The Squire's Daughter
"What was he doing?"
"Well, he wasn't doing nothing. He was just standing still with his 'ands in his pockets lookin' round him and whistlin'."
"Was he carrying a gun?"
"Oh no, sir. He had nothin' in his 'ands."
"Did you see a gun?"
Bilkins glanced apprehensively at Jim Brewer, and then at the policeman.
"Well, no," he said, with considerable hesitation. "I didn't see no gun – that is – "
"Did you see any part of a gun?" Mr. Tregonning interjected.
"Well, sir, I don't wish to do no 'arm to nobody," Bilkins stammered, growing very red, "but I did see somethin' stickin' out of a furze bush as might have been a gun."
"The stock of a gun, perhaps?"
"Well, no; but it might 'ave been the barrel."
"You did not say anything to Brewer?"
"Well, I might, as a kind of joke, 'ave axed him if he 'ad any sport, but it weren't my place to be inquisitive."
"And was this far from the plantation?"
"Oh no; it were almost close."
"Then why, may I ask," interjected the vicar sternly, "did you not volunteer this information when the question was raised as to who shot your master?"
"Never thought on it, sir. Jim Brewer is a chap as couldn't hurt nobody."
"And yet the fact remains that you saw him close to the plantation on the afternoon on which Sir John was shot, and that no one saw Ralph Penlogan near the place."
"Yes, sir," Bilkins said vacantly.
"But what explanation or excuse have you to offer for such dereliction of duty?"
"For what, sir?"
"You must know, surely, that information was sought in all directions that would throw any light on the question."
"No one axed me anything, sir."
"But you might have told what you knew without being asked."
Bilkins looked perplexed, and remained silent.
"Why did you not inform someone of what you had seen?" Mr. Tregonning interposed.
"Well, you see, sir, Sir John had made up his mind as 'twas young Penlogan as shot him. He see'd his face as he was a-climbing over the hedge, an' he ought to know; and besides, sir, it ain't my place to contradict my betters."
"Oh, indeed!" And Mr. Tregonning, as one of his "betters," looked almost as puzzled as Bilkins.
After a few more questions had been asked and answered, there was a general adjournment to Hamblyn Manor.
Sir John was on the point of retiring for the night when he was startled by a loud ringing of the door bell, and a moment or two later he heard the vicar's voice in the hall.
Throwing open the library door, he came face to face with Mr. Seccombe and Mr. Tregonning, two or three shadowy figures bringing up the rear.
"We must ask your pardon, Sir John, for intruding at this late hour," the vicar said, constituting himself chief spokesman, "but Mr. Tregonning and myself felt that the matter was of so much importance that there ought to be not an hour's unnecessary delay."
"Indeed; will you come into the library?" Sir John said pompously, though he felt not a little curious as to what was in the wind.
Standing with his back against the mantelpiece, Sir John motioned his visitors to seats. Budda, however, elected to stand guard over the door.
For several moments there was silence, while the vicar looked at Mr. Tregonning and Mr. Tregonning looked at the vicar.
At last they appeared to understand each other, and the vicar cleared his throat.
"The truth is, Sir John," he began, "I was interrupted in my work this evening by a visit from this young man" – inclining his head toward Brewer – "who informed me that it was he who shot you, accidentally, on the 29th September last – "
"Stuff and nonsense," Sir John snapped, withdrawing his shoulders suddenly from the mantelpiece. "Do you think I don't know a face when I see it?"
"And yet, sir, it were my face you saw," Brewer interposed suddenly.
"Don't believe it," Sir John replied, with a snort.
"You must admit, sir," Mr. Tregonning interposed apologetically, "that this young man is not unlike Ralph Penlogan."
"No more like him than I am," Sir John retorted, almost angrily.
"Anyhow, you had better hear the story from the young man's lips," said the vicar mildly, "then your own man Bilkins will give evidence that he saw him close to the plantation on the afternoon in question."
"Then why did you not say so?" Sir John snarled, glaring angrily at his gardener.
"'Tweren't for the likes of me," Bilkins said humbly, "to say anything as would seem to contradict what you said. I hopes I know my place."
