Swiftly the time passed, sweetly her gentle voice sounded as she told me how happy, how safe, how contented she was, and, in spite of her terrible experience, how little weakness she felt; and then she asked me to relate to her my adventure since the night on which I left the Trewinion Manor.

Again I remembered what I had done, again the agonies of remorse, which had been awakened by memory, began to eat into my soul. But I would tell her all. I would faithfully relate the tale of the years that had passed, I would faithfully tell her what I had done.

And so I cast my mind back and told her what I have written in these pages. How I had gone away to sea, and how, for years, I had sailed in every clime, and with men of different nationalities. I recounted how I had been taken by the pirates, and how for two years I had been with them. I kept back nothing from her. I told her of many wild deeds that I had done, and of the wild life I had led. By and by I came to the night on which I had such a strange dream, or else had seen such a strange vision, and here I hesitated. It seemed so wonderful, and withal so unreal. I told it her, however, while she listened with wonder-lit eyes.

"Yes, Roger," she said, "it all happened just as you saw it."

"And did you cry out, Ruth. Did you say, 'Roger is here?'"

"I did. I felt you were there, although I could not see you."

"And then, Ruth; what did you do?"

"I went out into the night. I knew your habit of going out on to the headland when you desired to be alone, and I felt I must go somewhere where you had been."

"Yes, Ruth, and afterwards?"

"I went out and wandered for a long time, until I felt my heart was breaking. I seemed all alone in the world, with no one to help me, and I cried out in anguish, 'Roger, come home.'"

"And I heard you, Ruth. After I had seen you in my dream, or whatever it was, I went on deck, and while there I heard your cry, and I answered back. Did you not hear me?"

"No, Roger, I heard nothing in answer to my cry, save a kind of wail, which, as it mingled with the splash of the waves seemed to be only a mocking echo of my words."

"And yet your words called me home."

"Thank God—and then?"

I told her how I had come home, and had met with the fisherman who had informed me of her death, and how she had died because of Wilfred and Mr. Inch, who had goaded her to do what was death to her.

"And what followed, Roger?" she said, anxiously, as I hesitated a minute.

"I hated Wilfred as I never hated man before. I felt that he was deserving of the worst that could befall any man, and I determined to be revenged."

Again I hesitated, and again she told me to go on.

Should I tell her? Should I with a few words blacken her life, should I destroy her every hope? Yet the truth must out. It always does, and I should but put off the evil day by refraining from telling her. Yet it was terribly hard, the man must have a steady hand who writes his own death-warrant without shaking.

She saw, I think, how terrible was the ordeal, for she nestled closer to me and spoke gently.

"Dear Roger," she said, "it must have nearly driven you mad to meet him."

I think this gave me strength, for I clenched my hands nervously, and began to tell her of our meeting and of the darkest deed that ever blighted my life, wondering in my heart what she would say and do when she knew what I had done.



CHAPTER XXIV

CAIN

And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand. . . . A fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.

And Cain said to the Lord, My punishment is greater than I can bear.—The Book of Genesis.

At last, I had told her. The dread truth which I had trembled for her to know was made known. Word by word, sentence by sentence, often hesitating, often stammering, I related our meeting, the awful struggle on the cliff with its terrible ending.

Then I felt her tremble.

"And Wilfred is dead?" she gasped.

"Dead," I repeated.

"And you killed him?"

"I—I killed him."

"Then you are a—a——"

"Yes, I am. My God, I am a murderer!"

I felt her shrink from me, I saw the blood recede from her face, and in another second she lay motionless in my arms.

I laid her gently down in an old settle, and ran into the hall shouting for help. The two women servants who had attended upon lier quickly appeared.

"Your mistress!" I gasped. "Make haste."

They hurried to the room and found Ruth lying as one dead.

I could not stay there while they tried to restore her. I felt I had killed her, and my head whirled so that I could scarcely stand. Until then I did not know what a man could bear and still live. No tongue or pen can describe what I suffered. I had been in hell the night before; it was worse now. Then only the death of the man whom I had hated pressed on my conscience, now, I feared, I had by the same deed killed my darling, whom only a few hours before, I had taken from a living grave.

Presently I heard the sound of horses' hoofs on the gravel outside the house, and in another minute the village doctor entered. Unknown to me, Mr. Inch had sent for him, thinking Ruth might need his advice. Evidently, too, the servant who had been to fetch him had told him of the strange event that had happened, for when he saw me he exclaimed:

"Great heavens, you did it, did you? Well, its the most wonderful thing that ever happened."

I think he would have stayed a few minutes with me had I allowed him, but I hurried him quickly to the room where Ruth was, while I stayed at the door and listened.

At length I heard a woman's voice say, "She's coming to," and a great burden rolled away from my heart. At all events, Ruth's death would not lie at my door, and so far my mind was at rest. By and by I heard more whispering, and then I heard Ruth speak. Was she not asking for me? I thought so; certainly, I heard my own name.

I entered the room, and found Ruth sitting up, while the doctor was walking excitedly round the room, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.

She looked up and our eyes met. Then I knew that a great gulf was between us, as great as the gulf that lies between Heaven and hell. She could not come to me, I could not go to her. We were divided, not by distance, but by my guilt. We were in the same room, and yet, now that she knew what I had done we could not be as we were.

In spite of this, however, I made a step towards Ruth as if to take her hand, but I saw as I came nearer a look of terror came into her eyes, and she shrunk from me with a cry of pain. Now I knew my doom was sealed, and without a word I turned and walked away from her. I loved her still; God only knows how; but I could not stay with her when my presence caused her so much pain. Nay, I felt that if my love were worthy the name, she must never see me again. Would she not feel that she had loved a man whose hands were stained by his brother's blood?

I did not even say "good-bye." I do not think I could have done so, for weights seemed to hang upon my lips. Yet it was terribly hard to go. We had been separated for more than ten long years, and then we had met, as perhaps lovers never met before, met for a few brief hours only to be again divided.

I stood alone in the hall, as if waiting for some voice to recall me, but I heard none, so I placed my hat upon my head to go out alone. As I walked towards the door I thought of the sweet hours we had spent together, and of the Heaven of which my sin had deprived me. But nothing could undo the past. I must reap the harvest of my sin. Before I had gone far, however, Mr. Inch stepped out of one of the rooms and met me.

"Are you going out," he said in astonishment.

"Yes."

"But why? Surely there is no reason."

"Yes there is."

"But you are not going far? You will soon return?"

"I do not know how far I shall go; but I shall never return."

He looked at me in wonder; then a look of intelligence came into his face as though he had guessed the reason of my departure.

"Perhaps you do not know Miss Morton's feelings toward you," he said, with a smile. "This wonderful night has doubtless made us all half-mad; but don't forget what it was that caused her illness and, as we thought, her death."

"I know all," I said, "but I must go."

I placed my hand on the door handle when a thought struck me, and I turned to him again.

"But remember for all that," I said, "that Miss Morton is not without a friend. Remember that I know how false have been your dealings with her, and now, if she be defrauded of one penny in the future, or if you in any way seek to take advantage of her, you shall be thrown into a felon's cell. Your past shall only be forgiven on the condition that your future be blameless."

"Roger Trewinion!" he cried, "I know it may sound cowardly to shift a sin upon another's shoulders, but your brother is guilty of all the real wrong. I was only a weak tool in his hands. But for the future, so help me God, I will serve my mistress faithfully."

"See that you do," I said, and then, leaving him half dazed, I went out of the house.

Thus I was alone again, alone in the night! My sin had driven me away, and now I was cast upon the world again, with no one to help me, no one to love me. For I could not for a minute think that Ruth could love me now that she knew what I was, and of what I had been guilty.

Down the long avenue I tramped, thinking all the time of what might have been, and hating myself for what I had done. For a time I went heedlessly, and then I began to decide which course I should take.

I have heard it said that murderers are always possessed by the ghastly desire to look on the face of their victim, to visit the scenes which are associated with the deed that cursed them for ever. Whether this be true or not I cannot say, but I had not gone far, before I was filled with the dread longing to go back to the spot where Wilfred and I had struggled, and yielding to it I started to retrace the weary steps which I had trodden only a few hours before.

After walking two or three miles in a vague, half conscious sort of way, I felt a great desire to sleep, and seeing by the light of the moon a haystack in a field close by, I clambered over the hedge and walked, towards it. I found it to be only half-built; evidently, there was a late crop of hay being carried, and most likely the stack would be finished the next day. A pile of hay was lying on one side, waiting to be thrown on the stack, and on this I threw myself, and quickly fell asleep.

When I awoke it was broad daylight, and from the sound of voices near me, the haymakers were evidently at work. I rose up from my resting-place, and as I did so, those who had been partaking of croust[1] gazed at me in astonishment.

I was not dressed like an ordinary tramp, however, and so was treated civilly.

"Will you tell me what time it is," I said, after some remarks had been passed.

