Roger Trewinion Part 23

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

Nothing worthy of mention pa.s.sed during the dinner-hour, but afterwards, having occasion to go into the library, I found Ruth alone.

Instantly I wanted to refer to what had been said concerning us. My blood rushed madly to my head and my hands trembled.

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

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

She began to sob violently.

"Ruth," I continued, "something must grieve you to make you cry thus.

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

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

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

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

"It hurts me to hear you cry so," I said, "and I can see now why it is.

But cheer up, Ruth. I will not speak of this any more. I will never ask you to obey your father's will. You shall not have the pain of linking your life to mine. I love you too well for that. G.o.d bless you, Ruth. I will try and find out what will make you happy, and then you shall see how I love you; for I will do all in my power to give you what you want."

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

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

But the events of the day were not yet at an end. As I stood alone looking at the sea I saw a great cloud rising in the northern sky.

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

Aimlessly I wandered on while the evening shadows gathered around, and the sea sobbed its sad song, telling me of the storm that was surely coming. As chance or fate would have it, I pa.s.sed by the cottage of old Deborah Teague, and there in the grey twilight I saw her, with Mally Udy, quietly smoking. They looked up at my approach, but spoke not. A low chuckle escaped both of them, however, but I had no heart to speak to them. Still, their gruesome appearance added to the dark feelings that possessed me, and the dark shadows became more real.

At length I made my way back to the house, and although I was its lawful owner, and although every inch of land for a long distance around was mine, I felt that I was a stranger and an interloper. It was cold, too, cold as a vault, and as I pa.s.sed along, the stone paved hall made a clanking noise which echoed through the silent rooms. I heard the wind howling too, and the sea began to roar, and when this was so there was always a ghostly, weird feeling about our old grey house.

As if drawn on by a spell, I made my way to the library, and on arriving there found my mother sitting alone.

"I have been waiting for you, Roger," said my mother quietly. "I felt there were some things about which I ought to speak to-night, and so would not retire until I saw you."

"And what about the girls, mother?" I said. "Where are they, and where is Wilfred?"

"They are all gone to bed. It has been a terrible day for them all, especially for Ruth, and so I sent them off. Besides, we must speak alone to-night."

"Speak alone, mother? I thought everything was settled. I am weary, and desire no business to-night. I have had much to do for three days, and have more to do to-morrow. I must rest."

"There is such a thing as duty as well as pleasure," said my mother severely. "You are now Trewinion's lord, and surely it is your duty to care about the happiness of others. Besides, a mother should ever be able to command her son?"

"Just so, mother," I said wearily. "Tell me what you wish, and I will do my best to obey you."

"Roger," she said in an altered tone, "you have had the reputation of being kind-hearted and generous. I know you have often thought me hard upon you; but if I have been so, it was only from the desire to make you gentle as well as generous."

I looked upon her in surprise, and in spite of my sorrow my heart bounded with hope. Perhaps my father's death had destroyed all hard feelings, and now I should know the meaning of a mother's love.

"Mother," I said, "I have been rough and harsh. I'll try to be a better son, and perhaps we may be happy in the future."

A sharp spasm, as if of pain, crossed her face, but she spoke naturally.

"It may be," she went on, "that what I shall say may hurt you, but I only want to be a kind, loving mother."

My heart warmed more than ever. "I am sure that is your desire, mother," I said.

She was silent for a minute, and again I saw the look of of pain which crossed her face.

"Roger," she burst out, "what I have to say nearly kills me," and she burst into a flood of tears.

I went to her side and soothed her.

"Don't grieve, mother," I said, "and don't say anything that will give you pain."

"No, no, it's not that," she said, and then cried out, "I can't tell him, I can't."

"Don't, mother," I cried. "Wait until you are stronger, and then tell me. These few days have been terrible for you. I have been thinking too much about myself. I have been remembering that I have lost my father, but have forgotten that you have lost your husband. I know it's terrible, mother, but dear father is happy now, and Wilfred and I will take care of you."

At the mention of Wilfred's name her face changed. A look of determination came upon her face, and her hands clenched nervously.

"Roger," she said, "I am calm now, and hard as it is to tell you I will do so."

I sat down before her, wondering what was coming.

"You remember the night of your--your father's--death?"

"Yes, mother."

"He said it was his wish, and the wish of Mr. Morton that you should wed Ruth."

"Yes," I said, my heart beating violently.

"Roger, that must never be!"

"Why?"

I spoke harshly, for my heart became hard as a stone, and yet it seemed to grow too big for my bosom.

"Because," she answered, her voice trembling as she did so, "she loathes, shudders at the thought of marrying you."

"How dare you say this?" I cried angrily, and yet I knew her words were true. Ruth's face had told me the same story only that very evening.

"If you wish to drive her mad, kill her, murder her!" went on my mother, "ask her to do as her father wishes."

"What is there in me to drive her mad, or to murder her?" I cried. "I have always been kind to her."