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I shall never forget the feeling which possessed me when I made this
terrible leap. If my foot should slip, if I should fall short, if I
should fall and be dashed to pieces! It was only a second; but I
seemed to live a whole lifetime in that second. I landed safely,
however, and was soon by Ruth's side.
To my delight she was scarcely hurt at all, except that she had
received a shock. She was trembling violently, but she was a brave
little thing, and as soon as I came she conquered her weakness.
"Can we get away from here, Roger?" she said, at length.
"I think so," I replied. "If we can't get down from here they will get
us a rope, which I will fasten around you, so that you may be easily
drawn up."
"Oh, I do not think I dare be drawn up," she said, with a shudder.
"Can we not get down? I dare try with you to help me."
I examined the rocks, and decided to make the attempt. It was a long
and tedious journey, especially as I had to clamber from rock to rock,
and then lift Ruth. We managed it, however, and after a time stood
safely on the hard beach.
No sooner had we done so than I heard my father's voice above. He had
come with a rope and other means by which we might be helped; but right
glad was he when he saw that we were not needing his help.
"The tide is out," I shouted in answer to his query as to how we should
get home, "and I shall walk down to Trewinion Cove, and thus escape
climbing any cliffs."
We started together.
"This is the second time you have saved my life, Roger," Ruth said.
"Do you think so?" I answered. "You might have got on all right
without me."
"I do not think I have been just to you," she went on.
"How?" I asked, abruptly.
"Perhaps I ought not to tell you," she said, "but I cannot help it now."
I asked her to explain.
"I have sudden likes and dislikes," she said, "and when you saved me in
the storm, and I heard that you were going to be my brother, I was
glad--more glad than I can say. Then when I was getting well your
mother came and told me that you had neither fear nor feelings. That
you had risked your life out of mere love of danger, that you were
cruel and vindictive. That, although you were the heir of the
Trewinions, you were totally unfit for its responsibilities. That your
brother Wilfred was in reality robbed of the position which he alone
was fit to take. That you had ever been cruel to him, that, although
you were superior in strength, you took advantage of his weakness.
Thus, when I saw you, although you had saved my life, I was prepared to
dislike you."
"And then?" I asked.
"I thought you verified what your mother had said. You seemed rough
and uncouth, and very different from your brother."
I suppose most of us like to be thought well of. None of us wish to be
looked upon as objects of repugnance. Anyhow, I was in no pleasant
frame of mind, and I had hard work to keep from bursting out with some
strong invective against my brother, but I held my tongue and waited
for her to continue.
"Since then," she went on, "I have been finding out my mistake, and I
have wanted to tell you so; but you have always been so cold and
repellent that I dared not. You are rough and stern, Roger, not a bit
like Wilfred."
I bit my lip angrily.
"Yes, I know you have saved my life again," she said, as if divining my
thoughts. "I know that Wilfred dared not do what you have done; but
what I meant was that anyone who does not understand you would think
you harsh. Besides, it takes some time to know you."
"But I always felt friendly towards you, Ruth, even though you seemed
to dislike me."
"And I shall always be more friendly to you in the future. I want you
to forgive me, Roger. Will you?"
She looked at me, and her great grey eyes were full of kindness, and
her voice was so gentle that I felt quite uncomfortable.
"Don't talk about forgiving," I said, rather roughly, I expect, "let us
be good friends."
She looked very pale as I said this, and then I saw that she was more
shaken and hurt than I had at first thought. She would have fallen, I
believe, had I not upheld her. I led her to a rock, where she sat down
for a rest, and when I had found some fresh water for her, she was
quite refreshed. She took hold of my arm as we walked home, however,
and I felt a strange pleasure in helping her. She had grown just like
one of my sisters to me, and she seemed to regard me as a brother.
We talked quite pleasantly on our way, until we forgot the great danger
in which we had both been a little while before. I forget just now
what we were talking about; but I know that while we were laughing
heartily at something she had been saying we were startled by a voice
telling us to stop.
We looked up, and Deborah Teague stood before us. She eyed us keenly,
and when she saw how friendly we were, she said, "Maaster Roger, mind
what ould Debrah said."
"I always do mind what you say, Deborah," I replied; "you have always
been a friend to me."
"Maaster Roger," she continued, "ould Debrah hev vollied the fortins of
yer family for years, and she ought to knaw."
"Well, what's wrong now?"
"It wur a woman as tempted Adam, it wur a woman as tempted Samson, it
wur a woman as tempted Ahab. Lev Maaster Roger be keerful."
"I hardly know what you mean," I said, a little astonished at this
strange speech.
She lifted her skinny hand above her head.
"Mind," she said, "mind Trewinion's curse! Oh, tes comin', tes comin'.
I see it now. Mind, Maaster Roger, my deer, mind. Doan't 'ee forgit
what ould Debrah tould 'ee on the night of the storm, years agone.
'Twas the mawther that was too cunning for Esau, ah, and ef Maaster
Roger ed'n keerful the mawther'll be too cunnin' for him."
Try as I would I could not help shuddering at her words, while Ruth
clutched my arm convulsively.
"Keep boath yer eyes oppen, Maaster Roger, or the curse'll be upon 'ee,
for as sure as ould Debrah spaikes tes comin'."
She waddled away when she said this, leaving us to wonder at her words.
What caused her to speak like this? How could she know what she
did?--for her words came true. Did she possess some power to peer into
the future? Were things clear to her vision to which I was blind? Or
was it simply that she was clear headed and clever and her statements
amounted only to a shrewd guess?
