It was when Mrs. Penlogan began to dispose of her furniture in order to provide food and fuel that the landlord became alarmed about his rent, and so promptly seized what remained in order to make himself secure.
It was three days after Christmas, and the weather was bitterly cold. Mrs. Penlogan and Ruth looked at each other for a moment in silence, and then burst into tears. What was to be done now she did not know. Ralph was still in prison awaiting his trial, and so was powerless to help them. Their money was all spent. Even their furniture was gone, and they had no friends to whom they could turn for help.
Since Ralph's committal their old friends had fought shy of them. Ruth felt the disgrace more keenly than did her mother. The cold looks of people they had befriended in their better days cut her to the heart. Ruth had tried to get the post of sewing mistress at the day school, which had become vacant, but the fact that her brother was in prison awaiting his trial proved an insuperable barrier. It would never do to contaminate the tender hearts of the young by bringing them into contact with one whose brother had been accused of a terrible crime.
She never realised before how sensitive the public conscience was, nor how jealous all the St. Goramites were for the honour of the community. People whom she had always understood were no better than they ought to be, turned up their noses at her in haughty disdain. But that it was so tragic, she could have laughed at the virtuous airs assumed by people whose private life had long been the talk of the district.
It was a terrible blow to Ruth. The Penlogans, though looked upon as somewhat exclusive, had been widely respected. David Penlogan was a man in a thousand. Mistaken, some people thought, foolish in the investment of his money, and much too trusting where human nature was involved, but his sincerity and goodness no one doubted. The young people had been less admired, for they seemed a little above their station. They spoke the language of the gentry, and kept aloof from everything that savoured of vulgarity. "They were too well educated for their position."
Their sudden and painful fall proved an occasion for much moralising. "Pride goeth before a fall," was a passage of Scripture that found great acceptance. If the Penlogans had not been so exclusive in their better days, they would not have found themselves so destitute of friends now.
Two or three days practically without food or fire reduced Ruth and her mother to a state bordering on despair. If they had possessed any pride in the past it was all gone now. Hunger is a great leveller.
The relieving officer, when consulted, had little in the way of comfort to offer, though he gave much sage advice. He had little doubt that the parish would allow Mrs. Penlogan half a crown a week; that was the limit of outdoor relief. Her husband had paid scores of pounds in the shape of poor rate, but that counted for nothing. The justice of the strong manifests itself in many ways. When a man is no longer able to contribute to the maintenance of paupers in general, he becomes a pauper himself. Cease to pay your poor rate, because you are too old to work, and you cease to be a citizen, your vote is taken away, you are classed among the social rubbish of your generation.
"But what is to become of me?" Ruth asked pitifully.
The relieving officer stroked the side of his nose and considered the question for a moment before he answered.
"I'm afraid," he said, "the law makes no provision for such as you. You see you are a able-bodied young woman. You must earn your own living."
"That is what I have been trying my best to do," she answered tearfully. "But because poor Ralph has been wrongfully and wickedly accused, no one will look at me."
"That, of course, we cannot 'elp," the relieving officer answered.
Ruth and her mother lay awake all the night and talked the matter over. It was clearly beyond the bounds of possibility that two people could live and pay rent out of half a crown a week. What then was to be done? There was only one alternative, and Ruth had not the courage to face it. Her mother was in feeble health, her spirit was broken, and to send her alone into the workhouse would be to break her heart.
The maximum of cruelty with the minimum of charity appears to be the principle on which our poor-law system is based. The sensitive and self-respecting loathe the very thought of it, and no man with a heart in him can wonder.
Mrs. Penlogan, however, had reached the limit of mental suffering. There comes a point when the utmost is reached, when the lash can do no more, when the nerves refuse to carry any heavier burden of pain. To the sad and broken-hearted woman it seemed of little moment what became of her. All that she asked was a lonely corner somewhere in which she might hide herself and die.
She knew almost by instinct what was passing through Ruth's mind. She lay silent, but she was not asleep.
"You are thinking about the workhouse, Ruth?" she said at length.
"They'll not have me there, mother, for I am healthy and able-bodied."
"There'll be something left from the furniture when the rent is paid," Mrs. Penlogan said, after a long pause. "You'll have to take it and face the world. When I am in the workhouse you will be much more free."
"Mother!"
"It's got to come, Ruth. I would much rather go down to St. Ivel and throw myself into a shaft, but that would be self-murder, and a murderer cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven. So I will endure as patiently as I can, and as long as God wills. When it is over, it will seem but a dream. I want to see father again when the night ends. Dear David, I am glad he went when he did."
"If he had lived we should not have come to this," Ruth answered tearfully.
"If he had lived a paralytic, Ruth, our lot would have been even worse. So it is better that God took him before he became a burden to himself."
"And yet but for the cruel laws made by the rich and powerful he would still be with us, and we should not have been turned out of the dear old home."
"That is over and past, Ruth," Mrs. Penlogan answered, with a sigh. "Ah me! if this life were all, it would not be worth the living—at least for the poor and oppressed. But we have to endure as best we may. You can tell Mr. Thomas that I will go to the workhouse whenever he likes to fetch me."
"Do you really mean it, mother?"
"Yes, Ruth. I've thought it all over. It's the only thing left. It wouldn't be right to lie here and die of starvation. Maybe when the storm has spent itself there will come a time of peace."
"Yes, in the grave, mother."
"If God so wills," she answered. "But I would like to live to see Ralph's name cleared before the world."
"I have almost given up hope of that," Ruth answered sadly. "How can the poor defend themselves against the rich? Poor Ralph will stand undefended before judge and jury, and we have seen how easy it is to work up a case and make every link fit into its place."
"Perhaps God will stand by him," Mrs. Penlogan answered, but in doubting tones. "Oh, if I only had faith as I once had! But I seem like a reed that has been broken by the storm. I try my hardest to believe, but doubts will come. And yet, who knows, God may be better than our fears."
"God appears to be on the side of the rich and strong," Ruth answered, a little defiantly. "Why should John Hamblyn be allowed to work his will on everybody? Even his daughter is kept a prisoner at home, lest she should show her sympathy to us."
"That is only gossip, Ruth. She may have no desire to come, or she may not have the courage. She knows now the part her father has played."
To this Ruth made no answer, and then silence fell until it was time to get up.
The day passed for the most part as the night had done, in discussing the situation. The last morsel of food in the house had disappeared, and strict watch was kept that they pawned no more of the furniture.
