The Squire's Daughter
As the weeks sped away, and springtime grew into summer, and all the countryside lay smiling and beautiful in the warmth of the sunshine, his spirits rose imperceptibly; the sense of injustice that had burdened him gradually grew lighter, the bitter memory of Bodmin Gaol faded slowly from his mind, his grief at the loss of his parents passed unconsciously into painless resignation, and life, for its own sake, seemed to gather a new meaning.
He was young and strong, and in perfect health. Consequently, youth and strength and hope and confidence asserted themselves in spite of everything. How could he help dreaming bright dreams of the future when the earth lay basking in beauty in the light of the summer sun, and away at the end of the valley a triangular glimpse of the sea carried his thoughts into the infinite?
So strong he felt, so full of life and vitality, that nothing seemed impossible to him. He was not impatient. He was so young that he could afford to bide his time. He would lay the foundation slowly and with care. He had to creep before he could walk, and walk before he could run.
Now and then, it is true, he had his bitter and angry moments, when the memory of the past swept over him like an icy flood, and when a sense of intolerable injustice seemed to wrap the world in darkness and shut out all hope of the future.
One such moment he had when he contracted with William Jenkins to mow down a field of hay on Hillside Farm. He could do this only by working overtime, which usually meant working sixteen hours a day. But he was anxious to earn all he could, so that at the earliest possible date he might get a little home together for himself and Ruth.
He had not seen Hillside for many a month until the day he went to interview William Jenkins. He knew it would cost him a pang, but he could not afford to wait on sentiment or emotion. And yet he hardly realised how deeply the place was enshrined in his heart until he stood knocking at the door of the house that was once his home.
He was glad that nobody heard his first knock. He thought he had got beyond the reach of emotion, but it was not so. Suddenly, as a wave rises and breaks upon the shore, a flood of memory swept over him. He was back again in the dear dead past, with all the hopes of boyhood dancing before his eyes. He saw his father coming up the home-close with a smile upon his face, his mother in the garden gathering flowers with which to decorate the table. He could almost fancy he heard Ruth singing in the parlour as she bent over her sewing.
Then the wave retreated, leaving him cold and numbed and breathless. It was his home no longer. He was standing, a stranger, at the door that once he opened by right. His eyes cleared at length, and he looked out across the fields that he had helped to reclaim from the waste. How familiar the landscape was! He knew every mound and curve, every bush and tree. Could it be possible that in one short year, and less, so much had happened?
He pulled himself together after a few moments, and knocked at the door again. William Jenkins started and looked confused when he saw Ralph standing before him, for he had never been able to shake off an uneasy feeling that he had not done a kind and neighbourly thing when he took Hillside Farm over David Penlogan's head, even though Sir John's agent had pressed him to do so.
Ralph plunged into the object of his visit after a kindly greeting.
"I hear you are letting out your hay crop to be cut," he said, "and I came across to see if I could get the job."
"I did not know you were out of work," Jenkins said uneasily.
"I'm not," Ralph answered. "But I want to put in a little overtime these long days. Besides, you know I'm used to farm work."
"But if you work only overtime it will take you a long time to get down the crop."
"Oh, not so long. It's light till nearly ten o'clock. Besides, we're in for a spell of fine weather, and a day or two longer won't make any difference."
"The usual price per acre, I suppose?" the farmer questioned, after a pause.
"Well, I presume nobody would be inclined to take less," Ralph said, with a laugh.
The farmer dived his hands into his pockets, contemplated the evening sky for several minutes, took two or three long strides down the garden path and back again, cleared his throat once or twice, and then he said —
"Will waant yer money, 'spose, when the job's done?"
"Unless you prefer to pay in advance."
The farmer grinned, and dug a hole into the ground with his heel.
"There ain't too much money to be made out of this place, I'm thinkin'," he said at length.
"Not at the price you suggest," Ralph said, with a twinkle in his eye.
The farmer grinned again.