"I hope you do," Sir John growled; and then he turned his attention to the young miner.
Brewer told his story straightforwardly and without any outward sign of nervousness. He had braced himself to the task – his nerves were strung up to the highest point of tension, and he was determined to see the thing through now, cost what it might.
Sir John listened with half-closed eyes and a heavy frown upon his brow. He was far more angry than he would like anyone to know at the course events were taking. He saw clearly enough that, from his point of view, this was worse than a verdict of "not guilty" at the Assizes. This story, if accepted, would clear Ralph Penlogan absolutely. Not even the shadow of a suspicion would remain. Moreover, it would lay him (Sir John) open to the charge of vindictiveness.
As soon as Brewer had finished the story, the squire subjected him to a severe and lengthy cross-examination, all of which he bore with quiet composure, and every question he answered simply and directly.
Then Bilkins was called upon to tell his story, which Sir John listened to with evident disgust.
It was getting decidedly late when all the questions had been asked and answered, and Budda was growing impatient to know what part he was to play in the little drama. He was itching to arrest somebody. It would have been a relief to him if he could have arrested both Brewer and Bilkins.
Sir John and his brother magistrates withdrew at length to another room, while Budda kept guard with renewed vigilance.
"Now," said the vicar, when the door had closed behind the trio, "what is the next step?"
"Let the law take its course," said Sir John angrily.
"It will take its course in any case," said Mr. Tregonning. "The confession of Brewer, and the corroborative evidence of Bilkins, must be forwarded at once to the proper quarter. But the question is, Sir John, will you still hold to the charge of malicious shooting, or only of trespass?"
"If this story is accepted, I'll wash my hands of the whole business – there now!" And Sir John pushed his hands into his pockets and looked furious.
"I don't quite see why you should treat the matter in this way," the vicar said mildly.
"You don't?" Sir John questioned, staring hard at him. "You don't see that it will make fools of the whole lot of us; that it will turn the tide of popular sympathy against the entire bench of magistrates, and against me in particular; that it will do more harm to the gentry than fifty elections?"
"That's a very narrow view to take," the vicar said, with spirit. "We should care for the right and do the right, though the heavens fall."
"That may be all right to preach in church," Sir John said irritably, "but in practical life we do the best we can for ourselves, unless we are fools."
"Then you'll not proceed against this young man for trespass?" Mr. Tregonning inquired.
"I tell you I'll wash my hands of the whole affair, and I mean it. It's bad enough to be made a fool of once, without playing the same game a second time," and Sir John strutted round the room like an angered turkey.
"Then there's no excuse for keeping young Brewer here any longer, or of keeping you out of your bed," said the vicar, and he made for the door, followed by Mr. Tregonning.
Five minutes later the door closed on his guests, and Sir John found himself once more alone.
"Well, this is a kettle of fish," he said to himself angrily, as he paced up and down the room; "a most infernal kettle of fish, I call it. I shouldn't be surprised if before a week is out that young scoundrel will be heralded by a brass band playing 'See the Conquering Hero comes.' And, of course, every ounce of sympathy will go out to him. He'll be a kind of martyr, and I shall be execrated as a kind of Legree and Judge Jeffreys rolled into one. And then, of course, Dorothy will catch the popular contagion, and will interview him if she has the chance; and he'll make love to her – the villain! And here's Lord Probus bullying me, and every confounded money-lending Jew in the neighbourhood dunning me for money, and Geoffrey taking to extravagant ways with more alacrity than I did before him. I wonder if any other man in the county is humbugged as I am?"
Sir John spent the rest of the waking hours of that night in scheming how best he could get and keep Dorothy out of the way of Ralph Penlogan.
CHAPTER XIX
A SILENT WELCOME
If a man is unfortunate enough to find himself in the clutches of what is euphemistically called "the law," the sooner and the more completely he can school himself to patience the better for his peace of mind. Lawyers and legislators do not appear generally to be of a mechanical turn, and the huge machine which they have constructed for the purpose of discovering and punishing criminals is apparently without any reversing gear. The machine will go forward ponderously and cumbrously, but it will not go backward without an infinite amount of toil and trouble. Hence, if a man is once caught in its toils, even though he is innocent, he will, generally speaking, have to go through the mill and come out at the far end. For such a small and remote contingency as a miscarriage of justice there is apparently no provision. If the wronged and deluded man will only have patience, he will come out of the mill in due course; and if he is but civil, he will be rewarded with a free pardon and told not to do it again.
