since. It might be pity he felt for her, or sympathy; but, whatever it
was, it made him anxious to know her better. Her sweet, sad eyes haunted
him, her tremulous lips made him long to comfort her.

How to get acquainted with her, however, remained an insoluble problem.
She was altogether outside the circle of his friends. She had lived all
her life in another parish, and moved in an entirely different orbit.

While she lived with Mr. Varcoe at St. Hilary, he met her several times
in the streets--for he went to St. Hilary market at least once a
fortnight--but he had no excuse for speaking to her. He knew, of course,
of the misfortune that had overtaken her, knew that she was earning her
living in service of some kind, knew that her mother was in the
workhouse, that her brother was in prison awaiting his trial, but all
that only increased the volume of his compassion. He felt that he would
willingly give all he possessed for the privilege of helping and
comforting her.

For a long time he lost sight of her; then he learned that she had gone
to keep house for her brother at St. Ivel. But St. Ivel was a long way
from Pentudy, and there was practically no direct communication between
the two parishes.

Then he learned that William Menire--a second cousin of his--was on
friendly terms with the Penlogans; but the trouble was he hardly knew
his relative by sight, and he had never made any effort to know him
better. In the past, at any rate, the Menires had not been considered
socially the equals of the Tremails. The Tremails had been large farmers
for generations. The Menires were nothing in particular.

William was a grocer's assistant when his father died. How he had
managed to maintain his mother and build up a flourishing business out
of nothing was a story often told in St. Goram. The very severity of his
struggle was perhaps in his favour. His neighbours sympathised with him
in his uphill fight, and patronised his small shop when it was
convenient to do so. So his business grew. Later on people discovered
that they could get better stuff for the money at William's shop than
almost anywhere else. Hence, when sympathy failed, self-interest took
its place. As William's capital increased, he added new departments to
his business, and vastly improved the appearance of his premises. He
turned the whole side of his shop into a big window at his own expense,
not asking Lord St. Goram for a penny.

At the time of which we write, William had reached the sober age of
thirty-six, and was generally looked upon as a man of substance.

He was surprised one evening to receive a visit from his cousin, Sam
Tremail. The young farmer had to make himself known. He did so in rather
a clumsy fashion; but then, the task he had set himself was a delicate
one, and he had not been trained in the art of diplomacy.

"It seems a pity," Sam said, with a benevolent smile, "that relatives
should be as strangers to each other."

"Relationships don't count for much in these days, I fear," William
answered cautiously. "Nevertheless, I am glad to see you."

"You think it is every man for himself, eh?" Sam questioned, with a
slight blush.

"I don't say it is the philosophy or the practice of every man. But in
the main----"

"Yes, I think you are right," Sam interjected, with a sudden burst of
candour. "And, really, I don't want you to think that I am absolutely
disinterested in riding over from Pentudy to see you."

"It is a long journey for nothing," William said, with a smile.

"Mind you, I have often wanted to know you better," Sam went on. "Father
has often spoken of your pluck and perseverance. He admires you
tremendously."

"It is very kind of him," William said, with a touch of cynicism in his
tones. "I hope he is well. I have not seen him for years."

"He is first rate, thank you, and so is mother. I suppose you know they
have retired from the farm?"

"No, I had not heard."

"I have it in my own hands now. For some things I wish I hadn't. I tried
to persuade father and mother to live on in the house, but they had made
up their minds to go and live in town, where they could have gas in the
streets, and all that kind of thing. If I had only a sister to keep
house it wouldn't be so bad."

"But why don't you get married?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, that is the very thing I have come to talk
to you about."

And Sam turned all ways in his chair, and looked decidedly
uncomfortable.

"Come to talk to me about?" William questioned, in a tone of surprise.

"You think it funny, of course; but the truth is----" And Sam looked
apprehensively towards the door. "We shall not be overheard here, shall
we?"

"There's no one in the house but myself, except the cook. Mother's gone
out to see a neighbour."

"Oh, well, I'm glad I've caught you on the quiet, as it were. I wouldn't
have the matter talked about for the world."

William began to feel uncomfortable, and to wonder what his kinsman had
been up to.

"I hope you have not been getting into any foolish matrimonial
entanglement?" he questioned seriously.

Sam laughed heartily and good-humouredly.

"No, no; things are not quite so bad as that," he said. "The fact is, I
would like to get into a matrimonial entanglement, as you call it, but
not into a foolish one."

Then he stopped suddenly, and began to fidget again in his chair.

"Then you are not engaged yet?"

"Well, not quite."

And Sam laughed again.

William waited for him to continue, but Sam appeared to start off on an
entirely new tack.

"I don't think I've been in St. Goram parish since the sale at Hillside
Farm. You remember it?"

"Very well!"

"How bad luck seems to dog the steps of some people. I felt tremendously
sorry for David Penlogan. He was a good man, by all accounts."

"There was no more saintly man in the three parishes."

"The mischief is, saints are generally so unpractical. They tell me the
son is of different fibre."

"He's as upright as his father, but with a difference."

"A cruel thing to send him to gaol on suspicion, and keep him there so
long."

"It was a wicked thing to do, but it hasn't spoilt him. He's the most
popular man in St. Ivel to-day."

"I remember him at the sale--a handsome, high-spirited fellow; but his
sister interested me most. I thought her smile the sweetest I had ever
seen."

"She's as sweet as her smile, and a good deal more so," William said,
with warmth. "In fact, she has no equal hereabouts."

"I hear you are on friendly terms with them."

"Well, yes," William said slowly. "Not that I would presume to call
myself their equal, for they are in reality very superior people.
There's no man in St. Goram, and I include the landed folk, so well
educated or so widely read as Ralph Penlogan."

"And his sister?"

"She's a lady, every inch of her," William said warmly; "and what is
more, they'll make their way in the world. He's ability, and of no
ordinary kind. The rich folk may crush him for a moment, but he'll come
into his own in the long-run."

"Are they the proud sort?"

"Proud? Well, it all depends on what you mean by the word. Dignity they
have, self-respect, independence; but pride of the common or garden sort
they haven't a bit."

"I thought I could not be mistaken," Sam said, after a pause; "and to
tell you the honest truth, I've never been able to think of any other
girl since I saw Miss Penlogan at the sale."

William started and grew very pale.

"I don't think I quite understand," he said, after a long pause.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" Sam questioned eagerly.

"I don't know that I do," William answered.

"Well, I do," Sam retorted. "A man may fall desperately in love with a
girl without even speaking to her."

"Well?" William questioned.

"That's just my case."

"Your case?"

Sam nodded.

"Explain yourself," William said, with a curiously numb feeling at his
heart.

"Mind, I am speaking to you in perfect confidence," Sam said.

William assented.

"I was taken with Ruth Penlogan the very first moment I set eyes on her.
I don't think it was pity, mind you, though I did pity her from my very
heart. Her great sad eyes; her sweet, patient face; her gentle, pathetic
smile--they just bowled me over. I could have knelt down at her feet and
worshipped her."

"You didn't do it?" William questioned huskily.

"It was neither the time nor the place, and I have never had an
opportunity since. I saw her again and again in the streets of St.
Hilary, but, of course, I could not speak to her, and I didn't know a
soul who could get me an introduction."

"And you mean that you are in love with her?"

"I expect I am," Sam answered, with an uneasy laugh. "If I'm not in
love, I don't know what ails me. I want a wife badly. A man in a big
house without a wife to look after things is to be pitied. Well, that's
just my case."

"But--but----" William began; then hesitated.

"You mean that there are plenty of eligible girls in Pentudy?" Sam
questioned. "I don't deny it. We have any amount. All sorts and sizes,
if you'll excuse me saying so. Girls with good looks and girls with
money. Girls of weight, and girls with figures. But they don't interest
me, not one of them. I compare 'em all with Ruth Penlogan, and then it's
all up a tree."

"But you have never spoken to Miss Penlogan."

"That's just the point I'm coming to. The Penlogans are friends of
yours. You go to their house sometimes. Now I want you to take me with
you some day and introduce me. Don't you see? There's no impropriety in
it. I'm perfectly honest and sincere. I want to get to know her, and
then, of course, I'll take my chance."

William looked steadily at his kinsman, and a troubled expression came
into his eyes. He loved Ruth Penlogan himself, loved her with a
passionate devotion that once he hardly believed possible. She had
become the light of his eyes, the sunshine of his life. He hardly
realised until this moment how much she had become to him. The thought
of her being claimed by another man was almost torture to him; and yet,
ought he to stand in the way of her happiness?