"Nearly leben o'clock in the vorenoon," said one of the men. "'Ave 'ee bin slaipin' here oal night?"

I nodded.

"Then you must be awful ungry."

"Yes," I said, "have you anything to eat?"

For reply, a basket containing a good deal of wholesome food was placed before me. I ate heartily, for I was hungry, and after making a good meal prepared to go on.

The men did not ask me who I was, or where I was going, but looked smilingly on the few coins I gave them, and wished me a good journey.

I went on in a dazed way the whole of the day, stopping only once for refreshment at a little wayside alehouse. I inquired of the landlord if he had heard any news, but he said, No, nothing had happened except that his sister-in-law had got another, her eleventh baby. As I did not regard this of much importance, I trudged on again as soon as I had finished my meal. That I might be going in the teeth of danger did not occur to me; in fact, I never troubled about any punishment for my deed, except the terrible punishment of my conscience.

About eight o'clock in the evening, I entered the parish of Trewinion, and soon, as if drawn by a magnet, I found my way to the place where Wilfred and I had met.

How vividly everything came back to me, and yet I seemed to have lived long years since we met. Only two days had elapsed; and I had seemed to have grown old in that time. In my excited imagination I pictured him coming towards me again; but soon my illusions were dispelled.

I looked up towards my old home, wondering if I should see any signs of what had happened, but the house was quiet, and, except for a few lights that flashed from the windows, I saw no signs of life. The prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" still lifted themselves in the air, but no light was there; evidently Betsey Fraddam was not visiting her old haunt that night.

Again I stood on the place on which we had wrestled, again I looked from the dizzy heights on the rocks below, as if trying to see Wilfred, but nothing was visible. The rocks told no stories; the moaning sea did not recount what had become of my brother's body.

Had he been found, I wondered? It could scarcely be otherwise. Fisherman were constantly tramping along the beach, and when he was missed search would certainly be made. Still it might not have so happened; I would go down to the beach to see. The tide was ebbing out, and I could easily walk along the sands at the foot of the cliffs.

I went to the place where a rough track had been made, and soon got on the beach. It was a glorious night; the sea shone beneath the silvery light of the moon, and had I any melody in my heart the splash of the water on the beach must have made music to me; but there was nothing but remorse and despair within me, thus, what would have otherwise have been a song of gladness was only a wail of misery.

When I came to the place beneath the point where we had wrestled, I looked for a sign of Wilfred's body, but there was nothing to be seen, nor was there any marks on the sand, not even a footmark was visible. This was not altogether strange, for the tide would have washed away any such marks, and yet I wondered at none being visible when such a terrible tragedy had taken place.

Near here was a cave, and, scarcely knowing what I was doing, I entered it. I spoke, but was frightened by the echo of my own voice. I dared not stay there long. Every sound was magnified so, and as the waves broke upon the shore their echo thundered around the walls of my grim resting-place, until it seemed filled with thousands of dark spirits of the dead.

I went out again into the night, and wandered on until I came to the witches' cave. I seemed drawn, as if by a charm, and for a minute I had a strong desire to go where I had gone long years before, when Deborah Teague tried to make me promise ever to be her friend; but fancying I heard sounds within the dark confines of the cavern, I hurried away filled with superstitious fears.

Then a new feeling possessed me. I must get away from England and never return. There was no hope; no peace for me here. Wilfred was dead—destroyed by my hand, and Ruth loathed me. I would go away on the wild seas again, and perhaps, although I could never know happiness, I might find forgetfulness. Here I should be ever haunted by fears; here, too, I was in danger of the law, once away I should be safe.

The thought brought relief, it gave me something to do. It was an escape valve for my feelings, and without waiting a second I started on the road to Falmouth.

A few days later I was sailing down the Bay of Biscay, bound for Barcelona, where I hoped I might find Salambo, who had been captain of the pirate ship.



[1] "Croust" is a corruption of the word "carouse." This designates a meal which harvesters and haymakers have between ordinary meals on account of specially hard work.—EDITOR.



CHAPTER XXV

THE VOICE OF A FRIEND

The journey to Barcelona was uneventful, at any rate for me. During the whole time I lived in a kind of hideous dream. I was ever thinking of what I had seen and done during the little time I had been in England, but nothing was real save a horrible weight that oppressed me. I know that the captain sought to be friendly, while some of the passengers seemed to be interested in the sad, silent man who ever sought to be alone, but I paid little heed to their overtures. How could I when two ghastly passions, hatred and remorse, possessed me?

Sometimes I caught myself thinking of what Ruth had told me during those two or three sweet hours we were together. I remember asking her why she had seemed to love Wilfred the better, and why, when she saw how I loved her, she did not in some way let me know that she cared for me. And blushingly she told me that, besides the reports about my boasting that she would have to marry me, which she only half believed, she was afraid I would think her forward and immodest. This set me thinking how it had all ended. How through misunderstandings our lives had been ruined, until life seemed a tragedy, and Providence only a dream. But no relief came to me, the burdens which I had myself made still crushed me to the earth, and I could see no brightness in the future.

We reached Barcelona at length, and I set out to find Salambo. I knew that if all had gone well with him I should have little difficulty in this. He had given me instructions which were unmistakable as to his whereabouts, so I started at once for the house at which he told me to inquire.

I found that this house was occupied by his own parents, and no welcome could be warmer than mine when I told them my name.

I asked them if their son was well, and I quickly found that he was well and happy, that he had found Inez, that they had been wedded, and were living not far away from them.

Quickly I found my way thither, and soon Salambo and I stood face to face. Only one look at him was enough to convince me that his parents had told me the truth.

"All is well with you, Salambo?" I said.

"Ah, all is well," he cried, "the saints have been good to me. You must see my Inez, she will be here directly."

This gave me a little hope. Salambo had committed a sin similar to mine, and yet he was happy. He had become wedded to the woman he loved, in spite of the terrible past. Might there then be some chance for me? Not that I expected to wed Ruth, I gave up all thoughts of seeing her again; but I might find rest from the terrible pangs which now made life almost unbearable. I resolved before the day was over to have a long talk with my old captain, and, if possible, to seek the same means to obtain ease and happiness.

Presently his wife came into the room. They had only been wedded a short time, and she blushed at being introduced as his wife; but I saw, in spite of everything, that she was happy. Not that she looked free from pain. There was a look in her great black eyes which told me that she had suffered terribly in the past, and the silver streaks in her raven black hair told the same story.

She was very beautiful, and I did not wonder that Salambo loved her. From the way her eyes rested on him I knew that he reigned king of her heart.

We sat together during the evening, sometimes talking and sometimes listening to Inez—for such Salambo would have me call her—as she sung some sweet Spanish love songs, until the time came for her to retire, and then we two men, who had passed through many strange scenes, were left together.

"You are very happy," I said, when she had left the room.

"Happy as man can be," he replied. "My Inez through all these long years was faithful to me, and has ever been as pure as an angel. And you, Tretheway, or rather, Trewinion, how did you find affairs at home? not well, I fear."

I told him, just as I have written it in these pages, all that had happened since I left him. When I described my meeting with Bill Tregargus, and how I had heard that Ruth had died of a broken heart, driven to death by Wilfred, I saw the tears start to Salambo's eyes, and he eagerly asked what followed next. Then I told him of my meeting with Wilfred, what we had said to each other, and how we had engaged in a deadly struggle on the cliff.

"And didn't you kill him?" he cried, clenching his hands nervously; "didn't you hurl the viper on the rocks beneath?"

"Would you?" I said.

"Would I?" he cried, "ay, and be proud that I had rid the world of such a one. The saints would sanction such a deed."

I told him what had happened, at which he gave a great sigh as if of relief, after which a scornful smile played around his mouth as I told him of the terrible sufferings I had endured.

He did not speak a word during the recital of the visit to Ruth's home, but gave a start as I told him of my determination to visit her grave. Then he sat like one entranced as I described my entrance into the church, and related how I lifted back the stone from the vault. Breathlessly he sat while I narrated how I had removed the clasps from the coffin and looked on the still face of my darling; and then leapt like a madman from his chair as I told how I felt her hand move. After that, while I related the remainder of my story, he walked up and down the room excitedly, sometimes laughing and again giving a cry of gladness, until I came to that part where I told Ruth of my sins, whereupon he sat down again, still staring at me wildly.

"And you left her because of that?" he said in astonishment, when I had finished.

"I could do no other," I replied.

"Ah, but you could," he cried.

"How?" I asked.

"Why, that action of hers did not express her aversion of you, or if it did it could be easily overcome. You should have remained with her and she would soon have forgiven you."

"How could she when I could not forgive myself? Besides, if I had stayed in England I should have been arrested as a murderer, and that would have brought her worse sorrow still."

"That need not have been," he replied. "You could have brought her here, ay, and she would have gladly come, too."

I dismissed this suggestion, for I knew it was not possible.

