Kitabı oku: «The Squire's Daughter», sayfa 6
CHAPTER XI
UNCONSCIOUS SPEECH
Ralph had scarcely left the house when Dorothy sought her father in the library. He was walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, and a troubled expression in his eyes. He was much more distressed than he liked to own even to himself. To be told to his face that he had caused the death of one of his tenants would, under some circumstances, have simply made him angry. But in the present case he felt, much more acutely than was pleasant, that there was only too much reason for the contention.
That David Penlogan had loved his little homestead there was no doubt whatever. He had poured into it not only the savings of a lifetime and the ungrudging labour of a dozen years, but he had poured into it the affection of a generous and confiding nature. There was something almost sentimental in David's affection for his little farm, and to have to leave it was a heavier blow than he was able to bear. That his misfortune had killed him seemed not an unreasonable supposition.
"But I am not responsible for that," Sir John said to himself angrily. "I had no hand in killing off the 'lives.' That was a decree of Providence."
But in spite of his reasoning, he could not shake himself free from an uneasy feeling that he was in some way responsible.
Legally, no doubt, he had acted strictly within his rights. He had exacted no more than in point of law was his due, but might there not be a higher law than the laws of men? That was the question that troubled him, and it troubled him for the first time in his life.
He was a very loyal citizen. He had been taught to regard Acts of Parliament as something almost as sacred as the Ark of the Covenant, and the authority of the State as supreme in all matters of human conduct. Now for the first time a doubt crept into his mind, and it made him feel decidedly uncomfortable. Man-made laws might, after all, have little or no moral force behind them. Selfish men might make laws just to protect their own selfish interests.
Legally, man's law backed him up in the position he had taken. But where did God's law come in? He knew his Bible fairly well. He was a regular church-goer, and followed the lessons Sunday by Sunday with great diligence. And he felt, with a poignant sense of alarm, that Jesus Christ would condemn what he had done. There was no glimmer of the golden rule to be discerned in his conduct. He had not acted generously, nor even neighbourly. He had extorted the uttermost farthing, not because he had any moral claim to it, but because laws which men had made gave him the right.
He was so excited that his mind worked much more rapidly than was usual with him. He recalled again Ralph Penlogan's words about God punishing him and their being quits. He disliked that young man. He ought to have kicked him out of the house before he had time to utter his insults. But he had not done so, and somehow his words had stuck. He wished it was the son who had died instead of the father. David Penlogan, in spite of his opinions and politics, was a mild and harmless individual; he would not hurt his greatest enemy if he had the chance. But he was not so sure of the son. He had a bolder and a fiercer nature, and if he had the chance he might take the law into his own hands.
The door opened while these thoughts were passing through his mind, and his daughter stood before him. He stopped suddenly in his walk, and his hard face softened.
"Oh, father, I've heard such a dreadful piece of news," she said, "that I could not help coming to tell you!"
"Dreadful news, Dorothy?" he questioned, in a tone of alarm.
"Well, it seems dreadful to me," she went on. "You heard about the Penlogans being turned out of house and home, of course?"
"I heard that he had to leave his farm," he said shortly.
"Well, the trouble has killed him – broken his heart, people say. He had a stroke yesterday morning, and now he's dead."
"Well, people must die some day," he said, with averted eyes.
"Yes, that is true. But I think if I were in Lord St. Goram's place I should feel very unhappy."
"Why should Lord St. Goram feel unhappy?"
"Well, because he profited by the poor man's misfortune."
"What do you know about it?" he snapped almost angrily.
"Only what Ralph Penlogan told me."
"What, that young rascal who refused to open the gate for you?"
"That was just as much my fault as his, and he has apologised very handsomely since."
"I am surprised, Dorothy, that you condescend to speak to such people," he said severely.
"I don't know why you should, father. He is well educated, and has been brought up, as you know, quite respectably."
"Educated beyond his station. It's a mistake, and will lead to trouble in the long-run. But what did he say to you?"
"I met him as he was walking into St. Goram, and he told me how they had taken a little cottage, and were going to move into it next day – that was yesterday. Then, of course, all the story came out, how the vicar's son was the last 'life' on their little farm, and how, when he died, the farm became the ground landlord's."