"I didn't main it that way," he said, digging another hole in the gravel. "I was thinkin' of myself. The farm ain't as good as I took it to be."
"But it will mend every year."
"Ef it don't I shall wish I never see'd it. The crops are lookin' only very middlin', I can assure 'ee."
"Sorry to hear that. But what about the hay-field?"
"I 'spose you've got a scythe?"
"I can get one, in any case."
"Well, 'spose we say done!" And Jenkins contemplated the evening sky again with considerable interest.
Afterwards Ralph wished that he had found work for his spare time almost anywhere rather than on Hillside Farm. There was not a single thing that did not remind him in some way of the past. He would raise his head unconsciously, expecting to see his father working by his side. The flutter of Mrs. Jenkins' print dress in the garden would cause the word "mother" to leap to his lips unbidden, and when the daylight faded, and the moon began to peep over the hill, he would turn his face towards the house, fancying that Ruth was calling him to supper.
He finished the task at length, and dropped his hard-earned silver into his pocket.
"It'll be a dear crop of hay for me, I'm thinkin'," Jenkins said lugubriously.
"It isn't so heavy as it might be," Ralph answered. "A damp spring suits Hillside best."
"I sometimes wish your father had it instead of me." And Jenkins twisted his shoulders uncomfortably.
"Father is better off," Ralph answered slowly, looking across the valley to a distant line of hills.
"Ay, it's to be hoped so, for there ain't much better off here, I'm thinkin'. It's mostly worse off. And as we get owlder we feel it more 'n more."
"So you regret taking the farm already?" Ralph questioned almost unconsciously.
"I ded'n say so. We've got to make a livin' somehow, leastways we've got to try." And he turned suddenly round and walked into the house.
Ralph walked across the fields to interview Peter Ladock, whose farm adjoined. He struck the boundary hedge at a point where a gnarled and twisted oak made a feature in the landscape. Half-way over the hedge he paused abruptly. This was the point his father had asked him to keep in his memory, and yet until this moment he had never once thought of it.
Not that it mattered: the county was intersected with tin lodes, iron lodes, copper lodes, and lead lodes, and most of them would not pay for the working. And very likely this lode, if it existed – for, after all, his father had had very little opportunity of demonstrating its existence – would turn out to be no better than the rest.
For a moment he paused to draw an imaginary line to the chimney-top, as his father had instructed him, then he sprang off the hedge into Ladock's field and made his way towards his house. Peter, who knew his man, agreed to pay Ralph by the hour, and he could work as many hours as he liked.
To one less strong and healthy than Ralph it would have been killing work; but he did not seem to take any harm. Once a week came Sunday, and during that day he seemed to regain all that he had lost. Fortunately, too, during harvest-time the farmers provided extra food. There was "crowst" between meals, and supper when they worked extra late.
No sooner was the hay crop out of the way than the oats and barley began to whiten in the sunshine, and then the wheat began to bend its head before the sickle.
Ralph quadrupled his savings during the months of June, July, and August, and before September was out he had taken a cottage and begun to furnish it.
Bice had a few things left that once belonged to his mother and father. Ralph pounced upon them greedily, and bought them cheaply from the assistant when Bice was out.
On the first Saturday afternoon he had at liberty he went to St. Hilary to interview his sister. Ruth was on the look-out for him. She had got the afternoon off, and was eager to look into his eyes again. It was nearly three months since she had seen him.
She met him with a glad smile and eyes that were brimful of happy tears.
"How well you look," she said, looking up into his strong, sunburnt face. "I was afraid you were working yourself to death."
"No fear of that," he said, with a laugh; "it is not work that kills, you know, but worry."
"And you are not worrying?" she asked.
"Not now," he answered. "I think I'm fairly started, and, with hard work and economy, there is no reason why we should not jog along comfortably together."
"And you are still of the same mind about my keeping house for you?"
"Why, what a question! As if I would stay a day longer in 'diggings' than I could help."