The generosity of the State in compensating those who have been wrongfully convicted and punished has grown into a proverb. In some instances they have been actually released before their time has expired – which, of course, has meant a considerable amount of work for those who had control of the mill; and work to the highly paid officials of the State is little less to be dreaded than the plague.
The whole country had been ringing with Jim Brewer's story for more than a week before the law officers of the Crown condescended to look at the matter at all, and when they did look at it they saw so many technicalities in the way, and so much red tape to be unwound, that their hearts failed them. It seemed very inconsiderate of this Jim Brewer to speak at all after he had kept silent so long, particularly as the Grand Jury would so soon have the case before them.
Meanwhile Ralph was waiting with as much patience as he could command for the day of the trial. That he would be found guilty he could not bring himself to believe. The more he reviewed the case, the more angry and disgusted he felt with the local Solomons who had sat in judgment on him. He was disposed almost to blame them more than he blamed the squire. Sir John might have some grounds for supposing that he (Ralph) had deliberately fired at him. But that the great unpaid of St. Goram and neighbouring parishes could be so blind and stupid filled him with disgust.
For himself, he did not mind the long delay so much; but as the days grew into weeks, his anxiety respecting his mother and Ruth grew into torment. He knew that their little spare cash could not possibly hold out many weeks, and then what would happen?
He had heard nothing from them for a long time, and Bodmin was so far away from St. Goram that they could not visit him. He wondered if they had reached such straits that they could not afford a postage stamp. The more he speculated on the matter the more alarmed he got. The letters he had been allowed to send had received no answer. And it seemed so unlike his mother and Ruth to remain silent if they were able to write.
Of Jim Brewer's story he knew nothing, for newspapers did not come his way, and none of the prison officials had the kindness to tell him. So he waited and wondered as the slow days crept painfully past, and grew thin and hollow-eyed, and wished that he had never been born.
The end came nearly a month after Jim Brewer had told his story. He was condescendingly informed one morning that his innocence having been clearly established, the Crown would offer no evidence in support of the charge, and the Grand Jury had therefore thrown out the bill of indictment. This would mean his immediate liberation.
For several moments he felt unable to speak, and he sat down and hid his face in his hands. Then slowly the meaning of the words he had listened to began to take shape in his mind.
"You say my innocence has been established?" he questioned at length.
"That is so."
"By what means?"
The governor told him without unnecessary words.
"How long ago was this?"
"I do not quite know. Not many weeks I think."
"Not many weeks! Good heavens! You mean that I have been allowed to suffer in this inferno after my innocence was established?"
"With that I have nothing to do. Better quietly and thankfully take your departure."
Ralph raised a pair of blazing eyes, then turned on his heel. He felt as though insult had been heaped upon insult.
His brain seemed almost on fire when at length he stepped through the heavy portal and found himself face to face with William Menire.
Ralph stared at him for several moments in astonishment. Why, of all the people in the world, should William Menire come to meet him? They had never been friends – they could scarcely be called acquaintances.
William, however, did not allow him to pursue this train of thought. Springing forward at once, he grasped Ralph by the hand.
"I made inquiries," he said, speaking rapidly, "and I couldn't find out that anybody was coming to meet you. And I thought you might feel a bit lonely and cheerless, for the weather is nipping cold. So I brought a warm rug with me, and I've ordered breakfast at the King's Arms; for there ain't no train till a quarter-past ten, and we'll be home by – "
Then he stopped suddenly, for Ralph had burst into tears.
The prison fare, the iron hand of the law, the bitter injustice he had suffered so long, had only hardened him. He had shed not a single tear during all the months of his incarceration. But this touch of human kindness from one who was almost a stranger broke him down completely, and he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed outright.