"And what did he say about the ground landlord?" he questioned.
"I don't remember his words very well, but he seemed most bitter, because he had let the farm over their heads, without giving them a chance of being tenants."
"Well?"
"I told him I thought it was a very cruel thing to do. Law is not everything. David Penlogan had put all his savings into the farm, had reclaimed the fields from the wilderness, and built the house with his own money, and the lord of the manor had done nothing, and never spent a penny-piece on it, and yet, because the chances of life had gone against David, he comes in and takes possession – demands, like Shylock, his pound of flesh, and actually turns the poor man out of house and home! I told Ralph Penlogan that it was wicked – at least, if I did not tell him, I felt it – and, I am sure, father, you must feel the same."
Sir John laughed a short, hard laugh.
"What is the use of the law, Dorothy," he said, "unless it is kept? It is no use getting sentimental because somebody is hanged."
"But surely, father, our duty to our neighbour is not to get all we can out of him?"
"I'm inclined to think that is the general practice, at any rate," he said, with a laugh.
She looked at him almost reproachfully for a moment, and then her eyes fell. He was quick to see the look of pain that swept over her face, and hastened to reassure her.
"You shouldn't worry yourself, Dorothy, about these matters," he said, in gentler tones. "You really shouldn't. You see, we can't help the world being what it is. Some are rich and some are poor. Some are weak and some are strong. Some have trouble all the way, and some have a good time of it from first to last, and nobody's to blame, as far as I know. If luck's fallen to our lot, we've all the more to be grateful for, don't you see. But the world's too big for us to mend, and it's no use trying. Now, run away, that's a good girl, and be happy as long as you can."
She drew herself up to her full height, and looked him steadily in the eyes. She had grown taller during her illness, and there was now a look upon her face such as he had never noticed before.
"I do wish, father," she said slowly, "that you would give over treating me as though I were a child, and had no mind of my own."
"Tut, tut!" he said sharply. "What's the matter now?"
"I mean what I say," she answered, in the same slow and measured fashion. "I may have been a child up to the time of my illness, but I have learned a lot since then. I feel like one who has awaked out of a sleep. My illness has given me time to think. I have got into a new world."
"Then, my love, get back into the old world again as quickly as possible. It's not a bit of use your worrying your little head about matters you cannot help, and which are past mending. It's your business to enjoy yourself, and do as you are told, and get all the happiness out of life that you can."
"There's no getting back, father," she answered seriously. "And there's no use in pretending that you don't feel, and that you don't see. I shall never be a little girl again, and perhaps I shall never be happy again as I used to be; or, perhaps, I may be happy in a better and larger way – but that is not the point. You must not treat me as a child any longer, for I am a woman now."
"Oh, nonsense!" he said, in a tone of irritation.
"Why nonsense?" she asked quickly. "If I am old enough to be married, I am old enough to be a woman – "
"Oh, I am not speaking of age," he interjected, in the same irritable tone. "Of course you are old enough to be married, but you are not old enough – and I hope you never will be – to worry yourself over other people's affairs. I want my little flower to be screened from all the rough winds of the world, and I am sure that is the desire of Lord Probus."
"There you go again!" she said, with a sad little smile. "I'm only just a hothouse plant, to be kept under glass. But that is what I don't want. I don't want to be treated as though I should crumple up if I were touched – I want to do my part in the world."
"Of course, my child, and your part is to look pretty and keep the frowns away from your forehead, and make other folks happy by being happy yourself."
"But really, father, I'm not a doll," she said, with just a touch of impatience in her voice. "I'm afraid I shall disappoint you, but I cannot help it. I've lived in dreamland all my life. Now I am awake, and nothing can ever be exactly the same again as it has been."
"What do you mean by that, Dorothy?"
"Oh, I mean more than I can put into words," she said, dropping her eyes slowly to the floor. "Everything is broken up, if you understand. The old house is pulled down. The old plans and the old dreams are at an end. What is going to take their place I don't know. Time alone will tell." And she turned slowly round and walked out of the room.
An hour later she got into her bath-chair, and went out for her usual airing.
"I think, Billy," she said to her attendant, "we will drive through the plantation this afternoon. The downs will be too exposed to this wind."
"Yes, miss."
