Chapter XI: The Call to Renounce

Whereat Siddartha turned,
And lo! the moon shone by the crab! the stars
In that same silver order long foretold
Stood in range to say, "This is the right!--Choose thou
The way of greatness or the way of good;
To reign a King of Kings, or wander lone,
Crownless, and homeless that the world be helped."
--_The Light of Asia._

After this I went back to my room, and tried to realise the true position of matters. One by one I thought over the events of the day, and tried to understand their purport. "There's Providence in the fall of a sparrow," said Hamlet, and I, being to a certain extent a believer in this, fancied that everything through which I had gone was an essential part of the drama of my life.

First, there was Ruth's preference for Wilfred and her dislike for me. Well, I must bear that. Besides, I was not sure. It is always the function of a true-hearted woman to speak well of the absent one, especially if he be maligned. I would not yet allow myself to be downcast.

Then there was the light on the great rock, the rock of evil repute, the rock that lured vessels to their destruction. I thought again and again of this. Then there was the appearance of Deborah Teague, who told me the light foreboded evil, while the weird dark form between the prongs told the same story. On other occasions I might have laughed at all this; but that terrible calamity following so soon after the warning impressed me strangely.

Yet what connexion could these dark omens have with the death of my father? What link was there between evil women and one of the purest and best of men. Clearer than all omens and louder than evil words was my father's last message to me, a message repeated by the voice of Heaven, "There is no curse; God is Love."

Thus when daylight came, I was calm, and although I had passed a sleepless night I was not altogether unrefreshed.

Three weary days followed, and then the funeral. Of that time I have not much to say. I was mostly alone, except when I was obliged to attend to the business which now devolved upon me, though I declared that nothing of importance should be dealt with until after my father's burial.

From the members of the family I received only kindness. My mother said nothing that could hurt my feelings; indeed, she seemed considerate and at times almost gentle. Wilfred, too, was more like the Wilfred of olden times when we were on good terms with each other. There was no change in my sisters. They always loved me, and were more than usually loving, while Ruth was the comforting, cheering influence of the house. Never until now did I realize the sweetness of her nature, or her power to cheer and help others when her own heart was almost breaking.

I could not do much; but in my clumsy way I tried to make them all feel my father's loss less.

And thus the time passed until my father was laid in the old family vault, and we returned to our old house on the cliff. Then we came back to the hard material things of life. We had to listen to father's last will and testament, and hear his latest wishes. All the family gathered in the library, together with Mr. Inch, Ruth, our solicitor, who also attended to the legal matters of Ruth's estate, Mr. Tremain, the doctor, and Mr. Polperrow, the vicar.

I need not here state the terms of the will: they have already been hinted at. Everything that a loving father could devise for the welfare of his children my father had done.

Not a word was spoken when the lawyer's voice ceased. If Wilfred was discontented he said nothing at the time, and my sisters were too overcome with grief to trouble about what money was left them. No sooner had the will been read, however, than Mr. Inch spoke.

"It seems to me that this is the time for the wishes of Mr. Morton and Mr. Trewinion to be made known," he said.

I began to tremble violently, while Ruth evidently wondered what was coming.

The lawyer complied very graciously with Mr. Inch's request. "This seems to be the right time," he said.

I could not help thinking that the matter had been arranged beforehand, especially when Mr. Tremain produced a certain document and began to read therefrom.

The words he read were very plain and distinct. They stated that it was the wish of Mr. Morton that his daughter Ruth should in due time marry the heir of the Trewinion estate, and while he did not enforce it as a condition of her becoming his sole heiress, he still trusted that his daughter's love for him would lead her to obedience. After this the lawyer went on to say that on the night of his death my father had reiterated the same wish.

When he had finished reading and speaking I looked at Ruth. Her face was pale as death, and I saw that she was terribly moved. The revelation had come to her as a great shock, and I could not help seeing that a look of anger and disgust flashed from her eyes.

"My father wish that I should marry Roger!" she exclaimed, huskily. "Never! It cannot be!"

My heart sank like lead; but no further word was spoken. Soon the family conclave broke up, and we adjourned to the dining-hall.

