The Squire's Daughter
Ralph was standing in the middle of the room measuring with his eye the capacity of an open portmanteau, when William, breathless and excited, burst in upon him. Ruth was seated at the table, the portmanteau by her side.
"I say, Ralph, we've got it," William cried excitedly, without noticing Ruth.
"Got what?" Ralph said, turning suddenly round.
"Got the farm," was the reply. "We jumped to conclusions too soon on Saturday. Jewell says our offer has been accepted."
"Accepted!"
"Ay. Here is the letter, if you like to read it. Shut up your portmanteau, and take it out of sight. You are not going abroad yet awhile."
Ruth, who had risen to her feet on William's sudden appearance, now ran out of the room to hide her tears.
Ralph seized the lawyer's letter and read it slowly and carefully from beginning to end. Then he dropped into a chair and read it a second time. William stood and watched him, with a bright, eager smile lighting up his face.
"It seems all right," Ralph said at length.
"Ay, it's right enough, but I wish we had known earlier."
"It would have saved us a good many anxious and painful hours."
"Never mind. All's well that ends well."
"Oh, we haven't got to the end yet," Ralph said, with a laugh. "If that lode turns out a frost, we shall wish that somebody else had got the place."
"Never!" William said, almost vehemently.
"No?"
"I shall never regret we've got it, or rather that you have, though there isn't an ounce of tin in the whole place."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. One cannot give a reason for everything. But I have a feeling that this opens up a fresh page in the life of both of us."
"That's true enough, but everything depends on the kind of page it will be."
"I'm not worried about that. The thing that interests me is, the powers that be are not going to shunt us as they hoped. Lord St. Goram meant to drive me out of the parish, but I'm not going – "
"Nor I," Ralph interposed, with a laugh; and he shut up the portmanteau, and pushed it against the wall.
"We shall have to keep dark, however, till the deeds are signed," William said. "We must give Sir John no excuse for going back on his bargain. I'd wager my Sunday coat, if I were a betting man, that he hasn't the remotest idea we are the purchasers."
"Won't he look blue when he discovers? You know how he hates me."
"Ay, he has made no secret of that. It is rumoured, however, that he is going to live out of the country, and so he may not get to know for some time. However, we must walk warily till the thing is finally and absolutely settled. Also" – and William lowered his voice to a whisper – "you'd better say nothing yet to your sister."
"Oh, but she knows," Ralph replied.
William looked blank.
"I told her on Saturday what we had been trying to do. I thought she might as well know when the thing, as we thought, had come to an end. Besides, she heard what you said when you came in."
"I forgot all about her for the moment," William said absently. "Perhaps, after all, it is as well she knows. I hope, however, she will not feel in any way obligated to me."
"My dear fellow, what are you talking about?" Ralph said, with a smile. "Why, we owe nearly everything to you."
"No, no. I couldn't have done less, and so far I have received far more than I gave. But I must be getting back, or things will have got tied into a knot," and putting on his hat, he hurried away.
Ruth came back into the room as soon as William had disappeared. Her eyes were still red and her lashes wet with tears, but there was a bright, happy smile on her lips.
"Oh, Ralph," she said, "isn't it almost too good to be true?"
"It may not be so good as it looks," he said, in a tone of banter.
"Oh, it must be, Ralph; for, of course, we shall go back again to Hillside to live."
"But we can't live on nothing, you know, and the whole thing may turn out a frost."
"But you are quite sure it won't, or you and William Menire would not be so elated at getting it."
"Are we elated?"
"You are. You can hardly contain yourself at this moment. You would like to get on the top of the house and shout."
"Which would be a very unwise thing to do. We must not breathe a word to anyone till the thing is absolutely settled."
"And what will you do then?"
"Begin prospecting. If I can get as much out of the place as father sunk in it I shall be quite content."
During the next few weeks William Menire and the Penlogans saw a good deal of each other. Nearly every evening after his shutters had been put up William stole away to St. Ivel. He and Ralph had so many plans to discuss and so many schemes to mature. Ruth was allowed to listen to all the debates, and frequently she was asked to give advice.