"In the plantation it will be quite sheltered – don't you think so?"
"Most of the way it will," he answered; "but there ain't half as much wind as there was an hour ago."
"An hour ago it was blowing a gale. If it had kept on like that I shouldn't have thought of going out at all."
"Which would have been a pity," Billy answered, with a grin, "for the sun is a-shinin' beautiful."
Two or three times Billy had to stop the donkey, while he dragged large branches out of the way. They were almost on the point of turning back again when Dorothy said —
"Is that the trunk of a tree, Billy, lying across the road?"
"Well, miss, I was just a-wonderin' myself what it were. It don't look like a tree exactly."
"And yet I cannot imagine what else it can be."
"Shall we drive on that far and see, miss?"
"I think we had better, Billy, though I did not intend going quite so far."
A few minutes later Billy uttered an exclamation.
"Why, miss, it looks for all the world like a man!"
"Drive quickly," she said; "I believe somebody's been hurt!"
It did not take them long to reach the spot where Ralph Penlogan was lying. Dorothy recognised him in a moment, and forgetting her weakness, she sprang out of her bath-chair and ran and knelt down by his side.
He presented a rather ghastly appearance. The extreme pallor of his face was accentuated by large splotches of blood. His eyelids were partly open, showing the whites of his eyes. His lips were tightly shut as if in pain.
Dorothy wondered at her own calmness and nerve. She had no disposition to faint or to cry out. She placed her ear close to Ralph's mouth and remained still for several seconds. Then she sprang quickly to her feet.
"Unharness the donkey, Billy," she said, in quick, decided tones, "and ride into St. Goram and fetch Dr. Barrow!"
"Yes, miss." And in a few seconds Billy was galloping away as fast as the donkey could carry him.
Dorothy watched him until he had passed beyond the gate and was out on the common. Then she turned her attention again to Ralph. That he was unconscious was clear, but he was not dead. There were evidences also that he had scrambled a considerable distance after he was struck.
For several moments she stood and looked at him, then she sat down by his side. He gave a groan at length and tried to sit up, and she got closer to him, and made his head comfortable on her lap.
After a while he opened his eyes and looked with a bewildered expression into her face.
"Who are you?" he asked abruptly, and he made another effort to sit up.
"You had better lie still," she said gently. "You have got hurt, and Dr. Barrow will be here directly."
"I haven't got hurt," he said, in decided tones, "and I don't want to lie still. But who are you?"
"Don't you remember me?" she questioned.
"No, I don't," he said, in the same decisive way. "You are not Ruth, and I don't know who you are, nor why you keep me here."
"I am not keeping you," she answered quietly. "You are unable to walk, but I have sent for the doctor, and he will bring help."
For a while he did not speak, but his eyes searched her face with a puzzled and baffled look.
"You are very pretty," he said at length. "But you are not Ruth."
"No; I am Dorothy Hamblyn," she answered.
He knitted his brows and looked at her intently, then he tried to shake his head.
"Hamblyn?" he questioned slowly. "I hate the Hamblyns – I hate the very name! All except the squire's little maid," and he closed his eyes, and was silent for several moments. Then he went on again —
"I wish I could hate the squire's little maid too, but I can't. I've tried hard, but I can't. She's so pretty, and she's to marry an old man, old enough to be her grandfather. Oh, it's a shame, for he'll break her heart. If I were only a rich man I'd steal her."
"Hush, hush!" she said quickly. "Do you know what you are saying?"
He opened his eyes slowly and looked at her again, but there was no clear light of recognition in them. For several minutes he talked incessantly on all sorts of subjects, but in the end he got back to the question that for the moment seemed to dominate all the rest.
"You can't be the squire's little maid," he said, "for she is going to marry an old man. Don't you think it is a sin?"
"Hush, hush!" she said, in a whisper.
"I think it's a sin," he went on. "And if I were rich and strong I wouldn't allow it. I wish she were poor, and lived in a cottage; then I would work and work, and wait and hope, and – and – "
"Yes?" she questioned.
"We would fight the world together," he said, after a long pause.
She did not reply, but a mist came up before her eyes and blotted out the surrounding belt of trees, and the noise of the wind seemed to die suddenly away into silence, and a new world opened up before her – a land where springtime always dwelt, and beauty never grew old.
