"Has she gone down the lane?" I said, pointing to the one I took to be that of which the old servant at the Hall had told me.

"Iss, sur," said she, timidly.

Without another word I rushed down the narrow lane which led to a distant farm, then coming to a stile I jumped over it into a field.

Daylight was now quite gone, and I knew that I must be careful. True, I did not know that Wilfred and Blackburn had come to the village at all, but I must be ready for any emergency.

I could dimly see the footpath by the hedgerow, so I ran noiselessly along it, until I reached the end of the field, then I stood upon the stile and listened. All was silent as death.

"Surely," I said. "My fears are in vain. Ruth has gone quietly back to her home. If I am quick I shall overtake her."

With this hope in my heart, yet feeling terribly anxious, I rushed along the hedgeside, and had nearly traversed the length of the field when I heard what I thought was a smothered scream.

The sound was near me, too, it seemed to come from the other side of the fence which was just before me.

With beating heart I went stealthily forward and looked over the hedge into the other field.

In the dim light I saw four figures.

But there was no struggling. They seemed to have only just met, and as I looked I heard a voice that set my every nerve quivering.

"Wilfred," said the voice, which I knew was Ruth's, "how came you here?"

"I came to see you, Ruth," said Wilfred in low, subdued tones.

"But why did you not go to the house? I have been home all day, and my doors are never closed to any one bearing your name."

"I have met you here because I want to see you alone, and because I have some strange things to tell you."

"Well, speak on," she said, haughtily; "here, Clara, come and stand by my side."

"No," said Wilfred, hoarsely, "I want no servants near; I must speak to you alone, here, now. Jake, take this jade a few yards away and stay there."

Jake did as he was told, and the servant, having evidently seen Wilfred before, seemed to think no wrong. I saw Ruth look around her as if in fear, however, while I, scarce knowing why, waited for what should follow next.

"Wilfred," said Ruth, "this is strange acting. Never before has any one dared to treat me so; but you are an old friend, or I should say perhaps that I have known you a very long time, and so I grant your request. Speak, but speak quickly. Meanwhile we will walk home."

"No," said Wilfred, "I say what I want to say here."

"Why?"

"Ruth, I am a desperate man, and I must use desperate means. I am not going to be frightened out of my purposes; nothing shall stay my hand!"

He spoke with the old intense tone of voice that I knew so well, and I knew, as he said, that he was desperate.

"Well, what have you to tell me, Wilfred?" There was no fear in her voice. Evidently, she felt she was on her own land, and that no one would dare to molest her, where she was beloved by all.

"First of all, Ruth," he said hoarsely, "I am come to tell you that Roger is dead. News came last night of his death."

"Died! How?" she gasped.

"Hanged," he said, savagely. "The pirate vessel on which he sailed was captured, and he has been hanged. One or two of the crew were granted a reprieve, but Roger was the most bloodthirsty man among them, and to him no mercy was shown."

She did not speak, and, after being silent a second, he went on.

"I came to tell you that first of all; I thought you might be glad to know that he will plague you no more.

"Then, Ruth," he went on, "I am come to tell you something else. I cannot live without you, Ruth. I have been mad for love of you for long, long years. Oh, if you only knew, if you only knew!"

"Wilfred," she answered, "say no more about that. Surely you know that when I was nearly driven to marry you, the thought of it almost killed me. You cannot come with that petition again."

"But, Ruth, Roger is dead, and now I have come to beseech you to have pity. I am dying for you, Ruth. Oh, if you will only pity me, and if although you do not love me, you will fulfil my father's wish, and your father's wish, and wed me, you will save me. Save me from death here—from death hereafter."

He spoke with passionate earnestness, which I can never forget. He pleaded for her love as a man fearful of death might plead for his life. But to all his petitions she gave no encouragement.

"I cannot do as you ask, Wilfred," she said, "neither would my father, or your father, if either were alive, have me do it. My eyes have been opened as to their real wishes, and I cannot marry you."

"But, Ruth," he continued, "you do not know. My very existence depends on your answer. Do not think I care for your money; but, driven to madness by your constant refusal of my love, I have acted foolishly, I have blindly engaged in speculation, until Trewinion estate is no longer mine, except in name. If you do not have pity on me it will become the property of strangers, and those who care nothing for us or ours will possess it. My mother will be homeless, and the old rooms, which were my father's and—Roger's will be desecrated by others. For myself I care nothing, but I cannot bear that my mother should have to leave the home of our people."

She seemed moved at this, for in her pure guilelessness I do not believe she ever thought that Wilfred was seeking her for her wealth alone. Hence what he had said appealed to her, as my brother intended it should, as an additional reason for her to accept him. Still, it did not alter her determination.

"I will help you, Wilfred," she said, "if it is in my power to do so. I will see that all shall be well with your mother, but I cannot do as you wish."

