Читать книгу Roger Trewinion - Hocking Joseph - Страница 8

Table of Contents

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 superstitious 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 passion for the supernatural, the mysterious, and the occult.

He looked at me again, long and steadily.

"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 superstitions 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 God! although I live the life of a hermit, I long at times for the companionship 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 manuscript, which not only contains suggestions of one-time superstitions 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 manuscript 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: