In a long, barrack-like room, with uncarpeted floor and whitewashed walls, Ralph and Ruth found their mother. She was propped up with pillows in a narrow, comfortless bed. Her hands lay listless upon the coarse coverlet, her eyes were fixed upon the blank wall opposite, her lips were parted in a patient and pathetic smile.
She did not see the wall, nor feel the texture of the bedclothes, nor hear the sound of footsteps on the uncarpeted floor. She was back again in the old days when husband and children were about her, and hope gladdened their daily toil, and love glorified and made beautiful the drudgery of life. She tried not to think about the present at all, and in the main she succeeded. Her life was in the past and in the future. When she was not wandering through the pleasant fields of memory, and plucking the flowers that grew in those sheltered vales, she was soaring aloft into those fair Elysian fields which imagination pictured and faith made real—fields on which the blight of winter never fell, and across which storms and tempests never swept.
She had lost all count of days, lost consciousness almost of her present surroundings. Every day was the same—grey and sunless. There were no duties to be done, no meals to prepare, no butter to make, no chickens to feed, no husband to greet when the day was done, no hungry children to come romping in from the fields.
There were old people who had been in the workhouse so long that they had accommodated their life to its slow routine, and who found something to interest them in the narrowest and greyest of all worlds. But Mary Penlogan had come too suddenly into its sombre shadow and had left too many pleasant things behind her.
She did not complain. There were times when she did not even suffer. The blow had stunned her and numbed all her sensibilities. Now and then she awoke as from a pleasant dream, and for a moment a wave of horror and agony would sweep over her, but the tension would quickly pass. The wound was too deep for the smart to continue long.
She seemed in the main to be wonderfully resigned, and yet resignation was scarcely the proper word to use. It was rather that voiceless apathy born of despair. For her the end of the world had come; there was nothing left to live for. Nothing could restore the past and give her back what once she had prized so much, and yet prized all too little. It was just a question of endurance until the Angel of Death should set her free.
She conformed to all the rules of the House without a murmur, and without even the desire to complain. She slept well, on the whole, and tried her best to eat such fare as was considered good enough for paupers. If she wept at all she wept in secret and in the night-time; she had no desire to obtrude her grief upon others. She even made an earnest effort to be cheerful now and then. But all the while her strength ebbed slowly away. The springs of her life had run dry.
The workhouse doctor declared at first that nothing ailed her—nothing at all. A week later he spoke of a certain lack of vitality, and wrote an order for a little more nourishing food. A fortnight later he discovered a certain weakness in the action of the heart, and wrote out a prescription to be made up in the dispensary.
Later still he had her removed to the sick-ward and placed under the care of a nurse. It was there Ralph and Ruth found her on the afternoon in question.
She looked up with a start when Ralph stopped at the foot of her bed, then, with a glad cry, she reached out her wasted arms to him. He was by her side in a moment, with his arms about her neck, and for several minutes they rocked themselves to and fro in silence.
Ruth came up on the other side and sat down on a wooden chair, and for awhile her presence was forgotten.
"My dear, darling old mother!" Ralph said, as soon as he had recovered himself sufficiently to speak. "I did not think it would have come to this."
She made no reply, but continued to rock herself to and fro.
He drew himself away after a while and took her thin, wrinkled hands in his.
"You must get better now as soon as ever you can," he said, trying to speak cheerfully, though every word threatened to choke him.
She shook her head slowly and smiled.
"When we get you back to St. Goram," he went on, "you'll soon pick up your strength again, for it is only strength you need."
She turned her head and looked up into his face and smiled pathetically.
"If it is God's will that I should get strong again I shall not complain," she answered, "but I would rather go Home now I am so near."
"Oh no, we cannot spare you yet," he replied quickly; and he gulped down a big lump that had risen in his throat. "I'm going to work in real earnest and build a new home. I've lots of plans for the future."
"My poor boy," she said gently, and she tapped the back of his hand with the tips of her wasted fingers, "even if your plans succeed, life will be a hard road still."
"Yes, yes, I know that, mother. But to have someone to live for and care for will make it easier." And he bent his head and kissed her.
"God alone can tell that, my boy," she said wistfully. "But oh, you've been a long time coming to me."
"I wonder if it has seemed so long to you as to me?" he questioned.
"But why did they not release you sooner?" she asked. "Oh, it seems months ago since they told me that Jim Brewer had confessed."
"Can anybody tell why stupid officialism ever does anything at all?" he questioned. "Liberty is a goddess bound, and justice is fettered and cannot run."
"I know nothing about that," she answered slowly, "but it seemed an easy thing to set you free when your innocence had been proved."
"No, mother; nothing is easy when you are caught in the blind and blundering toils of the law."
"But what is the law for, my boy?"
He laughed softly and yet bitterly.
"Chiefly, it seems," he said, "to find work for lawyers; and, secondly, to protect the interests of those who are rich enough to pay for it."
"Oh, my boy, the bitterness of the wrong abides with you still, but God will make all things right by and by."
"Some things can never be made right, mother; but let us not talk of that now. I want you to get better fast, and think of all the good times we shall have when we get a little home of our own once more."
"Your father will not be there," she answered sadly; "and I want to be with him."
"But you should think of us also, mother," he said, with a shake in his voice.
"I do—I do," she answered feebly and listlessly. "I have thought of you night and day, and have never ceased to pray for you since I came here. But you can do without me now."
"No, no. Don't say that!" he pleaded.
"I should have feared to leave you once," she answered; "but not now."
"Why not now?" he questioned.
"Ah, Ralph, my boy"—and she smoothed the back of his hand slowly and gently—"you will never forget your father and the good name he bore. That name is your inheritance. It is better than money—better than houses and lands. He was one of the good men of the world—not great, nor successful, nor even wise, as the world counts wisdom. But no shadow of wrong, Ralph, ever stained his life. He walked with God. You will think of this, my son, in the days that are to come. And if ever you should be tempted to sin, the memory of your father will be like an anchor to you. You will say to yourself, 'He bore unstained for nearly sixty years the white flag of a blameless life, and I dare not lower it now into the dust.'"