William looked at him in bewilderment.
"I hope I have not said anything that's hurt you?" he questioned anxiously.
"No, no," Ralph said chokingly. "It's your kindness that has unmanned me for a moment. You are almost a stranger, and I have no claim upon you whatever." And he began to sob afresh.
"Oh, well, if that's all, I don't mind," William said, with a cheerful smile. "You see, we are neighbours – at least we were. And if a man can't do a neighbourly deed when he has a chance, he ain't worth much."
Ralph lifted his head at length, and wiped his eyes.
"Pardon me for being so weak," he said. "But I didn't expect – "
"Of course you didn't," William interrupted. "I knew it would be a surprise to you. But hadn't we better be going? I don't want the breakfast at the King's Arms to get cold."
"A word first," Ralph said eagerly. "Are my mother and sister well?"
"Well, your mother is only middling – nothing serious. But the weather's been very trying, and her appetite's nothing to speak of. And, you see, she's worried a good deal about you."
"And my sister?" he interposed.
"She's very well, I believe. But let's get out of sight of this place, or it'll be getting on my nerves."
A quarter of an hour later they were seated in a cosy room before an appetising breakfast of steaming ham and eggs.
Ralph had a difficulty in keeping the tears back. The pleasant room, hung with pictures, the cheerful fire crackling in the grate, the white tablecloth and dainty china and polished knives and forks, the hot, fragrant tea and the delicious ham, were such a contrast from what he had endured so long, that he felt for a moment or two as if his emotion would completely overcome him.
William wisely did not look at him, but gave all his attention to the victuals, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of seeing his guest doing full justice to the fare.
During the journey home they talked mainly about what had happened in St. Goram since Ralph went away, but William could not bring himself to tell him the truth about his mother. Again and again he got to the point, and then his courage failed him.
At St. Ivel Road, William's trap was waiting for them, and they drove the two miles to St. Goram in silence.
Suddenly Ralph reached out his hand as if to grasp the reins.
"You are driving past our house," he said, in a tone of suppressed excitement.
"Yes, that's all right," William answered, in a tone of apparent unconcern. "They're not there now."
"Not there?" he questioned, with a gasp.
"No. You'll come along with me for a bit."
"But I do not understand," Ralph said, turning eager eyes on William's face.
"Oh, I'll explain directly. But look at the crowd of folk."
William had to bring his horse to a standstill, for the road was completely blocked. There was no shouting or hurrahing; no band to play "See the Conquering Hero comes." But the men uncovered their heads, and tears were running down the women's faces.
Ralph had to get out of the trap to steer his way as best he could to William's store. It was a slow and painful process, and yet it had its compensations. Children tugged at his coat-tails, and hard-fisted men squeezed his hand in silence, and women held up their chubby babies to him to be kissed, and young fellows his own age whispered a word of welcome. It was far more impressive than a noisy demonstration or the martial strains of a brass band. Of the sympathy of the people there could be no doubt whatever. Everybody realised now that he had been cruelly treated – that the suspicion that rested on him at first was base and unworthy; that he was not the kind of man to do a mean or cowardly deed; and that the wrong that was done was of a kind that could never be repaired.
They wondered as they crowded round him whether he knew of the crowning humiliation and wrong. The workhouse was a place that most of them regarded with horror. To become a pauper was to suffer the last indignity. There was nothing beyond it – no further reproach or shame.
It was the knowledge that Ralph's mother was in the workhouse, and that his little home had been broken up – perhaps for ever – that checked the shout and turned what might have been laughter into tears. Any attempt at merriment would have been a mockery under such circumstances. They were glad to see Ralph back again – infinitely glad; but knowing what they did, the pathos of his coming touched them to the quick.
Very few words were spoken, but tears fell like rain. Ralph wondered, as he pressed his way forward toward William Menire's shop, and yet he had not the courage to ask any questions. Behind the people's silent sympathy he felt there was something that had not yet been revealed. But what it was he could not guess. That his mother and Ruth were alive, he knew, for William had told him so. Perhaps something had happened in St. Goram that William had not told him, which affected others more than it affected him.
