Part 3 (1/2)
”I have read some things you have written,” he said at length. ”You dabbled a little in the mysterious in them; but I have in my possession a history----”
Again he stopped, and I begged him to go on, for I felt he had something of importance to tell me.
”You said you were writing a book on the superst.i.tions and legends of Cornwall,” he said, ”and were anxious to collect anything that might be of interest.”
I told him that this was so.
At this he went to the window and looked out over the blue expanse of the sea, after which he turned towards me, and looked steadily into my face.
”I have a strange impulse on me,” he said.
I made no answer to his words, but frankly met his gaze.
”You are an utter stranger to me in one way,” he went on, ”but both your personal appearance and your writings suggest that you and I have much in common. Besides, great G.o.d! although I live the life of a hermit, I long at times for the companions.h.i.+p of a kindred soul.”
I was still silent, deeming that this was the best means of obtaining his confidence.
”It seems like pure madness,” he said at length, ”but, look here, would you care to look at a ma.n.u.script, which not only contains suggestions of one-time superst.i.tions and customs, but something of the history of an old Cornish family?”
”I should be more than delighted to see it,” was my reply.
For a moment he muttered as if to himself, then, like a man taking a great resolution, he turned to a large safe and unlocked it. His hand trembled as he did so, as though he were afraid.
”I have only read the ma.n.u.script once,” he said, ”and I have not seen it for twenty years. I tremble as I look for it now. You will know why when you have read it.”
He took from the safe a large parcel, wrapped in paper, on which were written the following words:
”THE CONFESSIONS
OF
ROGER TREWINION,
OF
TREWINION MANOR,
CORNWALL.
”May the Lord have mercy upon me a miserable sinner.”
”Roger Trewinion was my grandfather,” said he, as he saw me looking at the name. ”My father was called Roger--I am called Roger--the last of my race. If--ah--if--but I daren't think of that.”
”And may I read these confessions?” I asked eagerly, for I longed to get away alone and commence them.
”Yes, I am going to let you. How I dare trust you with them I don't know, except that I've read one or two of your books, and, well I am a man of strong impulses. It is characteristic of my race. Besides, I feel like trusting you.