Roger Trewinion Part 47

"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.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE VOICE OF G.o.d

Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea!

And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.

--_The Ancient Mariner._

For a year I sailed the Mediterranean as a common seaman. I thought, or rather, I hoped, that by hard work and mixing in the society of men who had borne something of the brunt of life, besides visiting different towns at which we had to call along the coast, I should banish from my mind what became more and more terrible to me. It was a vain hope.

At the end of the year I despaired of finding happiness or peace again.

"There is no such thing as forgiveness of sins!" I said, "and life is but a bitter mockery."

Ofttimes I wondered what had become of them at home. At night time especially I found myself thinking of Ruth and how she bore her terrible trials, and this led me to wonder what had become of Wilfred--had he ever been found, and, if so, had I been suspected of his death? Naturally, Bill Tregargus would think of me; but would he tell of his meeting with me? Then again, would Ruth feel it her duty to denounce me as a murderer, even though I had saved her from the most horrible fate imaginable? I knew how great was her sense of right; I knew, too, how much she had loved me, and I did not know what course she would take.

But never one ray of light, or hope, or comfort came in the thick darkness. Sometimes I was tempted to drown my troubles in drink, but I remembered my father's death, and refrained from doing so. Again I was tempted to seek forgetfulness in what was unworthy, but I remembered Ruth and was saved from that.

One day, about a year after I had left Salambo, the vessel in which I was sailing arrived at Smyrna, where we had to stay some days. Towards evening we were at liberty to go into the town, and I as usual strolled away alone. I had not gone far, when, lying on the side of the street, I saw a little crippled child who had apparently lost its way, or was in some trouble, for it was sobbing bitterly. I came close and lifted the child to its feet, and as I did so caught sight of its face. It was a little girl about five years old. She was by no means pretty, on the contrary, her face was almost evil, and for a moment I felt like pa.s.sing on without taking further notice, when the prayer which had constantly been on my lips of late came to my mind. Hitherto I had received no answer to it, but now I felt that I loved this little crippled, ugly child.

In my constant visits to this coast I had picked up a smattering of Greek, so I spoke to the little maiden, and asked her where she lived, and without hesitation she told me. With a strange feeling in my heart I took her in my arms, and carried her in the direction of her home.

As I walked on I met some of my crew, who laughed to see me with my strange burden, but I did not mind, nay, rather, I rejoiced because of what I was able to do. And all the while I continued to breathe this prayer, "Lord, help me to love."

We reached her home at length. A miserable place it was, and I found out that the little maiden had no father. He had died a few months before, but she had a brother and sister, both younger than herself, who lived with their mother. I did not stay long, although I felt a strange feeling of pity for the poor desolate ones, but I left some money with them and walked away alone.

As I did so I remembered the words I had heard often in our old church.

"Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these My little ones, ye have done it unto Me." "Unto Me"--unto whom? I called to mind that they were the words of our Lord, and I asked myself what it meant. "Ye have done it unto Me." I repeated again and again. "How have I done it unto the Lord?"

One day while I had been in Barcelona, I had gone into a church, and had made confession of my sins to a priest. I remembered that Salambo was a Catholic, and I wondered if by making confession peace would come to my heart. The priest had told me that I must forgive every one, and do penance. But I was not able to forgive; as for penance, it seemed to me that no man could suffer worse penance than I had already suffered. Besides, I remembered that the priest was an enemy to the faith which I had been taught to believe, and so, perhaps, prejudice hindered him from helping me.

His words returned to me that night, however, and I asked myself for the hundredth time how it was possible for me to forgive Wilfred.

"He is dead, and I have killed him!" I said to myself, "and yet I cannot forgive him. I hate him still. He has robbed me of everything I hold dear. How can I forgive him? How can I find peace?" Then, as if in answer to my cry, came the words, "Come unto Me all ye that labour, and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

I do not know how, but the message of our Lord had a new meaning. I had heard it read a hundred times without ever thinking of its meaning, but now my heart throbbed with a new hope as I thought of it, "Come unto Me, Come unto Me, and I will give you rest." I kept repeating the pa.s.sage.

"Lord, how can I come!" I cried, "and how can'st Thou hear my voice, the voice of a murderer?" and then, as if in answer to my cry, I seemed to hear the words, "Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out!"

That night for the first time for years I truly prayed. I prayed for light, for penitence, for forgiveness. Ay, I did come to Christ as a poor penitent wayward sinner, and even as I prayed, I caught myself thinking of my brother Wilfred. Without realising what I was doing, I remembered some of our boyish freaks. I thought of the happy days we had spent together and of the times we had knelt side by side and prayed; and then, I know not how, I realised that the hatred I had felt for Wilfred was gone. G.o.d had answered my prayer; I had learned to love, and to love my enemy.

Do not imagine that my burden was gone when I felt this. The memory of that terrible night became more vivid; but I was changed. I was not the man I was on the night when I madly wrestled with my brother. G.o.d had answered my prayer, and in doing so He had changed me.

I went back to the vessel a new man, with new feelings, new desires, new aspirations.

Night came on again, and still the vessel remained in the harbour at Smyrna. I sat on the deck alone, looking sometimes at the lights of the town, and again at the moonlit sea, still longing and praying for rest. Hour after hour I remained, until my heart grew so sad that I began to realise a misery as great almost as that I had known before the hatred I had for my brother was taken away.

"Oh, G.o.d, what shall I do?" I cried at length.

What was it that answered me? A voice from Heaven, or was it my own heart? All I know is that, sounding from I know not where, I heard the words, "Go home."

I felt I could not do this. I could not bear to go back to the scenes of my misery and sin. I should be ever seeing the dead face of my brother; there would be less rest for me there than here. Nor it would not be safe to do so. Perhaps even now the officers of the law were in-- But I would not think of that.

All through the night I struggled and prayed, but ever in answer came the same dread message:

"Go home. Confess your sins."

At length strength came; at length the battle was fought. I made up my mind to go home, to give myself up to the officers of the law as my brother's murderer, and in a moment the burden was gone, and I was a free man.

I will not try to describe with what feverish anxiety I made my way back to England. I only know that some secret power seemed to be urging me back, and although I felt I was going to my death, I was glad when I landed in Falmouth harbour.

Once on my native soil my love for life became strong, and I had to fight my battle over again, or I should have had to do so if I had allowed myself time to think of it; but I stifled all thoughts of escape, and hurried on to my old home.

When I arrived within a mile or so of Trewinion, I paused, and began to ponder as to what course would be best. Should I go to the village constable, Philip Pinch? I knew him well as a lad, and had seen him when I had been home the year before. Or should I go straight to the old house on the cliff, and there, before my mother and servants, confess my sins.

The desire to see the old place was so strong that I determined to take the latter course. If I surrendered myself to Philip Pinch I should be taken at once to the lock-up, and thence to Bodmin gaol, while if I went home I should have one more sight of the old rooms which I had not seen for more than eleven years.

And so, with fast-beating heart and limbs trembling, I hurried onward.

Feverishly I opened the postern door which admitted me into the grounds surrounding the house, and then, with a pain at my heart which no words can describe, I went up to the tower entrance and rang the bell.

CHAPTER XXVII

WITHIN THE OLD HOME