A WANDERER
I went on heedlessly for a mile or so. I was stunned, and felt strange
and giddy; but by and by I felt I must come to such decision in regard
to my course. So I struck into the main road, and continued my journey
northward. By this time I felt the warmth and brightness of the day.
The sun was now clear of the horizon, and revealed the glittering
dewdrops that hung on grass and flower. The majestic hills rose on
either side of me, the waving cornfields presented a rich and beautiful
appearance.
The glories of nature did not soften me, however. My heart was still
hard with hatred and disappointment, and I was too busy with my sad
thoughts to decide what to do, or to what town to steer.
Presently a man met me, the first I had seen since I started. He was a
farm labourer, taking his oxen to the fields to plough, and on looking
at my watch I found that I had been walking for about six hours, and
that I must be at least twenty miles from home. The man touched his
hat, although I was sure he did not know me. Evidently my dress was
not that of a workman. If I was to get a place as a workman, I must
dress like one.
"Where does this road lead to?" I asked of the man.
"Dun knaw, zur, I'm sure, but they do zay as 'ow it do go to
Waadbrudge."
"Wadebridge, eh? Do you know how far it is away?"
"No, zur, I doan't, for I never bin more'n vive mile away from
Treloggas, which is my home, zur, but my maaster es a bit of a
traveller, zur. He've bin to Bodmun, and he do zay as 'ow Waadbrudge
es fifteen mile on."
"Fifteen miles. Is it a good road?"
"Oi, iss, zur. You do git into the turnpike dreckly (directly), and
then the roads sa smoove as a booard."
"And is there a publichouse anywhere near?"
"Iss, zur, 'bout three mile on thurs a kiddley-wink (beershop) that do
belong to Tommy Dain, he as can raise the devil, you do knaw, zur."
This helped me to decide what to do. Wadebridge was a little seaport,
and there I should perhaps get on board a vessel that would take me
right away from home. Then, perhaps, when I was away on the rolling
seas, I should forget my disappointments, and find ease from the
gnawing, bitter hatred that had gripped my heart.
Inspired by this thought I hurried on rapidly. I was beginning to feel
hungry and faint after my long walk, so was glad to know of the inn,
even although Tommy Dean, the landlord, possessed such powers.
Arrived there I had a good breakfast of ham and eggs, after which Tommy
brought out a tankard of ale. I was about to drink it when I
reflected. But for drink my father's horse would not have been
frightened and I should not now have been fatherless. But for drink I
should not now be homeless and friendless. Drink had deprived me of my
dearest, best friend, and I would have none of it. So much did this
impress me at the time that I made up my mind never to touch intoxicant
again; at any rate, until I saw sufficient reason to alter my mind.
After breakfast I felt that the twelve miles which lay before me were
as nothing. In three hours, if nothing happened, I should be in
Wadebridge.
Nothing of importance happened on the way. Milestone after milestone I
passed wearily. I had little object or hope in life. I had sacrificed
my all for the sake of others, and it brought me no happiness. When I
reached Wadebridge my interest was somewhat aroused. My knowledge of
towns was very limited. I had only paid two or three visits to our
county towns, which are, to say the least of them, small and to some
extent uninteresting. Twice I had been to Truro, and once to Falmouth;
thus when I came to Wadebridge, I was somewhat excited. Such a thing
seems strange to me now, when I remember the facts of the case.
Wadebridge was only a little village composed of one street, which led
down to the river Wade, over which a bridge is built, hence the name of
the port.
There is a curious story among the Wadebridge people as to how their
bridge was built. Many years ago there was a ferry across the river,
but it was the frequent custom of farmers to ride their horses or drive
their cattle across it when the tide was low, but often men and beasts
were lost in the quicksands formed in the rising tide. After one sad
accident of this sort, the Rev. Mr. Lovebone, the vicar of Wadebridge,
determined that a bridge should be built, and after great pains and
struggling it was finished with seventeen arches of stone. But in
spite of their great labour, disappointment and defeat followed in
their track, for pier after pier was lost in the sands. A "fair
structure" was to be seen in the evening, but in the morning nothing
was left. Mr. Lovebone was ready to give up in despair; but one night
he dreamed that an angel came with a flock of sheep, that he sheared
them, let the wool fall in to the water, and speedily built the bridge
on the wool. Then the holy man awoke with a new idea. He appealed to
the farmers, who sent him all the wool they had, which was put into
sacks; these were placed thickly on the sands, and on these piers were
built. Thus the wisdom of the angel of the dream was manifest, for the
bridge remains to this day.
The harbour is not very wide or large at Wadebridge, and vessels of
large dimensions can only come in when the tide is high.
