IN LONDON TOWN
Ralph remained in London considerably longer than he had intended. Sir John Liskeard was a very busy man, and the questions raised by Ralph required time to consider. The equity of the case was simple and straightforward enough; the law was quite another matter. Moreover, as Sir John had been asked to give not merely a legal opinion, but some friendly advice, the relative strength of the litigants had to be taken into account.
Sir John was anxious to do his best for his young client. Ralph appeared to be a coming man in the division he represented in Parliament, and as Sir John's majority on the last election was only a narrow one, he was naturally anxious to do all he could to strengthen his position in the constituency. Hence he received Ralph very graciously, got him a seat under the gallery during an important debate in the House of Commons, took him to tea on the Terrace, pointed out to him most of the political celebrities who happened to be in attendance at the House, and introduced him to a few whom Ralph was particularly anxious to meet.
Fresh from the country and from the humdrum of village life, with palate unjaded and all his enthusiasms at the full, this was a peculiarly delightful experience. It was pleasant to meet men in the flesh whom he had read about in books and newspapers, pleasant to breathe—if only for an hour—a new atmosphere, charged with a subtle energy he could not define.
Of course, there were painful disillusionments. Some noted people—in appearance, at any rate—fell far short of his expectations. Great men rose in the House to speak, and stuttered and spluttered the weakest and emptiest platitudes. Honourables and right honourables and noble lords appeared, in many instances, to be made of very common clay.
Ralph found himself wondering, as many another man has done, as he sat watching and listening, by what curious or fatuous fate some of these men in the gathering ever climbed into their exalted positions.
He put the question to Sir John when he had an opportunity.
"Most of them do not climb at all," was the laughing answer. "They are simply pitchforked."
"But surely it is merit that wins in a place like this?"
Sir John laughed again.
"In some cases, no doubt. For instance, you see that short, thick-set man yonder. Well, he's one of the most effective speakers in the House. A few years ago he was a working shoemaker. Then you see that white-headed man yonder, with large forehead and deep, sad-looking eyes. Well, he was a village schoolmaster for thirty years, and now he is acknowledged to be one of the ablest men we have. Then there is Blank, in the corner seat there below the gangway, a most brilliant fellow—a farmer's son, without any early advantages at all. But I don't suppose that either of them will ever get into office, or into what you call an exalted position."
"But why not?"
"Ah, well"—and Sir John shrugged his shoulders—"you see, the ruling classes in this country belong to—well, to the ruling classes."
"But I thought ours was a purely democratic form of government?"
"It is. But the democracy dearly love a lord. They have no faith in their own order. The ruling classes have; so they remain the ruling classes. And who can blame them?"
"Still, when so much is at stake, the best men ought to be at the head of affairs."
"Possibly they are—that is, the best available men. Tradition goes for a good deal in a country like this. Certain positions are filled, as a matter of course, by people of rank. An historic name counts for a good deal."
"But suppose the bearer of the historic name should happen to be a fool?"
"Oh, well, we muddle through somehow. Get an extra war or two, perhaps, and an addition to the taxes and to the national debt. But we are a patient people, and don't mind very much. Besides, the majority of the people are easily gulled."
"Then promotion goes by favour?" Ralph questioned after a pause.
"Why, of course it does. Did you ever doubt it? Take the case of the Imperial Secretary. Does any sane man in England, irrespective of creed or party, imagine for a moment that he would have got into that position if he had not been the nephew of a duke?"
"But isn't he a capable man?"
"Capable?"—and Sir John shrugged his shoulders again. "Why, if he had to depend on his own merits he wouldn't earn thirty shillings a week in any business house in the City."
Ralph walked away from the House of Commons with a curious feeling of elation and disappointment. He had been greatly delighted in some respects, and terribly disappointed in others.
In St. James's Park he sat down in the shadow of a large chestnut tree and tried to sort out his emotions. He had been in London three days, but had scarcely got his bearings yet. Everything was very new, very strange, and very wonderful. On the whole, he thought he would be very glad to get away from it. It seemed to him the loneliest place on earth. On every side there was the ceaseless roar of traffic, like the breaking of the sea, and yet there was not a friendly face or a familiar voice anywhere in all the throng.
