William introduced his cousin with an air of easy indifference, apologised for calling at so late an hour, but excused himself on the ground that he wanted to see Ralph particularly on a little matter of business. Sam was welcomed graciously and heartily, for William's sake. William had been almost the best friend they had ever known. In the darkest days of their life he had come to them almost a stranger, had revealed the kindness of his heart in numberless little ways, had kept himself in the background with a delicacy and sensitiveness worthy of all praise, and had never once presumed on the kindness he had shown them.
For a moment or two William saw only Ruth, and he thought she had never looked more charming and winsome. The warmth of her welcome he attributed entirely to a sense of gratitude on her part, and he was very grateful that she counted him worthy to be her friend. When he saw his cousin glance at her with admiring eyes, a pang of jealousy shot through him such as he had never experienced before. He had scarcely troubled till now that his youth had slipped away from him; but when he looked at Sam's smooth, handsome face; his wealth of hair, untouched by Time; his tall, vigorous frame—he could not help wishing that he were ten years younger, and not a shopkeeper.
Sam and Ruth quickly got into conversation, and then Ralph led William into a little parlour which he used as an office.
"I haven't the remotest idea what I am going to do," Ralph said, in answer to a question from William, "though I know well enough what I would do if I only had money."
"Yes?" William questioned, raising his eyes slowly.
"I'd buy the freehold of Hillside Farm."
"It isn't for sale, is it?" William questioned, in a tone of surprise.
"It is." And Ralph informed him how he came by the information.
For several minutes there was silence in the room, then William said, as if speaking to himself—
"But the place isn't worth the money."
"To a stranger—no; but to me it might be cheap at the price."
"Are you so good at farming?"
Ralph laughed.
"Well, no," he answered. "I'm afraid farming is not exactly my forte; but let us drop the subject. As I told Sir John Liskeard, I might as well think of buying the moon."
"But you are fond of the old place?" William questioned.
"In a sense, yes; but I do not look at it with such longing eyes as Ruth does."
"She would like to live there again?" William questioned eagerly.
"She would dance for joy at the most distant hope of it."
"Then it is for your sister's sake you would like to turn farmer?" William questioned, after a pause.
"I have no wish to turn farmer at all," Ralph answered. "No, no, my dreams and ambitions don't lie in that direction; but why talk about impossibilities? You came across to discuss some other matter?"
"Yes, that is true," William said absently; and then a ripple of laughter from the adjoining room touched his heart with a curious sense of pain.
"They are on friendly terms already," he said to himself. "And in a little while he will make love to her, and what will Hillside Farm be to her then? I would do anything for her sake—anything." And he sighed unconsciously.
Ralph heard the sigh, and looked at him searchingly.
"I'm in an awful hole myself," William blurted out, after a long pause.
"In an awful hole?" Ralph questioned, with raised eyebrows.
"It's always the unexpected that happens, they say," William went on, "but I confess I never expected to be flung on my beam-ends as I have been. If it were not for mother, I'd sell up and clear out of the country."
"Why, what is the matter?" Ralph questioned in alarm.
"You know the part I took in the County Council election?"
"Very well."
"Of course, I knew that Lord St. Goram didn't quite like it. He expects every tenant and lease-holder to vote just as he wishes them. Poor people are not supposed to have any rights or opinions, but I thought the day had gone by when a man was to be punished for thinking for himself."
"But what has happened?" Ralph asked eagerly.
"I'm to be turned out of my shop."
"No!"
"It's the solemn truth. I had a seven years' lease, which expires next March, and Lord St. Goram refuses to renew it."
"For what reason?"
"He gives no reason at all. But it is easy to guess. I opposed him at the election, you know. I had a perfect right to do it, but rights go for nothing. Now he is taking his revenge. I've not only to clear out in March, but I've to restore the premises to the exact condition they were in when I took them."
"But you've improved the place in every way."
"No doubt I have, but I did it at my own risk, and at my own expense. He never gave his formal consent to my taking out the side of the house and putting in that big window. His steward assured me it was all right, though he hinted that in case I left his lordship might feel under no obligation to grant compensation."
"But why should he want you to restore the house to its original condition?"
"Just to be revenged, that's all. To show his power over me and to give his tenants an object-lesson as to what will happen if they are unwise enough to think for themselves."
"It's tyranny," Ralph said indignantly. "It's a piece of mean, contemptible tyranny."
"You can call it by any name you like," William answered sadly, "and there's no name too bad for it; but the point to be recollected is, I've got to submit."
"There's no redress for you?"
"Not a bit. I've consulted Doubleday, who's the best lawyer about here, and he says it would be sheer madness to contest it."
"Then what will you do?"
"I've not the remotest idea. There's no other place in St. Goram I can get. His lordship professes that he would far rather have twenty small shops and twenty small shopkeepers all living from hand to mouth than one prosperous tradesman selling the best and the freshest and at the lowest possible price."
"Well, I can sympathise with him in that," Ralph answered, with a smile.
"And yet you are no more fond of buying stale things than other people."
"That may be true. And yet the way the big concerns are crushing out the small men is not a pleasant spectacle."
"But no shopkeeper compels people to buy his goods," William said, with a troubled expression in his eyes. "And when they come to his shop, is he to say he won't supply them? And when his business shows signs of expansion, is he to say it shall not expand?"
"No, no. I don't mean that at all. I like to see an honest business man prospering. And a man who attends to his business and his customers deserves to prosper. But I confess I don't like to see these huge combines and trusts deliberately pushing out the smaller men—not by fair competition, mind you, but by unfair—selling things below cost price until their competitors are in the bankruptcy court, and then reaping a big harvest."
"I like that as little as you do," William said mildly. "Every honest, industrious man ought to have a chance of life, but the chances appear to be becoming fewer every day." And he sighed again.
For several minutes neither of them spoke, then William said—
"I thought I would like to tell you all about it at the earliest opportunity. I knew I should have your sympathy."
"I wish I could help you," Ralph answered. "You helped me when I hadn't a friend in the world."
"I have your sympathy," William answered, "and that's a great thing; for the rest we must trust in God." And he rose to his feet and looked towards the door.
William and Sam did not say much on their way back to St. Goram. They talked more freely when they got into the house.
