Ralph remained in London considerably longer than he had intended. Sir John Liskeard was a very busy man, and the questions raised by Ralph required time to consider. The equity of the case was simple and straightforward enough; the law was quite another matter. Moreover, as Sir John had been asked to give not merely a legal opinion, but some friendly advice, the relative strength of the litigants had to be taken into account.
Sir John was anxious to do his best for his young client. Ralph appeared to be a coming man in the division he represented in Parliament, and as Sir John's majority on the last election was only a narrow one, he was naturally anxious to do all he could to strengthen his position in the constituency. Hence he received Ralph very graciously, got him a seat under the gallery during an important debate in the House of Commons, took him to tea on the Terrace, pointed out to him most of the political celebrities who happened to be in attendance at the House, and introduced him to a few whom Ralph was particularly anxious to meet.
Fresh from the country and from the humdrum of village life, with palate unjaded and all his enthusiasms at the full, this was a peculiarly delightful experience. It was pleasant to meet men in the flesh whom he had read about in books and newspapers, pleasant to breathe—if only for an hour—a new atmosphere, charged with a subtle energy he could not define.
Of course, there were painful disillusionments. Some noted people—in appearance, at any rate—fell far short of his expectations. Great men rose in the House to speak, and stuttered and spluttered the weakest and emptiest platitudes. Honourables and right honourables and noble lords appeared, in many instances, to be made of very common clay.
Ralph found himself wondering, as many another man has done, as he sat watching and listening, by what curious or fatuous fate some of these men in the gathering ever climbed into their exalted positions.
He put the question to Sir John when he had an opportunity.
"Most of them do not climb at all," was the laughing answer. "They are simply pitchforked."
"But surely it is merit that wins in a place like this?"
Sir John laughed again.
"In some cases, no doubt. For instance, you see that short, thick-set man yonder. Well, he's one of the most effective speakers in the House. A few years ago he was a working shoemaker. Then you see that white-headed man yonder, with large forehead and deep, sad-looking eyes. Well, he was a village schoolmaster for thirty years, and now he is acknowledged to be one of the ablest men we have. Then there is Blank, in the corner seat there below the gangway, a most brilliant fellow—a farmer's son, without any early advantages at all. But I don't suppose that either of them will ever get into office, or into what you call an exalted position."
"But why not?"
"Ah, well"—and Sir John shrugged his shoulders—"you see, the ruling classes in this country belong to—well, to the ruling classes."
"But I thought ours was a purely democratic form of government?"
"It is. But the democracy dearly love a lord. They have no faith in their own order. The ruling classes have; so they remain the ruling classes. And who can blame them?"
"Still, when so much is at stake, the best men ought to be at the head of affairs."
"Possibly they are—that is, the best available men. Tradition goes for a good deal in a country like this. Certain positions are filled, as a matter of course, by people of rank. An historic name counts for a good deal."
"But suppose the bearer of the historic name should happen to be a fool?"
"Oh, well, we muddle through somehow. Get an extra war or two, perhaps, and an addition to the taxes and to the national debt. But we are a patient people, and don't mind very much. Besides, the majority of the people are easily gulled."
"Then promotion goes by favour?" Ralph questioned after a pause.
"Why, of course it does. Did you ever doubt it? Take the case of the Imperial Secretary. Does any sane man in England, irrespective of creed or party, imagine for a moment that he would have got into that position if he had not been the nephew of a duke?"
"But isn't he a capable man?"
"Capable?"—and Sir John shrugged his shoulders again. "Why, if he had to depend on his own merits he wouldn't earn thirty shillings a week in any business house in the City."
Ralph walked away from the House of Commons with a curious feeling of elation and disappointment. He had been greatly delighted in some respects, and terribly disappointed in others.
In St. James's Park he sat down in the shadow of a large chestnut tree and tried to sort out his emotions. He had been in London three days, but had scarcely got his bearings yet. Everything was very new, very strange, and very wonderful. On the whole, he thought he would be very glad to get away from it. It seemed to him the loneliest place on earth. On every side there was the ceaseless roar of traffic, like the breaking of the sea, and yet there was not a friendly face or a familiar voice anywhere in all the throng.
Suddenly he started and leaned eagerly forward. That was a familiar face, surely, and a familiar voice. Two people passed close to where he sat—a young man and a young woman. Her skirts almost brushed his boots; her sunshade—which she was swinging—came within an inch of his hand.
Dorothy Hamblyn! The words leapt to his lips unconsciously, but he did not utter them. She passed on brightly—joyously, it seemed to him, but she was quite unaware of his presence. In the main, her eyes were fixed on the young man by her side—a slim, faultlessly dressed young man, with pale face, retreating chin, and a bored expression in his eyes.
Ralph rose to his feet and followed them. His heart was beating fast, his knees trembled in spite of himself, his brain was in a whirl. What he purposed doing or where he purposed going never occurred to him. He simply followed a sudden impulse, whether it led to his undoing or not.
He kept them in sight until they reached Hyde Park Corner. Then the crowd swallowed them up for several moments. But he caught sight of them again on the other side and followed them into the Park. For several minutes he had considerable difficulty in disentangling them from the crowd of people that hurried to and fro, but a large white plume Dorothy wore in her hat assisted him. They came to a full stop at length, and sat down on a couple of chairs. He discovered an empty chair on the other side of the road, and sat down opposite.
He was near enough to see her features distinctly, near enough to see the light sparkle in her eyes, but not near enough to hear anything she said. That, however, did not matter. He was content for the moment to look at her. He wanted nothing better.
How beautiful she was! She was no longer the squire's "little maid," she was a woman now. Nearly two years had passed since he last saw her, and those years had ripened all her charms and rounded them into perfection.
He could look his fill without being observed. If she cast her eyes in his direction she would not recognise him—probably she had forgotten his existence.
His nerves were still thrilling with a strange ecstasy. His eyes drank in greedily every line and curve and expression of her face. In all this great London there was no other face, he was sure, that could compare with it, no other smile that was half so sweet.