Ralph lay quite still, with his head upon her lap. He appeared to have relapsed into unconsciousness again.
She brushed her hand across her eyes at length and looked at him, and as she did so her heart fluttered strangely and uncomfortably in her bosom. A curious spell seemed to be upon her. Her nerves thrilled with an altogether new sensation. She grew almost frightened, and yet she had no desire to break the spell; the pleasure infinitely exceeded the pain.
She felt like one who had strayed unconsciously into forbidden ground, and yet the landscape was so beautiful, and the fragrance of the flowers was so sweet, and the air was so soft and cool, and the music of the birds and the streams was so delicious, that she had neither the courage nor the inclination to go away.
She did not try to analyse this new sensation that thrilled her to the finger-tips. She did not know what it meant, or what it portended.
She took her pocket-handkerchief at length and began to wipe the bloodstains from Ralph's face, and while she did so the warm colour mounted to her own cheeks.
There was no denying that he was very handsome, and she had already had proof of his character. She recalled the day when she lay in his strong arms, with her head upon his shoulder, and he carried her all the way down to the cross roads. How strange that she should be performing a similar service for him now! Was some blind, unthinking fate weaving the threads of their separate lives into the same piece?
The colour deepened in her cheeks until they grew almost crimson. The words to which she had just listened from his lips seemed to flash upon her consciousness with a new meaning, and she found herself wondering what would happen if she had been only a peasant's child.
A minute or two later the sound of wheels was heard on the grass-grown road. Ralph turned his head uneasily, and muttered something under his breath.
"Help is near," she whispered. "The doctor is coming."
He looked up into her eyes wonderingly.
"Don't tell the squire's little maid that I love her," he said slowly. "I've tried to hate her, but I cannot."
She gave a little gasp, and tried to speak, but a lump rose in her throat which threatened to choke her.
"But her father," he went on slowly, "he's a – a – " but he did not finish the sentence.
When the doctor reached his side he was quite unconscious again.
CHAPTER XII
DOROTHY SPEAKS HER MIND
Dorothy – to quote her father's words – had taken the bit between her teeth and bolted. The squire had coaxed her, cajoled her, threatened her, got angry with her, but all to no purpose. She stood before him resolute and defiant, vowing that she would sooner die than marry Lord Probus.
Sir John was at his wits' end. He saw his brightest hopes dissolving before his eyes. If Dorothy carried out her threat, and refused to marry the millionaire brewer, what was to become of him? All his hopes of extricating himself from his present pecuniary embarrassments were centred in his lordship. But if Dorothy deliberately broke the engagement, Lord Probus would see him starve before raising a finger to help him.
Fortunately, Lord Probus was in London, and knew nothing of Dorothy's change of front. He had thought her somewhat cool when he went away, but that he attributed to her long illness. Warmth of affection would no doubt return with returning health and strength. Sir John had assured him that she had not changed towards him in the least.
Dorothy's illness had been a great disappointment to both men. All delays were dangerous, and there was always the off-chance that Dorothy might awake from her girlish day-dream and discover that not only her feeling toward Lord Probus, but also her views of matrimony, had undergone an entire change.
Sir John had received warning of the change on that stormy day when Ralph Penlogan had visited him to tell him that his father was dead. But he had put her words out of his mind as quickly as possible. Whatever else they might mean, he could not bring himself to believe that Dorothy would deliberately break a sacred and solemn pledge.
But a few weeks later matters came to a head. It was on Dorothy's return from a visit to the Penlogans' cottage at St. Goram that the truth came out.
Sir John met her crossing the hall with a basket on her arm.
"Where have you been all the afternoon?" he questioned sharply.
"I have been to see poor Mrs. Penlogan," she said, "who is anything but well."
"It seems to me you are very fond of visiting the Penlogans," he said crossly. "I suppose that lazy son is still hanging on to his mother, doing nothing?"
"I don't think you ought to say he is lazy," she said, flushing slightly. "He has been to St. Ivel Mine to-day to try to get work, though Dr. Barrow says he ought not to think of working for another month."
"Dr. Barrow is an old woman in some things," he retorted.
"I think he is a very clever man," she answered; "and we ought to be grateful for what he did for me."
