Ruth lay awake long after she had retired to rest. The fear which had been expressed by Ralph increased her own a thousandfold. If William should die, not only would her brother lose his best friend—there was a more terrible thought than that, a thought which need not be expressed in words, for nobody understood.
Somebody has said that a woman never loves until her love is asked for; that though all the elements are there, they remain dormant till a simple question fires the train. But love—especially the love of a woman—is too subtle, too elusive a thing to be covered by any sweeping generalisation.
William had never spoken his love to Ruth, never even looked it, yet the fire had got alight in Ruth's heart somehow. When it began she did not know. For long she had no suspicion what it meant. Later on she tried to trample it out; she felt ashamed and humiliated. The bare thought of loving a man who had never spoken of love to her covered her with confusion.
Sometimes she tried to persuade herself that it was not love she felt for William Menire, but only gratitude mingled with admiration. He had been the best friend she and her brother had ever known. All their present prosperity they owed to him, and everything he had done for them was without ostentation. He was not a showy man, and only those who knew him intimately guessed how great he was, how fine his spirit, how exalted his ideals.
She had never thought much about love until Sam Tremail proposed to her; but when once the subject stared her in the face she was bound to look at it. And while she was looking and trying to find what answer her heart gave, William came with the announcement that the farm was theirs, and theirs through his help and instrumentality. From that moment she knew that it was not Sam Tremail she loved. Of course, she had known all along that Sam was not the equal of his cousin in any sense of the word. But Sam was young and handsome and well-to-do, while William was journeying toward middle life, and had many of the ways of a confirmed bachelor.
It came to her as in a flash that all true love must be built on reverence. Youth and good looks might inspire a romantic attachment, a fleeting emotion, a passing fancy, but the divine passion of love grew out of something deeper. It was not a dewdrop sparkling on a leaf. It was a fountain springing out of the heart of the hills.
With knowledge came pain and confusion. She had not the courage to look William in the eyes. She was in constant dread lest she should reveal her secret. She would not for the world that he should know. If he should ever guess she would die of shame.
From that day onward she had a harder battle to fight than anyone knew—perhaps the hardest of all battles that a woman is called upon to wage. William came and went constantly; helped them when they removed to Hillside, and was never failing in friendly suggestions. Ralph was so full of the mine that such small details as wallpapers and carpets and curtains never occurred to him, and when they were mentioned he told Ruth to make her own choice. It was William who came to the rescue in those days, and saved her an infinity of trouble and anxiety.
Ruth thought of all this as she lay awake, listening to the faint and fitful rattle of the stamps beyond the hill. Was this brave, unselfish life to be suddenly quenched—this meek but heroic soul to be taken away from earth?
She was pale and hollow-eyed when she came downstairs next morning, but Ralph was too absorbed to notice it. He too had been kept awake thinking about William, and directly breakfast was over he hurried away to Veryan to make inquiries.
Ruth waited till noon for news—waited with more impatience than she had ever felt before. She had no need to ask Ralph if William was better. She knew by the look in his eyes that he was not. After that, the hours and days moved with leaden feet. Ralph went to Veryan twice every day, and sometimes three times. Ruth grew more and more silent. Her task became more painfully difficult. Other people could talk about William, could praise his qualities, could recount the story of his simple and heroic life, but she, by her very love for him, was doomed to silence.
She envied the nurse who could sit by his bedside and minister to his needs. She felt that it was her place. No one cared for him as she did. It seemed a cruel thing that her very love should keep her from his side, and shut her up in silence.
Ralph came in hurriedly one evening, and sat down to table; but after eating a few mouthfuls, he laid down his knife and fork, and pushed his plate from him.
"I suppose you know William is dying?" he said, without raising his eyes.
She looked at him with a startled expression, but did not speak. She made an effort, but the words froze on her tongue.
"One should not doubt the Eternal wisdom," he went on huskily, "but it seems a huge mistake. There are a hundred men who could be better spared."
"God knows best," Ruth tried to say, but she was never sure that the words escaped her lips.
"He seems quite resigned to his fate," Ralph continued, after a pause. "The doctor told him this morning that if he had any worldly affairs to settle he should put them in order without delay. He appears to be waiting now for the end."
"He is not afraid?" Ruth questioned, bringing out the words with a great effort.
"Not a bit. He reminds me of father more than any man I have ever known. His confidence is that of a little child. By-the-bye, he would like to see you before he goes."
"See me, Ralph?"
"He expressed himself very doubtfully and timidly, and asked me if I thought you would mind coming to say good-bye."
"There could be no harm in it, Ralph?"
"Not a bit. He has been like an elder brother to us both."
"Yes—yes." And she rose from the table at once, and went upstairs to get her hat and jacket.
"What, ready so soon?" he questioned, when she appeared again.
"I may be too late as it is," she answered, in a voice that she scarcely recognised as her own.
"I will go with you," he said, "for it will be dark when you return."
For awhile they walked rapidly and in silence, but when the village came in sight they slackened their pace a little.
"It is hard to give up hope," Ralph said, as if speaking to himself. "He was so healthy and so strong, and he has lived a life so temperate and so clean that he ought to pull through anything."
"Does the doctor say there is no hope?"
"He has none himself."
William was listening with every sense alert. He knew by some subtle instinct, some spiritual telepathy, that Ruth was near. He caught her whisper in the hall, he knew her footstep when she came quickly up the stairs, and the beating of his heart seemed to get beyond all bounds.
He was too weak to raise himself in bed, but his eyes were strained toward the door.
"You will leave me when she comes," he said to the nurse as soon as he heard Ruth's voice in the hall, and directly the door was pushed open the nurse disappeared.
Ruth walked straight up to the bedside without faltering. William feebly raised his wasted hand, and she took it in both hers. She was very composed. She wondered at herself, and was barely conscious of the effort she was making.
He was the first to break the silence, and he spoke with a great effort, and with many pauses.
"Will you not sit there, where I can see you?" he said, indicating a chair close to the bedside. "It is very good of you to come. I thought you would, for you have always been kind to me."
