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:
"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.
"After you've read it," he continued, "you will know why I live here as I do; you will understand something of the web of mystery that is woven about this place. You will see the curse that rests upon my life."
"Curse?" I said questioningly.
"When you have finished with it," he went on, without heeding my words, "bring the old manuscript back, and I will lock it up again. Much as I wish it had never been written, or rather, the deeds it recalls had never been done, I would not like to lose it now, for it possesses a strange fascination for me."
We stayed an hour longer at Trewinion Manor, not liking to decline the hospitality which was proffered us. But I was anxious to be alone. The story of the grandfather of the present owner of this strange place was of paramount interest to me, and so, after many promises, many questions and many requests, I hastened away with my precious burden under my arm.
I remember nothing of the journey along the coast that day, except that I was constantly hurrying Will along so that we might more quickly reach the watering-place where our luggage had been sent, and where we had engaged rooms.
Arrived there I went immediately to the apartment allotted to me, where I left "the Confessions." After a hasty meal, I ordered candles and returned to my room to read, while Will went out to see the town.
I read on all the night, nor did I cease until I had finished the manuscript which Roger Trewinion had placed in my hands.
It is not now my purpose to tell you my impressions concerning it. The fact that the story therein told follows this chapter bears witness to the interest I found in it. Whether it will prove equally interesting to the reader is not for me to say.
I have now told how I came by these confessions of Roger Trewinion, so I need write little more concerning them.
Let it be understood, however, that my only share in the story is that of editor and reviser. Much of it had to be re-written and much of the dialect transposed into ordinary English. Still, the history stands practically as I found it, and, wherever I have re-written or revised, I have endeavoured to retain the spirit in which Roger Trewinion originally wrote.
Of the belief and deeds of the writer, I may have a few words to say by and bye; but my only duty at present is to lay before you the history he wrote at a time when strange deeds were done in this western county, and when its people were influenced and bound by strange and sometimes cruel superstitions.
THE END OF PROLOGUE.
CHAPTER I
THE PROPHETIC WARNING
"And the boys grew, and Esau was a cunning hunter, a man of the field; and Jacob was a plain man, dwelling in tents. And Isaac loved Esau; but Rebekah loved Jacob."
What I, Roger Trewinion, am about to write is true. I tell what I have seen, and heard, and have been.
I was born in the year of our Lord, 1750. I am now sixty years of age.
My family is an ancient one; not that I boast of it, for families reckon as little when the terrible realities of life press heavily upon us. Still, in mentioning the fact that my family is ancient and honourable, I do not do so without a purpose. Events will show that it matters not much what name we bear if the man within us be not strong to resist temptation.
Our family included, besides myself, one son and two daughters. The son, my brother, was called Wilfred, my two sisters, Katherine and Elizabeth. I am the elder son, and am called Roger after my father. Wilfred was born two years after me. Katherine and Elizabeth were respectively four and six years younger than myself.