This might be the working of an inscrutable Providence. Sam Tremail,
from all he had ever heard, was a most excellent fellow. He could place
Ruth in a position that was worthy of her, and one that she would in
every way adorn. He could lift her above the possibility of want, and
out of reach of worry. He could give her a beautiful home and an assured
position.

"I hope you do not think this is a mere whim of mine, or an idle fancy?"
Sam said, seeing that William hesitated.

"Oh no, not at all," William answered, a little uneasily. "I was
thinking that it was a little bit unusual."

"It is unusual, no doubt."

"And to take you along and say, 'My cousin is very anxious to know you,'
would be to let the cat out of the bag at the start."

"Do you think so?"

"Don't you think so, now? There must be a reason for everything. And the
very first question Miss Penlogan would ask herself would be, 'Why does
this young man want to know me?'"

"Well, I don't know that that would matter. Indeed, it might help me
along."

"But when you got to know her better you might not care for her quite so
much."

"Do you really think that?"

"Well, no. The chances are the other way about. Only there is no
accounting for people, you know."

"I don't think I am fickle," Sam answered seriously.

"Still, so far it is only a pretty face that has attracted you."

"Oh no, it is more than that. It is the character behind the face. I am
sure she is good. She appeals to me as no other woman has ever done. I
am not afraid of not loving her. It is the other thing that troubles
me."

"You think she might not care for you?"

"She could not do so at the start. You see I have been dreaming of her
for the last two years. She has filled my imagination, if you
understand. I have been worshipping her all the time. But on her side
there is nothing. She does not know, very likely, there is such an
individual in existence. I am not even a name to her. Hence, there is a
tremendous amount of leeway to make up."

"Still, you have many things in your favour," William answered, a little
plaintively. "First of all, you are young"--and William sighed
unconsciously--"then you are well-to-do; and then--and then--you are
good-looking"--and William sighed again--"and then your house is ready,
and you have no encumbrances. Yes, you have many things in your favour."

"I'm glad you think so," Sam said cheerfully, "for, to tell you the
truth, I'm awfully afraid she won't look at me."

William sighed again, for his fear was in the other direction. And yet
he felt he ought not to be selfish. To play the part of the dog in the
manger was a very unworthy thing to do. He had no hope of winning Ruth
for himself. That Sam Tremail loved her a hundredth part as much as he
did, he did not believe possible. How could he? But then, on the other
hand, Sam was just the sort of fellow to take a girl's fancy.

"I can't go over with you this evening," William said at length. "They
are early people, and I know Ralph is very much worried just now over
business matters."

"Oh, there's no hurry for a day or two," Sam said cheerfully. "The great
thing is, you'll take me along some evening?"

"Why, yes," William answered, slowly and painfully. "I couldn't do less
than that very well."

"And I don't ask you to do more," Sam replied, with a laugh. "I must do
the rest myself."

William did not sleep very much that night. For some reason, the thought
of Ruth Penlogan getting married had scarcely crossed his mind. There
seemed to him nobody in St. Goram or St. Ivel that was worthy of her.
Hence the appearance of Sam Tremail on the scene intent on marrying her
was like the falling of an avalanche burying his hope and his desire.

"I suppose it was bound to come some time," he sighed to himself; "and
I'd rather she married Sam than some folks I know. But--but it's very
hard all the same."

A week later Sam rode over to St. Goram again. But Ralph was in London,
and William refused to take him to the Penlogans' cottage during Ralph's
absence.

On the day of Ralph's return, Sam came a third time.

"Yes, I'll take you this evening," William said. "I want to see Ralph
myself. I've great faith in Ralph's judgment." And William sighed.

"Is something troubling you?" Sam asked, with a sudden touch of
apprehension.

"I am a bit worried," William answered slowly, "and troubles never come
singly."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, I don't think so," William answered. "But get on your hat; it's a
goodish walk."

CHAPTER XXIX

A QUESTION OF MOTIVES

William introduced his cousin with an air of easy indifference,
apologised for calling at so late an hour, but excused himself on the
ground that he wanted to see Ralph particularly on a little matter of
business. Sam was welcomed graciously and heartily, for William's sake.
William had been almost the best friend they had ever known. In the
darkest days of their life he had come to them almost a stranger, had
revealed the kindness of his heart in numberless little ways, had kept
himself in the background with a delicacy and sensitiveness worthy of
all praise, and had never once presumed on the kindness he had shown
them.

For a moment or two William saw only Ruth, and he thought she had never
looked more charming and winsome. The warmth of her welcome he
attributed entirely to a sense of gratitude on her part, and he was very
grateful that she counted him worthy to be her friend. When he saw his
cousin glance at her with admiring eyes, a pang of jealousy shot through
him such as he had never experienced before. He had scarcely troubled
till now that his youth had slipped away from him; but when he looked at
Sam's smooth, handsome face; his wealth of hair, untouched by Time; his
tall, vigorous frame--he could not help wishing that he were ten years
younger, and not a shopkeeper.

Sam and Ruth quickly got into conversation, and then Ralph led William
into a little parlour which he used as an office.

"I haven't the remotest idea what I am going to do," Ralph said, in
answer to a question from William, "though I know well enough what I
would do if I only had money."

"Yes?" William questioned, raising his eyes slowly.

"I'd buy the freehold of Hillside Farm."

"It isn't for sale, is it?" William questioned, in a tone of surprise.

"It is." And Ralph informed him how he came by the information.

For several minutes there was silence in the room, then William said, as
if speaking to himself--

"But the place isn't worth the money."

"To a stranger--no; but to me it might be cheap at the price."

"Are you so good at farming?"

Ralph laughed.

"Well, no," he answered. "I'm afraid farming is not exactly my forte;
but let us drop the subject. As I told Sir John Liskeard, I might as
well think of buying the moon."

"But you are fond of the old place?" William questioned.

"In a sense, yes; but I do not look at it with such longing eyes as Ruth
does."

"She would like to live there again?" William questioned eagerly.

"She would dance for joy at the most distant hope of it."

"Then it is for your sister's sake you would like to turn farmer?"
William questioned, after a pause.

"I have no wish to turn farmer at all," Ralph answered. "No, no, my
dreams and ambitions don't lie in that direction; but why talk about
impossibilities? You came across to discuss some other matter?"

"Yes, that is true," William said absently; and then a ripple of
laughter from the adjoining room touched his heart with a curious sense
of pain.

"They are on friendly terms already," he said to himself. "And in a
little while he will make love to her, and what will Hillside Farm be to
her then? I would do anything for her sake--anything." And he sighed
unconsciously.

Ralph heard the sigh, and looked at him searchingly.

"I'm in an awful hole myself," William blurted out, after a long pause.

"In an awful hole?" Ralph questioned, with raised eyebrows.

"It's always the unexpected that happens, they say," William went on,
"but I confess I never expected to be flung on my beam-ends as I have
been. If it were not for mother, I'd sell up and clear out of the
country."

"Why, what is the matter?" Ralph questioned in alarm.

"You know the part I took in the County Council election?"

"Very well."

"Of course, I knew that Lord St. Goram didn't quite like it. He expects
every tenant and lease-holder to vote just as he wishes them. Poor
people are not supposed to have any rights or opinions, but I thought
the day had gone by when a man was to be punished for thinking for
himself."

"But what has happened?" Ralph asked eagerly.

"I'm to be turned out of my shop."

"No!"

"It's the solemn truth. I had a seven years' lease, which expires next
March, and Lord St. Goram refuses to renew it."

"For what reason?"

"He gives no reason at all. But it is easy to guess. I opposed him at
the election, you know. I had a perfect right to do it, but rights go
for nothing. Now he is taking his revenge. I've not only to clear out in
March, but I've to restore the premises to the exact condition they were
in when I took them."

"But you've improved the place in every way."

"No doubt I have, but I did it at my own risk, and at my own expense. He
never gave his formal consent to my taking out the side of the house and
putting in that big window. His steward assured me it was all right,
though he hinted that in case I left his lordship might feel under no
obligation to grant compensation."

"But why should he want you to restore the house to its original
condition?"

"Just to be revenged, that's all. To show his power over me and to give
his tenants an object-lesson as to what will happen if they are unwise
enough to think for themselves."

"It's tyranny," Ralph said indignantly. "It's a piece of mean,
contemptible tyranny."