"But why?" Wilfred asked hoarsely. "Roger is dead, and even if he were not you could never wed him when you know that his heart is full of murder. You know that he sought my life, and but for a fortunate——"

"I do not know it," she said passionately, "neither do I know that he is dead."

"What!" he exclaimed, savagely, "you believe that I——"

"I know that you have deceived me about him in the past," she said. "I know that you drove him from home. I know that you have tried to make me believe that he sought to murder you, but let me tell you this, Wilfred: If I believed he were dead, which I do not, and if he has been all you say he has, then, knowing you as I do, I cannot, will not, be what you ask. Now, I will go home. Stand aside, please?"

"You refuse, then?"

"Certainly, Wilfred. And now that I have yielded to your wish for this unseemly interview, I wish it to be the end of all such scenes."

"Ay, and it shall be, for I have a few words to say." His tone changed, and he spoke with haughty insolence. "We are in a lonely place," he said, "half a mile from a house. No one will molest us here, and you are in my power. I have begged you to grant my request, now you will have to yield to one of two alternatives. The first is this: The town of —— is ten miles from here. You will ride there with me this very night, quietly, and remain there until arrangements are made for our marriage."

"What!" she exclaimed, "you seek to force me? You dare not do such a thing."

"I dare do anything," he said, "for I am a desperate man. Will you accede to this?"

"Never. I will die first."

"Then hear my other alternative. There is a vessel lying in the cove yonder. I have got it for this emergency. You will come with me now, and to-night we shall sail for a port where my wishes will be carried out in spite of you. Stop, if you scream or cry for help I will gag you, and Jake will do the same by your girl. He has my orders. Choose which you like, but one of them you shall do."

All this time I had listened as in a dream. For a time I seemed incapable of action. I was stupefied by the villainy of my brother, while my blood surged madly at the sound of Ruth's voice. It seemed so strange that I should have come thus, and be listening to such a conversation. At first I could not think it real, and yet I remembered I had ridden thirty-five miles to prevent whatever schemes he had concocted.

"Choose quickly," he went on after a pause. "I have no time to waste. Either you come to the three bridges, where horses are waiting, and ride to ——, and marry me as soon as it can be arranged, or you come to Pendugle Cove. I care not which, but as I am a maddened, desperate man, it shall be one or the other."

She did not lose her presence of mind. I do not think she realised her danger.

"Wilfred," she said, "I have long known that you were capable of much that was bad, but I never thought you were as bad as this. You have my answer. I will die rather than accede to either of your plans, and you dare not carry them into execution."

"But I will. Then you will wish you had consented. Jake, Pendugle Cove, and gag the girl. I will manage Miss Morton."

He laid his hand on her as he spoke. She gave a slight cry for help, which was instantly choked.

Then all my stupefaction left me. With one bound I cleared the fence, and in another second I was by Ruth's side.



CHAPTER XXXII

TWO HEARTS

More than eleven years of seafaring life had accustomed me to danger. During the two years I sailed in the pirate ship I had often been within the jaws of death, for as all the world knows pirates are not dealt leniently with. I had been mixing with men of all nationalities, and had been engaged in all kinds of fray. Thus, I was never unprepared for a struggle. To be ready to meet danger was second nature with me.

Almost instinctively I settled on my plan of attack. They were two to one, so stratagem was required as well as strength. Noiselessly as possible, and with no parleying, I seized Wilfred, mastered him, and bound him, before he was capable of resisting. No sooner had I done this than I saw Jake Blackburn coming towards me, as if wondering what was the matter, but seeing a man almost twice as big as himself confronting him he took to his heels.

The struggle was so soon over that Ruth scarcely realised what was done. Wilfred, however, understood only too well.

"Jake, Jake," he shrieked, "help!"

"Jake is gone, Wilfred," I answered. "He will not help you."

"Roger, Roger," cried Ruth, "is that you?"

"It is Roger," I said, as calmly as I could, "but danger is not over yet. Will you lead the way to the high road, and then on to the Hall as quickly as you can?"

The servant came up just then. She had contrived to free herself, and now ran to assist her mistress.

Wilfred writhed and struggled, but I held him fast. This I had little difficulty in doing, as his hands were firmly tied behind him. Meanwhile Ruth, as if in a dream, led the way home. Silently, yet swiftly, we went on, I wondering all the time, not whether Jake Blackburn would return with his accomplices, if he had any, to carry out Wilfred's design, but whether Ruth still loved me.

I dared not speak to her. My tongue seemed tied, while she moved on like one in a trance.