I felt very strange, sitting at the head of the table in my father's chair, and for a time was almost overcome; but I rallied presently, and during the dinner was quietly thinking what was best to do. Although the head of the family, I felt I was quite alone. Everything told me that all in the house, excepting, perhaps my sisters, were in league with my mother against me.

I made up my mind, however, that I would not speak for three days to Ruth concerning her father's wish, and that then I would, if I dared, say the words my heart was burning to make known.

Nothing worthy of mention passed during the dinner-hour, but afterwards, having occasion to go into the library, I found Ruth alone. Instantly I wanted to refer to what had been said concerning us. My blood rushed madly to my head and my hands trembled.

I do not know, but I think she saw what was in my mind, for she turned away her face and walked toward the window.

"Ruth," I said, "why do you go away from me?"

She began to sob violently.

"Ruth," I continued, "something must grieve you to make you cry thus. Is it because of what has been said about us? If so, do not grieve any more. I will never ask you to do what would give you pain."

Her sorrow was terrible to see. Was it because of me that her grief was so bitter?

"Don't give way so," I went on. "Shall I leave you alone? I am sure I do not wish to give you any trouble. After our walk the other night I determined I would never say another word to hurt your feelings, and I'll be true to my determination. I did not mean to speak about the will for some time, but perhaps it would be better if I were to tell you now. Ruth, it is the dearest wish of my life that we should fulfil our fathers' wish in this matter. I have loved you ever since--since that terrible night, when you first came, but I never realized it until the day that Wilfred came home from Oxford. Then I was nearly mad with jealousy. I am afraid I have been very rude to you since, but it was because I love you so, for Ruth, I would do anything to make you happy."

Still she sat leaning forward on a table, her head buried in her hands, and sobbing as though her heart would break.

"It hurts me to hear you cry so," I said, "and I can see now why it is. But cheer up, Ruth. I will not speak of this any more. I will never ask you to obey your father's will. You shall not have the pain of linking your life to mine. I love you too well for that. God bless you, Ruth. I will try and find out what will make you happy, and then you shall see how I love you; for I will do all in my power to give you what you want."

She held up her head. There was an expression of thankfulness on her face; a look of intense relief, as though a burden was taken away.

I knew my fate then; and while it gave me joy to give her one minute's pleasure, yet it was agony to think that the promise of my absence should be the cause of it. So great indeed was the pain that I could not bear it, and stumbled blindly out. In spite of the fact that when I got into the hall I thought I heard her calling "Roger" I rushed away to the cliffs, whither I always fled in my hours of trouble.

But the events of the day were not yet at an end. As I stood alone looking at the sea I saw a great cloud rising in the northern sky. Soon I knew we should be enveloped in it and feel its darkness. In like manner was there a cloud, darker than all the rest, rising in the sky of my life. What it was I could not say; but I felt its coining, and I shuddered. "Coming events cast their shadows before," says the old adage, and looking backward I can see how true it was in this case.

Aimlessly I wandered on while the evening shadows gathered around, and the sea sobbed its sad song, telling me of the storm that was surely coming. As chance or fate would have it, I passed by the cottage of old Deborah Teague, and there in the grey twilight I saw her, with Mally Udy, quietly smoking. They looked up at my approach, but spoke not. A low chuckle escaped both of them, however, but I had no heart to speak to them. Still, their gruesome appearance added to the dark feelings that possessed me, and the dark shadows became more real.

At length I made my way back to the house, and although I was its lawful owner, and although every inch of land for a long distance around was mine, I felt that I was a stranger and an interloper. It was cold, too, cold as a vault, and as I passed along, the stone paved hall made a clanking noise which echoed through the silent rooms. I heard the wind howling too, and the sea began to roar, and when this was so there was always a ghostly, weird feeling about our old grey house.

As if drawn on by a spell, I made my way to the library, and on arriving there found my mother sitting alone.

"I have been waiting for you, Roger," said my mother quietly. "I felt there were some things about which I ought to speak to-night, and so would not retire until I saw you."

"And what about the girls, mother?" I said. "Where are they, and where is Wilfred?"

"They are all gone to bed. It has been a terrible day for them all, especially for Ruth, and so I sent them off. Besides, we must speak alone to-night."

"Speak alone, mother? I thought everything was settled. I am weary, and desire no business to-night. I have had much to do for three days, and have more to do to-morrow. I must rest."