Suddenly he started and leaned eagerly forward. That was a familiar face, surely, and a familiar voice. Two people passed close to where he sat—a young man and a young woman. Her skirts almost brushed his boots; her sunshade—which she was swinging—came within an inch of his hand.
Dorothy Hamblyn! The words leapt to his lips unconsciously, but he did not utter them. She passed on brightly—joyously, it seemed to him, but she was quite unaware of his presence. In the main, her eyes were fixed on the young man by her side—a slim, faultlessly dressed young man, with pale face, retreating chin, and a bored expression in his eyes.
Ralph rose to his feet and followed them. His heart was beating fast, his knees trembled in spite of himself, his brain was in a whirl. What he purposed doing or where he purposed going never occurred to him. He simply followed a sudden impulse, whether it led to his undoing or not.
He kept them in sight until they reached Hyde Park Corner. Then the crowd swallowed them up for several moments. But he caught sight of them again on the other side and followed them into the Park. For several minutes he had considerable difficulty in disentangling them from the crowd of people that hurried to and fro, but a large white plume Dorothy wore in her hat assisted him. They came to a full stop at length, and sat down on a couple of chairs. He discovered an empty chair on the other side of the road, and sat down opposite.
He was near enough to see her features distinctly, near enough to see the light sparkle in her eyes, but not near enough to hear anything she said. That, however, did not matter. He was content for the moment to look at her. He wanted nothing better.
How beautiful she was! She was no longer the squire's "little maid," she was a woman now. Nearly two years had passed since he last saw her, and those years had ripened all her charms and rounded them into perfection.
He could look his fill without being observed. If she cast her eyes in his direction she would not recognise him—probably she had forgotten his existence.
His nerves were still thrilling with a strange ecstasy. His eyes drank in greedily every line and curve and expression of her face. In all this great London there was no other face, he was sure, that could compare with it, no other smile that was half so sweet.
She rose at length, slowly and with seeming reluctance, to her feet. Her companion at once sprang to her side. Ralph rose also, and faced them. Why he did so he did not know. He was still following a blind and unreasoning impulse. She paused for a moment or two and looked steadfastly in his direction, then turned and quickly walked away, and a moment later was swallowed up in the multitude.
Ralph took one step forward, then turned back and sat down with a jerk. He had come to himself at last.
"Well, I have played the fool with a vengeance," he muttered to himself. "I have just pulled down all I have been trying for the last two years to build up."
The next moment he was unconscious of his surroundings again. Crowds of people passed and re-passed, but he saw one face only, the face that had never ceased to haunt him since the hour when, in her bright, imperious way, she commanded him to open the gate.
How readily and vividly he recalled every incident of that afternoon. He felt her arms about his neck even now. He was hurrying across the downs once more in the direction of St. Goram. His heart was thrilling with a new sensation.
He came to himself again after a while and sauntered slowly out of the Park. Beauty and wealth and fashion jostled him on every side, but it was a meaningless show to him. Had Ruth been with him she would have gone into ecstasies over the hats and dresses, for such creations were never seen in St. Goram, nor even dreamed of.
Men have to be educated to appreciate the splendours and glories of feminine attire, and, generally speaking, the education is a slow and disappointing process. The male eye is not quick in detecting the subtleties of lace and chiffon, the values of furs and furbelows.
"Women dress to please the men," somebody has remarked. That may be true in some cases. More frequently, it is to be feared, they dress to make other women envious.
Ralph's education in the particular line referred to had not even commenced. He knew nothing of the philosophy of clothes. He was vaguely conscious sometimes that some people were well dressed and others ill dressed, that some women were gowned becomingly and others unbecomingly, but beyond that generalisation he never ventured.
He had begun to dress well himself almost without knowing it. He instinctively avoided everything that was loud or noticeable. Nature had given him a good figure—tall, erect, and well proportioned. Moreover, he was free from the vanity which makes a man self-conscious, and he was sufficiently well educated to know what constituted a gentleman.
He got back to the small hotel at which he was staying in time for an early dinner, after which he strolled into the Embankment Gardens and listened to the band. Later still, he found himself sitting on one of the seats in Trafalgar Square listening to the splash of the fountains and dreaming of home, and yet in every dream stood out the exquisite face and figure of Dorothy Hamblyn.