"Are you not comfortable?" she questioned, glancing anxiously up into his face.
"Yes, when at work or asleep."
"There is still another question," she said at length, with a smile.
"And that?"
"You may want to get married some time, and then I shall be in the way."
He laughed boisterously for a moment, and then his face grew grave.
"I shall never marry," he said at length. "At least, that is my present conviction."
She regarded him narrowly for a moment, and wondered. There came a look into his eyes which she could not understand – a far-away, pathetic look, such as is seen in the eyes of those who have loved and lost.
Ruth was curious. Being a woman, she could not help it. Who was there in St. Goram likely to touch her brother's fancy? Young men who have never been in love often talk freely about getting married.
She changed the subject a few minutes later, and carefully watched the effect of her words.
"I suppose nothing has been heard in St. Goram of Miss Dorothy?"
"No," he said hurriedly. "Have you heard anything?" And he looked at her with eager eyes, while the colour deepened on his cheeks.
"I am not in the way of hearing St. Goram news," she said, with a smile.
He drew in his breath sharply, and turned away his eyes, and for several minutes neither of them spoke again.
Ruth began unconsciously to put two and two together. She had heard of such things – read of them in books. Fate was often very cruel to the most deserving. Unlikelier things had happened. Dorothy was exceedingly pretty, and since her accident she had revealed traits of character that scarcely anyone suspected before. Ralph had been thrown into very close contact at the most impressionable part of his life. He had succoured her when she was hurt, carried her in his arms all the way from Treliskey Plantation to the cross roads. Nor was that all. She had discovered him after his accident, and when the doctor arrived on the scene, he was lying with his head on her lap.
If he had learned to love her, it might not be strange, but it would be an infinite pity, all the same. The cruel irony of it would be too sad for words. Of course, he would get over it in time. The contempt he felt for Sir John, the difference in their social position, and last, but not least, the fact that she had been effectually banished from Hamblyn Manor, and that there was no likelihood of their meeting again, would all help him to put her out of his heart and out of his life. Nevertheless, if her surmise was correct, that Dorothy Hamblyn had stolen his heart, she could quite understand him saying that he did not intend to marry.
"Poor Ralph!" she said to herself, with a sigh. And then she began to talk about the things that would be needed in their new home.
Ruth had saved almost the whole of her nine months' wages, which, added to what Ralph had saved, made quite a respectable sum. To lay it out to the best advantage might not be easy. She wanted so many things that he saw no necessity for, while he wanted things that she pronounced impossible.
On the whole, however, they had a very happy time in spending their savings and getting the little cottage in order. Everything, of course, was of the cheapest and simplest. They attended most of the auction sales within a radius of half a dozen miles, and some very useful things they got for almost nothing.
Both of them were in the best of spirits. Ruth looked forward with great eagerness to the time of her release from service; not that she was overworked, while nobody could be kinder to her than her mistress. Nevertheless, a sense of servitude pressed upon her constantly. She had lived all her life before in such an atmosphere of freedom, and had pictured for herself a future so absolutely different, that it was not easy to accommodate herself to the straitened ways of service.
Ralph was weary of "diggings," and was literally pining for a home of his own. He had endured for six months, because he had been lodged and boarded cheap. He had shown no impatience while nothing better was in sight, but when the cottage was actually taken, and some items of furniture had been moved into it, he began to count the days till he should take full possession.
He went to bed, to dream of soft pillows and clean sheets, and dainty meals daintily served; of a bright hearth, and an easy-chair in which he might rest comfortably when the long evenings came; of a sweet face that should sit opposite to him; and, above all, of quietness from the noisy strife of quarrelsome and unruly children.
Ruth returned from St. Hilary on the first of October – a rich, mellow day, when all the earth seemed to float in a golden haze. William Menire discovered that he had business in St. Hilary that day, and that it would be quite convenient for him to bring Ruth and her boxes in his trap. He put the matter so delicately that Ruth could not very well refuse.
