THE VOICE OF A FRIEND
The journey to Barcelona was uneventful, at any rate for me. During
the whole time I lived in a kind of hideous dream. I was ever thinking
of what I had seen and done during the little time I had been in
England, but nothing was real save a horrible weight that oppressed me.
I know that the captain sought to be friendly, while some of the
passengers seemed to be interested in the sad, silent man who ever
sought to be alone, but I paid little heed to their overtures. How
could I when two ghastly passions, hatred and remorse, possessed me?
Sometimes I caught myself thinking of what Ruth had told me during
those two or three sweet hours we were together. I remember asking her
why she had seemed to love Wilfred the better, and why, when she saw
how I loved her, she did not in some way let me know that she cared for
me. And blushingly she told me that, besides the reports about my
boasting that she would have to marry me, which she only half believed,
she was afraid I would think her forward and immodest. This set me
thinking how it had all ended. How through misunderstandings our lives
had been ruined, until life seemed a tragedy, and Providence only a
dream. But no relief came to me, the burdens which I had myself made
still crushed me to the earth, and I could see no brightness in the
future.
We reached Barcelona at length, and I set out to find Salambo. I knew
that if all had gone well with him I should have little difficulty in
this. He had given me instructions which were unmistakable as to his
whereabouts, so I started at once for the house at which he told me to
inquire.
I found that this house was occupied by his own parents, and no welcome
could be warmer than mine when I told them my name.
I asked them if their son was well, and I quickly found that he was
well and happy, that he had found Inez, that they had been wedded, and
were living not far away from them.
Quickly I found my way thither, and soon Salambo and I stood face to
face. Only one look at him was enough to convince me that his parents
had told me the truth.
"All is well with you, Salambo?" I said.
"Ah, all is well," he cried, "the saints have been good to me. You
must see my Inez, she will be here directly."
This gave me a little hope. Salambo had committed a sin similar to
mine, and yet he was happy. He had become wedded to the woman he
loved, in spite of the terrible past. Might there then be some chance
for me? Not that I expected to wed Ruth, I gave up all thoughts of
seeing her again; but I might find rest from the terrible pangs which
now made life almost unbearable. I resolved before the day was over to
have a long talk with my old captain, and, if possible, to seek the
same means to obtain ease and happiness.
Presently his wife came into the room. They had only been wedded a
short time, and she blushed at being introduced as his wife; but I saw,
in spite of everything, that she was happy. Not that she looked free
from pain. There was a look in her great black eyes which told me that
she had suffered terribly in the past, and the silver streaks in her
raven black hair told the same story.
She was very beautiful, and I did not wonder that Salambo loved her.
From the way her eyes rested on him I knew that he reigned king of her
heart.
We sat together during the evening, sometimes talking and sometimes
listening to Inez--for such Salambo would have me call her--as she sung
some sweet Spanish love songs, until the time came for her to retire,
and then we two men, who had passed through many strange scenes, were
left together.
"You are very happy," I said, when she had left the room.
"Happy as man can be," he replied. "My Inez through all these long
years was faithful to me, and has ever been as pure as an angel. And
you, Tretheway, or rather, Trewinion, how did you find affairs at home?
not well, I fear."
I told him, just as I have written it in these pages, all that had
happened since I left him. When I described my meeting with Bill
Tregargus, and how I had heard that Ruth had died of a broken heart,
driven to death by Wilfred, I saw the tears start to Salambo's eyes,
and he eagerly asked what followed next. Then I told him of my meeting
with Wilfred, what we had said to each other, and how we had engaged in
a deadly struggle on the cliff.
"And didn't you kill him?" he cried, clenching his hands nervously;
"didn't you hurl the viper on the rocks beneath?"
"Would you?" I said.
"Would I?" he cried, "ay, and be proud that I had rid the world of such
a one. The saints would sanction such a deed."
I told him what had happened, at which he gave a great sigh as if of
relief, after which a scornful smile played around his mouth as I told
him of the terrible sufferings I had endured.
He did not speak a word during the recital of the visit to Ruth's home,
but gave a start as I told him of my determination to visit her grave.
Then he sat like one entranced as I described my entrance into the
church, and related how I lifted back the stone from the vault.
Breathlessly he sat while I narrated how I had removed the clasps from
the coffin and looked on the still face of my darling; and then leapt
like a madman from his chair as I told how I felt her hand move. After
that, while I related the remainder of my story, he walked up and down
the room excitedly, sometimes laughing and again giving a cry of
gladness, until I came to that part where I told Ruth of my sins,
whereupon he sat down again, still staring at me wildly.
"And you left her because of that?" he said in astonishment, when I had
finished.
"I could do no other," I replied.
"Ah, but you could," he cried.
"How?" I asked.
"Why, that action of hers did not express her aversion of you, or if it
did it could be easily overcome. You should have remained with her and
she would soon have forgiven you."
"How could she when I could not forgive myself? Besides, if I had
stayed in England I should have been arrested as a murderer, and that
would have brought her worse sorrow still."
"That need not have been," he replied. "You could have brought her
here, ay, and she would have gladly come, too."
I dismissed this suggestion, for I knew it was not possible.
For three weeks I remained with Salambo, then I felt that I could stay
in Barcelona no longer, and must be on the move. Bitter memories still
urged me to go somewhere, it mattered not where, in search of peace.
I told Salambo this, and he did his best to persuade me to stay with
him, Inez adding her entreaties to his; but I felt I could not.
Something, I knew not what, impelled me to leave them, so I got a berth
on board a vessel, and went away again to follow the calling I had
followed so many years.
We shook hands at the vessel's side; he to go back to his home and to
happiness, and I to sail down the Mediterranean, still in search of
rest and peace.