The tears came very near her eyes, but she resolutely raised her hand to hide them from William.
"You and your brother have been my dearest friends," he went on. "Ralph is a noble fellow, and I do not wonder that you are proud of him. It has been a great joy to me to know him—to know you both."
"That feeling has been mutual," Ruth struggled to say; but William scarcely waited to hear her out. Perhaps he felt that what he had to say must be said quickly.
"I thought I would like to tell you how much I have valued your friendship—there can be no harm in that, can there?"
"Why, no," she interposed.
"But that is not all," he went on. "I want to say something more, and there surely can be no harm in saying it now. I am nearing the end, the doctor says."
"Say anything you like," she interrupted, in a great sob of emotion.
"You cannot be angry with me now," he continued. "You might have been had I told you sooner. I know I have been very presumptuous, very daring, but I could not help it. You stole my heart unconsciously. I loved you in those dark days when you lived in the little cottage at St. Goram. I wanted to help you then. And oh, Ruth, I have loved you ever since—not with the blind, unreasoning passion of youth, but with the deep, abiding reverence of mature years. My love for you is the sweetest, purest, strongest thing I have ever cherished; and now that I am going hence the impulse became so strong that I could not resist telling you."
She turned to him suddenly, her eyes swimming in tears.
"Oh, William——" Then her voice faltered.
"You are not angry with me, Ruth?" he questioned, almost in a whisper.
"Angry with you? Oh, William——But why did you not tell me before?"
"I was afraid to tell you, Ruth—afraid to put an end to our friendship."
She knelt down on the floor by his bedside and laid her face on his hand, and he felt her hot tears falling like rain.
For awhile neither of them spoke again; then she raised her head suddenly, and with a pitiful smile on her face she said—
"You must not die, William!"
"Not die?" he questioned.
"No, no! For my sake you must get better," and she looked eagerly and earnestly into his eyes, as though she would compel assent to her words.
"Why for your sake?" he asked slowly and musingly.
"Why? Oh, William, do you not understand? Can you not see——"
"Surely—surely," he said, a great light breaking over his face, "you cannot mean that—that——"
"But I do mean it," she interrupted. "How could I mean anything else?"
He half rose in bed, as if inspired with new strength, then lay back again with a weary and long-drawn sigh. She rose quickly to her feet, and bent over him with a little cry. A pallor so deathly stole over his face that she thought he was dying.
After a few moments he rallied again, and smiled reassuringly. Then the nurse came back into the room.
"You will come again?" he whispered, holding out his hand.
She answered him with a smile, and then hurried down the stairs.
She gave no hint to Ralph of what had passed between them, and during the journey home through the darkness very little was said; but she walked with a more buoyant step than during the outward journey, and in her eye there was a brighter light, though Ralph did not see it.
She scarcely slept at all that night. She spent most of the time on her knees in prayer. Before Ralph got down to breakfast she had been to Veryan and back again. She did not allude, however, to this second journey. William was still alive, and in much the same condition.
For nearly two days he dwelt in the valley of the shadow, and no one could tell whether the angel of life or of death would prevail. The doctor looked in every few hours, and did all that human skill could do. William, though too spent to talk, and almost too weak to open his eyes, was acutely conscious of what was taking place.
To the onlookers it seemed as if he was passing into a condition of coma, but it was not so. He was fighting for life with all the will power he possessed. He had something to live for now. A new hope was in his heart, a new influence was breathing upon him. So he fought back the destroying angel inch by inch, and in the end prevailed.
There came a day when Ruth again sat by his bedside, holding his hand.
"I am getting better, sweetheart," he said, in a whisper.
"Yes, William."
"Your love and prayers have pulled me through."
"I could not let you go," she said.
"God has been very merciful," he answered reverently. "Next to His love the most wonderful thing is yours."
"Why should it be wonderful?" she asked, with a smile.
"You are so beautiful," he answered, "and I am so unworthy, and so——"
But she laid her hand upon his mouth and smothered the end of the sentence.
When once he had turned the corner he got better rapidly, but long before he was able to leave the house all St. Goram knew that Ruth Penlogan had promised to be his wife.
Ralph saw very little of his sister in those days, she spent so much of her time in going and coming between Hillside and Veryan. Fortunately the affairs of the mine kept his hands occupied and his thoughts busy, otherwise he would have felt himself neglected and alone.
It was not without a pang he saw the happiness of William and his sister. Not that he envied them; on the contrary, he rejoiced in their newly found joy; and yet their happiness did accentuate his own heartache and sense of loss.
A year had passed since that memorable day in St. James's Park when he told Dorothy Hamblyn that he loved her. He often smiled at his temerity, and wondered what spirit of daring or of madness possessed him.
He had tried hard since, as he had tried before, to forget her, but without success. For good or ill she held his heart in bondage. What had become of her he did not know. Hamblyn Manor was in possession of the gardener and his wife, and one other servant. There were rumours that some "up-the-country" people had taken it furnished for a year, but as far as he knew no one as yet had appeared on the scene. Sir John, it was said, was living quietly at Boulogne, but what had become of Dorothy and her brother no one seemed to know.
One afternoon he left Dingley Bottom earlier than usual, and wandered up the long slant in the direction of Treliskey Plantation. His intention was to cross the common to St. Goram, but on reaching the stile he stood still, arrested by the force of memory and association.
As he looked back into the valley he could not help contrasting the present with the past. How far away that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon seemed when he first came face to face with Dorothy Hamblyn! How much had happened since! Then he was a poor, struggling, discontented, ambitious youth, without prospects, without influence, and almost without hope.
Now he was rich—for riches are always relative—and a man. He had prospects also, and influence. Perhaps he had more influence than any other man in the parish. And yet he was not sure that he was not just as discontented as ever. He was gaining the world rapidly, but he was still unsatisfied. His heart was hungering for something he had not got.
He might get more money, more power, more authority, more influence. What then? The care of the world increased rather than diminished. It was eternally true, "A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he possesseth."
