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:
"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