"God help me, mother!" he choked.
"God will help you, my boy. As He stood by your father and has comforted me, so will He be your strength and defence. You and Ruth will fight all the better for not having the burden of my presence."
"Mother, mother, how can you say so?" Ruth interposed, with streaming eyes.
"I may be permitted to watch you from the hills of that Better Country," she went on, "I and your father. But in any case, God will watch over you."
This was her benediction. They went away at length, sadly and silently, but not till they reached the outer air did either of them speak. It was Ruth who broke the silence.
"She will never get better, Ralph."
"Oh, nonsense, sis. She is overcome to-day, but she will pick up again to-morrow."
"She has been gradually failing ever since we left Hillside, and she has never recovered any ground she lost."
"But the spring is coming, and once we have got her out of that dismal and depressing place, her strength will come back."
But Ruth shook her head.
"I don't want to discourage you," she said, "but I have watched the gradual loosening of her hold upon life. Her heart is in heaven, Ralph, that is the secret of it. She is longing to be with father again."
They walked on in silence till they reached Mr. Varcoe's house, then Ralph spoke again.
"We must get mother out of the workhouse, and at once, whatever happens," he said.
"How?" she asked.
"I don't know yet. But think of it, if she should die in the workhouse."
"She has lived in it," Ruth answered.
"Yes, yes; but the disgrace of it if she should end her days there."
"If there is any disgrace in poverty, we have suffered it to the full," Ruth answered. "Nothing that can happen now can add to it."
For a moment he stood silent. Then he kissed her and walked away.
He found William Menire waiting for him at the street corner, a few yards from the Star and Garter.
"I haven't harnessed up yet," he said. "I thought perhaps you might like a cup of tea or a chop before we returned. Your sister, I presume, has gone back to her—to her place?"
"Yes, I saw her home before I came on here."
William sighed and waited for instructions. He was willing to be servant to Ralph for Ruth's sake.
"I should like a cup of tea, if you don't mind," Ralph said at length, and he coloured painfully as he spoke. He was living on charity, and the sting of it made all his nerves tingle.
"There's a confectioner's round the corner where they make capital tea," William said cheerfully. And he led the way with long strides.
The moon was up when they started on their homeward journey, and the air was keen and frosty. Neither of them talked much. To Ralph the day seemed like a long and more or less incoherent dream. He had dressed that morning in the dim light of a prison cell—it seemed like a week ago. He felt at times as though he had dreamed all the rest.
William was dreaming of Ruth, and so did not disturb his companion. The horse needed no whip, he seemed the most eager of the three to get home. The fields lay white and silent in the moonlight. The bare trees flung ghostly shadows across the road. The stars twinkled faintly in the far-off depths of space, now and then a dove cooed drowsily in a neighbouring wood.
At length the tower of St. Goram Church loomed massively over the brow of the hill, and a little later William pulled up with a jerk at his own shop door.
Mrs. Menire had provided supper for them. Ralph ate sparingly, and with many pauses. This was not home. He was a stranger in a stranger's house, living on charity. That thought stung him constantly and spoiled his appetite.
He tried to sleep when he got to bed, but the angel was long in coming. His thoughts were too full of other things. The fate of his mother worried him most. How to get her out of the workhouse and find an asylum for her somewhere else was a problem he could not solve. He had been promised work at St. Ivel Mine before his arrest, and he had no doubt that he would still be able to obtain employment there. But no wages would be paid him till the end of the month, and even then it would all be mortgaged for food and clothes.
He slept late next morning, for William had given orders that he was not to be disturbed. He came downstairs feeling a little ashamed of himself. If this was his new start in life, it was anything but an energetic beginning.
William was on the look-out for him, and fetched the bacon and eggs from the kitchen himself.
"We've had our breakfast," he explained. "You won't mind, I hope. We knew you'd be very tired, so we kept the house quiet. I hope you've had a good night, and are feeling all the better. Now I must leave you. We're busy getting out the country orders. You can help yourself, I know." And he disappeared through the frosted glass door into the shop.
He came back half an hour later, just as Ralph was finishing his breakfast, with a telegram in his hand.
"I hope there ain't no bad news," he said, handing Ralph the brick-coloured envelope.
Ralph tore it open in a moment, and his face grew ashen.
He did not speak for several seconds, but continued to stare with unblinking eyes at the pencilled words.
"Is it bad news?" William questioned at length, unable to restrain his curiosity and his anxiety any longer.
Ralph raised his eyes and looked at him.
"Mother's dead," he answered, in a whisper; and then the telegram slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor.
William picked it up and read it.
"Your mother found dead in bed. Send instructionsredisposal of remains."
"They might have worded the message a little less brutally," William said at length.
"Officialism is nothing if not brutal," Ralph said bitterly.
Then the two men looked at each other in silence. William had little difficulty in guessing what was passing through Ralph's mind.
"If I were in his place," he reflected, "what should I be thinking? Should I like my mother to be put into a parish coffin and buried in a pauper's grave?"
William spoke at length.
"You'd like your mother and father to sleep together?" he questioned.
Ralph's lips trembled, but he did not speak.
"The world's been terribly rough on you," William went on, "but you'll come into your own maybe by and by."
"I shall never get father and mother back again," Ralph answered chokingly.
"We oughtn't to want them back again," William said; "they're better off."
"I wish I was better off in the same way," Ralph answered, with a rush of tears to his eyes.
"She held on, you see, till you came back to her," William said, after a long pause; "then, when she got her heart's desire, she let go."
"Dear old mother!"
"And now that she's asleep, you'll want her to rest with your father."
"But I've no money."
"I'll be your banker as long as you like. Charge you interest on the money, if you'll feel easier in your mind. Only don't let the money question trouble you just now."
Ralph grasped William's hand in silence. Of all the people he had known in St. Goram, this comparative stranger was his truest friend and neighbour.
So it came to pass that Mary Penlogan had such a funeral as she herself would have chosen, and in the grave of her husband her children laid her to rest. People came from far and near to pay their last tribute of respect. Even Sir John Hamblyn sent his steward to represent him. He was too conscience-stricken to come himself.