"It's awfully good of you to introduce me," Sam said, when Mrs. Menire had retired to her room. "I'm more in love with her than ever."
William's heart gave a painful thump, but he answered mildly enough—
"You seemed to get on very well together."
"She was delightfully friendly, but I owe that all to you. She said that any friend of yours was welcome at their house."
"It was very kind of her," William answered slowly. "Did she give you permission to call again?"
"I'm not exactly sure. She did say that any time you brought me along I should be welcome, or words to that effect. So we must arrange another little excursion soon."
"Must we?"
"We must; and what is more, you might, you know, in the meanwhile—that is, if you can honestly do so—that is—you know what I mean, don't you?"
"I don't think I do," William answered, in a tone of mild surprise.
"It's asking a lot, I know," Sam replied, fidgeting uneasily in his chair. "But if you could—that—that is—without compromising yourself in any way, speak a good word for me, it would go miles and miles."
"Do you think so?"
"I'm sure of it. She thinks the world of you, and a word from you would be worth a week's pleading on my part."
"I'm not so sure of that," William answered. "I think all love affairs are best managed by those concerned. The meddling of outsiders generally does more harm than good."
"But there are exceptions to every rule," Sam persisted. "You see, I am awfully handicapped by being so much of a stranger. If I can once get a footing as a friend, the rest will be easy."
William smiled wistfully.
"I wouldn't be precipitate, if I were you," he said. "And in the meanwhile I'll do my best."
Sam slept soundly till morning, but William lay awake most of the night. When he did sleep it was to dream that he was young and prosperous, and that Ruth Penlogan had promised to be his wife.
After an early breakfast, he saw his cousin mount his horse and ride away toward Pentudy, and very soon after William climbed into his trap and went out to get orders.
One of his first places of call was Hillside Farm, and as he drove slowly up to the house he looked at it with a new interest. All sorts of vague fancies seemed to float about in his mind. He saw Ruth back there again, looking happier than any queen; he saw himself with some kind of proprietary interest in the place; he saw Ralph looking in when the fancy pleased him; he saw a number of new combinations and relationships, but so vaguely that he could not fit them into their places.
He found Farmer Jenkins in a very doleful mood.
"I wish I had never seen the place," he declared. "I've lost money ever since I came, and I'm going to clear out at the earliest opportunity."
"Do you really mean it?" William questioned.
"I was never more serious in my life. I sent a letter to the squire a week ago, and told him unless he lowered the rent thirty per cent. I should fling up the farm."
"And has he consented to lower it?"
"Not he. He says he'll call soon and talk the matter over with me, and that in the meantime I'd better keep quiet; but I shan't keep quiet, and I shan't stay."
As William drove away from Hillside an idea, or a suggestion, shot through his brain that made him gasp. Before he got to the village of Veryan he was trembling on his seat. It seemed almost like a suggestion from the Evil One, so subtle was the temptation. He had tried all his life to do the thing that was right. He had never, as far as he knew, taken an unfair advantage of anyone. He had aimed strictly to do what was just and honourable between man and man. But if he bought Hillside Farm, would it be fair dealing? Would it be fair to his Cousin Sam? Would it be fair to Ruth?
William tried to face the problem honestly. He would rather Ruth passed out of his life altogether than do anything mean or unworthy. To keep his conscience clean, and his love free from the taint of selfishness, seemed to him the supreme end of life. But if he bought Hillside Farm, what motive would lie at the back of it? Would it be that he wanted the farm, that he wanted to turn farmer? or would it be the hope that Ruth, with her passionate love of the place, would be willing even to accept the protection of his arms?
"All's fair in love and war," something seemed to whisper in his ear.
But William drew himself up squarely, and a resolute look came into his eyes.
"No," he said to himself, "that is false philosophy. Nothing that is mean or selfish or underhand can be fair or right. If the motive is wrong, the transaction will be wrong."
It took William a much longer time than usual to make his rounds that morning. He was so absent-minded—or, more correctly, his mind was so engrossed with other things—that he allowed his horse on several occasions to nibble the grass by the roadside.
He was no more interested in business matters when he got back. He would pause in the middle of weighing a pound of sugar or starch, completely forgetting where he was or what he was doing.
His mother let him be. She knew that he was greatly troubled at Lord St. Goram's refusal to renew the lease of his shop, and, like a wise woman, did not worry him with needless questions.
That evening, when the shutters were put up, he went to St. Ivel again. He would have some further talk with Ralph about the farm. He would be able also to feast his eyes again on Ruth's sweet face; perhaps, also, if he had strength and courage enough, he might be able to speak a good word for his Cousin Sam.
His thoughts, however, were in such a tangle, and his motives so uncertain, that he walked very slowly, and did not see a single thing on the road. Before he reached the cottage he stopped short, and, taking an order-book and a pencil from his pocket, he dotted down in a series of propositions and questions the chief points of the problem. They ran in this order:—
1. I have as much right to love Ruth Penlogan as anyone else.
2. Though I'm only a shopkeeper, and a dozen years her senior, there's nothing to hinder me from taking my chance.
3. If buying Hillside would help me, and make Ruth happy, where's the wrong? Cannot say.
4. But if buying Hillside would spoil Sam's chance, is that right? Doubtful.
5. Am I called upon to help Sam's cause to the detriment of my own? Also doubtful.
6. Is Ruth likely to be influenced by anything I may do or say? Don't know enough about women to answer that question.
7. Have I the smallest chance? No.
8. Has Sam? Most decidedly.
9. Am I a fool for thinking about Ruth at all? Certainly.
At this point William thrust his order-book into his pocket and quickened his pace.
"It's not a bit of use speculating on possibilities or probabilities," he said to himself a little impatiently. "I'll have to do the thing that seems right and wise. The rest I must leave."
A minute or two later he was knocking at the cottage door.
Ralph had gone to Perranpool to see Robert Telfer, but Ruth expected him back every moment.
"Won't you come in and wait for him?" Ruth questioned, looking beyond him into the gathering twilight.
William hesitated for a moment, and then decided that he would.
"I am sure he will not be long," Ruth said, as she busied herself getting the lamp ready. "Mr. Telfer wanted to settle with him, as—as he can, of course, deliver no more concrete."
"It's an awful shame," William said abruptly, and he dropped into Ralph's easy-chair.
