The Squire's Daughter
"It is all over now," William said to himself, as he stood staring at the door. "Ralph will go abroad and leave her alone at home. Then will come the choice of going away to a strange country or going to Pentudy, and Sam, of course, will win," and William sighed, and dropped into a chair behind his desk.
A minute or two later the door swung open again, and Ralph Penlogan stalked into the shop.
William rose at once to his feet, and moved down inside the counter.
"Well, William, any news yet?" Ralph questioned eagerly.
William dropped his eyes slowly to the floor.
"Yes, Ralph," he said, in a half-whisper. "We've missed it."
"Missed it?"
"Ay! I've been a bit afraid of it all along. You remember their lawyer told Mr. Jewell that there were several people after it."
"Where's Jewell's letter?" Ralph questioned, after a pause.
"I've not heard from Jewell."
"Then how did you get to know?"
"Jenkins told me. He got a letter from Sir John this morning saying he had sold it."
"To whom?"
"He mentioned no name – possibly he didn't know. It went to the man, I expect, who was willing to pay most for it."
"Perhaps Sir John got to know we were after it."
"Possibly, though I don't think Jewell would tell him."
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter, I suppose," Ralph said, in a hard voice. "It's all in the day's work."
"I feel a good deal more upset about it than I thought I should," William said, after a long pause.
"Yes?" Ralph questioned.
"I fancy the spirit of adventure had got a bit into my blood," William answered, with a gentle smile. "I felt ready to speculate all I had. I was itching, as one may say, to be at the lode."
"Such an adventurous spirit needed checking," Ralph said, with a laugh that had more bitterness in it than mirth.
"Perhaps so. Now we shall have to face the whole problem over again."
"I shall try my fortune abroad. I made up my mind weeks ago that if this failed I should leave the country."
"Yes, yes. But it comes hard all the same. There ought to be as much room for enterprise in this country as in any other."
"Perhaps there is, but we are in the wrong corner of it."
"No, it isn't that. It is simply that we have to deal with the wrong people. I grow quite angry when I think how all enterprise is checked by the hidebound fossils who happen to be in authority, and the stupid laws they have enacted."
Ralph laughed.
"My dear William, you will be talking treason next," he said, and then a customer came in and put an end to further conversation.
Ralph went back home, and without saying anything to his sister, began quietly to sort out his things.
"I may as well get ready first as last," he said to himself; "and the sooner I take my departure the better."
He was very silent when he came down to dinner, and his eyes had an absent look in them.
"What have you been doing all the morning?" Ruth asked at length.
"Sorting out my things, Ruth; that's all."
She started, and an anxious look came into her eyes.
"But why have you been sorting them out to-day?" she questioned.
"Because to-morrow will be Sunday," he said, with a smile, "and you are strongly opposed to Sunday labour."
"But still, I don't understand?" she interrogated uneasily.
"I would like to get off on Tuesday morning if possible."
"Do you mean – " she began.
"I shall have to clear out sooner or later, Ruth," he interrupted, "and the sooner the better."
"Then you have decided to go abroad, Ralph?" And her face became very pale.
"What else can I do?" he asked. "I really have not the courage to settle down at St. Ivel Mine at fourteen shillings a week, even if I were sure of getting work, which I am not."
"And I don't want you to do it," she said suddenly, with a rush of tears to her eyes.
"In a bigger country, with fewer restrictions and barbed wire fences, I may be able to do something," he went on. "At worst, I can but fail."
"I hoped that something would turn up here," she said, after a long pause.
"So did I, Ruth; and, indeed, until this morning things looked promising."
"Well?"
"Like so many other hopes, Ruth, it has gone out in darkness."
"You have said nothing to me about it," she said at length.
"No. I did not wish to buoy you up with hopes that might end in nothing."
"What was it you had in your mind, Ralph?" And she raised her soft, beseeching eyes to his.
"Oh, well," he said uneasily, "no harm can come of telling you now, though I did promise William that I would say nothing to you about it."
"Oh, indeed!" she said, in hurt tones. "What has he to do with it?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, he had nearly everything to do with it."
