THE BEGINNING OF THE END
O beware of my lord of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on: that cuckold lives on bliss
Who, certain of his fate, love not its wronger.
But O, what damned minutes tells he o'er
Who dotes yet doubts; suspects yet fondly loves.
--_Othello._
Alone in my room that night I began to think again. I had hurried back
from the cave with fearful speed, never daring to stop or think. Now I
could do both, and for hours I tried to solve the problem before me.
What was the meaning of this night's adventure? Had these women the
power to rid me of a terrible calamity, or were they seeking simply the
protection I should be able to afford in the future years? They were
all in bad repute, and ofttimes the anger of the people was aroused
against them, thus if they could gain my friendship they would be
comparatively safe. Did they seek to frighten me into a promise, or
was there some dread meaning in their words?
These questions drove me to pray, or rather, to say my prayers. I did
not, could not, really pray. To me there was no real God. All was as
misty and unreal as the mythical stories I had read about the fabled
Greek gods. For hours I sought light, and help, and strength; but none
came, and when daylight came I was still in doubt.
The next day I passed by old Deborah's cottage. I thought she might
have something to say to me, but when she saw me she, bent her head and
would not answer to my "good-day." Try as I would I could not help
feeling that she had ill-will against me, and would lose no opportunity
to do me an injury. Once I thought of speaking to my father about it;
but I dared not tell him that I had been to Fraddam's cave at midnight;
that act was in itself enough to bring darkness to my future, if there
were any truth in the stories which floated in the very atmosphere of
my life.
Days lengthened into weeks, and weeks into months, and nothing
happened. Old Mally Udy passed and re-passed me, but she gave no sign
of our midnight encounter. She dropped her usual curtsey of respect
when she saw me. Thus it was that the awe of the night in Fraddam's
cave died out. I gave up seriously thinking about it, and as the
affairs of the Trewinion estate began to rest on me my mind was fully
occupied.
During the months that followed, I believe I was moody and taciturn.
At any rate, my sisters did not find so much pleasure in being with me
as formerly, while Ruth was still my mother's companion. She was
always kind to me, and seemed glad if she were able to do little
sisterly acts, but we were never alone together, and never were there
any confidences between us.
On my twenty-first birthday there were great festivities at our house.
All the tenant farmers, their wives, and their children, together with
the cottagers and labourers on the estate, were invited. These, with
the neighbouring gentry, made a gay scene. There was one vacant place,
however, which largely spoiled the enjoyment of the day. This was my
brother Wilfred's. He had been pressed to return home, but had refused
to do so, even for the celebration of my coming of age. Indeed, he
intimated that he did not wish to do so until his three years of
college life should come to an end.
My father was annoyed at this; but my mother said not a word. It
seemed to me that she had expected things to turn out so, and was not
at all surprised. Her behaviour to me after my birthday was more cold
than ever. She took no pains to make herself friendly towards me, yet,
unless Deborah Teague were right, she was my mother.
The months slipped rapidly by, until three years had elapsed since
Wilfred had gone to Oxford, and now he was daily expected to return.
During that time none of us had seen him except my father and mother,
who had travelled to Oxford specially for that purpose. My two sisters
often speculated what he would be like, how he would act, while Ruth,
too, seemed to look forward with great pleasure to his return.
Ruth had grown to be a beautiful woman. She was by no means tall or
stately, but she was as fair as a spring morning, and lovely beyond
compare. Great pains had been taken with her education, and this,
added to her personal charms, caused her to be envied for miles around
by girls of her own age.
Her old friend Mr. Inch had remained at our house all this time, and
tried to gratify her every wish. He was friendly with Wilfred, and I
found out that they corresponded regularly. With me, however, he was
not nearly so friendly. He was always polite, almost painfully so; but
he never looked me straight in the face, and often, I thought, regarded
me with dislike. I explained this, partly by the fact of my uncouth
ways, and partly by his intimacy with my mother, who regarded him with
great favour.