For three weeks I remained with Salambo, then I felt that I could stay in Barcelona no longer, and must be on the move. Bitter memories still urged me to go somewhere, it mattered not where, in search of peace.

I told Salambo this, and he did his best to persuade me to stay with him, Inez adding her entreaties to his; but I felt I could not. Something, I knew not what, impelled me to leave them, so I got a berth on board a vessel, and went away again to follow the calling I had followed so many years.

We shook hands at the vessel's side; he to go back to his home and to happiness, and I to sail down the Mediterranean, still in search of rest and peace.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE VOICE OF GOD

Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. —The Ancient Mariner.

For a year I sailed the Mediterranean as a common seaman. I thought, or rather, I hoped, that by hard work and mixing in the society of men who had borne something of the brunt of life, besides visiting different towns at which we had to call along the coast, I should banish from my mind what became more and more terrible to me. It was a vain hope.

At the end of the year I despaired of finding happiness or peace again. "There is no such thing as forgiveness of sins!" I said, "and life is but a bitter mockery."

Ofttimes I wondered what had become of them at home. At night time especially I found myself thinking of Ruth and how she bore her terrible trials, and this led me to wonder what had become of Wilfred—had he ever been found, and, if so, had I been suspected of his death? Naturally, Bill Tregargus would think of me; but would he tell of his meeting with me? Then again, would Ruth feel it her duty to denounce me as a murderer, even though I had saved her from the most horrible fate imaginable? I knew how great was her sense of right; I knew, too, how much she had loved me, and I did not know what course she would take.

But never one ray of light, or hope, or comfort came in the thick darkness. Sometimes I was tempted to drown my troubles in drink, but I remembered my father's death, and refrained from doing so. Again I was tempted to seek forgetfulness in what was unworthy, but I remembered Ruth and was saved from that.

One day, about a year after I had left Salambo, the vessel in which I was sailing arrived at Smyrna, where we had to stay some days. Towards evening we were at liberty to go into the town, and I as usual strolled away alone. I had not gone far, when, lying on the side of the street, I saw a little crippled child who had apparently lost its way, or was in some trouble, for it was sobbing bitterly. I came close and lifted the child to its feet, and as I did so caught sight of its face. It was a little girl about five years old. She was by no means pretty, on the contrary, her face was almost evil, and for a moment I felt like passing on without taking further notice, when the prayer which had constantly been on my lips of late came to my mind. Hitherto I had received no answer to it, but now I felt that I loved this little crippled, ugly child.

In my constant visits to this coast I had picked up a smattering of Greek, so I spoke to the little maiden, and asked her where she lived, and without hesitation she told me. With a strange feeling in my heart I took her in my arms, and carried her in the direction of her home. As I walked on I met some of my crew, who laughed to see me with my strange burden, but I did not mind, nay, rather, I rejoiced because of what I was able to do. And all the while I continued to breathe this prayer, "Lord, help me to love."

We reached her home at length. A miserable place it was, and I found out that the little maiden had no father. He had died a few months before, but she had a brother and sister, both younger than herself, who lived with their mother. I did not stay long, although I felt a strange feeling of pity for the poor desolate ones, but I left some money with them and walked away alone.

As I did so I remembered the words I had heard often in our old church. "Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these My little ones, ye have done it unto Me." "Unto Me"—unto whom? I called to mind that they were the words of our Lord, and I asked myself what it meant. "Ye have done it unto Me." I repeated again and again. "How have I done it unto the Lord?"

One day while I had been in Barcelona, I had gone into a church, and had made confession of my sins to a priest. I remembered that Salambo was a Catholic, and I wondered if by making confession peace would come to my heart. The priest had told me that I must forgive every one, and do penance. But I was not able to forgive; as for penance, it seemed to me that no man could suffer worse penance than I had already suffered. Besides, I remembered that the priest was an enemy to the faith which I had been taught to believe, and so, perhaps, prejudice hindered him from helping me.

His words returned to me that night, however, and I asked myself for the hundredth time how it was possible for me to forgive Wilfred.

"He is dead, and I have killed him!" I said to myself, "and yet I cannot forgive him. I hate him still. He has robbed me of everything I hold dear. How can I forgive him? How can I find peace?" Then, as if in answer to my cry, came the words, "Come unto Me all ye that labour, and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

I do not know how, but the message of our Lord had a new meaning. I had heard it read a hundred times without ever thinking of its meaning, but now my heart throbbed with a new hope as I thought of it, "Come unto Me, Come unto Me, and I will give you rest." I kept repeating the passage.

"Lord, how can I come!" I cried, "and how can'st Thou hear my voice, the voice of a murderer?" and then, as if in answer to my cry, I seemed to hear the words, "Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out!"

That night for the first time for years I truly prayed. I prayed for light, for penitence, for forgiveness. Ay, I did come to Christ as a poor penitent wayward sinner, and even as I prayed, I caught myself thinking of my brother Wilfred. Without realising what I was doing, I remembered some of our boyish freaks. I thought of the happy days we had spent together and of the times we had knelt side by side and prayed; and then, I know not how, I realised that the hatred I had felt for Wilfred was gone. God had answered my prayer; I had learned to love, and to love my enemy.

Do not imagine that my burden was gone when I felt this. The memory of that terrible night became more vivid; but I was changed. I was not the man I was on the night when I madly wrestled with my brother. God had answered my prayer, and in doing so He had changed me.

I went back to the vessel a new man, with new feelings, new desires, new aspirations.

Night came on again, and still the vessel remained in the harbour at Smyrna. I sat on the deck alone, looking sometimes at the lights of the town, and again at the moonlit sea, still longing and praying for rest. Hour after hour I remained, until my heart grew so sad that I began to realise a misery as great almost as that I had known before the hatred I had for my brother was taken away.

"Oh, God, what shall I do?" I cried at length.

What was it that answered me? A voice from Heaven, or was it my own heart? All I know is that, sounding from I know not where, I heard the words, "Go home."

I felt I could not do this. I could not bear to go back to the scenes of my misery and sin. I should be ever seeing the dead face of my brother; there would be less rest for me there than here. Nor it would not be safe to do so. Perhaps even now the officers of the law were in— But I would not think of that.

All through the night I struggled and prayed, but ever in answer came the same dread message:

"Go home. Confess your sins."

At length strength came; at length the battle was fought. I made up my mind to go home, to give myself up to the officers of the law as my brother's murderer, and in a moment the burden was gone, and I was a free man.

I will not try to describe with what feverish anxiety I made my way back to England. I only know that some secret power seemed to be urging me back, and although I felt I was going to my death, I was glad when I landed in Falmouth harbour.

Once on my native soil my love for life became strong, and I had to fight my battle over again, or I should have had to do so if I had allowed myself time to think of it; but I stifled all thoughts of escape, and hurried on to my old home.

When I arrived within a mile or so of Trewinion, I paused, and began to ponder as to what course would be best. Should I go to the village constable, Philip Pinch? I knew him well as a lad, and had seen him when I had been home the year before. Or should I go straight to the old house on the cliff, and there, before my mother and servants, confess my sins.

The desire to see the old place was so strong that I determined to take the latter course. If I surrendered myself to Philip Pinch I should be taken at once to the lock-up, and thence to Bodmin gaol, while if I went home I should have one more sight of the old rooms which I had not seen for more than eleven years.

And so, with fast-beating heart and limbs trembling, I hurried onward. Feverishly I opened the postern door which admitted me into the grounds surrounding the house, and then, with a pain at my heart which no words can describe, I went up to the tower entrance and rang the bell.



CHAPTER XXVII

WITHIN THE OLD HOME

Eleven long years. Yes, it was that since I had last stood by the hall door. I had left it with a mad passion in my heart, with fierce grief raging within me; I returned saddened by sin, stained by crime, yet subdued and repentant and hopeful.

I could not help thinking of this as the bell clanged within the wide hall and echoed through the silent house, while memories of the old days flashed like lightning through my excited brain.

How singular it was, that I, the rightful owner, should stand ringing for admission like a stranger, and more singular still it seemed at the time, that I should for long years have been a wanderer away from the home of my fathers. And I stood there as a culprit. I was about to enter my home, only to come out a prisoner, a man accused of an awful crime. I was not sure if they would hang me, for his death was an accident. I did not hurl him from me; he slipped from my hands in spite of me, and yet murder was in my heart.

And thus I stood at my own door after eleven years of weary wandering, of lonely agony, of God-forsaken life, waiting excitedly, yet with a numbing pain at my heart, for the meeting with my mother. Ah, how should I look her in her face when she asked me for her son; how should I withstand her withering scorn, her terrible wrath? It was eventime, and the October winds had shorn much of the foliage from the trees, what remained being russet brown. The wind, too, as it played amongst the shivering leaves, told only a tale of decay and death.

At length I heard a step along the stone, corridor, an aged step, as though the one who came was weary and tired. All this I noted as I stood waiting while the door opened.

It was Peter Polperrow, who had been servant of Trewinion long before I was born. He looked at me with some astonishment, not unmixed with fear.