"You can call it by any name you like," William answered sadly, "and
there's no name too bad for it; but the point to be recollected is, I've
got to submit."

"There's no redress for you?"

"Not a bit. I've consulted Doubleday, who's the best lawyer about here,
and he says it would be sheer madness to contest it."

"Then what will you do?"

"I've not the remotest idea. There's no other place in St. Goram I can
get. His lordship professes that he would far rather have twenty small
shops and twenty small shopkeepers all living from hand to mouth than
one prosperous tradesman selling the best and the freshest and at the
lowest possible price."

"Well, I can sympathise with him in that," Ralph answered, with a smile.

"And yet you are no more fond of buying stale things than other people."

"That may be true. And yet the way the big concerns are crushing out the
small men is not a pleasant spectacle."

"But no shopkeeper compels people to buy his goods," William said, with
a troubled expression in his eyes. "And when they come to his shop, is
he to say he won't supply them? And when his business shows signs of
expansion, is he to say it shall not expand?"

"No, no. I don't mean that at all. I like to see an honest business man
prospering. And a man who attends to his business and his customers
deserves to prosper. But I confess I don't like to see these huge
combines and trusts deliberately pushing out the smaller men--not by
fair competition, mind you, but by unfair--selling things below cost
price until their competitors are in the bankruptcy court, and then
reaping a big harvest."

"I like that as little as you do," William said mildly. "Every honest,
industrious man ought to have a chance of life, but the chances appear
to be becoming fewer every day." And he sighed again.

For several minutes neither of them spoke, then William said--

"I thought I would like to tell you all about it at the earliest
opportunity. I knew I should have your sympathy."

"I wish I could help you," Ralph answered. "You helped me when I hadn't
a friend in the world."

"I have your sympathy," William answered, "and that's a great thing; for
the rest we must trust in God." And he rose to his feet and looked
towards the door.

William and Sam did not say much on their way back to St. Goram. They
talked more freely when they got into the house.

"It's awfully good of you to introduce me," Sam said, when Mrs. Menire
had retired to her room. "I'm more in love with her than ever."

William's heart gave a painful thump, but he answered mildly enough--

"You seemed to get on very well together."

"She was delightfully friendly, but I owe that all to you. She said that
any friend of yours was welcome at their house."

"It was very kind of her," William answered slowly. "Did she give you
permission to call again?"

"I'm not exactly sure. She did say that any time you brought me along I
should be welcome, or words to that effect. So we must arrange another
little excursion soon."

"Must we?"

"We must; and what is more, you might, you know, in the meanwhile--that
is, if you can honestly do so--that is--you know what I mean, don't
you?"

"I don't think I do," William answered, in a tone of mild surprise.

"It's asking a lot, I know," Sam replied, fidgeting uneasily in his
chair. "But if you could--that--that is--without compromising yourself
in any way, speak a good word for me, it would go miles and miles."

"Do you think so?"

"I'm sure of it. She thinks the world of you, and a word from you would
be worth a week's pleading on my part."

"I'm not so sure of that," William answered. "I think all love affairs
are best managed by those concerned. The meddling of outsiders generally
does more harm than good."

"But there are exceptions to every rule," Sam persisted. "You see, I am
awfully handicapped by being so much of a stranger. If I can once get a
footing as a friend, the rest will be easy."

William smiled wistfully.

"I wouldn't be precipitate, if I were you," he said. "And in the
meanwhile I'll do my best."

Sam slept soundly till morning, but William lay awake most of the night.
When he did sleep it was to dream that he was young and prosperous, and
that Ruth Penlogan had promised to be his wife.

After an early breakfast, he saw his cousin mount his horse and ride
away toward Pentudy, and very soon after William climbed into his trap
and went out to get orders.

One of his first places of call was Hillside Farm, and as he drove
slowly up to the house he looked at it with a new interest. All sorts of
vague fancies seemed to float about in his mind. He saw Ruth back there
again, looking happier than any queen; he saw himself with some kind of
proprietary interest in the place; he saw Ralph looking in when the
fancy pleased him; he saw a number of new combinations and
relationships, but so vaguely that he could not fit them into their
places.

He found Farmer Jenkins in a very doleful mood.

"I wish I had never seen the place," he declared. "I've lost money ever
since I came, and I'm going to clear out at the earliest opportunity."

"Do you really mean it?" William questioned.

"I was never more serious in my life. I sent a letter to the squire a
week ago, and told him unless he lowered the rent thirty per cent. I
should fling up the farm."

"And has he consented to lower it?"

"Not he. He says he'll call soon and talk the matter over with me, and
that in the meantime I'd better keep quiet; but I shan't keep quiet, and
I shan't stay."

As William drove away from Hillside an idea, or a suggestion, shot
through his brain that made him gasp. Before he got to the village of
Veryan he was trembling on his seat. It seemed almost like a suggestion
from the Evil One, so subtle was the temptation. He had tried all his
life to do the thing that was right. He had never, as far as he knew,
taken an unfair advantage of anyone. He had aimed strictly to do what
was just and honourable between man and man. But if he bought Hillside
Farm, would it be fair dealing? Would it be fair to his Cousin Sam?
Would it be fair to Ruth?

William tried to face the problem honestly. He would rather Ruth passed
out of his life altogether than do anything mean or unworthy. To keep
his conscience clean, and his love free from the taint of selfishness,
seemed to him the supreme end of life. But if he bought Hillside Farm,
what motive would lie at the back of it? Would it be that he wanted the
farm, that he wanted to turn farmer? or would it be the hope that Ruth,
with her passionate love of the place, would be willing even to accept
the protection of his arms?

"All's fair in love and war," something seemed to whisper in his ear.

But William drew himself up squarely, and a resolute look came into his
eyes.

"No," he said to himself, "that is false philosophy. Nothing that is
mean or selfish or underhand can be fair or right. If the motive is
wrong, the transaction will be wrong."

It took William a much longer time than usual to make his rounds that
morning. He was so absent-minded--or, more correctly, his mind was so
engrossed with other things--that he allowed his horse on several
occasions to nibble the grass by the roadside.

He was no more interested in business matters when he got back. He would
pause in the middle of weighing a pound of sugar or starch, completely
forgetting where he was or what he was doing.

His mother let him be. She knew that he was greatly troubled at Lord St.
Goram's refusal to renew the lease of his shop, and, like a wise woman,
did not worry him with needless questions.

That evening, when the shutters were put up, he went to St. Ivel again.
He would have some further talk with Ralph about the farm. He would be
able also to feast his eyes again on Ruth's sweet face; perhaps, also,
if he had strength and courage enough, he might be able to speak a good
word for his Cousin Sam.

His thoughts, however, were in such a tangle, and his motives so
uncertain, that he walked very slowly, and did not see a single thing on
the road. Before he reached the cottage he stopped short, and, taking an
order-book and a pencil from his pocket, he dotted down in a series of
propositions and questions the chief points of the problem. They ran in
this order:--

1. I have as much right to love Ruth Penlogan as anyone else.

2. Though I'm only a shopkeeper, and a dozen years her senior, there's
nothing to hinder me from taking my chance.

3. If buying Hillside would help me, and make Ruth happy, where's the
wrong? Cannot say.

4. But if buying Hillside would spoil Sam's chance, is that right?
Doubtful.

5. Am I called upon to help Sam's cause to the detriment of my own? Also
doubtful.

6. Is Ruth likely to be influenced by anything I may do or say? Don't
know enough about women to answer that question.

7. Have I the smallest chance? No.

8. Has Sam? Most decidedly.

9. Am I a fool for thinking about Ruth at all? Certainly.

At this point William thrust his order-book into his pocket and
quickened his pace.

"It's not a bit of use speculating on possibilities or probabilities,"
he said to himself a little impatiently. "I'll have to do the thing that
seems right and wise. The rest I must leave."

A minute or two later he was knocking at the cottage door.

CHAPTER XXX

SELF AND ANOTHER

Ralph had gone to Perranpool to see Robert Telfer, but Ruth expected him
back every moment.

"Won't you come in and wait for him?" Ruth questioned, looking beyond
him into the gathering twilight.

William hesitated for a moment, and then decided that he would.

"I am sure he will not be long," Ruth said, as she busied herself
getting the lamp ready. "Mr. Telfer wanted to settle with him, as--as he
can, of course, deliver no more concrete."

"It's an awful shame," William said abruptly, and he dropped into
Ralph's easy-chair.