And when the grave had been filled in, the crowd still lingered and talked to each other of the brave and patient souls whose only legacy to their children was the heritage of an untarnished name.
Some people said it was a stroke of good luck, others that it was an exhibition of native genius, others still that it was the result of having a good education, and a few that it was just a dispensation of Providence, and nothing else. But whether luck or genius, Providence or education, all were agreed that Ralph Penlogan had struck a vein which, barring accidents, would lead him on to fortune.
For six months he had worked on the "floors" of St. Ivel Mine, and earned fourteen shillings a week thereat; but as a friendly miner and his wife boarded and lodged him for eight shillings a week, he did not do badly. His savings, if not large, were regular. Most months he laid by a pound, and felt that he had taken the first step on the road to independence, if not to fortune.
As the weeks sped away, and springtime grew into summer, and all the countryside lay smiling and beautiful in the warmth of the sunshine, his spirits rose imperceptibly; the sense of injustice that had burdened him gradually grew lighter, the bitter memory of Bodmin Gaol faded slowly from his mind, his grief at the loss of his parents passed unconsciously into painless resignation, and life, for its own sake, seemed to gather a new meaning.
He was young and strong, and in perfect health. Consequently, youth and strength and hope and confidence asserted themselves in spite of everything. How could he help dreaming bright dreams of the future when the earth lay basking in beauty in the light of the summer sun, and away at the end of the valley a triangular glimpse of the sea carried his thoughts into the infinite?
So strong he felt, so full of life and vitality, that nothing seemed impossible to him. He was not impatient. He was so young that he could afford to bide his time. He would lay the foundation slowly and with care. He had to creep before he could walk, and walk before he could run.
Now and then, it is true, he had his bitter and angry moments, when the memory of the past swept over him like an icy flood, and when a sense of intolerable injustice seemed to wrap the world in darkness and shut out all hope of the future.
One such moment he had when he contracted with William Jenkins to mow down a field of hay on Hillside Farm. He could do this only by working overtime, which usually meant working sixteen hours a day. But he was anxious to earn all he could, so that at the earliest possible date he might get a little home together for himself and Ruth.
He had not seen Hillside for many a month until the day he went to interview William Jenkins. He knew it would cost him a pang, but he could not afford to wait on sentiment or emotion. And yet he hardly realised how deeply the place was enshrined in his heart until he stood knocking at the door of the house that was once his home.
He was glad that nobody heard his first knock. He thought he had got beyond the reach of emotion, but it was not so. Suddenly, as a wave rises and breaks upon the shore, a flood of memory swept over him. He was back again in the dear dead past, with all the hopes of boyhood dancing before his eyes. He saw his father coming up the home-close with a smile upon his face, his mother in the garden gathering flowers with which to decorate the table. He could almost fancy he heard Ruth singing in the parlour as she bent over her sewing.
Then the wave retreated, leaving him cold and numbed and breathless. It was his home no longer. He was standing, a stranger, at the door that once he opened by right. His eyes cleared at length, and he looked out across the fields that he had helped to reclaim from the waste. How familiar the landscape was! He knew every mound and curve, every bush and tree. Could it be possible that in one short year, and less, so much had happened?
He pulled himself together after a few moments, and knocked at the door again. William Jenkins started and looked confused when he saw Ralph standing before him, for he had never been able to shake off an uneasy feeling that he had not done a kind and neighbourly thing when he took Hillside Farm over David Penlogan's head, even though Sir John's agent had pressed him to do so.
Ralph plunged into the object of his visit after a kindly greeting.
"I hear you are letting out your hay crop to be cut," he said, "and I came across to see if I could get the job."
"I did not know you were out of work," Jenkins said uneasily.
"I'm not," Ralph answered. "But I want to put in a little overtime these long days. Besides, you know I'm used to farm work."
"But if you work only overtime it will take you a long time to get down the crop."
"Oh, not so long. It's light till nearly ten o'clock. Besides, we're in for a spell of fine weather, and a day or two longer won't make any difference."
"The usual price per acre, I suppose?" the farmer questioned, after a pause.
"Well, I presume nobody would be inclined to take less," Ralph said, with a laugh.
The farmer dived his hands into his pockets, contemplated the evening sky for several minutes, took two or three long strides down the garden path and back again, cleared his throat once or twice, and then he said—
"Will waant yer money, 'spose, when the job's done?"
"Unless you prefer to pay in advance."
The farmer grinned, and dug a hole into the ground with his heel.
"There ain't too much money to be made out of this place, I'm thinkin'," he said at length.
"Not at the price you suggest," Ralph said, with a twinkle in his eye.
The farmer grinned again.
"I didn't main it that way," he said, digging another hole in the gravel. "I was thinkin' of myself. The farm ain't as good as I took it to be."
"But it will mend every year."
"Ef it don't I shall wish I never see'd it. The crops are lookin' only very middlin', I can assure 'ee."
"Sorry to hear that. But what about the hay-field?"
"I 'spose you've got a scythe?"
"I can get one, in any case."
"Well, 'spose we say done!" And Jenkins contemplated the evening sky again with considerable interest.
Afterwards Ralph wished that he had found work for his spare time almost anywhere rather than on Hillside Farm. There was not a single thing that did not remind him in some way of the past. He would raise his head unconsciously, expecting to see his father working by his side. The flutter of Mrs. Jenkins' print dress in the garden would cause the word "mother" to leap to his lips unbidden, and when the daylight faded, and the moon began to peep over the hill, he would turn his face towards the house, fancying that Ruth was calling him to supper.
He finished the task at length, and dropped his hard-earned silver into his pocket.
"It'll be a dear crop of hay for me, I'm thinkin'," Jenkins said lugubriously.
"It isn't so heavy as it might be," Ralph answered. "A damp spring suits Hillside best."
"I sometimes wish your father had it instead of me." And Jenkins twisted his shoulders uncomfortably.
"Father is better off," Ralph answered slowly, looking across the valley to a distant line of hills.