Presently we came to the churchyard gates, and as we did so I could scarcely help shuddering. Like lightning the events of a year before flashed through my mind. Vividly I remembered going down the churchyard path and opening the old church door, in order to gaze on the face of the dead. But Ruth seemed perfectly unconscious of that which haunted me. A look of expectancy was on her face, and by and by she gave a glad exclamation as we heard the sound of wheels. In a minute more a carriage drove up and stopped at our side. I still held Wilfred by the arm, and he, doubtless feeling that resistance was useless, submitted quietly.

"Roger," said Ruth huskily, "you will come home with me?"

In reply I was about to enter the carriage with Wilfred by my side; but no sooner did she see this than she exclaimed as if in horror,

"Not him, Roger; no, not him."

"Then I will ride on the box by the driver," I said. "I will not let him go yet."

"But will you be safe?" she said, anxiously.

"Perfectly safe, Ruth," I answered.

Then she allowed the servant to help her into the carriage as if she were dazed, while I mounted the box with Wilfred.

We were not long in reaching Morton Hall, I realising more clearly each minute the position in which I was placed and the hopes dearest to my heart.

The old servant I had seen on my first visit was delighted as well as relieved at our advent, but looked strangely at Wilfred, and at my request silently opened the door of a room, and left us together.

I did this because, as I descended from the carriage, Ruth said:

"Say what you must say to him quickly, Roger, I cannot bear for him to be in the house. I cannot bear to see him again!"

And so he and I stood alone in the room into which we had been ushered, and in the flickering light I saw that his face was pale as death.

"You have won again," he said between his set teeth.

"Be thankful I have won, Wilfred," I said. "Supposing it had been otherwise, and you had succeeded in your designs. Would you have been any happier? Would you not have been haunted with the thought that you had ruined her life, besides condemning her to the hell of a loveless marriage?"

"And would I have cared for that?" he retorted, "My chief thought was to baulk you, to crush you, as the younger brother should crush the elder, when the elder has been unworthy of his name. To do this I would suffer hell, here and hereafter; to do this I would allow myself to be buffeted, scorned, hated; I would be as I have been, the vile plotter and cunning villain. And why? I hate you, partly because you have stepped into the place I longed for, but more because my mother taught me to do so. Ay, and I will hate you, and I will curse you."

"Wilfred," I said, "do not goad me too far. I wish you no harm; nay, I only wish you good. I have in the past sacrificed much for you; but if you plot against Ruth again, or if you lift a finger against her, I shall be obliged to crush you as I would an adder, not because I hate you, but because I care for others."

"And that's your love for me, is it?" he sneered.

"Yes, it is my love," I answered; "for I will not allow you to be more a devil than you are while I can prevent it. Remember, Wilfred, there is a law in England, and to that law I will appeal, and if that law will not give me justice, then, Wilfred, you know me, I will take you in hand, and I will lock you up as a fiend, a moral madman, that should not be at large. I will imprison you as I would a mad dog. I want no revenge, for I have no wish for it in my heart, although God only knows what I should have felt had you succeeded in your designs to-night. As it is, I only tell you to beware."

"And what do you intend doing with me now?" he said.

"Nothing," I said. "At first I held you to keep you from doing harm, but when I saw the carriage I brought you here, that I might give you this warning."

"And do you think I care for your warning?"

"I do not know, Wilfred; but in roving round the world for more than eleven years I have learnt to take care of myself. Depend upon it, I shall use that knowledge, not only to care for myself, but for others. Be careful then. Justice is sometimes as strong a feeling as revenge, and if needs be I shall take terrible means that justice may be done."

Upon this I cut the handkerchief with which I had bounds his hands, and he was at liberty. He snapped his fingers in my face.

"You have given me warning," he said, hoarsely, "Now I will warn you. First of all I thank you for what you have told me. I will heed your words, and you need not fear that I shall put myself within the reach of the law. Experience has taught me wisdom. But I tell you this again. If there is any power in evil, you shall suffer. If it is possible to sell myself to the devil that I may make you accursed, I will do it; if the curse of a man who hates can avail, your future shall be as black as hell, and your children and your children's children shall suffer too. I have told you this before, and I tell you so again. Not one penny of the money you can get out of Trewinion will I have; but I shall live, and you shall have reason to know it."

With that he went out and I did not seek to hinder him. I saw two of the servants, evidently under orders to do so, follow him as if to see him safely out of the grounds, and thus I was left alone.

I did not think of his words, nor did they have any effect upon me. I seemed to be encased in an impenetrable armour. Sorrow I did feel for him, but fear entered not into my heart.

For some minutes I sat alone, wondering what I should do. I had indeed found Ruth, and yet I knew nothing of her feeling towards me. I knew not whether I might hope, or whether the events of the long weary years had destroyed all her love for me. I longed to go to her, and yet I dared not. I longed to tell her of the great love that burned in my heart, but something hindered me from doing so. What should I do? I was in the same house with her, I had again rescued her from terrible surroundings, she had spoken kindly to me, and yet I remembered the look she gave me more than a year ago, and I could not nerve myself to seek her.

