Part 33 (1/2)
Still, I expected a few servants would be at home, and mother, and, perchance, Wilfred. He would never mix with the rowdy villagers, as he called them, and would probably be in the library following some favourite literary pursuit. What should I do? Go home and proclaim myself as Roger Trewinion, owner and master of everything? No, I did not like to do that--yet I must know how things stood. I must know about everything, where Ruth was, and what position she held!
And still I stood gazing on the old house on the cliff until I saw a man come out and slowly saunter down the drive.
It was Wilfred.
I started to go forward and speak to him, but stopped immediately after. Long years of foreign travel and pa.s.sing through dangerous scenes had made me careful. I knew not how I should be received, and I must not give Wilfred the whip hand of me. No, I would find out what had happened at home during the intervening years. I would go on to the village green, and there, perchance, I should see those who knew me in the past, and should give them a chance of recognising me.
Pa.s.sing near the church, however, I could not resist the temptation to enter. To an ordinary sightseer, it would doubtless possess small attraction, but to me who accompanied my father there more than twenty years before, and where I had received what little religious instruction I possessed, it was of more than ordinary interest.
Besides, my father was buried beneath the altar steps, and I longed to see the place again. Accordingly I entered the churchyard, and finding the church door open, entered the sacred building. Instinctively I found my way to the eastern end of the church, and there experienced one of the strangest sensations of my life. On the wall just above my father's tomb was a tablet erected to the memory of my father, giving not only the year of his birth, but the manner of his death. But this was not what affected me. I had expected to see some memorial of my father, but what startled me was the sight of another tablet immediately beneath it, on which were written these words:--
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
ROGER TREWINION
ELDEST SON OF THE ABOVE
WHO MET HIS DEATH BY DROWNING, AND WHOSE BODY WAS DISCOVERED ON THE SANDS.
”_Thy brother shall rise again!_”
THIS TABLET WAS ERECTED BY HIS LOVING MOTHER AND BROTHER.
Whether wonder or anger were strongest within me I know not, but both strove mightily. For first of all it is a strange experience for any man to see his own tombstone, and in spite of myself I could not help s.h.i.+vering. But strong as was this feeling, anger well-nigh overcame it. It seemed to me that both my mother and brother were so eager for me to be dead, that they were glad of any excuse for making me appear so, and I determined that I would understand what it all meant.
Accordingly I walked towards the village and soon found myself in the midst of about two hundred people, which was regarded as a great crowd in that neighbourhood. In one corner of the green was a wrestling ring, and in another was a group of young folk dancing to the music of two or three instruments, which had evidently been specially obtained for the occasion. Some very coa.r.s.e sweetmeats were being sold at the sweet stalls and a general holiday air pervaded the scene. I saw as I came up that I was curiously regarded. My dress was of foreign make, and I was bronzed by years of exposure. My beard, too, was long, and my whole appearance was different from those whom the people would be likely to see. Moreover, it was very seldom a stranger visited that neighbourhood, and thus naturally I was regarded as a sort of curiosity.
I looked from face to face, but could see no one that I knew. During these years middle-aged men seemed to have grown old, and children to have sprung into men and women. I made my way towards the wrestling ring, where two youths struggled with each other, while the people looked at them with open mouths. Here I saw two or three farmers whom I knew, but I did not care to enter into conversation.
It was very strange. I was home, and yet no one knew me. The parish was called by my name, the church was called Trewinion Church, and yet I, Roger, the oldest male member of the house, was a stranger, and looked at curiously by the people. Eleven years before I had been at the feast, and then everyone had paid respect to ”Maaster Roger”; but now, the bronzed, bearded, foreign-looking man, was an alien.
At length one of the two men who had been wrestling was thrown, and then I heard a voice which I thought I knew, saying, ”That's a feir vall.” It was spoken by the man who had been selected as umpire, and when I caught sight of his face I recognised Bill Tregargus, the man who climbed the ”Devil's Tooth” on the stormy night when Ruth was rescued. I had always remained friendly with Bill up to the time I left. I determined I would speak to him.
As this was the last ”hitch” of the day, the ring was broken up, and I saw Bill going with the rest towards the village alehouse.
I went up to him and touched him upon the arm.
”You seem to be a man of some importance here,” I said.
Bill looked very modest, but nodded.
”I want to have a little talk with some respectable man in the parish,”
I said: ”one who knows the worth of land and one who knows the people.”
”Wal, I think as 'ow I knaws everybody,” said Bill; ”I've bin ere oal my life, and don't owe n.o.body nothin'. I've got three booats, and a daicent little farm.”
”I can quite fancy that,” I said, ”by the way people regard you. Is your farm your own land now, or do you rent it?”
”n.o.body farms their own land in this ere parish,” replied Bill, ”it do oal belong to Squire Trewinion, but who be you and what do you want to knaw about the parish for?”