Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "She lifted her skinny arm above her head."]
ROGER TREWINION
By
JOSEPH HOCKING
_Author of "All Men are Liars" "The Scarlet Woman"_
_"A Flame of Fire" etc. etc._
_ILLUSTRATIONS BY GUNNING KING_
LONDON
WARD LOCK & CO LIMITED
1905
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
ALL MEN ARE LIARS
FIELDS OF FAIR RENOWN
ISHMAEL PENGELLY
THE STORY OF ANDREW FAIRFAX
JABEZ EASTERBROOK
THE MONK OF MAR-SARA
ZILLAH: A Romance
WEAPONS OF MYSTERY
MISTRESS NANCY MOLESWORTH
THE BIRTHRIGHT: A ROMANCE
AND SHALL TRELAWNEY DIE?
THE SCARLET WOMAN
THE PURPLE ROBE
THE MADNESS OF DAVID DARING
LEST WE FORGET
O'ER MOOR AND FEN
GREATER LOVE
ESAU
FOLLOW THE GLEAM
A FLAME OF FIRE
THE COMING OF THE KING
CONTENTS
CHAP.
PROLOGUE
I THE PROPHETIC WARNING
II THE WITCH'S WARNING
III THE MARCH OF EVENTS
IV THE WRECK ON THE "DEVIL'S TOOTH"
V THE SHAPING OF EVENTS
VI LINK TO LINK
VII THE WITCHES' CAVE
VIII THE BEGINNING OF THE END
IX OMENS OF DARKNESS
X THE GATHERING DARKNESS
XI THE CALL TO RENOUNCE
XII NIGHT
XIII A WANDERER
XIV "A HOME ON THE ROLLING DEEP"
XV THE VOICE OF THE SOUL
XVI AFTER LONG YEARS
XVII REVENGE!
XVIII HELL!
XIX TOWARDS RUTH'S GRAVE
XX "VISIT HER TOMB"
XXI THE VAULT UNDER THE COMMUNION
XXII THE VOICE OF THE DEAD
XXIII THE SHADOW OF EVIL'S REWARD
XXIV CAIN
XXV THE VOICE OF A FRIEND
XXVI THE VOICE OF GOD
XXVII WITHIN THE OLD HOME
XXVIII TREWINION'S CURSE
XXIX MOTHER AND SON
XXX THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT
XXXI TO THE RESCUE
XXXII TWO HEARTS
XXXIII THE DAWNING OF THE MORNING
EPILOGUE
ILLUSTRATIONS
"She lifted her skinny arm above her head." . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
"'Hurl him over!' said the devil within me."
"'What have 'ee got there?' he gasped."
PREFACE
When visiting my native county some time since, I was struck with the
modern, "up-to-date," aspect of men and things. In this respect
Cornwall has much changed even during the twenty years since I left it.
The quiet, old-world feeling which I can remember has gone, and instead
there is a spirit of eagerness, almost amounting to rush. I
discovered, too, that the old stories, dear to me, are forgotten. All
the old superstitions have passed away. I remember asking a man
whether there were any witches or ghosts in his vicinity. "Look," he
said, in reply, pointing at a telegraph post, "they things 'ave
destroyed boath witches and ghoasts." And yet, less than four decades
ago, when I was a child, ghosts, witches, charms, omens, and the like
were firmly believed in. Perhaps the most vivid remembrance I have of
my childhood's days, are those connected with the weird stories of the
supernatural which my mother used to tell us, as I with my brothers and
sisters sat around a roaring fire on winter evenings. I called to
mind, too, the haunted places, which I feared to pass after dark; but
on inquiring of the new generation concerning these same places, I
found an utter ignorance of their old-time reputation. Old Tommy Dain,
the famous wizard, is forgotten, while Betsey Flew, she who could
blight corn, cause milk to turn sour, and ill-wish all but the eldest
son of a family, has no part in the life of the present generation.
And yet I remember wearing, for months, a charm which old Betsey had
prepared for me, with what result I cannot tell, save that I never had
the disease from which the charm was to save me. As for curing warts,
crooked legs, weak backs, and other ailments by the means used in the
good old days--well, they are utterly forgotten. In short, Cornwall,
which even in my boyish days was the very Mecca of Folklore and
superstition, has been completely changed. The spirit of "modernity"
is everywhere, and thus the old West Country has gone, and a new West
Country has taken its place.
Whether this has been an unmixed blessing, or not, I have grave doubts;
anyhow, the Cornwall I love to think about is the Cornwall of my
boyhood, when apparitions from the spirit-land were common, when omens
and charms were firmly believed in, and when the village parson had
power to "lay a ghost," by reading the burial service a second time
over a grave, and taking great care to turn the prayer-book
"up-side-down."
