CAIN
And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to
receive thy brother's blood from thy hand. . . . A fugitive and a
vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.
And Cain said to the Lord, My punishment is greater than I can
bear.--_The Book of Genesis._
At last, I had told her. The dread truth which I had trembled for her
to know was made known. Word by word, sentence by sentence, often
hesitating, often stammering, I related our meeting, the awful struggle
on the cliff with its terrible ending.
Then I felt her tremble.
"And Wilfred is dead?" she gasped.
"Dead," I repeated.
"And you killed him?"
"I--I killed him."
"Then you are a--a----"
"Yes, I am. My God, I am a murderer!"
I felt her shrink from me, I saw the blood recede from her face, and in
another second she lay motionless in my arms.
I laid her gently down in an old settle, and ran into the hall shouting
for help. The two women servants who had attended upon lier quickly
appeared.
"Your mistress!" I gasped. "Make haste."
They hurried to the room and found Ruth lying as one dead.
I could not stay there while they tried to restore her. I felt I had
killed her, and my head whirled so that I could scarcely stand. Until
then I did not know what a man could bear and still live. No tongue or
pen can describe what I suffered. I had been in hell the night before;
it was worse now. Then only the death of the man whom I had hated
pressed on my conscience, now, I feared, I had by the same deed killed
my darling, whom only a few hours before, I had taken from a living
grave.
Presently I heard the sound of horses' hoofs on the gravel outside the
house, and in another minute the village doctor entered. Unknown to
me, Mr. Inch had sent for him, thinking Ruth might need his advice.
Evidently, too, the servant who had been to fetch him had told him of
the strange event that had happened, for when he saw me he exclaimed:
"Great heavens, you did it, did you? Well, its the most wonderful
thing that ever happened."
I think he would have stayed a few minutes with me had I allowed him,
but I hurried him quickly to the room where Ruth was, while I stayed at
the door and listened.
At length I heard a woman's voice say, "She's coming to," and a great
burden rolled away from my heart. At all events, Ruth's death would
not lie at my door, and so far my mind was at rest. By and by I heard
more whispering, and then I heard Ruth speak. Was she not asking for
me? I thought so; certainly, I heard my own name.
I entered the room, and found Ruth sitting up, while the doctor was
walking excitedly round the room, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
She looked up and our eyes met. Then I knew that a great gulf was
between us, as great as the gulf that lies between Heaven and hell.
She could not come to me, I could not go to her. We were divided, not
by distance, but by my guilt. We were in the same room, and yet, now
that she knew what I had done we could not be as we were.
In spite of this, however, I made a step towards Ruth as if to take her
hand, but I saw as I came nearer a look of terror came into her eyes,
and she shrunk from me with a cry of pain. Now I knew my doom was
sealed, and without a word I turned and walked away from her. I loved
her still; God only knows how; but I could not stay with her when my
presence caused her so much pain. Nay, I felt that if my love were
worthy the name, she must never see me again. Would she not feel that
she had loved a man whose hands were stained by his brother's blood?
I did not even say "good-bye." I do not think I could have done so,
for weights seemed to hang upon my lips. Yet it was terribly hard to
go. We had been separated for more than ten long years, and then we
had met, as perhaps lovers never met before, met for a few brief hours
only to be again divided.
I stood alone in the hall, as if waiting for some voice to recall me,
but I heard none, so I placed my hat upon my head to go out alone. As
I walked towards the door I thought of the sweet hours we had spent
together, and of the Heaven of which my sin had deprived me. But
nothing could undo the past. I must reap the harvest of my sin.
Before I had gone far, however, Mr. Inch stepped out of one of the
rooms and met me.
"Are you going out," he said in astonishment.
"Yes."
"But why? Surely there is no reason."
"Yes there is."
"But you are not going far? You will soon return?"
"I do not know how far I shall go; but I shall never return."
He looked at me in wonder; then a look of intelligence came into his
face as though he had guessed the reason of my departure.
"Perhaps you do not know Miss Morton's feelings toward you," he said,
with a smile. "This wonderful night has doubtless made us all
half-mad; but don't forget what it was that caused her illness and, as
we thought, her death."
"I know all," I said, "but I must go."
I placed my hand on the door handle when a thought struck me, and I
turned to him again.
"But remember for all that," I said, "that Miss Morton is not without a
friend. Remember that I know how false have been your dealings with
her, and now, if she be defrauded of one penny in the future, or if you
in any way seek to take advantage of her, you shall be thrown into a
felon's cell. Your past shall only be forgiven on the condition that
your future be blameless."
"Roger Trewinion!" he cried, "I know it may sound cowardly to shift a
sin upon another's shoulders, but your brother is guilty of all the
real wrong. I was only a weak tool in his hands. But for the future,
so help me God, I will serve my mistress faithfully."
"See that you do," I said, and then, leaving him half dazed, I went out
of the house.
Thus I was alone again, alone in the night! My sin had driven me away,
and now I was cast upon the world again, with no one to help me, no one
to love me. For I could not for a minute think that Ruth could love me
now that she knew what I was, and of what I had been guilty.
Down the long avenue I tramped, thinking all the time of what might
have been, and hating myself for what I had done. For a time I went
heedlessly, and then I began to decide which course I should take.