Mrs. Penlogan never once faltered in her purpose.
"It will be better than dying of starvation," she said. "Besides, it will set you free."
"Free?" Ruth gasped. "It will be a strange kind of freedom to find oneself in a hostile world alone."
"You will be able to defend yourself, Ruth, and I do not think anyone will molest you."
"Please don't imagine that I am afraid," Ruth answered defiantly. "But you, mother, in that big, cheerless house, will break your heart," and she burst into tears.
"No, don't fret, child," the mother said soothingly. "My heart cannot be broken any more than it is already. Maybe I shall grow more cheerful when I've had enough to eat."
On the following day Ruth went with her mother in the workhouse van to the big house. It was the most silent journey she ever took, and the saddest. She would rather have followed her mother to the cemetery—at least, so she thought at the time. There was such a big lump in her throat that she could not talk. Her mother seemed only vaguely to comprehend what the journey meant. Her eyes saw nothing on the way, her thoughts were in some far-distant place. She got out of the van quite nimbly when they reached the end of their journey, and stood for a moment on the threshold as if undecided.
"You had better not come in," she said at length. "We will say good-bye here."
"Do you think you can bear it, mother?" Ruth questioned, the tears welling suddenly up into her eyes.
"Oh yes," she answered, with a pathetic smile. "There'll be nothing to worry about, you know, and I shall have plenty to eat."
Ruth threw her arms about her mother's neck and burst into a passion of tears. "Oh, I never thought we should come to this!" she sobbed.
"It won't matter, my girl, when we are in heaven," was the quiet and patient answer.
"But we are not in heaven, mother. We are here on this wicked, cruel earth, and it breaks my heart to see you suffer so."
"My child, the suffering is in the past. The storm has done its worst. I feel as though I couldn't worry any more. I am just going to be still and wait."
"I shall come and see you as often as I can," Ruth said, giving her mother a final hug, "and you'll not lose heart, will you?"
"No. I shall think of you and Ralph, and if there's a ray of hope anywhere I shall cherish it."
So they parted. Ruth watched her mother march away through a long corridor in charge of an attendant, watched her till a door swung and hid her from sight. Then, brushing her hand resolutely across her eyes, she turned away to face the world alone.
The Penlogans' cottage had been empty two full days before the people of St. Goram became aware that anything unusual had happened. That Ruth and her mother were reduced to considerable straits was a matter of common knowledge. People could not dispose of a quantity of their furniture without the whole neighbourhood getting to know, and in several quarters—notably at the Wheat Sheaf, and in Dick Lowry's smithy, and in the shop of William Menire, general dealer—the question was discussed as to how long the Penlogans could hold out, and what would become of them in the end.
To offer them charity was what no one had the courage to do, and for a Penlogan to ask it was almost inconceivable. Since the event which had landed Ralph in prison, Mrs. Penlogan and Ruth had withdrawn themselves more than ever from public gaze. They evidently wanted to see no one, and it was equally clear they desired no one to see them. What little shopping they did was done after dark, and when Ruth went to chapel she stole in late, and retired before the congregation could get a look at her.
Hence for two days no one noticed that no smoke appeared above the chimney of the Penlogans' cottage, and that no one had been seen going in or coming out of the house. On the third day, however, William Menire—whose store they had patronised while they had any money to spend—became uneasy in his mind on account of the non-appearance of Ruth.
His thoughts had been turned in her direction because he had been expecting for some time that she would be asking for credit, and he had seriously considered the matter as to what answer he should make. To trust people who had no assets and no income was, on the face of it, a very risky proceeding. On the other hand, Ruth Penlogan had such a sweet and winning face, and was altogether so good to look upon, that he felt he would have considerable difficulty in saying no to her. William was a man who was rapidly reaching the old age of youth, and so far had resisted successfully all the blandishments of the fair sex; but he had to own to himself that if he were thrown much in the company of Ruth Penlogan he would have to tighten up the rivets of his armour, or else weakly and ignominiously surrender.
While the Penlogans lived at Hillside he knew very little of them. They did not deal with him, and he had no opportunity of making their acquaintance. But since they came to the cottage Ruth had often been in his shop to make some small purchase. He sold everything, from flour to hob nails and from calico to mouse traps, and Ruth had found his shop in this respect exceedingly convenient. It saved her from running all over the village to make her few purchases.
William had been impressed from the first by her gentle ways and her refined manner of speech. She spoke with the tone and accent of the quality, and had he not been informed who she was he would have taken her for some visitor at one of the big houses.
For two days William had watched with considerable interest for Ruth's appearance. He felt that it did him good to look into her sweet, serious eyes, and he had come to the conclusion that if she asked for credit he would not be able to say no. He might have to wait for a considerable time for his money, but after all money was not everything—the friendship of a girl like Ruth Penlogan was surely worth something.
As the third morning, however, wore away, and Ruth did not put in an appearance, William—as we have seen—got a little anxious. And when his mother—who kept house for him—was able to take his place behind the counter, he took off his apron, put on his bowler hat, and stole away through the village in the direction of St. Ivel.
The cottage stood quite alone, just over the boundary of St. Goram parish, and was almost hidden by a tall thorn hedge. As William drew near he noticed that the chimneys were smokeless, and this did not help to allay his anxiety. As he walked up to the door he noticed that none of the blinds were drawn, and this in some measure reassured him.
He knocked loudly with his knuckles, and waited. After awhile he knocked again, and drew nearer the door and listened. A third time he knocked, and then he began to get a little concerned. He next tried the handle, and discovered that the door was locked.
"Well, this is curious, to say the least of it," he reflected. "I hope they are not both dead in the house together."
After awhile he seized the door handle and gave the door a good rattle, but no one responded to the assault, and with a puzzled expression in his eyes William heaved a sigh, and began to retrace his steps towards the village.
"I'll go to Budda," he said to himself. "A policeman ought to know what to do for the best. Anyhow, if a policeman breaks into a house, nobody gets into trouble for it." And he quickened his pace till he was almost out of breath.
As good luck would have it, he met Budda half-way up the village, and at once took him into his confidence.
Budda put on an expression of great profundity.
"I think we ought to break into the house," William said hurriedly.
This proposition Budda negatived at once. To do what anyone else advised would show lack of originality on the part of the force. If William had suggested that they ask Dick Lowry the smith to pick the lock, Budda would have gone at once and battered the door down. Initiative and originality are the chief characteristics of the men in blue.