His reflections were disturbed at length by the clicking of the gate leading into the plantation. He turned his head suddenly, and found himself face to face with Dorothy Hamblyn.
There was no chance of withdrawal for either. If Ralph had caught a glimpse of Dorothy earlier, he would have hidden himself and let her pass; but there was no possibility of that now. He could only stand still and wait. Would she recognise him, or would she cut him dead? It was an interesting moment—from his point of view, almost tragic.
Wildly as his heart was beating, he could not help noticing that she looked thin and pale, as though she had recovered from a recent illness. She came straight on, not hesitating for a moment, and his heart seemed to beat all the more tumultuously with every step she took.
If in the long months that had elapsed since he saw her last he had grown for a moment indifferent, his passion flamed up again to a white heat at the first glimpse of her face. For him there was no other woman on earth. Her beauty had increased with the passing of the years; her character, strengthened and ennobled by suffering, showed itself in every line of her finely expressive face.
It was a trying moment for both, and perhaps more trying for Dorothy than for Ralph. For good or ill she knew that this young man had affected her whole life. He had crossed her path in the most critical moments of her existence. He had spoken words almost at haphazard which had changed the whole current of her thoughts. He had dared even to tell her that he loved her, when influence was being brought to bear on her to bestow her affection in another direction.
There were moments when she felt half angry that she was unable to forget him. He was out of her circle, and it seemed madness to let his image remain in her heart for a single moment, and yet the fascination of his personality haunted her. He was like no other man she had ever met. His very masterfulness touched her fancy as nothing had ever done before. If only he had been of her own set she would have made a hero of him.
When she left him in the Park after that passionate outburst of his, she made up her mind that she must forget him—utterly and absolutely. The situation had become dangerous; her heart was throbbing so wildly that she could scarcely bear it; the tense glow and passion of his words rang through her brain like the clashing of bells; her nerves were tingling to her finger-tips.
"Oh, what madness all this is," she said to herself—"what utter madness!" And yet all the while her heart seemed to be leaping exultantly. This clever, daring, handsome democrat loved her—loved her. She lingered over the words unconsciously.
Lord Probus had said he loved her, and had tempted her with a thousand brilliant toys; Archie Temple—with whom she had walked in the Park more than once—had professed unbounded and undying devotion; but her heart had never leaped for a moment in response to their words. The only man who moved her against her will, and sent the blood rushing through her veins like nectar, was this son of the people, this man who hated her class and tried his best to hate her.
Nevertheless, her resolve was fixed and definite. She must forget him. Unless she put him out of her thoughts he would spoil her whole life. Socially, they belonged to different hemispheres. The fact that her father was hard pressed for money, and was living abroad in order to economise, did not alter their relative positions. A Hamblyn was still a Hamblyn, though he lived in an almshouse.
It was easier, however, to make good resolves than to carry them into effect. Events would not allow her to forget. As the companion and private secretary of the Dowager Duchess of Flint, she had to read the papers every day, and not only the political articles, but the commercial and financial. The success of the Great St. Goram Mine was talked of far and wide, and the new discoveries of Ralph Penlogan, the brilliant young chemist and mineralogist, were the theme of numberless newspaper articles. Dorothy found herself searching all the papers that came her way for some mention of his name, and her heart seemed to leap into her mouth every time she saw it in print.
The dowager often dabbled in stocks and shares for want of something better to do. She liked to have what she called a "flutter" now and then, and she managed to pick up a few Great St. Goram shares at eighty per cent. premium.
It came out one day in conversation that Dorothy knew the exact locality of Great St. Goram Mine, knew the young man who had made the discovery, knew all about the place and all about the people, in fact. The dowager's interest grew. She began to make inquiries, and finally decided to rent Hamblyn Manor for a year. Dorothy was in a transport of excitement. To go back again to the dear old home would be like heaven, even though her father and Geoffrey were not there.
But that was not all. She would see Ralph Penlogan again—that would be inevitable. It seemed as though the Fates had determined to throw them together. The battle was not ended yet, it was only beginning.
The second day after their arrival at Hamblyn Manor she went for a long walk through the plantation. It was a lovely afternoon. The summer glory lay upon land and sea. She stood still for several moments when she came to the spot where she had found Ralph Penlogan lying senseless. How vividly every circumstance came up before her, how well she remembered his half-conscious talk. She did not see Ralph leaning against the stile when she pushed open the gate, and yet she half expected he would be there. It was the place where they first met, and Fate, or Destiny, or Providence, had a curious way of bringing them together, and she would have to face the inevitable, whatever it might be.
She was not in the least surprised when she caught sight of him, nor did she feel any inclination to turn back. Life was being shaped for her. She was in the grasp of a power stronger than her own will.
She looked at him steadily, and her face paled a little. He had altered considerably. He looked older by several years. He was no longer a youth, he was a man with the burden of life pressing upon him. Time had sobered him, softened him, mellowed him, greatened him.
Ought she to recognise him? For recognition would mean condoning his daring, and if she condoned him once, he might dare again, and he looked strong enough and resolute enough to dare anything.
She never quite decided in her mind what she ought to do. She remembered distinctly enough what she did. She smiled at him in her most gracious and winning manner and passed on. She half expected to hear footsteps behind her, but he did not follow. He watched her till she had turned the brow of the hill toward St. Goram, then he retraced his steps in the direction of his home.
He too had a feeling that it was of no use fighting against Fate. Events would have to take their course. She was not lost to him yet, and her smile gave him fresh hope.
He found the house empty when he got home, save for the housemaid. Ruth was out with William somewhere.
Ralph threw himself into an easy-chair and closed his eyes. His heart was beating strangely fast, his hands shook in spite of himself. The sight of Dorothy was like a match to stubble. He wondered if her beauty appealed to other people as it did to him.
