THE TABLES TURNED
Three days later Ralph paused for a moment in front of a trim boarding-house or pension on the outskirts of Boulogne. It was here Sir John Hamblyn was "vegetating," as he told his friends—practising the strictest economy, and making a desperate and praiseworthy effort to recover somewhat his lost financial position.
Ralph told no one what he intended to do. Ruth supposed that he had gone no farther than London, and that it was business connected with Great St. Goram Mine that called him there. Dorothy, having for a moment capitulated, had been making a brave but futile effort to forget, and trying to persuade herself that she had done a weak and foolish thing in admitting to Ralph Penlogan that she cared for him.
Love and logic, however, were never meant to harmonise, and heart and head are often in hopeless antagonism. Dorothy pretended to herself that she was sorry, and yet all the time deep down in her heart there was a feeling of exultation. It was delightful to be loved, and it was no less delightful to love in return.
Almost unconsciously she found herself meditating on Ralph's many excellences. He was so genuine, so courageous, so unspoiled by the world. She was sure also that she liked him all the better for being a man of the people. He owed nothing to favour or patronage. He had fought his own way and made his own mark. He was not like Archie Temple, who had been pushed into a situation purely through favour, and who, if thrown upon the open market, would not earn thirty shillings a week.
It was an honour and a distinction to be loved by a man like Ralph Penlogan. He was one of Nature's aristocracy, clear-visioned, brave-hearted, fearless, indomitable. His handsome face was the index of his character. How he had developed since that day he refused to open the gate for her! Suffering had made him strong. Trial and persecution had called into play the best that was in him. The fearless, defiant youth had become a strong and resolute man. How could she help loving him when he offered her all the love of his own great heart?
Then she would come to herself with a little gasp, and tell herself that it was her duty to forget him, to tear his image out of her heart; that an attachment such as hers was hopeless and quixotic; that the sooner she mastered herself the better it would be; that her father would never approve, and that the society in which she moved would be aghast.
For two days she fought a fitful and unequal battle, and then she discovered that the more she fought the more helpless she seemed to become. She had kept in the house lest she should discover him straying in the plantation.
On the third day she went out again. She said to herself that she would suffocate if she remained any longer indoors. Her heart was aching for a sight of Ralph Penlogan's face. She told herself it was fresh air she was pining for, and a sight of the hills and the distant sea. She loitered through the plantation until she reached the far end. Then she sighed and pushed open the gate. She walked as far as the stile, and leaned against it. How long she remained there she did not know; but she turned away at length, and strolled out across the common and down into the high road, and so home by way of the south lodge.
The air had been fresh and sweet, and the blue of the sea peeped between the hills in the direction of Perranpool, and the woods and plantations looked their best in their summer attire, and the birds sang cheerily on every hand. But she heard nothing, and saw nothing. The footfall she had listened for all the time failed to come, and the face she was hungering to see kept out of sight.
He had evidently taken her at her word. She had told him that their parting must be for ever, that it would be worse than madness for them to meet, and she had meant it all at the time; and yet, three days later, she would have given all she possessed for one more glimpse of his face.
The following day her duties were more irksome than she had ever known them. The dowager wanted so many letters written, and so many articles read to her. Dorothy was impatient to get out of doors, and the more rapidly she tried to get through her work the more mistakes she made, with the result that it had to be done over again.
It was getting quite late in the afternoon when at length she hurried away through the plantation. Would he come to meet her? She need not let him make love to her, but they might at least be friends. Love and logic were in opposition again.
She lingered by the stile until the sun went down behind the hill, then, with a sigh, she turned away, and began to retrace her steps through the plantation.
"I ought to be thankful to him for taking me at my word," she said to herself, with a pathetic look in her eyes. "Oh, why did he ever love me? Why was I ever born?"
Meanwhile Ralph Penlogan and Sir John Hamblyn had come face to face. Ralph had refused to send up his name, hence, when he was ushered into the squire's presence, the latter simply stared at him for several moments in speechless rage and astonishment.
Ralph was the first to break the silence.
"I must apologise for this intrusion," he said quietly, "but——"
"I should think so, indeed," interrupted Sir John scornfully. "Will you state your business as quickly as possible?"
"I will certainly occupy no more of your time than I can help," Ralph replied, "though I fear you are not in the humour to consider any proposal from me."
"I should think not, indeed. Why should I be? Do you wish me to tell you what I think of you?"
"I am not anxious on that score, though I am not aware that I have given you any reason for thinking ill of me."
"You are not, eh? When you cheated me out of the most valuable bit of property I possessed?"
"Did we not pay the price you asked?"
"But you knew there was a valuable tin lode in it."
"What of that? The property was in the market. We did not induce you to sell it. We heard by accident that you wanted to dispose of it. If there had been no lode we should have made no effort to get it."
"It was a mean, dishonest trick, all the same."
"I do not see it. By every moral right the farm was more mine than yours. I helped my father to reclaim it. You spent nothing on it, never raised your finger to bring it under cultivation. Moreover, it was common land at the start. In league with a dishonest Parliament, you filched it from the people, and then, by the operation of an iniquitous law, you filched it a second time from my father."
Sir John listened to this speech with blazing eyes and clenched hands.
"By Heaven," he said, "if I were a younger man I would kick you down these stairs. Have you forced your way in here to insult me?"