It was in some respects a very trying time for William. The more he saw of Ruth the more he admired her. She seemed to grow bonnier every day. The sound of her voice stirred his heart like music, her smile was like summer sunshine. Moreover, she treated him with increasing courtesy, and even tenderness, so much so that it became a positive pain to him to hide his affection. And yet he wanted to be perfectly loyal to his Cousin Sam. Sam had proposed to her, Sam was waiting for an answer, if he had not already received it, and it would be a very uncousinly act to put the smallest obstacle in the way.
Not that William supposed for a moment that he could ever be a rival to Sam in any true sense of the word. On the other hand, he knew that Ruth was of so generous and grateful a nature that she might be tempted to accept him out of pure gratitude if he were bold enough and base enough to propose to her.
So William held himself in check with a firm hand and made no sign, but what the effort cost him no one knew. To sit in the same room with her evening after evening, to watch the play of her features and see the light sparkle in her soft brown eyes, and yet never by word or look betray the passion that was consuming him, was an experience not given to many men.
He was too loyal to his ideals ever to dream of marriage for any cause less than love. Possession was not everything, nor even the greatest thing. If he could have persuaded himself that there was even the remotest possibility of Ruth loving him, he would have gone on his knees to her every day in the week, and would have gladly waited any time she might name.
But he had persuaded himself of the very opposite. He was a dozen years her senior. While she was in the very morning of her youth, he was rapidly nearing youth's eventide. That she could ever care for him, except in a friendly or sisterly fashion, seemed an utter impossibility. The thought never occurred to him but he attempted to strangle it at once.
So the days wore away, and lengthened into weeks, and then the news leaked out in St. Goram that William and Ralph had gone into partnership and had purchased Hillside Farm. For several days little else was talked about. What could it mean? What object could they have in view? For agricultural purposes the place was scarcely worth buying; besides, William Menire knew absolutely nothing about farming, while most people knew that Ralph's tastes did not lie in that direction.
A few people blamed Ralph for "fooling William out of his money," for they rightly surmised that it was chiefly William's money that had purchased the estate. Others whispered maliciously that William had befriended Ralph simply that he might win favour with Ruth; but the majority of people said that William was much too 'cute a business man to be influenced by anybody, whether man or woman, and that if he had invested his money in Hillside Farm he had very good reasons for doing it. The only sensible attitude, therefore, was to wait and see what time would bring forth.
One of the first things Ralph did as soon as the deeds were signed was to send for Jim Brewer. He had heard that the young miner was out of work, and in sore need. He had heard also that Jim had never forgiven himself for not confessing at the outset that it was he who shot the squire by mistake.
Ralph had never seen the young fellow since he came out of prison, and had never desired to see him. He had no love for cowards, and was keenly resentful of the part Brewer had played. Time, however, had softened his feelings. The memory of those dark and bitter months was slowly fading from his mind. Moreover, poor Brewer had suffered enough already for the wrong he had done. He had been boycotted and shunned by almost all who knew him.
Ralph heard by accident one day of the straits to which Brewer had been driven, and his resentment was changed as if by magic into pity. It was easy to blame, easy to fling the word "coward" into the teeth of a weaker brother; but if he had been placed in Jim Brewer's circumstances, would he have acted a nobler part? It was Brewer's care for his mother and the children that led him to hide the truth. Moreover, if he had been wholly a coward, he would never have confessed at all.
Ralph told Ruth what he intended to do, and her eyes filled in a moment.
"Oh, Ralph," she said, "it is the very thing of all others I should like you to do."
"For what reason, Ruth?"
"For every reason that is great and noble and worthy."
"He played a cowardly part."
"And he has paid the penalty, Ralph. Your duty now is to be magnanimous. Besides – " Then she hesitated.
"Besides what?" he asked.
"I have heard you rail at what you call the justice of the strong. You are strong now, you will be stronger in time, and so you must see to it that you don't fall into the same snare."
"Wise little woman," he said affectionately, and then the subject dropped.
It was dark when Jim Brewer paid his visit. He came dejectedly and shamefacedly, much wondering what was in the wind.