"Oh, that is quite another matter. But I suppose you found the Penlogans full of abuse still of the ground landlord?"
"No, I did not," she answered. "Lord St. Goram's name was never mentioned."
"Oh!" he said shortly, and turned on his heel and walked away.
"She evidently doesn't know yet that I'm the ground landlord," he reflected. "I wonder what she will say when she does know? I've half a mind to tell her myself and face it out. If I thought it would prevent her going to the Penlogans' cottage, I would tell her, too. Curse them! They've scored off me by not telling the girl." And he closed the library door behind him and dropped into an easy-chair.
He came to the conclusion after a while that he would not tell her. All things considered, it was better that she should remain in ignorance. In a few weeks, or months at the outside, he hoped she would be Lady Probus, and then she would forget all about the Penlogans and their grievance.
He took the poker and thrust it into the fire, and sent a cheerful blaze roaring up the chimney. Then he edged himself back into his easy-chair and stared at the grate.
"It's quite time the wedding-day was fixed," he said to himself at length. "Dorothy is almost as well as ever, and there's no reason whatever why it should be any longer delayed. I hope she isn't beginning to think too seriously about the matter. In a case like this, the less the girl thinks the better."
The short November day was fading rapidly, but the fire filled the room with a warm and ruddy light.
He touched the bell at length, and a moment or two later a servant stood at the open door.
"Tell your young mistress when she comes downstairs that I want to see her."
"Yes, sir." And the servant departed noiselessly from the room.
Sir John edged his chair a few inches nearer the fire. He was feeling very nervous and ill at ease, but he was determined to bring matters to a head. He knew that Lord Probus was getting impatient, and he was just as impatient himself. Moreover, delays were often fatal to the best-laid plans.
Dorothy came slowly into the room, and with a troubled look in her eyes.
"You wanted to see me, father?" she questioned timidly.
"Yes, I wanted to have a little talk with you. Please sit down." And he continued to stare at the fire.
Dorothy seated herself in an easy-chair on the other side of the fireplace and waited. If he was nervous and ill at ease, she was no less so. She had a shrewd suspicion of what was coming, and she dreaded the encounter. Nevertheless, she had fully made up her mind as to the course she intended to take, and she was no longer a child to be wheedled into anything.
Sir John looked up suddenly.
"I have been thinking, Dorothy," he said, "that we ought to get the wedding over before Christmas. You seem almost as well as ever now, and there is no reason as far as I can see why the postponed ceremony should be any longer delayed."
"Are you in such a great hurry to get rid of me?" she questioned, with a pathetic smile.
"My dear, I do not want to get rid of you at all. You know the old tag, 'A daughter's a daughter all the days of her life,' and you will be none the less my child when you are the mistress of Rostrevor Castle."
"I shall never be the mistress of Rostrevor Castle," she replied, with downcast eyes.
"Never be the mistress of – never? What do you mean, Dorothy?" And he turned hastily round in his chair and stared at her.
"I was only a child when I promised," she said timidly, "and I did not know anything. I thought it would be a fine thing to have a title and a house in town, and everything that my foolish heart could desire, and I did not understand what marriage to an old man would mean."
"Lord Probus is anything but an old man," he said hastily. "He is in his prime yet."
"But if he were thirty years younger it would be all the same," she answered quietly. "You see, father, I have discovered that I do not love him."
"And you fancy that you love somebody else?" he said, with a sneer.
"I did not say anything of the kind," she said, raising her eyes suddenly to his. "But I know I don't love Lord Probus, and I know I never shall."
"Oh, this is simple nonsense!" he replied angrily. "You cannot play fast and loose in this way. You have given your solemn promise to Lord Probus, and you cannot go back on it."
"But I can go back on it, and I will!"
"You mean that you will defy us both, and defy the law into the bargain?"
"There is no law to compel me to marry a man against my will," she said, with spirit.
"If there is no law to compel you, there's a power that can force you to keep your promise," he said, with suppressed passion.
"What power do you refer to?" she questioned.
"The power of my will," he answered. "Do you think I am going to allow a scandal of this kind to take place?"
"It would be a greater scandal if I married him," she replied.