By and by a knock came to the door, and a servant entered.

"Please, sir, your room is ready," he said, and led the way to a bedroom.

I followed him bewilderedly, wondering what the end was to be. Everything was so strange that I scarcely realised what I was doing.

"Miss Morton told me to tell you that she would be in the library," he said as he showed me into the bedroom, and left me.

It will be remembered that I was more than thirty years of age, and yet no lover of eighteen could have felt more nervous than I. For the first time during eleven long years I dared to hope that I might be happy, and yet as I stood outside the door, longing yet not daring to enter, my limbs trembled like those of a woman in great fear.

At length I knocked timidly, and heard Ruth's voice telling me to enter, and in a second more we stood face to face.

She stood by the library table with an eager look upon her face. For a minute we did not speak, but looked steadily at each other.

How beautiful she was in spite of the long years of trouble and disappointment! True, the first blush of maidenhood was gone, for she was only four years younger than I, but she was beautiful beyond description. Little of stature, yet perfectly moulded, her great, grey eyes still possessed their old charm, while her brown hair made a fitting crown for so beauteous a face. To me, the rough sailor, who for more than eleven years had scarcely spoken to another woman, save Salambo's wife and my mother, she seemed like an angel.

All this flashed through my mind as her great eyes met mine.

"Ruth," I said.

"Roger," she sobbed, "thank God you've come."

I could not speak another word just then. I could only open my arms; but with a glad look on her face, and with a joyful cry, she laid her face on my bosom. And I—I was in Heaven. My happiness was beyond all thought, all hope. It was joy unspeakable to feel her in my arms, and to know that no cloud intervened.

"Ruth," I said after a while, "I have loved you all these long years, loved you when all was darkness, and when there was no hope. When my heart was full of hatred for all else, I loved you. Ruth, I have been a sinful man, rejecting God's help, and breaking His laws, but I have loved you."

She did not answer, save to sob as though her heart were too full for utterance.

"Can you not speak some word, to me, Ruth?" I went on. "I know you must have hated me when I left you more than a year ago, for in my madness I thought that I had——"

"No, no, Roger, I never hated you," she said, quickly. "I loved you all the time. I was mad, I think—and I did not know what I was doing, and I thought I should have died when I knew you were gone."

"And now, Ruth?"

"Can you ask, Roger, after—after all you have—no, no I do not love you because of what you have done, but because I cannot help it," and she clung more closely to me.

After that I remembered little that was said, and what still remains with me I cannot write down, for such joy as mine comes to man but rarely, and cannot be told to others.

By and by the dinner bell rang, and Ruth and I entered the dining hall together, where we found Mr. Inch, still stately and upright, but growing very feeble.

He had heard of my arrival, and now gave me a hearty welcome. I learnt afterwards that he had endeavoured to do all in his power to atone for the past, and that no one could be more true and faithful than he, after he had once shaken himself free from Wilfred's coils. And I found, too, that he had constituted himself Ruth's protector, and although she often had friends to cheer her in her loneliness, to the end she regarded him as her adviser and comforter.

When Ruth and I were again alone in the library, she asked me to relate all that had passed since I had left her on that terrible night.

Then I told her of the scene at my home on the night before, of Wilfred's avowal of hatred, and then of what had happened in the morning, and of Bill Tregargus's news. I described the journey to the Hall, and my inquiries of the servant, and at the cottage where I had been directed.

"He told me you were dead," she said hoarsely.

"I heard him," I answered.

"I did not believe him," she went on; "I could not, something told me even then that you were near me, and so I was not afraid—but oh, I shudder at it now."

"Thank God I was in time," I said; "and yet I cannot think he would have dared to do what he threatened."

"I do not know, Roger; I dare not think of it; but what passed between you after you came here?"

Then I told her all, told her of the curse which was said to belong to our race, and related how Wilfred had sworn that if it could reach me I should never know happiness.

"Do you think it is true," I said, at length; "or do you think these stories are only vague rumours and idle tales?"

"I cannot say," she answered. "Your mother told me many wild stories when I used to live at Trewinion Manor, and I thought they were true."

"Then," I said, "if it is true, I cannot allow you to link your life with mine. Why should I bring pain and sorrow on your?"

"I do not know whether these stories are true," she repeated; "but, Roger, I am yours always. If you are to have sorrows, I intend to bear them with you. I do not believe a curse can fall on a heart that is full of love like yours; but if you are to be cursed, Roger, I shall help you to bear it."

And thus there was light, even on the one black cloud of the sky of my life.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE DAWNING OF THE MORNING

I would fain linger over that evening, and the days which followed. To me a new life full of joy and pleasure began. And yet I did not feel quite at rest. A fear constantly haunted me that Ruth would be taken away from me, so I begged her that there should be no delay in arranging for our wedding.

