Chapter XXV: The Voice of a Friend

The journey to Barcelona was uneventful, at any rate for me. During the whole time I lived in a kind of hideous dream. I was ever thinking of what I had seen and done during the little time I had been in England, but nothing was real save a horrible weight that oppressed me. I know that the captain sought to be friendly, while some of the passengers seemed to be interested in the sad, silent man who ever sought to be alone, but I paid little heed to their overtures. How could I when two ghastly passions, hatred and remorse, possessed me?

Sometimes I caught myself thinking of what Ruth had told me during those two or three sweet hours we were together. I remember asking her why she had seemed to love Wilfred the better, and why, when she saw how I loved her, she did not in some way let me know that she cared for me. And blushingly she told me that, besides the reports about my boasting that she would have to marry me, which she only half believed, she was afraid I would think her forward and immodest. This set me thinking how it had all ended. How through misunderstandings our lives had been ruined, until life seemed a tragedy, and Providence only a dream. But no relief came to me, the burdens which I had myself made still crushed me to the earth, and I could see no brightness in the future.

We reached Barcelona at length, and I set out to find Salambo. I knew that if all had gone well with him I should have little difficulty in this. He had given me instructions which were unmistakable as to his whereabouts, so I started at once for the house at which he told me to inquire.

I found that this house was occupied by his own parents, and no welcome could be warmer than mine when I told them my name.

I asked them if their son was well, and I quickly found that he was well and happy, that he had found Inez, that they had been wedded, and were living not far away from them.

Quickly I found my way thither, and soon Salambo and I stood face to face. Only one look at him was enough to convince me that his parents had told me the truth.

"All is well with you, Salambo?" I said.

"Ah, all is well," he cried, "the saints have been good to me. You must see my Inez, she will be here directly."

This gave me a little hope. Salambo had committed a sin similar to mine, and yet he was happy. He had become wedded to the woman he loved, in spite of the terrible past. Might there then be some chance for me? Not that I expected to wed Ruth, I gave up all thoughts of seeing her again; but I might find rest from the terrible pangs which now made life almost unbearable. I resolved before the day was over to have a long talk with my old captain, and, if possible, to seek the same means to obtain ease and happiness.

Presently his wife came into the room. They had only been wedded a short time, and she blushed at being introduced as his wife; but I saw, in spite of everything, that she was happy. Not that she looked free from pain. There was a look in her great black eyes which told me that she had suffered terribly in the past, and the silver streaks in her raven black hair told the same story.

She was very beautiful, and I did not wonder that Salambo loved her. From the way her eyes rested on him I knew that he reigned king of her heart.

We sat together during the evening, sometimes talking and sometimes listening to Inez--for such Salambo would have me call her--as she sung some sweet Spanish love songs, until the time came for her to retire, and then we two men, who had passed through many strange scenes, were left together.

"You are very happy," I said, when she had left the room.

"Happy as man can be," he replied. "My Inez through all these long years was faithful to me, and has ever been as pure as an angel. And you, Tretheway, or rather, Trewinion, how did you find affairs at home? not well, I fear."

I told him, just as I have written it in these pages, all that had happened since I left him. When I described my meeting with Bill Tregargus, and how I had heard that Ruth had died of a broken heart, driven to death by Wilfred, I saw the tears start to Salambo's eyes, and he eagerly asked what followed next. Then I told him of my meeting with Wilfred, what we had said to each other, and how we had engaged in a deadly struggle on the cliff.

"And didn't you kill him?" he cried, clenching his hands nervously; "didn't you hurl the viper on the rocks beneath?"

"Would you?" I said.

"Would I?" he cried, "ay, and be proud that I had rid the world of such a one. The saints would sanction such a deed."

I told him what had happened, at which he gave a great sigh as if of relief, after which a scornful smile played around his mouth as I told him of the terrible sufferings I had endured.

He did not speak a word during the recital of the visit to Ruth's home, but gave a start as I told him of my determination to visit her grave. Then he sat like one entranced as I described my entrance into the church, and related how I lifted back the stone from the vault. Breathlessly he sat while I narrated how I had removed the clasps from the coffin and looked on the still face of my darling; and then leapt like a madman from his chair as I told how I felt her hand move. After that, while I related the remainder of my story, he walked up and down the room excitedly, sometimes laughing and again giving a cry of gladness, until I came to that part where I told Ruth of my sins, whereupon he sat down again, still staring at me wildly.

"And you left her because of that?" he said in astonishment, when I had finished.

"I could do no other," I replied.

"Ah, but you could," he cried.

"How?" I asked.

"Why, that action of hers did not express her aversion of you, or if it did it could be easily overcome. You should have remained with her and she would soon have forgiven you."

"How could she when I could not forgive myself? Besides, if I had stayed in England I should have been arrested as a murderer, and that would have brought her worse sorrow still."

"That need not have been," he replied. "You could have brought her here, ay, and she would have gladly come, too."

I dismissed this suggestion, for I knew it was not possible.

For three weeks I remained with Salambo, then I felt that I could stay in Barcelona no longer, and must be on the move. Bitter memories still urged me to go somewhere, it mattered not where, in search of peace.

I told Salambo this, and he did his best to persuade me to stay with him, Inez adding her entreaties to his; but I felt I could not. Something, I knew not what, impelled me to leave them, so I got a berth on board a vessel, and went away again to follow the calling I had followed so many years.

We shook hands at the vessel's side; he to go back to his home and to happiness, and I to sail down the Mediterranean, still in search of rest and peace.