Then a new question suggested itself to him, or an old question came up in a new form. To tell Dorothy Hamblyn that he loved her was one thing, to make love to her was another. Should he dare the second? He had dared the first, not with any hope of winning her, but rather to demonstrate to himself the folly of any such suggestion. But circumstances alter cases, and circumstances had changed with him. He was no longer poor. He could give her all the comforts she had ever known. As for the rest, her name, her family pride, her patrician blood, her aristocratic connections, they did not count with him. To ask a woman reared in comfort and luxury to share poverty and hardship and want was what he would never do. But the question of ways and means being disposed of, nothing else mattered. He was a man and an Englishman. He had lived honestly, and had kept his conscience clean.
He believed in an aristocracy, as most people do, but the aristocracy he believed in was the aristocracy of character and brains. He did not despise money, but he despised the people who made it their god, and who were prepared to sell their souls for its possession. To have a noble ancestry was a great thing; there was something in blood, but a man was not necessarily great because his father was a lord. The lower orders did not all live in hovels, some of them lived in mansions. All fools did not wear fustian, some of them wore fur-lined coats and drove motor-cars; the things that mattered were heart and intellect. A man might drop his "h's" and be a gentleman. The test of worth and manhood was not the size of a man's bank balance, but the manner of his life. Sir John Hamblyn boasted of his pedigree and was proud of his title, and yet, to put it in its mildest form, he had played the fool for twenty years.
Ralph got up from his seat at length and walked out into the garden. He had not felt so restless and excited for a year. The affairs of Great St. Goram Mine passed completely out of his mind. He could think only of one thing at a time, and just then Dorothy Hamblyn seemed of more importance than anything else on earth.
Up and down the garden paths he walked with bare head and his hands in his pockets. Now and then his brows contracted, and now and then his lips broke into a smile. The situation had its humorous as well as its serious side.
"If she had been the daughter of anybody else!" he said to himself again and again.
But outweighing everything else was the fact that he loved her. He could not help it that she was the daughter of the man who had been his greatest enemy. He could not help it that she belonged to a social circle that had little or no dealings with his own. Love laughs at bolts and bars. He was a man with the rights of a man and the hopes of a man.
Before Ruth returned he had made up his mind what to do.
Meanwhile, Dorothy was sauntering slowly homeward in a brown study. She felt anything but sure of herself. She hoped she had done the right thing in recognising Ralph Penlogan, but her heart and her head were not in exact agreement. The conventions of society were very strict. The Jews had no dealings with the Samaritans.
"If only Ralph Penlogan had been in her circle," and her heart leaped suddenly at the thought. How handsome he was, how resolute, how clever! Unconsciously she compared him with her brother Geoffrey, with Archie Temple, and with a number of other young men she had met in the drawing-rooms of London society.
The duchess had urged her to be friendly with Archie Temple. He was such a nice young man. He was well connected, was, in fact, the nephew of an earl, and was in receipt of a handsome salary which a generous Government paid him for doing nothing. He was a type of a great many others, impecunious descendants, many of them, of younger sons—drawling, effeminate, shallow-pated nobodies. Socially, of course, they belonged to what is called society printed with a capital S, but that was the highest testimonial that could be given them.
Dorothy found herself unconsciously revolting against the conventional view of life and the ethics of the social Ten Commandments. Were the mere accidents of birth the only things to be considered? Was a man less noble because he was born in a stable and cradled in a manger? Did greatness consist in possessing an estate and a title? Was worth to be measured by the depth of a man's pocket?
Measured by any true standard, she felt instinctively that Ralph Penlogan overtopped every other man she had met. How bravely he had fought, how patiently he had endured, how gloriously he had triumphed. If achievement counted for anything, if to live purely and do something worthy were the hall-marks of a gentleman, then he belonged to the world's true aristocracy, he was worth all the Archie Temples of London rolled into one.
Before she reached Hamblyn Manor another question was hammering at her brain—
"Did Ralph Penlogan still love her?"
She looked apprehensively right and left, and was half afraid lest her thoughts should take shape and reveal themselves to other people.
What would people think if they knew she had put such a question to herself? Had she forgotten that she was the daughter of Sir John Hamblyn?
No, she had not forgotten; but she was learning the truth that true worth is not in title, or name, or fortune; that neither coronet nor crown can make men; that fools clad in sables are fools still, and rogues in mansions are still rogues.
The love of a man like Ralph Penlogan was not a thing to resent. It was something to be proud of and to be grateful for.
She retired to rest that night with a strange feeling of wonder in her heart. She was still uncertain of herself.
"Suppose Ralph Penlogan still loved her, and suppose——" She hid her face in the bedclothes and blushed in spite of herself.
He was fearless, she knew, and unconventional, and had no respect for names, or titles, or pedigrees as such. Moreover, he was not the man to be discouraged by small obstacles or turned aside by feeble excuses, and if he chose to cross her path she could not very well avoid him. The place was comparatively small, the walks were few, and during this glorious weather she could not dream of remaining indoors.
She had encouraged him that afternoon by recognising him. She had smiled at him in her most gracious way; and so, of course, he would know that she had forgiven him for speaking to her as he had done when last they met. And if he should seek her out; if, in his impetuous way, he should tell her he loved her still; if he should ask for an answer, and for an immediate answer. If—if——
She was still wondering when she fell asleep.
With Ralph Penlogan, resolution usually meant action. Having made up his mind to do a thing, he did not loiter long on the way. In any case, he could only be rebuffed, and he preferred to know the truth at once to waiting in doubt and uncertainty. A less impetuous nature would have seen many more lions in the way than he did. For a son of the masses to woo a daughter of the classes was an unheard-of thing, and had he taken anyone into his confidence he would have been dissuaded from the enterprise.
In this matter, however, he did not wear his heart upon his sleeve. So carefully had he guarded his secret, that even Ruth was under the impression that if he had ever been in love with Dorothy Hamblyn, he had outgrown the infatuation. Her name had not been mentioned for months, and she had been so long absent from St. Goram that it scarcely seemed probable that a youthful fancy would survive the long separation.
Ralph did not tell her that the squire's "little maid" had once more appeared on the scene. She would hear soon enough from other sources. He intended to keep his own counsel. If he failed, no one would ever know; but in any case, failure should not be due to any lack on his part either of courage or perseverance.