"Whom do you want to see, sir?" he asked.

"Mrs. Trewinion," I said.

He eyed me from head to foot, as if afraid that by admitting me, he should be doing wrong.

"I cannot admit a stranger," he said at length, "and I cannot let you see my mistress until I know who you are."

"Is she well?" I asked.

Again he seemed to wonder why I should ask such a question, and he answered sadly:

"Yes, considering all things; but what is that to you? Who are you and what do you want?"

I suppose I was not of a very prepossessing appearance. Like most of my race, I was large and strong, but my clothes were somewhat coarse, and my hands were brown and bare. Then my face was covered with a huge brown beard, and I was tanned by long years of exposure to sea air.

"Take me to some room where we can talk together, Peter Polperrow," I said.

"Peter Polperrow!" repeated the old man; "Who are you that you know my name?"

"I will tell you soon, Peter," I answered; "meanwhile lead me to Mr. Roger's old room. I will promise you no harm."

"Master Roger!" repeated the old man; "he has not been here for long years. He has gone away, God only knows where for that matter; nearly everybody believes him to be dead, and so I suppose he'll never return any more. But what do you know of Master Roger?"

"Lead me there and I'll tell you. I can tell you many things you would like to know."

He seemed to be staggered at my words.

"Do you know him?" he asked.

"Yes; I have seen him, and spoken with him."

"What! Seen Mr. Roger!"

"Yes."

New life seemed to come into his withered, aged form, a new interest came into his aged face.

"Seen him! When, oh when did you see Mr. Roger?"

"I have been with him to-day."

Still the simple old man did not catch my meaning. He evidently could not think that I was Roger.

"Where did you see him? Is he coming home?" he asked anxiously.

"Take me to his room and I'll tell you."

Without another word he led me to the room I used to call mine, I feeling a kind of shiver as I stood within the walls of the old house.

At length we were alone, but it was dark there; we could scarcely see each other's faces.

"Get a light, Peter," I said.

He hobbled away, and soon returned with a candle, revealing the furniture of the room just as I left it years before.

"No one has slept here since Mr. Roger left," said Peter tremulously. "I don't think that anyone dare that knew him, and certainly no one should with my consent."

"No one but me, Peter," I said.

"What do you mean? Who are you, and—and when did you see Mr. Roger? Tell me quickly."

"Peter," I said, "does nothing tell you? Hold the light to my face and then think. Have you never seen me before?"

The old man held the candle as I had desired him, and looked steadily at me, but there was no flash of recognition, no look of joyful surprise.

"I doan't remember; I never seed 'ee before."

He said this dreamily, and in so doing relapsed into the old Cornish vernacular.

"Look again, Peter. Remember how Wilfred and I used to wrestle on the headland. Remember how I frightened you by telling you that Deborah Teague had ill-wished you. Think of an awful storm, and that wreck on the 'Devil's Tooth,' and of the young lady I saved. Can't you recognise me now?"

Then old Peter knew me, and tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks.

"Oh, Master Roger," he said, "thank God you've come home; but to come like this, to come home as a——" But he could say no more, he sobbed like a child.

He had heard then. Somehow it must have been rumoured abroad that I had killed my brother, and so my presence was painful to him. Perhaps Bill Tregargus had told that he had seen me, and heard me vow vengeance. Perhaps Ruth had in a moment of madness revealed the terrible truth!

"Do you think my mother will see me, Peter?" I said to the faithful old servant as gently as I could.

"Oh, Mr. Roger," he sobbed, "you was so young, so beautiful, so happy in the old days, and I always looked forward to you becoming master, and servin' you till I died, and now to see you come home like this, a ringin' at the door, when you should have walked straight in, and to be asked questions by me when——when——"

"Never mind, Peter," I said, "it cannot be undone now, but still you won't mind doing something for me now, for the sake of old days."

"Do! I'll do anything," he cried.

"I'm going down to the library," I said; "will you go and tell my mother to come there? but don't tell her it is I who want to see her. Simply say that a stranger is asking for her."

I found my way into the library. Candles which cast a flickering light were placed on the table, making the room ghostly enough.

How well I remembered the old place, and how memory after memory came back to me as I waited there. I often thought of the time my father had led me there on my fifteenth birthday, and told me of the curse of my race, and many other things which seemed to have cast a shadow over my life. Then I thought of how terribly his words had been fulfilled. The story of the curse was no meaningless jargon. It contained awful truths, which had been fulfilled in me. And yet I was not sure. Perhaps what had happened was the simple outcome of broken laws; perhaps Trewinion's curse was an old wives' fable. Still, the truth that my life was cursed was ever before me. I felt that even then I was, humanly speaking, branded with the hand of Cain. God had forgiven me, but man never would; the sin of my life could only be wiped out by yielding myself up to the hands of justice.

And this I had come home to do. I was waiting there to tell my mother that I had murdered her dearest son, that I had taken all joy and brightness from her life, and then, having brought the greatest sorrow a son can bring upon a mother, I would go to meet my righteous judgment.

Presently I heard the sound of footsteps, and soon my mother entered the room.

I had no difficulty in recognising her. Ten years had worked but little change in her appearance. Certainly her hair was tinged with grey, and the lines on her face were deeper, but otherwise there was no difference. There was still the cold expression—which was ever the same, except when her eyes rested on Wilfred—still the same stately carriage.

She glanced at me for a second, and then asked my business.

"Mother," I said, standing up.

She looked at me keenly for a few seconds, then she cried hoarsely, "My God, what brought you here?"

"Mother, forgive me," I said.

I thought she recoiled from me as if in abhorrence. I know that she stepped back from me.

"Why have you come?" she said, and I saw fierce hate gleaming from her eyes. "Have you not caused misery enough? Are you not content with the lives you have poisoned? You went away; why did you ever come back?"

"I could not rest, mother," I said, humbly, for I felt I deserved her reproach. "I wanted to tell you all; I wanted your forgiveness."

"Tell me!" she cried, "as though I did not know. Forgive you, how can I forgive you when but for you my boy might have been——"

"Let me tell you everything, mother," I cried. "God knows I have suffered much for what I have done, but He has forgiven me, and I wanted your forgiveness before I die."

"Do I not know? Have I not heard?" she went on. "Has it not been the talk of the neighbourhood? Have you not ever been my son's enemy? When you were children it was you who had your father's affections, it was you who saved the life of the only one my Wilfred loved, it was you who stood between Wilfred and his right position. It was you who kept Ruth from loving him, and although you went away you were ever the black blot on his life. And now you have come back again. Why? To breathe more poison, to carry out more of your murderous designs."

"No, mother, I have come to atone for the wrong I have done rather than to do more wrong."

"That can never be. You can never atone for the wrong you have done. You were born to curse my son's life, and you have done it. You have stripped my life of happiness, and now you come again, to take away what paltry right, I suppose, you claim."

"But, mother!"

"Call me not 'mother,' you are no son of mine."

"Not your son!" I cried, "how can that be?"

She did not answer me, and my memory flashed back to the time when Deborah Teague had hinted that she was not my mother. Now her mad jealousy of my position was explained. Now I knew why Wilfred was all and I was nothing. This woman was not my mother, and as a consequence true affection had not existed between us.

"Whose son am I, then?" I continued, after a pause, "and who is my mother."

"I shall not say," she said, "it is enough that you are not my son."

"And my sisters, Elizabeth and Katherine, are they not really my sisters? If not, who are they, and who are you?"

"I shall not tell you," she said, and then stopped, as if in doubt. "Yes, I will though," she continued. "You are not my son, for you are the son of your father's first wife. No one here knew that he was married before he married me, I made him promise none should. He never brought his first wife home here, for he married her privately. He would have brought her home when you were born had she not died. A few months afterwards he married me, and I came home as his wife, and you passed as my child, it being given out that we had been married more than a year. When I had a child of my own I hated you, and when I saw your father loved you best I hated you more. Now you know why I have always been your enemy." This information stunned me. I had not expected this kind of meeting. As yet no definite word had been spoken concerning the real object of my coming all the way from Asia. I determined, however, to do my duty and to confess my sin. Only when I had realised strength to do the right had I realised ease of conscience, and because Wilfred was only my half-brother was no reason why I should keep back the words that seemed to burn my lips.

I was about to speak again and tell all when I saw a form in the doorway which made me think my senses must have left me, and I had become a madman.



CHAPTER XXVIII

TREWINION'S CURSE

I rose from the chair on which I had been sitting during the latter part of my conversation with my mother, and made one step forward.

"Wilfred!"

"Roger!"

"You here!" I exclaimed bewildered.

"Ah, my presence surprises you, does it?" he said, and every tone of his voice told of vindictiveness—hatred.

For a moment I could not think; my head whirled and I staggered to my seat as though I were a drunken man. Wilfred was not dead, the guilt of his murder did not rest upon me, I was free—free! I had not hurled him to his death on that awful night; my gloomy forebodings had no real foundation.

