Chapter X: The Gathering Darkness

As I made my way along the dim corridors, fear gripped me. The weird form I had seen between the prongs of the "Devil's Tooth" had told me of darkness to come. This accident to my father was the fulfilment of the omen. Arrived at the door of my father's bedroom I heard muffled voices within; but no sooner was my arrival known than I was immediately admitted. I found my father propped up in the bed by pillows. There was a ghastly cut upon his face, and his hair was clotted with blood. Evidently, too, he was suffering great pain, and he breathed with difficulty.

No sooner did he see me than he beckoned me to approach. Although I did not notice them at the time, I found out afterwards that my mother was there, and Mr. Polperrow, the vicar, together with Mr. Inch and the family doctor.

"Roger!" said my father, hoarsely.

"Yes, father," I said, coming up and kneeling by his bedside.

My presence seemed to soothe him, for he gave evidence of less suffering, and a look of peace stole over his face.

He laid his right hand upon my head fondly. "My eldest-born boy," he said, slowly, "my big-hearted son. I am going to die, Roger," he said.

"No, father, no!"

"Yes, Roger, 'twill soon be over. Only a few hours at most. I have met with an accident, my boy. I was riding from Truro, and got near home, when three men, who had been drinking hard at the tavern near by, came out from the hedgeside and frightened Bess; she is a very flighty mare, you know. She gave a side leap and threw me. My foot caught in the stirrup, and I was dragged along the road until I fancy the mare trod on me."

He said this quite calmly, as though it were a matter of everyday occurrence. As for me, I could not speak, my heart was nearly bursting with pain.

"I want to say a few more things to you before I die, my own boy," he continued, slowly.

"Say what you will, father, but don't talk of dying. Surely, surely, the doctor here can make you well again."

"No, no, Roger, no doctor can cure me," and he looked wistfully into the doctor's face, who shook his head sadly. Then I felt sure that my father's words would come true; that soon I should lose him.

The doctor felt his pulse; then said that what my father wished to tell me must be told quickly.

"Yes, yes," said my father. "You, Roger, are my first-born, my own boy," and again he lingered lovingly over the words.

"Your own boy," I repeated, proudly.

"You are Trewinion's heir," he continued, "the master of all the Trewinion lands. You remember what I told you years ago, my boy?"

"Yes, father."

"Ever remember them, Roger. Be careful."

"I will, father."

"There were other things in connexion with the history of our people that I meant to tell you, but I kept putting it off, and now it's too late; but perhaps it's as well as it is. You will find them out in time. God grant you may be prepared. What I want to say now refers to Wilfred, and to Ruth Morton."

I scarcely breathed. I thought I should hear something that would make clear my future relation to Ruth, and would clear up the mystery that I felt existed in regard to my brother and myself.

"Wilfred----" he hesitated a moment, and then his eyes sought my mother's. Instantly she came to his side, and looked at him strangely. He heaved a sigh, and continued:

"Wilfred is younger than you, and does not by law inherit any of the Trewinion lands. I have left him money, however, and given him a good education, still----"

"What, dear father?"

"I fancy he thinks himself hardly treated. If you like, Roger, you might grant him an annuity," and he named a sum.

"God is my witness, father, that I'll be true to your wishes; if I can, I'll give him more."

"That's my own boy, Roger. He will not need it; but it's perhaps best."

I looked at my mother as he said this. There was a terrible look on her face. I cannot describe it. Mockery, disdain, anger, despair, vindictiveness were all stamped there, but I heeded little; I was too intent on catching my father's every word.

"With regard to the girls, Roger, they will live on with you. I have left them a farm each--bought with the money saved through the years. The rents of these farms have been, and are, accumulating. It's all written down, and, when the lawyer comes, you can go into everything. These farms, and the money received from them, will be their wedding portion if they marry; if they don't they will never be in want."

I could only say, "Yes, father."

"If it's God's will," he went on, "Wilfred will succeed Mr. Polperrow and have the Trewinion living, unless anything happens to you, then--then he will be Trewinion's heir."

Involuntarily I again looked at my mother's face. There was exulting triumph on it, mingled with a look of terrible hatred. I did not know what it meant, nor could I conjecture.

"But I hope there's no danger of that," he continued. "You are my eldest born, my own boy."

How fondly he repeated these words, and how proud I felt, in spite of my grief, as I heard him speak them; and so I again repeated:

"I'm your own boy."

"There's just one other matter I'm going to speak to you about," he said, after a pause. "I ought to have spoken to you about it before; but I thought there was plenty of time. Mr. Inch, will you come near?"

The old man came up with a stately step. He had always been treated with great respect in our house, especially as he was Ruth's valued friend, and had much to do with the managing of Ruth's estate.

"You remember," went on my father, and I noticed that he spoke with more difficulty, "the night you saved Ruth?"

"Yes, father."

"I had been in communication with her father prior to that; indeed, as you know, we had been friends for years."

He turned to Mr. Inch when he said this, and went on:

"You know Mr. Morton's wish with regard to Ruth, Mr. Inch; he told you before he died all about it?"

"Yes," said Mr. Inch, "and it was mentioned in his will."

I looked again at my mother. There was a stony look upon her face. It was ghastly to see.

"Yes, to be sure," said my father, "it was mentioned in the will. What was his lifelong wish, Roger, was also mine. His desire and mine was, and is, that our families should be united, that you should wed Ruth."