"Let me see," said Budda, looking wise and stroking his chin with great tenderness, "Amos Bice the auctioneer is the landlord, if I'm not greatly mistook."
"Then possibly he knows something?" William said anxiously.
"Possibly he do," Budda answered oracularly. "I will walk on and see him."
"I will walk along with you," William replied. "I confess I'm getting a bit curious. Everybody knows, of course, that they're terribly hard up, though I must say they've paid cash down for everything got at my store."
"Been disposing of their furniture, I hear," Budda said shortly.
"So it is reported," William replied. "That implies sore straits, and they are not the sort of people, by all accounts, to ask for help."
"Would die sooner," Budda replied laconically.
"Then perhaps they're dead," William said, with a little gasp. "It must be terrible hard for people who have known better days."
Amos Bice looked up with a start when Budda and William Menire entered his small office.
"I have come to inquire," Budda began, quite ignoring his companion, "if you know anything about—well, about what has become of the Penlogans?"
"Well, I do—of course," he said, slowly and reflectively; though why he should have added "of course" was not quite clear.
William began to breathe a little more freely. Budda looked disappointed. Budda revelled in mysteries, and when a mystery was cleared up all the interest was taken out of it.
"Then you know where they are?" Budda questioned shortly.
"I know where the mother is—I am not so sure of the daughter. But naturally it is not a matter that I care to talk about, particularly as they did not wish their doings to be the subject of common gossip."
"May I ask why you do not care to talk about them?" Budda questioned severely.
"Well, it's this way. I'm the owner of the cottage, as perhaps you know. The rent is paid quarterly in advance. They paid their first quarter at Michaelmas. The next was due, of course, at Christmas. Well, you see, I found they were getting rid of their furniture rapidly, and in my own interests I had naturally to put a stop to it. Well, this brought things to a head. You see, the boy is in prison awaiting his trial, the mother is ailing, and the girl has found no way yet of earning her living, or hadn't a week ago. So, being brought to a full stop, they had to face the question and submit to the inevitable. I took all the furniture at a valuation—in fact, for a good deal more than it was worth—and after subtracting the rent, handed them over the balance. Mr. Thomas got an order for the old lady to go into the workhouse, and the girl, as I understand, is going to try to get a place in domestic service."
William Menire almost groaned. The idea of this sweet, gentle, ladylike girl being an ordinary domestic drudge seemed almost an outrage.
"And how long ago is all this?" Budda asked severely.
"Oh, just the day before yesterday. No, let me see. It was the day before that."
"And you have said nothing about it?"
"It was no business of mine to gossip over other people's affairs."
"They seem to have been very brave people," William remarked timidly.
"What some people would call proud," the auctioneer replied. "Not that I object. I like to see people showing a little proper pride. Some people would have boasted that they had heaps of money coming to them, and would have gone into debt everywhere. The Penlogans wouldn't buy a thing they couldn't pay for."
"It's what I call a great come down for them," Budda remarked sententiously; and then the two men took their departure, Budda to spread the news of the Penlogans' last descent in the social scale, and William to meditate more or less sadly on the chances of human life.
Before the church clock pointed to the hour of noon all St. Goram was agog with the news, and for the rest of the day little else was talked about. People were very sorry, of course—at any rate, they said they were; they paid lip service to the god of convention. It was a great come down for people who had occupied a good position, but the ways of Providence were very mysterious, and their duty was to be very grateful that no such calamity had overtaken them.
The vicar was in the throes of a new sermon when the news reached him. He had been at work on the sermon all the day, for its delivery was to be a great effort. Hence, it was long after dark before the tidings filtered through to his study.
Mr. Seccombe laid down his pen, and looked thoughtful. The news sent his thoughts running along an entirely new track. The thread of his sermon was cut clean through, and every effort he made to pick up the ends and splice them proved a dismal failure. From the triumphs of grace his thoughts drifted away to the mysteries of Providence.
He pulled himself up with a jerk at length. How much had God to do, after all, with what men called Providence? Was it the purpose of God that his boy Julian should grow into a fighter? Was it part of the same purpose that he should be killed in a distant land by an Arab's lance; that out of that should grow the commercial ruin of one of the saintliest men in the parish; and that his wife, in the closing years of her life, should be driven into the cold shadow of the workhouse?
John Seccombe got up from his chair and began to pace up and down the study.
He was interrupted in his meditations by a feeble knock on his study door.
"Come in," he said, pausing in his walk; and he waited a little impatiently for the door to open.
"A young man wants to see you, sir," the housemaid said, opening the door just wide enough to show her face.
"Who is he?"
"I don't know, sir. He did not give any name."
"Some shy young man who wants to get married, I expect," was the thought that passed through Mr. Seccombe's mind.
"Show him in," he said, after a pause. And a moment or two later a pale-faced young man came shyly and hesitatingly into the room. He carried a cloth cap in his hand, and was dressed in a badly fitting suit of tweed.
Mr. Seccombe looked at him for a moment inquiringly. He thought he knew, by sight, nearly everybody in the parish, but he was not sure that he had seen this young man before.
"Will you take a seat?" he said, anxious to put the young man at his ease; for he was still convinced that this was a timid bachelor, who wanted to make arrangements for getting married.
"I would prefer to stand, if you don't mind," he answered, toying nervously with his cap.
"As you will," the vicar said, with a smile. "I presume you are about to take to yourself a wife?"
"Me? Oh dear, no. I've something else to think of."
"I beg your pardon," the vicar said, feeling a little confused. "I thought, perhaps——"
"Nothing so pleasant," was the hurried answer. "The fact is, I've come upon a job that—well, I hardly know if I can tell it, now I've come."
The vicar began to feel interested.
"You had better take a seat," he said. "You will feel more comfortable."
The young man dropped into an easy-chair and stared at the fire. He was not a bad-looking young fellow. His face was pale, as though he worked underground, and his cheeks were thin enough to suggest too little nourishing food.
"The truth is, I only made up my mind an hour ago," he said abruptly.
"Yes?" the vicar said encouragingly.
"You have heard of that poor woman being carried off to the workhouse, I expect."
"You mean Mrs. Penlogan?"
"Ay! Well, that floored me. I felt that I could hold out no longer. I meant to have waited to see which way the trial went——"
"Yes?" the vicar said again, seeing he hesitated.
"I've always believed that no jury that wasn't prejudiced would convict him on the evidence."
"You refer to Ralph Penlogan, of course?"
"The young man who's in prison on the charge of shooting Squire Hamblyn. Do you think he's anything like me?"