How had he managed to escape? I had stood with him alone on that dizzy height, and as far as I remembered the cliff was perpendicular there; he had I felt slipped from me, and I had heard the sound of a falling body.

"What do you here?" he exclaimed, after a minute of silence; "how dared you return to your native shore thinking as you did."

"I thought you dead," I gasped, "dead by my hand, and I could not rest. I wandered from place to place, but I found no peace, until I determined to confess what I thought I had done."

"And you came home for that?"

"For that."

"Fool, fool that I was not to think of the idiot's conscientiousness," he muttered, "then all might have been arranged even yet; but now he knows all, and I am undone."

"But how did you manage to escape?" I asked, still in a dazed kind of way.

"I will tell you," he replied, with a bitter, mocking laugh, "for nothing can be altered now. You thought you knew more than anyone about our coast, but I had found a place of which you knew nothing. There is a crevice and a broad ledge beneath that place where we wrestled, and finding that you were stronger than I, I determined to do by cunning what I could not do by brute force. So dragging you to this place I slipped from you, fell down upon this ledge, and allowed you to think you had murdered me!"

He spoke with all the bitterness and cruelty of which any one could be capable, and as I thought of what I had suffered, of the hell in which I had lived through long months, I realised something of the old feeling which I had entertained for him on that awful night.

"And after all, I have served you out," he went on. "I have enjoyed Trewinion's wealth for eleven years, and I have made the most of it. You may claim possession if you will; but precious little you will have. I have mortgaged it up to every farthing it is worth, and if you hadn't come soon you would have found another family here. Even now you will have a difficulty in keeping the house above your head," and he laughed mockingly.

As he said this, it struck me that he was trying to make me angry, and as I saw the wickedness and meanness of his heart, I felt a great bitterness rising within me. Then I remembered what I felt at Smyrna—how I had prayed that God would help me to love, and in a second the bitterness was gone, and all harsh feelings were turned to pity. I saw the veil torn aside, and I knew that, much as I had suffered, he had suffered more; that deep as I had been in hell, he had been in a hell yet deeper. I did not remember the deceit, the fraud, the treachery he had practised towards me, I only thought of the possible Wilfred, the Wilfred as he might have been, and as God intended he should be.

"And what do you intend to do?" said my mother, for such I shall continue to call her.

"Do, mother," I said. "I shall do nothing."

"Do! What can he do?" laughed Wilfred. "His hands are tied. I am glad on the whole that he has come, for the place is accursed. It has never given me anything but misery. I have been in a constant fever. And Roger will suffer more, I am glad to say. As for you, mother, serve you right if you never have another day's happiness."

"Wilfred, my boy," said mother, "how can you say so?"

"Say so," repeated Wilfred, "because you have been my real curse. Who taught me first to envy Roger? You. Who taught me to hate him afterwards? You. Who was ever at my elbow seeking to make me misrepresent his every action? You. Who taught me how to deceive Ruth? You. But for you I should have been content to be the younger son, content to be the vicar of the parish; but bitterness was instilled into my heart as a child, until I hated him as I hate all the world. I wish he had killed me a year ago, for then I would have haunted him until life should be such a ghastly possession that he should seek death. But, never mind. Trewinion's curse is fulfilled in him; he has suffered, and he will have to suffer."

"How?" I said, with pain at my heart.

"How?" he said, "You have broken every condition of happiness, you have violated every law of our people. It is a law that Trewinion's heir should never be away from the homestead for more than six months at a time, and you have been away eleven years. It is written in the curse, at which you have reason to tremble, that if you stray from God's pure laws you shall be cursed and crushed by a younger brother. The curse of our people ever rests upon the heir who hates, and you hate me."

I did not believe in the "curse" at this time; I felt that Wilfred had a purpose in speaking thus, and yet a strange awesome feeling crept around my heart as he spoke. Did Wilfred really believe in this legend of our people? I did not know. Certainly all our family had believed it in the past, and strange things had happened to our race. Was ill-luck ever to follow me? Was a dark pall ever to rest upon my life?

All this time I had been living in a sort of dream. I had as yet scarcely realised that Wilfred was not dead, as yet the awful weight that had so long rested upon my shoulders was scarcely lifted.

"Wilfred," I said at length, "why you speak thus I do not know. For my own part I have ceased to believe in that old story which has been handed down from generation to generation. Or if I believe it, I believe that it is as applicable to the rest of the world as to me. If we sin we suffer, if we hate we live in hell. I have sinned, and I have suffered, I have hated and I have been in hell. But I trust it is over now. I have repented of my sin, and I believe God has forgiven me. I do not believe a curse can rest upon those whose hearts are full of love."

"But that does not free you, for you hate—you hate me."

"No, Wilfred, no, I love you."

"Love me! You do not know. I have always schemed to ruin you. All my life I have hated you; all my life I have sought to thwart your every purpose. All the misery you have had has been through me, your years of homeless wandering have been due to me. It was I who sought to take away the love of the woman to whom you had given your heart, and since you left the last time, and she believed that you did not intend to kill me, I have been to her and told her that you used the basest means to kill me, and that I only escaped by a miracle. I tell you I have blackened your life at every possible opportunity, I have robbed you of the best part of your manhood, through me you will die lonely, forsaken, despairing; do you hate me now?"

"And does Ruth believe you?" I said.

"Yes," he shrieked, "and she shudders at the mention of your name. You are the terror of her life, and I have made you so."

Again I had to struggle or I should have hated him again. Ay, I began to hate him in spite of my trouble, and then I prayed as I had prayed away in Smyrna, "Lord, help me to love," and even as I prayed all my bitter feelings passed away, as they had passed away then.

"Brother Wilfred, I love you still," I said.

He seemed staggered at my words, and he turned to his mother as though in astonishment.

"Are you going to be a fool?" cried she, "are you going to yield to his folly? Surely, if he is a fool you need not be one. He believes that Trewinion's curse is an old wives' fable—let him believe it. But you are the younger brother, and according to it you have the power to curse him. Curse him, then; let all the darkness that can befall a Trewinion fall on him. If he be married, let curses fall on him and his wife. If he has children, let curses rest upon them. While he lives let darkness ever be in him and around him, and when he dies may powers of darkness attend him even as they attended his father's father."

My mother spoke in a voice full of passion, and I knew if such a curse could take effect she would hurl it at me. Her words, too, seemed to fan Wilfred's hate into a flame, a hatred which, I thought, lessened when I told him I loved him.

"Ah, yes," he cried, "you do not believe in those lines our father showed you on your fifteenth birthday They have become to you but an idle tale, but you will know they are true, and you will know, too, that Wilfred cannot be thwarted without making you suffer. Listen to them:—

If from God's pure laws he stray, Trewinion's power shall die away, His glory given to another, And he be cursed by younger brother. Then this son, though born the first, By the people shall be cursed; And for generations three, Trewinion's heirs shall cursed be.

I tell you you cannot escape, and if there is any power in the curse of the younger brother, I call it upon you now."

"Doan't'ee be a vool no longer," said a voice at the door; "Stop!" said a strange, croaking voice, and turning, I saw the form of Deborah Teague, more bent and more wrinkled than when I last saw her.

"I seed Maaster Roger comin' up here," said the old dame, "and I vollied un. You've a gived me a good dail of liberty in this ere 'ouse, and so no noatice was took of me when I stopped and 'arkened at the door. I knaw every word that ev bin zed, and this I can tell 'ee, no curse can hurt Maaster Roger now."

"Why?" asked my mother.

"Why? Because you ca'ant hurt nobody who's heart es vull of love. Curse hes cheldren you may if ever he do 'ave any, ay even to the third generation; because you be a Trewinion, but he you ca'ant curse, for 'ee do love hes enemies, and he do bless them that do curse him. Ef he were ere with hes heart full of revenge and hatred, then 'twould be defferent, but you ca'ant hurt un now."

"Then," cried Wilfred, "if there is truth in this story, I curse his children and his children's children, for he has robbed me of everything that makes life worth the living."

When the old woman had gone I turned and looked at my mother's face. A marked change had come over it in the last few minutes. She seemed to be making a great resolve.

"Mother," said Wilfred, "what are we to do?"

But she did not speak; a stony stare had settled on her face.

"What is the matter with you?" asked Wilfred, anxiously; "tell me?"

Still she did not answer him, but instead stepped out into the hall, where old Peter Polperrow stood waiting as if he expected some wonderful transformation.

"Tell every servant to come at once into the library," she said quietly.

Meanwhile Wilfred and I waited, wondering what she intended to do when her order was obeyed.



CHAPTER XXIX

MOTHER AND SON

A few minutes later all the servants assembled in the library. Most of them were old and trusted, and had been in the house for many years. There was a look of eager expectancy on their faces, as though they had heard strange news.

"Do you know who this is?" said my mother, pointing towards me.