He was very silent and self-absorbed that evening, and had not Ruth been so much taken up with her own love affair, she would not have failed to notice it. But Ruth was living for the moment in a little heaven of her own—a heaven so beautiful, so full of unspeakable delights, that she was half afraid sometimes that she would wake up and find it was all a dream.
William was growing stronger every day, and expected soon to be as well as ever. Moreover, he seemed determined to make up for all the years he had lost. Ruth to him was a daily miracle of grace and beauty, and her love for him was a perpetual wonder. He did not understand it. He did not suppose he ever would. He accepted the fact with reverent gratitude, and gave up attempting to fathom the mystery.
He was very shy at first, and almost dubious. He felt so unworthy of so great a gift, but comprehension grew with returning strength, and with comprehension, courage. He believed himself to be the luckiest man on earth, and the happiest. The most difficult thing of all to believe was that Ruth could possibly be as happy as he.
Conviction on that point came through sight. It was not what Ruth said; it was the light that glowed in her soft brown eyes. A single glance meant volumes. A shy glance darted across the room stirred his heart like music.
Ralph watched their growing intimacy and their deepening joy with a sense of keen satisfaction. William was the one man in the world he would have chosen for his sister if he had been called upon to decide, and he was thankful beyond measure that Ruth had recognised his sterling qualities, and, without persuasion from anyone, had made her choice.
As the days passed away, Ralph had great difficulty in hiding his restlessness from his sister. It seemed to him that Dorothy purposely avoided him. He sought her out in all directions; lay in wait for her in the most likely places; but, for some reason or other, she failed to come his way. He spent hours leaning against the stile near Treliskey Plantation, and on three separate occasions defied the notices that trespassers would be prosecuted, and boldly marched through the plantation till he came in sight of the gables of the Manor; but neither patience nor perseverance was rewarded. He had to return disconsolate the way he had come.
Had he been of a less sanguine temperament, he would have drawn anything but hopeful conclusions. Her avoidance of him could surely have but one meaning, particularly as she knew the state of his feelings towards her.
But presumptions and deductions did not satisfy Ralph. He would be content with nothing short of actual facts. He was not sure yet that she purposely avoided him, and he was sure that she had smiled when they met, and that one fact was his sheet anchor just now.
He went to St. Goram Church on the following Sunday morning, much to the surprise of the vicar, for both he and Ruth were unswervingly loyal to the little community at Veryan, to which their father and mother belonged. Deep down in his heart he felt a little ashamed of himself. He knew it was not to worship that he went to church, but in the hope of catching a glimpse of Dorothy Hamblyn's face.
The Hamblyn pew, however, remained empty during the whole of the service. If he had gone to church from a wrong motive, he had been deservedly punished.
He began to think after awhile that Dorothy had paid a flying visit just for a day, and had gone away again, and that consequently any hope he ever had of winning her was more remote than ever. This view received confirmation from the fact that he never heard her name mentioned. Ruth had evidently not heard that she had been in St. Goram. Apparently she had come and gone without anyone seeing her but himself—come and gone like a gleam of sunshine on a stormy day—come and gone leaving him more disconsolate than he had ever been before.
For two days he kept close to his work, and never went beyond the bounds of Great St. Goram Mine. For the moment he had been checkmated, but he was not in despair. London was only a few hours away, and he had frequently to go there on business. He should meet her again some time, and if God meant him to win her he should win.
It was in this hopeful spirit that he returned late from the mine. Ruth brewed a fresh pot of tea for him, and put several dainties on the table to tempt his appetite, for it had recently occurred to her that he was not looking his best.
"What do you think, Ralph?" she said at length.
He looked up at her with a questioning light in his eyes, but did not reply.
"Dorothy Hamblyn is at the Manor."
"Indeed," he said, in a tone of apparent indifference. "Who told you that?"
"She has been there a fortnight!"
"A fortnight?"
"Dr. Barrow told William. He has been attending her."
"She is ill, then?"
"She has been. Caught a chill or something of the kind, and was a good deal run down to start with, but she is nearly all right again now. I wonder if she will come to see me here as she used to do at the cottage?"
"Possibly."
"I hope she will. It would be so nice to see her again. Her father may be a tyrant, but she is an angel."
Ralph gave a short, dry laugh.
"You do not seem very much interested," Ruth continued.
"Why should I be?" he questioned, looking up with a smile.
"I thought you used to like her very much."
"Oh, well, I did for that matter. But—but that's scarcely to the point, is it?"
"Well, no, perhaps it isn't. Only—only——"
"Yes?"
"Well, I sometimes wonder if you will ever do what William has done."
"Oh, I fell in love with my sister long before he did."
"Your own sister doesn't count."
"She does with William—counts too much, I'm afraid. He's no eyes for anything else."
"Oh, go along!"
"Not till I've had my tea. Remember, I'm hungry."
Then a knock came to the door, and William entered. He was still thin and pale, but there was a light in his eyes and a glow on his cheeks such as no one ever saw in the old days.
On the following afternoon Ralph made his way up the slant again in the direction of Treliskey Plantation. It was a glorious afternoon. The hot sunshine was tempered by a cool, Atlantic breeze. The hills and dales were looking their best, the hedges were full of flowers, the woods and plantations were great banks of delicious green. At the stile he paused for several minutes and surveyed the landscape, but his thoughts all the time were somewhere else. Hope had sprung up afresh in his heart, and a determined purpose was throbbing through all his veins.
After awhile he left the stile and passed through the plantation gate. He was a trespasser, he knew, but that was a matter of little account. No one would molest him now. He was a man of too much importance in the neighbourhood. He hardly realised yet what a power he had become, and how anxious people were to be on good terms with him. In himself he was conscious of no change. So far, at any rate, money had not spoiled him. Every Sunday as he passed through the little graveyard at Veryan he was reminded of the fact that his mother had died in the workhouse. If he was ever tempted to put on airs—which he was not—that fact would have kept him humble.
