Kitabı oku: «The Squire's Daughter», sayfa 20
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.
CHAPTER XL
LOVE OR FAREWELL
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!"
CHAPTER XLI
THE TABLES TURNED
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.