"It seems very hard," Ruth said reflectively; "but I tell Ralph it may be all for the best. Perhaps he was getting on too fast and too suddenly."
"He is not the sort to have his head turned by a bit of prosperity," William said, watching his fair hostess out of the corner of his eye.
"At any rate, the danger has been removed—if it was a danger." And Ruth sighed gently.
For several moments there was silence in the room. Ruth had the lamp to light and the blind to pull down and a fresh cover to lay on the table. William watched her with averted face and half-closed eyes. How womanly she was in all her movements; how dainty in her appearance; how gentle in her manner and speech!
William felt as if he would almost risk his hope of heaven for the chance of calling her his, and yet he had not the courage even to hint at what he felt. Her very daintiness and winsomeness seemed to widen the gulf between them. Who was he that he should dare make love to one who was fit for the best in the land? It seemed to him—so unworthy did he seem in his own eyes—utterly impossible that Ruth should ever care for a man of his type.
William was almost morbidly self-depreciatory when in the presence of Ruth. His love so glorified her that by contrast he was commoner than commonest clay.
"I was so sorry to hear you are to be turned out of your shop," Ruth said at length, taking a seat on the other side of the table.
"Ralph told you?" he questioned.
"We stayed up till quite late last night, talking about it," she replied. "Ralph is very indignant."
"I am very indignant myself," he answered; "but what's the good? Those who have the power use it as they like."
"I am sorry it has happened," she said gently; "sorry for all our sakes. Ralph's reverence for the ruling classes was not great before. It is less now."
"You cannot wonder at that," he said quickly.
"No, one cannot wonder. And yet there is a danger in judging the whole by a few. Besides, if we had real power, we might not use it any more wisely or justly. The best of people, after all, are only human."
"That being so," he answered, with a smile, "it does not seem right that any individual, or any class of individuals, should have so much power. Who made these people rulers and dividers over us?"
"Ah, now you are getting beyond me," she said; "but since things are as they are, should we not make the best of them?"
"And try to mend them at the same time?"
"Oh yes, by all means—that is, if we can."
"But you have not much hope of mending things?" he questioned.
"Not very much. Besides, if you levelled things up to-morrow, they would be levelled down again the day after."
"Isn't that a rather fatalistic way of looking at things?" he questioned, raising his eyes timidly to her face.
"Is it?" she questioned, and a soft blush swept over her face as she caught his glance. Then silence fell again for several moments.
"The chances of life are very bewildering," he said at length, reopening the conversation. "Some people seem to get all the luck, and others all the misfortune. Look at my Cousin Sam."
"Is he very unfortunate?"
William laughed.
"On the contrary, he has all the luck. He has never known what poverty means, or sickness, or hardship. He was born to affluence, and now, at twenty-six, he's his own master, with a house of his own and plenty of money."
"But he may not be a whit happier than those who have less."
"I don't see how he can help it," William answered. "He's never worried about ways and means. He has troops of friends, absolutely wants nothing except a wife to help him to spend his money."
"Then you should advise him to keep single," Ruth said, with a laugh, "for if he gets married, his troubles may begin."
"There's risk in everything, no doubt," William said meditatively. "Still, if I were in his place, I should take the risk."
"You would?" Ruth questioned, arching her eyebrows, "and you a bachelor?"
"Ah, that is my misfortune," William answered, looking hard at a picture on the wall. "But Sam's way is quite clear."
"Is it?"
"He's a good fellow, too, is Sam. Never a word of slander has been breathed against his name since he was born. He'll make a good husband, whoever gets him."
"I did not know you had such a cousin till last evening," Ruth said meaningly.
"Oh, well, no. We've never seen very much of each other. You see, the Tremails have always been rather big people, and then we have lived a long way apart, and I have never cared to presume on my relationship."
"So he has hunted you up?"
"Well, yes. He came to see me just a fortnight ago or so, and he has ridden over once or twice since. Don't you think he's a fine, handsome fellow?"
"Yes; he is not bad-looking."
"Oh, I call him handsome. It must be nice to be young and have so much strength and energy."
"Well, are you not young?"
"I'm ten years older than Sam," he said, a little sadly, "and ten years is a big slice out of one's life."
"Are you growing pessimistic?" she questioned. "You are usually so hopeful."
"There are some things too good to hope for," he replied, "too beautiful, too far away. I almost envy a man like my Cousin Sam. He has everything within his reach."
"You seem to be quite enthusiastic about your cousin," she said, with a smile.
"Am I? Oh, well, you know, he is my cousin, and a good fellow, and if I can speak a good—I mean, if I can appreciate—that is, if I can cultivate a right feeling toward him, and—and—all that, you know, don't you think I ought to do so?"
"Oh, no doubt," Ruth said, laughing. "It's generally well to be on good terms with one's relations—at least so I've been told," and she went to the door and looked out into the darkness.
Ruth came back again after a few moments, and turned the lamp a little higher.
"Ralph is much longer than I expected he would be," she remarked, without looking at William.
"Perhaps Mr. Telfer was out," he suggested.
"I don't think that. You see he went by appointment. I expect it has taken them longer to square their accounts than they thought."
"I hope Ralph will come well out of it," he said musingly. "He's had a rough time of it so far."
"I am sometimes afraid he will grow bitter and give up. He has talked again and again of trying his fortune abroad."
"But if he went abroad, what would become of you?" William asked, with a sudden touch of anxiety in his voice.
"He would send for me when he got settled."
William gave a little gasp.
"Would you like to go abroad?" he questioned.
"I would much prefer to stay here if I could; but you see we cannot always have what we would like best."
"No, that is true," he said slowly and meditatively. "The things we would like best are often not for us. I don't know why it should be so. Some people seem to get all they desire. There is my Cousin Sam, for instance."
"He is one of the lucky ones, you say?"
"It seems so from my point of view. Did he tell you when he first saw you?"
"No."
"He would not like to remind you. It was the day of the sale at Hillside. He was greatly—that is, of course he could not help noticing you. Since then he has seen you lots of times. A fortunate fellow is Sam."
"Perhaps he does not think so."
"Oh, I fancy he does. I don't see how he can help it. He lives in a beautiful old house. It's years since I saw it, but it remains in my memory a pleasant picture. His wife will have a rare time of it."