Ralph opened the door for him, and took him into his little office.
"I understand you are out of work?" he said, pointing him to a seat.
Jim nodded.
"You understand prospecting, I believe?"
"Yes."
"Well, I can give you a job if you are prepared to take it, and you can begin work to-morrow if you like."
Brewer looked up with dim and wondering eyes, while Ralph further explained, and then he burst into tears.
"I don't deserve it," he sobbed at length. "I did you a mean and cowardly trick, and I've loathed myself for it ever since."
"Oh, well, never mind that now. It is all over and past, and we'd better try and forget it."
"I shall never forget it," Jim said chokingly, "but if you can forgive me, I shall be – oh, so happy!"
"Oh, well, then, I do forgive you, if that is any comfort to you."
Jim hid his face in his hands and burst into fresh weeping.
"Forgive my giving way like this," he said at length. "I ain't quite as strong as I might be. I had influenza a month agone, and it's shook me a goodish bit."
"Why, bless me, you look hungry!" Ralph said, eyeing him closely.
"Do I? I'm very sorry, but the influenza pulls one down terrible."
"But are you hungry?" Ralph questioned.
Jim smiled feebly.
"Oh, I've been hungrier than this," he said; "but I'll be glad to begin work to-morrow morning."
"I'm not sure you're fit. But come into the next room – we are just going to have supper."
Jim hesitated and drew back, but Ralph insisted upon it; and yet, when a plate of meat was placed before him, he couldn't eat.
"Excuse me," he said, his eyes filling, "but the little ones ain't had nothing to-day, and they can't bear it as well as me. If you wouldn't mind me taking it home instead?"
Ruth sprang to her feet in a moment.
"I'll let you have plenty for the little ones," she said, with trembling lips. "Now eat your supper, and enjoy it if you can." And she ran off into the pantry and quickly returned with a small basket full of food, which she placed by his side.
"That ain't for me?" he questioned.
"For you to take home to your mother and the children."
He laid down his knife and fork and rose to his feet.
"I'd like to go home at once, if you don't mind?" he said brokenly.
"But you haven't half finished your supper."
"I'd like to eat it with the little ones and mother, if you wouldn't mind?"
"By all means, if you would rather," Ruth said, smiling through unshed tears.
"I should feel happier," he said; and he emptied his plate into the basket.
Ralph went and opened the door for him, and watched him as he hurried away into the darkness.
He came back after a few minutes, and sat down; but neither he nor Ruth spoke again for some time. It was Ralph who at length broke the silence.
"He may be a long way from being a hero," he said, "but he has a lot of goodness in him. I shall never think hardly of him any more."
Ruth did not reply for a long time, then she said, "I am glad Brewer is to begin prospecting for you."
"Yes?" he questioned.
"I can't explain myself," she answered, "but it seems a right kind of beginning, and I think God's blessing will be upon it."
"We will hope so, at any rate. Yes, we will hope so."
And then silence fell again.
CHAPTER XXXV
FAILURE OR FORTUNE
Farmer Jenkins was grimly contemptuous. He hated miners. "They were always messing up things," sinking pits, covering the hillsides with heaps of rubbish, erecting noisy and unsightly machinery, cutting watercourses through fruitful fields, breaking down fences, and, generally speaking, destroying the peace and quietness of a neighbourhood.
He told Ralph to his face that he considered he was a fool.
"Possibly you are right, Mr. Jenkins," Ralph said, with a laugh.
"Ay, and you'll laugh t'other side of your face afore you've done with it."
"You think so?"
"It don't require no thinking over. Yer father sunk all his bit of money in this place, in bringing it under cultivation; and now you're throwing your bit of money after his, and other folks' to boot, in undoin' all he did, and turning the place into a desert again."
"But suppose the real wealth of this place is under the surface, Mr. Jenkins?"
"Suppose the sky falls. I tell 'ee there ain't no wealth except what grows. However, 'tain't no business of mine. If folks like to make fools of their selves and throw away their bit of money, that's their own look-out." And Farmer Jenkins spat on the ground and departed.