"Look here, Dorothy," he said. "We had better look at this matter in the light of reason and common sense – "
"That is what I am doing," she interrupted. "I had neither when I gave my promise to Lord Probus. I was just home from school; I knew nothing of the world; I had scarcely a serious thought in my head. My illness has given me time to think and reflect; it has opened my eyes – "
"And taken away your moral sense," he snarled.
"No, father, I don't think so at all," she answered mildly. "Feeling as I do now, it would be wicked to marry Lord Probus."
He rose to his feet and faced her angrily.
"Look here, Dorothy," he said. "I am not the man to be thwarted in a thing of this kind. My reputation is in a sense at stake. You have gone too far to draw back now. We should be made the laughing-stock of the entire county. If you had any personal objection to Lord Probus, you should have discovered it before you promised to marry him. Now that all arrangements are made for the wedding, it is too late to draw back."
"No, father, it is not too late; and I am thankful for my illness, because it has opened my eyes."
"And all this has come about through that detestable young scoundrel who refused to open a gate for you."
In a moment her face flushed crimson, and she turned quickly and walked out of the room.
"By Jove, what does this mean?" Sir John said to himself angrily when the door closed behind her. "What new influences have been at work, I wonder, or what quixotic or romantic notions has she been getting into her head? Can it be possible – but no, no, that is too absurd! And yet things quite as strange have happened. If I find – great Scott, won't we be quits!" And Sir John paced up and down the room like a caged bear.
He did not refer to the subject again that day, nor the next. But he kept his eyes and ears open, and he drew one or two more or less disquieting conclusions.
That a change had come over Dorothy was clear. In fact, she was changed in many ways. She seemed to have passed suddenly from girlhood into womanhood. But what lay at the back of this change? Was her illness to bear the entire responsibility, or had other influences been at work? Was the romantic notion she had got into her mind due to natural development, or had some youthful face caught her fancy and touched her heart?
But during all those long weeks of her illness she had seen no one but the doctor and vicar and Lord Probus, except – and Sir John gave his beard an impatient tug.
By dint of careful inquiry, he got hold of the entire story, not merely of Dorothy's accident, but of the part she had played in Ralph Penlogan's accident.
"Great Scott!" he said to himself, an angry light coming into his eyes. "If, knowingly or unknowingly, that young scoundrel is at the bottom of this business, then he can cry quits with a vengeance."
The more he allowed his mind to dwell on this view of the case, the more clear it became to him. There was no denying that Ralph Penlogan was handsome. Moreover, he was well educated and clever. Dorothy, on the other hand, was in the most romantic period of her life. She had found him in the plantation badly hurt, and her sympathies would go out to him in a moment. Under such circumstances, and in her present mood, social differences would count for nothing. She might lose her heart to him before she was aware. He, of course, being inherently bad – for Sir John would not allow that the lower orders, as he termed them, possessed any sense of honour whatever – would take advantage of her weakness and play upon the romantic side of her nature to the full, with the result that she was quite prepared to fling over Lord Probus, or to pose as a martyr, or to pine for love in a cottage, or do any other idiotic thing that her silly and sentimental heart might dictate.
As the days passed away Sir John had very great difficulty in being civil to his daughter. Also, he kept a strict watch himself on all her movements, and put a stop to her playing my Lady Bountiful among the sick poor of St. Goram.
He hoped in his quieter moments that it was only a passing madness, and that it would disappear as suddenly as it came. If she could be kept away from pernicious and disquieting influences for a week or two she might get back to her normal condition.
Sir John was debating this view of the question one evening with himself when the door was flung suddenly open, and Lord Probus stood before him, looking very perturbed and excited.
The baronet sprang out of his chair in a moment, and greeted his guest effusively. "My dear Probus," he said, "I did not know you were in the county. When did you return?"
"I came down to-day," was the answer. "I came in response to a letter I received from your daughter last night. Where is she? I wish to see her at once."
"A moment, sir," the baronet said appealingly. "What has she been writing to you?"
"I hardly know whether I should discuss the matter with you until I have seen her," was the somewhat chilly answer.
"She has asked to be released from her engagement," Sir John said eagerly. "I can see it in your face. The truth is, the child is a bit unhinged."
"Then she has spoken to you?" his lordship interrupted.