"How do you know he does not intend to follow your example and remain a bachelor?"
"How? Sam knows better than that. Do you think I would remain a bachelor if—if—but there! You remember what you said just now about the things we want most?"
"I did not know——" Then a step sounded on the gravel outside. "Oh, here comes Ralph." And Ruth sprang to her feet and rushed to the door.
A moment later the two men were shaking hands.
"I hope I have not kept you waiting long," Ralph said. "The truth is, Telfer and I have been settling up."
"So your sister told me."
"And I'm bound to say he's treated me most handsomely. Technically, he might have got the better of me on a dozen points; but no! he's been most fair. It's a real pleasure to come across a man who doesn't want to Jew you."
"Oh, bless you, there's lots of honest people in the world!" William said, with a smile.
"Yes, I suppose there are; the misfortune is one so often tumbles across the other sort."
"Perhaps you will have better luck in the future," William replied.
"I only want fair play," Ralph answered; "I ask for nothing more than that."
"And have you hit upon anything for the future?"
"Not yet. But I don't want to be in a hurry. I've ready money enough to last me a year or two. I really didn't think I had done so well, for I'm a duffer at figures. If I only had about four times as much I'd buy Hillside."
"And turn farmer?"
"No, farming is not my forte." And he turned and looked towards the door of the pantry behind which Ruth was engaged getting supper ready.
"Let's go into my room," he continued, in a half-whisper. "I've something I want to say to you."
William followed him without a word.
"I don't want to awaken any vain hopes in Ruth's mind," Ralph went on. "The thing is too remote to be talked about almost. But you have wondered why I should want Hillside Farm when I've no love for farming?"
"I have supposed it was for your sister's sake."
"No, it's not that exactly. It's my love of adventure, or you might call it my love of speculation."
"I don't quite understand."
"Of course you don't. So I'll explain. You are the best friend I ever had, and I can trust you. Besides, if I ever did anything I should want your help. You are a business man, I'm a dreamer. You are good at accounts, I'm a fool at them."
William's eyes opened wider and wider, but he did not interrupt.
"Now, there's just the possibility of a fortune in Hillside," Ralph went on. "Not on the surface, mind you. The crops raised there will never be a fortune for anybody; but my father believed there was a rich tin lode running through it."
"Why didn't he test it?"
"He had no opportunity."
"Why not? The farm was his as long as the 'lives' remained alive."
"But all the mineral rights were reserved by the ground landlord. So that if my father had discovered a gold mine he would have got nothing out of it."
"So he kept silent?"
"Naturally; for if a mine was started, not only would he get no good out of it, but his farm would be ruined."
William remained silent and thoughtful.
"Now, if I could get the freehold," Ralph went on, "I should be free from every interference. I could sink a shaft for a few fathoms and test the thing. If it proved to be worthless, very little harm would be done. I should still have the farm to work or to let. Do you see my point?"
"I do, but——"
"I know what you would say. I have not the money," Ralph interrupted. "That is quite true. But I've more than I thought I had. And if the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company will take my plant at a fair valuation, I shall have more. Now I want to ask you, as a business man, if you think I could get a mortgage for the rest?"
"Possibly you might," William said slowly, "but there are a good many objections to such a course."
"Well, what are they?"
"We'll take one thing at a time," William answered meditatively. "To begin with: I don't believe Sir John Hamblyn would sell the place to you under any circumstances if he knew."
"Why not?"
"Because he has wronged you, and so he hates you. Nothing would please him better than for you to leave the country."
"Well?"
"If you begin to look round for a mortgage, or for securities——"
"Yes, I see."
"If you are to get the place, your name must not be given at the outset; you must buy through an agent or solicitor. You must be ready with the money on the nail."
Ralph looked thoughtful for several moments.
"I'm afraid it's of no use hoping," he said at length; "though when Robert Telfer handed me over his cheque this evening the world did look bright for a moment."
"But if you bought the farm you might lose everything," William suggested; "and it would be a pity to throw away your first earnings."
"Why so? There's no good in hoarding money. I want to be doing something. Besides, I might find work for half the parish."
"Then you have faith in the tin lode of which your father spoke?"
"I am confident there is a lode there. My father was not likely to be mistaken in a matter of that kind. As a practical miner and mineralogist there was not his equal in the county."
"But he did not test the lode?"
"He had no chance."
"Hence, it may be worthless."
"I admit it. Mind you, my father was confident that it was rich in tin. Of course, he may have been mistaken."
"But you are prepared to risk your all on it?"
"I am. I wish I had ten times as much to risk."
The next moment Ruth appeared, with the announcement that supper was ready.
"Let me sleep over it," William whispered to Ralph; "and to-morrow morning you come up to my shop and we'll see what we can make of it."
And he turned and followed Ruth into the next room.
It was late when William left Ralph Penlogan's cottage, but he was in no hurry to get to St. Goram. He sauntered slowly along the dark and deserted lane with his hands in his pockets and his eyes nowhere in particular. He tried to comfort himself with the reflection that he had not been selfish—that he had done his best for his Cousin Sam, that he had spoken the good word that he promised.
But for some reason the reward of virtue was not so great as he had hoped. There was no feeling of exultation in his heart at his triumph over temptation; in truth, he was much more inclined to call himself a fool for lending aid to his cousin at all.
This reflection reacted on his spirits in another way. He was more selfish than he could have believed. He was like the man who gave half a crown at a collection, and regretted it all his life afterwards. He had forced himself to speak a good word for his cousin, but there was no virtue in it. Service rendered so grudgingly was deserving of no reward.
"I am like the dog in the manger," he said to himself, a little disconsolately; "I cannot have her myself, and I don't want anybody else to have her."
Then he fell to thinking of Ruth's many attractions. He had never seen anyone before with such a wealth of hair, and he was sure there was no one in the three parishes who arranged her hair so gloriously as Ruth did. And then her figure was just perfection in his eyes. She was neither too short nor too tall, too stout nor too thin. There was not a single line or curve that he would have altered.
And her character was as perfect as her form and as beautiful as her face. William's love shed over her and around her a golden haze which hid every fault and magnified every virtue.
By morning he was able to see things a little more in their true perspective, and when Ralph called he was able to put love aside and talk business, though he was by no means sure that in business matters Ruth did not influence him unconsciously.