"It seems very hard," Ruth said reflectively; "but I tell Ralph it may
be all for the best. Perhaps he was getting on too fast and too
suddenly."

"He is not the sort to have his head turned by a bit of prosperity,"
William said, watching his fair hostess out of the corner of his eye.

"At any rate, the danger has been removed--if it was a danger." And Ruth
sighed gently.

For several moments there was silence in the room. Ruth had the lamp to
light and the blind to pull down and a fresh cover to lay on the table.
William watched her with averted face and half-closed eyes. How womanly
she was in all her movements; how dainty in her appearance; how gentle
in her manner and speech!

William felt as if he would almost risk his hope of heaven for the
chance of calling her his, and yet he had not the courage even to hint
at what he felt. Her very daintiness and winsomeness seemed to widen the
gulf between them. Who was he that he should dare make love to one who
was fit for the best in the land? It seemed to him--so unworthy did he
seem in his own eyes--utterly impossible that Ruth should ever care for
a man of his type.

William was almost morbidly self-depreciatory when in the presence of
Ruth. His love so glorified her that by contrast he was commoner than
commonest clay.

"I was so sorry to hear you are to be turned out of your shop," Ruth
said at length, taking a seat on the other side of the table.

"Ralph told you?" he questioned.

"We stayed up till quite late last night, talking about it," she
replied. "Ralph is very indignant."

"I am very indignant myself," he answered; "but what's the good? Those
who have the power use it as they like."

"I am sorry it has happened," she said gently; "sorry for all our sakes.
Ralph's reverence for the ruling classes was not great before. It is
less now."

"You cannot wonder at that," he said quickly.

"No, one cannot wonder. And yet there is a danger in judging the whole
by a few. Besides, if we had real power, we might not use it any more
wisely or justly. The best of people, after all, are only human."

"That being so," he answered, with a smile, "it does not seem right that
any individual, or any class of individuals, should have so much power.
Who made these people rulers and dividers over us?"

"Ah, now you are getting beyond me," she said; "but since things are as
they are, should we not make the best of them?"

"And try to mend them at the same time?"

"Oh yes, by all means--that is, if we can."

"But you have not much hope of mending things?" he questioned.

"Not very much. Besides, if you levelled things up to-morrow, they would
be levelled down again the day after."

"Isn't that a rather fatalistic way of looking at things?" he
questioned, raising his eyes timidly to her face.

"Is it?" she questioned, and a soft blush swept over her face as she
caught his glance. Then silence fell again for several moments.

"The chances of life are very bewildering," he said at length, reopening
the conversation. "Some people seem to get all the luck, and others all
the misfortune. Look at my Cousin Sam."

"Is he very unfortunate?"

William laughed.

"On the contrary, he has all the luck. He has never known what poverty
means, or sickness, or hardship. He was born to affluence, and now, at
twenty-six, he's his own master, with a house of his own and plenty of
money."

"But he may not be a whit happier than those who have less."

"I don't see how he can help it," William answered. "He's never worried
about ways and means. He has troops of friends, absolutely wants nothing
except a wife to help him to spend his money."

"Then you should advise him to keep single," Ruth said, with a laugh,
"for if he gets married, his troubles may begin."

"There's risk in everything, no doubt," William said meditatively.
"Still, if I were in his place, I should take the risk."

"You would?" Ruth questioned, arching her eyebrows, "and you a
bachelor?"

"Ah, that is my misfortune," William answered, looking hard at a picture
on the wall. "But Sam's way is quite clear."

"Is it?"

"He's a good fellow, too, is Sam. Never a word of slander has been
breathed against his name since he was born. He'll make a good husband,
whoever gets him."

"I did not know you had such a cousin till last evening," Ruth said
meaningly.

"Oh, well, no. We've never seen very much of each other. You see, the
Tremails have always been rather big people, and then we have lived a
long way apart, and I have never cared to presume on my relationship."

"So he has hunted you up?"

"Well, yes. He came to see me just a fortnight ago or so, and he has
ridden over once or twice since. Don't you think he's a fine, handsome
fellow?"

"Yes; he is not bad-looking."

"Oh, I call him handsome. It must be nice to be young and have so much
strength and energy."

"Well, are you not young?"

"I'm ten years older than Sam," he said, a little sadly, "and ten years
is a big slice out of one's life."

"Are you growing pessimistic?" she questioned. "You are usually so
hopeful."

"There are some things too good to hope for," he replied, "too
beautiful, too far away. I almost envy a man like my Cousin Sam. He has
everything within his reach."

"You seem to be quite enthusiastic about your cousin," she said, with a
smile.

"Am I? Oh, well, you know, he is my cousin, and a good fellow, and if I
can speak a good--I mean, if I can appreciate--that is, if I can
cultivate a right feeling toward him, and--and--all that, you know,
don't you think I ought to do so?"

"Oh, no doubt," Ruth said, laughing. "It's generally well to be on good
terms with one's relations--at least so I've been told," and she went to
the door and looked out into the darkness.

Ruth came back again after a few moments, and turned the lamp a little
higher.

"Ralph is much longer than I expected he would be," she remarked,
without looking at William.

"Perhaps Mr. Telfer was out," he suggested.

"I don't think that. You see he went by appointment. I expect it has
taken them longer to square their accounts than they thought."

"I hope Ralph will come well out of it," he said musingly. "He's had a
rough time of it so far."

"I am sometimes afraid he will grow bitter and give up. He has talked
again and again of trying his fortune abroad."

"But if he went abroad, what would become of you?" William asked, with a
sudden touch of anxiety in his voice.

"He would send for me when he got settled."

William gave a little gasp.

"Would you like to go abroad?" he questioned.

"I would much prefer to stay here if I could; but you see we cannot
always have what we would like best."

"No, that is true," he said slowly and meditatively. "The things we
would like best are often not for us. I don't know why it should be so.
Some people seem to get all they desire. There is my Cousin Sam, for
instance."

"He is one of the lucky ones, you say?"

"It seems so from my point of view. Did he tell you when he first saw
you?"

"No."

"He would not like to remind you. It was the day of the sale at
Hillside. He was greatly--that is, of course he could not help noticing
you. Since then he has seen you lots of times. A fortunate fellow is
Sam."

"Perhaps he does not think so."

"Oh, I fancy he does. I don't see how he can help it. He lives in a
beautiful old house. It's years since I saw it, but it remains in my
memory a pleasant picture. His wife will have a rare time of it."

"How do you know he does not intend to follow your example and remain a
bachelor?"

"How? Sam knows better than that. Do you think I would remain a bachelor
if--if--but there! You remember what you said just now about the things
we want most?"

"I did not know----" Then a step sounded on the gravel outside. "Oh,
here comes Ralph." And Ruth sprang to her feet and rushed to the door.

A moment later the two men were shaking hands.

"I hope I have not kept you waiting long," Ralph said. "The truth is,
Telfer and I have been settling up."

"So your sister told me."

"And I'm bound to say he's treated me most handsomely. Technically, he
might have got the better of me on a dozen points; but no! he's been
most fair. It's a real pleasure to come across a man who doesn't want to
Jew you."

"Oh, bless you, there's lots of honest people in the world!" William
said, with a smile.

"Yes, I suppose there are; the misfortune is one so often tumbles across
the other sort."

"Perhaps you will have better luck in the future," William replied.

"I only want fair play," Ralph answered; "I ask for nothing more than
that."

"And have you hit upon anything for the future?"

"Not yet. But I don't want to be in a hurry. I've ready money enough to
last me a year or two. I really didn't think I had done so well, for I'm
a duffer at figures. If I only had about four times as much I'd buy
Hillside."

"And turn farmer?"

"No, farming is not my forte." And he turned and looked towards the door
of the pantry behind which Ruth was engaged getting supper ready.

"Let's go into my room," he continued, in a half-whisper. "I've
something I want to say to you."

William followed him without a word.

"I don't want to awaken any vain hopes in Ruth's mind," Ralph went on.
"The thing is too remote to be talked about almost. But you have
wondered why I should want Hillside Farm when I've no love for farming?"

"I have supposed it was for your sister's sake."

"No, it's not that exactly. It's my love of adventure, or you might call
it my love of speculation."

"I don't quite understand."

"Of course you don't. So I'll explain. You are the best friend I ever
had, and I can trust you. Besides, if I ever did anything I should want
your help. You are a business man, I'm a dreamer. You are good at
accounts, I'm a fool at them."