"And he had so little confidence in me that I was not to be trusted?"
"No, sis. William Menire is not that kind of man, as you ought to know by this time."
"Then why was I not to be told? Does he take me for a child?"
"Perhaps he does. You see, he is years older than either of us; but his main concern was that you should not feel in any way under an obligation to him."
"I do not understand."
"William feels very sensitive where you are concerned. The truth is, he was going to advance most of the money for the purchase of Hillside."
"Ralph!"
"It is true, dear; and until this morning we hoped we should get it."
"Well?"
"It has been sold to somebody else."
For a long time no other word was spoken. Ruth made a pretence of eating, but she had no longer any appetite for her dinner. Ralph had given her food of another kind – food for reflection. A dozen questions that had been the vaguest suggestions before suddenly crystallised themselves into definite form.
When the dinner was over, Ralph put on his hat and made for the door.
"I am going down to Perranpool," he said. "I have one or two things I want to talk over with Robert Telfer before I go."
"Don't forget to remember me to Mary," Ruth said, following him to the door.
"Anything else?" he questioned, with a smile.
"Yes. Tell her to come up and see me as soon as ever she is able."
"All right," and, waving his hand, he marched rapidly away.
Ruth sighed as she followed him with her eyes. It seemed to her a thousand pities that his native land had no place for such as he. He was not of the common order. He had gifts, education, imagination, enterprise, and yet he was foiled at every point.
Then for some reason her thoughts travelled away to William Menire, and the memory of her brother's words, "William is very sensitive where you are concerned," brought a warm rush of colour to her cheeks.
Why should William be so sensitive where she was concerned? Why should he be so shy and diffident when in her presence? Why was he ever so ready to sing the praises of his cousin?
She was brought back to herself at length by the sound of horse's hoofs, and a minute or two later Sam Tremail drew up and alighted at the garden gate.
CHAPTER XXXIII
A PROPOSAL
Sam did not wait for an invitation. Flinging the reins over the gate post, he marched boldly up the garden path, and greeted Ruth at the door. She received him courteously, as was her nature, but a more sensitive man might have felt that there was not much warmth in her welcome.
"I was riding this way, and so I thought I would call," he explained. "I hope I don't intrude?"
"Oh no, not at all. Will you come inside?"
"Thank you, I shall be pleased to rest a few minutes, and so will Nero. Is your brother at home?"
"No, he has just gone down to Perranpool."
"Mr. Telfer has nearly finished his contract, I hear."
"So I am told."
"And the company have a mountain of concrete on their hands."
"Ralph says they are charging so enormously for it. Besides, they have not sought out new markets."
"Markets would open if the stuff was not so poor. They managed to hustle your brother out of his rights without getting his secret."
"Is that so?"
"So I am told. I know nothing about the matter myself. I can only repeat what people are saying. By the by, I suppose you have heard that your old home has been sold?"
"Yes."
"St. Goram seems to be quite excited about it. The people in my cousin's shop can talk of nothing else."
"Then you have called on your cousin?"
"Just to say 'How d'ye do?' But Saturday afternoon appears to be a busy day with him. Seems a shame that he has to turn out, doesn't it?"
"It is a shame."
"Of course, in a measure, it's his own fault. He ought not to have opposed Lord St. Goram. A man in business ought not to have any politics, and should keep out of public affairs."
"But suppose he agreed with Lord St. Goram?"
"Oh, that would make a difference, of course. A man ought to know on which side his bread is buttered."
"And principle and conviction should not count?"
"I don't say that. A man can have any convictions he likes, so long as he keeps them to himself; but in politics it is safest to side with the powers that be."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it. Take the case of my Uncle Ned."
"I never heard of him," Ruth said innocently.
"Oh, well, his late landlord was a Liberal, and, of course, my uncle was a Liberal. Then his landlord became a Unionist, and Uncle Ned became a Unionist also. Well, then his landlord died and his son took possession. He's a Conservative and true blue, and, of course, Uncle Ned is a Tory of the Tories. What is the result? He gets no end of privileges. Moreover, there is no fear of his being turned out of his farm."