Ralph had great faith in William's judgment and sagacity. He always looked at both sides of a question before deciding. If he erred at all, it was on the side of excessive caution.
Ralph could not help wondering what was in William's mind. He had said practically nothing the previous evening. He had asked a few questions, and pointed out certain difficulties, but he had committed himself to nothing, yet it seemed clear that he had some scheme in his mind which he would reveal when he had duly considered it.
For a few minutes they talked generalities, then William plunged into the subject that was uppermost in the thoughts of both.
"I don't wonder that you want to get hold of the freehold of Hillside," he said. "I should if I were in your place. Apart from sentiment, the business side appeals strongly. The discovery of a good tin lode there would be the making of St. Goram——"
"And the ruin of the farm," Ralph interjected.
"Well, the erection of a big engine-house on the top of the hill and fire stamps in Dingley Bottom would certainly not improve the appearance of things from an artistic point of view."
"'There is no gain except by loss,'" Ralph quoted, with a smile.
"True; but we all ought to consider the greatest good of the greatest number."
Ralph laughed.
"Don't credit me with virtues I don't possess," he said. "I confess I'm thinking in the first instance only of myself."
"Well, I suppose that's only natural," William said seriously. "But now to business. If you purchase the farm at the squire's price, how much money will you require beyond what you have?"
Ralph named the sum.
"Is that all?"
"Yes. I told you last night the concrete had turned out well."
"It can be done easily," William said, with a sudden brightening of his face.
"How?"—with an eager look.
"I will advance you all the money you want, either as a loan or on mortgage."
"You really mean it?"
"I do. But on one condition—and that is that you do not say anything to your sister about it."
"But why not? I have no secrets from Ruth."
William coloured and looked uncomfortable.
"It's merely a whim of mine," he said. "Women don't understand business, and she might think I was doing you a great favour, and I don't want her to think anything of the kind."
"But you are doing me an immense favour!"
"I'm not, really. The margin of security will be, if not ample, at least sufficient; and if the lode should prove of value, why, you will be able to pay off the loan in no time."
"If the lode should prove of any value, William, you shall go shares!" Ralph said impulsively.
"No, no! If I take no risk, I take no reward. You will risk everything in testing the thing."
"I'm fond of risks," Ralph said, with a laugh. "A little adventure is the very spice of life. Oh, I do hope the farm is not already sold!"
"I don't think it can be," William answered. "We have wasted no time yet. If it is sold, you will have to wait, and hope the buyer will get tired of his bargain."
Ralph shook his head.
"If I can't get it now," he said, "I shall try my fortune beyond the seas."
"Well, we needn't wait an hour longer. You can have my trap to drive to St. Hilary. Let some lawyer whom you can trust act for you."
"Won't you go with me?" Ralph questioned eagerly. "You see, the question of security will come up first thing."
"It would be almost better if you could keep out of sight altogether."
"I know it. Couldn't you see the whole thing through for me?"
"I might try."
Half an hour later Ralph had sent word to Ruth that he would not be home till evening, and was driving away with William Menire in the direction of St. Hilary.
They were both too excited to talk much. Ralph felt as though the whole universe were trembling in the balance. If he failed, there would be nothing left worth considering. If he succeeded, paradise threw open her gates to him.
Far away beyond the hills there was a great city called London, and in that city dwelt one who was more to him than all the world beside. She was out of his reach because he was poor and nameless and obscure. But if he won for himself a position, what was to hinder him from wooing her, and perhaps winning her? Money for its own sake he cared nothing for. The passion for position had never been a factor in his life. He loved beautiful things—art and music and literature—partly from instinct, and partly because he had been educated to appreciate them, but there was not an ounce of snobbery in his composition. He had no reverence for rank as such, or for mere social position, but he had sense enough to recognise their existence, and the part they played in the evolution of the race. He could not get rid of things by shutting his eyes to their existence.
So they drove along the quiet road mainly in silence. Each was busy with his own thoughts. Each had a secret that he dared not reveal to the other.
"I believe you will win," William said abruptly after a long interval of silence. "I always said you would."
"Win?" Ralph questioned absently, for he was thinking of Dorothy Hamblyn at the time.
"Your father was a shrewd man where mineral was concerned."
"Yes. And yet he loved corn and cows far more than copper and tin."
"I wouldn't mind being in your place."
"You would not be afraid of the risk?"
"No. I would like it."
"Then let's go shares!" Ralph said eagerly. "It's what I've wanted all along, but did not like to propose it."
"You really mean it?"
"My dear fellow, it is what I would desire above everything else! You have business capacity, and I haven't a scrap."
"If I were sure I could help you."
"We should help each other; but the gain would be chiefly mine."
"Partnerships don't always turn out well," William said reflectively.
"I'll gladly risk it," Ralph answered, with a laugh.
William dropped his driving whip into the socket and reached across his hand. It was his way of sealing the contract.
Ralph seized it in a moment.
"This is the proudest day of my life!" William said. And there were distinct traces of emotion in his voice.
"I hope you will not be sorry later on," Ralph answered dubiously.
"Never!" was the firm reply. And he thought of Ruth, and wondered what the future had in store for him.
For the rest of the way they drove in silence. There were things in the lives of both too sacred to be talked about.
There was widespread interest of a mild kind when it became known in St. Goram that Sir John Hamblyn had disposed of the freehold of Hillside Farm. It was an action altogether unprecedented in the history of the Hamblyn family. What it portended no one knew, but it seemed to crystallise into a concrete fact all the rumours that had been in circulation for the last two or three years.
The first news reached Farmer Jenkins in a letter from Sir John. It was brief and to the point:—
"I have this day sold the freehold of Hillside Farm. Your new landlord will no doubt communicate with you shortly.—Yours truly,"John Hamblyn."
"I have this day sold the freehold of Hillside Farm. Your new landlord will no doubt communicate with you shortly.—Yours truly,
"John Hamblyn."
Farmer Jenkins stared at the letter for a considerable time after he had mastered its contents.
"So-ho!" he said to himself at length. "Now I understand why he wanted the matter of reduction of rent to stand over. 'Cute dog is Sir John. If he's sold the place on the basis of present rental he's swindled somebody. I wonder who the fool is who bought it. Anyhow, I won't stay here after Lady Day." And he pushed the letter into his pocket, pulled a weather-beaten wideawake hat over his bald pate, and started out in the direction of St. Goram.