"You certainly are not unlike him in the general outline of your face. But, of course, anyone who knows young Penlogan——"
"Would never mistake him for me," the other interrupted.
"Well, I should say not, certainly."
"And yet bigger mistakes have been made. But I'd better tell you the whole story. I don't know what'll become of mother and the young ones, but I can't bear it any longer, and that's a fact. When I heard that that poor woman had been took off to the workhouse, I said to myself, 'Jim Brewer, you're a coward.' And that's the reason I'm here——"
"Yes?" said the vicar again, and waited for his visitor to proceed.
"It was I who shot the squire!"
The vicar started, but did not speak.
"I had no notion that he was about, or I shouldn't have ventured into the plantation, you may be quite sure. I was after anything I could get—hare, or rabbit, or pheasant, or barnyard fowl, if nothing else turned up."
"Then you were poaching?" said the vicar.
"Call it anything you like, but if you was in my place, maybe you'd have done the same. There hadn't been a bit of fresh meat in our house for a fortnight, and little Fred, who'd been ill, was just pining away. You see I'd been off work, through crushing my thumb, for a whole month, and we'd got to the end of the tether. Butcher wouldn't trust us no further, and we'd been living on dry bread and a little skimmed milk, with a vegetable now and then. It was terrible hard on us all. I didn't mind myself so much, but to see the little one go hungry——"
"But what does your father do?" the vicar interrupted.
"Father was killed in the mine six years agone, and I've been the only one as has earned anything since. Well, you see, I took the old musket—though I knew, of course, I had no licence—and I went out on the common to shoot anything as came in the way—but nothing turned up. Then I went into the plantation, and as I was getting over a hedge I came face to face with the squire.
"Well, I draws back in a moment, and that very moment something catches the trigger, and off the gun went. A minute after I heard the squire a-howling and a-screaming like mad, and when next I looks over the hedge he was running for dear life and shouting at the top of his voice.
"Well, I just hid myself in the 'browse' till it was dark, and then I creeps home empty-handed and never said a word to nobody. Well, next day, in the mine, I hears as how young Penlogan had been took up on the charge of trying to murder the squire. I never thought nobody would convict him, and if I'd been in the police court when he were sent to the Assizes I couldn't have kept the truth back. But you see I weren't there, and I says to myself that no jury with two ounces of brains will say he's guilty; and so I reckon I'd have held out till the Assizes if I hadn't heard they'd took his poor old mother off to the workhouse. That finished me. I says to myself, 'Jim Brewer, you're a coward,' I says, and I made up my mind then and there to tell the truth. And so I've come to you, being a parson and a magistrate. And the story I've told you is gospel truth, as sure as I'm a living man."
"It seems a very great pity you did not tell this story before," the vicar said reflectively.
"Ay, that's true enough. But I hadn't the courage somehow. You see, I made sure he'd come out all right in the end; and then I thought of mother and little Fred, and Jack and Mary and Peggy, and somehow I couldn't bring myself to face it. It was the poor woman being drove to the workhouse as did it. I think I'd rather die than that my mother should go there."
"I really can't see, for the life of me, why you working people so much object to the workhouse," the vicar said, in a tone of irritation. "It's a very comfortable house; the inmates are well treated in every way, and there isn't a pauper in the House to-day that isn't better off than when outside."
"Maybe it's the name of it, sir," the young man went on. "But I feel terrible bitter against the place. But the point now is, what are we going to do with Ralph Penlogan, and what are you going to do with me?"
"Well, really I hardly know," the vicar said, looking uncomfortable. "You do not own to committing any crime. You were trespassing, certainly—perhaps I ought to say poaching. But—well, I think I ought to consult Mr. Tregonning, and—well, yes—Budda. Would you mind waiting while I send and ask Mr. Tregonning to come on?"
"No; I'll do anything you wish. Now I've started, I want to go straight on to the end."
Mr. Seccombe was back again in a few moments.
"May I ask," he said, with his eyes on the carpet, "if you saw anyone on the afternoon in question, or if anyone saw you?"
"Only Bilkins."
"He's one of Sir John's gardeners, I think."
"Very likely."
"And you were in the plantation when he saw you?"
"Oh no; I was on the common."
"And you were carrying the gun?"
"Well, you see, I pushed it into a furze bush when he come along, for, as I told you, I had no gun licence."
"Did he speak to you?"
"Ay. He passed the time of day, and asked if I had any sport."
"And you saw no one else?"
"Nobody but the squire."
Later in the day Bilkins was sent for, and arrived at the vicarage much wondering what was in the wind. He wondered still more when he was ushered into the vicar's library, and found himself face to face with Budda, Mr. Tregonning, and Jim Brewer, in addition to the vicar. For several moments he looked from one to another with an expression of utter astonishment on his face.
"I have sent for you, Bilkins," said the vicar mildly, "in order to ask you one or two questions that seem of some importance at the present moment."
"Yes, sir," said Bilkins, looking, if possible, more puzzled than before.
"Can you recall the afternoon on which Sir John Hamblyn was shot?"
"Why, yes, sir. Very well, sir."
"Did you cross Polskiddy Downs that afternoon?"
"I did, sir."
"Did you see anybody on the downs?"
"Well, only Jim Brewer. We met accidental like."
"What was he doing?"
"Well, he wasn't doing nothing. He was just standing still with his 'ands in his pockets lookin' round him and whistlin'."
"Was he carrying a gun?"
"Oh no, sir. He had nothin' in his 'ands."
"Did you see a gun?"
Bilkins glanced apprehensively at Jim Brewer, and then at the policeman.
"Well, no," he said, with considerable hesitation. "I didn't see no gun—that is——"
"Did you see any part of a gun?" Mr. Tregonning interjected.
"Well, sir, I don't wish to do no 'arm to nobody," Bilkins stammered, growing very red, "but I did see somethin' stickin' out of a furze bush as might have been a gun."
"The stock of a gun, perhaps?"
"Well, no; but it might 'ave been the barrel."
"You did not say anything to Brewer?"
"Well, I might, as a kind of joke, 'ave axed him if he 'ad any sport, but it weren't my place to be inquisitive."
"And was this far from the plantation?"
"Oh no; it were almost close."
"Then why, may I ask," interjected the vicar sternly, "did you not volunteer this information when the question was raised as to who shot your master?"
"Never thought on it, sir. Jim Brewer is a chap as couldn't hurt nobody."
