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.