William Menire was standing behind his desk when Jenkins stumbled into his shop. He laid down his pen at once, and prepared himself to execute the farmer's order.
It was not a large order by any means—something that had been forgotten on the previous day—and when the farmer had stuffed it into one of his big pockets he looked up suddenly and said—
"You ain't heard no news, I expect?"
"What sort of news?" William questioned.
"Oh, any sort."
"Well, no. There doesn't seem to be much stirring at the present time."
"More stirring than you think, perhaps," Jenkins said mysteriously.
"That's possible, of course. Have you been hearing something?"
"Squire's cleared out, ain't he?"
"I hear he has practically closed the Manor for an indefinite period."
"Purty hard up, I reckon."
"Why do you think so?"
"Took to sellin' his estate."
"No!" William said, with a little gasp.
"It's solemn truth. I got a letter from him just now sayin' he'd sold Hillside Farm."
"Sold it?"
"Them's his very words. Here's the letter, if you like to read it."
William took the letter and retired to the window. He did not want the farmer to see his agitation. He had been waiting day after day for nearly a month for some definite news, and here it was in black and white. He wondered what Ralph would say when he heard. Once more his hopes had been blown to the wind. His dream of success, not for the first time or the second, had been dashed to the ground.
"Seems definite enough, don't it?" questioned the farmer, coming nearer.
"Oh yes, there can be no mistake about it," William answered, trying his best to keep his voice steady.
"Well, it don't make no difference to me," the farmer said indifferently. "I've made up my mind to clear out at Lady Day. There ain't no luck about the place. I keep feelin' as though there was a kind of blight upon it."
"Indeed?"
"The way the squire shoved it on to me wasn't square to David Penlogan. I can see it clear enough now, and I've never felt quite comfortable since David died. I keep feelin' at times as though he was about the place still."
"Who—David?"
"Ay. He was terrible fond of the place by all accounts. It was a pity Sir John didn't let him stay on. He might have been livin' to this day if he had."
"Yes, that is quite true; but we must not forget that David is better off. He was a good man, if ever there was one."
"Anyhow, the place don't prosper under me, somehow. And if the new landlord is willin' to lower the rent I shan't stay on. I've got my eye on something I think'll suit me better." And, turning slowly round, the farmer walked out of the shop.
William stood staring at the door long after the farmer had disappeared. He had seen the possibility of the farm falling into other hands from the first, but had never fully realised till now how much that might mean to him. His own future was involved just as much as Ralph's. While there was a prospect of getting the farm he had not troubled about his own notice to quit. Now the whole problem would have to be thought out again. Nor was that all—nor even the most important part. He had seen, in fancy, Ruth installed in the old home that she loved so much; seen how Hillside had called to her more loudly and potently than all the pleadings of Sam Tremail; seen the gulf that now lay between them gradually close up and disappear; seen her advance to meet him till their hands had clasped in a bond that only death could break.
It was a foolish fancy, perhaps, but he had not been able to help it taking possession of him from time to time, and with the passing of the days and weeks the fancy had become more and more vivid and real.
"It is all over now," William said to himself, as he stood staring at the door. "Ralph will go abroad and leave her alone at home. Then will come the choice of going away to a strange country or going to Pentudy, and Sam, of course, will win," and William sighed, and dropped into a chair behind his desk.
A minute or two later the door swung open again, and Ralph Penlogan stalked into the shop.
William rose at once to his feet, and moved down inside the counter.
"Well, William, any news yet?" Ralph questioned eagerly.
William dropped his eyes slowly to the floor.
"Yes, Ralph," he said, in a half-whisper. "We've missed it."
"Missed it?"
"Ay! I've been a bit afraid of it all along. You remember their lawyer told Mr. Jewell that there were several people after it."
"Where's Jewell's letter?" Ralph questioned, after a pause.
"I've not heard from Jewell."
"Then how did you get to know?"
"Jenkins told me. He got a letter from Sir John this morning saying he had sold it."
"To whom?"
"He mentioned no name—possibly he didn't know. It went to the man, I expect, who was willing to pay most for it."
"Perhaps Sir John got to know we were after it."
"Possibly, though I don't think Jewell would tell him."
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter, I suppose," Ralph said, in a hard voice. "It's all in the day's work."
"I feel a good deal more upset about it than I thought I should," William said, after a long pause.
"Yes?" Ralph questioned.
"I fancy the spirit of adventure had got a bit into my blood," William answered, with a gentle smile. "I felt ready to speculate all I had. I was itching, as one may say, to be at the lode."
"Such an adventurous spirit needed checking," Ralph said, with a laugh that had more bitterness in it than mirth.
"Perhaps so. Now we shall have to face the whole problem over again."
"I shall try my fortune abroad. I made up my mind weeks ago that if this failed I should leave the country."
"Yes, yes. But it comes hard all the same. There ought to be as much room for enterprise in this country as in any other."
"Perhaps there is, but we are in the wrong corner of it."
"No, it isn't that. It is simply that we have to deal with the wrong people. I grow quite angry when I think how all enterprise is checked by the hidebound fossils who happen to be in authority, and the stupid laws they have enacted."
Ralph laughed.
"My dear William, you will be talking treason next," he said, and then a customer came in and put an end to further conversation.
Ralph went back home, and without saying anything to his sister, began quietly to sort out his things.
"I may as well get ready first as last," he said to himself; "and the sooner I take my departure the better."
He was very silent when he came down to dinner, and his eyes had an absent look in them.
"What have you been doing all the morning?" Ruth asked at length.
"Sorting out my things, Ruth; that's all."
She started, and an anxious look came into her eyes.
"But why have you been sorting them out to-day?" she questioned.
"Because to-morrow will be Sunday," he said, with a smile, "and you are strongly opposed to Sunday labour."
"But still, I don't understand?" she interrogated uneasily.
"I would like to get off on Tuesday morning if possible."
"Do you mean——" she began.
"I shall have to clear out sooner or later, Ruth," he interrupted, "and the sooner the better."
"Then you have decided to go abroad, Ralph?" And her face became very pale.