The true secret of his influence, however, was not that he was prosperous, but that he was just. There was not a toiler in Great St. Goram Mine who did not know that. In the past strength had been the synonym for tyranny. Those who possessed a giant's strength had used it like a giant. But Ralph had changed the tradition. The strong man was a just man and a generous, and it was for that reason his influence had grown with every passing day.
Yet he was quite unconscious of the measure of his influence. In his own eyes he was only David Penlogan's son, though that fact meant a great deal to him. David Penlogan was an honest man—a man who, in a very real sense, walked with God—and it was Ralph's supreme desire to prove worthy of his father.
But it was of none of these things he thought as he walked slowly along between high banks of trees. The road was grass-grown from end to end, and was so constructed that the pedestrian appeared to be constantly turning corners.
"I think she will walk out to-day," he kept saying to himself. "This beautiful weather will surely tempt her out."
He had made up his mind what to do and say in case they did meet. For good or ill, he was determined to know his fate. It might be an act of presumption, or a simple act of folly—that was an aspect of the question that scarcely occurred to him.
The supreme factor in the case, as far as he was concerned, was, he loved her. On that point there was no room for doubt. The mere social aspect of the question he was constitutionally incapable of seeing. A man was a man, and if he were of good character, and able to maintain the woman he loved, what mattered anything else?
He came face to face with Dorothy at a bend in the road. She was walking slowly, with her eyes on the ground. She did not hear his footsteps on the grass-grown road, and when she looked up he was close upon her. There was no time to debate the situation even with herself, so she followed the impulse of her heart and held out her hand to him.
"I thought I should meet you to-day," he said. "I am sorry you have been ill."
"I was rather run down when I came," she answered, glancing at him with a questioning look, "and I think I caught cold on the journey."
"But you are better now?"
"Oh yes, I am quite well again."
"I feared you had returned to London. I have been on the look-out for you for weeks."
She looked shyly up into his face, but did not reply.
"I wanted to know my fate," he went on. "You know that I love you. You must have guessed it long before I told you."
"But—but——" she began, with averted eyes.
"Please hear me out first," he interrupted. "I would not have spoken again had not circumstances changed. When I saw you in London I was poor and without hope. I believed that I should have to leave the country in order to earn a living. To have offered marriage to anyone would have been an insult. And yet if I had never seen you again I should have loved you to the end."
"But have you considered——" she began again, with eyes still turned from his face.
"I have considered everything," he interrupted eagerly, almost passionately. "But there is only one thing that matters, and that is love. If you do not love me—cannot love me—my dream is at an end, and I will endure as best I am able. But if your heart responds to my appeal, then the thing is settled. You are mine."
"But you are forgetting my—my—position," she stammered.
"I am forgetting nothing of importance," he went on resolutely. "There are only two people in the world really concerned in this matter, you and I, and the decision rests with you. It is not my fault that I love you. I cannot help it. You did not mean to steal my heart, perhaps, but you did it. It seems a curious irony of fate, for I detested your father; but Providence threw me across your path. In strange and inexplicable ways your life has become linked with mine. You are all the world to me. Cannot you give me some hope?"
"But my father still——" she began.
"You are of age," he interrupted. "No, no! Questions of parentage or birth or position do not count. Why should they? Let us get back to the one thing that matters. If you cannot love me, say the word, and I will go my way and never molest you again. But if you do love me, be it ever so little, you must give me hope."
"My father would never consent," she said quickly.
"That is nothing," he answered, almost impatiently. "I will wait till he does give his consent. Oh, Dorothy, the only thing I want to know is do you love me? If you can give me that assurance, nothing else in the world matters. Just say the little word. God surely meant us for each other, or I could not love you as I do."
She dropped her eyes to the ground and remained motionless.
He came a step nearer and took her hand in his. She did not resist, nor did she raise her eyes, but he felt that she was trembling from head to foot.
"You are not angry with me?" he questioned, almost in a whisper.
"No, no; I am not angry," she said, almost with a sob. "How could I be? You are a good man, and such love as yours humbles me."
"Then you care for me just a little?" he said eagerly.
"I cannot tell how much I care," she answered, and the tears came into her eyes and filled them to the brim. "But what does it matter? It must all end here and now."
"Why end, Dorothy?"
"Because my father would die before he gave me to you. You do not know him. You do not know how proud he is. Name and lineage are nothing to you, but they are everything to him."
"But he would have married you to Lord Probus, a—a bloated brewer!" He spoke angrily and scornfully.
"But he had been made a peer."
"What does that matter if Nature made him a clown?"
"Which Nature had not done. No, no; give him his due. He was commonplace, and not very well educated——"
"And do these empty social distinctions count with you?" he questioned.
"I sometimes hate them," she answered. "But what can I do? There is no escape. The laws of society are as inflexible as the laws of the Medes and Persians."
"And you will fling love away as an offering to the prejudices of your father?"
"Why do you tempt me? You must surely see how hard it is!"
"Then you do love me!" he cried; and he caught her in his arms and kissed her.
For a moment she struggled as if to free herself. Then her head dropped upon his shoulder.
"Oh, Ralph," she whispered, "let me love you for one brief minute; then we must say farewell for ever!"
Three days later Ralph paused for a moment in front of a trim boarding-house or pension on the outskirts of Boulogne. It was here Sir John Hamblyn was "vegetating," as he told his friends—practising the strictest economy, and making a desperate and praiseworthy effort to recover somewhat his lost financial position.
Ralph told no one what he intended to do. Ruth supposed that he had gone no farther than London, and that it was business connected with Great St. Goram Mine that called him there. Dorothy, having for a moment capitulated, had been making a brave but futile effort to forget, and trying to persuade herself that she had done a weak and foolish thing in admitting to Ralph Penlogan that she cared for him.
Love and logic, however, were never meant to harmonise, and heart and head are often in hopeless antagonism. Dorothy pretended to herself that she was sorry, and yet all the time deep down in her heart there was a feeling of exultation. It was delightful to be loved, and it was no less delightful to love in return.