She rose at length, slowly and with seeming reluctance, to her feet. Her companion at once sprang to her side. Ralph rose also, and faced them. Why he did so he did not know. He was still following a blind and unreasoning impulse. She paused for a moment or two and looked steadfastly in his direction, then turned and quickly walked away, and a moment later was swallowed up in the multitude.
Ralph took one step forward, then turned back and sat down with a jerk. He had come to himself at last.
"Well, I have played the fool with a vengeance," he muttered to himself. "I have just pulled down all I have been trying for the last two years to build up."
The next moment he was unconscious of his surroundings again. Crowds of people passed and re-passed, but he saw one face only, the face that had never ceased to haunt him since the hour when, in her bright, imperious way, she commanded him to open the gate.
How readily and vividly he recalled every incident of that afternoon. He felt her arms about his neck even now. He was hurrying across the downs once more in the direction of St. Goram. His heart was thrilling with a new sensation.
He came to himself again after a while and sauntered slowly out of the Park. Beauty and wealth and fashion jostled him on every side, but it was a meaningless show to him. Had Ruth been with him she would have gone into ecstasies over the hats and dresses, for such creations were never seen in St. Goram, nor even dreamed of.
Men have to be educated to appreciate the splendours and glories of feminine attire, and, generally speaking, the education is a slow and disappointing process. The male eye is not quick in detecting the subtleties of lace and chiffon, the values of furs and furbelows.
"Women dress to please the men," somebody has remarked. That may be true in some cases. More frequently, it is to be feared, they dress to make other women envious.
Ralph's education in the particular line referred to had not even commenced. He knew nothing of the philosophy of clothes. He was vaguely conscious sometimes that some people were well dressed and others ill dressed, that some women were gowned becomingly and others unbecomingly, but beyond that generalisation he never ventured.
He had begun to dress well himself almost without knowing it. He instinctively avoided everything that was loud or noticeable. Nature had given him a good figure—tall, erect, and well proportioned. Moreover, he was free from the vanity which makes a man self-conscious, and he was sufficiently well educated to know what constituted a gentleman.
He got back to the small hotel at which he was staying in time for an early dinner, after which he strolled into the Embankment Gardens and listened to the band. Later still, he found himself sitting on one of the seats in Trafalgar Square listening to the splash of the fountains and dreaming of home, and yet in every dream stood out the exquisite face and figure of Dorothy Hamblyn.
Next morning, because he had nothing to do, and because he was already tired of sight-seeing, he made his way again into St. James's Park, and found a seat near the lake and in the shadow of the trees. He told himself that he came there in the hope that he might see Dorothy Hamblyn again.
He knew it was a foolish thing to do. But he had come to the unheroic conclusion during the night that it was of no use fighting against Fate. He loved Dorothy Hamblyn passionately, madly, and that was the end of it. He could not help it. He had tried his best to root out the foolish infatuation, and he had almost hoped that he was succeeding. But yesterday's experience had torn the veil from his eyes, and revealed to him the fact that he was more hopelessly in love than ever.
How angry he was with himself he did not know. The folly of it made him ashamed. His presumption filled him with amazement. If anyone else of his own class had done the same thing he would have laughed him to scorn. In truth, he could have kicked himself for his folly.
Then, unconsciously, his mood would change, and self-pity would take the place of scorn. He was not to blame. He was the victim of a cruel and cynical Fate. He was being punished for hating her father so intensely. It was the Nemesis of an evil passion.
He spent most of the day in the Park, and kept an eager look-out in all directions; but the vision of Dorothy's face did not again gladden his eyes. A hundred times he started, and the warm blood rushed in a torrent to his face, then he would walk slowly on again.
On the following morning he met Sir John Liskeard, by appointment, in his chambers in the Temple.
"He had been going into the case," he explained to Ralph, "with considerable care, but even now he had not found out all he wanted to know. He had, however, discovered one or two facts which had an important bearing on the case."
He was careful to explain, again, that in equity he considered Ralph's claim incontestable, while nothing could be more honourable than the way in which he had tried to come to terms with the company. He spoke strongly of the high-handed and tyrannous way in which a rich and powerful company were trying to crush a poor man and rob him of the fruits of his skill and enterprise.
But, on the other hand, there was no doubt whatever that the company would be able to cite a clear case. To begin with, the agreement, or the concession, was very loosely worded. Moreover, no time limit had been set, which might imply that the company retained the right of withdrawing the concession at any moment. It was also contended by some of the shareholders that the company, as a whole, could not be held responsible for mistakes made by the chairman. That, however, he held was a silly contention, inasmuch as the agreement was stamped with the company's seal, and was signed by the secretary and two directors.
On the other hand, there could be no doubt that the concession had been hurriedly made, no one at the time realising that there was any value in the rubbish heap that had been accumulating for the biggest part of a century. On one point, however, the company had cleverly forestalled them. It had purchased, recently, the freehold of Daniel Rickard's farm. This, no doubt, was a very astute move, and mightily strengthened the company's position.
"I am bound, also, to point out one other fact," the lawyer went on. "I have discovered that both Lord Probus and Lord St. Goram are considerable shareholders in the concern. They are both tremendously impressed by what I may term 'the potentialities of the tailing heap.' In fact, they believe there's a huge fortune in it, and they are determined that the company shall reap the reward of your discovery."
"They need not be so greedy," Ralph said bitterly. "They have both far more than they know how to spend, and they might have been willing to give a beginner a chance."
"You know the old saying," Sir John said, with a smile. "'Much would have more.'"
"I've heard it," Ralph said moodily.
"You will understand I am not talking to you merely as a lawyer. There is no doubt whatever that you have a case, and a very clear case. I may add, a very strong case."
"And what, roughly speaking, would it cost to fight it in a court of law?"
Sir John shrugged his shoulders and smiled knowingly.
"I might name a minimum figure," he said, and he did.
Ralph started, and half rose from his chair.
"That settles the matter," he said, after a pause.
"It would be a very unequal contest," Sir John remarked.
"You mean——"
"I mean, they could take it from court to court, and simply cripple you with law costs."
"So, as usual, the weak must go to the wall?"
"To be quite candid with you, I could not advise you to risk what you have made."