"There is such a thing as duty as well as pleasure," said my mother severely. "You are now Trewinion's lord, and surely it is your duty to care about the happiness of others. Besides, a mother should ever be able to command her son?"

"Just so, mother," I said wearily. "Tell me what you wish, and I will do my best to obey you."

"Roger," she said in an altered tone, "you have had the reputation of being kind-hearted and generous. I know you have often thought me hard upon you; but if I have been so, it was only from the desire to make you gentle as well as generous."

I looked upon her in surprise, and in spite of my sorrow my heart bounded with hope. Perhaps my father's death had destroyed all hard feelings, and now I should know the meaning of a mother's love.

"Mother," I said, "I have been rough and harsh. I'll try to be a better son, and perhaps we may be happy in the future."

A sharp spasm, as if of pain, crossed her face, but she spoke naturally.

"It may be," she went on, "that what I shall say may hurt you, but I only want to be a kind, loving mother."

My heart warmed more than ever. "I am sure that is your desire, mother," I said.

She was silent for a minute, and again I saw the look of of pain which crossed her face.

"Roger," she burst out, "what I have to say nearly kills me," and she burst into a flood of tears.

I went to her side and soothed her.

"Don't grieve, mother," I said, "and don't say anything that will give you pain."

"No, no, it's not that," she said, and then cried out, "I can't tell him, I can't."

"Don't, mother," I cried. "Wait until you are stronger, and then tell me. These few days have been terrible for you. I have been thinking too much about myself. I have been remembering that I have lost my father, but have forgotten that you have lost your husband. I know it's terrible, mother, but dear father is happy now, and Wilfred and I will take care of you."

At the mention of Wilfred's name her face changed. A look of determination came upon her face, and her hands clenched nervously.

"Roger," she said, "I am calm now, and hard as it is to tell you I will do so."

I sat down before her, wondering what was coming.

"You remember the night of your--your father's--death?"

"Yes, mother."

"He said it was his wish, and the wish of Mr. Morton that you should wed Ruth."

"Yes," I said, my heart beating violently.

"Roger, that must never be!"

"Why?"

I spoke harshly, for my heart became hard as a stone, and yet it seemed to grow too big for my bosom.

"Because," she answered, her voice trembling as she did so, "she loathes, shudders at the thought of marrying you."

"How dare you say this?" I cried angrily, and yet I knew her words were true. Ruth's face had told me the same story only that very evening.

"If you wish to drive her mad, kill her, murder her!" went on my mother, "ask her to do as her father wishes."

"What is there in me to drive her mad, or to murder her?" I cried. "I have always been kind to her."

"Nothing, nothing, Roger. She loves you as a brother. You have been very good to her. None of us forget that twice you saved her life."

"Then why do you say she loathes me?"

"Can you not see what I mean? She does not loathe you as a brother; but she loathes the thought of your being her husband, and were you to insist on a marriage, you would kill her!"

"Why? You say she loves me as a brother; why, then, should the other thought be so terribly abhorrent? Could she not in time learn to give me more than a brother's love?"

"Never!"

"Why?"

"Because she loves another!"

"Another! Who?"

"Can you not guess?"

Guess! Ah, yes; I could indeed. Had I not seen it for weeks? My mother need not tell me more. I knew perfectly well.

"Surely you have seen that they have been lovers from childhood," she went on. "She has been all in all to him, while--well, you must have seen how she regarded him. He did not speak to her about it, however, until he came home from Oxford, and then, on the day of his arrival, he told her what he had felt for years."

"And she?"

"She told him--that--what in short he had been longing to hear, and, although we knew it not, they became betrothed."

It was what I had thought, it did not surprise me, and yet I felt sick and giddy. It was some time before I could speak, and then I could only stammer out:

"And she promised to be his wife?"

My mother nodded.

No words can describe what I felt, for never until then did I realise how I loved her, or what pain it was for me to lose her.

"Do you love Ruth very much, Roger?" asked mother.

"Love her!" I cried, "love her! I would die for her."

"And she loves Wilfred, and would never be happy away from him."

I fought it down after a while; crushed all my envy, jealousy, and hatred--for hate did possess me for a time--and then turned to my mother again.