"Ay, it's to be hoped so, for there ain't much better off here, I'm thinkin'. It's mostly worse off. And as we get owlder we feel it more 'n more."
"So you regret taking the farm already?" Ralph questioned almost unconsciously.
"I ded'n say so. We've got to make a livin' somehow, leastways we've got to try." And he turned suddenly round and walked into the house.
Ralph walked across the fields to interview Peter Ladock, whose farm adjoined. He struck the boundary hedge at a point where a gnarled and twisted oak made a feature in the landscape. Half-way over the hedge he paused abruptly. This was the point his father had asked him to keep in his memory, and yet until this moment he had never once thought of it.
Not that it mattered: the county was intersected with tin lodes, iron lodes, copper lodes, and lead lodes, and most of them would not pay for the working. And very likely this lode, if it existed—for, after all, his father had had very little opportunity of demonstrating its existence—would turn out to be no better than the rest.
For a moment he paused to draw an imaginary line to the chimney-top, as his father had instructed him, then he sprang off the hedge into Ladock's field and made his way towards his house. Peter, who knew his man, agreed to pay Ralph by the hour, and he could work as many hours as he liked.
To one less strong and healthy than Ralph it would have been killing work; but he did not seem to take any harm. Once a week came Sunday, and during that day he seemed to regain all that he had lost. Fortunately, too, during harvest-time the farmers provided extra food. There was "crowst" between meals, and supper when they worked extra late.
No sooner was the hay crop out of the way than the oats and barley began to whiten in the sunshine, and then the wheat began to bend its head before the sickle.
Ralph quadrupled his savings during the months of June, July, and August, and before September was out he had taken a cottage and begun to furnish it.
Bice had a few things left that once belonged to his mother and father. Ralph pounced upon them greedily, and bought them cheaply from the assistant when Bice was out.
On the first Saturday afternoon he had at liberty he went to St. Hilary to interview his sister. Ruth was on the look-out for him. She had got the afternoon off, and was eager to look into his eyes again. It was nearly three months since she had seen him.
She met him with a glad smile and eyes that were brimful of happy tears.
"How well you look," she said, looking up into his strong, sunburnt face. "I was afraid you were working yourself to death."
"No fear of that," he said, with a laugh; "it is not work that kills, you know, but worry."
"And you are not worrying?" she asked.
"Not now," he answered. "I think I'm fairly started, and, with hard work and economy, there is no reason why we should not jog along comfortably together."
"And you are still of the same mind about my keeping house for you?"
"Why, what a question! As if I would stay a day longer in 'diggings' than I could help."
"Are you not comfortable?" she questioned, glancing anxiously up into his face.
"Yes, when at work or asleep."
"There is still another question," she said at length, with a smile.
"And that?"
"You may want to get married some time, and then I shall be in the way."
He laughed boisterously for a moment, and then his face grew grave.
"I shall never marry," he said at length. "At least, that is my present conviction."
She regarded him narrowly for a moment, and wondered. There came a look into his eyes which she could not understand—a far-away, pathetic look, such as is seen in the eyes of those who have loved and lost.
Ruth was curious. Being a woman, she could not help it. Who was there in St. Goram likely to touch her brother's fancy? Young men who have never been in love often talk freely about getting married.
She changed the subject a few minutes later, and carefully watched the effect of her words.
"I suppose nothing has been heard in St. Goram of Miss Dorothy?"
"No," he said hurriedly. "Have you heard anything?" And he looked at her with eager eyes, while the colour deepened on his cheeks.
"I am not in the way of hearing St. Goram news," she said, with a smile.
He drew in his breath sharply, and turned away his eyes, and for several minutes neither of them spoke again.
Ruth began unconsciously to put two and two together. She had heard of such things—read of them in books. Fate was often very cruel to the most deserving. Unlikelier things had happened. Dorothy was exceedingly pretty, and since her accident she had revealed traits of character that scarcely anyone suspected before. Ralph had been thrown into very close contact at the most impressionable part of his life. He had succoured her when she was hurt, carried her in his arms all the way from Treliskey Plantation to the cross roads. Nor was that all. She had discovered him after his accident, and when the doctor arrived on the scene, he was lying with his head on her lap.
If he had learned to love her, it might not be strange, but it would be an infinite pity, all the same. The cruel irony of it would be too sad for words. Of course, he would get over it in time. The contempt he felt for Sir John, the difference in their social position, and last, but not least, the fact that she had been effectually banished from Hamblyn Manor, and that there was no likelihood of their meeting again, would all help him to put her out of his heart and out of his life. Nevertheless, if her surmise was correct, that Dorothy Hamblyn had stolen his heart, she could quite understand him saying that he did not intend to marry.
"Poor Ralph!" she said to herself, with a sigh. And then she began to talk about the things that would be needed in their new home.
Ruth had saved almost the whole of her nine months' wages, which, added to what Ralph had saved, made quite a respectable sum. To lay it out to the best advantage might not be easy. She wanted so many things that he saw no necessity for, while he wanted things that she pronounced impossible.
On the whole, however, they had a very happy time in spending their savings and getting the little cottage in order. Everything, of course, was of the cheapest and simplest. They attended most of the auction sales within a radius of half a dozen miles, and some very useful things they got for almost nothing.
Both of them were in the best of spirits. Ruth looked forward with great eagerness to the time of her release from service; not that she was overworked, while nobody could be kinder to her than her mistress. Nevertheless, a sense of servitude pressed upon her constantly. She had lived all her life before in such an atmosphere of freedom, and had pictured for herself a future so absolutely different, that it was not easy to accommodate herself to the straitened ways of service.
Ralph was weary of "diggings," and was literally pining for a home of his own. He had endured for six months, because he had been lodged and boarded cheap. He had shown no impatience while nothing better was in sight, but when the cottage was actually taken, and some items of furniture had been moved into it, he began to count the days till he should take full possession.
He went to bed, to dream of soft pillows and clean sheets, and dainty meals daintily served; of a bright hearth, and an easy-chair in which he might rest comfortably when the long evenings came; of a sweet face that should sit opposite to him; and, above all, of quietness from the noisy strife of quarrelsome and unruly children.
