ROGER TREWINION.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLII, Issue 12833, 5 April 1905, Page 2 (Supplement)

ROGER TREWINION.

-iPtrBLISHM) JJT•■SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.]

m ■ • W .V;:V':/*V "••; ; '" j ' . "V s : ";V V- "•' ' BY JOSEPH HOCKING. Anthor of "The Coining of the Kiuff," " All Men Are Liars," "The Story of ' . ■ Andrew Fairfax,", etc., etc. -,

, . CHArTER XIII. - A WASDEBKB. ■*_ ■ • •s'•> Too hard to bear! Why did they take me thence! /..• , „ , m , 0 God Almighty, blessed Saviour. Thou That didst uphold mo on my lonely isle. Uphold me. Father, in my loneliness A littlo longer! Aid me, give me strength Not to tell her. never to let her know! Help me not to break in upon her peace. And lie lay tranced; but when he rose and paced Hack towards his solitary home again, All down the long and narrow street he went, Beating it in upon his weary brain, As though it were the burthen of a song, "Not to tell her, never to let her know!" Enoch Arden." 1 went on heedlessly for a mile 01* so. I-was stunned, and felt strange and giddy; but bj-and-by I felt I must come to some decision In regard to my course. So I struck into the main road, and continued my journey northward. B> this time I felt the warmth and brightness of the day. The sun was now clear of the horizon, and revealed the flittering dewdrops that hung on grass and flower. The majestic hills i 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 tlio man. £/ t "Dun knaw, zur, I'm sure, but they do zay as 'ow it do go to Waadbrudge." j?. 5 ' Wadebridge, eh? Do you know how far it is away?" v " No, zur, I doan't, for I never bin more'n ' vb» mile away from Trelowgas, which is my home, zui, but my maaster es a bit of a traveller, zui. 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 drectiy (directly), and then the roads sa smoove as a booard." " And is thcr. a public-house anywhere near?" "Iss, zur, 'bout three mile on thurs a kiddley-wink (beejqshop) that do belong to Tommy Dain, ho 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 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 ban 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 beer frighten--3 ed and I should not now have been fatherless.. But for drink I should not now be homeless and friendless. Drink had " deprived me '•£ my dearest, best) friend, and I would hav-i" uone of it. 'So much did this impress me at the time that . I made .up my mind never to touch intoxicants 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, *i nothing happened, I !: should be in Wadebridge. Nothing of importance happened 011 the way. Milestone after milestone I passed wearily.. I had little object or hope in life. - I had sacrificed my all for thejfcakb 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 country towns, which are, to say the least of them, small and to some > extent uninteresting. Twice I had been to 1 Truro, and once to Falmouth; thus when I came to Wadebridge, I was somewhat ex- ; cited. 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 beast? | were lost in the quicksands formed in the rising tide. After one sad acicdent of this sort, the Rev. Mr. Lovebone, the vicar of Wadebridge, determined that a bridge should be built, and after great pains rand struggling it was finished with severteen arches of stone. But in spite of their { great labour, disappointment and defeat followed in their trade, for pier after pier was lost in the sands. A " fair structure " was to bo 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 thai an angel came with a flock i; of sheep, that ho sheared them, let the wool fall into the water, and speedily built the -•bridge on tha wool. Then the holy man . awoke with a new idea.. He appealed to the farmers, who sent him all the wool they fca£, which was pot into sacks; these were 'placed thickly oa the sands, and on these ; pie» were built. Thus the wisdom of the auqjel of .the dream was manifest, for the ■ • bridge remains to this day. ' > Ttu harbour is not very wide or large at ; tWideiwidge, and vessels of large dimensions pas only come in when the tide is high. ; The first thins I did on my arrival was . to go to a small shop where seafaring apiparel was sold. Thr owner looked a* me .. curiously, as I asked for a general rig out, ' bit allowed me what J wanted, nevertheless. I -was not long in making a bargain, and that naked for permission to change my attire. : ~ ; : "Ain't bin doin' no&hin' wrong, J hope?" be said. <■ ''' "♦'Not to my knowledge," I replied. * Causa yon do'ant look much like a chap as ». used to weariii' * sailor's clothes," he said. "No," I answered. "What do I loot v fife, then?" ' f He looked at my hand!?, then -at* my shooting suit, and again at my face, .md replied slowly: * "Why, you do look like 8 passen's poa as hev gob into trouble and be now I'iamin' away; ed'n that about right, now?" "Not exactly," I said, "but I'm sure you'll allow Sie to change my clothes, Ijnm'ti you?" •He gave an unwilling consent at length, and I confess that, when I had put on , xMight suit of seaman's clothes, I hardly knew myself. I went • across the Midge to the little village of E'gloehavle, an walked towards Blade's Bridge,; which lay in the direction sf Bodmin. "Now," I*said to nyself, "you are 110 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 :fei 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 lore so intense as to lead me to sacrifice everything that she might be happy with th« ma?:- whom she loved, and whom J j fc*ted, «l{hough hi was my brother. .-"ffli® thought .was madness. 7 My sacrifice deemed madness, and once I thought of going pack Sj;ai% That, however, was coon ban- * ■ _

