Kitabı oku: «The Squire's Daughter», sayfa 16

CHAPTER XXXI
A PARTNERSHIP

It was late when William left Ralph Penlogan's cottage, but he was in no hurry to get to St. Goram. He sauntered slowly along the dark and deserted lane with his hands in his pockets and his eyes nowhere in particular. He tried to comfort himself with the reflection that he had not been selfish – that he had done his best for his Cousin Sam, that he had spoken the good word that he promised.

But for some reason the reward of virtue was not so great as he had hoped. There was no feeling of exultation in his heart at his triumph over temptation; in truth, he was much more inclined to call himself a fool for lending aid to his cousin at all.

This reflection reacted on his spirits in another way. He was more selfish than he could have believed. He was like the man who gave half a crown at a collection, and regretted it all his life afterwards. He had forced himself to speak a good word for his cousin, but there was no virtue in it. Service rendered so grudgingly was deserving of no reward.

"I am like the dog in the manger," he said to himself, a little disconsolately; "I cannot have her myself, and I don't want anybody else to have her."

Then he fell to thinking of Ruth's many attractions. He had never seen anyone before with such a wealth of hair, and he was sure there was no one in the three parishes who arranged her hair so gloriously as Ruth did. And then her figure was just perfection in his eyes. She was neither too short nor too tall, too stout nor too thin. There was not a single line or curve that he would have altered.

And her character was as perfect as her form and as beautiful as her face. William's love shed over her and around her a golden haze which hid every fault and magnified every virtue.

By morning he was able to see things a little more in their true perspective, and when Ralph called he was able to put love aside and talk business, though he was by no means sure that in business matters Ruth did not influence him unconsciously.

Ralph had great faith in William's judgment and sagacity. He always looked at both sides of a question before deciding. If he erred at all, it was on the side of excessive caution.

Ralph could not help wondering what was in William's mind. He had said practically nothing the previous evening. He had asked a few questions, and pointed out certain difficulties, but he had committed himself to nothing, yet it seemed clear that he had some scheme in his mind which he would reveal when he had duly considered it.

For a few minutes they talked generalities, then William plunged into the subject that was uppermost in the thoughts of both.

"I don't wonder that you want to get hold of the freehold of Hillside," he said. "I should if I were in your place. Apart from sentiment, the business side appeals strongly. The discovery of a good tin lode there would be the making of St. Goram – "

"And the ruin of the farm," Ralph interjected.

"Well, the erection of a big engine-house on the top of the hill and fire stamps in Dingley Bottom would certainly not improve the appearance of things from an artistic point of view."

"'There is no gain except by loss,'" Ralph quoted, with a smile.

"True; but we all ought to consider the greatest good of the greatest number."

Ralph laughed.

"Don't credit me with virtues I don't possess," he said. "I confess I'm thinking in the first instance only of myself."

"Well, I suppose that's only natural," William said seriously. "But now to business. If you purchase the farm at the squire's price, how much money will you require beyond what you have?"

Ralph named the sum.

"Is that all?"

"Yes. I told you last night the concrete had turned out well."

"It can be done easily," William said, with a sudden brightening of his face.

"How?" – with an eager look.

"I will advance you all the money you want, either as a loan or on mortgage."

"You really mean it?"

"I do. But on one condition – and that is that you do not say anything to your sister about it."

"But why not? I have no secrets from Ruth."

William coloured and looked uncomfortable.

"It's merely a whim of mine," he said. "Women don't understand business, and she might think I was doing you a great favour, and I don't want her to think anything of the kind."

"But you are doing me an immense favour!"

"I'm not, really. The margin of security will be, if not ample, at least sufficient; and if the lode should prove of value, why, you will be able to pay off the loan in no time."

"If the lode should prove of any value, William, you shall go shares!" Ralph said impulsively.

"No, no! If I take no risk, I take no reward. You will risk everything in testing the thing."

"I'm fond of risks," Ralph said, with a laugh. "A little adventure is the very spice of life. Oh, I do hope the farm is not already sold!"

"I don't think it can be," William answered. "We have wasted no time yet. If it is sold, you will have to wait, and hope the buyer will get tired of his bargain."

Ralph shook his head.

"If I can't get it now," he said, "I shall try my fortune beyond the seas."