Ruth returned from St. Hilary on the first of October—a rich, mellow day, when all the earth seemed to float in a golden haze. William Menire discovered that he had business in St. Hilary that day, and that it would be quite convenient for him to bring Ruth and her boxes in his trap. He put the matter so delicately that Ruth could not very well refuse.
It was a happy day for William when he drove through St. Goram with Ruth sitting by his side, and a happy day for Ruth when she alighted at the garden gate of their little cottage, and caught the light of a new hope in her brother's eyes.
It was a fresh start for them both, but to what it might lead they did not know—nor even desire to know.
No sooner had Ralph got settled in his new home than his brain began to work with renewed energy and vigour. He began making experiments again in all sorts of things. He built a rough shed at the back of the cottage, and turned it into a laboratory. He spent all his spare time in trying to reduce some of his theories to practice.
Moreover, he got impatient of the slow monotony of day labour. He did not grumble at the wages. Possibly he was paid as much as he deserved, but he did chafe at the horse-in-the-mill kind of existence. To do the same kind of thing day after day, and feel that an elephant or even an ass might be trained to do it just as well, was from his point of view humiliating. He wanted scope for the play of other faculties. He was not a mule, with so much physical strength that might be paid for at so much per hour; he was a man, with brains and intelligence and foresight. So he began to look round him for some other kind of work, and finally he took a small contract which kept him and three men he employed busy for two months, and left him at the end twenty-eight shillings and ninepence poorer than if he had stuck to his day labour.
He was nothing daunted, however. Indeed, he was a good deal encouraged. He was afraid at one time that he would come out of his contract in debt. He worked considerably more hours than when he was a day labourer, and he was inclined to think that he worked considerably harder, and there was less money at the end; but he was far happier because he was infinitely more interested.
Ruth, who had been educated in a school of the strictest economy, managed to make both ends meet, and with that she was quite content. She had great faith in her brother. She liked to see him busy with his experiments. It kept him out of mischief, if nothing else. But that was not all. She believed in his ultimate success. In what direction she did not know, but he was not commonplace and humdrum. He was not willing to jog along in the same ruts from year's end to year's end without knowing the reason why. She rejoiced in his impatience and discontent, for she recognised that there was something worthy and even heroic behind. Discontent under certain circumstances and conditions might be noble—almost divine. She wished sometimes that she had more of his spirit.
She never uttered a word of complaint if he gave her less money to keep house upon, never hinted that his experiments were too expensive luxuries for their means. Something would grow out of his enterprise and enthusiasm by and by. He had initiative and vision and judgment, and such qualities she felt sure were bound to tell in the end.
When Ralph had finished his first contract he took a second, and did better by it. He learned by experience, as all wise men do, and gathered confidence in himself as the result.
With the advent of spring rumours got into circulation that a large and wealthy company had been formed for the purpose of developing Perranpool.
A few years previously it had been only a fishing village, distinguished mainly for the quality of its pilchards. But some London journalist, who during a holiday time spent a few days there, took it into his head to turn an honest penny by writing a friendly article about it. It is to be presumed he meant all he said, for he said a great deal that many people wondered at. But, in any case, the article was well written and was widely quoted from.
The result was that the following year nearly every fisherman's wife had to turn lodging-house keeper, and not being spoiled by contact with the ordinary tripper, these worthy men and women made their visitors comfortable with but small profit to themselves.
The next year a still larger number of people came, for they had heard that Perranpool was not only secluded and salubrious, but also remarkably cheap.
That was the beginning of Perranpool's fame. Every year more and more people came to enjoy its sunshine and build sand-castles on its beach. Houses sprang up like mushrooms, most of them badly built, and all of them entirely hideous. A coach service was established between it and the nearest railway station, a company was formed for the purpose of supplying gas at a maximum charge for a minimum candle-power, while another company brought water from a distance, so rich in microbes that the marvel was that anyone drank it and lived.
Since then things have further improved. A branch railway has been constructed, and two or three large hotels have been built, a Local Board has been formed, and the rates have been quadrupled. A "Town Band" plays during the season an accompaniment to the song the wild waves sing, and the picturesque sea-front has given place to an asphalted promenade. At the time of which we write, however, the promenade existed only in imagination, and some of the older houses were threatened by the persistently encroaching sea.
So a company was formed for the purpose of building a breakwater and a pier, and for the purpose of developing a large tract of land it had acquired along the sea-front, and tenders were invited for the carrying out of certain specified work.
None of the tenders, however, were accepted. There was no stone in the neighbourhood fit for the purpose, and to bring granite from the distant quarries meant an expense that was not to be thought of. The directors of the company began to feel sick. The debenture holders were eating up the capital, and the ordinary shareholders were clamouring for a dividend, while the sea threatened to eat up the land.
Meanwhile Ralph Penlogan had been looking at a huge heap of gravel and mica and blue clay which had been accumulating during three generations on the side of a hill some two or three miles inland. Every day and all the year round men pushed out small trucks and tipped their contents over the brow of this huge barrow. Every year the great heap extended its base, engulfing hedges and meadows and even plantations. There was no value in this waste whatever. In fact, it involved the company in a loss, for they had to pay for the land it continued to engulf. Anyone who liked to cart away a few loads for the purpose of gravelling his garden-path was at liberty to do so. The company would have been grateful if the whole mass of it could have been carted into the sea.
Ralph got a wheelbarrowful of the stuff and experimented with it. Then he wrote to the chairman of the company and asked permission to use some of the waste heap for building purposes—a permission which was at once granted. In fact, the chairman intimated that the more he could use the more he—the chairman—and his co-directors would be pleased.
Ralph's next step was to interview a local contractor who was very anxious to build the new sea-wall and pier. The result of that interview was that the contractor sent in a fresh tender, not to build the wall of granite, but with a newly discovered concrete, which could be manufactured at a very small cost, and which would serve the purposes of the company even better than granite itself.
Ralph registered his invention or discovery, got his concession from the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company into the best legal form possible, and then commenced operations.