William's eyes opened wider and wider, but he did not interrupt.

"Now, there's just the possibility of a fortune in Hillside," Ralph went
on. "Not on the surface, mind you. The crops raised there will never be
a fortune for anybody; but my father believed there was a rich tin lode
running through it."

"Why didn't he test it?"

"He had no opportunity."

"Why not? The farm was his as long as the 'lives' remained alive."

"But all the mineral rights were reserved by the ground landlord. So
that if my father had discovered a gold mine he would have got nothing
out of it."

"So he kept silent?"

"Naturally; for if a mine was started, not only would he get no good out
of it, but his farm would be ruined."

William remained silent and thoughtful.

"Now, if I could get the freehold," Ralph went on, "I should be free
from every interference. I could sink a shaft for a few fathoms and test
the thing. If it proved to be worthless, very little harm would be done.
I should still have the farm to work or to let. Do you see my point?"

"I do, but----"

"I know what you would say. I have not the money," Ralph interrupted.
"That is quite true. But I've more than I thought I had. And if the
Brick, Tile, and Clay Company will take my plant at a fair valuation, I
shall have more. Now I want to ask you, as a business man, if you think
I could get a mortgage for the rest?"

"Possibly you might," William said slowly, "but there are a good many
objections to such a course."

"Well, what are they?"

"We'll take one thing at a time," William answered meditatively. "To
begin with: I don't believe Sir John Hamblyn would sell the place to you
under any circumstances if he knew."

"Why not?"

"Because he has wronged you, and so he hates you. Nothing would please
him better than for you to leave the country."

"Well?"

"If you begin to look round for a mortgage, or for securities----"

"Yes, I see."

"If you are to get the place, your name must not be given at the outset;
you must buy through an agent or solicitor. You must be ready with the
money on the nail."

Ralph looked thoughtful for several moments.

"I'm afraid it's of no use hoping," he said at length; "though when
Robert Telfer handed me over his cheque this evening the world did look
bright for a moment."

"But if you bought the farm you might lose everything," William
suggested; "and it would be a pity to throw away your first earnings."

"Why so? There's no good in hoarding money. I want to be doing
something. Besides, I might find work for half the parish."

"Then you have faith in the tin lode of which your father spoke?"

"I am confident there is a lode there. My father was not likely to be
mistaken in a matter of that kind. As a practical miner and mineralogist
there was not his equal in the county."

"But he did not test the lode?"

"He had no chance."

"Hence, it may be worthless."

"I admit it. Mind you, my father was confident that it was rich in tin.
Of course, he may have been mistaken."

"But you are prepared to risk your all on it?"

"I am. I wish I had ten times as much to risk."

The next moment Ruth appeared, with the announcement that supper was
ready.

"Let me sleep over it," William whispered to Ralph; "and to-morrow
morning you come up to my shop and we'll see what we can make of it."

And he turned and followed Ruth into the next room.

CHAPTER XXXI

A PARTNERSHIP

It was late when William left Ralph Penlogan's cottage, but he was in no
hurry to get to St. Goram. He sauntered slowly along the dark and
deserted lane with his hands in his pockets and his eyes nowhere in
particular. He tried to comfort himself with the reflection that he had
not been selfish--that he had done his best for his Cousin Sam, that he
had spoken the good word that he promised.

But for some reason the reward of virtue was not so great as he had
hoped. There was no feeling of exultation in his heart at his triumph
over temptation; in truth, he was much more inclined to call himself a
fool for lending aid to his cousin at all.

This reflection reacted on his spirits in another way. He was more
selfish than he could have believed. He was like the man who gave half a
crown at a collection, and regretted it all his life afterwards. He had
forced himself to speak a good word for his cousin, but there was no
virtue in it. Service rendered so grudgingly was deserving of no reward.

"I am like the dog in the manger," he said to himself, a little
disconsolately; "I cannot have her myself, and I don't want anybody else
to have her."

Then he fell to thinking of Ruth's many attractions. He had never seen
anyone before with such a wealth of hair, and he was sure there was no
one in the three parishes who arranged her hair so gloriously as Ruth
did. And then her figure was just perfection in his eyes. She was
neither too short nor too tall, too stout nor too thin. There was not a
single line or curve that he would have altered.

And her character was as perfect as her form and as beautiful as her
face. William's love shed over her and around her a golden haze which
hid every fault and magnified every virtue.

By morning he was able to see things a little more in their true
perspective, and when Ralph called he was able to put love aside and
talk business, though he was by no means sure that in business matters
Ruth did not influence him unconsciously.

Ralph had great faith in William's judgment and sagacity. He always
looked at both sides of a question before deciding. If he erred at all,
it was on the side of excessive caution.

Ralph could not help wondering what was in William's mind. He had said
practically nothing the previous evening. He had asked a few questions,
and pointed out certain difficulties, but he had committed himself to
nothing, yet it seemed clear that he had some scheme in his mind which
he would reveal when he had duly considered it.

For a few minutes they talked generalities, then William plunged into
the subject that was uppermost in the thoughts of both.

"I don't wonder that you want to get hold of the freehold of Hillside,"
he said. "I should if I were in your place. Apart from sentiment, the
business side appeals strongly. The discovery of a good tin lode there
would be the making of St. Goram----"

"And the ruin of the farm," Ralph interjected.

"Well, the erection of a big engine-house on the top of the hill and
fire stamps in Dingley Bottom would certainly not improve the appearance
of things from an artistic point of view."

"'There is no gain except by loss,'" Ralph quoted, with a smile.

"True; but we all ought to consider the greatest good of the greatest
number."

Ralph laughed.

"Don't credit me with virtues I don't possess," he said. "I confess I'm
thinking in the first instance only of myself."

"Well, I suppose that's only natural," William said seriously. "But now
to business. If you purchase the farm at the squire's price, how much
money will you require beyond what you have?"

Ralph named the sum.

"Is that all?"

"Yes. I told you last night the concrete had turned out well."

"It can be done easily," William said, with a sudden brightening of his
face.

"How?"--with an eager look.

"I will advance you all the money you want, either as a loan or on
mortgage."

"You really mean it?"

"I do. But on one condition--and that is that you do not say anything to
your sister about it."

"But why not? I have no secrets from Ruth."

William coloured and looked uncomfortable.

"It's merely a whim of mine," he said. "Women don't understand business,
and she might think I was doing you a great favour, and I don't want her
to think anything of the kind."

"But you are doing me an immense favour!"

"I'm not, really. The margin of security will be, if not ample, at least
sufficient; and if the lode should prove of value, why, you will be able
to pay off the loan in no time."

"If the lode should prove of any value, William, you shall go shares!"
Ralph said impulsively.

"No, no! If I take no risk, I take no reward. You will risk everything
in testing the thing."

"I'm fond of risks," Ralph said, with a laugh. "A little adventure is
the very spice of life. Oh, I do hope the farm is not already sold!"

"I don't think it can be," William answered. "We have wasted no time
yet. If it is sold, you will have to wait, and hope the buyer will get
tired of his bargain."

Ralph shook his head.

"If I can't get it now," he said, "I shall try my fortune beyond the
seas."

"Well, we needn't wait an hour longer. You can have my trap to drive to
St. Hilary. Let some lawyer whom you can trust act for you."

"Won't you go with me?" Ralph questioned eagerly. "You see, the question
of security will come up first thing."

"It would be almost better if you could keep out of sight altogether."

"I know it. Couldn't you see the whole thing through for me?"

"I might try."

Half an hour later Ralph had sent word to Ruth that he would not be home
till evening, and was driving away with William Menire in the direction
of St. Hilary.

They were both too excited to talk much. Ralph felt as though the whole
universe were trembling in the balance. If he failed, there would be
nothing left worth considering. If he succeeded, paradise threw open her
gates to him.

Far away beyond the hills there was a great city called London, and in
that city dwelt one who was more to him than all the world beside. She
was out of his reach because he was poor and nameless and obscure. But
if he won for himself a position, what was to hinder him from wooing
her, and perhaps winning her? Money for its own sake he cared nothing
for. The passion for position had never been a factor in his life. He
loved beautiful things--art and music and literature--partly from
instinct, and partly because he had been educated to appreciate them,
but there was not an ounce of snobbery in his composition. He had no
reverence for rank as such, or for mere social position, but he had
sense enough to recognise their existence, and the part they played in
the evolution of the race. He could not get rid of things by shutting
his eyes to their existence.

