Chapter VIII: The Beginning of the End

O beware of my lord of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on: that cuckold lives on bliss
Who, certain of his fate, love not its wronger.
But O, what damned minutes tells he o'er
Who dotes yet doubts; suspects yet fondly loves.
--_Othello._

Alone in my room that night I began to think again. I had hurried back from the cave with fearful speed, never daring to stop or think. Now I could do both, and for hours I tried to solve the problem before me. What was the meaning of this night's adventure? Had these women the power to rid me of a terrible calamity, or were they seeking simply the protection I should be able to afford in the future years? They were all in bad repute, and ofttimes the anger of the people was aroused against them, thus if they could gain my friendship they would be comparatively safe. Did they seek to frighten me into a promise, or was there some dread meaning in their words?

These questions drove me to pray, or rather, to say my prayers. I did not, could not, really pray. To me there was no real God. All was as misty and unreal as the mythical stories I had read about the fabled Greek gods. For hours I sought light, and help, and strength; but none came, and when daylight came I was still in doubt.

The next day I passed by old Deborah's cottage. I thought she might have something to say to me, but when she saw me she, bent her head and would not answer to my "good-day." Try as I would I could not help feeling that she had ill-will against me, and would lose no opportunity to do me an injury. Once I thought of speaking to my father about it; but I dared not tell him that I had been to Fraddam's cave at midnight; that act was in itself enough to bring darkness to my future, if there were any truth in the stories which floated in the very atmosphere of my life.

Days lengthened into weeks, and weeks into months, and nothing happened. Old Mally Udy passed and re-passed me, but she gave no sign of our midnight encounter. She dropped her usual curtsey of respect when she saw me. Thus it was that the awe of the night in Fraddam's cave died out. I gave up seriously thinking about it, and as the affairs of the Trewinion estate began to rest on me my mind was fully occupied.

During the months that followed, I believe I was moody and taciturn. At any rate, my sisters did not find so much pleasure in being with me as formerly, while Ruth was still my mother's companion. She was always kind to me, and seemed glad if she were able to do little sisterly acts, but we were never alone together, and never were there any confidences between us.

On my twenty-first birthday there were great festivities at our house. All the tenant farmers, their wives, and their children, together with the cottagers and labourers on the estate, were invited. These, with the neighbouring gentry, made a gay scene. There was one vacant place, however, which largely spoiled the enjoyment of the day. This was my brother Wilfred's. He had been pressed to return home, but had refused to do so, even for the celebration of my coming of age. Indeed, he intimated that he did not wish to do so until his three years of college life should come to an end.

My father was annoyed at this; but my mother said not a word. It seemed to me that she had expected things to turn out so, and was not at all surprised. Her behaviour to me after my birthday was more cold than ever. She took no pains to make herself friendly towards me, yet, unless Deborah Teague were right, she was my mother.

The months slipped rapidly by, until three years had elapsed since Wilfred had gone to Oxford, and now he was daily expected to return.

During that time none of us had seen him except my father and mother, who had travelled to Oxford specially for that purpose. My two sisters often speculated what he would be like, how he would act, while Ruth, too, seemed to look forward with great pleasure to his return.

Ruth had grown to be a beautiful woman. She was by no means tall or stately, but she was as fair as a spring morning, and lovely beyond compare. Great pains had been taken with her education, and this, added to her personal charms, caused her to be envied for miles around by girls of her own age.

Her old friend Mr. Inch had remained at our house all this time, and tried to gratify her every wish. He was friendly with Wilfred, and I found out that they corresponded regularly. With me, however, he was not nearly so friendly. He was always polite, almost painfully so; but he never looked me straight in the face, and often, I thought, regarded me with dislike. I explained this, partly by the fact of my uncouth ways, and partly by his intimacy with my mother, who regarded him with great favour.