"What I have made is very little indeed," Ralph answered.
"I thought you had made a small fortune."
"I could have made a little if I had been given time; but I have spent most of the profit in increasing and improving the plant."
"I am sorry. To say the least, it is rough on you."
"It is what I have been used to all my life," Ralph said absently. "The powerful appear to recognise no law but their own strength."
When Ralph found himself in the street again his thoughts immediately turned towards home.
Ralph went back to his hotel with the intention of packing his bag, and returning home by the first available train. He had got what he came to London to get, and there was no need for him to waste more time and money in the big city. He was not disappointed. The learned counsel had taken precisely the view he had expected, and had given the advice that might be looked for from a friend and well-wisher.
He was not sorry he had come. The reasoned opinion of a man of law and a man of affairs was worth paying for. Though he had practically lost everything, he would go back home better satisfied. He would not be able to blame himself for either cowardice or stupidity. His business now was to submit with the best grace possible to those who were more powerful than himself.
It was annoying, no doubt, to see the harvest of his research and industry and enterprise reaped by other people—by people who had never given an hour's thought or labour to the matter. But his experience was by no means peculiar. It was only on rare occasions the inventor profited by the labour of his brains. It was the financier who pocketed the gold. The man of intellect laboured, the man of finance entered into his labours.
As Ralph made his way slowly along the Strand he could not help wondering what his next move would be when he got home. As far as he could see, he was on his beam-ends once more. There appeared to be no further scope for enterprise in St. Ivel or in St. Goram. He might go back to the mine again and work for fourteen shillings a week, but such a prospect was not an inviting one. He was built on different lines from most of his neighbours. The steady work and the steady wage and the freedom from responsibility did not appeal to him as it appealed to so many people. He rather liked responsibility. The question of wage was of very secondary importance. He disliked the smooth, well-trodden paths. The real interest in life was in carving out new paths for himself and other people.
But there were no new paths to be carved out in St. Ivel or in the neighbouring parishes. The one new thing of a generation—born in his own brain—had been taken out of his hands, and there was nothing left but the old ruts, worn deep by the feet of many generations.
He began to wonder what all the people who jostled him in the street did for a living. Was there anything new or fresh in their lives, or did they travel the same weary round day after day and year after year?
The sight of so many people in the street doing nothing—or apparently doing nothing—oppressed him. The side walks were crowded. 'Buses were thronged, cabs and hansoms rolled past, filled, seemingly, with idle people. And yet nearly everybody appeared to be eager and alert. What were they after? What phantom were they pursuing? What object had they in life? He turned down a quiet street at length, glad to escape the noise and bustle, and sought the shelter of his hotel.
Before proceeding to pack his bag, however, he consulted a time-table, and discovered, somewhat to his chagrin, that there was no train that would take him to St. Goram that day. He could get as far as Plymouth, but no farther.
"It's no use making two bites at a cherry," he said to himself; "so I'll stay where I am another day."
An hour or two later he found himself once more in the Park in the shadow of the trees. It was here he first saw Dorothy, and he cherished a vague hope that she might pass that way again. He called himself a fool for throwing oil on the flame of a hopeless passion, but in his heart he pitied himself more than he blamed.
Moreover, he needed something to draw away his thoughts from himself. If he brooded too long on his disappointments, he might lose heart and hope. It was much pleasanter to think of Dorothy than of the treatment he had received at the hands of the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company, so he threw himself, with a sigh, on an empty seat and watched the people passing to and fro.
Most people walked slowly, for the day was hot. The ladies carried sunshades, and were clad in the flimsiest materials. The roar of the streets was less insistent than when he sat there before. But London still seemed to him an inexpressibly lonely place.
He was never quite sure how long he sat there. An hour, perhaps. Perhaps two hours. Time was not a matter that concerned him just then. His brain kept alternating between the disappointments of the past and hopes of the future. He came to himself with a start. The rustle of a dress, accompanied by a faint perfume as of spring violets, caused him to raise his head with a sudden movement.
"I thought I could not be mistaken!"
The words fell upon his ears with a curious sense of remoteness such as one experiences sometimes in dreams.
The next moment he was on his feet, his face aglow, his eyes sparkling with intense excitement.
"Did I not see you two days ago? Pardon me for speaking, but really, to see one from home is like a draught of water to a thirsty traveller." And Dorothy's voice ended in a little ripple of timid laughter.
"It is a long time since you were at St. Goram?" he said, in a questioning tone.
"I scarcely remember how long," she answered. "It seems ages and ages. Won't you tell me all the news?"
"I shall be delighted," he said; and he walked away by her side.
"Father writes to me every week or two," she went on, "but I can never get any news out of him. I suppose it is that nothing happens in St. Goram."
"In the main we move in the old ruts," he answered slowly. "Besides, your father will not be interested in the common people, as they are called."
"He is getting very tired of the place. He wants to get his household into the very smallest compass, so that he can spend more time in London and abroad."
"Do you like living in London?"
"In the winter, very much; but in the summer I pine for St. Goram. I want the breeze of the downs and the shade of the plantation."
"But you will be running down before the summer is over?"
"I am afraid not. To begin with, I cannot get away very well, and then I think my father intends practically to shut up the house at the end of this month."
"And your brother?"
"He will stay with my Aunt Fanny in London—she is my father's sister, you know—or he may go abroad with father for a month or two." And she sighed unconsciously.
For a while they walked on in silence. They had left the hot yellow path for the green turf. In front of them was a belt of trees, with chairs dotted about in the shadow. Ralph felt as though he were in dreamland. It seemed scarcely credible that he should be walking and talking with the daughter of Sir John Hamblyn.
Dorothy broke the silence at length, and her words came with manifest effort.
"I hope my father expressed his regret, and apologised for the mistake he made?"
"Oh, as to that," he said, with a short laugh, "I am afraid I have given him no opportunity. You see, I have been very much occupied, and then I don't live in St. Goram now."
"And—and—your people?"
"You know, I suppose, that my mother is dead?"
"No; I had not heard. Oh, I am so sorry!"
"She died the day after I came back from prison."