"Well, we needn't wait an hour longer. You can have my trap to drive to St. Hilary. Let some lawyer whom you can trust act for you."

"Won't you go with me?" Ralph questioned eagerly. "You see, the question of security will come up first thing."

"It would be almost better if you could keep out of sight altogether."

"I know it. Couldn't you see the whole thing through for me?"

"I might try."

Half an hour later Ralph had sent word to Ruth that he would not be home till evening, and was driving away with William Menire in the direction of St. Hilary.

They were both too excited to talk much. Ralph felt as though the whole universe were trembling in the balance. If he failed, there would be nothing left worth considering. If he succeeded, paradise threw open her gates to him.

Far away beyond the hills there was a great city called London, and in that city dwelt one who was more to him than all the world beside. She was out of his reach because he was poor and nameless and obscure. But if he won for himself a position, what was to hinder him from wooing her, and perhaps winning her? Money for its own sake he cared nothing for. The passion for position had never been a factor in his life. He loved beautiful things – art and music and literature – partly from instinct, and partly because he had been educated to appreciate them, but there was not an ounce of snobbery in his composition. He had no reverence for rank as such, or for mere social position, but he had sense enough to recognise their existence, and the part they played in the evolution of the race. He could not get rid of things by shutting his eyes to their existence.

So they drove along the quiet road mainly in silence. Each was busy with his own thoughts. Each had a secret that he dared not reveal to the other.

"I believe you will win," William said abruptly after a long interval of silence. "I always said you would."

"Win?" Ralph questioned absently, for he was thinking of Dorothy Hamblyn at the time.

"Your father was a shrewd man where mineral was concerned."

"Yes. And yet he loved corn and cows far more than copper and tin."

"I wouldn't mind being in your place."

"You would not be afraid of the risk?"

"No. I would like it."

"Then let's go shares!" Ralph said eagerly. "It's what I've wanted all along, but did not like to propose it."

"You really mean it?"

"My dear fellow, it is what I would desire above everything else! You have business capacity, and I haven't a scrap."

"If I were sure I could help you."

"We should help each other; but the gain would be chiefly mine."

"Partnerships don't always turn out well," William said reflectively.

"I'll gladly risk it," Ralph answered, with a laugh.

William dropped his driving whip into the socket and reached across his hand. It was his way of sealing the contract.

Ralph seized it in a moment.

"This is the proudest day of my life!" William said. And there were distinct traces of emotion in his voice.

"I hope you will not be sorry later on," Ralph answered dubiously.

"Never!" was the firm reply. And he thought of Ruth, and wondered what the future had in store for him.

For the rest of the way they drove in silence. There were things in the lives of both too sacred to be talked about.

CHAPTER XXXII
FOOD FOR REFLECTION

There was widespread interest of a mild kind when it became known in St. Goram that Sir John Hamblyn had disposed of the freehold of Hillside Farm. It was an action altogether unprecedented in the history of the Hamblyn family. What it portended no one knew, but it seemed to crystallise into a concrete fact all the rumours that had been in circulation for the last two or three years.

The first news reached Farmer Jenkins in a letter from Sir John. It was brief and to the point: —

"I have this day sold the freehold of Hillside Farm. Your new landlord will no doubt communicate with you shortly. – Yours truly,

"John Hamblyn."

Farmer Jenkins stared at the letter for a considerable time after he had mastered its contents.

"So-ho!" he said to himself at length. "Now I understand why he wanted the matter of reduction of rent to stand over. 'Cute dog is Sir John. If he's sold the place on the basis of present rental he's swindled somebody. I wonder who the fool is who bought it. Anyhow, I won't stay here after Lady Day." And he pushed the letter into his pocket, pulled a weather-beaten wideawake hat over his bald pate, and started out in the direction of St. Goram.

William Menire was standing behind his desk when Jenkins stumbled into his shop. He laid down his pen at once, and prepared himself to execute the farmer's order.

It was not a large order by any means – something that had been forgotten on the previous day – and when the farmer had stuffed it into one of his big pockets he looked up suddenly and said —

"You ain't heard no news, I expect?"

"What sort of news?" William questioned.

"Oh, any sort."

"Well, no. There doesn't seem to be much stirring at the present time."

"More stirring than you think, perhaps," Jenkins said mysteriously.

"That's possible, of course. Have you been hearing something?"