At length the day arrived when Wilfred came back. I shall never forget it, for it began a new era in my existence. I awoke on the morning of that day bright and cheerful, with not a cloud that was worth the mentioning upon the sky of my life. When I retired to rest all was changed. I awoke a boy, I went to sleep a man. But for that day these confessions would never have been written; the events I shall relate would never have come to pass. Even now, as I look back, my heart beats more rapidly at the thought of it, and a strange feeling possesses me, which reminds me of what I felt then.

I remember how anxiously I saw the horses being attached to the old family carriage, and with what joy I saw my father and mother driven away to meet the coach by which Wilfred was to come. I longed, as much as any of them, to see him, although I said but little about it, for, in spite of his apparent dislike of me, he was still my brother, and I loved him very much.

We all stood at the old hall door as the carriage drove up, and watched my father alight. Then another form stepped on the hard gravel, and carefully assisted my mother.

I should scarcely have recognised him as my brother. He had gone away but little more than a boy, he had returned a handsome, cultured man. He was not big and clumsy like myself, but tall and lithe, and yet exceedingly muscular. There was grace in his every movement, while refinement was stamped upon his handsome face. I could not help feeling the contrast between us. I was a great boorish country clown, he was as handsome as a Greek god. Surely, too, there was a look of malicious satisfaction on my mother's face as she saw the difference between us. He seemed to change the very atmosphere of the house. Everything had a new meaning when associated with him. My sisters looked at him with admiration, while Ruth was evidently fascinated by the charm of his presence.

In his boyish days he had often seemed sulky, but that was all gone. His demeanour towards my father was at once respectful and affectionate, to his mother he was kind and loving, to the girls he was gallant and considerate, while to me I thought he extended an air of patronage.

The old Wilfred had gone, and a new Wilfred had taken his place; a Wilfred who was brilliant, gallant, scholarly.

I remember that we dined early that day, and after dinner I went out alone, as I often did, and sat upon the great headland which stood out against the sea. I remained there some time thinking, and wondered what kind of a life we should lead now that Wilfred had come back. I felt in some way that I had no right to my father's estate; I was not fit for it, and that I lived there on my brother's bounty.

These thoughts were disturbed by the sound of voices, and looking up I saw a sight that caused my brain to whirl and my heart to throb violently.

Wilfred and Ruth were walking arm-in-arm, and he was looking at her at once tenderly and with an air of proprietorship. Then I knew what I did not know before, then I realised what nearly drove me mad. I loved Ruth Morton with all the strength of my being, while she, I could tell from the tender confiding look on her face, was in love with my brother Wilfred.

I staggered to my feet, scarcely knowing what I was doing, and stared them in the face foolishly.

"Ah, Roger," said Wilfred, lightly, "enjoying yourself in the old way? All play and no work. Happy fellow, you, Roger; but then, some people are born lucky."

I felt myself treated as a child. There was a jeering look upon his face as he spoke, and his tone was that of a man speaking to another of inferior intellect.

I did not answer his sally. I only felt desirous of joining in their walk, of having a chance, no less than he, of speaking to Ruth; so I stammered out:

"You are going for a walk; let me go with you."

He did not hesitate a minute before replying, and in the same tone as he spoke before.

"You won't mind, I'm sure, Roger, when I tell you that we prefer taking this walk alone. We haven't met for three years, and have so much to say to each other."

Again I was treated as a child, and I became angry. I was about to say something very foolish, but before I could utter the words they were gone, and I heard Wilfred laugh a low, jibing kind of laugh.

I think I was mad during the remainder of that afternoon. My brain was on fire, and everything seemed to whirl around me. My love was no sooner known to myself than the object of it was snatched from me by another, and that other my other brother.

I tried to convince myself that he was more worthy than I. I told myself that I was a country bumpkin, an ignorant clown, and unworthy to aspire to a maiden like Ruth Morton. That I was under a curse, that I dared not leave the Trewinion lands for six months at a time, and that it was better she should love Wilfred. This however, did not satisfy me. Try as I would to stifle it, I could not help thinking I had more claims to her love than he. What had he done for her? Nothing! I, on the other hand, had twice risked my life for hers. But for me she would have died, and yet she had bestowed her love on another. Had she? I was not sure, and yet there could be little or no doubt about it. Wilfred was capable of winning any woman's affection, and I felt certain she would not resist his wishes. The very first day of his return they had gone away together, and no doubt he would impress her with his cleverness and greatness.