Telfer, the contractor, who was delighted with the quality of the concrete, financed Ralph at the start, and helped him in every way in his power.
The Perranpool Pier and Land Company, after testing the new material in every way known to them, accepted Telfer's tender, and the great work was commenced forthwith.
In a couple of months Ralph had as many men at work as he had room for. Telfer had laid a light tram-line down the valley, and as fast as the blocks were manufactured they were run down to Perranpool.
Ralph was in high spirits. Having the material for nothing, and water in abundance, he was able to manufacture his concrete even cheaper than he had calculated. In fact, his profits were so good that he increased the wages of his hands all round, and got more work out of them in consequence.
Robert Telfer, however, who was much more of a man of the world than Ralph, was by no means satisfied with the condition of affairs. He foresaw contingencies that never occurred to the younger man.
"Look here," he said to Ralph one day, "you ought to turn out much more stuff than you are doing."
"Impossible," Ralph answered. "I have so many men at work that they are getting in each other's way as it is."
"But why not double your shifts? Let one lot get in at six and break off at two, and the second come in at two and leave off at ten."
"I never thought of that," Ralph answered.
"Well, you take my advice. There's an old proverb, you know, about making hay while the sun shines."
"But the sun will shine as long as you take my concrete."
"Don't be too sure of that."
"How?" Ralph said, glancing up with questioning eyes.
"The raw material may give out."
Ralph laughed.
"Why, there's stuff enough to last a hundred years," he said.
"That may be; but don't be too sure that you will be allowed to use it."
"Do you mean to suggest that the company will attempt to go behind their agreement?"
"More unlikely things have happened."
"Then you have heard something?"
"Nothing very definite. But some of the shareholders are angry at seeing you make money."
"But the stuff has been lying waste for generations, and accumulating year by year. They rather gain than lose by letting me use it up."
"But some of them are asking why they cannot use it themselves."
"Well, let them if they know how."
"You have patented your discovery?"
"I have tried, but our patent laws are an outrage."
"Exactly. And, after all, there's not much mystery in concrete."
"Well?" he said, in a tone of inquiry.
"Well, before you are aware you may have competition, or, as I said just now, the raw material may run out."
"I cannot conceive that honourable men will try to go behind their promise."
"As individuals, no; but you are dealing with a company."
"Well, what is the difference?"
Mr. Telfer laughed.
"There ought to be no difference, I grant. Nevertheless, you will find out as you grow older that companies and corporations and committees will do what as single individuals they would never dream of doing. When men are associated with a hundred others, the sense of individual responsibility disappears. Companies or corporations have neither souls nor consciences. You, as an individual, would not settle a dispute with a revolver, or at the point of a sword. Possibly you think duelling a crime, yet as a member of a community or nation you would possibly applaud an appeal to arms in any quarrel affecting our material interests."
"Possibly I should," Ralph answered, looking thoughtful.
"Then you see what I am driving at?"
"And you advise making the most of my opportunity?"
"I do most certainly. I don't deny I may be selfish in this. I want as much of the stuff as I can buy at the present price. Nobody else can make it as cheaply as you are doing."
"Why not?"
"First, because you are on good terms with your men, and are getting the most out of them. Second, because you have no expenses to pay—that is, you have no salaries to pay or directors to fee."
"I'll think about it," Ralph said, and the interview came to an end.
A week later he doubled his shift. He had no difficulty in getting men, for the pay was good and the work was in the open air, and in no sense of the word dangerous.
He was on the spot nearly all the time himself. He left nothing to chance. He delegated none of his own work to other people. Ruth saw very little of him; he was off over the hill early in the morning, and he did not return home till late at night.
She understood he was prospering, but his prosperity made no difference to their style of living. He was too fully occupied to think of anything but his work, and too much of a man to be spoiled by a few months of success.
He had taken Mr. Telfer's advice, and was doubling his output, but he was still of opinion that no attempt would be made to get behind the concession that had been granted to him by the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company.
As the days passed away and grew into weeks and months, and he heard nothing from the chairman or any of the directors, or of any investigation, he was more than ever convinced that Mr. Telfer's fears were entirely without foundation.
It might be quite true that individual shareholders rather resented his making money out of stuff that they threw away as waste. But, on the whole, as far as he was able to judge, people appeared rather to rejoice that the tide had turned in his favour. He had thought rather hard things of some of his neighbours at one time, and it was still true that they were more friendly disposed towards him in his prosperity than in his adversity, but, on the whole, they were genuine, good-hearted people, and none of them appeared to envy him his little bit of success.
Sometimes William Menire took himself to task for not rejoicing as heartily in Ralph's success as he felt he ought to do. But William had a feeling that the more the Penlogans prospered the farther they would get away from him. He pictured to himself, almost with a shudder, a time when they would go to live in a big house and keep servants, and perhaps drive their own carriage; while he, as a village shopkeeper, might be allowed to call round at their back door for orders.
If they remained poor, he might still help them in trifling things and in unnoticeable ways; might continue on visiting terms with them; might have the pleasure now and then of looking into Ruth's honest eyes; might even reckon himself among their friends.
But if they prospered, the whole world might be changed for him. Not that he ever cherished any foolish hopes, or indulged in impossible dreams. Had he been ten years younger, without a mother to keep, dreams of love and matrimony might have floated before his vision. But now——Well, such dreams were not for him.
This is what he told himself constantly, and yet the dreams came back in spite of everything.
So the weeks and months slipped rapidly and imperceptibly away, and everybody said that Ralph Penlogan was a lucky fellow, and that he had struck a vein that was bound to lead on to fortune.
But, meanwhile, directors had been arguing, and almost fighting, and lawyers had been putting their heads together, and counsel's opinion had been taken, and the power of the purse had been measured and discussed, and even religious people had debated the question as to how far a promise should be allowed to stand in the way of their material interests, and whether even a legal obligation might not be evaded if there was a chance of doing it.
Unfortunately for Ralph, time had allayed all his suspicions, so that when the blow fell, it found him unprepared, in spite of his consultation with Mr. Telfer.