When I left her the following morning, I made her promise that she would not go out of the house, unless under sufficient escort, while she in return made me promise that I would not for any length of time stay away from her. With a sad heart I mounted Black Bess to ride back to Trewinion Manor, and watched her until we could no longer see each other as she stood with tearful eyes at the hall door, but it was only to be for a day, for on the morrow I determined I would return.

I found my mother anxiously awaiting me when I arrived home. She was, however, relieved beyond measure when I told her of the defeat of Wilfred's schemes.

"And you, Roger?" she asked anxiously, "are you going to give me Ruth for a daughter?"

I think my answer satisfied her, for a look of contentment came into her eyes.

As soon as possible I consulted the old family lawyer, and together we discussed the affairs of the estate. They were quite as bad as Wilfred had declared. Everything he could turn into money he had sold or mortgaged, until there was scarcely any unencumbered property; but the lawyer told me that, with care and economy, I might in a few years replace what Wilfred had so extravagantly wasted.

I also visited my sisters, and found them delighted beyond measure at seeing their brother again, and looking forward with joyful anticipations to welcoming their new sister.

Altogether my life was very happy, and as I constantly rode over to Morton Hall to see the sweet woman who had promised to be my wife, and watched the gladsome smile that lit up her face whenever she saw me coming, my cup of joy was full.

A month later we were wedded in the old church, from which I had carried her more than a year before.

When I entered the gloomy building, I almost felt like shuddering, so awful were its associations, and when I saw the clergyman take his stand near the very spot from which I had turned back the stone, to enter the resting-place of the dead, I could not help picturing what I had then seen. I think Ruth must have felt it too, for her hand trembled in mine. Perchance she thought of the awful doom from which, by the mercy of God, I had rescued her; but when I heard the old clergyman pronounce us man and wife, and then repeat in solemn tones the words that were full of meaning to me, "whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder," my heart thrilled with a new joy, for I felt I possessed the greatest blessing on earth.

And then as the bells pealed out, while with Ruth on my arm we traversed the long nave, it seemed as though the angels of God were there to smile on our wedding morn.

And what of Ruth? In her great happiness, she could scarcely grieve for the long years of pain, and as she nestled nearer to me, on our way back to the Hall, she whispered that no joy could be as great as ours, because for years we had both despaired of ever meeting each other again.

At the wedding festivities, my mother sat, pale and sad, perchance thinking of Wilfred, of whom we had heard nothing since the night he had been disappointed of his hopes. As soon as they were over, we went back to Trewinion, which we both decided should be our home.

I shall never forget the scene as we returned and entered by the postern door into the grounds. All the people in the parish had gathered together to do us honour, and with gladsome words and hearty cheers they bade us "welcome home." They lit great bonfires on the headland, around which the village lads and girls danced with joy, because of the return and happy marriage of "Master Roger."

And yet amidst all the joy I could not help sorrowing for my mother. It is true that both Ruth and I, as well as Katherine and Elizabeth, had done all in our power to make her happy, but I saw that she brooded over the past, and was anxious about Wilfred.

"Mother," said Ruth, brightly, "your sad days are over now; let only bright and happy things possess your mind."

This was after the crowd had gone home, and we sat around a huge fire, for November had come, and the nights were chilly.

"How can I be happy," she answered, "when, but for me, you might have had happiness instead of misery these eleven long years? How can I think of gladness when my accursed selfishness has destroyed my boy's life, made him hate his mother, and driven him into the world an outcast? And, besides this, it is I who have led him to curse you and be your enemy, and of this I am sure, if he can ruin your life he will."

"But he ca'ant," said a croaking voice in the doorway, and turning round we saw Deborah Teague. She was ninety years of age now, and bent almost double, but she had hobbled up from her cottage to speak to the new squire.

"Maaster Roger," croaked the old dame, "do 'ee remember that there night when you come'd up to Betsey Fraddam's cave in the middle ov the night?"

"Very well, Deborah," I answered.

"People do zay as 'ow we ain't got no power," she went on; "but ded'n us tell 'ee true? We tould 'ee you'd 'ave to suffer; but there's no curse can stand 'ginst love, and so when you larned to love everybody, oal your darkness went away."

"True, Deborah," I answered.

"But take care o' yer brother still," she croaked, "ef ever you do hate, or feel enmity to he, or to anybody else, well then—black days 'll come. And, Maaster Roger, ef ever you do 'ave cheldern, taich 'em to love, for love es the only power 'gainst curses, and as sure as you'd live, yer brother es yer enemy, and aw, Maaster Roger, remember Trewinion's curse!" As she spoke she lifted her skinny hand, as I had seen her lift it long years before.

Soon after the old woman left, and I sent one of the servants with her, to see her safely home.