"What else can I do?" he asked. "I really have not the courage to settle down at St. Ivel Mine at fourteen shillings a week, even if I were sure of getting work, which I am not."
"And I don't want you to do it," she said suddenly, with a rush of tears to her eyes.
"In a bigger country, with fewer restrictions and barbed wire fences, I may be able to do something," he went on. "At worst, I can but fail."
"I hoped that something would turn up here," she said, after a long pause.
"So did I, Ruth; and, indeed, until this morning things looked promising."
"Well?"
"Like so many other hopes, Ruth, it has gone out in darkness."
"You have said nothing to me about it," she said at length.
"No. I did not wish to buoy you up with hopes that might end in nothing."
"What was it you had in your mind, Ralph?" And she raised her soft, beseeching eyes to his.
"Oh, well," he said uneasily, "no harm can come of telling you now, though I did promise William that I would say nothing to you about it."
"Oh, indeed!" she said, in hurt tones. "What has he to do with it?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, he had nearly everything to do with it."
"And he had so little confidence in me that I was not to be trusted?"
"No, sis. William Menire is not that kind of man, as you ought to know by this time."
"Then why was I not to be told? Does he take me for a child?"
"Perhaps he does. You see, he is years older than either of us; but his main concern was that you should not feel in any way under an obligation to him."
"I do not understand."
"William feels very sensitive where you are concerned. The truth is, he was going to advance most of the money for the purchase of Hillside."
"Ralph!"
"It is true, dear; and until this morning we hoped we should get it."
"Well?"
"It has been sold to somebody else."
For a long time no other word was spoken. Ruth made a pretence of eating, but she had no longer any appetite for her dinner. Ralph had given her food of another kind—food for reflection. A dozen questions that had been the vaguest suggestions before suddenly crystallised themselves into definite form.
When the dinner was over, Ralph put on his hat and made for the door.
"I am going down to Perranpool," he said. "I have one or two things I want to talk over with Robert Telfer before I go."
"Don't forget to remember me to Mary," Ruth said, following him to the door.
"Anything else?" he questioned, with a smile.
"Yes. Tell her to come up and see me as soon as ever she is able."
"All right," and, waving his hand, he marched rapidly away.
Ruth sighed as she followed him with her eyes. It seemed to her a thousand pities that his native land had no place for such as he. He was not of the common order. He had gifts, education, imagination, enterprise, and yet he was foiled at every point.
Then for some reason her thoughts travelled away to William Menire, and the memory of her brother's words, "William is very sensitive where you are concerned," brought a warm rush of colour to her cheeks.
Why should William be so sensitive where she was concerned? Why should he be so shy and diffident when in her presence? Why was he ever so ready to sing the praises of his cousin?
She was brought back to herself at length by the sound of horse's hoofs, and a minute or two later Sam Tremail drew up and alighted at the garden gate.
Sam did not wait for an invitation. Flinging the reins over the gate post, he marched boldly up the garden path, and greeted Ruth at the door. She received him courteously, as was her nature, but a more sensitive man might have felt that there was not much warmth in her welcome.
"I was riding this way, and so I thought I would call," he explained. "I hope I don't intrude?"
"Oh no, not at all. Will you come inside?"
"Thank you, I shall be pleased to rest a few minutes, and so will Nero. Is your brother at home?"
"No, he has just gone down to Perranpool."
"Mr. Telfer has nearly finished his contract, I hear."
"So I am told."
"And the company have a mountain of concrete on their hands."
"Ralph says they are charging so enormously for it. Besides, they have not sought out new markets."
"Markets would open if the stuff was not so poor. They managed to hustle your brother out of his rights without getting his secret."
"Is that so?"
"So I am told. I know nothing about the matter myself. I can only repeat what people are saying. By the by, I suppose you have heard that your old home has been sold?"
"Yes."
"St. Goram seems to be quite excited about it. The people in my cousin's shop can talk of nothing else."
"Then you have called on your cousin?"
"Just to say 'How d'ye do?' But Saturday afternoon appears to be a busy day with him. Seems a shame that he has to turn out, doesn't it?"
"It is a shame."
"Of course, in a measure, it's his own fault. He ought not to have opposed Lord St. Goram. A man in business ought not to have any politics, and should keep out of public affairs."
"But suppose he agreed with Lord St. Goram?"
"Oh, that would make a difference, of course. A man ought to know on which side his bread is buttered."
"And principle and conviction should not count?"
"I don't say that. A man can have any convictions he likes, so long as he keeps them to himself; but in politics it is safest to side with the powers that be."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it. Take the case of my Uncle Ned."
"I never heard of him," Ruth said innocently.
"Oh, well, his late landlord was a Liberal, and, of course, my uncle was a Liberal. Then his landlord became a Unionist, and Uncle Ned became a Unionist also. Well, then his landlord died and his son took possession. He's a Conservative and true blue, and, of course, Uncle Ned is a Tory of the Tories. What is the result? He gets no end of privileges. Moreover, there is no fear of his being turned out of his farm."
"And you admire your Uncle Ned?"
"I think he might be a little less ostentatious. But he knows on which side his bread is buttered. Now my Cousin William goes dead against his own landlord; there's all the difference. Result, Ned remains and prospers; William has notice to quit."
"I'd rather be William than your Uncle Ned."
"You would?"
"A thousand times. A man who places bread and butter before conscience and conviction is a coward, and a man who changes his political creed to please his landlord is too contemptible for words."
Sam turned uneasily in his chair and stared. He had never imagined that this sweet-faced girl could speak so strongly. Moreover, he began to fear that he had unconsciously put his foot into it. He had called for the purpose of making love to Ruth, and had come perilously near to making her angry.
How to get back to safer ground was a work of no small difficulty. He could not unsay what he had said, and to attempt to trim would only provoke her scorn. Neither could he suddenly change the subject without considerable loss of dignity. So, after an awkward pause, he said—
"Everyone has a right to his or her own opinions, of course. For myself, I should not be prepared to express myself so strongly."
"Perhaps you do not feel strongly," she said.
"I don't think I do," he replied, in a tone of relief; "that is, on public questions. I am no politician, and, besides, there is always a good deal to be said on both sides of every question. I try as far as possible, you know, to keep an open mind," and he smiled benevolently, and felt well pleased with himself.
