Roger Trewinion Part 27

No, I had fought that battle. I had made Ruth happy. I should soon become as nothing to them, and thus Wilfred and my mother would have their own way, and be joyous because I was no more. That was something, and yet I was sure that Wilfred had schemed for such an end.

What definite reason I had for this I could not tell, but I was sure of it, and I hated him. True, I had gone away freely, and yet I had been driven away; things had been so arranged that I could not stay to be a skeleton at the feast, a hindrance to all joy.

I ceased to think about it at length, and tried to bring myself into harmony with my surroundings. What should I call myself? I could not ask for a sailor's position as Roger Trewinion, and yet I did not like to give up my name. Finally I decided to call myself Richard Tretheway. It was a very common name, and by this name I should still retain my initials. Where I came from was a matter of little importance; there were lots of little fis.h.i.+ng villages all the way down the coast; so I settled on one near my old home, and made my way to the riverside where some vessels lay. The captain of one of them struck my attention in a minute. He stood quietly watching some men who were loading the boat with corn. He was not swearing or bullying as some of the others were, and I determined to speak to him.

"And what may you want, my lad?" he said as I went up to him.

"A job, sir," I said, with a strong Cornish accent.

He looked at me keenly. "What can you do?" he said.

I named the work I could do on a s.h.i.+p.

"Let's have a look at your hands?" he said.

I showed him my hands. They were not so soft as those of most young men in my position. I had done an amount of harvest work, and thus, with constantly rowing and engaging in other physical exercises, they were almost as hard as an ordinary seaman's.

"What have you been brought up to?" he asked.

"Fis.h.i.+ng."

"That's a lie. You are neither a fisherman nor a sailor."

I hung my head.

"Yes, you may hang your head, my lad, for you are not what you seem."

Again in a clumsy way I repeated the duties of both, but the captain would not listen.

"Yes, yes, my young gentleman, you may know about these things as well as I do, but that don't deceive me. You were never brought up to work, you weren't; but you are a strong likely chap for all that."

I tried again to a.s.sure him that I could do a sailor's work well.

"Now, look here, young man," he said, "I'm an oldish chap, and have seen a bit of the world, and have learnt to read a little of men and things, and although you are not what you want to pa.s.s off to be I like your looks. What you mean by being here I don't know; but that's not my business, and I do want a likely young fellow like you. Answer me square and fair. Are you seeking to get on this vessel because you've done anything wrong, are you in fear of anybody or anything, and is anybody after you now?"

I liked his plain question, and I answered plainly.

"I have done nothing wrong, sir," I said; "I am not afraid of anything or anybody, and no one is after me now."

He looked at me straight in the eyes, but I met his gaze fearlessly.

"What's your name, my lad?"

"Richard Tretheway."

"That is not your real name?"

"No."

"You are sure you are doing nothing wrong in concealing your true name?

Be perfectly honest."

"I am doing nothing wrong. I am doing what's right."

"I'll take you," he said.

I thanked him.

"Look you," he said, "expect no favours; you must do your work fair and square like the rest. We go from here to Padstow, then on to Falmouth, from there to Plymouth, then to London. From there, if you behave well, I'll take you to France and down the Mediterranean. Do what you have to do here quickly. It's high tide at six this evening, and then we shall sail."

"Thank you," I said; "I have nothing to do, but I'll go and get some dinner and then come straight back."

As I said this I turned to go; but the captain laughed and called me back.

"Look you, Tretheway," he said, "if I hadn't known you were a greenhorn to this kind of thing before I should know it now. You haven't said anything about wages."

"I'll leave that to you," I said confusedly, and then went back to the town.

I shall not dwell on my experience that evening, nor, indeed, shall I speak of many of my adventures, as I want to relate only those facts of my history which are vitally concerned with the name I bear, with its a.s.sociations and legends.

The next afternoon we sailed past my old home. Long before we drew near it, I saw the grey tower on the great weather-beaten cliff, and with beating heart I stood on the deck and watched while we drew nearer and nearer. I strained my eyes to catch sight of any of my family, but no one could be seen. Closer and closer we came, the great p.r.o.ngs of the "Devil's Tooth" standing out more clearly as we swept on.

Did anyone there think of me? I wondered. Yes, they would naturally do that. My mother would think of me, and be glad I was gone, for her favourite boy would be master. Wilfred would think of me, and wonder if I should come back, and, perhaps, dread the thought of such a thing happening. My sisters would think of me lovingly, and wonder what had become of Roger. And Ruth--I dared not think of her.

Who had seen my letter? I wondered. My mother was the most likely one to do so, or Wilfred, and they would treasure up the words I had written, they would weigh well their purport. But would it be shown to Ruth or to my sisters?

My dear, dear old home, how I loved it! It was there I was born, it was there my father had died. So near was I to it, and yet so far.

Besides, it was mine no longer. I had given it up to make the woman I loved happy, and to keep it from being h.e.l.l to me.

My thoughts were rudely checked. Two persons stood together on the headland, the headland on which my home stood, and they were evidently looking at the s.h.i.+p in which I was sailing. Who were they? I strained my eyes to see. They looked like Wilfred and---- I dared not think of it, the thought was maddening. I would not believe that Ruth was out walking with Wilfred so soon after my departure, and on the very day when she was reported to be leaving for her home.

Yet why not? By this time they had, perhaps, publicly announced themselves as lovers; and yet they dare not. My departure could not yet be regarded as a settled thing, and my mother had told me that Ruth would be true to her father's wish. As yet I must be regarded among them as Trewinion's heir, and thus she would look upon me as her future husband. How, then, could she be encouraging the man she loved, when she would regard it as a sin to do so?

But was it she, was it Wilfred?

The captain's gla.s.s was near me, and I seized it. I brought it to the right focus. I saw them plainly, Ruth and Wilfred standing side by side, with her hand resting on his arm. There could be no mistake.

Yes, she would know all by this time; she would know that I had given up everything for her happiness, and she had accepted it without a pang. She had come out alone with the man who had stepped into my place.

It was base ingrat.i.tude. She was not worthy the sacrifice. I would leave the vessel at Falmouth, go home, and destroy their plans; I would claim my own again. As for Wilfred, I would whip him like a dog, and drive him from the place.

I know my thoughts were confused, and unreasonable, but I think I was mad, for I stamped my foot in my rage.

I heard a noise behind me and turned round. The captain stood coolly watching me. Instantly, my position burst upon me, and I was confused.

"Well, Richard Tretheway," he said, "and what have you been using my gla.s.s for?"

"It is a fine old headland, sir, and I wanted to see it."

"Ay, and it's a fine old house on the cliff, eh. Whom does it belong to?"