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.