"And yet the fact remains that you saw him close to the plantation on the afternoon on which Sir John was shot, and that no one saw Ralph Penlogan near the place."
"Yes, sir," Bilkins said vacantly.
"But what explanation or excuse have you to offer for such dereliction of duty?"
"For what, sir?"
"You must know, surely, that information was sought in all directions that would throw any light on the question."
"No one axed me anything, sir."
"But you might have told what you knew without being asked."
Bilkins looked perplexed, and remained silent.
"Why did you not inform someone of what you had seen?" Mr. Tregonning interposed.
"Well, you see, sir, Sir John had made up his mind as 'twas young Penlogan as shot him. He see'd his face as he was a-climbing over the hedge, an' he ought to know; and besides, sir, it ain't my place to contradict my betters."
"Oh, indeed!" And Mr. Tregonning, as one of his "betters," looked almost as puzzled as Bilkins.
After a few more questions had been asked and answered, there was a general adjournment to Hamblyn Manor.
Sir John was on the point of retiring for the night when he was startled by a loud ringing of the door bell, and a moment or two later he heard the vicar's voice in the hall.
Throwing open the library door, he came face to face with Mr. Seccombe and Mr. Tregonning, two or three shadowy figures bringing up the rear.
"We must ask your pardon, Sir John, for intruding at this late hour," the vicar said, constituting himself chief spokesman, "but Mr. Tregonning and myself felt that the matter was of so much importance that there ought to be not an hour's unnecessary delay."
"Indeed; will you come into the library?" Sir John said pompously, though he felt not a little curious as to what was in the wind.
Standing with his back against the mantelpiece, Sir John motioned his visitors to seats. Budda, however, elected to stand guard over the door.
For several moments there was silence, while the vicar looked at Mr. Tregonning and Mr. Tregonning looked at the vicar.
At last they appeared to understand each other, and the vicar cleared his throat.
"The truth is, Sir John," he began, "I was interrupted in my work this evening by a visit from this young man"—inclining his head toward Brewer—"who informed me that it was he who shot you, accidentally, on the 29th September last——"
"Stuff and nonsense," Sir John snapped, withdrawing his shoulders suddenly from the mantelpiece. "Do you think I don't know a face when I see it?"
"And yet, sir, it were my face you saw," Brewer interposed suddenly.
"Don't believe it," Sir John replied, with a snort.
"You must admit, sir," Mr. Tregonning interposed apologetically, "that this young man is not unlike Ralph Penlogan."
"No more like him than I am," Sir John retorted, almost angrily.
"Anyhow, you had better hear the story from the young man's lips," said the vicar mildly, "then your own man Bilkins will give evidence that he saw him close to the plantation on the afternoon in question."
"Then why did you not say so?" Sir John snarled, glaring angrily at his gardener.
"'Tweren't for the likes of me," Bilkins said humbly, "to say anything as would seem to contradict what you said. I hopes I know my place."
"I hope you do," Sir John growled; and then he turned his attention to the young miner.
Brewer told his story straightforwardly and without any outward sign of nervousness. He had braced himself to the task—his nerves were strung up to the highest point of tension, and he was determined to see the thing through now, cost what it might.
Sir John listened with half-closed eyes and a heavy frown upon his brow. He was far more angry than he would like anyone to know at the course events were taking. He saw clearly enough that, from his point of view, this was worse than a verdict of "not guilty" at the Assizes. This story, if accepted, would clear Ralph Penlogan absolutely. Not even the shadow of a suspicion would remain. Moreover, it would lay him (Sir John) open to the charge of vindictiveness.
As soon as Brewer had finished the story, the squire subjected him to a severe and lengthy cross-examination, all of which he bore with quiet composure, and every question he answered simply and directly.
Then Bilkins was called upon to tell his story, which Sir John listened to with evident disgust.
It was getting decidedly late when all the questions had been asked and answered, and Budda was growing impatient to know what part he was to play in the little drama. He was itching to arrest somebody. It would have been a relief to him if he could have arrested both Brewer and Bilkins.
Sir John and his brother magistrates withdrew at length to another room, while Budda kept guard with renewed vigilance.
"Now," said the vicar, when the door had closed behind the trio, "what is the next step?"
"Let the law take its course," said Sir John angrily.
"It will take its course in any case," said Mr. Tregonning. "The confession of Brewer, and the corroborative evidence of Bilkins, must be forwarded at once to the proper quarter. But the question is, Sir John, will you still hold to the charge of malicious shooting, or only of trespass?"
"If this story is accepted, I'll wash my hands of the whole business—there now!" And Sir John pushed his hands into his pockets and looked furious.
"I don't quite see why you should treat the matter in this way," the vicar said mildly.
"You don't?" Sir John questioned, staring hard at him. "You don't see that it will make fools of the whole lot of us; that it will turn the tide of popular sympathy against the entire bench of magistrates, and against me in particular; that it will do more harm to the gentry than fifty elections?"
"That's a very narrow view to take," the vicar said, with spirit. "We should care for the right and do the right, though the heavens fall."
"That may be all right to preach in church," Sir John said irritably, "but in practical life we do the best we can for ourselves, unless we are fools."
"Then you'll not proceed against this young man for trespass?" Mr. Tregonning inquired.
"I tell you I'll wash my hands of the whole affair, and I mean it. It's bad enough to be made a fool of once, without playing the same game a second time," and Sir John strutted round the room like an angered turkey.
"Then there's no excuse for keeping young Brewer here any longer, or of keeping you out of your bed," said the vicar, and he made for the door, followed by Mr. Tregonning.
Five minutes later the door closed on his guests, and Sir John found himself once more alone.
"Well, this is a kettle of fish," he said to himself angrily, as he paced up and down the room; "a most infernal kettle of fish, I call it. I shouldn't be surprised if before a week is out that young scoundrel will be heralded by a brass band playing 'See the Conquering Hero comes.' And, of course, every ounce of sympathy will go out to him. He'll be a kind of martyr, and I shall be execrated as a kind of Legree and Judge Jeffreys rolled into one. And then, of course, Dorothy will catch the popular contagion, and will interview him if she has the chance; and he'll make love to her—the villain! And here's Lord Probus bullying me, and every confounded money-lending Jew in the neighbourhood dunning me for money, and Geoffrey taking to extravagant ways with more alacrity than I did before him. I wonder if any other man in the county is humbugged as I am?"
Sir John spent the rest of the waking hours of that night in scheming how best he could get and keep Dorothy out of the way of Ralph Penlogan.
