Roger Trewinion Part 2

"Your names, then?"

"They are unknown to you," I replied, "and my telling them could serve no purpose. Lead the way to your master."

They looked at us suspiciously; but seeing two young men, well dressed and with plenty of a.s.surance, they seemed inclined to let us in.

Consequently a minute after we stood within the walls that surrounded this place of evil repute, the door being carefully locked behind us.

The two men, evidently servants, led the way up an unused road, by which we reached the tower entrance. Neither spoke a word.

On coming close to Trewinion Manor we found that it was built of granite, and had evidently been standing for hundreds of years. The stones of the doorways were curiously carved, and even the exterior of the place looked as though it contained a hundred secrets. It was large, too, and must at some time have been the home of people of wealth.

The view was wonderful. In front of us stretched the mighty Atlantic, whose murmuring song told of the peaceful waves that now splashed on the sh.o.r.e. I had seen the Atlantic in a tempest, however, and so could easily fancy what a sight there must be when the waters beneath were lashed into fury by great storm clouds.

Arrived at the door, our guides stopped.

"We can show you no further without permission," said the spokesman.

"I will tell the master you are here, and see if he will receive you."

Accordingly he went away, while the other stood at some little distance watching us.

"I've caught your mystery fever," said Will. "I'm longing to get inside now; but what excuse are you going to make for intruding?"

"I've settled that," I replied. "Our visit is an ordinary one, and I shall tell no lies."

I had scarcely spoken when the man returned, telling us to follow him, as his master would see us.

A minute later we stood within the silent walls of Trewinion Manor.

II

There was a cold vault-like atmosphere within the place, and as we went along the dark corridors, every footstep sounding on the granite floor and echoing through the great empty house, I felt like shuddering.

Outside the sun was shining and the west wind blowing, making everything bright and glad; but within all was cold and forbidding.

Still we followed the man curiously, and I must confess I felt my heart beat loudly against my ribs as he knocked at a dark, forbidding looking door. I do not think I am usually nervous, but on this occasion I was getting excited.

The knock was followed by a response.

"Come in," said a voice.

The old servant opened the door, and ushered us into a room that was on every side lined with books. There were thousands of volumes on the shelves. Some I saw were old and scarce, and exceedingly valuable.

Others again were new and well bound. I gave them but little attention at the time, however, for my mind was drawn towards the lonely occupant of the room, the master of the house.

He looked about sixty years of age, but was large-boned, tall, and vigorous. His hair was iron grey, but had evidently been black. His eyes were black, and his great rugged forehead was fringed with bushy eyebrows, which gave him a somewhat fierce appearance. His nose was large, his mouth was large, and his chin, too, was large, square, and determined. He was no ordinary man. There was the stamp of unusual power upon him. He was no trifler, and yet beneath his look of determination and energy something was lacking. He seemed as though his determination needed to be roused, his energy to be stimulated.

Yet I could see nothing in his appearance which justified the opinions we had heard expressed about him, nor could I discover anything which suggested a misanthrope.

He placed chairs for us both, and then politely asked what he could do to serve us. He had a strong, deep, somewhat musical voice, and had I not been otherwise informed, I should have regarded him as one who often entertained visitors, so free from restraint did he seem.

"I hope you will excuse us for calling," I said, "but my story must explain my rudeness. I follow literature as a profession, and have for some months been engaged on a work dealing with the legends and superst.i.tious beliefs of Cornwall. I am, however, enjoying my vacation now, and my friend and I are on a walking tour along the coast. Seeing this old grey mansion, and thinking there might be some story in connexion with its early days, I have taken the liberty of calling."

He looked at me curiously, as though he suspected me of some sinister motive, and his black eyes glittered.

"Have you heard anything which would lead you to think this house had a story? or have you come here out of pure speculation?" he said, brusquely.

"I suspected there must be legends about a house as old as this," I replied, "and a man we met some distance from here told us that--that----"

"You need not go further," he said, grimly, "I know all the stories that are afloat among the people who live within a few miles of the place. You have heard that I have sold myself to the devil, and that the house is haunted by evil spirits?"

I did not reply.

"You are bold fellows to come here," he continued, "for I am reported to have wonderful powers, being able to call to my aid the might of the king of darkness. But I do not know your names and so cannot talk freely with you."

I told him our names.

"I know you both by reputation," he said. "You," turning to Will, "are a barrister, and bidding fair to donning silk, while you," turning to me, "are making your name known as a novelist."

"I have read your books," he continued; "and--well"--he stopped and mused a minute, and then, pointing to the bookshelves, continued--"I get nearly everything. Science, religion, history, travel, poetry, romance, I see them all. That's how I know your names and professions.

I send one of my servants to Plymouth every month, and thus I get all I need."

We soon fell to talking about books, and I found that intellectually this Squire Trewinion was a man of more than ordinary power. We had not conversed long however, before I saw a great change come over him.

He seemed possessed by some nervous dread, and was evidently anxious to drop the subject of books.

Seeing this, I turned the conversation to the old house in which we stood, and asked him the year of its erection.

"It dates from the time of Charles II," he said, "and is, perhaps, the best built house in the whole county. And it had need to be so, for the storms which sometimes beat upon us are terrific."

"Are there any stories or legends about it?" I said, laughingly.

He looked at me as though he would read my heart's inmost secrets, and then burst out:

"Yes, there are stories, there are legends, there are mysteries, and they are true."

I thought at first that he was joking, but he continued:

"Yes, there is truth in the wildest story afloat, not perhaps in the exact way that the ignorant clowns think; but, sir----"

He stopped again for a second, as if making up his mind upon some point. Evidently, his lonely mode of living caused him to act differently from the conventional society man.

"We Trewinions are an old race, sir, and some of my ancestors have been very violent," he continued.

"That is not to be wondered at," I replied. "Life here, a century ago, must have been far different from the life of to-day, while earlier still, when smugglers sought the caves around, and pirates sailed the seas, it must have been almost impossible for anyone to live in such a neighbourhood as this without leading a strange life."

"You are interested in mysterious stories and legends, are you not?" he said.

I told him that I had almost a pa.s.sion for the supernatural, the mysterious, and the occult.

He looked at me again, long and steadily.