Much of the story which is here offered to the public was written some
years ago, when the memory of the old time was more vivid than it is
now; and although it has been re-written, I trust I have retained in
its pages something of the atmosphere of mystery and romance for which
my native county was once so famous. Indeed, the prologue, while not
absolutely true to fact, is true in spirit. The story is not mine at
all, but was told me long years ago by those who were old when I was
but a boy, and who had no doubt of the truth of what they related. I
am afraid I have not pieced their somewhat confused narratives together
very well, although one told me by an old dame with wild eyes, and a
strong love for a "bit ov bacca," which is reproduced in the chapter
entitled "The Vault under the Communion," haunts me even yet.
JOSEPH HOCKING.
TREVANION,
WOODFORD GREEN,
_The New Year_, 1905.
PROLOGUE
I
The following story came to my knowledge under somewhat curious
circumstances:--
I had gone to Cornwall, my native county, to spend my summer vacation,
and there met with an old college chum, who asked me to accompany him
on a walking tour.
"Where?" I asked.
"Let us do the Cornish coast," he replied, "it is the finest and most
rugged coast in England. The scenery around is magnificent; there are
numberless old legends told about many of the places we shall see; and
I know that legends have always had a great attraction for you."
I must confess to a weakness for anything romantic, and was attracted
by the proposal. Accordingly, we journeyed by train and coach to the
most northern watering-place on the eastern coast of Cornwall, viz.,
Bude, and commenced our journey southward.
As this personal reminiscence is only written to tell how I came by the
remarkable history which follows, I shall say nothing of our journey
that has not a direct bearing on that history.
We had been walking some days, I need not say how many, when we saw,
standing on a rough headland, and yet some little distance from the
sea, an old house. It caught my attention the moment I first glanced
at it. Grey and lonely, it looked the residence of some misanthrope or
hermit, and its tower and battlements gave it the appearance of some
feudal castle.
"That's a strange looking old place, Will," I said to my companion.
"It is, indeed," he replied. "It looks in good repair, too. I wonder
if it's inhabited?"
"The best way to know is to go and see," I replied, and accordingly we
bent our steps thither.
As we drew nearer we saw a hollow, which looked as though it had been
scooped out by some giant's spade. In it were built two or three
cottages, and by the fact of there being some tumbled-down houses near,
we came to the conclusion that at one time a little village must have
stood there.
"What in the world have people to do or live for here?" said Will. "We
are five miles from any place that can be called a town, and there's
scarcely a house near. Everything is as weird and lonely as the
wilderness of Judea."
"I expect they live on the fish they catch, and the produce of their
little farms," I said; "but come, there's a man yonder, we'll question
him."
Accordingly we hailed him and he waited, evidently with some degree of
curiosity, until we came up.
"What's the name of this place?" asked Will.
"Trewinion," was the reply.
"Trewinion? Is it in the parish of Trewinion?"
"Iss."
"Is there a parish church anywhere near?"
"Iss."
"Where?"
"There," pointing southward.
We saw a little grey tower about half a mile away, evidently a part of
the building after which we had been inquiring.
"Are there any houses there?" we asked.
"Five."
"Whose are they?"
"Passon Teague's, Muster Yelland's, Bill Treloar's, Tom Williams's, and
Jack Jory's."
"And what's the name of yonder place?" asked Will, pointing to the old
house we had seen on the great headland.
The man looked at us curiously, and then replied:
"Trewinion Manor."
"It looks old," I said. "Is it?"
"Ould's Mathusla," was the brief reply.
"Who lives there?"
"Th' oull Sir Nick."
"Sir Nick" is the term usually applied by the Cornish people to his
Satanic Majesty. Scenting a story I eagerly inquired what he meant.
"Well, he d' live there," was the reply.
"And what does he do?"
The man shook his head gravely. "Nobody knows but hisself," was the
reply.
"But does the devil live there alone?" asked Will.
The man looked at us again, as though he wondered who we were.
"Who be you?" he said.
"We are simply out for a holiday," I replied, "and, as we were walking
along, we saw that old place, and wondering what it was, and to whom it
belonged, we thought we'd ask."
"Then you be'ant no friend or 'lation to un up there?" he said.
"None."
"Nor you wa'ant say nothin' to un ef I tell 'ee?"
"Not a word."
"Well, then, ould Squire Trewinion do live there."
"Alone?"
The man shook his head.
"Two ould servants," he said, solemnly.
"Is there anything strange about him?" I asked.
"Shud think ther es," he replied.
"What?"
"What! Why he've sold hisself to tho'ull Sir Nick, who do stick to un
like a limpet to a rock."