"Oh, how sad!"
"I don't think she thought so. She was glad to welcome me back again, of course, and to know that my innocence had been established. But since father died she seemed to have nothing to live for."
Then silence fell again for several minutes. They had reached the shadow of the trees, and Dorothy suggested that they should sit down and rest a while. Ralph pulled up a chair nearly opposite her. He still felt like one in a dream. Every now and then he raised his eyes to her face, and thought how beautiful she had grown.
"Do you know," she said, breaking the silence again, "I was almost afraid to speak to you just now."
"Afraid?"
"You have suffered a good deal at our hands."
"Well?" His heart was in a tumult, but he kept himself well in hand.
"It must require a good deal of grace to keep you from hating us most intensely."
"I am afraid I am not as good a hater as I would like to be."
"As you would like to be?"
"It has not been for want of trying, I can assure you. But Fate loves to make fools of us."
"I don't think I quite understand," she said, looking puzzled.
"Do you want to understand?" he questioned, speaking slowly and steadily, though every drop of blood in his veins seemed to be at boiling point.
"Yes, very much," she answered, making a hole in the ground with her sunshade.
"Then you shall know," he said, with his eyes on some distant object. He had grown quite reckless. He feared nothing, cared for nothing. It would be a huge joke to tell this proud daughter of the house of Hamblyn the honest truth. Moreover, it might help him to defy the Fate that was mocking him, might help to relieve the tension of the last few days, and would certainly put an end to the possibility of her ever speaking to him again.
"You are right when you say I have suffered a good deal, I won't say at your hands, but at the hands of your father, and Heaven knows my hatred of him has not lacked intensity." Then he paused suddenly and looked at her, but she did not raise her eyes.
"You are his daughter," he went on, slowly and bitingly, "his own flesh and blood. You bear a name that I loathe more than any other name on earth."
She winced visibly, and her cheeks became crimson.
"But Fate has been cruel to me in every way. Your very kindness to me, to Ruth, to my mother, has only added to my torture——"
"Added to——"
But he did not let her finish the sentence. His nerves were strung up to the highest point of tension. He felt, in a sense, outside himself. He was no longer master of his own emotions.
"Had you been like your father," he continued, "I could have hated you also. But it may be that, to punish me for hating your father so bitterly, God made me love you."
She rose to her feet in a moment, her face ashen.
"Don't go away," he said, quietly and deliberately. "It will do you no harm to hear me out. I did not seek this interview. I shall never seek another. A man who has been in prison, and whose mother died in the workhouse——"
"In the workhouse?" she said, with a gasp.
"Thanks to your father," he said slowly and bitterly. "And yet, in spite of all this, I had dared to love you. No, don't sneer at me," he said, mistaking a motion of her lips. "God knows I have about as much as I can bear. I tried to hate you. I felt it almost a religious duty to hate you. I fought against the passion that has conquered me till I had no strength left."
She had sat down again, with her eyes upon the ground, but her bosom was heaving as though a tempest raged beneath.
"Why have you told me this?" she said at length, with a sudden fierce light in her eyes.
"Oh, I hardly know," he said, with a reckless laugh. "For the fun of it, I expect. Don't imagine I have any ulterior object in view, save that of self-defence."
"Self-defence?"
"Yes; you will despise me now. My effrontery and impertinence will be too much even for your large charity. I can fancy how the tempest of your scorn is gathering. I don't mind it. Let it rage. It may help to turn my heart against you."
She did not answer him; she sat quite still with her eyes fixed upon the ground.
He looked at her for several moments in silence, and his mood began to change. What spirit had possessed him to talk as he had done?
She rose to her feet at length, and raised her eyes timidly to his face. Whether she was angry or disgusted, or only sorry, he could not tell.
He rose also, but he scarcely dared to look at her.
"Good-afternoon," she said at length; and she held out her hand to him.
"Good-afternoon," he answered; but he did not take her outstretched hand, he pretended not even to see it.
He stood still and watched her walk away out into the level sunshine; watched her till she seemed but a speck of colour in the hazy distance. Then, with a sigh, he turned his face towards the City. He still felt more or less like one in a dream: there seemed to be an air of unreality about everything. Perhaps he would come to himself directly and discover that he was not in London at all.
He did not return to his hotel until nearly bedtime. The porter handed him a letter which came soon after he went out.
It was from Sir John Liskeard, and requested that Ralph would call on him again at his rooms in the Temple on the following morning, any time between ten and half-past. No reason was given why Sir John wanted this second interview.
Ralph stood staring at the letter for several moments, then slowly put it back into the envelope, and into his pocket.
"Perhaps some new facts have come to light," he said to himself, as he made his way slowly up the stairs, and a thrill of hope and expectancy shot through his heart. "Perhaps my journey to London may not be without fruit after all. I wonder now——"
And when he awoke next morning he was still wondering.
"I am sorry to have troubled you to call again," was Sir John's greeting, "but there is a little matter that quite slipped my memory yesterday. Won't you be seated?"
Ralph sat down, still hoping that he was going to hear some good news.
"It is nothing about the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company," Sir John went on, "and, in fact, nothing that concerns you personally."
Ralph's face fell, and the sparkle went out of his eyes. It was foolish of him ever to hope for anything. Good news did not come his way. He did not say anything, however.
"The truth is, a friend of mine is considering the advisability of purchasing Hillside Farm, and has asked me to make one or two inquiries about it."
Ralph gave a little gasp, but remained silent.
"Now, I presume," Sir John said, with a little laugh, "if there is a man alive who knows everything about the farm there is to be known you are that man."
"But I do not understand," Ralph said. "I have always understood that the Hamblyn estate is strictly entailed."
"That is true of the original estate. But you may or you may not be aware that Hillside came to Sir John by virtue of the Land Enclosures Act."
"Oh yes, I know all about that," Ralph said, with a touch of scorn in his voice; "and a most iniquitous Act it was."
Sir John shrugged his shoulders, a very common habit of his. It was not his place to speak ill of an Act of Parliament which had put a good deal of money into his pocket and into the pockets of his professional brethren in all parts of the country.