If a man is unfortunate enough to find himself in the clutches of what is euphemistically called "the law," the sooner and the more completely he can school himself to patience the better for his peace of mind. Lawyers and legislators do not appear generally to be of a mechanical turn, and the huge machine which they have constructed for the purpose of discovering and punishing criminals is apparently without any reversing gear. The machine will go forward ponderously and cumbrously, but it will not go backward without an infinite amount of toil and trouble. Hence, if a man is once caught in its toils, even though he is innocent, he will, generally speaking, have to go through the mill and come out at the far end. For such a small and remote contingency as a miscarriage of justice there is apparently no provision. If the wronged and deluded man will only have patience, he will come out of the mill in due course; and if he is but civil, he will be rewarded with a free pardon and told not to do it again.
The generosity of the State in compensating those who have been wrongfully convicted and punished has grown into a proverb. In some instances they have been actually released before their time has expired—which, of course, has meant a considerable amount of work for those who had control of the mill; and work to the highly paid officials of the State is little less to be dreaded than the plague.
The whole country had been ringing with Jim Brewer's story for more than a week before the law officers of the Crown condescended to look at the matter at all, and when they did look at it they saw so many technicalities in the way, and so much red tape to be unwound, that their hearts failed them. It seemed very inconsiderate of this Jim Brewer to speak at all after he had kept silent so long, particularly as the Grand Jury would so soon have the case before them.
Meanwhile Ralph was waiting with as much patience as he could command for the day of the trial. That he would be found guilty he could not bring himself to believe. The more he reviewed the case, the more angry and disgusted he felt with the local Solomons who had sat in judgment on him. He was disposed almost to blame them more than he blamed the squire. Sir John might have some grounds for supposing that he (Ralph) had deliberately fired at him. But that the great unpaid of St. Goram and neighbouring parishes could be so blind and stupid filled him with disgust.
For himself, he did not mind the long delay so much; but as the days grew into weeks, his anxiety respecting his mother and Ruth grew into torment. He knew that their little spare cash could not possibly hold out many weeks, and then what would happen?
He had heard nothing from them for a long time, and Bodmin was so far away from St. Goram that they could not visit him. He wondered if they had reached such straits that they could not afford a postage stamp. The more he speculated on the matter the more alarmed he got. The letters he had been allowed to send had received no answer. And it seemed so unlike his mother and Ruth to remain silent if they were able to write.
Of Jim Brewer's story he knew nothing, for newspapers did not come his way, and none of the prison officials had the kindness to tell him. So he waited and wondered as the slow days crept painfully past, and grew thin and hollow-eyed, and wished that he had never been born.
The end came nearly a month after Jim Brewer had told his story. He was condescendingly informed one morning that his innocence having been clearly established, the Crown would offer no evidence in support of the charge, and the Grand Jury had therefore thrown out the bill of indictment. This would mean his immediate liberation.
For several moments he felt unable to speak, and he sat down and hid his face in his hands. Then slowly the meaning of the words he had listened to began to take shape in his mind.
"You say my innocence has been established?" he questioned at length.
"That is so."
"By what means?"
The governor told him without unnecessary words.
"How long ago was this?"
"I do not quite know. Not many weeks I think."
"Not many weeks! Good heavens! You mean that I have been allowed to suffer in this inferno after my innocence was established?"
"With that I have nothing to do. Better quietly and thankfully take your departure."
Ralph raised a pair of blazing eyes, then turned on his heel. He felt as though insult had been heaped upon insult.
His brain seemed almost on fire when at length he stepped through the heavy portal and found himself face to face with William Menire.
Ralph stared at him for several moments in astonishment. Why, of all the people in the world, should William Menire come to meet him? They had never been friends—they could scarcely be called acquaintances.
William, however, did not allow him to pursue this train of thought. Springing forward at once, he grasped Ralph by the hand.
"I made inquiries," he said, speaking rapidly, "and I couldn't find out that anybody was coming to meet you. And I thought you might feel a bit lonely and cheerless, for the weather is nipping cold. So I brought a warm rug with me, and I've ordered breakfast at the King's Arms; for there ain't no train till a quarter-past ten, and we'll be home by——"
Then he stopped suddenly, for Ralph had burst into tears.
The prison fare, the iron hand of the law, the bitter injustice he had suffered so long, had only hardened him. He had shed not a single tear during all the months of his incarceration. But this touch of human kindness from one who was almost a stranger broke him down completely, and he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed outright.
William looked at him in bewilderment.
"I hope I have not said anything that's hurt you?" he questioned anxiously.
"No, no," Ralph said chokingly. "It's your kindness that has unmanned me for a moment. You are almost a stranger, and I have no claim upon you whatever." And he began to sob afresh.
"Oh, well, if that's all, I don't mind," William said, with a cheerful smile. "You see, we are neighbours—at least we were. And if a man can't do a neighbourly deed when he has a chance, he ain't worth much."
Ralph lifted his head at length, and wiped his eyes.
"Pardon me for being so weak," he said. "But I didn't expect——"
"Of course you didn't," William interrupted. "I knew it would be a surprise to you. But hadn't we better be going? I don't want the breakfast at the King's Arms to get cold."
"A word first," Ralph said eagerly. "Are my mother and sister well?"
"Well, your mother is only middling—nothing serious. But the weather's been very trying, and her appetite's nothing to speak of. And, you see, she's worried a good deal about you."
"And my sister?" he interposed.
"She's very well, I believe. But let's get out of sight of this place, or it'll be getting on my nerves."
A quarter of an hour later they were seated in a cosy room before an appetising breakfast of steaming ham and eggs.
Ralph had a difficulty in keeping the tears back. The pleasant room, hung with pictures, the cheerful fire crackling in the grate, the white tablecloth and dainty china and polished knives and forks, the hot, fragrant tea and the delicious ham, were such a contrast from what he had endured so long, that he felt for a moment or two as if his emotion would completely overcome him.
William wisely did not look at him, but gave all his attention to the victuals, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of seeing his guest doing full justice to the fare.
During the journey home they talked mainly about what had happened in St. Goram since Ralph went away, but William could not bring himself to tell him the truth about his mother. Again and again he got to the point, and then his courage failed him.
At St. Ivel Road, William's trap was waiting for them, and they drove the two miles to St. Goram in silence.
Suddenly Ralph reached out his hand as if to grasp the reins.
"You are driving past our house," he said, in a tone of suppressed excitement.
