THE CALL TO RENOUNCE
Whereat Siddartha turned,
And lo! the moon shone by the crab! the stars
In that same silver order long foretold
Stood in range to say, "This is the right!--Choose thou
The way of greatness or the way of good;
To reign a King of Kings, or wander lone,
Crownless, and homeless that the world be helped."
--_The Light of Asia._
After this I went back to my room, and tried to realise the true
position of matters. One by one I thought over the events of the day,
and tried to understand their purport. "There's Providence in the fall
of a sparrow," said Hamlet, and I, being to a certain extent a believer
in this, fancied that everything through which I had gone was an
essential part of the drama of my life.
First, there was Ruth's preference for Wilfred and her dislike for me.
Well, I must bear that. Besides, I was not sure. It is always the
function of a true-hearted woman to speak well of the absent one,
especially if he be maligned. I would not yet allow myself to be
downcast.
Then there was the light on the great rock, the rock of evil repute,
the rock that lured vessels to their destruction. I thought again and
again of this. Then there was the appearance of Deborah Teague, who
told me the light foreboded evil, while the weird dark form between the
prongs told the same story. On other occasions I might have laughed at
all this; but that terrible calamity following so soon after the
warning impressed me strangely.
Yet what connexion could these dark omens have with the death of my
father? What link was there between evil women and one of the purest
and best of men. Clearer than all omens and louder than evil words was
my father's last message to me, a message repeated by the voice of
Heaven, "There is no curse; God is Love."
Thus when daylight came, I was calm, and although I had passed a
sleepless night I was not altogether unrefreshed.
Three weary days followed, and then the funeral. Of that time I have
not much to say. I was mostly alone, except when I was obliged to
attend to the business which now devolved upon me, though I declared
that nothing of importance should be dealt with until after my father's
burial.
From the members of the family I received only kindness. My mother
said nothing that could hurt my feelings; indeed, she seemed
considerate and at times almost gentle. Wilfred, too, was more like
the Wilfred of olden times when we were on good terms with each other.
There was no change in my sisters. They always loved me, and were more
than usually loving, while Ruth was the comforting, cheering influence
of the house. Never until now did I realize the sweetness of her
nature, or her power to cheer and help others when her own heart was
almost breaking.
I could not do much; but in my clumsy way I tried to make them all feel
my father's loss less.
And thus the time passed until my father was laid in the old family
vault, and we returned to our old house on the cliff. Then we came
back to the hard material things of life. We had to listen to father's
last will and testament, and hear his latest wishes. All the family
gathered in the library, together with Mr. Inch, Ruth, our solicitor,
who also attended to the legal matters of Ruth's estate, Mr. Tremain,
the doctor, and Mr. Polperrow, the vicar.
I need not here state the terms of the will: they have already been
hinted at. Everything that a loving father could devise for the
welfare of his children my father had done.
Not a word was spoken when the lawyer's voice ceased. If Wilfred was
discontented he said nothing at the time, and my sisters were too
overcome with grief to trouble about what money was left them. No
sooner had the will been read, however, than Mr. Inch spoke.
"It seems to me that this is the time for the wishes of Mr. Morton and
Mr. Trewinion to be made known," he said.
I began to tremble violently, while Ruth evidently wondered what was
coming.
The lawyer complied very graciously with Mr. Inch's request. "This
seems to be the right time," he said.
I could not help thinking that the matter had been arranged beforehand,
especially when Mr. Tremain produced a certain document and began to
read therefrom.
The words he read were very plain and distinct. They stated that it
was the wish of Mr. Morton that his daughter Ruth should in due time
marry the heir of the Trewinion estate, and while he did not enforce it
as a condition of her becoming his sole heiress, he still trusted that
his daughter's love for him would lead her to obedience. After this
the lawyer went on to say that on the night of his death my father had
reiterated the same wish.
When he had finished reading and speaking I looked at Ruth. Her face
was pale as death, and I saw that she was terribly moved. The
revelation had come to her as a great shock, and I could not help
seeing that a look of anger and disgust flashed from her eyes.
"My father wish that I should marry Roger!" she exclaimed, huskily.
"Never! It cannot be!"
My heart sank like lead; but no further word was spoken. Soon the
family conclave broke up, and we adjourned to the dining-hall.