"And you admire your Uncle Ned?"
"I think he might be a little less ostentatious. But he knows on which side his bread is buttered. Now my Cousin William goes dead against his own landlord; there's all the difference. Result, Ned remains and prospers; William has notice to quit."
"I'd rather be William than your Uncle Ned."
"You would?"
"A thousand times. A man who places bread and butter before conscience and conviction is a coward, and a man who changes his political creed to please his landlord is too contemptible for words."
Sam turned uneasily in his chair and stared. He had never imagined that this sweet-faced girl could speak so strongly. Moreover, he began to fear that he had unconsciously put his foot into it. He had called for the purpose of making love to Ruth, and had come perilously near to making her angry.
How to get back to safer ground was a work of no small difficulty. He could not unsay what he had said, and to attempt to trim would only provoke her scorn. Neither could he suddenly change the subject without considerable loss of dignity. So, after an awkward pause, he said —
"Everyone has a right to his or her own opinions, of course. For myself, I should not be prepared to express myself so strongly."
"Perhaps you do not feel strongly," she said.
"I don't think I do," he replied, in a tone of relief; "that is, on public questions. I am no politician, and, besides, there is always a good deal to be said on both sides of every question. I try as far as possible, you know, to keep an open mind," and he smiled benevolently, and felt well pleased with himself.
After that conversation flagged. Ruth appeared to be absent-minded, and in no mood for further talk. Nero outside champed at his bit, and was eager to be on the move again. Sam turned his hat round and round in his hands, and puzzled his brain as to how he should get near the subject that was uppermost in his mind.
He started a number of topics – the weather, the chances of a fine day for Summercourt Fair, the outbreak of measles at Doubleday, the price of tin, the new travelling preacher, the Sunday-school anniversary at Trebilskey, the large catch of pilchards at Mevagissey – but they all came to a sudden and ignominious conclusion.
He rose to his feet at length almost in despair, and looked towards the door. For some reason the task he had set himself was far more difficult than he had imagined. In his ride from Pentudy he had rehearsed his speech to the listening hedgerows with great diligence, and with considerable animation. He had rounded his periods till they seemed almost perfect. He had decided on the measure of emphasis to be laid on certain passages. But now, when he stood face to face with the girl he coveted, the speech eluded him almost entirely, while such passages as he could remember did not seem at all fitting to the occasion. The time clearly was not propitious. He would have to postpone his declaration to a more convenient season.
"I'm afraid I must be going," he said desperately.
"Your horse seems to be getting impatient," Ruth replied, looking out of the window.
"It's not the horse I care for," he blurted out; "it's you."
"Me?" she questioned innocently.
"Do you think anything else matters when you are about?" he asked in a tone almost of defiance.
"I fear I do not understand," she said, with a bewildered expression in her eyes.
"Oh, you must understand," he replied vehemently. "You must have seen that I love you."
"No, no!"
"Don't interrupt me, please, now that I've started. Give me a chance – oh, do give me a chance. I've loved you ever since your father's sale. I'm sure it's love I feel for you. Whenever people talk about my getting married, my thoughts always turn to you in a moment. I waited and waited for a chance of speaking to you, and thought it would never come; and now that I've got to know you a bit – "
"But you don't know me," she interrupted.
"Yes, I do. Besides, William has told me how good you are; and then I'm willing to wait until I know you better, and you know me better. I don't ask you to say Yes to-day, and please don't say No. I'm sure I could make you happy. You should have a horse of your own to ride if you wanted one, and I would be as good to you as ever I could, and I don't think I'm a bad sort. Ask my Cousin William, and he'll tell you that I'm a steady-going fellow. I know I'm not clever, nor anything of that sort; but I would look after you really well – I would, indeed. And think of it. You may need a friend some day. You may be left alone, as it were; your brother may get married. There's never any knowing what may happen. But if you would let me look after you and care for you, you wouldn't have a worry in the world. Think of it – "
She put up her hand deprecatingly, for when his tongue was once unloosed his words flowed without a break. He looked very manly and handsome, too, as he stood before her, and there was evident sincerity in his tones.