"Squire's cleared out, ain't he?"

"I hear he has practically closed the Manor for an indefinite period."

"Purty hard up, I reckon."

"Why do you think so?"

"Took to sellin' his estate."

"No!" William said, with a little gasp.

"It's solemn truth. I got a letter from him just now sayin' he'd sold Hillside Farm."

"Sold it?"

"Them's his very words. Here's the letter, if you like to read it."

William took the letter and retired to the window. He did not want the farmer to see his agitation. He had been waiting day after day for nearly a month for some definite news, and here it was in black and white. He wondered what Ralph would say when he heard. Once more his hopes had been blown to the wind. His dream of success, not for the first time or the second, had been dashed to the ground.

"Seems definite enough, don't it?" questioned the farmer, coming nearer.

"Oh yes, there can be no mistake about it," William answered, trying his best to keep his voice steady.

"Well, it don't make no difference to me," the farmer said indifferently. "I've made up my mind to clear out at Lady Day. There ain't no luck about the place. I keep feelin' as though there was a kind of blight upon it."

"Indeed?"

"The way the squire shoved it on to me wasn't square to David Penlogan. I can see it clear enough now, and I've never felt quite comfortable since David died. I keep feelin' at times as though he was about the place still."

"Who – David?"

"Ay. He was terrible fond of the place by all accounts. It was a pity Sir John didn't let him stay on. He might have been livin' to this day if he had."

"Yes, that is quite true; but we must not forget that David is better off. He was a good man, if ever there was one."

"Anyhow, the place don't prosper under me, somehow. And if the new landlord is willin' to lower the rent I shan't stay on. I've got my eye on something I think'll suit me better." And, turning slowly round, the farmer walked out of the shop.

William stood staring at the door long after the farmer had disappeared. He had seen the possibility of the farm falling into other hands from the first, but had never fully realised till now how much that might mean to him. His own future was involved just as much as Ralph's. While there was a prospect of getting the farm he had not troubled about his own notice to quit. Now the whole problem would have to be thought out again. Nor was that all – nor even the most important part. He had seen, in fancy, Ruth installed in the old home that she loved so much; seen how Hillside had called to her more loudly and potently than all the pleadings of Sam Tremail; seen the gulf that now lay between them gradually close up and disappear; seen her advance to meet him till their hands had clasped in a bond that only death could break.

It was a foolish fancy, perhaps, but he had not been able to help it taking possession of him from time to time, and with the passing of the days and weeks the fancy had become more and more vivid and real.

"It is all over now," William said to himself, as he stood staring at the door. "Ralph will go abroad and leave her alone at home. Then will come the choice of going away to a strange country or going to Pentudy, and Sam, of course, will win," and William sighed, and dropped into a chair behind his desk.

A minute or two later the door swung open again, and Ralph Penlogan stalked into the shop.

William rose at once to his feet, and moved down inside the counter.

"Well, William, any news yet?" Ralph questioned eagerly.

William dropped his eyes slowly to the floor.

"Yes, Ralph," he said, in a half-whisper. "We've missed it."

"Missed it?"

"Ay! I've been a bit afraid of it all along. You remember their lawyer told Mr. Jewell that there were several people after it."

"Where's Jewell's letter?" Ralph questioned, after a pause.

"I've not heard from Jewell."

"Then how did you get to know?"

"Jenkins told me. He got a letter from Sir John this morning saying he had sold it."

"To whom?"

"He mentioned no name – possibly he didn't know. It went to the man, I expect, who was willing to pay most for it."

"Perhaps Sir John got to know we were after it."

"Possibly, though I don't think Jewell would tell him."

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter, I suppose," Ralph said, in a hard voice. "It's all in the day's work."

"I feel a good deal more upset about it than I thought I should," William said, after a long pause.

"Yes?" Ralph questioned.

"I fancy the spirit of adventure had got a bit into my blood," William answered, with a gentle smile. "I felt ready to speculate all I had. I was itching, as one may say, to be at the lode."

"Such an adventurous spirit needed checking," Ralph said, with a laugh that had more bitterness in it than mirth.

"Perhaps so. Now we shall have to face the whole problem over again."

"I shall try my fortune abroad. I made up my mind weeks ago that if this failed I should leave the country."