So they drove along the quiet road mainly in silence. Each was busy with
his own thoughts. Each had a secret that he dared not reveal to the
other.

"I believe you will win," William said abruptly after a long interval of
silence. "I always said you would."

"Win?" Ralph questioned absently, for he was thinking of Dorothy Hamblyn
at the time.

"Your father was a shrewd man where mineral was concerned."

"Yes. And yet he loved corn and cows far more than copper and tin."

"I wouldn't mind being in your place."

"You would not be afraid of the risk?"

"No. I would like it."

"Then let's go shares!" Ralph said eagerly. "It's what I've wanted all
along, but did not like to propose it."

"You really mean it?"

"My dear fellow, it is what I would desire above everything else! You
have business capacity, and I haven't a scrap."

"If I were sure I could help you."

"We should help each other; but the gain would be chiefly mine."

"Partnerships don't always turn out well," William said reflectively.

"I'll gladly risk it," Ralph answered, with a laugh.

William dropped his driving whip into the socket and reached across his
hand. It was his way of sealing the contract.

Ralph seized it in a moment.

"This is the proudest day of my life!" William said. And there were
distinct traces of emotion in his voice.

"I hope you will not be sorry later on," Ralph answered dubiously.

"Never!" was the firm reply. And he thought of Ruth, and wondered what
the future had in store for him.

For the rest of the way they drove in silence. There were things in the
lives of both too sacred to be talked about.

CHAPTER XXXII

FOOD FOR REFLECTION

There was widespread interest of a mild kind when it became known in St.
Goram that Sir John Hamblyn had disposed of the freehold of Hillside
Farm. It was an action altogether unprecedented in the history of the
Hamblyn family. What it portended no one knew, but it seemed to
crystallise into a concrete fact all the rumours that had been in
circulation for the last two or three years.

The first news reached Farmer Jenkins in a letter from Sir John. It was
brief and to the point:--

     "I have this day sold the freehold of Hillside Farm. Your new
     landlord will no doubt communicate with you shortly.--Yours
     truly,

     "JOHN HAMBLYN."

Farmer Jenkins stared at the letter for a considerable time after he had
mastered its contents.

"So-ho!" he said to himself at length. "Now I understand why he wanted
the matter of reduction of rent to stand over. 'Cute dog is Sir John. If
he's sold the place on the basis of present rental he's swindled
somebody. I wonder who the fool is who bought it. Anyhow, I won't stay
here after Lady Day." And he pushed the letter into his pocket, pulled a
weather-beaten wideawake hat over his bald pate, and started out in the
direction of St. Goram.

William Menire was standing behind his desk when Jenkins stumbled into
his shop. He laid down his pen at once, and prepared himself to execute
the farmer's order.

It was not a large order by any means--something that had been forgotten
on the previous day--and when the farmer had stuffed it into one of his
big pockets he looked up suddenly and said--

"You ain't heard no news, I expect?"

"What sort of news?" William questioned.

"Oh, any sort."

"Well, no. There doesn't seem to be much stirring at the present time."

"More stirring than you think, perhaps," Jenkins said mysteriously.

"That's possible, of course. Have you been hearing something?"

"Squire's cleared out, ain't he?"

"I hear he has practically closed the Manor for an indefinite period."

"Purty hard up, I reckon."

"Why do you think so?"

"Took to sellin' his estate."

"No!" William said, with a little gasp.

"It's solemn truth. I got a letter from him just now sayin' he'd sold
Hillside Farm."

"Sold it?"

"Them's his very words. Here's the letter, if you like to read it."

William took the letter and retired to the window. He did not want the
farmer to see his agitation. He had been waiting day after day for
nearly a month for some definite news, and here it was in black and
white. He wondered what Ralph would say when he heard. Once more his
hopes had been blown to the wind. His dream of success, not for the
first time or the second, had been dashed to the ground.

"Seems definite enough, don't it?" questioned the farmer, coming nearer.

"Oh yes, there can be no mistake about it," William answered, trying his
best to keep his voice steady.

"Well, it don't make no difference to me," the farmer said
indifferently. "I've made up my mind to clear out at Lady Day. There
ain't no luck about the place. I keep feelin' as though there was a kind
of blight upon it."

"Indeed?"

"The way the squire shoved it on to me wasn't square to David Penlogan.
I can see it clear enough now, and I've never felt quite comfortable
since David died. I keep feelin' at times as though he was about the
place still."

"Who--David?"

"Ay. He was terrible fond of the place by all accounts. It was a pity
Sir John didn't let him stay on. He might have been livin' to this day
if he had."

"Yes, that is quite true; but we must not forget that David is better
off. He was a good man, if ever there was one."

"Anyhow, the place don't prosper under me, somehow. And if the new
landlord is willin' to lower the rent I shan't stay on. I've got my eye
on something I think'll suit me better." And, turning slowly round, the
farmer walked out of the shop.

William stood staring at the door long after the farmer had disappeared.
He had seen the possibility of the farm falling into other hands from
the first, but had never fully realised till now how much that might
mean to him. His own future was involved just as much as Ralph's. While
there was a prospect of getting the farm he had not troubled about his
own notice to quit. Now the whole problem would have to be thought out
again. Nor was that all--nor even the most important part. He had seen,
in fancy, Ruth installed in the old home that she loved so much; seen
how Hillside had called to her more loudly and potently than all the
pleadings of Sam Tremail; seen the gulf that now lay between them
gradually close up and disappear; seen her advance to meet him till
their hands had clasped in a bond that only death could break.

It was a foolish fancy, perhaps, but he had not been able to help it
taking possession of him from time to time, and with the passing of the
days and weeks the fancy had become more and more vivid and real.

"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.

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.

[Illustration: "WILLIAM, BREATHLESS AND EXCITED, BURST IN UPON HIM."]

"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.

All this tended to deepen the reserve that had grown up between them.
Neither understood the other, and William had not the courage to have
the matter out with her. A few plain questions and a few plain answers
would have solved the difficulty and made two people as happy as mortals
could ever hope to be; but, as often happens in this world, the
questions were not asked and the unspoken fear grew and intensified
until it became absolute conviction.

Ruth did not join her brother and William in the laboratory. She sat
near the fire with a lamp by her side and some unfinished work in her
lap. She caught up her work every now and then, and plied a few vigorous
stitches; then her hands would relax again, and a dreamy, far-away look
would come into her eyes.

Now and then a low murmur of voices would come through from the little
shed at the back, but she could distinguish nothing that was said. One
thing she was conscious of, there was no note of mirth or merriment, no
suggestion of laughter, in the sounds that fell on her ear. The hours
were so big with Fate, so much was trembling in the balance, that there
was no place for anything but the most serious talk.

"Nothing seems of much importance to men but business," she said to
herself, with a wistful look in her eyes. "Life consists in the
abundance of the things which they possess. They get their joy out of
conflict--battle. We women live a life apart, and dream dreams with
which they have no sympathy, and see visions which they never see."

The evening wore away unconsciously. The men talked, the woman dreamed,
but neither the talk nor the dreams brought much satisfaction.

Ruth stirred herself at length and got supper ready for three, but
William would not stay. He had remained much too long already, and had
no idea it was so late.

Ruth did not press him, she left that to her brother. Once or twice
William looked towards her, but she avoided his glance. Like all women,
she was proud at heart. William was conscious that Ruth's invitation was
coldly formal. If he remained he would be very uncomfortable.

"No, I must get back," he said decidedly, without again looking at Ruth;
and with a hasty good-evening he went out into the dark.

For a few minutes he walked rapidly, then he slackened his pace.

"She grows colder than ever," he said to himself. "She intends me to see
without any mistake that if I expected to win her love by favours, I'm
hugely mistaken. Well, well!" and he sighed audibly. "To-morrow morning
we shall know, I expect, whether it is failure or fortune," he went on,
after a long pause. "It's a tremendous risk we are running, and yet I
would rather win Ruth Penlogan than all the wealth there is in
Cornwall."

William did not sleep well that night. Neither did Ralph nor Ruth. They
were all intensely anxious for what the morrow should bring.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE PENALTY OF PROSPERITY

By the evening of the following day all St. Goram had heard the news; by
the end of the week it was the talk of the county. The discovery of a
new tin lode was a matter of considerable importance, not only to the
few people directly interested, but to the entire community. It would
mean more work for the miner, more trade for the shopkeeper, and more
traffic for the railway.