"Promises, like piecrust, are made to be broken," so runs the proverb, and the average man repeats it without a touch of cynicism in his tones. If you can keep your promise without loss or inconvenience to yourself, then do it by all means; but if you cannot, invent some excuse and get out of it. Most men place their material interests before everything else. "Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness," is a saying that few people regard to-day. The children of this age think they have found a more excellent way. "Seek ye first the kingdom of this world and the policy thereof," is the popular philosophy.
Lawyers and statesmen are busily engaged in taking the "nots" out of the Ten Commandments and putting them into the Sermon on the Mount, and this not only in their own interests, but chiefly in the interests of rich clients and millionaire trusts. "The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong," says the Bible. The modern method of interpretation is to take the "not" out. It makes sense out of nonsense, say the children of this world; for anyone with half an eye can see that the "not" must have crept in by mistake, for the race is to the swift, and the strong always win the battle.
"The meek shall inherit the earth," said the Teacher of Nazareth; but the modern interpreter, with the map of the world spread out before him, shakes his head. There is evidently something wrong somewhere. Possibly there is exactly the right number of "nots" in the Bible, but they have been wrongly distributed.
"The meek shall inherit the earth"? Look at England. Look at South Africa. Look at the United States. The meek shall inherit the earth? Take a "not" out of the Ten Commandments, where there are several too many, and put it into the gap, then you have a statement that is in harmony with the general experience of the world.
When Ralph received a polite note from the chairman of the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company, that from that date his directors would no longer hold themselves bound by the terms of the concession they had made, he felt that he might as well retire first as last from the scene; and, but for Mr. Telfer, he would have done so.
Mr. Telfer's contention was that he had a good point in law, and that it would be cowardly "to fling up the sponge" without a legal decision.
Ralph smiled and shook his head.
"I have no respect for what you call the law," he said, a little bitterly. "I have tasted its quality, and want no more of it."
"But what is the law for, except to preserve our rights?" Mr. Telfer demanded.
"Whose rights?" Ralph questioned.
"Why, your rights and mine, and everybody's."
Ralph shook his head again.
"I fear I have no rights," he said.
"No rights?" Mr. Telfer demanded hotly.
"Put it to yourself," Ralph said quietly. "What rights has a poor man; or, if he thinks he has, what chance has he of defending them if they are threatened by the rich and powerful?"
"But is not justice the heritage of the poor?" Mr. Telfer asked.
"In theory it is so, no doubt; but not in practice. To get justice in these days, you must spend a fortune in lawyers' fees—and probably you won't get it then. But the poor have no fortune to spend."
"I'll admit that going to law is a very expensive business; but what is one to do?"
"Grin and abide."
"Oh, but that is cowardly!"
"It may be so. And yet, I do not see much heroism in running your head against a stone wall."
"But is it manly to sit down quietly and be robbed?"
"That all depends on who the robbers are. If there are ten to one, I should say it would be the wisest policy to submit."
"I admit that the company is a powerful one. But it is a question with me whether they have any right to the stuff at all. Their sett extends from the line of Cowley's farm westward; but their tip has come a quarter of a mile eastward. For years past they have had to pay for the right of tipping their waste. In point of law, it isn't their stuff at all. It isn't even on their land—the land belongs to Daniel Rickard."
"That may be quite true," Ralph answered; "but I can't think that will help us very much."
"Why not?"
"Because I heard this morning they were negotiating with Daniel for the purchase of his little freehold."
Mr. Telfer looked grave.
"In any case," he said, "I would get counsel's opinion. Why not run up to London and consult Sir John Liskeard? He is our member, you know, and in your case his charge would not be excessive. You can afford to spend something to know where you stand. I believe in dying game." And with a wave of his hand, Mr. Telfer marched away.
Two days later Ralph got a second letter from the chairman of the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company which was much less conciliatory in tone. In fact, it intimated, in language too plain to be misunderstood, that the company held him guilty of trespass, and that by continuing his work after the previous intimation he was rendering himself liable to an action at law.
Ralph toiled over the fields towards his home in a brown study. That the letter was only bluff he knew, but it seemed clear enough that if he resisted, the company was determined to fight the case in a court of law.
What to do for the best he could not decide. To fight the case would probably ruin him, for even if he won, he would have to spend all his savings in law expenses. To throw up the sponge at the outset would certainly look cowardly. The only other alternative would be to try to make terms with the company, to acknowledge their right, and to offer to pay for every ton of stuff he used.
When he got home he found Mary Telfer keeping his sister company. Mary had been a good deal at the cottage lately. Ruth liked her to come; they had a great deal in common, and appeared to be exceedingly fond of each other. Mary was a bright, pleasant-faced girl of about Ralph's age. She was not clever—she made no pretension in that direction; but she was cheerful and good-tempered and domesticated. Moreover, as the only child of Robert Telfer, the contractor, she was regarded as an heiress in a small way.
Ruth sometimes wondered whether, in the economy of nature, Mary might not be her brother's best friend. Ralph would want a wife some day. She did not believe in men remaining bachelors. They were much more happy, much more useful, and certainly much less selfish when they had a wife and family to maintain.
Nor was that all; she had strong reasons for believing that Ralph had been smitten with a hopeless passion for Dorothy Hamblyn. She did not blame him in the least. Dorothy was so pretty and so winsome that it was perhaps inevitable under the circumstances. But the pity of it and the tragedy of it were none the less on that account. Hence, anything that would help him in his struggle to forget was to be welcomed. For that Ralph was honestly trying to put Dorothy Hamblyn out of his memory and out of his heart, she fully believed.
For months now he had never mentioned the squire or his "little maid." Now and then Ruth would repeat the gossip that was floating about St. Goram, but if he took any interest in it, he made no sign.
Dorothy had never once come back since she was sent away. Whether she was still at school, or had become a nun, or was living with friends, no one appeared to know. Sir John kept his own counsel, and politely snubbed all inquisitive persons.
That Sir John was in a tight corner was universally believed. He had reduced his household to about one-third its previous dimensions, had dismissed half his gardeners and gamekeepers, had sold his hunters, and in several other ways was practising the strictest economy. All this implied that financially he was hard up.