I will not dare to answer. I have seen so many strange things happen,
which I have been unable to explain, that to say she was possessed of a
power that was not natural would be unwise. And yet I have been fed
upon strange mental food, and have been led to believe in things at
which some laugh.
"What does she mean, Roger?" said Ruth, when she had gone.
I was silent.
"Do you think she is a witch?" she continued; "she looks like one."
"She is a strange old woman," I said, as lightly as I could, for I did
not want Ruth to be made anxious, "and some think she is a witch; but
Mr. Polperrow says she is only a clever old woman who knows more than
the common run of villagers."
She was about to ask more questions when we saw my father, Wilfred, and
my sisters coming towards us. Both my sisters gave a shout of joy, and
I saw a glad look in my father's eyes. But Wilfred's face was black as
night, and the gleam of a devil flashed in his eyes. He did not speak,
and while the others were anxiously asking questions as to what we did
and how we had managed, Wilfred stood and glared savagely at me. His
eyes became red, and his face like the face of a corpse.
I asked myself whether my father had accused him of being a coward, or
if my sisters had been foolishly praising me, as they sometimes did,
for neither Katherine nor Elizabeth seemed to realise how rough and
uncouth I was. I noticed, however, that when Ruth began to magnify
what I had done, as in her exaggerated notions of things she did, he
gave a cynical, sarcastic laugh, and walked back to the house alone.
Did Wilfred care so much about praise, I wondered, or was he bitter
towards me because I was heir to the Trewinion lands? Why else should
he be so unbrotherly to me?
I do not think my sisters did Ruth any good by talking to her about her
danger, for it brought back to her that faintness which she experienced
upon the sands, so we soon took her indoors, where, being able to rest
in quietness, she recovered.
I do not think it is my nature to remain unfriendly with any one, so I
made an opportunity of trying to find Wilfred, in order to know what I
had done to offend him. I found, however, that he was with my mother,
and did not wish to be seen.
Again Deborah Teague's words came back to me. Was Wilfred's mother my
mother? If so, why was it she never allowed me into her private room?
Why were there no confidences between us as there were between her and
my brother? Was she the cause of my brother's anger?
That evening we all sat together in the library, as we generally did
before going to rest. Ruth still looked pale, and complained of pains.
Evidently her fall had hurt her more than we had thought. My mother
sat near her, and lovingly held her hand, often saying soft loving
words, as though she wanted to be a mother to her. I was glad of this,
for I was sure that Ruth must often feel sad and lonely, and it must
comfort her to know that although she was an orphan she was still
beloved.
We all joined in conversation, with the exception of Wilfred. He sat
behind his mother, never speaking a word. I forget now what were the
subjects of discussion; it does not matter much. Still I cannot but
wish that some clever painter could have put the gathering on canvas,
for to me it looked beautiful. My father was so stately and grand,
while my mother was, I think, the handsomest woman I ever saw; and
behind her was the clear, Greek-like face of my brother. The three
girls, too, looked the picture of contentment. It was a home scene in
a quiet old house, and worthy of a painter's skill.
We had been sitting there some little time, when the vicar walked in.
He was always a welcome visitor and I regarded him as a sort of second
father. He joined in our conversation quite naturally, and we soon
became quite merry together.
Presently there was a lull in our talk, and then Wilfred, without any
warning, broke out excitedly, and in a loud voice,
"Father, I want to go to Oxford."
We all looked at him in astonishment. He had been so silent all the
evening that this made us think something was the matter.
My father eyed him keenly, and then replied quietly.
"I had arranged for you to go next year, Wilfred."
"Yes, but I want to go now," he said, excitedly. "I've been home here
long enough; I've wasted enough time."
"You've not wasted so much time, my boy," said my father, kindly. "Mr.
Polperrow has had you in hand, and has given you a good drilling;
besides, you are only just turned eighteen."
"I know," he said; "but I am the younger son, and so shall have no
fortune. Thus, I think, I should waste no time in getting an
education. Mr. Polperrow told me, not long since, that he could not do
much more for me, and as I am to be 'penniless Wilfred' I think I might
have a chance to earn my bread."
"You will not be penniless, Wilfred," said my father. "You will be as
well endowed as most young men, and I have my plans for the future."
"But I can't stay here longer," he cried. "If I have talents why
should I waste them here? Give me a chance, and then the second son
may turn out to be as good as the elder."
This was spoken both bitterly and sadly, as if he felt his lot to be
hard.
"I have come about this very matter," said Mr. Polperrow. "Wilfred has
very great gifts, and the sooner he goes to Oxford the better. I have
some little influence there, and if you thought fit I would make
arrangements at once."
My mother's eyes fairly shone with joy as he said this, and then she
too joined in the plea that Wilfred should be allowed to leave home so
that his powers might have a fair chance of being tested.
My father at length gave his consent, and Mr. Polperrow went away with
the commission to procure for Wilfred an entrance into this ancient
seat of learning.
When we retired to rest I thought long over the events of the day.
What was the meaning of this sudden desire to depart? Was there a
league between the three who had advocated this step? Only a few days
before Wilfred had been speaking of going to Oxford a year later. Why
then this sudden resolution?
I fell asleep, however, without solving the problem, and as during the
next few days Wilfred wore a grieved expression and seldom spoke to any
one but his mother and Ruth, I was still deeper in mystery. When we
were all together, if he spoke to me, he spoke kindly, but when we were
alone he betrayed a hatred for me that I could not understand.
A month later my mother was in great sorrow. Wilfred had started for
Oxford.