I would know the truth and that soon. Such was my determination. I would ask her to walk alone with me as she had done with Wilfred, and then I would find out.

I cannot describe my new found love, or, rather, the knowledge of the love I had felt for years. It was so strange, so great. I had from the first taken a special interest in Ruth; from the first I had regarded her as a very dear sister. Now she was a thousand times more than a sister. Nothing was too good for her. My one great thought was to give Ruth happiness and joy. Why, then, did I not without a murmur sacrifice her to Wilfred. Surely he could give her more happiness and joy than I? Strange as it may seem, I felt that he could not. I shuddered at the thought of her belonging to him in any way, and I ground my teeth at the thought of their being together.

Perhaps this was because of my jealousy. Nevertheless, I am sure that rough, uncouth, ay, half savage as I was, I would willingly have laid down my life to save her from pain.

I had no chance to speak to her that day, nor the next, nor indeed for many days. When my chance came, something stepped in between us. Either Wilfred was with Ruth, or my mother claimed the girl as her companion. I need not say that this maddened me more than ever and made me act in anything but a creditable way. I would leave the merry family party and go down to the village to talk with the fishermen. I would seek to forget my own sorrows by laughing at their jokes, or entering into their lives. Again, I would indulge in long, lonely walks, or go away fishing alone. I knew I was fighting against my own interests by doing this. I knew I was allowing my brother to use every fascinating art in his power.

At length, my time came. We had all been out in the harvest fields together, watching the reapers cut the golden wheat and gather it into sheaves.

Surely the earth has few fairer sights than this! I have travelled over a great deal of the globe, but I have seen nothing fairer than our old Trewinion fields at harvest time. Especially was this so beneath the light of the harvest moon. I shall never forget it. As twilight faded, a thin mist rose from the earth, which, as the pale moon's rays shone through it, looked strangely beautiful. The corn moughs (stacks), too, looked weird and ghastly in the dim light, while the silver sea in the distance made a low, delicious music as it gently rippled on the shore.

In the distance I could hear the men and women singing on their homeward way some plaintive Cornish songs, which to me blended sweetly with the low sighing of the wind.

Ruth and I had by some means became separated from the rest, and my heart fluttered rapidly, for I had determined to find out if she loved my brother Wilfred. It has never been my way to lead up slowly to a subject. What I have to say I must blurt out at once, ofttimes in a way that gives pain to those to whom I speak.

"Ruth," I said, "I have long wished to tell you something."

"Have you, Roger?" she said, cheerfully "then tell me at once, for you have made me curious. What can you wish to say to me?"

There was no hesitation, no trembling in her voice.

She spoke as naturally as my own sisters might have spoken.

"Let us go home by Pentvargle Cove," I said, "and turn in at Honeysuckle-lane."

"Very well," she said, gaily; "and you'll pluck some of the honeysuckle for me, won't you? I can smell it from here; how delicious it is. Wouldn't Wilfred enjoy this?"

She was thinking of Wilfred even now, when she was alone with me, and I was about to burst out with an angry remark about my brother when I looked down into her face.

To me it seemed like the face of an angel. Her large, lustrous grey eyes had a far-away look in them, and an expression of sweet, placid contentment rested on every feature. Never have I seen a face so sweet, so beautiful. Tenderness, truth, purity were there, mingled with courage, sacrifice, daring. It was a face never to be forgotten when once seen. Never did I love her as I did then, and I could not say angry words about my brother.

I have said I was clumsy in my mode of expression. I could say nothing as it should be said; and now, when I felt I ought to be more than usually careful, I was more than ever confused.

"Come Roger," she said, "what is it you want to tell me?"

"I want to know, Ruth," I said, my voice trembling, "why you shun me, dislike me, hate me so?"