* * * * *

I have little else to write, for in narrating what happened during the years that followed I shall not use many words. My pen drags wearily, and my eyes begin to grow dim.

About six months after our wedding we received the startling news that Wilfred was married. During the years of my absence he had made the acquaintance of a lady whose father's estate joined Ruth's, and whom he had fascinated by his handsome presence and smooth speech.

The news made me glad at first, for I hoped that his marriage would put an end to his enmity and make us brothers again. But when I went to see him he at first refused to see me, and then he told me he had only married to gain wealth and power, both of which should be used to crush me and mine.

And so, to my heart's deep sorrow, he still remained my enemy, the door of his heart continued to be shut towards me, and the one black cloud on my sky continued to remain.

After that two years passed quietly away, during which time my mother grew weaker and weaker, and although I trust that her life was not altogether sad, yet she was constantly weighed down with the one great trouble of her life. At the end of two years she became too weak to leave her room, and after a few weeks passed away. Before she did so, however, she asked us to send for Wilfred; but he refused to obey her summons, and so she never saw him from the night on which he told her he hated her for cursing his life.

Shortly after she died a boy was born to us, but he only lived a few weeks. Then a little girl came; but she too was taken, and we began to fear the curse of my race. After that two more years passed away without any event of importance, save that Deborah Teague died, and then another boy came, whom we called Roger, and he is with us yet, our joy and our hope.

And now what more shall I write? I have told my story so that Roger, my only son, may learn the lessons of my life.

Looking back now over the days of my life, I cannot say whether I believe in the legend of my race, and so I know not whether my son may have to suffer, and his children inherit a dreadful legacy.

It is true Wilfred still hates me, and has taught his children to hate me and mine. In a letter he sent me not long since, he tells me the curse of the Trewinion shall still fall on Trewinion's heirs, that they shall have blackened lives and terrible deaths.

What is that? It is Ruth asking me if my work is not almost done, and I answer, "Yes, I have almost done." And as I answer, I look up from my paper and see my dear one who has been with me for long years, ever my comforter, my counsellor, and joy. She has lost the fresh bloom of her womanhood, but to me she was never so beautiful as now. Never did I think that such a pure soul could exist on earth, or that a woman could be so brave in difficulty, so hopeful in sorrow, so comforting in the hours of darkness.

I look forward with hope and joy. Let the lamp of life burn dimmer and dimmer, I fear not. Ruth will be near me, and her presence will make me strong. But a few more years, and Ruth and I must enter the dark valley from which we shall never return, but she will be by my side, and in her dear presence, I am full of hope.



THE END OF ROGER TREWINION'S CONFESSION.



EPILOGUE

I

Thus finished the story, a story of sin, and sorrow, and of a curse. I must confess that when I laid it aside the life of Roger Trewinion had become very real to me, and for a long time I sat thinking over the events which were related. Everything was more vivid to me, for I had for days past been living in the atmosphere of superstition, and speaking to people who still believe in many of the things about which Roger Trewinion spoke. Moreover, I had seen the old house, I had realised the rugged grandeur of the rock-bound coast, I had let my imagination brood over the great mass of rocks which are called the "Devil's Tooth." In spite of myself, too, I began to be influenced by the story of the "curse," which, although not clearly explained, was fearfully spoken about. Yet I could not see why a man like the present Roger Trewinion should allow himself to become a misanthrope because of it. Perhaps succeeding events had led him to shun society; but whatever may have been the explanation of his attitude, I longed to know more about himself and his family, and before I went to sleep I made up my mind that I would go back to Trewinion Manor and see whether the "Trewinion curse" had manifested itself since the time the grandfather of the present squire wrote his confessions.

It was midday, when I left my apartment, and, on entering the reading room of the hotel, I found my friend Will just on the point of sending to see if anything had happened to me.

"Well, have you read the confessions?" grunted he, after grumbling some little time.

"I have, indeed," I answered.

"And found a lot of foolish jargon, I suppose?"

"I found a strange story," I answered, "and it has so interested me that I am going to hire a conveyance and drive to Trewinion this very afternoon."

Will muttered something about the man going crazy over silly stories, and then burst out laughing, but still showed considerable interest as I related to him the chief outlines of "the confessions."

After a meal, I started for a twelve-mile drive along the coast, and was able to enjoy to the full the grand scenery that escaped my attention on the afternoon of the previous day. As I drew near to the house, too, I was able to recognize many of the places Roger had mentioned, which made the events connected with them far more real. So real, indeed, were they that once or twice I felt like shuddering as I thought of the feelings that must have possessed him. Especially was this so when I traced the outlines of the "Devil's Tooth," and when I thought I recognized the spot on which Wilfred and Roger had struggled for life.

At length I reached the postern door, which had looked so formidable on the previous day, and was again met by the same men I had seen before. The place did not now seem nearly so strange, and I felt as though I were a friend of the Trewinion family, and as if the old house had been long familiar to me.