Almost unconsciously she found herself meditating on Ralph's many excellences. He was so genuine, so courageous, so unspoiled by the world. She was sure also that she liked him all the better for being a man of the people. He owed nothing to favour or patronage. He had fought his own way and made his own mark. He was not like Archie Temple, who had been pushed into a situation purely through favour, and who, if thrown upon the open market, would not earn thirty shillings a week.
It was an honour and a distinction to be loved by a man like Ralph Penlogan. He was one of Nature's aristocracy, clear-visioned, brave-hearted, fearless, indomitable. His handsome face was the index of his character. How he had developed since that day he refused to open the gate for her! Suffering had made him strong. Trial and persecution had called into play the best that was in him. The fearless, defiant youth had become a strong and resolute man. How could she help loving him when he offered her all the love of his own great heart?
Then she would come to herself with a little gasp, and tell herself that it was her duty to forget him, to tear his image out of her heart; that an attachment such as hers was hopeless and quixotic; that the sooner she mastered herself the better it would be; that her father would never approve, and that the society in which she moved would be aghast.
For two days she fought a fitful and unequal battle, and then she discovered that the more she fought the more helpless she seemed to become. She had kept in the house lest she should discover him straying in the plantation.
On the third day she went out again. She said to herself that she would suffocate if she remained any longer indoors. Her heart was aching for a sight of Ralph Penlogan's face. She told herself it was fresh air she was pining for, and a sight of the hills and the distant sea. She loitered through the plantation until she reached the far end. Then she sighed and pushed open the gate. She walked as far as the stile, and leaned against it. How long she remained there she did not know; but she turned away at length, and strolled out across the common and down into the high road, and so home by way of the south lodge.
The air had been fresh and sweet, and the blue of the sea peeped between the hills in the direction of Perranpool, and the woods and plantations looked their best in their summer attire, and the birds sang cheerily on every hand. But she heard nothing, and saw nothing. The footfall she had listened for all the time failed to come, and the face she was hungering to see kept out of sight.
He had evidently taken her at her word. She had told him that their parting must be for ever, that it would be worse than madness for them to meet, and she had meant it all at the time; and yet, three days later, she would have given all she possessed for one more glimpse of his face.
The following day her duties were more irksome than she had ever known them. The dowager wanted so many letters written, and so many articles read to her. Dorothy was impatient to get out of doors, and the more rapidly she tried to get through her work the more mistakes she made, with the result that it had to be done over again.
It was getting quite late in the afternoon when at length she hurried away through the plantation. Would he come to meet her? She need not let him make love to her, but they might at least be friends. Love and logic were in opposition again.
She lingered by the stile until the sun went down behind the hill, then, with a sigh, she turned away, and began to retrace her steps through the plantation.
"I ought to be thankful to him for taking me at my word," she said to herself, with a pathetic look in her eyes. "Oh, why did he ever love me? Why was I ever born?"
Meanwhile Ralph Penlogan and Sir John Hamblyn had come face to face. Ralph had refused to send up his name, hence, when he was ushered into the squire's presence, the latter simply stared at him for several moments in speechless rage and astonishment.
Ralph was the first to break the silence.
"I must apologise for this intrusion," he said quietly, "but——"
"I should think so, indeed," interrupted Sir John scornfully. "Will you state your business as quickly as possible?"
"I will certainly occupy no more of your time than I can help," Ralph replied, "though I fear you are not in the humour to consider any proposal from me."
"I should think not, indeed. Why should I be? Do you wish me to tell you what I think of you?"
"I am not anxious on that score, though I am not aware that I have given you any reason for thinking ill of me."
"You are not, eh? When you cheated me out of the most valuable bit of property I possessed?"
"Did we not pay the price you asked?"
"But you knew there was a valuable tin lode in it."
"What of that? The property was in the market. We did not induce you to sell it. We heard by accident that you wanted to dispose of it. If there had been no lode we should have made no effort to get it."
"It was a mean, dishonest trick, all the same."
"I do not see it. By every moral right the farm was more mine than yours. I helped my father to reclaim it. You spent nothing on it, never raised your finger to bring it under cultivation. Moreover, it was common land at the start. In league with a dishonest Parliament, you filched it from the people, and then, by the operation of an iniquitous law, you filched it a second time from my father."
Sir John listened to this speech with blazing eyes and clenched hands.
"By Heaven," he said, "if I were a younger man I would kick you down these stairs. Have you forced your way in here to insult me?"
"On the contrary, it was my desire rather to conciliate you; but you charged me with dishonesty at the outset."
"Conciliate me, indeed!" And Sir John turned away with a sneer upon his face.
"We neither of us gain anything by losing our tempers," Ralph said, after a pause. "Had we not better let bygones be bygones?"
Sir John faced him again and stared.
"It is no pleasure to me to rake up the past," Ralph went on. "Probably we should both be happier if we could forget. I don't deny that I vowed eternal enmity against you and yours."
"I am glad to hear it," Sir John snorted.
"Time, however, has taken the sting out of many things, and to-day I love one whom I would have hated."
"You love——?"
"It is of no use beating about the bush," Ralph went on. "I love your daughter, and I have come to ask your permission——"
He did not finish the sentence, however. With blazing eyes and clenched fist Sir John shrieked at the top of his voice—
"Silence! Silence! How dare you? You——"
"No, do not use hard words," Ralph interrupted. "You may regret it later."
"Regret calling you—a—a——" But no suitable or sufficiently expressive epithet would come to his lips, and he sank into a chair almost livid with anger and excitement.
Ralph kept himself well in hand. He had expected a scene, and so was prepared for it. Seizing his opportunity, he spoke again.
"Had we not better discuss the matter without feeling or passion?" he said, in quiet, even tones. "Surely I am not making an unreasonable request. Even you know of nothing against my character."
"You are a vulgar upstart," Sir John hissed. "Good heavens, you!—you!—aspiring to the hand of my daughter."