He broke off suddenly, and stood waiting. He felt that he had done the thing very clumsily, but that was perhaps inevitable under the circumstances.
Ruth looked up and met his eyes. She was no flirt; she was deeply moved by his confession. Moreover, when he spoke of her being alone some day and needing protection, he touched a sympathetic chord in her heart. She was to be left alone sooner than he knew. Already preparations had begun for her brother's departure.
"Please do not say any more," she said gently. "I do not doubt your sincerity for a moment."
"But you are not offended with me?" he gasped.
"No, I am not offended with you. Indeed, I feel greatly honoured by your proposal."
"Then you will think it over?" he interrupted. "Say you will think it over. Don't send me away without hope."
She smiled a sweet, pathetic smile, and answered —
"Yes, I will think it over."
"Thank you so much," he said, with beaming face. "That is the most I could hope for to-day," and he held out his hand to her, which she took shyly and diffidently.
"If you can only bring yourself to say Yes," he said, as he stood in the doorway, "I will do my best to make you the happiest woman in the world."
She did not reply, however. From behind the window curtains she watched him mount his horse and ride away; then she dropped into an easy-chair and stared into space.
It is sometimes said that a woman rarely gets the man she wants – that he, unknowing and unseeing, goes somewhere else, and she makes no sign. Later on she accepts the second best, or it may be the third best, and tries to be content.
Ruth wondered if contentment was ever to be found along that path, if the heart grew reconciled to the absence of romance, if the passion of youth was but the red glare of sunrise which quickly faded into the sober light of day.
Sam Tremail was not a man to be despised. He was no wastrel, no unknown adventurer. He was a man of character and substance. He had been a good son; he would doubtless make a good husband. Could she be content?
No halo of romance gathered about his name. No beautiful and tender passion shook her heart when she thought of him. Life at Pentudy would be sober and grey and commonplace. There would be no passion flowers, no crimson and scarlet and gold. On the other hand, there would be no want, no mean and niggling economies, no battle for daily bread. Was solid comfort more lasting, and therefore more desirable, than the richly-hued vesture of romance?
How about the people she knew – the people who had reached middle life – the people who were beginning to descend the western slope? Had there been any romance in their life? Had they thrilled at the beginning at the touch of a hand? Had their hearts leaped at the sound of a voice? And if so, why was there no sign of it to-day? Did familiarity always breed contempt? Did possession kill romance? Did the crimson of the morning always fade into the grey of noon?
Would it be better to marry without dreams and illusions, to begin with the sober grey, the prose and commonplace, than begin with some richly-hued dreams that would fade and disappear before the honeymoon came to an end? To be disillusioned was always painful. And yet, would not one swift month of rich romance, of deep-eyed, passionate love, be worth a lifetime of grey and sober prose?
Ruth was still thinking when Ralph returned from Perranpool.
Meanwhile Sam was trotting homeward in a very jubilant frame of mind. He pulled up in front of William Menire's shop and beckoned to his cousin.
"I want you to congratulate me, old man," he said, when William stood at his horse's head.
William's face fell in a moment, and his lips trembled in spite of himself.
"Have you – you – been to – to – ?" William began.
"I've just come from there," Sam interrupted, with a laugh. "Been there for the last hour, and now I'm off home feeling that I have done a good day's work."
"You have proposed to her?"
"I have! It required a good bit of courage, but I've done it."
"And she has accepted?"
"She has not rejected me, at any rate. I didn't ask for a definite answer right off. But it is all right, my boy, I'm sure it is. Now, give us your hand. You've been a good friend to me. But for you I might never have got to know her."
William reached up his hand slowly and silently.
"It's often been a wonder to me," Sam said, squeezing his kinsman's hand, "that you never looked in that direction yourself; but I'm glad you never did."
"It would have been no use," William said sadly. "I'm not the kind of man to take any girl's fancy."