Roger Trewinion welcomed me heartily, and I thought I saw in his face some indications of expectancy.

"Well," he said, after I had been seated a few minutes, "you have read the confessions?"

"Yes."

"And what do you think of them?"

"I found them so interesting that I could not leave them until I had read the last word."

"And now you understand why I live here like a hermit, and why such strange stories are circulated about me?"

"I can see why stories are circulated about you certainly, but I cannot see why you live here so lonely and forsaken."

"But you read about the curse, and the way it worked itself out?"

"I read what might easily be explained in the light of to-day. Your grandfather saw things through the glasses of the time he wrote. Like all literature, it is a product of the age and surroundings of the writer, and must be judged accordingly."

"Ah, but you do not know all that followed. If you did you would not talk thus."

"No, I am here to-day to hear more, so interested have I become. I found yesterday that you were a man of culture and intellectual power, and I cannot help wondering that such a story could so influence you."

"No, honestly, I do not think I am a fool, and, believe me, I have read and studied, as few men have, in order to free myself from the fear that possesses me. Look at me! I look sixty years of age, and yet I am only fifty. Fear and dread have made me old. Naturally, I am fond of society, but an invisible presence, which always seems to confront me, makes me live alone, without friends, without companionship."

"Will you tell me the sequel of what I have read, then?" I said, anxiously, for I was greatly interested.

"Yes, I will tell you as plainly as I can. It is said that my grandfather—the writer of the confessions—died a terrible death, and that dread thoughts ever haunted him. Of that, however, I cannot speak authoritatively."

"I do not believe it," I said. "No one who reads the closing words of his confession could believe such a thing. Nay, I feel sure his end was peace."

"Well, it may be so; I hope it is. But directly after his death my grandfather's brother, the Wilfred he speaks so much about, sent for my father. What he said to him I do not know, but from that time he became as one possessed of the devil. He married, and although his wife was my mother, and it is hard to say it, she made his life terrible to bear. They had several children, all of whom died at an early age, excepting me. Everything to which my father put his hand, seemed accursed, and every life he touched he blighted. Although, before he died, my grandfather had put the property on a firm and secure basis, my father, in spite of himself, let a great deal of it slip out of his hands. Disappointed in life, he drifted away into sin, and died with his mouth full of curses, a raving maniac. After his death I of course succeeded him. True, I do not need money, but a great part of the estate is gone, while the whole of the Morton estate has passed from my hands."

"To whom?"

"To the other branch of the family. Before my father's death, Wilfred had secured the whole of my grandmother's estate, and a great deal of mine," as he spoke his eyes lit up with an angry flash.

"And does the enmity still exist?"

"Ay, does it? Man, I tell you the hatred is not one-sided now. I have prayed to love, and I cannot; if hatred can make a man liable to come under a curse, I am that man. There is bitter undying enmity between us. Our family has been looked on by them as robbers of their rights, and enemies of their peace. Wilfred taught his children to look on us so, as he swore he would, and the feeling exists to-day."

He paused a second and then went on.

"And now they gloat over the fact that the old Trewinion Manor shall be theirs, the place they have coveted so long, and that I shall pay for my father's sins by dying an accursed death. I am the last of the heirs, and, according to them, am of the third generation, my grandfather being accounted by them as the first who really felt the curse. Do you see now why I fear? I saw my father die, and the legend says that my death shall be worse than his. Even now I can hear shrieks of despair, and his unavailing cries for peace and comfort, and that I am to die a death worse than that is maddening to think."

I saw that he had been feeding his morbid imagination by brooding over these things, and that living alone in that lonely old house of weird associations must have led him to live such an unnatural life that he had become a confirmed monomaniac.

"But why should you be the last of your race? And why should you give way to these dread fancies?"

"Why should I be the last of my race?" he repeated—"ah, man, you do not know."

"I know that you could wed some pure-minded woman who would drive thoughts of the curse away, even such a one as your grandmother, the Ruth whom I read of in the confessions."

"And do you think I could marry? Let me tell you. When I was about five and twenty I determined that I would not succumb to dark feelings. I went into society, and I fell in love with an angel. Ay, she was an angel, and it is she who makes me believe there is a heaven, for I am sure such a soul as hers could never die. Well, my love was returned, and I laughed at all thoughts of the curse, and soon I was wedded to my darling. For three years I was in Heaven. My life was full of joy and gladness, and Alice was as happy as I. But at the end of that time every hope was dashed to the ground, every joy was stamped out of my life. And why? I have not spoken of this for many a long year, but I feel a relief in being able to speak about it now. A year after we were married, a baby was born to us, a bright, bonny boy, and we called him Roger, the old family name. My joy knew no bounds, and I breathed defiance against my enemies. How could there be a curse, I said, when God had given us such a boy? Ah, how we loved him, Alice and I, how we watched him as, day by day, he grew in strength of body and mind! A year passed by and all was well, still another passed and nothing seemed to darken our sky. Our boy was now two years old, and was strong and healthy, while my wife and I looked forward to long years of happiness.