The first thing I did on my arrival was to go to a small shop where
seafaring apparel was sold. The owner looked at me curiously, as I
asked for a general rig out, but showed me what I wanted nevertheless.
I was not long in making a bargain, and then asked for permission to
change my attire.
"Ain't bin doin' nothin' wrong, I hope?" he said.
"Not to my knowledge," I replied.
"Cause you do'ant look much like a chap as is used to wearin' a
sailor's clothes," he said.
"No," I answered. "What do I look like, then?"
He looked at my hands, then at my shooting suit, and again at my face,
and replied slowly:
"Why, you do look look like a passen's son as hev got into trouble and
be now runnin' away; ed'n that about right, now?"
"Not exactly," I said, "but I'm sure you'll allow me to change my
clothes, won't you?"
He gave an unwilling consent at length, and I confess that, when I had
put on a rough suit of seaman's clothes, I hardly knew myself. I went
across the bridge to the little village of Egloshayle, and walked
towards Slades Bridge, which lay in the direction of Bodmin.
"Now," I said to myself, "you are no longer Roger Trewinion, but a
common fisherman, who is desirous of going to sea. Forget the past.
Forget that you are the heir to a fine estate, forget that you have
given up all for love."
But I could not do this. True, there was a sense in which all seemed
like a dream, so that the past was misty; but above all was the fact of
my great and burning love for Ruth, a love so intense as to lead me to
sacrifice everything that she might be happy with the man whom she
loved, and whom I hated, although he was my brother.
The thought was madness. My sacrifice seemed madness, and once I
thought of going back again. That, however, was soon banished, for
although my coming away might be the action of one who did not know
what he was doing, to go back would be to strike despair and anguish
into the heart of Ruth, and that would be hell for me.
No, I had fought that battle. I had made Ruth happy. I should soon
become as nothing to them, and thus Wilfred and my mother would have
their own way, and be joyous because I was no more. That was
something, and yet I was sure that Wilfred had schemed for such an end.
What definite reason I had for this I could not tell, but I was sure of
it, and I hated him. True, I had gone away freely, and yet I had been
driven away; things had been so arranged that I could not stay to be a
skeleton at the feast, a hindrance to all joy.
I ceased to think about it at length, and tried to bring myself into
harmony with my surroundings. What should I call myself? I could not
ask for a sailor's position as Roger Trewinion, and yet I did not like
to give up my name. Finally I decided to call myself Richard
Tretheway. It was a very common name, and by this name I should still
retain my initials. Where I came from was a matter of little
importance; there were lots of little fishing villages all the way down
the coast; so I settled on one near my old home, and made my way to the
riverside where some vessels lay. The captain of one of them struck my
attention in a minute. He stood quietly watching some men who were
loading the boat with corn. He was not swearing or bullying as some of
the others were, and I determined to speak to him.
"And what may you want, my lad?" he said as I went up to him.
"A job, sir," I said, with a strong Cornish accent.
He looked at me keenly. "What can you do?" he said.
I named the work I could do on a ship.
"Let's have a look at your hands?" he said.
I showed him my hands. They were not so soft as those of most young
men in my position. I had done an amount of harvest work, and thus,
with constantly rowing and engaging in other physical exercises, they
were almost as hard as an ordinary seaman's.
"What have you been brought up to?" he asked.
"Fishing."
"That's a lie. You are neither a fisherman nor a sailor."
I hung my head.
"Yes, you may hang your head, my lad, for you are not what you seem."
Again in a clumsy way I repeated the duties of both, but the captain
would not listen.
"Yes, yes, my young gentleman, you may know about these things as well
as I do, but that don't deceive me. You were never brought up to work,
you weren't; but you are a strong likely chap for all that."
I tried again to assure him that I could do a sailor's work well.
"Now, look here, young man," he said, "I'm an oldish chap, and have
seen a bit of the world, and have learnt to read a little of men and
things, and although you are not what you want to pass off to be I like
your looks. What you mean by being here I don't know; but that's not
my business, and I do want a likely young fellow like you. Answer me
square and fair. Are you seeking to get on this vessel because you've
done anything wrong, are you in fear of anybody or anything, and is
anybody after you now?"
I liked his plain question, and I answered plainly.
"I have done nothing wrong, sir," I said; "I am not afraid of anything
or anybody, and no one is after me now."
He looked at me straight in the eyes, but I met his gaze fearlessly.
"What's your name, my lad?"
"Richard Tretheway."
"That is not your real name?"
"No."
"You are sure you are doing nothing wrong in concealing your true name?
Be perfectly honest."
"I am doing nothing wrong. I am doing what's right."
"I'll take you," he said.
I thanked him.