Next morning, because he had nothing to do, and because he was already tired of sight-seeing, he made his way again into St. James's Park, and found a seat near the lake and in the shadow of the trees. He told himself that he came there in the hope that he might see Dorothy Hamblyn again.
He knew it was a foolish thing to do. But he had come to the unheroic conclusion during the night that it was of no use fighting against Fate. He loved Dorothy Hamblyn passionately, madly, and that was the end of it. He could not help it. He had tried his best to root out the foolish infatuation, and he had almost hoped that he was succeeding. But yesterday's experience had torn the veil from his eyes, and revealed to him the fact that he was more hopelessly in love than ever.
How angry he was with himself he did not know. The folly of it made him ashamed. His presumption filled him with amazement. If anyone else of his own class had done the same thing he would have laughed him to scorn. In truth, he could have kicked himself for his folly.
Then, unconsciously, his mood would change, and self-pity would take the place of scorn. He was not to blame. He was the victim of a cruel and cynical Fate. He was being punished for hating her father so intensely. It was the Nemesis of an evil passion.
He spent most of the day in the Park, and kept an eager look-out in all directions; but the vision of Dorothy's face did not again gladden his eyes. A hundred times he started, and the warm blood rushed in a torrent to his face, then he would walk slowly on again.
On the following morning he met Sir John Liskeard, by appointment, in his chambers in the Temple.
"He had been going into the case," he explained to Ralph, "with considerable care, but even now he had not found out all he wanted to know. He had, however, discovered one or two facts which had an important bearing on the case."
He was careful to explain, again, that in equity he considered Ralph's claim incontestable, while nothing could be more honourable than the way in which he had tried to come to terms with the company. He spoke strongly of the high-handed and tyrannous way in which a rich and powerful company were trying to crush a poor man and rob him of the fruits of his skill and enterprise.
But, on the other hand, there was no doubt whatever that the company would be able to cite a clear case. To begin with, the agreement, or the concession, was very loosely worded. Moreover, no time limit had been set, which might imply that the company retained the right of withdrawing the concession at any moment. It was also contended by some of the shareholders that the company, as a whole, could not be held responsible for mistakes made by the chairman. That, however, he held was a silly contention, inasmuch as the agreement was stamped with the company's seal, and was signed by the secretary and two directors.
On the other hand, there could be no doubt that the concession had been hurriedly made, no one at the time realising that there was any value in the rubbish heap that had been accumulating for the biggest part of a century. On one point, however, the company had cleverly forestalled them. It had purchased, recently, the freehold of Daniel Rickard's farm. This, no doubt, was a very astute move, and mightily strengthened the company's position.
"I am bound, also, to point out one other fact," the lawyer went on. "I have discovered that both Lord Probus and Lord St. Goram are considerable shareholders in the concern. They are both tremendously impressed by what I may term 'the potentialities of the tailing heap.' In fact, they believe there's a huge fortune in it, and they are determined that the company shall reap the reward of your discovery."
"They need not be so greedy," Ralph said bitterly. "They have both far more than they know how to spend, and they might have been willing to give a beginner a chance."
"You know the old saying," Sir John said, with a smile. "'Much would have more.'"
"I've heard it," Ralph said moodily.
"You will understand I am not talking to you merely as a lawyer. There is no doubt whatever that you have a case, and a very clear case. I may add, a very strong case."
"And what, roughly speaking, would it cost to fight it in a court of law?"
Sir John shrugged his shoulders and smiled knowingly.
"I might name a minimum figure," he said, and he did.
Ralph started, and half rose from his chair.
"That settles the matter," he said, after a pause.
"It would be a very unequal contest," Sir John remarked.
"You mean——"
"I mean, they could take it from court to court, and simply cripple you with law costs."
"So, as usual, the weak must go to the wall?"
"To be quite candid with you, I could not advise you to risk what you have made."
"What I have made is very little indeed," Ralph answered.
"I thought you had made a small fortune."
"I could have made a little if I had been given time; but I have spent most of the profit in increasing and improving the plant."
"I am sorry. To say the least, it is rough on you."
"It is what I have been used to all my life," Ralph said absently. "The powerful appear to recognise no law but their own strength."
When Ralph found himself in the street again his thoughts immediately turned towards home.