Jim Brewer pulled off his coat, and set to work at a point indicated by Ralph to sink a pit.
That was the beginning of what Ruth laughingly called "Great St. Goram Mine," with an emphasis on the word "great."
After watching Jim for a few minutes, Ralph pulled off his coat also, and began to assist his employee. It did not look a very promising commencement for a great enterprise.
The ground was hard and stony, and Jim's strength was not what it had been, nor what it would be providing he got proper food and plenty of it; while Ralph could scarcely be said to be proficient in the use of pick and shovel.
By the end of the third day they had got through the "rubbly ground," as Jim called it, and had struck what seemed a bed of solid rock.
Ralph got intensely excited. He had little doubt that this was the lode, the existence of which his father had accidentally discovered. With the point of his pick he searched round for fissures; but the rock was very closely knit, and he had had no experience in rock working.
Jim Brewer, as a practical miner, showed much more skill, and when Ralph returned to his home that evening his pockets were full of bits of rock that had been splintered from the lode.
"Well, Ralph, what news?" was Ruth's first question when she met him at the door. She was as much excited over the prospecting expedition as he was.
"We've struck something," he said eagerly, "but whether it's father's lode or no I'm not certain yet."
"But how will you find out?"
"I've got a sample in my pocket," he said, with a little laugh. "I'll test it after supper," and he went into his little laboratory and emptied his pockets on the bench.
By the time he had washed, and brushed his hair, supper was ready.
"And who've you seen to-day?" he said, as he sat down opposite his sister.
"Not many people," she said, blushing slightly. "Mr. Tremail called this afternoon."
He looked up suddenly with a questioning light in his eyes. Sam's name had scarcely been mentioned for the last two or three weeks, and whether Ruth had accepted him or rejected him was a matter that had ceased to trouble him. In fact, his mind had been so full of other things that there was no place left for the love affairs of Sam Tremail and his sister.
"Oh, indeed," he said slowly and hesitatingly; "then I suppose by this time it may be regarded as a settled affair?"
"Yes, it is quite settled," she said, and the colour deepened on her neck and face.
"Well, he's a good fellow – a very good fellow by all accounts," he said, with a little sigh. "I shall be sorry to lose you. Still, I don't know that you could have done much better."
"Oh, but you are not going to lose me yet," she answered, with a bright little laugh, though she did not raise her eyes to meet his.
"Well, no. Not for a month or two, I presume. But I have noticed that when men become engaged they get terribly impatient," and he dropped his eyes to his plate again.
"Yes, I have heard the same thing," she replied demurely. "But the truth is, I have decided not to get married at all."
"You mean – "
"I could not accept his offer, Ralph. I think a woman must care an awful lot for a man before she can consent to marry him."
"And vice versâ," he answered. "Yes, yes, I think you are quite right in that. But how did he take it, Ruth?"
"Not at all badly. Indeed, I think he was prepared for my answer. When he was leaving he met Mary Telfer outside the gate, and he stood for quite a long time laughing and talking with her."
"I did not know he knew her."
"He met her here a fortnight ago."
"Did Mary know why he came here?"
"I don't know. I never told her."
"I am very glad on the whole you have said No to him. Mind you, he's a good fellow, and, as things go, an excellent catch. And yet, if I had to make choice for you, it would not be Sam Tremail. At least I would not place him first."
"And who would you place first?" she questioned, raising her eyes timidly to his.
"Ah, well, that is a secret. No, I am not going to tell you; for women, you know, always go by the rule of contrary."
"If you had gone abroad," Ruth said, after a long pause, "and I had been left alone, I might have given Mr. Tremail a different answer. I don't know. When a good home is offered to a lonely woman the temptation is great. But when I knew that you were going to stay at home, and that Hillside was to be ours once more, I could think of nothing else. Do you think I would leave Hillside for Pentudy?"
"But Hillside is not ours altogether, Ruth."
"It is as good as ours," she answered, with a smile. "William Menire does not want it; he told me so. He said nothing would make him happier than to see me living there again."
"Did he tell you that?"
"He did."
"That's strange. I always understood he did his best to bring about a match between you and Sam Tremail."