As this mediaeval belief has scarcely died away among the Cornish
people, I attached no importance to it, but asked in a jocular way for
what he had sold himself.
"Nobody knows," the man replied, "but he hev sould hisself, and now he
do never come out to shaw hisself nor nothin'. He wa'ant speak to
nobody, and is as ugly as sin."
"Are these Trewinions important people?" asked Will.
"'Portant!" said the man, "sh'd think they be; why oal the land round
do belong to un, and I've heerd my faather say as 'ow in th' ould days
it was the grandest plaace in oal Cornwall; but now--m--m--m!"
"Now, what?" I asked.
"Hunted!"
"Hunted! Haunted, I suppose you mean. By what?"
"Ghoasts and evil sperrits, as well as with th' oull Sir Nick."
"Do you ever go up there?"
"No; I kip away in the daytime, and as fur goin' ther after dark, I
wouldn't for a crock of gould."
We asked the man many more questions, but could get nothing much
further from him. All I could gather was that the Trewinions had been
a great people, but had fallen on evil days as the result of their own
sinning, and that the present representative of the family was a
recluse, living alone in the old Manor House, and that many curious
stories were told about him.
"Well," said Will to me, "I think we've heard enough; let us get away
from this outlandish place."
"Not until I've inquired at the place itself," I replied.
"You are mad," said he. "Evidently this old man is some strange
creature, who prefers living alone, and will no doubt think it a piece
of impudence on our part if we call. Perhaps he will set the dogs
after us."
"Nevertheless, I'm going," I replied. "If you like to remain behind,
you may do so; but I want to know the truth of this. I suspect a good
story."
"Oh, well, if you will be foolish, I'll go," said Will, "but remember
we have to walk twelve miles before we get to our resting-place
to-night."
I did not reply, but went away in the direction of Trewinion Manor,
while Will, grumbling, came on behind.
As we ascended the hill the view became wondrously grand. At least
fifteen miles of coast were to be seen, with great rugged cliffs,
hundreds of feet high, while huge rocks stood out in the sea as if
inviting the fury of the waves as they broke upon them. In winter it
must be almost terrible to live there, but now it was beautiful beyond
compare. We found, too, that the old house was somewhat sheltered, on
the one hand by the great headland which rose higher as it neared the
sea, and on the other by a thick, lofty wall. Besides this, a hill
which rose up landward broke the force of the wind, so that it was not
so exposed as I had at first thought.
There was no way of entering the grounds save by a door that was
locked. It was thick and heavy, made of oak, and iron studded.
"Evidently those within are determined to keep out intruders," I said,
as I saw the grim forbidding wall.
"I should think so," replied Will. "Now let's go on, for it's only
waste of time to stay here."
My love for the mysterious, however, was too strong to allow Will's
words to have due effect, and seeing a breach in the wall I climbed it.
I found that this enclosure had so far sheltered the grounds of the
house that a quantity of vegetation of various kinds had grown there,
and although the place was now in a very neglected condition, it must
in past years have provided for a great household. The house looked
extremely lonely, and no soul was to be seen. I confess I was taken a
little aback at this. To gain admittance did not seem either as
pleasant or as easy as at first sight. I did not like to shout. The
silence of the place, only broken by the sobbing of the waves, hundreds
of feet below, forbade it, while to knock at the old iron-studded door
was equally unseemly.
Yet I did not like to go away. My curiosity continued to increase, so
I came down from the wall and began to examine the door. To my delight
I saw fastened to a great gray rock, on which the door was partly hung,
a piece of iron at the end of a chain.
Evidently this was in some way a means of communication with the house.
I seized, and pulled it.
No sooner had I done so than I heard the clanging of a bell away up in
the old house.
"There," I said to Will, who had kept on protesting, "perhaps that is
like the bells in the old monasteries; it will frighten away all evil
spirits."
Will grumbled about my having "plenty of cheek," while I waited,
somewhat anxiously, I confess, for an answer.
Presently I heard a murmur of voices within, and then the withdrawing
of bolts. After a few seconds the door turned on its rusty hinges and
revealed two men both about fifty years of age.
"What do you want?" asked one sternly.
"I want to see Squire Trewinion," I replied boldly. I felt it would be
of no use hesitating, and although I had no earthly business there I
determined to get admittance.
"Why do you wish to see him?" was the next question.
"I will answer that to Mr. Trewinion himself," I said.
"Your names, then?"
"They are unknown to you," I replied, "and my telling them could serve
no purpose. Lead the way to your master."
They looked at us suspiciously; but seeing two young men, well dressed
and with plenty of assurance, they seemed inclined to let us in.