"Yes, that's all right," William answered, in a tone of apparent unconcern. "They're not there now."
"Not there?" he questioned, with a gasp.
"No. You'll come along with me for a bit."
"But I do not understand," Ralph said, turning eager eyes on William's face.
"Oh, I'll explain directly. But look at the crowd of folk."
William had to bring his horse to a standstill, for the road was completely blocked. There was no shouting or hurrahing; no band to play "See the Conquering Hero comes." But the men uncovered their heads, and tears were running down the women's faces.
Ralph had to get out of the trap to steer his way as best he could to William's store. It was a slow and painful process, and yet it had its compensations. Children tugged at his coat-tails, and hard-fisted men squeezed his hand in silence, and women held up their chubby babies to him to be kissed, and young fellows his own age whispered a word of welcome. It was far more impressive than a noisy demonstration or the martial strains of a brass band. Of the sympathy of the people there could be no doubt whatever. Everybody realised now that he had been cruelly treated—that the suspicion that rested on him at first was base and unworthy; that he was not the kind of man to do a mean or cowardly deed; and that the wrong that was done was of a kind that could never be repaired.
They wondered as they crowded round him whether he knew of the crowning humiliation and wrong. The workhouse was a place that most of them regarded with horror. To become a pauper was to suffer the last indignity. There was nothing beyond it—no further reproach or shame.
It was the knowledge that Ralph's mother was in the workhouse, and that his little home had been broken up—perhaps for ever—that checked the shout and turned what might have been laughter into tears. Any attempt at merriment would have been a mockery under such circumstances. They were glad to see Ralph back again—infinitely glad; but knowing what they did, the pathos of his coming touched them to the quick.
Very few words were spoken, but tears fell like rain. Ralph wondered, as he pressed his way forward toward William Menire's shop, and yet he had not the courage to ask any questions. Behind the people's silent sympathy he felt there was something that had not yet been revealed. But what it was he could not guess. That his mother and Ruth were alive, he knew, for William had told him so. Perhaps something had happened in St. Goram that William had not told him, which affected others more than it affected him.
William went in front and elbowed a passage for Ralph.
"We be fine an' glad to see 'ee 'ome again," people whispered here and there, and Ralph would smile and say "Thank you," and then push on again.
William was in a perfect fever of excitement. He had been hoping almost against hope all the day. Whether his little scheme had succeeded or miscarried, he could not tell yet. He would know only when he crossed his own threshold. What his little scheme was he had confided to no one. If it failed, he could still comfort himself with the thought that he had done his best. But he still hoped and prayed that what he had tried so hard to accomplish had come to pass.
The crowd pressed close to the door of William's shop, but no one dared to enter. Ralph followed close upon his heels, still wondering and fearing. William lifted the flap of his counter and opened the door of the living-room beyond. No sooner had he done so than his heart gave a sudden bound. Ruth Penlogan came forward with pale face and eyes full of tears.
William's little plan had succeeded. Ruth was present to receive her brother. William tried to speak, but his voice failed him, and with a sudden rush of tears he turned back into the shop, closing the door behind him.
Ruth fell on her brother's neck, and began to sob. He led her to a large, antiquated sofa, and sat down by her side. He did not speak. He could wait till she had recovered herself. She dried her eyes at length and looked up into his face.
"You did not expect to see me here?" she questioned.
"No, I did not, Ruth; but where is mother?"
"Has he not told you?"
"Told me? She is not dead, is she?"
"No, no. She would be happier if she were. Oh, Ralph, it breaks my heart. I wish we had all died when father was taken."
"But where is she, Ruth? What has happened? Do tell me."
"She is in the workhouse, Ralph."
He sprang to his feet as though he had been shot.
"Ruth, you lie!" he said, almost in a whisper.
She began to sob again, and he stood looking at her with white, drawn face, and a fierce, passionate gleam in his eyes.
For several moments no other word passed between them. Then he sat down by her side again.
"There was no help for it," she sobbed at length. "And mother was quite content and eager to go."
"And you allowed it, Ruth," he said, in a tone of reproach.
"What could I do, Ralph?" she questioned plaintively. "We had spent all, and the landlord stopped us from selling any more furniture. The parish would allow her half a crown a week, which would not pay the rent, and I could get nothing to do."
He gulped down a lump that had risen in his throat, and clenched his hands, but he did not speak.
"She said there was no disgrace in going into the House," Ruth went on; "that father had paid rates for more than five-and-twenty years, and that she had a right to all she would get, and a good deal more."
"Rights go for nothing in this world," he said bitterly. "It is the strong who win."
"Mrs. Menire told me this morning that her son would have trusted us to any amount and for any length of time if he had only known."
"You did not ask him?"
"Mother would never consent," she replied. "Besides, Mr. Menire is a comparative stranger to us."
"That is true, and yet he has been a true friend to me to-day."
"I hesitated about accepting his hospitality," Ruth answered, with her eyes upon the floor. "He sent word yesterday that he had learned you were to be liberated this morning, and that he was going to Bodmin to meet you and bring you back, and that his mother would be glad to offer me hospitality if I would like to meet you here."
"It was very kind of him, Ruth; but where are you living?"
"I am in service, Ralph."
"No!"
"It is quite true. I was bound to earn my living somehow."
He laughed a bitter laugh.
"Prison, workhouse, and domestic service! What may we get to next, do you think?"
"But we have not gone into debt or cheated anybody, and we've kept our consciences clean, Ralph."
"Yes, ours is a case of virtue rewarded," he answered cynically. "Honesty sent to prison, and thrift to the workhouse."
"But we haven't done with life and the world yet."
"You think there are lower depths in store for us?"
"I hope not. We may begin to rise now. Let us not despair, Ralph. Suffering should purify and strengthen us."
"I don't see how suffering wrongly or unjustly can do anybody any good," he answered moodily.
"Nor can I at present. Perhaps we shall see later on. There is one great joy amid all our grief. Your name has been cleared."
"Yes, that is something—better than a verdict of acquittal, eh?" and a softer light came into his eyes.
"I would rather be in our place, Ralph, bitter and humiliating as it is, than take the place of the oppressor."
"You are thinking of Sir John Hamblyn?" he questioned.
"They say he is being oppressed now," she answered, after a pause.
"By whom?"
"The money-lenders. Rumour says that he has lost heavily on the Turf and on the Stock Exchange—whatever that may be—and that he is hard put to it to keep his creditors at bay."
"That may account in some measure for his hardness to others."