He got no sympathy, however, except from a few people of his own class. He had been such a hard landlord, so ready to take every mean advantage, so quick in raising rents, so slow in reducing them, that when he began to have meted out to him what he had so long meted out to others, there was rejoicing rather than sympathy.
Ralph naturally could not help hearing the talk of the neighbourhood, but he made no comment. Whether he was glad or sorry no one knew. As a matter of fact, he hardly knew himself. For Sir John he had no sympathy. He could see him starve without a pang. But there was another who loved him, who would share his sufferings and be humbled in his humiliation, and for her he was sorry. So he refused to discuss the squire's affairs, either with Ruth or anyone else. He was fighting a hard battle—how hard no one knew but himself. He did his best to avoid everything that would remind him of Dorothy, did his best in every way to forget her. Sometimes he found himself longing with an inexpressible desire for a sight of her face, and yet on the whole he was exceedingly grateful that she did not return to St. Goram. Time and distance had done something. She was not so constantly in his thoughts as she used to be. He was not always on the look-out for her, and he never started now, fancying it was her face he saw in the distance; and yet he was by no means confident that he would ever gain the victory.
If he never saw her in his waking moments she came to him constantly in his dreams. And, curiously enough, in his dreams there was never any barrier to their happiness. In dreamland social distinctions did not exist, and hard and tyrannical fathers were unknown. In dreamland happy lovers went their own way unhindered and undisturbed. In dreamland it was always springtime, and sickness and old age were never heard of. So if memory were subdued in the daytime, night restored the balance. Dorothy lived in his heart in spite of every effort to put her away.
The sight of Mary Telfer's pleasant and smiling face on the evening in question was a pleasant relief after the worries and annoyances of the day. Mary was brimful of vivacity and good-humour, and Ralph quickly caught the contagion of her cheerful temper.
She knew all the gossip of the neighbourhood, and retailed it with great verve and humour. Ralph laughed at some of the incidents she narrated until the tears ran down his face.
Then suddenly her mood changed, and she wanted to know if Ralph was going to fight the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company.
"What would you do if you were in my place?" Ralph questioned, with a touch of banter in his voice.
"Fight to the last gasp," she answered.
"And what after that?"
"Oh, that is a question I should never ask myself."
"Then you don't believe in looking far ahead?"
"What's the use? If you look far enough you'll see a tombstone, and that's not cheerful."
"Then you'd fight without considering how the battle might end?"
"Why not? If you are fighting for principle and right, you have to risk the cost and the consequences."
"But to go to war without counting the cost is not usually considered good statesmanship."
"Oh, isn't it? Well, you see, I'm not a statesman—I'm only a woman. But if I were a man I wouldn't let a set of bullies triumph over me."
"But how could you help it if they were stronger than you?"
"At any rate, I'd let them prove they were stronger before I gave in."
"Then you don't believe that discretion is the better part of valour?"
"No, I don't. Not only isn't it the better part of valour, it isn't any part of valour. Besides, we are commanded to resist the devil."
"Then you think the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company is the devil?"
"I think it is doing the devil's work, and such meanness and wickedness ought to be exposed and resisted. What's the world coming to if gentlemen go back on their own solemn promises?"
"It's very sad, no doubt," Ralph said, with a smile. "But, you see, they are a hundred to one, and, however much right I may have on my side, in the long-run I shall have to go under."
"Then you have no faith in justice?"
"Not in the justice of the strong."
"But if you have the law on your side you are bound to win."
He laughed good-humouredly.
"Did you ever know any law," he said, "that was not in the interests of the rich and powerful?"
"I never gave the matter a thought," she answered.
"If you had to spend a month in prison with nothing particular to do," he laughed, "you would give more thought to the matter than it is worth."
She laughed heartily at that, and then the subject dropped.
A little later in the evening, when they were seated at the supper-table, Ruth remarked—
"Mary Telfer is like a ray of sunshine in the house."
"Is she always bright?" Ralph questioned indifferently.
"Always. I have never seen her out of temper or depressed yet."
"Very likely she has nothing to try her," he suggested.
"It's not only that, it's her nature to be cheerful and optimistic. He'll be a fortunate man who marries her."
"Is she going to be married soon?"
"Not that I'm aware of," Ruth answered, looking up with a start. "I don't think she's even engaged."
"Oh, I beg pardon. I thought you meant——"
"I was only speaking generally," Ruth interrupted. "Mary Telfer, in my judgment, is a girl in a thousand—bright, cheerful, domesticated, and—and——"
"Gilt-edged?" Ralph suggested.
"Well, she will not be penniless."
That night as Ralph lay awake he recalled his conversation with Ruth, and almost heard in fancy the bright, rippling laughter of Mary Telfer; and for the first time a thought flashed across his mind which grew bigger and bigger as the days and weeks passed away.
Would it be possible to put Dorothy Hamblyn out of his heart by trying to put another in her place? Would the beauty of her face fade from his memory if he constantly looked upon another face? Would he forget her if he trained himself to think continually of someone else?
These were questions that he could not answer right off, but there might be no harm in making the experiment—at least, there might be no harm to himself, but what about Mary?
So he found himself faced by a number of questions at the same time, and for none of them could he find a satisfactory answer.
Then came an event in his life which he anticipated with a curious thrill of excitement, and that was a journey to London. He almost shrank from the enterprise at first. He had heard and read so much about London—about its bigness, its crowds, its bewildering miles of streets, its awful loneliness, its temptations and dangers, its squalor and luxury, its penury and extravagance—that he was half afraid he might be sucked up as by a mighty tide, and lost.
There seemed, however, no other course open to him. He had tried to come to terms with the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company, had offered to pay them a royalty on all the stuff he manufactured, to purchase from them all the raw material he used. But every offer, every suggestion of a compromise, was met with a stern and emphatic negative.
So he decided to take Mr. Telfer's advice, and consult Sir John Liskeard. In order to do this he would have to make a journey to London. How big with fate that journey was he little guessed at the time.