"Yes, yes. But it comes hard all the same. There ought to be as much room for enterprise in this country as in any other."

"Perhaps there is, but we are in the wrong corner of it."

"No, it isn't that. It is simply that we have to deal with the wrong people. I grow quite angry when I think how all enterprise is checked by the hidebound fossils who happen to be in authority, and the stupid laws they have enacted."

Ralph laughed.

"My dear William, you will be talking treason next," he said, and then a customer came in and put an end to further conversation.

Ralph went back home, and without saying anything to his sister, began quietly to sort out his things.

"I may as well get ready first as last," he said to himself; "and the sooner I take my departure the better."

He was very silent when he came down to dinner, and his eyes had an absent look in them.

"What have you been doing all the morning?" Ruth asked at length.

"Sorting out my things, Ruth; that's all."

She started, and an anxious look came into her eyes.

"But why have you been sorting them out to-day?" she questioned.

"Because to-morrow will be Sunday," he said, with a smile, "and you are strongly opposed to Sunday labour."

"But still, I don't understand?" she interrogated uneasily.

"I would like to get off on Tuesday morning if possible."

"Do you mean – " she began.

"I shall have to clear out sooner or later, Ruth," he interrupted, "and the sooner the better."

"Then you have decided to go abroad, Ralph?" And her face became very pale.

"What else can I do?" he asked. "I really have not the courage to settle down at St. Ivel Mine at fourteen shillings a week, even if I were sure of getting work, which I am not."

"And I don't want you to do it," she said suddenly, with a rush of tears to her eyes.

"In a bigger country, with fewer restrictions and barbed wire fences, I may be able to do something," he went on. "At worst, I can but fail."

"I hoped that something would turn up here," she said, after a long pause.

"So did I, Ruth; and, indeed, until this morning things looked promising."

"Well?"

"Like so many other hopes, Ruth, it has gone out in darkness."

"You have said nothing to me about it," she said at length.

"No. I did not wish to buoy you up with hopes that might end in nothing."

"What was it you had in your mind, Ralph?" And she raised her soft, beseeching eyes to his.

"Oh, well," he said uneasily, "no harm can come of telling you now, though I did promise William that I would say nothing to you about it."

"Oh, indeed!" she said, in hurt tones. "What has he to do with it?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, he had nearly everything to do with it."

"And he had so little confidence in me that I was not to be trusted?"

"No, sis. William Menire is not that kind of man, as you ought to know by this time."

"Then why was I not to be told? Does he take me for a child?"

"Perhaps he does. You see, he is years older than either of us; but his main concern was that you should not feel in any way under an obligation to him."

"I do not understand."

"William feels very sensitive where you are concerned. The truth is, he was going to advance most of the money for the purchase of Hillside."

"Ralph!"

"It is true, dear; and until this morning we hoped we should get it."

"Well?"

"It has been sold to somebody else."

For a long time no other word was spoken. Ruth made a pretence of eating, but she had no longer any appetite for her dinner. Ralph had given her food of another kind – food for reflection. A dozen questions that had been the vaguest suggestions before suddenly crystallised themselves into definite form.

When the dinner was over, Ralph put on his hat and made for the door.

"I am going down to Perranpool," he said. "I have one or two things I want to talk over with Robert Telfer before I go."

"Don't forget to remember me to Mary," Ruth said, following him to the door.

"Anything else?" he questioned, with a smile.

"Yes. Tell her to come up and see me as soon as ever she is able."

"All right," and, waving his hand, he marched rapidly away.

Ruth sighed as she followed him with her eyes. It seemed to her a thousand pities that his native land had no place for such as he. He was not of the common order. He had gifts, education, imagination, enterprise, and yet he was foiled at every point.

Then for some reason her thoughts travelled away to William Menire, and the memory of her brother's words, "William is very sensitive where you are concerned," brought a warm rush of colour to her cheeks.

Why should William be so sensitive where she was concerned? Why should he be so shy and diffident when in her presence? Why was he ever so ready to sing the praises of his cousin?

She was brought back to herself at length by the sound of horse's hoofs, and a minute or two later Sam Tremail drew up and alighted at the garden gate.

CHAPTER XXXIII
A PROPOSAL

Sam did not wait for an invitation. Flinging the reins over the gate post, he marched boldly up the garden path, and greeted Ruth at the door. She received him courteously, as was her nature, but a more sensitive man might have felt that there was not much warmth in her welcome.