"Let Ruth and Wilfred be happy," I said, "I shall put in no claim, her happiness is more important than mine."

"They cannot," said my mother.

"Cannot!" I cried. "Why?"

"Because it was her father's wish that she should marry Trewinion's heir, and she will do it, though she dies the next day."

"I do not understand."

"You know how much she has ever thought of her father. No one I ever saw loved a parent, or a parent's memory, as much as she loved her father's. And now, although she would have to sacrifice everything dear to her heart, she will be true to his wish."

"But I will not have it so. I will not call for the sacrifice."

"Then you are hindering her father's wish from being fulfilled, and you will still be keeping Ruth and Wilfred apart."

"But what can I do?"

My mother was silent.

Then I saw her meaning. My very existence was the great evil. I was Trewinion's heir, whom her father wished her to marry, and yet she hated the thought of it; while she could not marry the man she loved because of her father's will. Meanwhile she was suffering a terrible torture--and I was causing it.

I tried to look at the whole matter fairly and boldly. What were the alternatives? I was Roger Trewinion's eldest son, and if I allowed my father's and Mr. Morton's will to be carried out, I doomed my darling to a loathsome life--a living death, while, though I should attain the object most dear to me, I should live in hell, the hell of being with a woman who loved another man. If I refused to marry her, things would be nearly as bad. I should still be dooming her to misery; she would not marry my brother, I should never be free from the thought that I was keeping others from happiness, while the two houses of Trewinion and Morton would not be united.

Slowly it came at first! Then the full meaning of the thought flashed upon me! I could not do it, I could not! And yet it was the only way.

Renounce my name, my possessions, my identity! Go away and never return!

That was the alternative, the only way by which the houses could be united, the only way Ruth could be happy.

"I see what you mean, mother," I cried out at last, "but I must have time, I cannot decide in a moment. I must speak to Ruth, to Wilfred."

"Why speak to Ruth? You will only give her more pain. You spoke this afternoon. Why cause her to bear more than she is already bearing?"

Ruth had told her, then, and doubtless told her, too, what were her feelings towards Wilfred! I saw the truth, the force of her words, and yet it was very hard.

"I must think, mother," I said. "I know you love Wilfred the better; I know you think him far more fit to be the head of the house than I; you think I ought to make the sacrifice, but I must have time to think."

"How long, Roger? The day after to-morrow Ruth leaves Trewinion Manor."

"Leave! Why?"

"Need you ask? She cannot wait here in the house with the man she thinks she has to marry, when the thought of such a thing is terrible."

I was driving Ruth away then. Not only was I giving her pain and sorrow, but because of me she was going to leave the only home wherein she could be happy. It was true she could return to her own home, which had been kept in repair, but I knew she did not intend going there until she came of age.

"She does not wish to be with me longer than she thinks she is forced by her father's will?" I said.

"She knows she is not expected to marry you until she is twenty-one. That will not be for some time, and so she is going away."

This was hardest of all to bear, it drove me to madness. Her detestation of me was so great that she determined to shun me.

"Just one word more, mother. Have you spoken to me because of Ruth's desire, or with her sanction?"

A strange look flashed across my mother's face; then she said, "Roger, never think I can answer that question."

My brain seemed on fire, and I could not tell what to do, I could not decide. I simply rushed out of the room saying, "You will soon know."

I made my way to my room upstairs, and in passing along a corridor I saw a light in Mr. Inch's room. Immediately I knocked at his door, and on receiving permission, entered. I found him busy with a lot of papers.

"Is it correct that you and Miss Morton are going to leave us, Mr. Inch?" I said.

He bowed, and said, quietly but distinctly, "It is so decided."

"Might I ask the reason for this abrupt departure?" I said. "I have heard nothing about it until to-night."

He looked at me for a moment steadily; then he said,

"It is not for me to say; surely you should know that it is next to impossible for her to remain here now."

He also had told me in words as plain as words could tell what she felt. I must think, think alone. I found my way to my bedroom, but my mind would not work there. I must get out under the broad sky, where all was free. So again I left the house, went away towards the highest point on the headland, where, hundreds of feet below, the waves were lashing themselves into foam as they broke upon the great rugged rocks.