Evidently Peter Polperrow had told them of my arrival, for without a moment's hesitation they answered:

"It's Mr. Roger."

"You recognise him, then?"

"Ay, that we do."

My mother looked at Wilfred with a yearning look, and then turning towards them said,

"Mr. Roger left this house eleven years ago. Many of you were servants here then, and since then you have served my son and me faithfully; but your rightful master has come home, and now I resign all authority and command to him."

"But mother——" I interrupted.

"Stop," she went on, "I must do my duty. It will not be much longer"—turning to the servants—"that I shall be with you, but this I must confess; I have been the means of Mr. Roger being away from you; through me you have been deprived of your rightful master."

It must have cost her a terrible struggle to say this, for she was a proud woman, and regarded servants as inferior beings to herself, and, as with blanched face and trembling step she left the room immediately after, I realised that she had come to some resolution which as yet was unknown to me.

Meanwhile all the older servants crowded around me, each expressing gladness because of my return, and gladly acknowledging me as master. And all the while Wilfred sat like one entranced, never moving, never uttering a word.

They left us at length and thus Wilfred and I were alone together. For a time neither spoke, then I held out my hand to him.

"Wilfred," I said, "let us shake hands and be brothers once more."

"You are no brother of mine," he said, without moving.

"We are both blessed with the same father, Wilfred," I said.

"But not with the same mother. You know that. Has she told you?"

I nodded.

For a minute he did not speak, but looked at me with such a stony stare that his face seemed entirely changed; then he said slowly, but distinctly:

"I hate you."

"Come, Wilfred," I said, "let the dark past be buried. We can make some arrangement about the property, if any remains, that will be agreeable to us both. I have no heart to quarrel about money."

"Share with you, when I have been master and have had entire control?" he said. "Never!"

"Nay, Wilfred, be not so hard. Don't let us remember those things that will cause bitter feelings, but think of what is bright and pleasant."

"Bright and pleasant," he answered; "what is there bright and pleasant for me now you have returned? Nay, nay, I am accursed; but, by heavens, so are you."

"And you will not shake hands?"

"Never."

At this moment a servant entered the room with the message that our mother wanted to see us both in her private sitting room.

Neither of us delayed in answering her summons, and in a minute more we were seated near her. I thought I detected a change in her face as I entered; something of her harshness had gone, and a look of tender longing had taken its place.

"Mother," I said, as naturally as I could, "I have been very forgetful and unbrotherly, but I have heard nothing of my sisters, are they well and happy, can you tell me anything about them?"

"Both are married and both are happy and well," she replied absently; "but we can talk of them on some other occasion. I want us to speak of something else just now."

"Yes, mother."

"Roger, will you give us an account of what you were doing and where you went during those years you were absent from us."

I told her all, not in such great detail as I have written it here, but I told her enough to give her the information she desired to know. It took me a long while, but she sat patiently during the whole time, listening attentively to every word, while Wilfred sat with the same stony stare upon his handsome face.

When I had finished she rose and took Wilfred's right hand in her left hand, and my right hand in hers and tried to draw us together.

"Roger and Wilfred, shake hands," she said.

"Gladly," I replied.

"Never," cried Wilfred, drawing his hand away. "Mother, do not think that the hatred of a lifetime can be destroyed in a moment of weakness. It took you years to teach me to hate Roger; you cannot make me love him in a minute. I will never take his hand. I will be his enemy as long as I live. In my heart of hearts I have cursed him, and I will not be friendly now because of a whim of yours."

"Wilfred," she said, "as you value my happiness, as you value your own happiness, here and hereafter, do not refuse. Roger," she continued, turning to me, "great as has been your misery and loneliness, it has not been nearly as great as mine. Oh, if you have suffered for your sin, I have suffered a thousand times more for mine. Morning, noon and night, I have had no rest, no comfort. When I married your father I promised that, God helping me, I would do my duty by you, but as soon as Wilfred was born I hated you, and I vowed that he should be Trewinion's heir and not you. No one but Wilfred knows how I have schemed, deceived, sinned for him, and now, when I am getting old and am yearning for love, he, my only son, has turned against me. Oh, I might have known that the harvest of my sin could not bring happiness; but I loved him so, and trusted him so fully. Oh, Wilfred, you can never have anything but misery while you are your brother's enemy. Learn to love him, Wilfred, and even yet all may be well."

"No, I cannot, and I would not if I could," he cried, savagely. "Both of you have helped to blacken my life. You taught me to hate and deceive, and he, in spite of all we have done together, has thwarted our every purpose. And now why should I love him, or you either. Nay, I hate you both."

Never shall I forget the cry she gave, so full of anguish and despair.

"Hate me, Wilfred!" she gasped.

"Yes!" he cried, harshly. "You taught me to be greedy, and selfish, and deceitful, but you did not tell me of the futility of money and position to satisfy, nor yet of the terrible power which they have, no not even when you knew they would mock me. But for you I should have been poor perhaps, but still happy, while now there's nothing but misery for me here, and hereafter. I tell you I believe we both sold our souls to the devil to get rid of Roger and obtain Trewinion, and now he is chuckling over his bargain."

"But have you no love for me, your mother?" she cried in anguish.

"None," cried he, cruelly, "I love nothing but myself."

Never before have I witnessed the payment in full of the ghastly wages of sin as I did then. Never shall I erase from my memory the awful look upon her face.

"Then, Wilfred, for your own sake, if not for mine, learn to love, to forgive. Naught but misery can come from sin, I know it too, too well."

"I care not," he answered. "There was only one that I ever really loved, and that love you cankered. But I did love her, more than aught else, and she has been taken from me, and he has done it. With her by my side I could have forgiven you, I could have learned to forget my greed; but now it can never be, and although I believe that I have at last made her hate Roger, she still despises me. And now what have I left to live for? Nothing but this; I will be a curse to him. Roger says he believes that the old stories about our house are false, but strange things have happened, and they say that the younger brother can curse the elder. I know what Deborah Teague said; but I repeat it, if I cannot curse him I will curse his children and his children's children. If ever I wed and have children I will teach them to hate all that is near and dear to him. You told me to do so this very night, and although you have suddenly changed your wishes, I will abide by your command."

"Oh, God," my mother cried out in agony, "my punishment is greater than I can bear. My own son, for whom I have sacrificed everything, has discarded me, spurned me. My daughters have left me, no one loves me now."

No man with any manhood left in him could have refrained from pitying her, so helpless, so forsaken. My heart was strangely stirred within me, and tears started to my eyes.

"Mother," I said, "I love you, will you let me be your son?"

"You, Roger! Why I have always been your enemy, it is I who has caused you all your misery and pain. You cannot really love me?"

How fondly she looked at Wilfred even yet, as though she hoped for some tender word or look, but he only walked up and down the room, muttering savagely, yet casting furtive looks towards us.

"I cannot love you as I love Wilfred," she said; "he has discarded me, but I shall love him as long as I live. I am a poor, weak, selfish woman, but I want your love, Roger, and your care; if you can forgive me, and love me."

I laid her poor, weary, aching head upon my breast, where she seemed to find ease in sobbing out her grief.

No sooner did Wilfred see this than, with a mocking laugh, he walked out of the room, leaving us together.

"Will you kiss me, Roger, my son?" she said, presently.

I kissed her, while the tears trickled down my cheeks, and I wondered much to see her who had been so haughty, so cold, become subdued and penitent.



CHAPTER XXX

THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT

No words can describe how strange I felt when I stood again in my own bedroom alone. There was the old bed at the corner of the room, just as I had left it long years before. Indeed, nothing in the room had been changed, and it seemed at times as though I had never been away at all, that the past eleven years were only a long dream, and that I was still the gay young Roger who sported on the headland with his younger brother.

I was very excited, and although I had not slept for many hours, I did not feel at all like retiring to rest. I was glad to sit alone, and listen to the roll of the waves on the beach, and think of the strange events which had taken place.

And then there was Ruth. Although I had scarcely mentioned her name since I had arrived she was ever in my mind. Could I now ask her to wed me? My hands were free from the stain of blood, and hatred was no longer in my heart. Surely I might go boldly to her now, and tell her all I desired her to know, yet on the other hand I remembered her look when I last saw her face, the shudder with which I was sure she had recoiled from me. Besides, Wilfred had told me that he had more than ever poisoned her mind against me. And yet I loved her so much! All the experiences during the eleven years of my wandering life had but strengthened my love for her, and that love for her was, I believe, the only link that held me to Heaven, the only power that saved me from falling into hell. And thus I mused on, when—

What was that I heard?

At first it seemed like a stealthy step, but I was not sure; then a few seconds later I thought I heard someone whispering. I opened my door and listened, but could detect nothing.

"It is my fancy," I said, "or else the servants are preparing to get up."