"I was riding this way, and so I thought I would call," he explained. "I hope I don't intrude?"

"Oh no, not at all. Will you come inside?"

"Thank you, I shall be pleased to rest a few minutes, and so will Nero. Is your brother at home?"

"No, he has just gone down to Perranpool."

"Mr. Telfer has nearly finished his contract, I hear."

"So I am told."

"And the company have a mountain of concrete on their hands."

"Ralph says they are charging so enormously for it. Besides, they have not sought out new markets."

"Markets would open if the stuff was not so poor. They managed to hustle your brother out of his rights without getting his secret."

"Is that so?"

"So I am told. I know nothing about the matter myself. I can only repeat what people are saying. By the by, I suppose you have heard that your old home has been sold?"

"Yes."

"St. Goram seems to be quite excited about it. The people in my cousin's shop can talk of nothing else."

"Then you have called on your cousin?"

"Just to say 'How d'ye do?' But Saturday afternoon appears to be a busy day with him. Seems a shame that he has to turn out, doesn't it?"

"It is a shame."

"Of course, in a measure, it's his own fault. He ought not to have opposed Lord St. Goram. A man in business ought not to have any politics, and should keep out of public affairs."

"But suppose he agreed with Lord St. Goram?"

"Oh, that would make a difference, of course. A man ought to know on which side his bread is buttered."

"And principle and conviction should not count?"

"I don't say that. A man can have any convictions he likes, so long as he keeps them to himself; but in politics it is safest to side with the powers that be."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it. Take the case of my Uncle Ned."

"I never heard of him," Ruth said innocently.

"Oh, well, his late landlord was a Liberal, and, of course, my uncle was a Liberal. Then his landlord became a Unionist, and Uncle Ned became a Unionist also. Well, then his landlord died and his son took possession. He's a Conservative and true blue, and, of course, Uncle Ned is a Tory of the Tories. What is the result? He gets no end of privileges. Moreover, there is no fear of his being turned out of his farm."

"And you admire your Uncle Ned?"

"I think he might be a little less ostentatious. But he knows on which side his bread is buttered. Now my Cousin William goes dead against his own landlord; there's all the difference. Result, Ned remains and prospers; William has notice to quit."

"I'd rather be William than your Uncle Ned."

"You would?"

"A thousand times. A man who places bread and butter before conscience and conviction is a coward, and a man who changes his political creed to please his landlord is too contemptible for words."

Sam turned uneasily in his chair and stared. He had never imagined that this sweet-faced girl could speak so strongly. Moreover, he began to fear that he had unconsciously put his foot into it. He had called for the purpose of making love to Ruth, and had come perilously near to making her angry.

How to get back to safer ground was a work of no small difficulty. He could not unsay what he had said, and to attempt to trim would only provoke her scorn. Neither could he suddenly change the subject without considerable loss of dignity. So, after an awkward pause, he said —

"Everyone has a right to his or her own opinions, of course. For myself, I should not be prepared to express myself so strongly."

"Perhaps you do not feel strongly," she said.

"I don't think I do," he replied, in a tone of relief; "that is, on public questions. I am no politician, and, besides, there is always a good deal to be said on both sides of every question. I try as far as possible, you know, to keep an open mind," and he smiled benevolently, and felt well pleased with himself.

After that conversation flagged. Ruth appeared to be absent-minded, and in no mood for further talk. Nero outside champed at his bit, and was eager to be on the move again. Sam turned his hat round and round in his hands, and puzzled his brain as to how he should get near the subject that was uppermost in his mind.

He started a number of topics – the weather, the chances of a fine day for Summercourt Fair, the outbreak of measles at Doubleday, the price of tin, the new travelling preacher, the Sunday-school anniversary at Trebilskey, the large catch of pilchards at Mevagissey – but they all came to a sudden and ignominious conclusion.

He rose to his feet at length almost in despair, and looked towards the door. For some reason the task he had set himself was far more difficult than he had imagined. In his ride from Pentudy he had rehearsed his speech to the listening hedgerows with great diligence, and with considerable animation. He had rounded his periods till they seemed almost perfect. He had decided on the measure of emphasis to be laid on certain passages. But now, when he stood face to face with the girl he coveted, the speech eluded him almost entirely, while such passages as he could remember did not seem at all fitting to the occasion. The time clearly was not propitious. He would have to postpone his declaration to a more convenient season.