I felt very strange, sitting at the head of the table in my father's
chair, and for a time was almost overcome; but I rallied presently, and
during the dinner was quietly thinking what was best to do. Although
the head of the family, I felt I was quite alone. Everything told me
that all in the house, excepting, perhaps my sisters, were in league
with my mother against me.
I made up my mind, however, that I would not speak for three days to
Ruth concerning her father's wish, and that then I would, if I dared,
say the words my heart was burning to make known.
Nothing worthy of mention passed during the dinner-hour, but
afterwards, having occasion to go into the library, I found Ruth alone.
Instantly I wanted to refer to what had been said concerning us. My
blood rushed madly to my head and my hands trembled.
I do not know, but I think she saw what was in my mind, for she turned
away her face and walked toward the window.
"Ruth," I said, "why do you go away from me?"
She began to sob violently.
"Ruth," I continued, "something must grieve you to make you cry thus.
Is it because of what has been said about us? If so, do not grieve any
more. I will never ask you to do what would give you pain."
Her sorrow was terrible to see. Was it because of me that her grief
was so bitter?
"Don't give way so," I went on. "Shall I leave you alone? I am sure I
do not wish to give you any trouble. After our walk the other night I
determined I would never say another word to hurt your feelings, and
I'll be true to my determination. I did not mean to speak about the
will for some time, but perhaps it would be better if I were to tell
you now. Ruth, it is the dearest wish of my life that we should fulfil
our fathers' wish in this matter. I have loved you ever since--since
that terrible night, when you first came, but I never realized it until
the day that Wilfred came home from Oxford. Then I was nearly mad with
jealousy. I am afraid I have been very rude to you since, but it was
because I love you so, for Ruth, I would do anything to make you happy."
Still she sat leaning forward on a table, her head buried in her hands,
and sobbing as though her heart would break.
"It hurts me to hear you cry so," I said, "and I can see now why it is.
But cheer up, Ruth. I will not speak of this any more. I will never
ask you to obey your father's will. You shall not have the pain of
linking your life to mine. I love you too well for that. God bless
you, Ruth. I will try and find out what will make you happy, and then
you shall see how I love you; for I will do all in my power to give you
what you want."
She held up her head. There was an expression of thankfulness on her
face; a look of intense relief, as though a burden was taken away.
I knew my fate then; and while it gave me joy to give her one minute's
pleasure, yet it was agony to think that the promise of my absence
should be the cause of it. So great indeed was the pain that I could
not bear it, and stumbled blindly out. In spite of the fact that when
I got into the hall I thought I heard her calling "Roger" I rushed away
to the cliffs, whither I always fled in my hours of trouble.
But the events of the day were not yet at an end. As I stood alone
looking at the sea I saw a great cloud rising in the northern sky.
Soon I knew we should be enveloped in it and feel its darkness. In
like manner was there a cloud, darker than all the rest, rising in the
sky of my life. What it was I could not say; but I felt its coining,
and I shuddered. "Coming events cast their shadows before," says the
old adage, and looking backward I can see how true it was in this case.
Aimlessly I wandered on while the evening shadows gathered around, and
the sea sobbed its sad song, telling me of the storm that was surely
coming. As chance or fate would have it, I passed by the cottage of
old Deborah Teague, and there in the grey twilight I saw her, with
Mally Udy, quietly smoking. They looked up at my approach, but spoke
not. A low chuckle escaped both of them, however, but I had no heart
to speak to them. Still, their gruesome appearance added to the dark
feelings that possessed me, and the dark shadows became more real.
At length I made my way back to the house, and although I was its
lawful owner, and although every inch of land for a long distance
around was mine, I felt that I was a stranger and an interloper. It
was cold, too, cold as a vault, and as I passed along, the stone paved
hall made a clanking noise which echoed through the silent rooms. I
heard the wind howling too, and the sea began to roar, and when this
was so there was always a ghostly, weird feeling about our old grey
house.
As if drawn on by a spell, I made my way to the library, and on
arriving there found my mother sitting alone.
"I have been waiting for you, Roger," said my mother quietly. "I felt
there were some things about which I ought to speak to-night, and so
would not retire until I saw you."
"And what about the girls, mother?" I said. "Where are they, and where
is Wilfred?"
"They are all gone to bed. It has been a terrible day for them all,
especially for Ruth, and so I sent them off. Besides, we must speak
alone to-night."