After that conversation flagged. Ruth appeared to be absent-minded, and in no mood for further talk. Nero outside champed at his bit, and was eager to be on the move again. Sam turned his hat round and round in his hands, and puzzled his brain as to how he should get near the subject that was uppermost in his mind.
He started a number of topics—the weather, the chances of a fine day for Summercourt Fair, the outbreak of measles at Doubleday, the price of tin, the new travelling preacher, the Sunday-school anniversary at Trebilskey, the large catch of pilchards at Mevagissey—but they all came to a sudden and ignominious conclusion.
He rose to his feet at length almost in despair, and looked towards the door. For some reason the task he had set himself was far more difficult than he had imagined. In his ride from Pentudy he had rehearsed his speech to the listening hedgerows with great diligence, and with considerable animation. He had rounded his periods till they seemed almost perfect. He had decided on the measure of emphasis to be laid on certain passages. But now, when he stood face to face with the girl he coveted, the speech eluded him almost entirely, while such passages as he could remember did not seem at all fitting to the occasion. The time clearly was not propitious. He would have to postpone his declaration to a more convenient season.
"I'm afraid I must be going," he said desperately.
"Your horse seems to be getting impatient," Ruth replied, looking out of the window.
"It's not the horse I care for," he blurted out; "it's you."
"Me?" she questioned innocently.
"Do you think anything else matters when you are about?" he asked in a tone almost of defiance.
"I fear I do not understand," she said, with a bewildered expression in her eyes.
"Oh, you must understand," he replied vehemently. "You must have seen that I love you."
"No, no!"
"Don't interrupt me, please, now that I've started. Give me a chance—oh, do give me a chance. I've loved you ever since your father's sale. I'm sure it's love I feel for you. Whenever people talk about my getting married, my thoughts always turn to you in a moment. I waited and waited for a chance of speaking to you, and thought it would never come; and now that I've got to know you a bit——"
"But you don't know me," she interrupted.
"Yes, I do. Besides, William has told me how good you are; and then I'm willing to wait until I know you better, and you know me better. I don't ask you to say Yes to-day, and please don't say No. I'm sure I could make you happy. You should have a horse of your own to ride if you wanted one, and I would be as good to you as ever I could, and I don't think I'm a bad sort. Ask my Cousin William, and he'll tell you that I'm a steady-going fellow. I know I'm not clever, nor anything of that sort; but I would look after you really well—I would, indeed. And think of it. You may need a friend some day. You may be left alone, as it were; your brother may get married. There's never any knowing what may happen. But if you would let me look after you and care for you, you wouldn't have a worry in the world. Think of it——"
She put up her hand deprecatingly, for when his tongue was once unloosed his words flowed without a break. He looked very manly and handsome, too, as he stood before her, and there was evident sincerity in his tones.
He broke off suddenly, and stood waiting. He felt that he had done the thing very clumsily, but that was perhaps inevitable under the circumstances.
Ruth looked up and met his eyes. She was no flirt; she was deeply moved by his confession. Moreover, when he spoke of her being alone some day and needing protection, he touched a sympathetic chord in her heart. She was to be left alone sooner than he knew. Already preparations had begun for her brother's departure.
"Please do not say any more," she said gently. "I do not doubt your sincerity for a moment."
"But you are not offended with me?" he gasped.
"No, I am not offended with you. Indeed, I feel greatly honoured by your proposal."
"Then you will think it over?" he interrupted. "Say you will think it over. Don't send me away without hope."
She smiled a sweet, pathetic smile, and answered—
"Yes, I will think it over."
"Thank you so much," he said, with beaming face. "That is the most I could hope for to-day," and he held out his hand to her, which she took shyly and diffidently.
"If you can only bring yourself to say Yes," he said, as he stood in the doorway, "I will do my best to make you the happiest woman in the world."
She did not reply, however. From behind the window curtains she watched him mount his horse and ride away; then she dropped into an easy-chair and stared into space.
It is sometimes said that a woman rarely gets the man she wants—that he, unknowing and unseeing, goes somewhere else, and she makes no sign. Later on she accepts the second best, or it may be the third best, and tries to be content.
Ruth wondered if contentment was ever to be found along that path, if the heart grew reconciled to the absence of romance, if the passion of youth was but the red glare of sunrise which quickly faded into the sober light of day.
Sam Tremail was not a man to be despised. He was no wastrel, no unknown adventurer. He was a man of character and substance. He had been a good son; he would doubtless make a good husband. Could she be content?
No halo of romance gathered about his name. No beautiful and tender passion shook her heart when she thought of him. Life at Pentudy would be sober and grey and commonplace. There would be no passion flowers, no crimson and scarlet and gold. On the other hand, there would be no want, no mean and niggling economies, no battle for daily bread. Was solid comfort more lasting, and therefore more desirable, than the richly-hued vesture of romance?
How about the people she knew—the people who had reached middle life—the people who were beginning to descend the western slope? Had there been any romance in their life? Had they thrilled at the beginning at the touch of a hand? Had their hearts leaped at the sound of a voice? And if so, why was there no sign of it to-day? Did familiarity always breed contempt? Did possession kill romance? Did the crimson of the morning always fade into the grey of noon?
Would it be better to marry without dreams and illusions, to begin with the sober grey, the prose and commonplace, than begin with some richly-hued dreams that would fade and disappear before the honeymoon came to an end? To be disillusioned was always painful. And yet, would not one swift month of rich romance, of deep-eyed, passionate love, be worth a lifetime of grey and sober prose?
Ruth was still thinking when Ralph returned from Perranpool.
Meanwhile Sam was trotting homeward in a very jubilant frame of mind. He pulled up in front of William Menire's shop and beckoned to his cousin.
"I want you to congratulate me, old man," he said, when William stood at his horse's head.
William's face fell in a moment, and his lips trembled in spite of himself.
"Have you—you—been to—to——?" William began.
"I've just come from there," Sam interrupted, with a laugh. "Been there for the last hour, and now I'm off home feeling that I have done a good day's work."
"You have proposed to her?"
"I have! It required a good bit of courage, but I've done it."
"And she has accepted?"
"She has not rejected me, at any rate. I didn't ask for a definite answer right off. But it is all right, my boy, I'm sure it is. Now, give us your hand. You've been a good friend to me. But for you I might never have got to know her."