Consequently a minute after we stood within the walls that surrounded
this place of evil repute, the door being carefully locked behind us.
The two men, evidently servants, led the way up an unused road, by
which we reached the tower entrance. Neither spoke a word.
On coming close to Trewinion Manor we found that it was built of
granite, and had evidently been standing for hundreds of years. The
stones of the doorways were curiously carved, and even the exterior of
the place looked as though it contained a hundred secrets. It was
large, too, and must at some time have been the home of people of
wealth.
The view was wonderful. In front of us stretched the mighty Atlantic,
whose murmuring song told of the peaceful waves that now splashed on
the shore. I had seen the Atlantic in a tempest, however, and so could
easily fancy what a sight there must be when the waters beneath were
lashed into fury by great storm clouds.
Arrived at the door, our guides stopped.
"We can show you no further without permission," said the spokesman.
"I will tell the master you are here, and see if he will receive you."
Accordingly he went away, while the other stood at some little distance
watching us.
"I've caught your mystery fever," said Will. "I'm longing to get
inside now; but what excuse are you going to make for intruding?"
"I've settled that," I replied. "Our visit is an ordinary one, and I
shall tell no lies."
I had scarcely spoken when the man returned, telling us to follow him,
as his master would see us.
A minute later we stood within the silent walls of Trewinion Manor.
II
There was a cold vault-like atmosphere within the place, and as we went
along the dark corridors, every footstep sounding on the granite floor
and echoing through the great empty house, I felt like shuddering.
Outside the sun was shining and the west wind blowing, making
everything bright and glad; but within all was cold and forbidding.
Still we followed the man curiously, and I must confess I felt my heart
beat loudly against my ribs as he knocked at a dark, forbidding looking
door. I do not think I am usually nervous, but on this occasion I was
getting excited.
The knock was followed by a response.
"Come in," said a voice.
The old servant opened the door, and ushered us into a room that was on
every side lined with books. There were thousands of volumes on the
shelves. Some I saw were old and scarce, and exceedingly valuable.
Others again were new and well bound. I gave them but little attention
at the time, however, for my mind was drawn towards the lonely occupant
of the room, the master of the house.
He looked about sixty years of age, but was large-boned, tall, and
vigorous. His hair was iron grey, but had evidently been black. His
eyes were black, and his great rugged forehead was fringed with bushy
eyebrows, which gave him a somewhat fierce appearance. His nose was
large, his mouth was large, and his chin, too, was large, square, and
determined. He was no ordinary man. There was the stamp of unusual
power upon him. He was no trifler, and yet beneath his look of
determination and energy something was lacking. He seemed as though
his determination needed to be roused, his energy to be stimulated.
Yet I could see nothing in his appearance which justified the opinions
we had heard expressed about him, nor could I discover anything which
suggested a misanthrope.
He placed chairs for us both, and then politely asked what he could do
to serve us. He had a strong, deep, somewhat musical voice, and had I
not been otherwise informed, I should have regarded him as one who
often entertained visitors, so free from restraint did he seem.
"I hope you will excuse us for calling," I said, "but my story must
explain my rudeness. I follow literature as a profession, and have for
some months been engaged on a work dealing with the legends and
superstitious beliefs of Cornwall. I am, however, enjoying my vacation
now, and my friend and I are on a walking tour along the coast. Seeing
this old grey mansion, and thinking there might be some story in
connexion with its early days, I have taken the liberty of calling."
He looked at me curiously, as though he suspected me of some sinister
motive, and his black eyes glittered.
"Have you heard anything which would lead you to think this house had a
story? or have you come here out of pure speculation?" he said,
brusquely.
"I suspected there must be legends about a house as old as this," I
replied, "and a man we met some distance from here told us
that--that----"
"You need not go further," he said, grimly, "I know all the stories
that are afloat among the people who live within a few miles of the
place. You have heard that I have sold myself to the devil, and that
the house is haunted by evil spirits?"
I did not reply.
"You are bold fellows to come here," he continued, "for I am reported
to have wonderful powers, being able to call to my aid the might of the
king of darkness. But I do not know your names and so cannot talk
freely with you."
I told him our names.
"I know you both by reputation," he said. "You," turning to Will, "are
a barrister, and bidding fair to donning silk, while you," turning to
me, "are making your name known as a novelist."
"I have read your books," he continued; "and--well"--he stopped and
mused a minute, and then, pointing to the bookshelves, continued--"I
get nearly everything. Science, religion, history, travel, poetry,
romance, I see them all. That's how I know your names and professions.
I send one of my servants to Plymouth every month, and thus I get all I
need."