"I am not an upstart, and I hope I am not vulgar," Ralph replied quietly. "At any rate, I am an Englishman. You are no more than that. The accidents of birth count for nothing."
"Indeed!"
"In your heart you know it is so. In what do you excel? Wherein lies your superiority?"
For a moment Sir John stared at him; then he said, with intense bitterness of tone—
"Will you have the good manners to take yourself out of my sight?"
"I will do so, certainly, though you have not answered my questions."
"If I were only a younger man I would answer you in a way you would not quickly forget."
"Then you refuse to give your permission?"
"Absolutely. I would rather see my child in her coffin."
"If you loved your child you would think more of her happiness than of your own pride. I am sorry to find you are a tyrant still."
"Thank you. Have you any further remarks to make?"
"No!" And he turned away and moved toward the door. Then he turned suddenly round with his hand on the door knob.
"By-the-bye, you may be interested to know that I have discovered a very rich vein that runs through your estate," he said quietly, and he pulled the door slowly open.
Sir John was on his feet in a moment.
"A very rich vein?" he questioned eagerly.
"Extraordinarily rich," was the indifferent reply. "Good-afternoon."
"Wait a moment—wait a moment!" Sir John cried excitedly.
"Thank you, but I have no further remarks to make." And Ralph passed out to the landing.
Sir John rushed past him and planted himself at the head of the stairs.
"You are not fooling me?" he questioned eagerly. "Say honestly, are you speaking the truth?"
"Do you wish to insult me?" Ralph asked scornfully. "Am I in the habit of lying? Please let me pass."
"No, no! Please forgive me. But if what you say is true, it means so much to me. You see, I am practically in exile here."
"So I understand. And you are likely to remain in exile, by all accounts."
"But if there is a rich vein of mineral that I can tap. Why, don't you see, it will release me at once?"
"But, as it happens, you cannot tap it, for you don't know where it is. I am the only individual who knows anything about it."
"Exactly, exactly! Don't go just yet. I want to hear more about it."
"I fear I have wasted too much of your time already," Ralph said ironically. "You asked me just now to take myself out of your sight."
"I know I did. I know I did. But I was very much upset. Besides, this lode is a horse of quite another colour. Now come back into my room and tell me all about it."
"There is really not very much to tell," Ralph answered, in a tone of indifference. "How I discovered its existence is a mere detail. You may be aware, perhaps, that I occupy most of my time in making experiments?"
"Yes, yes. I know you are wonderfully clever in your own particular line. But tell me, whereabouts is it?"
"You flatter me too much," Ralph said, with a laugh. "To tell you the truth, it was largely by accident that I discovered the lode I am speaking of. Unfortunately, it is outside the Great St. Goram boundary, so that it is of no use to our shareholders."
The squire laughed and rubbed his hands.
"But it will be of use to me," he said. "Really, this is a remarkable bit of luck. You are quite sure that it is a very valuable discovery?"
"As sure as one can be of anything in this world. The Hillside lode is rich, but this——"
"No, no," Sir John interrupted eagerly. "You don't mean to say that it is richer than your mine?"
"I shall be greatly surprised if—if——" Then he paused suddenly.
"Go on, go on," cried Sir John excitedly. "This bit of news is like new life to me. Think of it. I shall be able to shake off those Jewish sharks and hold up my head once more."
"I don't think it is at all necessary that you should hold your head any higher," Ralph replied deliberately and meaningly. "You think far too much of yourself already. Now I will say good-afternoon for the second time."
"You mean that you will tell me nothing more?"
"Why should I? If your justice had been equal to your greed, I might have been disposed to help you; but I feel no such disposition at present."
"You want to bargain with me?" Sir John cried angrily.
"Indeed, no. What I came about is too sacred a matter for bargaining." And, slipping quickly past Sir John, he hurried down the stairs and into the street.
The squire stared after him for several minutes, then went back into the room and fetched his hat, and was soon following.
When he got into the open air, however, Ralph was nowhere visible. He ran a few steps, first in one direction, then in another. Finally, he made his way down into the town. He did not go to the wharf, for no boat was sailing for several hours; but he loitered in the principal streets till he was hungry, and then reluctantly made his way toward his temporary home. He was in a state of almost feverish excitement, and hardly knew at times whether he was awake or dreaming.
What his exile in France meant to him, no one knew but himself. But his financial affairs were in such a tangle, that it was exile or disgrace, and his pride turned the scale in favour of exile. Now, suddenly, there had been opened up before him the prospect of release—but release upon terms.
He tried, over his lonely dinner, to review the situation; tried to put himself in the place of Ralph Penlogan. It was a profitable exercise. The lack of imagination is often the parent of wrong. He was bound to admit to himself that Ralph was under no obligation—moral or otherwise—to reveal his secret, or even to sell his knowledge.
"No doubt I have behaved badly to him," Sir John said to himself, "and badly to his father. He has good reason for hating me and thwarting me. By Jove! but we have changed places. He is the strong man now, and if he pays me back in my own coin, it is no more than I deserve."
Sir John did not make a good dinner that evening. His reflections interfered with his appetite.
"Should I tell if I were in his place?" he said to himself. And he answered his own question with a groan.
Under the influence of a cigar and a cup of black coffee, visions of prosperity floated before him. He saw himself back again in Hamblyn Manor, and in more than his old splendour. He saw himself free from the clutches of the money-lenders, and a better man for the experiences through which he had passed.
But his visions were constantly broken in upon by the reflection that his future lay in the hands of Ralph Penlogan, the young man he had so cruelly wronged. It was a hard battle he had to fight, for his pride seemed to pull him in opposite directions at the same time.
Half an hour before the boat started for Folkestone he was on the wharf, eagerly scanning the faces of all the passengers. He had made up his mind to try to persuade Ralph to go back with him and stay the night. His pride was rapidly breaking down under the pressure of unusual circumstances.
He remained till the boat cast off her moorings and the paddle-wheels began to churn the water in the narrow slip, then he turned away with a sigh. Ralph was not among the passengers.