"Speak alone, mother? I thought everything was settled. I am weary,
and desire no business to-night. I have had much to do for three days,
and have more to do to-morrow. I must rest."
"There is such a thing as duty as well as pleasure," said my mother
severely. "You are now Trewinion's lord, and surely it is your duty to
care about the happiness of others. Besides, a mother should ever be
able to command her son?"
"Just so, mother," I said wearily. "Tell me what you wish, and I will
do my best to obey you."
"Roger," she said in an altered tone, "you have had the reputation of
being kind-hearted and generous. I know you have often thought me hard
upon you; but if I have been so, it was only from the desire to make
you gentle as well as generous."
I looked upon her in surprise, and in spite of my sorrow my heart
bounded with hope. Perhaps my father's death had destroyed all hard
feelings, and now I should know the meaning of a mother's love.
"Mother," I said, "I have been rough and harsh. I'll try to be a
better son, and perhaps we may be happy in the future."
A sharp spasm, as if of pain, crossed her face, but she spoke naturally.
"It may be," she went on, "that what I shall say may hurt you, but I
only want to be a kind, loving mother."
My heart warmed more than ever. "I am sure that is your desire,
mother," I said.
She was silent for a minute, and again I saw the look of of pain which
crossed her face.
"Roger," she burst out, "what I have to say nearly kills me," and she
burst into a flood of tears.
I went to her side and soothed her.
"Don't grieve, mother," I said, "and don't say anything that will give
you pain."
"No, no, it's not that," she said, and then cried out, "I can't tell
him, I can't."
"Don't, mother," I cried. "Wait until you are stronger, and then tell
me. These few days have been terrible for you. I have been thinking
too much about myself. I have been remembering that I have lost my
father, but have forgotten that you have lost your husband. I know
it's terrible, mother, but dear father is happy now, and Wilfred and I
will take care of you."
At the mention of Wilfred's name her face changed. A look of
determination came upon her face, and her hands clenched nervously.
"Roger," she said, "I am calm now, and hard as it is to tell you I will
do so."
I sat down before her, wondering what was coming.
"You remember the night of your--your father's--death?"
"Yes, mother."
"He said it was his wish, and the wish of Mr. Morton that you should
wed Ruth."
"Yes," I said, my heart beating violently.
"Roger, that must never be!"
"Why?"
I spoke harshly, for my heart became hard as a stone, and yet it seemed
to grow too big for my bosom.
"Because," she answered, her voice trembling as she did so, "she
loathes, shudders at the thought of marrying you."
"How dare you say this?" I cried angrily, and yet I knew her words were
true. Ruth's face had told me the same story only that very evening.
"If you wish to drive her mad, kill her, murder her!" went on my
mother, "ask her to do as her father wishes."
"What is there in me to drive her mad, or to murder her?" I cried. "I
have always been kind to her."
"Nothing, nothing, Roger. She loves you as a brother. You have been
very good to her. None of us forget that twice you saved her life."
"Then why do you say she loathes me?"
"Can you not see what I mean? She does not loathe you as a brother;
but she loathes the thought of your being her husband, and were you to
insist on a marriage, you would kill her!"
"Why? You say she loves me as a brother; why, then, should the other
thought be so terribly abhorrent? Could she not in time learn to give
me more than a brother's love?"
"Never!"
"Why?"
"Because she loves another!"
"Another! Who?"
"Can you not guess?"
Guess! Ah, yes; I could indeed. Had I not seen it for weeks? My
mother need not tell me more. I knew perfectly well.
"Surely you have seen that they have been lovers from childhood," she
went on. "She has been all in all to him, while--well, you must have
seen how she regarded him. He did not speak to her about it, however,
until he came home from Oxford, and then, on the day of his arrival, he
told her what he had felt for years."
"And she?"
"She told him--that--what in short he had been longing to hear, and,
although we knew it not, they became betrothed."
It was what I had thought, it did not surprise me, and yet I felt sick
and giddy. It was some time before I could speak, and then I could
only stammer out:
"And she promised to be his wife?"
My mother nodded.
No words can describe what I felt, for never until then did I realise
how I loved her, or what pain it was for me to lose her.
"Do you love Ruth very much, Roger?" asked mother.
"Love her!" I cried, "love her! I would die for her."
"And she loves Wilfred, and would never be happy away from him."
I fought it down after a while; crushed all my envy, jealousy, and
hatred--for hate did possess me for a time--and then turned to my
mother again.