We soon fell to talking about books, and I found that intellectually
this Squire Trewinion was a man of more than ordinary power. We had
not conversed long however, before I saw a great change come over him.
He seemed possessed by some nervous dread, and was evidently anxious to
drop the subject of books.
Seeing this, I turned the conversation to the old house in which we
stood, and asked him the year of its erection.
"It dates from the time of Charles II," he said, "and is, perhaps, the
best built house in the whole county. And it had need to be so, for
the storms which sometimes beat upon us are terrific."
"Are there any stories or legends about it?" I said, laughingly.
He looked at me as though he would read my heart's inmost secrets, and
then burst out:
"Yes, there are stories, there are legends, there are mysteries, and
they are true."
I thought at first that he was joking, but he continued:
"Yes, there is truth in the wildest story afloat, not perhaps in the
exact way that the ignorant clowns think; but, sir----"
He stopped again for a second, as if making up his mind upon some
point. Evidently, his lonely mode of living caused him to act
differently from the conventional society man.
"We Trewinions are an old race, sir, and some of my ancestors have been
very violent," he continued.
"That is not to be wondered at," I replied. "Life here, a century ago,
must have been far different from the life of to-day, while earlier
still, when smugglers sought the caves around, and pirates sailed the
seas, it must have been almost impossible for anyone to live in such a
neighbourhood as this without leading a strange life."
"You are interested in mysterious stories and legends, are you not?" he
said.
I told him that I had almost a passion for the supernatural, the
mysterious, and the occult.
He looked at me again, long and steadily.
"I have read some things you have written," he said at length. "You
dabbled a little in the mysterious in them; but I have in my possession
a history----"
Again he stopped, and I begged him to go on, for I felt he had
something of importance to tell me.
"You said you were writing a book on the superstitions and legends of
Cornwall," he said, "and were anxious to collect anything that might be
of interest."
I told him that this was so.
At this he went to the window and looked out over the blue expanse of
the sea, after which he turned towards me, and looked steadily into my
face.
"I have a strange impulse on me," he said.
I made no answer to his words, but frankly met his gaze.
"You are an utter stranger to me in one way," he went on, "but both
your personal appearance and your writings suggest that you and I have
much in common. Besides, great God! although I live the life of a
hermit, I long at times for the companionship of a kindred soul."
I was still silent, deeming that this was the best means of obtaining
his confidence.
"It seems like pure madness," he said at length, "but, look here, would
you care to look at a manuscript, which not only contains suggestions
of one-time superstitions and customs, but something of the history of
an old Cornish family?"
"I should be more than delighted to see it," was my reply.
For a moment he muttered as if to himself, then, like a man taking a
great resolution, he turned to a large safe and unlocked it. His hand
trembled as he did so, as though he were afraid.
"I have only read the manuscript once," he said, "and I have not seen
it for twenty years. I tremble as I look for it now. You will know
why when you have read it."
He took from the safe a large parcel, wrapped in paper, on which were
written the following words:
"THE CONFESSIONS
OF
ROGER TREWINION,
OF
TREWINION MANOR,
CORNWALL.
"May the Lord have mercy upon me a miserable sinner."
"Roger Trewinion was my grandfather," said he, as he saw me looking at
the name. "My father was called Roger--I am called Roger--the last of
my race. If--ah--if--but I daren't think of that."
"And may I read these confessions?" I asked eagerly, for I longed to
get away alone and commence them.
"Yes, I am going to let you. How I dare trust you with them I don't
know, except that I've read one or two of your books, and, well I am a
man of strong impulses. It is characteristic of my race. Besides, I
feel like trusting you.
"After you've read it," he continued, "you will know why I live here as
I do; you will understand something of the web of mystery that is woven
about this place. You will see the curse that rests upon my life."
"Curse?" I said questioningly.
"When you have finished with it," he went on, without heeding my words,
"bring the old manuscript back, and I will lock it up again. Much as I
wish it had never been written, or rather, the deeds it recalls had
never been done, I would not like to lose it now, for it possesses a
strange fascination for me."
We stayed an hour longer at Trewinion Manor, not liking to decline the
hospitality which was proffered us. But I was anxious to be alone.
The story of the grandfather of the present owner of this strange place
was of paramount interest to me, and so, after many promises, many
questions and many requests, I hastened away with my precious burden
under my arm.
I remember nothing of the journey along the coast that day, except that
I was constantly hurrying Will along so that we might more quickly
reach the watering-place where our luggage had been sent, and where we
had engaged rooms.
Arrived there I went immediately to the apartment allotted to me, where
I left "the Confessions." After a hasty meal, I ordered candles and
returned to my room to read, while Will went out to see the town.