At length the day arrived when Wilfred came back. I shall never forget
it, for it began a new era in my existence. I awoke on the morning of
that day bright and cheerful, with not a cloud that was worth the
mentioning upon the sky of my life. When I retired to rest all was
changed. I awoke a boy, I went to sleep a man. But for that day these
confessions would never have been written; the events I shall relate
would never have come to pass. Even now, as I look back, my heart
beats more rapidly at the thought of it, and a strange feeling
possesses me, which reminds me of what I felt then.
I remember how anxiously I saw the horses being attached to the old
family carriage, and with what joy I saw my father and mother driven
away to meet the coach by which Wilfred was to come. I longed, as much
as any of them, to see him, although I said but little about it, for,
in spite of his apparent dislike of me, he was still my brother, and I
loved him very much.
We all stood at the old hall door as the carriage drove up, and watched
my father alight. Then another form stepped on the hard gravel, and
carefully assisted my mother.
I should scarcely have recognised him as my brother. He had gone away
but little more than a boy, he had returned a handsome, cultured man.
He was not big and clumsy like myself, but tall and lithe, and yet
exceedingly muscular. There was grace in his every movement, while
refinement was stamped upon his handsome face. I could not help
feeling the contrast between us. I was a great boorish country clown,
he was as handsome as a Greek god. Surely, too, there was a look of
malicious satisfaction on my mother's face as she saw the difference
between us. He seemed to change the very atmosphere of the house.
Everything had a new meaning when associated with him. My sisters
looked at him with admiration, while Ruth was evidently fascinated by
the charm of his presence.
In his boyish days he had often seemed sulky, but that was all gone.
His demeanour towards my father was at once respectful and
affectionate, to his mother he was kind and loving, to the girls he was
gallant and considerate, while to me I thought he extended an air of
patronage.
The old Wilfred had gone, and a new Wilfred had taken his place; a
Wilfred who was brilliant, gallant, scholarly.
I remember that we dined early that day, and after dinner I went out
alone, as I often did, and sat upon the great headland which stood out
against the sea. I remained there some time thinking, and wondered
what kind of a life we should lead now that Wilfred had come back. I
felt in some way that I had no right to my father's estate; I was not
fit for it, and that I lived there on my brother's bounty.
These thoughts were disturbed by the sound of voices, and looking up I
saw a sight that caused my brain to whirl and my heart to throb
violently.
Wilfred and Ruth were walking arm-in-arm, and he was looking at her at
once tenderly and with an air of proprietorship. Then I knew what I
did not know before, then I realised what nearly drove me mad. I loved
Ruth Morton with all the strength of my being, while she, I could tell
from the tender confiding look on her face, was in love with my brother
Wilfred.
I staggered to my feet, scarcely knowing what I was doing, and stared
them in the face foolishly.
"Ah, Roger," said Wilfred, lightly, "enjoying yourself in the old way?
All play and no work. Happy fellow, you, Roger; but then, some people
are born lucky."
I felt myself treated as a child. There was a jeering look upon his
face as he spoke, and his tone was that of a man speaking to another of
inferior intellect.
I did not answer his sally. I only felt desirous of joining in their
walk, of having a chance, no less than he, of speaking to Ruth; so I
stammered out:
"You are going for a walk; let me go with you."
He did not hesitate a minute before replying, and in the same tone as
he spoke before.
"You won't mind, I'm sure, Roger, when I tell you that we prefer taking
this walk alone. We haven't met for three years, and have so much to
say to each other."
Again I was treated as a child, and I became angry. I was about to say
something very foolish, but before I could utter the words they were
gone, and I heard Wilfred laugh a low, jibing kind of laugh.
I think I was mad during the remainder of that afternoon. My brain was
on fire, and everything seemed to whirl around me. My love was no
sooner known to myself than the object of it was snatched from me by
another, and that other my other brother.
I tried to convince myself that he was more worthy than I. I told
myself that I was a country bumpkin, an ignorant clown, and unworthy to
aspire to a maiden like Ruth Morton. That I was under a curse, that I
dared not leave the Trewinion lands for six months at a time, and that
it was better she should love Wilfred. This however, did not satisfy
me. Try as I would to stifle it, I could not help thinking I had more
claims to her love than he. What had he done for her? Nothing! I, on
the other hand, had twice risked my life for hers. But for me she
would have died, and yet she had bestowed her love on another. Had
she? I was not sure, and yet there could be little or no doubt about
it. Wilfred was capable of winning any woman's affection, and I felt
certain she would not resist his wishes. The very first day of his
return they had gone away together, and no doubt he would impress her
with his cleverness and greatness.