I did not know the time, but I knew that morning must soon be breaking. A drowsy sensation was now creeping over me, so I prepared for a few hours' rest, but as I lay down on the old bed I had used as a boy I distinctly heard the sound of horses' hoofs; They seemed a good way off, but I was not sure, as the night was still, and the sound would travel far and fast; but there was nothing to trouble about, so with a sweet feeling of restfulness I fell asleep.

When I awoke it was broad daylight, and with a glad feeling at heart I dressed quickly and looked out of the window. Yes! I was home at last. The long bitter years of hatred and remorse were behind, the future, though cloudy, could never be as dark as the past had been.

I heard a knock at the door, and on opening it found my mother standing with a look of expectancy on her face. She gazed up into my eyes, as if in doubt about her reception, and then allowed herself to be folded in the arms of her rough sailor son. I knew all the time it was not my love she craved for, but she was glad even for that, so hungry was her heart.

"Roger, do you know it is past mid-day?" she said, with a sad smile. "I thought something was the matter with you, but on listening at the door I heard you breathing regularly, and so let you sleep on. But come to the breakfast-room, I'm sure you must be hungry."

We went down the broad staircase together arm in arm, while the servants flitted around excitedly at the advent of Mr. Roger. How gladly, how proudly they waited on me, while my mother told me that the inhabitants of the parish had arranged to have a bonfire, and that a lot of festivities had been arranged in honour of my arrival! I seemed to be living a new life, to be breathing a new atmosphere, and so kind was my mother to me that by and by I broke down and sobbed like a child.

Then we went out on the headland together, she holding my arm, while the servants smiled and whispered one to another that it was "somethin' like."

By and by, after talking of many things relative to what had happened in the years of my happiness, she said:

"Roger, you still love Ruth?"

"More than ever, mother."

"I shudder when I think of the dreadful fate from which you saved her."

"You heard of that, then?"

"Heard of it? Why, it was the talk of the county. The more so as you so suddenly disappeared."

"Did no one know why?"

"No one except Wilfred and I, unless you told Ruth, I fancy you did tell her, for when Wilfred and I went over to see her she seemed amazed at the sight of him."

"And Wilfred told her of our struggle?"

"Yes, Roger."

"He deceived her."

"He tried to. I do not know if he succeeded."

I saw this turn in the conversation pained her, so I was silent.

After a few minutes she spoke again.

"Are you going to Morton Hall?"

"I do not know."

"Why?"

"I am afraid she hates me, loathes me. I could not bear to see her turn away from me in terror."

"I wish you would go, Roger."

"Why, mother?"

"Because I love her, and I think, I am sure, you will never be happy unless you do."

"But, mother, do you think that——"

"Nay, Roger, I would not tell you if I could. It is for you to discover that."

I could not bear to talk any more about it just then, so to change the conversation I asked her if she had seen Wilfred.

"No," she replied, "but I am not surprised at that he has gone away for weeks together sometimes, and I have had no idea where he has been."

I was about to ask another question when I heard a voice behind me.

"Right glad to see 'ee, Maaster Roger."

"Bill Tregargus," I said, "and I am glad to see you."

There was an uneasy look on his face, however, and although he touched his hat to my mother, and made many remarks about his happiness at finding me home once more, I saw that something was wrong.

"Cud I ave a vew words in private with 'ee?" said Bill, at length.

"Certainly," I said, and my mother, evidently thinking that Bill had come relative to some matter connected with the estate, left us.

"Ave 'ee seed yer brother, sur?" said Bill, as soon as she was gone.

"Yes, last night."

"'Scuse me, sur; but was 'ee friendly?"

I did not resent this question, for Bill knew of our past relations, he knew what I had said when I heard of Wilfred's cruelty to Ruth.

"No," I said.

"You'll forgive me, Maaster Roger," went on Bill, "but I've got a raison for axin'; was anything said about Miss Ruth?"

"Nothing definite. Why?"

"Maaster Roger," said Bill, as if feeling his way, "people do zay as 'ow he will never stand no chance wi' Miss Ruth now, but do 'ee think 'ee wudd'n try to kip you from 'avin' 'er?"

"I think he would," I cried. "But what then?"

"Maaster Roger, I'm afraid he'll bait 'ee after all, ef you doan't maake haste."

"I don't understand; tell me what you mean quickly."

"Well, Maaster Roger, yesterday I was over to Polcoath Downs. As you knaw, 'tes 'bout fifteen mile from here. I've got a brother as do live there, the waun younger'n me. You remember Daniel, doan't 'ee?"

"Very well. Go on quickly."

"Well, I 'adn't seed un for a long time, so I stayed till nearly mornin', and as I was comin' on the road 'bout an hour afore daylight I heerd the sound of hosses. I was goin' down a steep hill when I heerd it, and I wondered who twas comin' at that time. In a minute more I seed two men comin' ridin'. They wa'ant goin' very vast, so I could hear 'em talkin. When I got to the bottom of the hill I sed to meself, I wan't let those chaps zee me, so I gets under a bush cloase to a pool beside the road. As luck wud 'ave it, they got off their 'osses right against where I was, so as to let um drink, and then I seed that one of them was yer brother, and tother a strange chap, as Maaster Wilfred 'ave got very thick wi'."

"Who was he?"

"I don't knaw, 'cept 'ee's a bad un. 'Ee don't do nothin' but loaf around the Manor and the kiddley-wink (beershop). I'm told as 'ow he's terrible thick wi' Maaster Wilfred, who do kip un to do all soarts ov dirty jobs. I've 'eerd 'ee's from Plymouth, and he goes by the name of Jake Blackburn."

"Well?"

"Well, Maaster Wilfred wur sayin' somethin' about his brother comin' 'ome again and wishin' he knawed he wur comin', as then Jake cud 'ave stopped un from comin' home. Then, Maaster Roger, I 'ad a sort o' notion 'ow that you'd come 'ome again, and I wur glad."

"What then? Tell me quickly."

"Then your brother said as 'ow he'd pay you out now, and that, though you might get the old estate, which was mortgaged, you shud never 'ave the girl you loved."

"Why? How?"

"I couldn't rightly make out, but I heerd Maaster Wilfred zay that he'd kill yer weth hes own 'and rather than you shud ever 'ave her. Then I 'eerd Jake Blackburn ax what 'ee'd got to do wi' that, and your brother told 'im that ef Miss Ruth didn't come down from 'er 'igh 'oss, there'd be some work for 'im to do."

"You don't mean to say that Wilfred would use this villain to kill Ruth?"

"I don't say nothin', sur, but I knaw Maaster Wilfred wur awful mad, and wur tellin' Jake that ef 'ee ded'n do as he was told he'd put a 'angman's rope round es nuddick. I 'eerd un zay, too, that he wud tell 'er you was dead, and that it wur 'er place to 'ave him, and if she wudden—well, and then they was whisperin' one to another."

"And are you sure they were going there?"

"As sure as I can be, sur. I 'eerd em zay they'd git to Morton Hall by ten o'clock."

"And now it's after two. Why did you not tell me before?"

"I've bin three times this mornin' sur, but they zaid they wudden wake 'ee. I've told 'ee as soon as ever I cud."

I could not believe in what Bill had said, it was too terrible, but I hurried madly back to the house, he keeping by my side.

"Do you really think he is capable of such a thing as you hinted at, Bill?" I said.

"I'm sure 'ee's capable of doin' any devilish thing," said Bill; "beside, 'e've bin drinkin' 'ard lately."

The thought was ghastly in the extreme, and yet as I remembered the look on his face the night before, when he said he would ever seek to curse my life, I felt the truth of Bill's words. He had tried to murder me in order to retain wealth, would he not murder her rather than see her make me happy? Then the thought came to me—was this a part of the curse? For the past eleven years I had never known real happiness. Before I had raised the cup to my lips it had been dashed out of my hand. Was it to be now as it had ever been? For a moment I believed that an evil power attended me, and that I could not rid myself of the evil to which I had been born. Then I thought of old Deborah Teague's words. "You ca'ant curse waun that do love everybody, and whose heart es full ov love." This comforted me; not that I believed particularly in anything she might say, but because her words sounded true.

Anyhow, if such were the case, I would resist my fate, I would struggle to the end, and God would help me.

I rushed to the stables, where two or three men lolled around.

"Are the horses all in the stables?" I asked.

"No, sur, there be two gone."

"Good ones?"

"The best we've got, sur. Brown Molly es a thora breed, sur, and will run till she do drop; and Prince is nearly so good."

"Have you a good horse now?"

"There's Bess. She's a bra mare, jist brok in, sur."

"Saddle her at once for me, and stop! Do you know who has the other two horses?"

"No, sur; but Master Wilfred do often take hosses without we knawin' 'bout it."

"Just so. Bring Bess to the hall door immediately."

I rushed into the house, where I found my mother. I told her all Bill had related to me. As I did so I saw her face pale to the very lips.

"Oh, Roger, oh Roger!" she cried, "save him."

"Do you think Bill's surmise correct?"