"I'm afraid I must be going," he said desperately.

"Your horse seems to be getting impatient," Ruth replied, looking out of the window.

"It's not the horse I care for," he blurted out; "it's you."

"Me?" she questioned innocently.

"Do you think anything else matters when you are about?" he asked in a tone almost of defiance.

"I fear I do not understand," she said, with a bewildered expression in her eyes.

"Oh, you must understand," he replied vehemently. "You must have seen that I love you."

"No, no!"

"Don't interrupt me, please, now that I've started. Give me a chance – oh, do give me a chance. I've loved you ever since your father's sale. I'm sure it's love I feel for you. Whenever people talk about my getting married, my thoughts always turn to you in a moment. I waited and waited for a chance of speaking to you, and thought it would never come; and now that I've got to know you a bit – "

"But you don't know me," she interrupted.

"Yes, I do. Besides, William has told me how good you are; and then I'm willing to wait until I know you better, and you know me better. I don't ask you to say Yes to-day, and please don't say No. I'm sure I could make you happy. You should have a horse of your own to ride if you wanted one, and I would be as good to you as ever I could, and I don't think I'm a bad sort. Ask my Cousin William, and he'll tell you that I'm a steady-going fellow. I know I'm not clever, nor anything of that sort; but I would look after you really well – I would, indeed. And think of it. You may need a friend some day. You may be left alone, as it were; your brother may get married. There's never any knowing what may happen. But if you would let me look after you and care for you, you wouldn't have a worry in the world. Think of it – "

She put up her hand deprecatingly, for when his tongue was once unloosed his words flowed without a break. He looked very manly and handsome, too, as he stood before her, and there was evident sincerity in his tones.

He broke off suddenly, and stood waiting. He felt that he had done the thing very clumsily, but that was perhaps inevitable under the circumstances.

Ruth looked up and met his eyes. She was no flirt; she was deeply moved by his confession. Moreover, when he spoke of her being alone some day and needing protection, he touched a sympathetic chord in her heart. She was to be left alone sooner than he knew. Already preparations had begun for her brother's departure.

"Please do not say any more," she said gently. "I do not doubt your sincerity for a moment."

"But you are not offended with me?" he gasped.

"No, I am not offended with you. Indeed, I feel greatly honoured by your proposal."

"Then you will think it over?" he interrupted. "Say you will think it over. Don't send me away without hope."

She smiled a sweet, pathetic smile, and answered —

"Yes, I will think it over."

"Thank you so much," he said, with beaming face. "That is the most I could hope for to-day," and he held out his hand to her, which she took shyly and diffidently.

"If you can only bring yourself to say Yes," he said, as he stood in the doorway, "I will do my best to make you the happiest woman in the world."

She did not reply, however. From behind the window curtains she watched him mount his horse and ride away; then she dropped into an easy-chair and stared into space.

It is sometimes said that a woman rarely gets the man she wants – that he, unknowing and unseeing, goes somewhere else, and she makes no sign. Later on she accepts the second best, or it may be the third best, and tries to be content.

Ruth wondered if contentment was ever to be found along that path, if the heart grew reconciled to the absence of romance, if the passion of youth was but the red glare of sunrise which quickly faded into the sober light of day.

Sam Tremail was not a man to be despised. He was no wastrel, no unknown adventurer. He was a man of character and substance. He had been a good son; he would doubtless make a good husband. Could she be content?

No halo of romance gathered about his name. No beautiful and tender passion shook her heart when she thought of him. Life at Pentudy would be sober and grey and commonplace. There would be no passion flowers, no crimson and scarlet and gold. On the other hand, there would be no want, no mean and niggling economies, no battle for daily bread. Was solid comfort more lasting, and therefore more desirable, than the richly-hued vesture of romance?

How about the people she knew – the people who had reached middle life – the people who were beginning to descend the western slope? Had there been any romance in their life? Had they thrilled at the beginning at the touch of a hand? Had their hearts leaped at the sound of a voice? And if so, why was there no sign of it to-day? Did familiarity always breed contempt? Did possession kill romance? Did the crimson of the morning always fade into the grey of noon?