"He hoped to retrieve his position, it is said, by marrying his daughter to Lord Probus," Ruth went on, "but she refuses to keep her promise."
"What?" he exclaimed, with a sudden gasp.
"How much of the gossip is true, of course, nobody knows, or rather how much of it isn't true—for it is certain she has refused to marry him; and Lord Probus is so mad that he refused to speak to Sir John or have anything to do with him."
Ralph smiled broadly.
"What has become of Miss Dorothy is not quite clear. Some people say that Sir John has sent her to a convent school in France. Others say that she has gone off of her own free will, and taken a situation as a governess under an assumed name."
"Are you sure she isn't at the Manor?" he questioned eagerly.
"Quite sure. The servants talk very freely about it. Sir John stormed and swore, and threatened all manner of things, but she held her own. He shouted so loudly sometimes that they could not help hearing what he said. Miss Dorothy was very calm, but very determined. He taunted her with being in love with somebody else——"
"No!"
"She must have had a very hard time of it by what the servants say. It is to be hoped she has peace now she has got away."
"Sir John is a brute," Ralph said bitterly. "He has no mercy on anybody, not even on his own flesh and blood."
"Isn't it always true that 'with what measure ye mete it shall be measured to you again'?" Ruth questioned, looking up into his face.
"It may be," he answered, "and yet many people suffer injustice who have never meted it out to others."
For a while silence fell between them, then looking up into his face she said—
"Have you any plans for the future, Ralph?"
"A good many, Ruth, but the chances are they will come to nothing. One thing my prison experience has allowed me, and that is time to think. If I can work out half my dreams there will be topsy-turvydom in St. Goram." And he smiled again.
"Then you have not given up hope?"
"Not quite, Ruth. But first of all I must see mother and get her out of the workhouse."
"You will have to earn some money and take a house first. You see, everything has gone, Ralph."
"Which means an absolutely fresh start, and from the bottom," he answered. "But never mind, when you build from the bottom you are pretty sure of your foundation."
"Oh, it does me good to hear you talk like that," she said, the tears coming into her eyes again.
"I hope I'm not altogether a coward, sis," he said, with a smile. "It'll be a hard struggle, I know; but, at any rate, I have something to live for."
"That's bravely said." And she leant over and kissed him.
"Now we must stop talking, and act," he went on. "I must get William Menire to lend me his trap, and I must drive over to see mother."
"That will be lovely, for then I can ride with you, for I must be in by seven o'clock."
"What?"
"This is an extra day off, you know."
"Are you cook, or housemaid, or what?"
"I am sewing maid," she answered. "The Varcoes have a big family of children, you know, and I have really as much as I can do with the making and mending."
"What, Varcoes the Quakers?"
"Yes. And they have really been exceedingly kind to me. They took me without references, and have done their best to make me comfortable. There are some good people in the world, Ralph."
"It would be a sorry world if there weren't," he answered. And then William Menire and his mother entered.
A few minutes later a substantial dinner was served, and for the next hour William fluttered about his guests unmindful of how his customers fared.
Had not Ralph been so busy with his own thoughts, and Ruth so taken up with her brother, they would have both seen in what direction William's inclinations lay. He would gladly have kept them both if he could, and hailed their presence as a dispensation of Providence. Ruth looked lovelier in William's eyes than she had ever done, and to be her friend was the supreme ambition of his life.
He insisted on driving them to St. Hilary, but demanded as a first condition that Ralph should return with him to St. Goram.
"You can stay here," he said, "until you can get work or suit yourself with better lodgings. You can't sleep in the open air, and you may as well stay with me as with anybody else."
This, on the face of it, seemed a reasonable enough proposition, and with this understanding Ralph climbed into the back of the trap, Ruth riding on the front seat with William.
Never did a driver feel more proud than William felt that afternoon. It was not that he was doing a kindly and neighbourly deed; there was much more in his jubilation than that. He had by his side, so he believed, the fairest girl in the three parishes. William watched with no ordinary interest and curiosity the face of everyone they met, and when he saw some admiring pairs of eyes resting upon his companion, his own eyes sparkled with a brighter light.
William thought very little of Ralph, who was sitting at his back, and who kept up a conversation with Ruth over his left shoulder. It was Ruth who filled his thoughts and awakened in his heart a new and strange sensation. He did not talk himself. He was content to listen, content to catch the sweet undertone of a voice that was sweeter and softer than St. Goram bells on a stormy night; content to feel, when the trap lurched, the pressure of Ruth's arm against his own.
He did not drive rapidly. Why should he? This was a red-letter day in the grey monotony of his life, a day to be remembered when business was bad and profits small, and his mother's temper had more rough edges in it than usual.
So he let his horse amble along at its own sweet will. They would return at a much smarter pace.
William pulled up slowly at the workhouse gates. He would have helped Ruth down if there had been any excuse or opportunity. He was sorry the journey had come to an end. It might be long before he looked into those soft brown eyes again. He suppressed a sigh with difficulty when Ralph sprang out behind and helped his sister down. How much less clumsily he could have done it himself, and how he would have enjoyed the privilege!
"I'll put the horse up at the Star and Garter," he said, adjusting the seat to the lighter load, "and will be waiting round there till you're ready."
Then Ruth came up and stood by the shafts.
"I shall not see you again," she said, raising grateful eyes to his. "But I should like to thank you very much for your kindness."
"Please don't say a word about it," he answered, blushing painfully. "The pleasure's been on my side." And he reached down and grasped Ruth's extended hand with a vigour that left no doubt as to his sincerity.
He did not drive away at once. He waited till Ralph and Ruth had disappeared within the gloomy building, then, heaving a long-drawn sigh, he touched his horse with his whip, and drove slowly down the hill toward the Star and Garter.
"It's very foolish of me to think about women at all," he mused, "especially about one woman in particular. I'm not a woman's man, and never was, and never shall be. Besides, she's good enough for the best in the land."
And he plucked at the reins and started the horse into a trot.
"If I were ten years younger and handsome," he went on, "and didn't keep a shop, and hadn't my mother to keep, and—and——But there, what's the use of saying 'if' this and 'if' that? I'm just William Menire, and nobody else, and there ain't her equal in the three parishes. No, I'd better be content to jog along quietly as I've been doing for years past. It's foolish to dream at my time of life—foolish—foolish!" And with another sigh he let the reins slacken.
But, foolish or not, William continued to dream, until his dreams seemed to him the larger part of his life.