The "out-of-works" straggled into St. Goram by the dozen. Mining experts
came to see and report. Newspaper men appeared on the scene at all hours
of the day, and wrote astonishing articles for the weekly press. Ralph
found himself bombarded on every side. Speculators, financiers, company
promotors, editors, reporters, photographers, miners, and out-of-works
generally made his life a burden. He would have kept out of sight if he
could, and turned William Menire on the crowd. But William was busy
winding up his own business. Moreover, his mother was ill, and never
seemed happy if he was off the premises.

Ralph almost wished sometimes that he had never discovered the lode. Men
came to him for employment who scarcely knew how to handle a shovel, and
he often had to take off his coat and show them the way. He was like a
beggar who had found a diamond and did not know what to do with it. On
all hands people spoke of his good fortune, but after a few weeks he
began to be in doubt. Difficulties and worries and vexations began to
gather like snowflakes in a winter's storm. Lord St. Goram put in a
claim for a certain right of way. The District Council threatened legal
proceedings if he interfered with a particular watercourse. Sir John
Hamblyn's legal adviser raised a technical point on the question of
transfer. The Chancellor of the Duchy sent a formidable list of
questions relating to Crown rights, while Farmer Jenkins wanted
compensation for the destruction of crops which had never been
destroyed.

"I've raised a perfect hornets' nest," Ralph said to William Menire one
evening, in his little room at the back of the shop. "Everybody seems to
consider me fair game. There isn't a man in the neighbourhood with any
real or fancied right who has not put in some trumpery claim or other.
The number of lawyers' letters I have received is enough to turn my hair
grey."

"Oh, never mind," William said cheerfully, "things will come out right
in the end! I am sorry you have to face the music alone, but I'm as fast
here as a thief in a mill."

"I know you are," Ralph said sympathetically. "But to tell you the
candid truth, I am not so sure that things will come out right."

"Why not?"

"Because everybody is up in arms against us."

"Not everybody."

"Everybody who thinks he can get something out of us. Our little
dominion is surrounded by hostile tribes. I never realised till the last
few days how completely we are hemmed in. On two sides the Hamblyn
estates block our passage, on the third side Lord St. Goram's land
abuts, and on the fourth side old Beecham has his fence and his barbed
wire, and all these people have struck up a threatening attitude. Sir
John is naturally as mad as a hatter that he sold the farm at all. Lord
St. Goram is angry that a couple of plebeians should own land in what he
regards as his parish; while old Beecham, who regards himself as an
aristocrat, sides with his own class, and so between them our fate
promises to be that of the pipkin between the iron pots."

"But we need not go beyond the bounds of our own property," William
said.

"There you are mistaken," Ralph answered quickly. "Our small empire is
not self-contained. There is no public road through it or even to it.
Lord St. Goram threatens to block up the only entrance. And you know
what going to law with a landed magnate means."

William looked grave.

"Then we must have a 'dressing floor' somewhere," Ralph went on, "and
the only convenient place is Dingley Bottom. Water is abundant there.
But though God gave it, man owns it, and the owner, like an angry dog,
snarls when he is approached."

"Very good," William said, after a pause, "but don't you see we are
still masters of the situation?"

"No, I can't say that I do. We are only two very small and very obscure
men with a very limited amount of cash. As a matter of fact, I have got
to the end of mine. In a battle with these Titans of wealth, what can we
do?"

"Sit tight!"

"Easier said than done. Your business life in St. Goram has been
terminated. At the present time I am earning nothing. In order to sit
tight, we must have something to sit on."

"We can farm Hillside, and live on vegetables."

"Jenkins does not go out till March, and in the meanwhile he is claiming
compensation for damages."

"We can easily deal with him. He won't go to law; he is too poor, and
has too genuine a horror of lawyers. So he will submit his claim to
arbitration."

"But even with Jenkins out of the way, and ourselves installed as
farmers, we are still in a very awkward plight. Suppose St. Goram really
contests this right of way--which was never hinted at till now--he can
virtually ruin us with law costs."

"He would never be so mean as to attempt it."

Ralph laughed bitterly.

"My dear fellow," he said, "I can see clearly enough there is going to
be an organised attempt to crush us. As for the question of meanness,
that will never be considered for a moment. We are regarded as
interlopers who have been guilty of sharp practice. Hence, we must not
only be checkmated, but ground into powder."

"They haven't done it yet," William said, with a cheerful smile, "and
I'm not going to say die till I'm dead."

Ralph laughed again, and a little less bitterly than before. William's
hopefulness was not without its influence upon him.

For a while there was silence, then William spoke again.

"Look here, Ralph," he said; "strength will have to be met with
strength. The strong too often know nothing of either mercy or justice.
One does not like to say such a thing, or even think it, but this is no
time for sentiment."

"Well?"

"You know our hope has been to work the lode ourselves; to increase our
plant, as we have made a little money; to employ only St. Goram men, and
give each one a share in the concern. It was a benevolent idea, but it
is clear we are not to be allowed to carry it out."

"Well?"

"Two courses are still open to us. The first is to fill in the
prospecting pits and let the lode lie undeveloped. The second is to let
the financiers come in and form a company that shall be strong enough to
meet Lord St. Goram and his class on their own ground."

Ralph was silent.

"I know you do not like either alternative," William went on, "but we
are pushed up into a corner."

"The first alternative will fail for the reason I mentioned just now,"
Ralph interposed. "St. Goram will dispute the right of way."

"And he knows we cannot afford to go to law with him."

"Exactly."

"Then we are thrown back on the second alternative, and our little dream
of a benevolent autocracy is at an end. Strangers must come in. People
who have no interest in St. Goram will find the money. A board of
directors will manage the concern, and you and I will be lost in the
crowd."

Ralph raised his eyes for a moment, but did not reply.

"Such a plan has its advantages," William went on. "If we had been
allowed to carry out our plan, developments would be very slow."

"Not so slow. You must remember that the lode is very rich."

"It would necessarily be slow at the start," William replied. "By
letting the financiers come in, the thing will be started right away on
a big scale. Every man out of work will have a job, and money will begin
to circulate in St. Goram at once."

"That is no doubt true, but--well, it knocks on the head much I had
hoped for."

"I know it does; but living in our little corner here, our view may be
narrow and prejudiced. There is honest company promoting as well as
dishonest. Combination of capital need not be any more wrong than
combination of labour. No single man could build a railway from London
to Penzance, and stock it; and if he could, it is better that a company
should own it, and work it, than a single individual. You prefer a
democracy to an autocracy, surely?"

Ralph's face brightened, but he remained silent.

"Suppose you and I had been able to carry out our idea," William went
on. "We should have been absolute rulers. Are we either of us wise
enough to rule? We might have become, in our own way, more powerful than
Lord St. Goram and all the other county magnates rolled into one. Should
we have grace enough to use our power justly? We have benevolent
intentions, but who knows how money and power might corrupt? They nearly
always do corrupt. We complain of the way the strong use their strength;
perhaps it is a mercy the temptation is not put in our way."

"Perhaps you are right, William," Ralph said at length, "though I
confess I distrust the whole gang of company promoters that have been
buzzing about me for the last month."

"Why not consult Sir John Liskeard? He is our member; he is interested
in the place. He knows most people, and he would at least bring an
unprejudiced mind to bear on the question."

Ralph gave a little gasp. To see Sir John he would have to go to London.
If he went to London, he might see Dorothy Hamblyn.

He did not speak for a moment. The sudden vision of Dorothy's face
blotted out everything. It was curious how she dominated him still; how
his heart turned to her constantly as the needle to the pole; how her
face came up before him in the most unexpected places, and at the most
unexpected times; how the thought of her lay at the back of all his
enterprises and all his hopes.

"It means money going to London," he said at length.

"We must sow if we would reap," William replied, "and our balance at the
bank is not quite exhausted yet. Don't forget that we are partners in
this enterprise, and in any case we could sell the farm for a great deal
more than we gave for it."

"We may be compelled to sell it yet," Ralph said ruefully.

"But not until we are compelled," was the cheerful reply. "No, no; if we
don't win this time, it will not be for want of trying."

"My experience has not been encouraging," Ralph answered. "In every
struggle so far, I have gone under. The strong have triumphed. Right and
justice have been set aside."

"You have gone under only to come to the top again," William laughed.

"But think of father and mother."

"Martyrs in the sacred cause of freedom," William answered. "The rights
of the people are not won in a day."

