WITHIN THE OLD HOME
Eleven long years. Yes, it was that since I had last stood by the hall
door. I had left it with a mad passion in my heart, with fierce grief
raging within me; I returned saddened by sin, stained by crime, yet
subdued and repentant and hopeful.
I could not help thinking of this as the bell clanged within the wide
hall and echoed through the silent house, while memories of the old
days flashed like lightning through my excited brain.
How singular it was, that I, the rightful owner, should stand ringing
for admission like a stranger, and more singular still it seemed at the
time, that I should for long years have been a wanderer away from the
home of my fathers. And I stood there as a culprit. I was about to
enter my home, only to come out a prisoner, a man accused of an awful
crime. I was not sure if they would hang me, for his death was an
accident. I did not hurl him from me; he slipped from my hands in
spite of me, and yet murder was in my heart.
And thus I stood at my own door after eleven years of weary wandering,
of lonely agony, of God-forsaken life, waiting excitedly, yet with a
numbing pain at my heart, for the meeting with my mother. Ah, how
should I look her in her face when she asked me for her son; how should
I withstand her withering scorn, her terrible wrath? It was eventime,
and the October winds had shorn much of the foliage from the trees,
what remained being russet brown. The wind, too, as it played amongst
the shivering leaves, told only a tale of decay and death.
At length I heard a step along the stone, corridor, an aged step, as
though the one who came was weary and tired. All this I noted as I
stood waiting while the door opened.
It was Peter Polperrow, who had been servant of Trewinion long before I
was born. He looked at me with some astonishment, not unmixed with
fear.
"Whom do you want to see, sir?" he asked.
"Mrs. Trewinion," I said.
He eyed me from head to foot, as if afraid that by admitting me, he
should be doing wrong.
"I cannot admit a stranger," he said at length, "and I cannot let you
see my mistress until I know who you are."
"Is she well?" I asked.
Again he seemed to wonder why I should ask such a question, and he
answered sadly:
"Yes, considering all things; but what is that to you? Who are you and
what do you want?"
I suppose I was not of a very prepossessing appearance. Like most of
my race, I was large and strong, but my clothes were somewhat coarse,
and my hands were brown and bare. Then my face was covered with a huge
brown beard, and I was tanned by long years of exposure to sea air.
"Take me to some room where we can talk together, Peter Polperrow," I
said.
"Peter Polperrow!" repeated the old man; "Who are you that you know my
name?"
"I will tell you soon, Peter," I answered; "meanwhile lead me to Mr.
Roger's old room. I will promise you no harm."
"Master Roger!" repeated the old man; "he has not been here for long
years. He has gone away, God only knows where for that matter; nearly
everybody believes him to be dead, and so I suppose he'll never return
any more. But what do you know of Master Roger?"
"Lead me there and I'll tell you. I can tell you many things you would
like to know."
He seemed to be staggered at my words.
"Do you know him?" he asked.
"Yes; I have seen him, and spoken with him."
"What! Seen Mr. Roger!"
"Yes."
New life seemed to come into his withered, aged form, a new interest
came into his aged face.
"Seen him! When, oh when did you see Mr. Roger?"
"I have been with him to-day."
Still the simple old man did not catch my meaning. He evidently could
not think that I was Roger.
"Where did you see him? Is he coming home?" he asked anxiously.
"Take me to his room and I'll tell you."
Without another word he led me to the room I used to call mine, I
feeling a kind of shiver as I stood within the walls of the old house.
At length we were alone, but it was dark there; we could scarcely see
each other's faces.
"Get a light, Peter," I said.
He hobbled away, and soon returned with a candle, revealing the
furniture of the room just as I left it years before.
"No one has slept here since Mr. Roger left," said Peter tremulously.
"I don't think that anyone dare that knew him, and certainly no one
should with my consent."
"No one but me, Peter," I said.
"What do you mean? Who are you, and--and when did you see Mr. Roger?
Tell me quickly."
"Peter," I said, "does nothing tell you? Hold the light to my face and
then think. Have you never seen me before?"
The old man held the candle as I had desired him, and looked steadily
at me, but there was no flash of recognition, no look of joyful
surprise.
"I doan't remember; I never seed 'ee before."
He said this dreamily, and in so doing relapsed into the old Cornish
vernacular.
"Look again, Peter. Remember how Wilfred and I used to wrestle on the
headland. Remember how I frightened you by telling you that Deborah
Teague had ill-wished you. Think of an awful storm, and that wreck on
the 'Devil's Tooth,' and of the young lady I saved. Can't you
recognise me now?"
Then old Peter knew me, and tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks.
"Oh, Master Roger," he said, "thank God you've come home; but to come
like this, to come home as a----" But he could say no more, he sobbed
like a child.
He had heard then. Somehow it must have been rumoured abroad that I
had killed my brother, and so my presence was painful to him. Perhaps
Bill Tregargus had told that he had seen me, and heard me vow
vengeance. Perhaps Ruth had in a moment of madness revealed the
terrible truth!
"Do you think my mother will see me, Peter?" I said to the faithful old
servant as gently as I could.