I read on all the night, nor did I cease until I had finished the
manuscript which Roger Trewinion had placed in my hands.
It is not now my purpose to tell you my impressions concerning it. The
fact that the story therein told follows this chapter bears witness to
the interest I found in it. Whether it will prove equally interesting
to the reader is not for me to say.
I have now told how I came by these confessions of Roger Trewinion, so
I need write little more concerning them.
Let it be understood, however, that my only share in the story is that
of editor and reviser. Much of it had to be re-written and much of the
dialect transposed into ordinary English. Still, the history stands
practically as I found it, and, wherever I have re-written or revised,
I have endeavoured to retain the spirit in which Roger Trewinion
originally wrote.
Of the belief and deeds of the writer, I may have a few words to say by
and bye; but my only duty at present is to lay before you the history
he wrote at a time when strange deeds were done in this western county,
and when its people were influenced and bound by strange and sometimes
cruel superstitions.
THE END OF PROLOGUE.
CHAPTER I
THE PROPHETIC WARNING
"_And the boys grew, and Esau was a cunning hunter, a man of the field;
and Jacob was a plain man, dwelling in tents. And Isaac loved Esau;
but Rebekah loved Jacob._"
What I, Roger Trewinion, am about to write is true. I tell what I have
seen, and heard, and have been.
I was born in the year of our Lord, 1750. I am now sixty years of age.
My family is an ancient one; not that I boast of it, for families
reckon as little when the terrible realities of life press heavily upon
us. Still, in mentioning the fact that my family is ancient and
honourable, I do not do so without a purpose. Events will show that it
matters not much what name we bear if the man within us be not strong
to resist temptation.
Our family included, besides myself, one son and two daughters. The
son, my brother, was called Wilfred, my two sisters, Katherine and
Elizabeth. I am the elder son, and am called Roger after my father.
Wilfred was born two years after me. Katherine and Elizabeth were
respectively four and six years younger than myself.
People always said I was a true son of my father. From my childhood I
was big, strong, and daring. I must add, too, that I was passionate
and revengeful. My brother was neither so tall nor so daring as I; but
he was, nevertheless, exceedingly strong and wiry, and although, being
the older, I was the stronger of the two, I often had difficulty in
proving myself the master. Especially was this seen when we used to
wrestle on the soft, spongy grass that grows on the headland. I could
lift him from the ground and throw him over my head, such was my
advantage in weight and strength. Yet so cunning was he, and so agile,
that he would cling around me, and twine his limbs around mine, so that
I had to be very careful or I should have been disgraced by being
thrown.
Our dispositions, too, were different. I was noisy, boisterous,
passionate and outspoken. Wilfred was quiet and thoughtful. I often
did deeds without thinking; but not so Wilfred; he weighed and
considered both his words and actions. Consequently I was ever getting
into scrapes, but Wilfred seldom or never.
I was my father's favourite. I was a sturdy young dog, he said, just
like the rest of the Trewinion race, and would be an honour to my name.
Wilfred, on the other hand, received but little notice from my father,
but was the darling of my mother's heart. My father saw little or no
fault in me and saw plenty in Wilfred. My mother saw only perfection
in Wilfred and only imperfections in me. This, I am afraid, raised a
barrier between my mother and my father, for which I was then, and am
now, truly sorry.
In spite of these differences I loved Wilfred very much. Was he not my
brother? were we not born in the same room? did not the same mother
suckle us? and did we not both bear the name of Trewinion? Wilfred,
however, did not love me so much. I think it was because he was a
little jealous of me. The jealousy came about in this way.
Maidens love strength and daring; and as I was able to do for my
sisters many thing which Wilfred was unable to do--such as scaling the
cliffs for rare plants, getting precious stones, and so forth--I was
more beloved by them than Wilfred was. Thus, as he saw Katherine and
Elizabeth ever clinging to me, and avoiding him, he would look darkly
at me, and go with his sorrows to our mother, who, in her kindness of
heart, would give him comfort and sometimes indulgences which I do not
think were always good for him.
Still, we were fairly good friends, and sometimes after I had fought a
boy for teasing him, we would be quite happy together.
I am writing these things now because I think they have a bearing on
some of the events that happened in my after life.
We were educated at the vicarage of Trewinion by the vicar, the Rev.
Thomas Polperrow. The living of Trewinion was only worth about £100
per annum, and so Mr. Polperrow was glad to augment his salary by
taking pupils. There were eight boys besides ourselves, who came from
places some three or four miles around; so we were able to have right
merry times together.
I was not a very good scholar. I found it difficult to apply myself to
any task; Wilfred, on the other hand, was the best pupil the vicar had.