Ralph was silent for a while, then he looked up with a smile.

"Your judgment is sounder than mine," he said. "I will go to London
to-morrow."

He had no difficulty in getting an interview with Sir John. The member
for the St. Hilary division of the county had his eye on the next
election. Moreover, he was keenly interested in the new discovery, and
was not without hope that he might be able to identify himself with the
concern. He manifested distinct pleasure when Ralph was announced, and
gave all his attention to him at once.

Ralph put the whole case before him from start to finish. Liskeard
listened attentively with scarcely an interruption. He smiled now and
then as Ralph explained his own hope and purpose--his benevolent
autocracy, as William called it--and how he had been foiled by the ring
of strong men--strong in wealth and social influence--who threatened to
strangle all his hopes and schemes.

It took Ralph a long time to tell his story, for he was anxious to leave
no point obscure. Sir John listened without the least trace of weariness
or impatience. He was too keenly interested to notice how rapidly time
was flying.

"I think your partner has the true business instinct," he said at
length. "It is almost impossible to carry out great schemes by private
enterprise."

"Then you approve of forming a company?"

"Most certainly. I have been expecting to see in the papers for weeks
past that such a company had been formed."

"I mistrust the whole lot of them," Ralph said, with a touch of
vehemence in his tone. "Everybody appears to be on the make."

"It is of very little use quarrelling with human nature," Sir John said,
with a smile. "We must take men as we find them, and be careful to keep
our eyes open all the time."

"If someone stronger than yourself ties you to a tree and robs you, I
don't see much use in keeping your eyes open," Ralph answered bluntly.
"Indeed, it might be a prudent thing to keep your eyes shut."

Liskeard lay back in his chair and laughed heartily.

"I see where you are," he said at length. "Still, there is a soul of
honour alive in the world even among business men. Don't forget that our
great world of commerce is built on trust. There are blacklegs, of
course, but in the main men are honest."

"I am glad to hear it," Ralph answered dubiously. "But now to get to the
main point. Will you help us in this thing? William Menire and myself
are both inexperienced, both ignorant, both mistrustful of ourselves,
and particularly of other people."

"Can you trust me?" Liskeard questioned, with a laugh.

"Yes, we can, or I should not have come to you."

"Then I think I may say I can put the thing through for you."

"It's a good thing," Ralph said warmly. "There is not a lode a quarter
so rich in the three parishes. I question if there is anything equal to
it in the whole county."

"I have read the assayer's report," Sir John answered.

"And because it is so good," Ralph went on, "I'd like St. Goram to have
the first claim, if you understand. If there are any preferences, let
them go to the people at home."

"And your share?"

"William and I will leave our interests in your hands. You are a lawyer.
All we want is justice and fair play."

"I understand. If you will dine with me at the House to-morrow night I
think we shall be able to advance the case a step further."

Ralph got into an omnibus in Fleet Street, and alighted at Westminster.
Thence he made his way into St. James's Park. The weather was raw and
cold, the trees bare, the paths muddy and deserted. He wandered up and
down for the best part of an hour--it was too cold to sit down--then he
made his way across Hyde Park Corner and struck Rotten Row.

A few schoolgirls, accompanied by riding masters, were trotting up and
down. A few closed carriages rolled by on the macadam road, a few
pedestrians sauntered listlessly along under the bare trees.

A few soldiers might be seen talking to giggling nursemaids, but the one
face he hungered to see did not reveal itself. He walked almost to
Kensington Palace and back again, by which time night had begun to fall.
Then with a little sigh he got into a 'bus, and was soon rolling down
Piccadilly.

London seemed a lonely place in the summer time; it was lonelier than
ever in the winter.

CHAPTER XXXVII

LIGHT AND SHADOW

By the end of the following May, Great St. Goram Mine was in full
working order. Ralph was installed as managing director; William was
made a director and secretary to the company. Lord St. Goram was in
Scotland at the time, and when he applied for shares he was too late.
His chagrin knew no bounds. He had imagined that he had Ralph and
William in the hollow of his hand. That two country bumpkins, as he was
pleased to call them, would be able to float a company had not occurred
to him. He knew the project that first occupied their thoughts. He knew
that he could make it impossible for them to carry their ideas into
effect.

His agent had hinted to William that his lordship would be willing to
take the farm off their hands at a price; hence, he believed that by
applying gentle pressure, and waiting, he would be able in a very short
time to get the whole thing into his hands.

For a few weeks he threatened the company with all sorts of pains and
penalties, but the company was not to be bluffed. Private interest had
to give way before public convenience. Where the welfare of a whole
community was at stake, no petty and niggling contention about right of
way was allowed to stand. The company made its own right of way, and was
prepared to pay any reasonable damage.

With the company at his back, Ralph laughed in the consciousness of his
strength. He had never felt strong before. It was a new experience, and
a most delightful sensation. He had never lacked courage or will power,
but he had been made to feel that environment or destiny--or whatever
name people liked to give it--was too strong for him. Strength is
relative, and in comparison with the forces arrayed against him, he had
felt weaker than an infant.

When his father was driven from his home, he had bowed his head with the
rest in helpless submission. When he was arrested on a false and
ridiculous charge, he submitted without protest. When he saw his mother
dying in a workhouse hospital, he could only groan in bitterness of
spirit. When the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company gave him notice to
suspend operations, he had tamely to submit. In fact, submission had
been the order of his life. It had been given to others to rule; it had
been his to obey.

This would not have been irksome if the rule of the strong had been wise
and just. But when justice was thrust aside or trampled under foot, as
if it had no place in the social order, when equity was only the
shuttlecock and plaything of interested people, when the weak were
denied their rights simply because they were weak, and the reward of
merit was to be cuffed by the tyrant, then his soul revolted and he grew
bitter and cynical in spite of himself.

Now, however, the tables had been turned. For the first time in his life
he felt himself among the strong. He need no longer sit down tamely
under an injustice, or submit to insults in silence. Success was power.
Money was power. Combination was power.

He pulled himself up suddenly at length with a feeling almost of terror.
He was in danger of becoming what he had condemned so much in others.
The force and subtlety of the temptation stood revealed as in a blinding
flash. It was so splendid to have strength, to be able to stalk across
the land like a giant, to do just what pleased him to do, to consult no
one in the doing of it. It was just in that the temptation and the
danger lay. It was so easy to forget the weak, to overlook the
insignificant, to treat the feeble as of no account. Strength did not
constitute right.

That was a truth that tyrants never learned and that Governments too
frequently shut their eyes to. God would hold him responsible for his
strength. If he had the strength of ten thousand men, he still had no
right to do wrong.

So at length he got to see things in their true proportion and
perspective. The strength that had come to him was only an adventitious
kind of strength, after all. Unless he had another and a better kind of
strength to balance it, it might prove his destruction. What he needed
most was moral strength, strength to use wisely and justly his
opportunities, strength to hold the balance evenly, strength to do the
right, whatever it might cost him, to suffer loss for conscience' sake,
to do to others what he would they should do to him.

If he ever forgot the pit out of which he had been digged, success would
be a failure in the most direful sense.

He trembled when he saw the danger, and prayed God to help him. He was
walking on the edge of a precipice and knew it; a precipice over which
thousands of so-called successful men had fallen.

"Ruth," he said to his sister one evening, with a grave look in his
eyes, "if you ever see me growing proud, remind me that my mother died
in a workhouse."

"Ralph?" she questioned, with a look of surprise on her face.

"I am not joking," he said solemnly. "I was never in more sober earnest.
I have stood in slippery places many times before, but never in one so
slippery as this."

"Are not things going well at the mine?" she asked, in alarm.

"Too well," he answered. "The shareholders will get twenty per cent. on
their money the first year."

"And you are a large shareholder," she said, with a look of elation in
her eyes.

"Besides which, there are the dues to the landlord, as well as the
salary of the manager. Do you not see, Ruth, that this sudden change of
fortune is a perilous thing?"

"To some people it might be, Ralph."

"It is to me. It came to me this afternoon as I walked across the
'floors' and men touched their caps to me."

"But you can never forget the past," she said.

"But men do forget the past," he answered. "Would you ever imagine for a
moment that Lord Probus, for instance, was not to the manner born?"

"I have seen him only two or three times," she answered; "but it seems
to me that he is always trying to be a lord, which proves----"

"Which proves what?"

"Well, you see, a man who is really a gentleman does not try to be one.
He is one, and there's an end of it; he hasn't to try."