"Look you," he said, "expect no favours; you must do your work fair and
square like the rest. We go from here to Padstow, then on to Falmouth,
from there to Plymouth, then to London. From there, if you behave
well, I'll take you to France and down the Mediterranean. Do what you
have to do here quickly. It's high tide at six this evening, and then
we shall sail."
"Thank you," I said; "I have nothing to do, but I'll go and get some
dinner and then come straight back."
As I said this I turned to go; but the captain laughed and called me
back.
"Look you, Tretheway," he said, "if I hadn't known you were a greenhorn
to this kind of thing before I should know it now. You haven't said
anything about wages."
"I'll leave that to you," I said confusedly, and then went back to the
town.
I shall not dwell on my experience that evening, nor, indeed, shall I
speak of many of my adventures, as I want to relate only those facts of
my history which are vitally concerned with the name I bear, with its
associations and legends.
The next afternoon we sailed past my old home. Long before we drew
near it, I saw the grey tower on the great weather-beaten cliff, and
with beating heart I stood on the deck and watched while we drew nearer
and nearer. I strained my eyes to catch sight of any of my family, but
no one could be seen. Closer and closer we came, the great prongs of
the "Devil's Tooth" standing out more clearly as we swept on.
Did anyone there think of me? I wondered. Yes, they would naturally do
that. My mother would think of me, and be glad I was gone, for her
favourite boy would be master. Wilfred would think of me, and wonder
if I should come back, and, perhaps, dread the thought of such a thing
happening. My sisters would think of me lovingly, and wonder what had
become of Roger. And Ruth--I dared not think of her.
Who had seen my letter? I wondered. My mother was the most likely one
to do so, or Wilfred, and they would treasure up the words I had
written, they would weigh well their purport. But would it be shown to
Ruth or to my sisters?
My dear, dear old home, how I loved it! It was there I was born, it
was there my father had died. So near was I to it, and yet so far.
Besides, it was mine no longer. I had given it up to make the woman I
loved happy, and to keep it from being hell to me.
My thoughts were rudely checked. Two persons stood together on the
headland, the headland on which my home stood, and they were evidently
looking at the ship in which I was sailing. Who were they? I strained
my eyes to see. They looked like Wilfred and---- I dared not think of
it, the thought was maddening. I would not believe that Ruth was out
walking with Wilfred so soon after my departure, and on the very day
when she was reported to be leaving for her home.
Yet why not? By this time they had, perhaps, publicly announced
themselves as lovers; and yet they dare not. My departure could not
yet be regarded as a settled thing, and my mother had told me that Ruth
would be true to her father's wish. As yet I must be regarded among
them as Trewinion's heir, and thus she would look upon me as her future
husband. How, then, could she be encouraging the man she loved, when
she would regard it as a sin to do so?
But was it she, was it Wilfred?
The captain's glass was near me, and I seized it. I brought it to the
right focus. I saw them plainly, Ruth and Wilfred standing side by
side, with her hand resting on his arm. There could be no mistake.
Yes, she would know all by this time; she would know that I had given
up everything for her happiness, and she had accepted it without a
pang. She had come out alone with the man who had stepped into my
place.
It was base ingratitude. She was not worthy the sacrifice. I would
leave the vessel at Falmouth, go home, and destroy their plans; I would
claim my own again. As for Wilfred, I would whip him like a dog, and
drive him from the place.
I know my thoughts were confused, and unreasonable, but I think I was
mad, for I stamped my foot in my rage.
I heard a noise behind me and turned round. The captain stood coolly
watching me. Instantly, my position burst upon me, and I was confused.
"Well, Richard Tretheway," he said, "and what have you been using my
glass for?"
"It is a fine old headland, sir, and I wanted to see it."
"Ay, and it's a fine old house on the cliff, eh. Whom does it belong
to?"
I was silent.
"Ah, well, lad, I will not pry into your secrets; sometime, perhaps,
you may want to tell me," and he walked away.
Still I watched, while the couple on the cliff became more and more
indistinct, and the old grey tower seemed to melt away in the steely
sky, and as it did so my feelings softened, for I felt I was bidding
good-bye to it for ever. My love for Ruth began to exert its power,
and although I felt bitter, the thought of going back to wreck her
happiness was repugnant.
On, on we swept, until Ruth and Wilfred could no longer be seen, and
the old house was hidden by the prongs of the "Devil's Tooth." Then I
broke down and sobbed like a child. Now, indeed, I was alone and
without a friend. There was no brightness in my sky, no hope for the
future. Truly I was sad at heart. With that the words of old Deborah
Teague came back to me.
"Mind, mind Trewinion's curse, tes comin', tes comin'. I see Maaster
Roger homeless, friendless, despised, disgraced. Mind, Maaster Roger,
mind."