"But the curse had been laid upon my race, and it crept upon us like a crawling poisonous serpent. Just after our boy's holiday he was missing. We searched for him high and low, we scoured the country side, but we never saw him alive again."

"What became of him?" I asked anxiously.

"A week after we missed him some fishermen discovered the body of a child, bruised and beaten beyond recognition, but still wearing clothes similar to those worn by our boy. And thus we concluded, that he must have strayed and fallen over the cliff."

I felt it useless to speak. Words, I knew, would only add to the suffering caused by the awakening of these bitter memories.

"It broke our hearts," he continued, hoarsely, after a minute's silence. "Soon I saw that grief was killing my wife. God only knows how I prayed for her. I consulted all the best physicians; but it was no use, in three months sorrow killed her, and—I was left alone."

He laid his head on the table, while sobs shook his mighty frame, and for minutes he did not speak. Mastering himself at length, he continued, more calmly.

"Then I shut myself up here. I dismissed all the servants save the two you have seen, and have for years refused to mix with my fellows. I grew churlish and bitter. I talked strangely, until stories were circulated about me, wild and foolish, of course, but still making me become more a misanthrope than ever. Why I gave you admittance yesterday I do not know, but acting on sudden impulse I did so, and then was led to allow you to see those confessions, and still further to relate my story. Now do you believe in the curse? Now do you believe that, remorseless as fate, it is dogging me, and will dog me, until, mad with despair, and taunted by powers of darkness, I go away into darkness?"

"No," I answered, "I do not."

"Why not?"

"Curses such as that do not exist, as your grandfather half perceived. You would not believe in anything of the sort but for your unhealthy and lonely life. Go out into God's sunshine, lead a healthy, vigorous life, and your dark fancies will dispel like mist in the summer's sun."

He shook his head sadly.

"Nothing can turn the curse aside now," he said, "only one thing could ever have done so."

"And what is that?"

"If my son had lived and married, and children had been born to him, then I should not be the last of my race, and the curse must go."

"But why may not you marry again?"

"I marry!" he exclaimed. "Man, much as I fear the horrible death that I daily think about, I would rather bear it than that another woman should take the place of my Alice. No, no, that can never be!"

"Then go out into the world and mix with your fellow creatures," I said, "I believe that even this visit of mine will do you good."

"Your visit yesterday did do me good," he answered, "and I hope to see you again soon. The old place shall ever be open to you. Come when you like. I think you could make me forget some of the dark things of life. But now about the publishing of these confessions. Can it be done?"

For a time we talked the matter over, and after a while I drew him on to converse about other things until he became comparatively cheerful.



II

Will and I finished our tour around the Cornish coast, and then I came back to London, and made arrangements for the publication of the manuscript which had been given to me for that purpose.

I had re-written all that was necessary, and had corrected the last proof sheets from the printers, when I recollected that we were near the date on which I had promised to go to Trewinion Manor. I must confess that, sitting in my rooms in London, weary with the amount of work I had done, the thought of spending a few days among the scenes in which I had been led to take so much interest, was very fascinating to me, and I eagerly began to make preparations for going.

Two days before the time for starting, I received the following letter;—

"DEAR ——, I must ask you to delay your visit a little while—how long I hardly know—yet. I have received information, which has every evidence of being true, that my son is not dead. I have no time to go into details now, but I pray God, ay, I even hope, that there is yet happiness in store for me. Indeed, I feel like saying, with one of my ancestors of whom you have read, 'There is no curse, God is love!' Yet, I am naturally terribly anxious, and I leave Trewinion to-day to verify the information, and please God to bring home my son! The very thought is Heaven! Ah, dear God, may it be so!

"I will let you know all later on, for I have come to feel that you are my friend, and if—if all is well, I will give you such a welcome as man never had before.

"I shall be doubly glad to see the 'confessions' printed, if my hopes are realised.

"Anxiously, yet hopefully. "ROGER TREWINION."

I have finished my work. I have told how I came by the strange history here given, and, without sacrificing altogether the quaint and characteristic Cornish vernacular, I have endeavoured to tell the tale in homely English, and, as far as possible, in the spirit of the time in which the events herein narrated passed.

Of the final outcome of the matter mentioned in the letter just quoted, it is not for me to say anything now. It may be that at some future time I shall have an opportunity of following still further the fortunes of the Trewinion family; but, in laying aside my pen for the present, I must express my feelings of thankfulness that hope had dawned in the sky of the lonely man whom I met in the old house on the cliff.



THE END OF EPILOGUE