It was a happy day for William when he drove through St. Goram with Ruth sitting by his side, and a happy day for Ruth when she alighted at the garden gate of their little cottage, and caught the light of a new hope in her brother's eyes.
It was a fresh start for them both, but to what it might lead they did not know – nor even desire to know.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE ROAD TO FORTUNE
No sooner had Ralph got settled in his new home than his brain began to work with renewed energy and vigour. He began making experiments again in all sorts of things. He built a rough shed at the back of the cottage, and turned it into a laboratory. He spent all his spare time in trying to reduce some of his theories to practice.
Moreover, he got impatient of the slow monotony of day labour. He did not grumble at the wages. Possibly he was paid as much as he deserved, but he did chafe at the horse-in-the-mill kind of existence. To do the same kind of thing day after day, and feel that an elephant or even an ass might be trained to do it just as well, was from his point of view humiliating. He wanted scope for the play of other faculties. He was not a mule, with so much physical strength that might be paid for at so much per hour; he was a man, with brains and intelligence and foresight. So he began to look round him for some other kind of work, and finally he took a small contract which kept him and three men he employed busy for two months, and left him at the end twenty-eight shillings and ninepence poorer than if he had stuck to his day labour.
He was nothing daunted, however. Indeed, he was a good deal encouraged. He was afraid at one time that he would come out of his contract in debt. He worked considerably more hours than when he was a day labourer, and he was inclined to think that he worked considerably harder, and there was less money at the end; but he was far happier because he was infinitely more interested.
Ruth, who had been educated in a school of the strictest economy, managed to make both ends meet, and with that she was quite content. She had great faith in her brother. She liked to see him busy with his experiments. It kept him out of mischief, if nothing else. But that was not all. She believed in his ultimate success. In what direction she did not know, but he was not commonplace and humdrum. He was not willing to jog along in the same ruts from year's end to year's end without knowing the reason why. She rejoiced in his impatience and discontent, for she recognised that there was something worthy and even heroic behind. Discontent under certain circumstances and conditions might be noble – almost divine. She wished sometimes that she had more of his spirit.
She never uttered a word of complaint if he gave her less money to keep house upon, never hinted that his experiments were too expensive luxuries for their means. Something would grow out of his enterprise and enthusiasm by and by. He had initiative and vision and judgment, and such qualities she felt sure were bound to tell in the end.
When Ralph had finished his first contract he took a second, and did better by it. He learned by experience, as all wise men do, and gathered confidence in himself as the result.
With the advent of spring rumours got into circulation that a large and wealthy company had been formed for the purpose of developing Perranpool.
A few years previously it had been only a fishing village, distinguished mainly for the quality of its pilchards. But some London journalist, who during a holiday time spent a few days there, took it into his head to turn an honest penny by writing a friendly article about it. It is to be presumed he meant all he said, for he said a great deal that many people wondered at. But, in any case, the article was well written and was widely quoted from.
The result was that the following year nearly every fisherman's wife had to turn lodging-house keeper, and not being spoiled by contact with the ordinary tripper, these worthy men and women made their visitors comfortable with but small profit to themselves.
The next year a still larger number of people came, for they had heard that Perranpool was not only secluded and salubrious, but also remarkably cheap.
That was the beginning of Perranpool's fame. Every year more and more people came to enjoy its sunshine and build sand-castles on its beach. Houses sprang up like mushrooms, most of them badly built, and all of them entirely hideous. A coach service was established between it and the nearest railway station, a company was formed for the purpose of supplying gas at a maximum charge for a minimum candle-power, while another company brought water from a distance, so rich in microbes that the marvel was that anyone drank it and lived.
Since then things have further improved. A branch railway has been constructed, and two or three large hotels have been built, a Local Board has been formed, and the rates have been quadrupled. A "Town Band" plays during the season an accompaniment to the song the wild waves sing, and the picturesque sea-front has given place to an asphalted promenade. At the time of which we write, however, the promenade existed only in imagination, and some of the older houses were threatened by the persistently encroaching sea.
