Roger Trewinion Part 59

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 gla.s.ses 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 companions.h.i.+p."

"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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sociations 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 succ.u.mb 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed by and all was well, still another pa.s.sed 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, hoa.r.s.ely, after a minute's silence. "Soon I saw that grief was killing my wife. G.o.d 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 d.o.g.g.i.ng 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 G.o.d's suns.h.i.+ne, 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?"