"Oh, Wilfred, Wilfred, you will kill me yet," she murmured. "Ride fast, Roger, ride for your life. Don't wait a moment if you would save her, and save him!"

The horse was brought up to the door at that moment, a powerful black mare, well fed and exercised.

I kissed my mother and prepared to go, but she held my arm for a moment.

"Be careful and watchful," she said, "he's very cunning; but, oh, my God, save him from this!"

I jumped into the saddle, and in another minute was riding with a fast beating heart towards Morton Hall.



CHAPTER XXXI

TO THE RESCUE

For the first mile I rode almost without heeding the direction I was taking, or thinking of what was the best way to proceed.

My mind was too full of terror. Perhaps even then Wilfred with his devilish cunning was weaving a net from which my darling could not escape. Aided by the villain with whom he had been so friendly, he might destroy my happiness for ever. And so, unthinkingly, I allowed the mare to carry me whither she would. It did not matter, however. By a strange instinct, which I am sure some animals possess, she seemed to divine the road I wanted to go, and plunged forward joyfully.

I was no light weight to carry. It is true that the past year's sorrow had worn me very much, so that there was but little flesh on my great, gaunt frame; but I still weighed nine score pounds, and thus would tire any horse that had to carry me a long distance. I could not have ridden a more noble animal, however; I think she united all the qualities of strength and speed, and tore along the road as though she felt my weight no more than if I had been a feather. It was but little I had done in riding during the eleven years I had been away, but I found I had not lost my old skill, and soon I was able to bring Black Bess into entire subjection, and settled down into a good swinging trot.

I longed to gallop the gallant animal all the way, so anxious was I to reach Morton Hall; but I knew that she could not hold out at such a speed, so I patted her neck and gave her a few kind, caressing words, at which she whinnied a little and tossed her head proudly, as if to tell me she was prepared to go as fast as I liked.

Thirty-five miles. It was a long stretch of land, and difficult to cover quickly. In most places it was very hilly, which would often check our speed. I calculated, however, to get to Morton village in four hours. It was just after two o'clock when we started; by six we should get there if nothing was amiss. It was in the month of October, so that the day would be nearly gone ere I should see the old village church, which a year before had been the scene of such a wonderful event.

After riding an hour I was able to think more clearly, and to form some idea as to the steps I should take. I remembered that I had a cunning, unscrupulous man to deal with, one who, in his disappointment and jealousy, would stop at nothing. There were but little data on which I could build my theories, or form my plans. The first question that appealed to me was, What was Wilfred likely to do? What steps would he take?

From what Bill Tregargus had told me I gathered that he was going to tell her that I was dead, and again press upon her his suit, and then if she would not listen to him to—well, I knew not what.

But I was sure he would not dare to harm her in her own home, where she would be surrounded by so many servants and friends. No, he would seek to lure her away alone; where I could not guess; but knowing Wilfred as I did, I felt sure that this would be his plan. The execution of this plan would, however, be delayed till dark, so my hope lay in arriving before sunset.

Let no one think, then, that I was riding on a scheme of vengeance; on the contrary, my intention was to save. I hoped to save Wilfred from committing a dark deed, I longed to save Ruth from becoming a villain's prey. I had no desire to hurt either Wilfred or his accomplice. No good could come of that. To meet evil with evil is useless for any good purpose.

At length my heart began to beat loudly, for I knew I was nearing Morton Hall. I passed by the farm where a year before a buxom maiden had given me some new milk, and when I had ridden a little farther I saw a great clump of trees which I knew surrounded Morton Church. It was well that the journey was nearly over, for Black Bess was covered with foam, and by her spreading nostrils and hard breathing I knew she would be glad to rest.

Knowing nothing of Wilfred's schemes, I had no definite plans made; but I had been revolving a dozen in my mind, and determined, if necessary, not to hesitate to take bold action.

Just before coming to the village, I decided that it would not be wise to go to the inn. My brother would very likely stable his horses there and for aught I knew might have watchers on every hand. Where should I go, then, so as not to be noticed?

When last there, I discovered that there was no need for me to go into the village in order to reach Ruth's house. Perhaps it would be better to ride there direct, and make the necessary inquiries. Perhaps—God knows how I hoped it—she was still in the house, Wilfred not having been able to concoct a plan sufficiently plausible to get her away alone. If so, I should meet her, and be able to warn and protect her.

This I would do, then, but I dared not go dusty, dishevelled, travel-stained as I was. So I got off my horse, and washed myself in a streamlet that trickled beside the road. Then I picked up a wisp of straw and rubbed down the mare. It was but little I could do for her, but I wiped the foam from her, and made her look less conspicuous than she had been before. This done, I mounted again and rode direct to the Hall.

How my heart thumped as I neared the stately old mansion, and how I hoped and prayed that I might be successful in my mission! I thought not of myself now. My one thought was to save Ruth, and to save Wilfred.

Daylight had begun to fade as I rode up to the Hall door. A stable boy had seen and followed me. Without a moment's hesitation I flung myself from the faithful creature who had borne me so gallantly over those long weary miles.

"Take this mare, rub her down well, feed her well, and wrap her up warmly. And, stay—don't give her too much water."

He looked at me in astonishment, then a look of recognition came into his face. Evidently he had seen me before, for he grinned and touched his cap as he said, "I'll zee to 'er proper, sur."

I would have followed him and made sure that he did as I commanded; for, brought up among horses as I had been, I had learnt to care for them, and to see them properly provided for, but now, other matters were more pressing. So I threw him a crown piece, and hurried to the door.

Again the bell clanged through the old hall, again I stood with beating heart waiting for the answer, for now I was nearing the great crisis of my life—at least, it seemed so to me then.

The old servant I had seen a year before met me, and despite the dim light recognised me in a second—joyfully, I thought.

"Mr. Trewinion, sir," he said, quickly, "walk in."

Again I entered the house and with a fast beating heart.

"Is your mistress at home?" I said, hastily.

He looked up at me anxiously, I thought.

"Yes, sir," he replied, "she is at home; that is, sir, she is not at home now, but we expect her home every minute."

"Has she been far away?"

"No, sir; oh, no, she's only gone to the village."

"Do you know why?"

"Why, sir!" he said, looking at me strangely. "She's not gone into the village exactly, but to a little cottage just outside. You see, sir, she's mighty good to the poor, and she do visit 'em and carry things to 'em."

"Do you know the one she's gone to visit now?"

"Oh, yes, sir. She's a bedridden old woman. Mistress has been to see her many a time."

"Did she walk or ride?"

"Walked, sir; you see, she couldn't ride to Mrs. Bray's, her cottage is among the fields, and there's no carriage road."

"She is not gone alone?"

"No, sir," said the man, evidently wondering more and more at my questions, "one of the servants went with her to carry the basket.

"Have there been any callers here to-day?"

"No, sir, no one has been but Mrs. Bray's little maid, who came to say that her grandmother was worse."

"Ah! You are sure it was Mrs. Bray's granddaughter; you know the maid?"

"Know her, sir! Of course, know'd her ever since she was a baby; you don't think that——"

"How long ago did this girl come?"

"About two hours, sir."

"And how long since your mistress left?"

"Directly after the little maid."

"And the servant who is gone with her is trustworthy?"

"Oh, yes, sir; why sir, you don't——"

"Where is this old woman's house? Tell me quickly."

He told me the direction, and assured me that by going across the park I could reach it in less than ten minutes.

"I'll go and meet her," I said, as calmly as I could, "but if she arrives before I do, say nothing of my being here. I shall not be much later than she. But point out the road by which she will come."

He did so, and then wanted to send a servant with me; but of this I would not hear. I wanted no prying, gossiping servants to be around. The truth was I feared Wilfred had succeeded in sending Mrs. Bray's granddaughter on a false errand, or else had watched her and found out hers. At any rate, I felt sure that he would be cognisant of the child's visit, and would use it as a means to carry out his designs.

I hurried across the park like a deer when the hounds are behind it, cleared the fence that lay at its utmost extremity, and struck into a footpath that led to the cottage. The way was very lonely. A few straggling houses formed the village and the cottage was some distance from them. Two weak, defenceless women could easily be met and overpowered and without anyone being the wiser.

Wilfred was not likely to attempt to carry out his designs in daylight, so if the summons to Mrs. Bray's bedside were genuine, the chances were that Ruth would be allowed to pay the visit first. Perhaps she might be there even now, and if I went a little faster I might be in time to see her before she left the cottage. Filled with this thought, I rushed rapidly on to the little thatched house, and knocked at the door.

A little girl came, with a tallow candle in her hand.

"Does Mrs. Bray live here?" I said, pantingly.

"Iss, sur, she do," replied the child.

"Is she alone?"

"Iss, sur," wonderingly.

"Has any one been to see her this afternoon?"

"Iss, sur. Miss Murten 'ev bin."

"Miss Morton," I said, with a glad feeling at heart. "How long has she been gone?"

"Not more'n 'bout vive or ten minutes, sur."