So a company was formed for the purpose of building a breakwater and a pier, and for the purpose of developing a large tract of land it had acquired along the sea-front, and tenders were invited for the carrying out of certain specified work.
None of the tenders, however, were accepted. There was no stone in the neighbourhood fit for the purpose, and to bring granite from the distant quarries meant an expense that was not to be thought of. The directors of the company began to feel sick. The debenture holders were eating up the capital, and the ordinary shareholders were clamouring for a dividend, while the sea threatened to eat up the land.
Meanwhile Ralph Penlogan had been looking at a huge heap of gravel and mica and blue clay which had been accumulating during three generations on the side of a hill some two or three miles inland. Every day and all the year round men pushed out small trucks and tipped their contents over the brow of this huge barrow. Every year the great heap extended its base, engulfing hedges and meadows and even plantations. There was no value in this waste whatever. In fact, it involved the company in a loss, for they had to pay for the land it continued to engulf. Anyone who liked to cart away a few loads for the purpose of gravelling his garden-path was at liberty to do so. The company would have been grateful if the whole mass of it could have been carted into the sea.
Ralph got a wheelbarrowful of the stuff and experimented with it. Then he wrote to the chairman of the company and asked permission to use some of the waste heap for building purposes – a permission which was at once granted. In fact, the chairman intimated that the more he could use the more he – the chairman – and his co-directors would be pleased.
Ralph's next step was to interview a local contractor who was very anxious to build the new sea-wall and pier. The result of that interview was that the contractor sent in a fresh tender, not to build the wall of granite, but with a newly discovered concrete, which could be manufactured at a very small cost, and which would serve the purposes of the company even better than granite itself.
Ralph registered his invention or discovery, got his concession from the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company into the best legal form possible, and then commenced operations.
Telfer, the contractor, who was delighted with the quality of the concrete, financed Ralph at the start, and helped him in every way in his power.
The Perranpool Pier and Land Company, after testing the new material in every way known to them, accepted Telfer's tender, and the great work was commenced forthwith.
In a couple of months Ralph had as many men at work as he had room for. Telfer had laid a light tram-line down the valley, and as fast as the blocks were manufactured they were run down to Perranpool.
Ralph was in high spirits. Having the material for nothing, and water in abundance, he was able to manufacture his concrete even cheaper than he had calculated. In fact, his profits were so good that he increased the wages of his hands all round, and got more work out of them in consequence.
Robert Telfer, however, who was much more of a man of the world than Ralph, was by no means satisfied with the condition of affairs. He foresaw contingencies that never occurred to the younger man.
"Look here," he said to Ralph one day, "you ought to turn out much more stuff than you are doing."
"Impossible," Ralph answered. "I have so many men at work that they are getting in each other's way as it is."
"But why not double your shifts? Let one lot get in at six and break off at two, and the second come in at two and leave off at ten."
"I never thought of that," Ralph answered.
"Well, you take my advice. There's an old proverb, you know, about making hay while the sun shines."
"But the sun will shine as long as you take my concrete."
"Don't be too sure of that."
"How?" Ralph said, glancing up with questioning eyes.
"The raw material may give out."
Ralph laughed.
"Why, there's stuff enough to last a hundred years," he said.
"That may be; but don't be too sure that you will be allowed to use it."
"Do you mean to suggest that the company will attempt to go behind their agreement?"
"More unlikely things have happened."
"Then you have heard something?"
"Nothing very definite. But some of the shareholders are angry at seeing you make money."
"But the stuff has been lying waste for generations, and accumulating year by year. They rather gain than lose by letting me use it up."
"But some of them are asking why they cannot use it themselves."
"Well, let them if they know how."
"You have patented your discovery?"
"I have tried, but our patent laws are an outrage."
"Exactly. And, after all, there's not much mystery in concrete."