In spite of the tragic circumstances, my heart gave a wild leap for joy! Ruth, my darling, my life, would be mine! It was her father's wish, and she, I was sure, would be faithful to his least desire. I could bear anything now!

"Will you do this, Roger?"

"Gladly, if Ruth will, father," I said huskily.

"Forgive me for interposing," said Mr. Inch, "but you have not exactly stated the true conditions of Mr. Morton's will."

"In what way?" asked my father.

"What Mr. Morton stated in his will was that he desired his daughter Ruth to marry the heir of the Trewinion estate, so that not only might the families be united, but the estates also be joined."

"Well, is not Roger the heir of the Trewinion lands?"

"Yes, but you mentioned just now the possibility of anything happening to your elder son, then, of course, your second son would take his place."

"Yes, yes. Of course, of course," said my father, wearily.

"Does Ruth know about her father's wish?" I asked.

"No, not yet," replied Mr. Inch, "he thought it best that it should be kept from her until she reached her twenty-first birthday, unless necessity arose for her being told. No such necessity has arisen, and hence she remains in ignorance of the arrangement that was made between her father and Mr. Trewinion."

"Everything else I have stated in my will," said my father, "and all things are arranged in due form. Roger, my boy, you will try and be true to the Trewinion's name?"

"God helping me, I will," I said, "but, father, have you anything to say about my mother?"

"Your mother!" he repeated, vacantly. "Ah, yes, of course, she will live on here--unless--but that is all arranged. You need not worry about her."

Inexperienced as I was, I could not help thinking that this was strange. Why should my mother's welfare be dismissed in such a careless way? I could not understand matters. Perhaps, however, everything was privately arranged, and my father did not care to speak before those who were outside our family circle.

I looked at my mother again, but this time her face told no story. Evidently, I was to know nothing about her future, at any rate, for the present.

After this my father grew weaker rapidly, and although he suffered but little pain we knew that his life was fast ebbing away.

What I felt as I sat and watched I cannot describe, for he desired me to remain to the end. Nor will I try and write about the farewell between him and Wilfred, and my sisters, and Ruth. Such scenes are not to be written about; they cannot be. Even now that solemn hour comes back to me, and I try to realise, as I tried to realise then, that my father's spirit went to be with God.

Oh, this mystery of death! It surrounds us all, and yet we understand it not. There we stood talking with him, who was soon to be no more with us--and we knew it. What would become of his spirit? We did not know, we could only hope. Would father become nothing, or would he live on? I could not realise the fact of his death then. I can barely do so now. For one hour my father talked to us. His brain thought, his tongue spoke, his soul felt, the next--he was gone; and yet he was not gone. He lay there, the father I had embraced, and yet he did not lie there. The body could not love, and my father _did_ love me.

After we had sat some time in silence, Mr. Polperrow spoke to my father. He asked him if he felt himself safe for the next world; but father answered him not.

"You have always been a good churchman," continued Mr. Polperrow, "and have always been regular in partaking of the Holy Communion."

My father smiled, I thought sadly, and then he beckoned to me again. He looked as though he had something to tell me--at least, I thought so--and I put my ear close to his mouth. He was now very weak, and spoke with difficulty; but I thought I caught the words:

"Be careful."

I thought he referred to the legend about the curse and assured him that I would be careful, but he did not seem satisfied.

"Beware of----" he said, and seemed to hesitate before pronouncing the word that would make the sentence complete. He looked round the room until his eyes rested on the place where my mother and Wilfred stood, then he sighed deeply.

"I will beware of everything wrong," I said, in trying to lead his mind from difficulty or doubt. "You are sure everything is well with you. No vestige of the curse remains with you."

He looked at me strangely, then a smile lit up his face and a new light beamed from his eyes.

"There is no curse," he said. "God is love."

These were his last words. Soon after his soul took its flight into the unseen.

Then I went out into the night alone. One by one the events of the day flashed through my mind, until I was sick and dizzy.

I was terribly excited; but beneath the excitement was a dull, aching pain. For hours I walked the headland and tried to realise that my father was dead, that I should hear his voice no more; but realisation was impossible. I had seen him ride away in the morning, a handsome, robust, man in the prime of life, and now----.

In my grief for him everything else had for the time been forgotten. Everything had been dispelled by this great calamity, and what was hardest of all to bear was that I was not sure that my father was--somewhere. I could not think of him as being in hell. I could not think of God, father, and hell at the same time, but was he anywhere?

"Father," I cried, "let me know that you are somewhere! Let me hear you speak, if only a word; only to know that all is well."

The night was very still. Not a breath of wind stirred, the harvest moon was just sinking into the sea, and the water was all aglow with its light. But I heard no voice. Even the sea made no noise, so still were its waters.

"Ah!" I cried, "my father is gone, for ever gone, and I am cursed with the curse of my people."

Was it fancy? Was it the voice of man or the voice of God that I heard in answer to my despairing cry? Fancy it could not be, for it was past midnight and I stood alone on the great headland. Surely God spoke to me, for there, alone in the silence, I heard my father's last words repeated. How they came I know not, but this I know, in tones sweeter than thought can fancy came the glorious message, "There is no curse, God is love."

After that I was able to think and connect, link by link, the events of the evening.

And all this was but the twilight which told of the coming night.