William went in front and elbowed a passage for Ralph.
"We be fine an' glad to see 'ee 'ome again," people whispered here and there, and Ralph would smile and say "Thank you," and then push on again.
William was in a perfect fever of excitement. He had been hoping almost against hope all the day. Whether his little scheme had succeeded or miscarried, he could not tell yet. He would know only when he crossed his own threshold. What his little scheme was he had confided to no one. If it failed, he could still comfort himself with the thought that he had done his best. But he still hoped and prayed that what he had tried so hard to accomplish had come to pass.
CHAPTER XX
WILLIAM MENIRE'S RED-LETTER DAY
The crowd pressed close to the door of William's shop, but no one dared to enter. Ralph followed close upon his heels, still wondering and fearing. William lifted the flap of his counter and opened the door of the living-room beyond. No sooner had he done so than his heart gave a sudden bound. Ruth Penlogan came forward with pale face and eyes full of tears.
William's little plan had succeeded. Ruth was present to receive her brother. William tried to speak, but his voice failed him, and with a sudden rush of tears he turned back into the shop, closing the door behind him.
Ruth fell on her brother's neck, and began to sob. He led her to a large, antiquated sofa, and sat down by her side. He did not speak. He could wait till she had recovered herself. She dried her eyes at length and looked up into his face.
"You did not expect to see me here?" she questioned.
"No, I did not, Ruth; but where is mother?"
"Has he not told you?"
"Told me? She is not dead, is she?"
"No, no. She would be happier if she were. Oh, Ralph, it breaks my heart. I wish we had all died when father was taken."
"But where is she, Ruth? What has happened? Do tell me."
"She is in the workhouse, Ralph."
He sprang to his feet as though he had been shot.
"Ruth, you lie!" he said, almost in a whisper.
She began to sob again, and he stood looking at her with white, drawn face, and a fierce, passionate gleam in his eyes.
For several moments no other word passed between them. Then he sat down by her side again.
"There was no help for it," she sobbed at length. "And mother was quite content and eager to go."
"And you allowed it, Ruth," he said, in a tone of reproach.
"What could I do, Ralph?" she questioned plaintively. "We had spent all, and the landlord stopped us from selling any more furniture. The parish would allow her half a crown a week, which would not pay the rent, and I could get nothing to do."
He gulped down a lump that had risen in his throat, and clenched his hands, but he did not speak.
"She said there was no disgrace in going into the House," Ruth went on; "that father had paid rates for more than five-and-twenty years, and that she had a right to all she would get, and a good deal more."
"Rights go for nothing in this world," he said bitterly. "It is the strong who win."
"Mrs. Menire told me this morning that her son would have trusted us to any amount and for any length of time if he had only known."
"You did not ask him?"
"Mother would never consent," she replied. "Besides, Mr. Menire is a comparative stranger to us."
"That is true, and yet he has been a true friend to me to-day."
"I hesitated about accepting his hospitality," Ruth answered, with her eyes upon the floor. "He sent word yesterday that he had learned you were to be liberated this morning, and that he was going to Bodmin to meet you and bring you back, and that his mother would be glad to offer me hospitality if I would like to meet you here."
"It was very kind of him, Ruth; but where are you living?"
"I am in service, Ralph."
"No!"
"It is quite true. I was bound to earn my living somehow."
He laughed a bitter laugh.
"Prison, workhouse, and domestic service! What may we get to next, do you think?"
"But we have not gone into debt or cheated anybody, and we've kept our consciences clean, Ralph."
"Yes, ours is a case of virtue rewarded," he answered cynically. "Honesty sent to prison, and thrift to the workhouse."
"But we haven't done with life and the world yet."
"You think there are lower depths in store for us?"
"I hope not. We may begin to rise now. Let us not despair, Ralph. Suffering should purify and strengthen us."
"I don't see how suffering wrongly or unjustly can do anybody any good," he answered moodily.
"Nor can I at present. Perhaps we shall see later on. There is one great joy amid all our grief. Your name has been cleared."
"Yes, that is something – better than a verdict of acquittal, eh?" and a softer light came into his eyes.