ished, for although my coming away might be the action of one who did not know what he was doing, to go back would, bo 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 bo 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, 1 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.

Still, Ruth could not be forced to love Wilfred and not me. She could not, against her will, bo made to loathe the thought of marrying me, and that she did so I was sure.

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 1 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 1 should still retain my initials. Where I came from wa* 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 ay 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 whe were loading th& 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, sii," 1 c.aid, 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 1 do, bub that don't deceive me. You were never brought up to work, you weren't; but you are a strong, likely chaj. for all that." I tried again to assure him that I could do a sailor's work well.

"Now, look here, young man," ho said, I'm an oldish chap, and have seen a bit of the world. I 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 1 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 something 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 tc 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. Tie next afternoon we sailed past my old home. Long before we drew near it, I saw the grev tower on the great weather-'?eaten cliff, and with beating heart I stood op 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 ot th- " Devil's Tooth " standing out more clearly as we swept on. Did anyone there think o.me? I wondered. Yes, they would naturally do that. My mother would think of me, and be glad 1 was gone, foi her favourite boy would be master. Wilfred woulr 1 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—l dared not think of her." Who had seen my note? I wondered. My mothei 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 tc Ruth or to my sisters? My dear, dear old home, how I loved it! It was there I was born, it wae there my father had died. So near was I to if, and yet 60 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. But look? 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 way sailing. Who were they? 1 strained my eyes to see. They looked like Wilfred and— dared not think of it, the thought was maddening. I would not believe that Ruth was out walking with Wilfred so soon aftei my departure, and op 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 Trewiuion'o heir, and thus 'he would look upon me as her future husband. How, then, could she be encouraging the man she loved, when «be would regard it »a 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 i* to the right focus. I saw them plainly, Rut], and Wilfred' standing side by side', with her baud resting on his arm. There could be no mistake.

Yes, she would know all by this time; she would knot* that I had given up everything for hex 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 ba6« ingratitude. She was not worthy thr 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 im'ifie behind me and tinned round. The captain stood coolly watching me. Instantly my position burst upon me, and I wa,s confused. "Well, Richard Tretheway," he said, "and what have von been using my "lass for.' ' * • « "It is a Use old headland, ei»' t and i wanted to see it."

"Ay, and it's a fin- 'old..bouse on the cliff, eh ? Whom does it belong tc?" I was silent.... '- '.: '""'',:.-■ ''"--." 0.

''Ah, well, lad, I will not pry into your secrets; some time, 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 icit I was bidding good bye- to it for ever. My love for Ruth began to exert its power, and although 1 felt bitter, the thought of goin& back, to wreck hei happiness was repugnant. On, on we -wept, until Ruth and Wilfred could no longer be seen, and the old house was hidden by. the prongs of the " Devil's Tooth." Then,l broke down and sobbed like a child. Now, indeed, I was alone and without a friend. There was no brightness in- my sky, m hope for the future. Truly I was sad at heart. With that the words of old Deborah Tcague came back to me. "Mind, mind Trewin ion's curse, tes cornin", tea comin'. I see Maaster Roger homeless, friendless, despised, disgraced. Mind, Maaster Roger, mind." -, Wen these words fulfilled now? No, not yet.

(To bo continued on Saturday next).