"Into the merits of this particular Act," he said, a little stiffly, "we need not enter now. Suffice it that Hamblyn is quite at liberty to dispose of the freehold if he feels so inclined."
"And he intends to sell Hillside Farm?"
"Well, between ourselves, he does—that is, if he can get rid of it by private treaty. Naturally, he does not want the matter talked about. I understand there is a very valuable stone quarry in one corner of the estate."
"There is a quarry," Ralph answered slowly, for his thoughts were intent on another matter, "but whether it is very valuable or not I cannot say. I should judge it is not of great value, or the squire would not want to sell the freehold."
"When a man is compelled to raise a large sum of money there is frequently for him no option."
"And is that the case with Sir John?"
"There can be no doubt whatever that he is hard up. His life interest in the Hamblyn estate is, I fancy, mortgaged to the hilt. If he can sell Hillside Farm at the price he is asking for it, he will have some ready cash to go on with."
"What is the price he names?"
"Twenty years' purchase on the net rental—the same on the mineral dues."
"There are no mineral dues," Ralph said quickly, and his thoughts flew back in a moment to that conversation he had with his father.
"Well, quarry dues, then," Sir John said, with a smile.
"And is your friend likely to purchase?" Ralph questioned.
"I believe he would like the farm. But he is a cautious man, and is anxious to find out all he can before he strikes a bargain."
"And will he be guided by your advice?"
"In the main he will."
"Then, if you are his friend, you will advise him to make haste slowly."
"You think the farm is not worth the money?"
"To the ordinary investor I am sure it is not. To the man who wants it for some sentimental reason the case is different."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, if I were a rich man, for instance, I might be disposed to give a good deal more for it than it is worth. You see, I helped to reclaim the land from the waste. I know every bush and tree on the farm. I remember every apple tree being planted. I love the place, for it was my home. My father died there——"
"Then why don't you buy it?" interrupted Sir John.
Ralph laughed.
"You might as well ask me why I don't buy the moon," he said. "If I had been allowed to go on with my present work I might have been able to buy it in time. Now it is quite out of the question."
"That is a pity," Sir John said meditatively.
"I don't know that it is," Ralph answered. "One cannot live on sentiment."
"And yet sentiment plays a great part in one's life."
"No doubt it does, but with the poor the first concern is how to live."
"Then, sentiment apart, you honestly think the place is not worth the money?"
"I'm sure it isn't. Jenkins told me not long ago that if he could not get his rent lowered he should give up the farm."
"And what about the quarry?"
"It will be worked out in half a dozen years at the outside."
"You think so?"
"I do honestly. I've no desire to do harm to the squire, though God knows he has been no friend to me. But twenty years' purchase at the present rental and dues would be an absurd price."
"I think it is rather stiff myself."
"Is Sir John selling the place through some local agent or solicitor?"
"Oh no. Messrs. Begum & Swear, Chancery Lane, are acting for him."
An hour later, Ralph was rolling away in an express train towards the west. He sat next the window, and kept his eyes steadily fixed on the scenery through which he passed. And yet he saw very little of it; his thoughts were too intent on other things. Towns, villages, hamlets, homesteads, flew past, but he scarcely heeded. Wooded hills drew near and faded away in the distance. The river gleamed and flashed and hid itself. Gaily-dressed people made patches of colour in shady backwaters for a moment; the sparkle of a weir caught his eye, and was gone.
It was only in after days that he recalled the incidents of the journey; for the moment he could think of nothing but Dorothy Hamblyn and the sale of Hillside Farm. The sudden failure of his small commercial enterprise did not worry him. He knew the worst of that. To cry over spilt milk was waste both of time and energy. His business was not to bewail the past, but to face resolutely the future.
But Dorothy and the fate of Hillside Farm belonged to a different category. Dorothy he could not forget, try as he would. She had stolen his heart unconsciously, and he would never love another. At least, he would never love another in the same deep, passionate, overmastering way. He was still angry with himself for his mad outburst of the previous day, and could not imagine what possessed him to speak as he did. He wondered, too, what she thought of him. Was her feeling one of pity, or anger, or amusement, or contempt, or was it a mixture of all these qualities?
Then, for a while, she would pass out of his mind, and a picture of Hillside Farm would come up before his vision. On the whole, he was not sorry that the squire was compelled to sell. It was a sort of Nemesis, a rough-and-ready vindication of justice and right.
The place never was his in equity, whatever it might be in law. If it belonged to anybody, it belonged to the man who reclaimed it from the wilderness.
No, he was not sorry that the squire was unable to keep it. It seemed to restore his faith in the existence of a moral order. A man who was not worthy to be a steward—who abused the power he possessed—ought to be deposed. It was in the eternal fitness of things that he should give place to a better man.
Ruth met him at St. Ivel Road Station, and they walked home together in the twilight. They talked fitfully, with long breaks in the conversation. He had told her by letter the result of his mission, so that he had nothing of importance to communicate.
"The men are very much cut up," she said, after a little lull in their talk, which had been mainly about London. "Several of them called this afternoon to know if I had heard any news; and when I told them that you were not going to contest the claim of the company, and that the works would cease, they looked as if they would cry."
"I hope they will be able to get work somewhere else," he answered quietly.
"But they will not get such wages as you have been giving them. You cannot imagine how popular you are. I believe the men would do anything for you."
"I believe they would do anything in reason," he said. "I have tried to treat them fairly, and I am quite sure they have done their best to treat me fairly. People are generally paid back in their own coin."
"And have you any idea what you will do next?" she questioned, after a pause.
"Not the ghost of an idea, Ruth. If I had not you to think of, I would go abroad and try my fortune in a freer air."
"Don't talk about going abroad," she said, with a little gasp.
"Yet it may have to come to it," he answered. "One feels bound hand and foot in a country like this."
"But are other countries any better?"
"The newer countries of the West and our own Colonies do not seem quite so hidebound. What with our land laws and our mineral dues, and our leasehold systems, and our patent laws, and our precedents, and our rights of way and all the bewildering entanglements of red-tapeism, one feels as helpless as a squirrel in a cage. One cannot walk out on the hills, or sit on the cliffs, or fish in the sea without permission of somebody. All the streams and rivers are owned; all the common land has been appropriated; all the minerals a hundred fathoms below the surface are somebody's by divine right. One wonders that the very atmosphere has not been staked out into freeholds."