"He may have done so. I don't know. He had always a good word for his cousin. On the whole, I think he was quite indifferent."
"William can never be indifferent where his friends are concerned."
"Oh, then, perhaps he will be pleased that I am going to remain to keep house for you."
And then the subject dropped.
Directly supper was over, Ralph retired to his work-room and laboratory, and began with such appliances as he had to grind the stones into powder. It was no easy task, for the rock was hard and of exceedingly fine texture.
Ruth joined him when she had finished her work, and watched him with great interest. His first test was made with the ordinary "vanning shovel," his second with the aid of chemicals. But neither test seemed conclusive or satisfactory.
"There's something wrong somewhere," he said, as he put away his tools. "I must do my next test in the daylight."
Ruth got very anxious as the days passed away. She learned from her brother that he had employed more men to sink further prospecting pits along the course of the lode, but with what results she was unable to discover.
Ralph, for some reason, had grown strangely reticent. He spent very little time at home, and that little was chiefly passed in his laboratory. His face became so serious that she feared for the worst, and refrained from asking questions lest she should add to his anxiety.
William Menire dropped in occasionally of an evening, but she noticed that the one topic of all others was avoided as if by mutual consent. At last Ruth felt as if she could bear the suspense no longer.
"Do tell me, Ralph," she said; "is the whole thing what you call a frost?"
"Why do you ask?" he questioned.
"Because you are so absorbed, and look so terribly anxious."
"I am anxious," he said, "very anxious."
"Then, so far, the lode has proved to be worthless?" she questioned.
"It is either worthless, or else is so rich in mineral that I hardly like to think about it."
"I don't understand," she said.
"Well, it is this way. The tests we have made so far show such a large percentage of tin that I am afraid we are mistaken."
"How? In what way?"
"If there had been a less quantity, I should not have doubted that it was really tin, but there is so much of it that I'm afraid. Now do you understand?"
"But surely you ought to be able to find out?"
"Oh yes; we shall find out in time. A quantity of stuff is in the hands of expert assayers at the present time, and we are awaiting their report. If their final test should harmonise with the others, why – well, I will not say what."
"And when do you expect to hear?"
"I hope, to-morrow morning."
"But why have you kept me in the dark all this time?"
"Because we did not wish to make you anxious. It is bad enough that William and I should be so much on the qui vive that we are unable to sleep, without robbing you of your sleep also."
"I don't think I shall be robbed of my sleep," she said, with a laugh.
"Then you are not anxious?" he questioned.
"Not very."
"Why not?"
"Because father was not the man to be mistaken in a matter of that kind. If any man in Cornwall knew tin when he saw it, it was father."
"I am glad you are so hopeful," he said; and he went off into his laboratory. He did not tell her that the possibilities of mistake were far more numerous than she had any conception of, and that it was possible for the cleverest experts to be mistaken until certain tests had been applied.
William Menire turned up a little later in the evening, and joined Ralph in his laboratory. He would have preferred remaining in the sitting-room, but Ruth gave him no encouragement to stay. She had grown unaccountably reserved with him of late. He was half afraid sometimes that in some way he had offended her. There was a time, and not so long ago, when she seemed pleased to be in his company, when she talked with him in the freest manner, when she even showed him little attentions. But all that was at an end. Ever since that morning when he had rushed into the house with the announcement that their offer for Hillside Farm had been accepted, she had been distinctly distant and cool with him.
He wondered if Ruth had read his heart better than he had been able to read it himself; wondered whether his love for her had coloured his motives. He had been anxious to act unselfishly; to act without reference to his love for Ruth. He was not so sure that he had done so. And if Ruth had guessed that he hoped to win her favour by being generous to her brother – and to her – then he could understand why she was distant with him now. Ruth's love was not to be bought with favours.
Unconsciously William himself became shy and reserved when Ruth was about. The fear that she mistrusted him made him mistrustful of himself. He felt as though he had done a mean thing, and had been found out. If by chance he caught her looking at him, he fancied there was reproach in her eyes, and so he avoided looking at her as much as possible.
