorselessly over his lifeless body; but Wilfred would never know of what had been done.

My heaven of joyful thoughts was gone now. The hell of bitter memories, the hell of a murderer possessed me.

The old man's remark was left unanswered. It had dashed me down into a great gulf; it had led me to make what was to me a terrible resolve.

A little while later Ruth came back to the room again. The servants had tried to persuade her to retire; but she declared that she could not sleep and she wished to come to me.

She was Ruth again now, Ruth as I had seen her last. She had got rid of her terrible garments, and except that she looked very pale, and was a little older, I saw no difference in her. But there was a difference. Love was shining out of her eyes, and she did not hide from me the fact that I was the king of her heart.

But this gave me no joy now, no heaven. The ghastly form of my brother Wilfred stood between us. I took her hand as she came in, and tried to soothe her, for I felt that she was still trembling, that she felt safe with no one but me. Then the old steward rose up and left us, and the servants likewise retired from the room. They saw our relations to each other, and although it was night we were left in the room together.

Again for a time I banished my dark thoughts, for a time I allowed love, rather than duty, to fill my world, and I yielded to the gentle witchery of her presence. I had made up my mind to tell her all; but I postponed it for a while. "Time enough yet," I said; "let me have some happiness before eternal night sets in."

How gentle, how kind, how loving she was! Her every word told of the love she bore me, and had borne me for long years, every word told me how she believed in my goodness and purity.

What we talked of, I may not recount. I only know that for a few short minutes we lived in the blissful present. The thought of her great love was more powerful than the dread remorse which had possessed me a little while before.

And was it any wonder? Think, if you can, how I must have felt! Ten long years before I had left her, thinking she loved another, and all those years I had roamed the world in misery and hopeless despair. I had come back at the summons of a voice which I had heard, or thought I had heard, sweeping across the wide seas, and when I had arrived at the place where I had hoped to see her I had heard she was dead. Then, after grief that amounted to madness, I had discovered her alive, and had found that she loved me. More than that, she was with me, we were alone, and I felt her hands in mine. Was it to be wondered at then, that darkness should, for the time, be driven away?