SIR JOHN ATONES
Dorothy did not see Ralph again for nearly a month, and the hope that had animated her for a brief period threatened to go out in darkness. Her father, much to her surprise, remained at the Manor, he and the dowager having come to terms that appeared to be mutually satisfactory. But for what purpose he had returned to St. Goram, and why he remained, she did not know, and more puzzling still was why he had held that long and friendly interview with Ralph Penlogan.
More than once she had tried to get at the truth. But her father was completely on his guard against every chance question. He had never been in the habit of taking Dorothy into his confidence in business matters. He was of opinion that the less girls knew about matters outside the domestic realm the better. Moreover, until he was safely out of the clutches of the money-lenders, it would not be safe to take anyone into his confidence. So to Dorothy, at any rate, he remained a mystery from day to day, and the longer he remained, the deeper the mystery seemed to grow.
There was, however, one compensation. He was more cheerful and more affectionate than he had ever been since her refusal to marry Lord Probus. What that might mean she was unable to guess. There appeared to be no particular reason for his cheerfulness. For the moment he was living on charity, for of course he could not dream of paying the dowager for his board and lodgings. He did not appear to be engaged on any gambling adventure or business enterprise. No one came to see him. He went nowhere, except for an occasional long walk after dark, and he scarcely ever received a letter.
One evening he was absent several hours, and did not return till after midnight. Dorothy waited up for him, and had begun to be greatly concerned at his non-arrival. She was standing at the open door listening when she caught the sound of his footsteps, and she ran a little way down the drive to meet him.
"Oh, father, wherever have you been?" she cried out anxiously.
"Why, little girl, why are you not in bed?" he answered, with a laugh.
"Because I waited up for you, and I expected you an hour ago. I have been terribly anxious."
"Nobody is likely to run away with me," he said, bending over and kissing her.
"But it is so late for you to be out alone. If there was anyone you have been in the habit of visiting, I should not have worried, but I feared you had been taken ill, or had met with an accident."
"I did not know you cared for your old father so much," he said, with a note of tenderness in his voice that was new to her.
"But I do care," she answered impulsively, "and care lots and lots more than I can tell you."
He kissed her again, and then taking her arm, he led her into the house. Bolting the front door, he followed her into the library.
She was standing against the fireplace when he entered, and she noticed that his eyes were unusually bright.
"I have been to Hillside Farm," he said, and a broad smile spread itself over his face.
"To Hillside Farm?" she questioned.
"Young Penlogan has had some business affairs of mine in hand, and to-night we have settled it."
She stared at him with a look of wonder in her eyes, but did not reply.
"It's been a ticklish task, and, of course, I have said nothing about it. But I've been in high hopes ever since I came back. Penlogan is really a remarkable fellow."
"Yes?" she questioned, wondering more than ever.
"It's a curious turn of the tables," he went on; "but he's behaved splendidly, and there's no denying it. He might have heaped coals of fire on my head at every point. He might—but—well, after one straight talk—not another word. He's behaved like a gentleman—perhaps I ought to say like a Christian. No conditions! Not a condition. No. Having made up his mind to do the straight thing, he's carried it through. It's been coals of fire, all the same. I've never felt so humbled in my life before. I could wish—but there, it's too late to wish now. He's spared me all he could. I'm bound to say that for him, and he's carried it through——"
"Carried what through, father?"
He started, and smiled, for his thoughts had evidently gone wandering to some distant place.
"I'm afraid it's too long a story to tell you to-night."
"No, no, father. I'm quite wide awake. And, indeed, I shall not sleep for the night, unless you tell me."
"I'm wide awake myself," he said, with a laugh. "By Jove! I feel as if I could dance. You can't imagine what a relief it is to me. Life will be worth living again."
"But what is it all about, father?"
"Oh, that clever dog, Penlogan, discovered a rich vein of ore in my ground, and he's given me all the benefit of the discovery. I've been hard up for a long time, as you know; been in the hands of sharks, in fact. I feel ashamed to tell you this, though I expect you have guessed. Well, thanks to Penlogan, I've shaken them off, got quite free of them. Now I'm free to go ahead."
"And has Ralph Penlogan done all this for nothing?"
"Absolutely. He wanted you when he came to see me at Boulogne, but I told him I'd see you buried first. Good heavens! I could have wrung his neck."
She smiled pathetically, but made no answer.
"He's a greater man than I knew," Sir John went on, after a pause. "He was strongly tempted to be even with me—he told me so—but the finer side of him conquered. Good heavens! if only Geoffrey were such a man, how proud I should be."
"Geoffrey has been trained in a different school."
"There may be something in that. Some natures expand under hard knocks, are toughened by battle and strife, greatened by suffering, and sweetened by sorrow."
She looked up into his face with a wondering smile.
"Ah, my Dorothy," he said, with a world of tenderness in his tones, "I have learned a great deal during the last few weeks. In the past I've been a fool, and worse. I've measured people by their social position. I've set value on filigree and embroidery. I've been proud of pedigree and name, and I've tried to put my heel upon people who were my superiors in every way. Good heavens! what vain fools we are in the main. We value the pinchbeck setting and kick the diamond into the gutter."
"Then you have finished with Mr. Penlogan now?" she questioned, after a long pause.
"Finished with him? Why so? I hope not, anyhow."
"But you have got all you want out of him."
"I never said so. No, no. We shall have to form a company to work the new lode, and he will be invaluable."
"And he will get nothing?"
"I don't know that he wants anything. He has plenty as it is."
She made no reply, and for a moment or two they looked at each other in silence. Then Sir John said, with a chuckle—
"A penny for your thoughts, Dorothy!"
"A penny for yours, father."
"Do you really care very much for the fellow?"
"For the fellow?"
"I mean for Penlogan, of course. Mind you, I'm not surprised if you do. He's the kind of fellow any girl might fall in love with, and, to be quite candid, I shouldn't object to him for a son-in-law."
"Oh, father!" and she ran to him and threw her arms about his neck.
"Then you do care for him, little girl?"
But the only answer he got was a hug and a kiss.
"Oh, very good," he went on. "I'll let him know to-morrow morning that he may come along here and see you if he likes. I don't expect he will lose very much time. What! crying, little girl? Come, come, you mustn't cry. Crying spoils the eyes. Besides, it is time we were both in bed."
She kissed him more than once, and then ran hurriedly out of the room.
On the following afternoon she went for a walk through the plantation alone.
"He will come this way," she said to herself. "He will be sure to come this way. He knows it is my favourite walk."
She walked slowly, but with every sense alert. She knew that her father had been to see Ralph, and, of course, he would be impatient to see her. If he were half as impatient as she was he would be on his way now.
She espied him at length a long way down the road, and she drew back a little in the shadow of the trees and waited. Her heart was beating very fast, and happy tears kept welling up into her eyes.
She was looking away from him when at length he came upon her.
"Dorothy!" he said, in a voice that thrilled her like a strain of music.
"Yes, Ralph," and she turned her perfect face full upon him.
"Your father said I might come."
"Yes, I know," and she placed both her hands in his.
"I have waited long for this day," he said.
"We are the happier for the waiting."
"You are satisfied?"
"I am very happy, Ralph."
He gathered her to himself slowly and tenderly, and kissed her. There was no need for many words just then. Silence was more eloquent than speech.
That evening the dowager came to the conclusion that she would have to look out for a new companion and secretary.