"But things are as they have always been, dear," Ruth said quietly.
"No, not always," he said, with a laugh.
"Well, for a very long time, anyhow. And, after all, they are no worse for us than for other people."
He did not reply to this remark. Getting angry with the social order did not mend things, and he had no wish to carp and cavil when no good could come of it.
Within the little cottage everything was ready for the evening meal. The kettle was singing on the hob, the table was laid, the food ready to be brought in.
"It is delightful to be home again," Ralph said, throwing himself into his easy-chair. "After all, there's no place like home."
"And did you like London?"
"Yes and no," he answered meditatively. "It is a very wonderful place, and I might grow to be fond of it in time. But it seemed to be so terribly lonely, and then one's vision seemed so cramped. One could only look down lines of streets—you are shut in by houses everywhere. The sun rose behind houses, set behind houses. You wanted to see the distant spaces, to look across miles of country, to catch glimpses of the far-off hills, but the houses shut out everything. Oh, it is a lonely place!"
"And yet it is crowded with people?"
"And that adds to the feeling of loneliness," he replied. "You are jostled and bumped on every side, and you know nobody. Not a face in all the thousands you recognise."
"I should like to see it all some day."
"Some day you shall," he said. "If ever I grow rich enough you shall have a month there. But let us not talk of London just now. Has anything happened since I went away?"
"Nothing at all, Ralph."
"And has nobody been to see you?"
"Nobody except Mary Telfer. She has come in most days, and always like a ray of sunshine."
"She is a very cheerful little body," Ralph said, and then began to attack his supper.
A few minutes later he looked up and said—
"Did you ever hear the old saying, Ruth, that one has to go from home to hear news?"
"Why, of course," she said, with a laugh. "Who hasn't?"
"I had rather a remarkable illustration of the old saw this morning."
"Indeed?"
"I had to go to London to learn that Hillside Farm is for sale."
"For sale, Ralph?"
"So Sir John Liskeard told me. I warrant that nobody in St. Goram knows."
"Are you very sorry?" she questioned.
"Not a bit. The squire squeezed his tenants for all they were worth, and now the money-lenders are squeezing him. It's only poetic justice, after all."
"Yet surely he is to be pitied?"
"Well, yes. Every man is to be pitied who fools away his money on the Turf and on other questionable pursuits, and yet when the pinch comes you cannot help saying it serves him right."
"But nobody suffers alone, Ralph."
"I know that," he answered, the colour mounting suddenly to his cheeks. "But as far as his son Geoffrey is concerned, it may do him good not to have unlimited cash."
"I was not thinking of Geoffrey. I was thinking of Miss Dorothy."
"It may do her good also," he said, a little savagely. "Women are none the worse for knowing the value of a sovereign."
For several minutes there was silence; then Ruth said, without raising her eyes—
"I wish we were rich, Ralph."
"For why?" he questioned with a smile, half guessing what was in her mind.
"We would buy Hillside Farm."
"You would like to go back there again to live?"
"Shouldn't I just! Oh, Ralph, it would be like heaven!"
"I'm not so sure that I should like to go back," he said, after a long pause.
"No?" she questioned.
"Don't you think the pain would outweigh the pleasure?"
"Oh no. I think father and mother wander through the orchard and across the fields still, and I should feel nearer to them there; and I'm sure it would make heaven a better place for them if they knew we were back in the old home."
"Ah, well," he said, with a sigh, "that is a dream we cannot indulge in. Sir John Liskeard asked me why I did not buy it."
"And what did you say to him?"
"What could I say, Ruth, except that I could just as easily buy the moon?"
"Would the freehold cost so much?"
"As the moon?"
"No, no, I don't mean that, you silly boy; but is land so very, very dear?"
"Compared with land in or near big towns or cities, it is very, very cheap."
"But I mean it would take a lot of money to buy Hillside?"
"You and I would think it a lot." And then the sound of footsteps was heard outside, followed a moment later by a timid knock at the door.
"I wonder who it can be?" Ruth said, starting to her feet. "I'm glad you are at home, or I should feel quite nervous."
"Do you think burglars would knock at the front door and ask if they might come in?" he questioned, with a laugh.
Ruth did not reply, but went at once to the door and opened it, much wondering who their visitor could be, for it was very rarely anyone called at so late an hour.
It had grown quite dark outside, so that she could only see the outline of two tall figures standing in the garden path.
She was quickly reassured by a familiar voice saying—
"Is your brother at home, Miss Penlogan?"
And then for some reason the hot blood rushed in a torrent to her neck and face.
William Menire was troubled about two things—troubles rarely come singly. The first trouble arose a week or two previously out of a request preferred by a cousin of his, a young farmer from a neighbouring parish, who wanted an introduction to Ruth Penlogan.
Sam Tremail was a good-looking young fellow of irreproachable character. Moreover, he was well-to-do, his father and mother having retired and left a large farm on his hands. He stood nearly six feet in his boots, had never known a day's illness in his life, was only twenty-six years of age, lived in a capital house, and only wanted a good wife to make him the happiest man on earth.
Yet for some reason there was not a girl in his own parish that quite took his fancy. Not that there was any lack of eligible young ladies; not that he had set his heart on either beauty or fortune. Disdainful and disappointed mothers who had daughters to spare said that he was proud and stuck-up—that they did not know what the young men of the present day were coming to, and that Sam Tremail deserved to catch a tartar.
Some of these remarks were repeated to Sam, and he acknowledged their force. He had a feeling that he ought to marry a girl from his own parish. He admitted their eligibility. Some of them were exceedingly pretty, and one or two of them had money in their own right. Yet for some reason they left his heart untouched. They were admirable as acquaintances, or even friends, but they moved him to no deeper emotion.