At twelve years of age he was quite a Latin scholar and was great at
Euclid, and mathematics generally. This was exactly as it ought to be,
my father said, for Wilfred was to be a clergyman, and when Mr.
Polperrow died could be installed into the living. But although
Wilfred had the advantage as far as scholarship went, I had the
advantage of him in other ways. To save my life I could not conjugate
a Latin verb; but I knew every creek and cove on our rockbound coast;
and had gone into every cave that honeycombed the cliffs. This was
considered exceedingly daring on my part, by those who believed, as
many did, that these caves were the nocturnal homes of witches and dark
spirits of the dead. It was true that I did not go after dark, for the
sobbing waters of the sea wailed and made terrible noises as they swept
into the caves at night time, and it was then that I used to hear
strange cries as I stood on the top of the cliffs and listened.
I had no doubt then, nor do I doubt now, that spirits from the
invisible world do appear in such places, and what I have to relate
will fully bear out my belief. Mr. Polperrow, the vicar, has proved on
many occasions that the belief in spirits appearing on earth is
scriptural.
I had reached the age of fifteen when my father came to me as I rambled
about the great headland on which our house is built.
"This is your birthday, Roger," he said.
"Yes, father," I replied. "Thank you for the new pony. I have just
ridden over to Rosecarrow to see Tom Tremain. He goes like the wind."
"Ay, I saw you ride away. You have a firm seat, Roger. I am glad to
see you ride so well."
"Well, I ought to ride well, father, for you taught me," I replied.
"Let's see, you are fifteen to-day, Roger, are you not?"
"Yes, fifteen to-day."
"What a big lad you are. What weight are you?"
"Nearly eight score pounds, father," I replied.
"So much, eh? Well, well, the Trewinions are a big race. I weighed as
much when I was your age."
"And see what a big man you are now."
My father did not reply for a minute; then he said slowly--
"Roger, my boy, when I was fifteen my father took me into the library
and read to me something which closely affected my welfare. There is
no knowing how long I may live, and I think that what was read to me
then should be read to you now, for it applies to all the Trewinion
heirs. Come with me."
I followed my father into the house, and we entered the library
together.
"Ours is a curious race, Roger," my father began. "Our name began
strangely. God grant that it may not end with you."
"I hope it may not, father."
"Cherish the hope, my lad, for the last son of the Trewinions will die
a terrible death, haunted by evil spirits."
I shuddered.
"The Trewinion race sprang from the Trevanions," he went on. "The
mother of our people was a Trevanion, and she, while but a child in
years--for she was scarcely seventeen--married a nameless nobody, who,
fearing the wrath of her brothers, ran away like a coward as soon as
their wedding was found out. When it was known that she was going to
be a mother, Lord Trevanion built a house and sent her here with a
nurse, blessed with the gift of second sight. When the child was
born--a son--the nurse, who was held in great respect by the family,
sent for Lord Trevanion, who came, wondering at her message. Then she
told him that many things had been revealed to her on the night of the
child's birth, which she thought he ought to know.
"On being asked what she meant, she replied that messengers from the
spirit land had revealed to her that the boy was to be called Roger
Trewinion, and that he was to have certain lands in that neighbourhood,
then owned by Lord Trevanion.
"So much was he moved by the nurse's story that this manor house was
built, and the lands now belonging to it were handed over to this
child. And thus, Roger, your name and mine began to be, and thus we
own the lands belonging to Trewinion Manor."
"And what became of the mother of this child, father?" I asked eagerly.
"She lived many years with her son; lived with him, indeed, until she
died."
"And he?"
"He married a lady belonging to the Penwardle family, one of the best
families in the county."
"And so our race has lived here ever since?"
"Ever since. They dare not leave it. If, for six months at a time,
the master of the family, or the son and heir, live away from this
place, built at the command of Heaven, he brings a curse on the race of
Trewinion which shall last unto the third generation."
I felt very grave, for this was strange news to me. In my young,
careless life I had not troubled to ask the history of my family.
"There are many things I have to say on another occasion," said my
father, "but most of them can wait. One thing, however, I must tell
you. The nurse who was with the first Trewinion at his birth lived
until he was blessed with a son, then, according to the records of the
house of Trevanion, she uttered these words:"
My father here took a piece of paper from a strong box and began to
read:
Trewinion's land so rich and free,
Stretching out against the sea,
So Trewinion's name shall stand,
Like the rocks which on the sand
Defy the angry breakers' power,
While Trewinion's heir is pure.
And so Trewinion's heir and pride
A power shall be in the country side.
And his enemies one and all
Shall for ever droop and fall.
"This refers to us, father, does it not?" I said.