"Oh, that's all nonsense," Sam said gaily. "I admit that a great many girls like a fellow with a lot of dash and go, and are not particular about his past so long as he has a winning tongue and a smart exterior. But all girls are not built that way. Why, I can fancy you being a perfect hero in some people's eyes."
"You must have a vivid imagination," William said, with a smile; and then Sam put spurs to his horse and galloped away.
William went back to his work behind his counter with a pathetic and far-away look in his eyes. He was glad when the little group of customers were served, and he was left alone for a few minutes.
He had intended going to see the Penlogans that evening, but he decided now that he would not go. While Ruth was free he had a right to look at her and admire her, but he was not sure that that right was his any longer.
He wondered if Sam noticed that he did not congratulate him. He could not get out the words somehow.
He sat down at length with his elbow on the counter, and rested his head on his hand. He began to realise that he had built more on the acquisition of Hillside Farm than he knew. He had hoped in some vague way that the farm would be a bond between him and Ruth. Well, well, it was at an end now; the one romance of his life had vanished. His unspoken love would remain unspoken.
The next day being Sunday, all the characters in this story had time for meditation. Ruth and Ralph walked to Veryan that they might worship once more in the little chapel made sacred to them by the memory of father and mother. Ruth had great difficulty in keeping back the tears. How often she had sat in that bare and comfortless pew holding her father's hand. How she missed him again. How acute and poignant was her sense of loss.
She never once looked at her brother. He sat erect and motionless by her side, but she doubted if he heard the sermon. The thought of the coming separation lay heavy upon him as it did upon her.
On their way back Ruth plucked up her courage and told Ralph of Sam Tremail's proposal the previous afternoon.
Ralph stopped short for a moment, and looked at her.
"Now I understand why you have been so absent-minded," he said at length. "I was afraid you were fretting because I was going away."
"If I fretted, I should try and not let you see," she answered. "You have enough to bear already."
"The thought of leaving you unprotected is the hardest part," he said.
"Would it be a relief to you if I accepted Sam Tremail's offer?" she questioned.
"Supposing you cared for him enough, it would be," he replied. "Sam is a good fellow by all accounts. Socially, he is much above us."
"I have nothing against him," she answered slowly, "nothing! And I am quite sure he meant all he said."
"And do you care for him?"
She shook her head slowly and smiled —
"I neither like him nor dislike him. But he offers me protection and a good home."
"To be free from worry is a great thing," he answered, looking away across the distant landscape; and then he thought of Dorothy Hamblyn, and wondered if love and romance were as much to a woman as to a man.
"Yes, freedom from worry is doubtless a great thing," she said, after a long pause, "but is it the greatest and best?"
But she waited in vain for an answer. Ralph was thinking of something else.
CHAPTER XXXIV
A FRESH PAGE
William Menire got up early on Monday morning and helped to tidy up the shop before breakfast. He was not sorry that the working week had begun again. Work left him very little time for brooding and introspection. He had been twice to church the previous day, but he could not remember a word of the sermons. His own thoughts had drowned the voice of the preacher.
"I hope I shall have a busy week," he said to himself, as he helped his apprentice to take down the shutters. "The less I think the happier I shall be."
During breakfast the postman called. There was only one delivery per day, and during Sunday there was no delivery at all.
William glanced at the letters, but did not open any of them. One, in a blue envelope, was from Mr. Jewell, the solicitor. The postmark bore Saturday's date.
"His news is two days late," William reflected. "We really ought to have two deliveries in a place like this."
Then he helped himself to some more bacon. His mother was not so well, and had her breakfast in bed.
No one called him from the shop, so he was allowed to finish his breakfast in peace. Then he turned his attention to his correspondence. The blue envelope was left to the last.
"I wonder if Jewell knows the name of the purchaser?" he reflected, as he inserted a small paper-knife and cut open the envelope. He unfolded the letter slowly, then gave a sudden exclamation.
"Dear Sir, – I am advised by post this morning that your offer for Hillside Farm has been accepted, and – "
But he did not stop to read any further. Rushing into the passage, he seized his hat, and without a word to anyone, hurried away in the direction of St. Ivel as fast as his legs could carry him.
