A TRYING POSITION
William Menire was troubled about two things—troubles rarely come singly. The first trouble arose a week or two previously out of a request preferred by a cousin of his, a young farmer from a neighbouring parish, who wanted an introduction to Ruth Penlogan.
Sam Tremail was a good-looking young fellow of irreproachable character. Moreover, he was well-to-do, his father and mother having retired and left a large farm on his hands. He stood nearly six feet in his boots, had never known a day's illness in his life, was only twenty-six years of age, lived in a capital house, and only wanted a good wife to make him the happiest man on earth.
Yet for some reason there was not a girl in his own parish that quite took his fancy. Not that there was any lack of eligible young ladies; not that he had set his heart on either beauty or fortune. Disdainful and disappointed mothers who had daughters to spare said that he was proud and stuck-up—that they did not know what the young men of the present day were coming to, and that Sam Tremail deserved to catch a tartar.
Some of these remarks were repeated to Sam, and he acknowledged their force. He had a feeling that he ought to marry a girl from his own parish. He admitted their eligibility. Some of them were exceedingly pretty, and one or two of them had money in their own right. Yet for some reason they left his heart untouched. They were admirable as acquaintances, or even friends, but they moved him to no deeper emotion.
He first caught sight of Ruth at the sale when her father's worldly goods were being disposed of by public auction. She looked so sad, so patient, so gentle, so meekly resigned, that a new chord in his nature seemed to be set suddenly vibrating, and it had gone on vibrating ever 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."