He first caught sight of Ruth at the sale when her father's worldly goods were being disposed of by public auction. She looked so sad, so patient, so gentle, so meekly resigned, that a new chord in his nature seemed to be set suddenly vibrating, and it had gone on vibrating ever since. It might be pity he felt for her, or sympathy; but, whatever it was, it made him anxious to know her better. Her sweet, sad eyes haunted him, her tremulous lips made him long to comfort her.
How to get acquainted with her, however, remained an insoluble problem. She was altogether outside the circle of his friends. She had lived all her life in another parish, and moved in an entirely different orbit.
While she lived with Mr. Varcoe at St. Hilary, he met her several times in the streets—for he went to St. Hilary market at least once a fortnight—but he had no excuse for speaking to her. He knew, of course, of the misfortune that had overtaken her, knew that she was earning her living in service of some kind, knew that her mother was in the workhouse, that her brother was in prison awaiting his trial, but all that only increased the volume of his compassion. He felt that he would willingly give all he possessed for the privilege of helping and comforting her.
For a long time he lost sight of her; then he learned that she had gone to keep house for her brother at St. Ivel. But St. Ivel was a long way from Pentudy, and there was practically no direct communication between the two parishes.
Then he learned that William Menire—a second cousin of his—was on friendly terms with the Penlogans; but the trouble was he hardly knew his relative by sight, and he had never made any effort to know him better. In the past, at any rate, the Menires had not been considered socially the equals of the Tremails. The Tremails had been large farmers for generations. The Menires were nothing in particular.
William was a grocer's assistant when his father died. How he had managed to maintain his mother and build up a flourishing business out of nothing was a story often told in St. Goram. The very severity of his struggle was perhaps in his favour. His neighbours sympathised with him in his uphill fight, and patronised his small shop when it was convenient to do so. So his business grew. Later on people discovered that they could get better stuff for the money at William's shop than almost anywhere else. Hence, when sympathy failed, self-interest took its place. As William's capital increased, he added new departments to his business, and vastly improved the appearance of his premises. He turned the whole side of his shop into a big window at his own expense, not asking Lord St. Goram for a penny.
At the time of which we write, William had reached the sober age of thirty-six, and was generally looked upon as a man of substance.
He was surprised one evening to receive a visit from his cousin, Sam Tremail. The young farmer had to make himself known. He did so in rather a clumsy fashion; but then, the task he had set himself was a delicate one, and he had not been trained in the art of diplomacy.
"It seems a pity," Sam said, with a benevolent smile, "that relatives should be as strangers to each other."
"Relationships don't count for much in these days, I fear," William answered cautiously. "Nevertheless, I am glad to see you."
"You think it is every man for himself, eh?" Sam questioned, with a slight blush.
"I don't say it is the philosophy or the practice of every man. But in the main——"
"Yes, I think you are right," Sam interjected, with a sudden burst of candour. "And, really, I don't want you to think that I am absolutely disinterested in riding over from Pentudy to see you."
"It is a long journey for nothing," William said, with a smile.
"Mind you, I have often wanted to know you better," Sam went on. "Father has often spoken of your pluck and perseverance. He admires you tremendously."
"It is very kind of him," William said, with a touch of cynicism in his tones. "I hope he is well. I have not seen him for years."
"He is first rate, thank you, and so is mother. I suppose you know they have retired from the farm?"
"No, I had not heard."
"I have it in my own hands now. For some things I wish I hadn't. I tried to persuade father and mother to live on in the house, but they had made up their minds to go and live in town, where they could have gas in the streets, and all that kind of thing. If I had only a sister to keep house it wouldn't be so bad."
"But why don't you get married?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, that is the very thing I have come to talk to you about."
And Sam turned all ways in his chair, and looked decidedly uncomfortable.
"Come to talk to me about?" William questioned, in a tone of surprise.
"You think it funny, of course; but the truth is——" And Sam looked apprehensively towards the door. "We shall not be overheard here, shall we?"
"There's no one in the house but myself, except the cook. Mother's gone out to see a neighbour."
"Oh, well, I'm glad I've caught you on the quiet, as it were. I wouldn't have the matter talked about for the world."
William began to feel uncomfortable, and to wonder what his kinsman had been up to.
"I hope you have not been getting into any foolish matrimonial entanglement?" he questioned seriously.
Sam laughed heartily and good-humouredly.
"No, no; things are not quite so bad as that," he said. "The fact is, I would like to get into a matrimonial entanglement, as you call it, but not into a foolish one."
Then he stopped suddenly, and began to fidget again in his chair.
"Then you are not engaged yet?"
"Well, not quite."
And Sam laughed again.
William waited for him to continue, but Sam appeared to start off on an entirely new tack.
"I don't think I've been in St. Goram parish since the sale at Hillside Farm. You remember it?"
"Very well!"
"How bad luck seems to dog the steps of some people. I felt tremendously sorry for David Penlogan. He was a good man, by all accounts."
"There was no more saintly man in the three parishes."
"The mischief is, saints are generally so unpractical. They tell me the son is of different fibre."
"He's as upright as his father, but with a difference."
"A cruel thing to send him to gaol on suspicion, and keep him there so long."
"It was a wicked thing to do, but it hasn't spoilt him. He's the most popular man in St. Ivel to-day."
"I remember him at the sale—a handsome, high-spirited fellow; but his sister interested me most. I thought her smile the sweetest I had ever seen."
"She's as sweet as her smile, and a good deal more so," William said, with warmth. "In fact, she has no equal hereabouts."
"I hear you are on friendly terms with them."
"Well, yes," William said slowly. "Not that I would presume to call myself their equal, for they are in reality very superior people. There's no man in St. Goram, and I include the landed folk, so well educated or so widely read as Ralph Penlogan."
"And his sister?"
"She's a lady, every inch of her," William said warmly; "and what is more, they'll make their way in the world. He's ability, and of no ordinary kind. The rich folk may crush him for a moment, but he'll come into his own in the long-run."
"Are they the proud sort?"
"Proud? Well, it all depends on what you mean by the word. Dignity they have, self-respect, independence; but pride of the common or garden sort they haven't a bit."
"I thought I could not be mistaken," Sam said, after a pause; "and to tell you the honest truth, I've never been able to think of any other girl since I saw Miss Penlogan at the sale."