I have heard it said that murderers are always possessed by the ghastly
desire to look on the face of their victim, to visit the scenes which
are associated with the deed that cursed them for ever. Whether this
be true or not I cannot say, but I had not gone far, before I was
filled with the dread longing to go back to the spot where Wilfred and
I had struggled, and yielding to it I started to retrace the weary
steps which I had trodden only a few hours before.
After walking two or three miles in a vague, half conscious sort of
way, I felt a great desire to sleep, and seeing by the light of the
moon a haystack in a field close by, I clambered over the hedge and
walked, towards it. I found it to be only half-built; evidently, there
was a late crop of hay being carried, and most likely the stack would
be finished the next day. A pile of hay was lying on one side, waiting
to be thrown on the stack, and on this I threw myself, and quickly fell
asleep.
When I awoke it was broad daylight, and from the sound of voices near
me, the haymakers were evidently at work. I rose up from my
resting-place, and as I did so, those who had been partaking of
croust[1] gazed at me in astonishment.
I was not dressed like an ordinary tramp, however, and so was treated
civilly.
"Will you tell me what time it is," I said, after some remarks had been
passed.
"Nearly leben o'clock in the vorenoon," said one of the men. "'Ave 'ee
bin slaipin' here oal night?"
I nodded.
"Then you must be awful ungry."
"Yes," I said, "have you anything to eat?"
For reply, a basket containing a good deal of wholesome food was placed
before me. I ate heartily, for I was hungry, and after making a good
meal prepared to go on.
The men did not ask me who I was, or where I was going, but looked
smilingly on the few coins I gave them, and wished me a good journey.
I went on in a dazed way the whole of the day, stopping only once for
refreshment at a little wayside alehouse. I inquired of the landlord
if he had heard any news, but he said, No, nothing had happened except
that his sister-in-law had got another, her eleventh baby. As I did
not regard this of much importance, I trudged on again as soon as I had
finished my meal. That I might be going in the teeth of danger did not
occur to me; in fact, I never troubled about any punishment for my
deed, except the terrible punishment of my conscience.
About eight o'clock in the evening, I entered the parish of Trewinion,
and soon, as if drawn by a magnet, I found my way to the place where
Wilfred and I had met.
How vividly everything came back to me, and yet I seemed to have lived
long years since we met. Only two days had elapsed; and I had seemed
to have grown old in that time. In my excited imagination I pictured
him coming towards me again; but soon my illusions were dispelled.
I looked up towards my old home, wondering if I should see any signs of
what had happened, but the house was quiet, and, except for a few
lights that flashed from the windows, I saw no signs of life. The
prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" still lifted themselves in the air, but
no light was there; evidently Betsey Fraddam was not visiting her old
haunt that night.
Again I stood on the place on which we had wrestled, again I looked
from the dizzy heights on the rocks below, as if trying to see Wilfred,
but nothing was visible. The rocks told no stories; the moaning sea
did not recount what had become of my brother's body.
Had he been found, I wondered? It could scarcely be otherwise.
Fisherman were constantly tramping along the beach, and when he was
missed search would certainly be made. Still it might not have so
happened; I would go down to the beach to see. The tide was ebbing
out, and I could easily walk along the sands at the foot of the cliffs.
I went to the place where a rough track had been made, and soon got on
the beach. It was a glorious night; the sea shone beneath the silvery
light of the moon, and had I any melody in my heart the splash of the
water on the beach must have made music to me; but there was nothing
but remorse and despair within me, thus, what would have otherwise have
been a song of gladness was only a wail of misery.
When I came to the place beneath the point where we had wrestled, I
looked for a sign of Wilfred's body, but there was nothing to be seen,
nor was there any marks on the sand, not even a footmark was visible.
This was not altogether strange, for the tide would have washed away
any such marks, and yet I wondered at none being visible when such a
terrible tragedy had taken place.
Near here was a cave, and, scarcely knowing what I was doing, I entered
it. I spoke, but was frightened by the echo of my own voice. I dared
not stay there long. Every sound was magnified so, and as the waves
broke upon the shore their echo thundered around the walls of my grim
resting-place, until it seemed filled with thousands of dark spirits of
the dead.
I went out again into the night, and wandered on until I came to the
witches' cave. I seemed drawn, as if by a charm, and for a minute I
had a strong desire to go where I had gone long years before, when
Deborah Teague tried to make me promise ever to be her friend; but
fancying I heard sounds within the dark confines of the cavern, I
hurried away filled with superstitious fears.
Then a new feeling possessed me. I must get away from England and
never return. There was no hope; no peace for me here. Wilfred was
dead--destroyed by my hand, and Ruth loathed me. I would go away on
the wild seas again, and perhaps, although I could never know
happiness, I might find forgetfulness. Here I should be ever haunted
by fears; here, too, I was in danger of the law, once away I should be
safe.
The thought brought relief, it gave me something to do. It was an
escape valve for my feelings, and without waiting a second I started on
the road to Falmouth.
A few days later I was sailing down the Bay of Biscay, bound for
Barcelona, where I hoped I might find Salambo, who had been captain of
the pirate ship.
[1] "Croust" is a corruption of the word "carouse." This designates a
meal which harvesters and haymakers have between ordinary meals on
account of specially hard work.--EDITOR.