I would know the truth and that soon. Such was my determination. I
would ask her to walk alone with me as she had done with Wilfred, and
then I would find out.
I cannot describe my new found love, or, rather, the knowledge of the
love I had felt for years. It was so strange, so great. I had from
the first taken a special interest in Ruth; from the first I had
regarded her as a very dear sister. Now she was a thousand times more
than a sister. Nothing was too good for her. My one great thought was
to give Ruth happiness and joy. Why, then, did I not without a murmur
sacrifice her to Wilfred. Surely he could give her more happiness and
joy than I? Strange as it may seem, I felt that he could not. I
shuddered at the thought of her belonging to him in any way, and I
ground my teeth at the thought of their being together.
Perhaps this was because of my jealousy. Nevertheless, I am sure that
rough, uncouth, ay, half savage as I was, I would willingly have laid
down my life to save her from pain.
I had no chance to speak to her that day, nor the next, nor indeed for
many days. When my chance came, something stepped in between us.
Either Wilfred was with Ruth, or my mother claimed the girl as her
companion. I need not say that this maddened me more than ever and
made me act in anything but a creditable way. I would leave the merry
family party and go down to the village to talk with the fishermen. I
would seek to forget my own sorrows by laughing at their jokes, or
entering into their lives. Again, I would indulge in long, lonely
walks, or go away fishing alone. I knew I was fighting against my own
interests by doing this. I knew I was allowing my brother to use every
fascinating art in his power.
At length, my time came. We had all been out in the harvest fields
together, watching the reapers cut the golden wheat and gather it into
sheaves.
Surely the earth has few fairer sights than this! I have travelled
over a great deal of the globe, but I have seen nothing fairer than our
old Trewinion fields at harvest time. Especially was this so beneath
the light of the harvest moon. I shall never forget it. As twilight
faded, a thin mist rose from the earth, which, as the pale moon's rays
shone through it, looked strangely beautiful. The corn moughs
(stacks), too, looked weird and ghastly in the dim light, while the
silver sea in the distance made a low, delicious music as it gently
rippled on the shore.
In the distance I could hear the men and women singing on their
homeward way some plaintive Cornish songs, which to me blended sweetly
with the low sighing of the wind.
Ruth and I had by some means became separated from the rest, and my
heart fluttered rapidly, for I had determined to find out if she loved
my brother Wilfred. It has never been my way to lead up slowly to a
subject. What I have to say I must blurt out at once, ofttimes in a
way that gives pain to those to whom I speak.
"Ruth," I said, "I have long wished to tell you something."
"Have you, Roger?" she said, cheerfully "then tell me at once, for you
have made me curious. What can you wish to say to me?"
There was no hesitation, no trembling in her voice.
She spoke as naturally as my own sisters might have spoken.
"Let us go home by Pentvargle Cove," I said, "and turn in at
Honeysuckle-lane."
"Very well," she said, gaily; "and you'll pluck some of the honeysuckle
for me, won't you? I can smell it from here; how delicious it is.
Wouldn't Wilfred enjoy this?"
She was thinking of Wilfred even now, when she was alone with me, and I
was about to burst out with an angry remark about my brother when I
looked down into her face.
To me it seemed like the face of an angel. Her large, lustrous grey
eyes had a far-away look in them, and an expression of sweet, placid
contentment rested on every feature. Never have I seen a face so
sweet, so beautiful. Tenderness, truth, purity were there, mingled
with courage, sacrifice, daring. It was a face never to be forgotten
when once seen. Never did I love her as I did then, and I could not
say angry words about my brother.
I have said I was clumsy in my mode of expression. I could say nothing
as it should be said; and now, when I felt I ought to be more than
usually careful, I was more than ever confused.
"Come Roger," she said, "what is it you want to tell me?"
"I want to know, Ruth," I said, my voice trembling, "why you shun me,
dislike me, hate me so?"