"It refers to me and to you; and if God gives you children it refers to
your eldest son and to his eldest son. But I have not read all yet,
Roger, my son. Pay good heed to what follows next.
But let Trewinion's heir observe
Never from the right to swerve,
If from God's pure laws he stray
Trewinion's power shall die away;
His glory given to another;
And he be crushed by younger brother.
Then his son, though born the first,
By the people shall be cursed.
And for generations three
Trewinion's name shall cursed be,
Trewinion's heir must never hate,
Never from this law abate.
Trewinion's son must e'er forgive
Or 'twill be a curse to live.
If he take unlawful ways,
Dark, indeed, shall be his days.
His loved one taken by his brother,
His power given to another,
Who will surely seal his doom,
Unless he claim the powers of wrong.
The course cannot be turned aside
While evil feeling doth abide.
--------
Let these words be ever read,
Ere Trewinion's lord be dead,
To the true and lawful heir,
And so Trewinion's blessings share.
"It seems very curious, father," I said, when he had finished. "It is
poor poetry, and has little or no meaning."
"I will say nothing about the poetry," replied my father; "no doubt it
seems to you poor, silly doggerel; but I have no doubt of this, Roger,
your interest and mine lie in abiding by what it says."
"But it seems so vague, father," I urged.
"Not so vague, Roger. Your grandfather took to unlawful ways. He kept
a smuggling vessel, which in some cases ought to have carried a black
flag, and the maiden he loved was given to another, who died of a
broken heart. For twenty years my father's life was a curse. His mind
was filled with the most horrible fancies. Dark dreams haunted his
pillow, and then, although he married my mother, he was until the day
of his death harassed by difficulties and crushed by oppressors."
"And did he die happy, father?"
My father looked very strange as I asked this question, and for a
moment did not reply. Then he said, slowly:
"Roger, my boy, I was with him at the last, and never shall I forget
the scene. It was as if a terrible dread rested upon him; and he
seemed to feel an awful presence in the room.
"'Can I do anything for you, father?' I asked.
"'Send for the parson, Roger,' said he, 'and let him give me rest, or
the curse that rests on me will rest on you.'
"It was midnight, and no one would dare to go, so I rode away alone to
the vicarage. It was an awful ride. The powers of darkness seemed to
know my object, for the elements were against me and I heard terrible
howling along the sea coast; but I feared lest the curse of the
Trewinions should fall upon me. The vicar was afraid to come when I
told him about my father; but I threatened to drag him thither by the
hair of the head if he refused. At length I got him to ride in front
of me, and we came to my father.
"Ah, Roger, his cries were fearful! 'Take away Trewinion's curse!' he
screamed, and he looked as though he saw angry spirits around him.
"The parson prayed, and, in the name of One above, commanded all evil
to depart; but for a long time no ease came. Then there was a noise
outside--three raps against the window, as though a bird had flown up
against it. The moment after the light in the room changed.
"'Do you forgive everyone?' said the vicar.
"'No,' said my father, 'I can never forgive the man who stole from me
the woman I loved.'
"'But,' said the vicar. 'Trewinion's curse cannot be removed while
unforgiveness is in your heart.'
"My father looked at the blue light on the table, and then said, 'I'll
try and say the Lord's Prayer.' He went steadily until he came to the
words, 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass
against us.'"
"'I can't say the words,' he groaned.
"'Say them with all your heart and the curse will be taken away,' said
the vicar.
"My father tried again and succeeded, and no sooner had he done so than
the light changed and a holy calm rested upon us all.
"'It's gone,' said my father. 'May God bless you, Roger, and do you
never forget the Trewinion's warning.'
"By this he meant the lines we have been reading.
"'I will never forget, father,' I said, and soon after he died happily."
My father left me then, placing in my hands the old nurse's lines. For
a long time I mused over what he had said, and wondered about my
grandfather's death-bed scene. Was it as my father had said? Was it
Trewinion's curse that rested upon him? I began to think of what the
vicar, my schoolmaster, had told us only the day before--that every sin
brought a curse, brought misery, brought remorse, and while sin or
unforgiveness was cherished in our hearts we could not realise
happiness or forgiveness. Was this the case with my grandfather, or
was my father's belief right?
The interview made a deep impression upon me, however, and a great awe
rested on me for days. I felt that as the heir of the Trewinions I was
surrounded by terrible powers, and I did not know whether they were
good or evil. So my young mind was fed, and so my imagination was
stimulated.
What was to be my future? What had the powers which took such an
interest in my race in store for me? Looking back over the years that
are gone I ask, Were the things told me superstitious fancies, or is
the Trewinion curse a reality? Remembering what has happened between
then and now, I dare not answer the question.