"Oh, Mr. Roger," he sobbed, "you was so young, so beautiful, so happy
in the old days, and I always looked forward to you becoming master,
and servin' you till I died, and now to see you come home like this, a
ringin' at the door, when you should have walked straight in, and to be
asked questions by me when----when----"
"Never mind, Peter," I said, "it cannot be undone now, but still you
won't mind doing something for me now, for the sake of old days."
"Do! I'll do anything," he cried.
"I'm going down to the library," I said; "will you go and tell my
mother to come there? but don't tell her it is I who want to see her.
Simply say that a stranger is asking for her."
I found my way into the library. Candles which cast a flickering light
were placed on the table, making the room ghostly enough.
How well I remembered the old place, and how memory after memory came
back to me as I waited there. I often thought of the time my father
had led me there on my fifteenth birthday, and told me of the curse of
my race, and many other things which seemed to have cast a shadow over
my life. Then I thought of how terribly his words had been fulfilled.
The story of the curse was no meaningless jargon. It contained awful
truths, which had been fulfilled in me. And yet I was not sure.
Perhaps what had happened was the simple outcome of broken laws;
perhaps Trewinion's curse was an old wives' fable. Still, the truth
that my life was cursed was ever before me. I felt that even then I
was, humanly speaking, branded with the hand of Cain. God had forgiven
me, but man never would; the sin of my life could only be wiped out by
yielding myself up to the hands of justice.
And this I had come home to do. I was waiting there to tell my mother
that I had murdered her dearest son, that I had taken all joy and
brightness from her life, and then, having brought the greatest sorrow
a son can bring upon a mother, I would go to meet my righteous judgment.
Presently I heard the sound of footsteps, and soon my mother entered
the room.
I had no difficulty in recognising her. Ten years had worked but
little change in her appearance. Certainly her hair was tinged with
grey, and the lines on her face were deeper, but otherwise there was no
difference. There was still the cold expression--which was ever the
same, except when her eyes rested on Wilfred--still the same stately
carriage.
She glanced at me for a second, and then asked my business.
"Mother," I said, standing up.
She looked at me keenly for a few seconds, then she cried hoarsely, "My
God, what brought you here?"
"Mother, forgive me," I said.
I thought she recoiled from me as if in abhorrence. I know that she
stepped back from me.
"Why have you come?" she said, and I saw fierce hate gleaming from her
eyes. "Have you not caused misery enough? Are you not content with
the lives you have poisoned? You went away; why did you ever come
back?"
"I could not rest, mother," I said, humbly, for I felt I deserved her
reproach. "I wanted to tell you all; I wanted your forgiveness."
"Tell me!" she cried, "as though I did not know. Forgive you, how can
I forgive you when but for you my boy might have been----"
"Let me tell you everything, mother," I cried. "God knows I have
suffered much for what I have done, but He has forgiven me, and I
wanted your forgiveness before I die."
"Do I not know? Have I not heard?" she went on. "Has it not been the
talk of the neighbourhood? Have you not ever been my son's enemy?
When you were children it was you who had your father's affections, it
was you who saved the life of the only one my Wilfred loved, it was you
who stood between Wilfred and his right position. It was you who kept
Ruth from loving him, and although you went away you were ever the
black blot on his life. And now you have come back again. Why? To
breathe more poison, to carry out more of your murderous designs."
"No, mother, I have come to atone for the wrong I have done rather than
to do more wrong."
"That can never be. You can never atone for the wrong you have done.
You were born to curse my son's life, and you have done it. You have
stripped my life of happiness, and now you come again, to take away
what paltry right, I suppose, you claim."
"But, mother!"
"Call me not 'mother,' you are no son of mine."
"Not your son!" I cried, "how can that be?"
She did not answer me, and my memory flashed back to the time when
Deborah Teague had hinted that she was not my mother. Now her mad
jealousy of my position was explained. Now I knew why Wilfred was all
and I was nothing. This woman was not my mother, and as a consequence
true affection had not existed between us.
"Whose son am I, then?" I continued, after a pause, "and who is my
mother."
"I shall not say," she said, "it is enough that you are not my son."
"And my sisters, Elizabeth and Katherine, are they not really my
sisters? If not, who are they, and who are you?"
"I shall not tell you," she said, and then stopped, as if in doubt.
"Yes, I will though," she continued. "You are not my son, for you are
the son of your father's first wife. No one here knew that he was
married before he married me, I made him promise none should. He never
brought his first wife home here, for he married her privately. He
would have brought her home when you were born had she not died. A few
months afterwards he married me, and I came home as his wife, and you
passed as my child, it being given out that we had been married more
than a year. When I had a child of my own I hated you, and when I saw
your father loved you best I hated you more. Now you know why I have
always been your enemy." This information stunned me. I had not
expected this kind of meeting. As yet no definite word had been spoken
concerning the real object of my coming all the way from Asia. I
determined, however, to do my duty and to confess my sin. Only when I
had realised strength to do the right had I realised ease of
conscience, and because Wilfred was only my half-brother was no reason
why I should keep back the words that seemed to burn my lips.
I was about to speak again and tell all when I saw a form in the
doorway which made me think my senses must have left me, and I had
become a madman.