William started and grew very pale.
"I don't think I quite understand," he said, after a long pause.
"Do you believe in love at first sight?" Sam questioned eagerly.
"I don't know that I do," William answered.
"Well, I do," Sam retorted. "A man may fall desperately in love with a girl without even speaking to her."
"Well?" William questioned.
"That's just my case."
"Your case?"
Sam nodded.
"Explain yourself," William said, with a curiously numb feeling at his heart.
"Mind, I am speaking to you in perfect confidence," Sam said.
William assented.
"I was taken with Ruth Penlogan the very first moment I set eyes on her. I don't think it was pity, mind you, though I did pity her from my very heart. Her great sad eyes; her sweet, patient face; her gentle, pathetic smile—they just bowled me over. I could have knelt down at her feet and worshipped her."
"You didn't do it?" William questioned huskily.
"It was neither the time nor the place, and I have never had an opportunity since. I saw her again and again in the streets of St. Hilary, but, of course, I could not speak to her, and I didn't know a soul who could get me an introduction."
"And you mean that you are in love with her?"
"I expect I am," Sam answered, with an uneasy laugh. "If I'm not in love, I don't know what ails me. I want a wife badly. A man in a big house without a wife to look after things is to be pitied. Well, that's just my case."
"But—but——" William began; then hesitated.
"You mean that there are plenty of eligible girls in Pentudy?" Sam questioned. "I don't deny it. We have any amount. All sorts and sizes, if you'll excuse me saying so. Girls with good looks and girls with money. Girls of weight, and girls with figures. But they don't interest me, not one of them. I compare 'em all with Ruth Penlogan, and then it's all up a tree."
"But you have never spoken to Miss Penlogan."
"That's just the point I'm coming to. The Penlogans are friends of yours. You go to their house sometimes. Now I want you to take me with you some day and introduce me. Don't you see? There's no impropriety in it. I'm perfectly honest and sincere. I want to get to know her, and then, of course, I'll take my chance."
William looked steadily at his kinsman, and a troubled expression came into his eyes. He loved Ruth Penlogan himself, loved her with a passionate devotion that once he hardly believed possible. She had become the light of his eyes, the sunshine of his life. He hardly realised until this moment how much she had become to him. The thought of her being claimed by another man was almost torture to him; and yet, ought he to stand in the way of her happiness?
This might be the working of an inscrutable Providence. Sam Tremail, from all he had ever heard, was a most excellent fellow. He could place Ruth in a position that was worthy of her, and one that she would in every way adorn. He could lift her above the possibility of want, and out of reach of worry. He could give her a beautiful home and an assured position.
"I hope you do not think this is a mere whim of mine, or an idle fancy?" Sam said, seeing that William hesitated.
"Oh no, not at all," William answered, a little uneasily. "I was thinking that it was a little bit unusual."
"It is unusual, no doubt."
"And to take you along and say, 'My cousin is very anxious to know you,' would be to let the cat out of the bag at the start."
"Do you think so?"
"Don't you think so, now? There must be a reason for everything. And the very first question Miss Penlogan would ask herself would be, 'Why does this young man want to know me?'"
"Well, I don't know that that would matter. Indeed, it might help me along."
"But when you got to know her better you might not care for her quite so much."
"Do you really think that?"
"Well, no. The chances are the other way about. Only there is no accounting for people, you know."
"I don't think I am fickle," Sam answered seriously.
"Still, so far it is only a pretty face that has attracted you."
"Oh no, it is more than that. It is the character behind the face. I am sure she is good. She appeals to me as no other woman has ever done. I am not afraid of not loving her. It is the other thing that troubles me."
"You think she might not care for you?"
"She could not do so at the start. You see I have been dreaming of her for the last two years. She has filled my imagination, if you understand. I have been worshipping her all the time. But on her side there is nothing. She does not know, very likely, there is such an individual in existence. I am not even a name to her. Hence, there is a tremendous amount of leeway to make up."
"Still, you have many things in your favour," William answered, a little plaintively. "First of all, you are young"—and William sighed unconsciously—"then you are well-to-do; and then—and then—you are good-looking"—and William sighed again—"and then your house is ready, and you have no encumbrances. Yes, you have many things in your favour."
"I'm glad you think so," Sam said cheerfully, "for, to tell you the truth, I'm awfully afraid she won't look at me."
William sighed again, for his fear was in the other direction. And yet he felt he ought not to be selfish. To play the part of the dog in the manger was a very unworthy thing to do. He had no hope of winning Ruth for himself. That Sam Tremail loved her a hundredth part as much as he did, he did not believe possible. How could he? But then, on the other hand, Sam was just the sort of fellow to take a girl's fancy.
"I can't go over with you this evening," William said at length. "They are early people, and I know Ralph is very much worried just now over business matters."
"Oh, there's no hurry for a day or two," Sam said cheerfully. "The great thing is, you'll take me along some evening?"
"Why, yes," William answered, slowly and painfully. "I couldn't do less than that very well."
"And I don't ask you to do more," Sam replied, with a laugh. "I must do the rest myself."
William did not sleep very much that night. For some reason, the thought of Ruth Penlogan getting married had scarcely crossed his mind. There seemed to him nobody in St. Goram or St. Ivel that was worthy of her. Hence the appearance of Sam Tremail on the scene intent on marrying her was like the falling of an avalanche burying his hope and his desire.
"I suppose it was bound to come some time," he sighed to himself; "and I'd rather she married Sam than some folks I know. But—but it's very hard all the same."
A week later Sam rode over to St. Goram again. But Ralph was in London, and William refused to take him to the Penlogans' cottage during Ralph's absence.
On the day of Ralph's return, Sam came a third time.
"Yes, I'll take you this evening," William said. "I want to see Ralph myself. I've great faith in Ralph's judgment." And William sighed.
"Is something troubling you?" Sam asked, with a sudden touch of apprehension.
"I am a bit worried," William answered slowly, "and troubles never come singly."
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"No, I don't think so," William answered. "But get on your hat; it's a goodish walk."