"Let Ruth and Wilfred be happy," I said, "I shall put in no claim, her
happiness is more important than mine."
"They cannot," said my mother.
"Cannot!" I cried. "Why?"
"Because it was her father's wish that she should marry Trewinion's
heir, and she will do it, though she dies the next day."
"I do not understand."
"You know how much she has ever thought of her father. No one I ever
saw loved a parent, or a parent's memory, as much as she loved her
father's. And now, although she would have to sacrifice everything
dear to her heart, she will be true to his wish."
"But I will not have it so. I will not call for the sacrifice."
"Then you are hindering her father's wish from being fulfilled, and you
will still be keeping Ruth and Wilfred apart."
"But what can I do?"
My mother was silent.
Then I saw her meaning. My very existence was the great evil. I was
Trewinion's heir, whom her father wished her to marry, and yet she
hated the thought of it; while she could not marry the man she loved
because of her father's will. Meanwhile she was suffering a terrible
torture--and I was causing it.
I tried to look at the whole matter fairly and boldly. What were the
alternatives? I was Roger Trewinion's eldest son, and if I allowed my
father's and Mr. Morton's will to be carried out, I doomed my darling
to a loathsome life--a living death, while, though I should attain the
object most dear to me, I should live in hell, the hell of being with a
woman who loved another man. If I refused to marry her, things would
be nearly as bad. I should still be dooming her to misery; she would
not marry my brother, I should never be free from the thought that I
was keeping others from happiness, while the two houses of Trewinion
and Morton would not be united.
Slowly it came at first! Then the full meaning of the thought flashed
upon me! I could not do it, I could not! And yet it was the only way.
Renounce my name, my possessions, my identity! Go away and never
return!
That was the alternative, the only way by which the houses could be
united, the only way Ruth could be happy.
"I see what you mean, mother," I cried out at last, "but I must have
time, I cannot decide in a moment. I must speak to Ruth, to Wilfred."
"Why speak to Ruth? You will only give her more pain. You spoke this
afternoon. Why cause her to bear more than she is already bearing?"
Ruth had told her, then, and doubtless told her, too, what were her
feelings towards Wilfred! I saw the truth, the force of her words, and
yet it was very hard.
"I must think, mother," I said. "I know you love Wilfred the better; I
know you think him far more fit to be the head of the house than I; you
think I ought to make the sacrifice, but I must have time to think."
"How long, Roger? The day after to-morrow Ruth leaves Trewinion Manor."
"Leave! Why?"
"Need you ask? She cannot wait here in the house with the man she
thinks she has to marry, when the thought of such a thing is terrible."
I was driving Ruth away then. Not only was I giving her pain and
sorrow, but because of me she was going to leave the only home wherein
she could be happy. It was true she could return to her own home,
which had been kept in repair, but I knew she did not intend going
there until she came of age.
"She does not wish to be with me longer than she thinks she is forced
by her father's will?" I said.
"She knows she is not expected to marry you until she is twenty-one.
That will not be for some time, and so she is going away."
This was hardest of all to bear, it drove me to madness. Her
detestation of me was so great that she determined to shun me.
"Just one word more, mother. Have you spoken to me because of Ruth's
desire, or with her sanction?"
A strange look flashed across my mother's face; then she said, "Roger,
never think I can answer that question."
My brain seemed on fire, and I could not tell what to do, I could not
decide. I simply rushed out of the room saying, "You will soon know."
I made my way to my room upstairs, and in passing along a corridor I
saw a light in Mr. Inch's room. Immediately I knocked at his door, and
on receiving permission, entered. I found him busy with a lot of
papers.
"Is it correct that you and Miss Morton are going to leave us, Mr.
Inch?" I said.
He bowed, and said, quietly but distinctly, "It is so decided."
"Might I ask the reason for this abrupt departure?" I said. "I have
heard nothing about it until to-night."
He looked at me for a moment steadily; then he said,
"It is not for me to say; surely you should know that it is next to
impossible for her to remain here now."
He also had told me in words as plain as words could tell what she
felt. I must think, think alone. I found my way to my bedroom, but my
mind would not work there. I must get out under the broad sky, where
all was free. So again I left the house, went away towards the highest
point on the headland, where, hundreds of feet below, the waves were
lashing themselves into foam as they broke upon the great rugged rocks.