"On the contrary, it was my desire rather to conciliate you; but you charged me with dishonesty at the outset."
"Conciliate me, indeed!" And Sir John turned away with a sneer upon his face.
"We neither of us gain anything by losing our tempers," Ralph said, after a pause. "Had we not better let bygones be bygones?"
Sir John faced him again and stared.
"It is no pleasure to me to rake up the past," Ralph went on. "Probably we should both be happier if we could forget. I don't deny that I vowed eternal enmity against you and yours."
"I am glad to hear it," Sir John snorted.
"Time, however, has taken the sting out of many things, and to-day I love one whom I would have hated."
"You love——?"
"It is of no use beating about the bush," Ralph went on. "I love your daughter, and I have come to ask your permission——"
He did not finish the sentence, however. With blazing eyes and clenched fist Sir John shrieked at the top of his voice—
"Silence! Silence! How dare you? You——"
"No, do not use hard words," Ralph interrupted. "You may regret it later."
"Regret calling you—a—a——" But no suitable or sufficiently expressive epithet would come to his lips, and he sank into a chair almost livid with anger and excitement.
Ralph kept himself well in hand. He had expected a scene, and so was prepared for it. Seizing his opportunity, he spoke again.
"Had we not better discuss the matter without feeling or passion?" he said, in quiet, even tones. "Surely I am not making an unreasonable request. Even you know of nothing against my character."
"You are a vulgar upstart," Sir John hissed. "Good heavens, you!—you!—aspiring to the hand of my daughter."
"I am not an upstart, and I hope I am not vulgar," Ralph replied quietly. "At any rate, I am an Englishman. You are no more than that. The accidents of birth count for nothing."
"Indeed!"
"In your heart you know it is so. In what do you excel? Wherein lies your superiority?"
For a moment Sir John stared at him; then he said, with intense bitterness of tone—
"Will you have the good manners to take yourself out of my sight?"
"I will do so, certainly, though you have not answered my questions."
"If I were only a younger man I would answer you in a way you would not quickly forget."
"Then you refuse to give your permission?"
"Absolutely. I would rather see my child in her coffin."
"If you loved your child you would think more of her happiness than of your own pride. I am sorry to find you are a tyrant still."
"Thank you. Have you any further remarks to make?"
"No!" And he turned away and moved toward the door. Then he turned suddenly round with his hand on the door knob.
"By-the-bye, you may be interested to know that I have discovered a very rich vein that runs through your estate," he said quietly, and he pulled the door slowly open.
Sir John was on his feet in a moment.
"A very rich vein?" he questioned eagerly.
"Extraordinarily rich," was the indifferent reply. "Good-afternoon."
"Wait a moment—wait a moment!" Sir John cried excitedly.
"Thank you, but I have no further remarks to make." And Ralph passed out to the landing.
Sir John rushed past him and planted himself at the head of the stairs.
"You are not fooling me?" he questioned eagerly. "Say honestly, are you speaking the truth?"
"Do you wish to insult me?" Ralph asked scornfully. "Am I in the habit of lying? Please let me pass."
"No, no! Please forgive me. But if what you say is true, it means so much to me. You see, I am practically in exile here."
"So I understand. And you are likely to remain in exile, by all accounts."
"But if there is a rich vein of mineral that I can tap. Why, don't you see, it will release me at once?"
"But, as it happens, you cannot tap it, for you don't know where it is. I am the only individual who knows anything about it."
"Exactly, exactly! Don't go just yet. I want to hear more about it."
"I fear I have wasted too much of your time already," Ralph said ironically. "You asked me just now to take myself out of your sight."
"I know I did. I know I did. But I was very much upset. Besides, this lode is a horse of quite another colour. Now come back into my room and tell me all about it."
"There is really not very much to tell," Ralph answered, in a tone of indifference. "How I discovered its existence is a mere detail. You may be aware, perhaps, that I occupy most of my time in making experiments?"
"Yes, yes. I know you are wonderfully clever in your own particular line. But tell me, whereabouts is it?"
"You flatter me too much," Ralph said, with a laugh. "To tell you the truth, it was largely by accident that I discovered the lode I am speaking of. Unfortunately, it is outside the Great St. Goram boundary, so that it is of no use to our shareholders."
The squire laughed and rubbed his hands.
"But it will be of use to me," he said. "Really, this is a remarkable bit of luck. You are quite sure that it is a very valuable discovery?"
"As sure as one can be of anything in this world. The Hillside lode is rich, but this——"
"No, no," Sir John interrupted eagerly. "You don't mean to say that it is richer than your mine?"
"I shall be greatly surprised if—if——" Then he paused suddenly.
"Go on, go on," cried Sir John excitedly. "This bit of news is like new life to me. Think of it. I shall be able to shake off those Jewish sharks and hold up my head once more."
"I don't think it is at all necessary that you should hold your head any higher," Ralph replied deliberately and meaningly. "You think far too much of yourself already. Now I will say good-afternoon for the second time."
"You mean that you will tell me nothing more?"
"Why should I? If your justice had been equal to your greed, I might have been disposed to help you; but I feel no such disposition at present."
"You want to bargain with me?" Sir John cried angrily.
"Indeed, no. What I came about is too sacred a matter for bargaining." And, slipping quickly past Sir John, he hurried down the stairs and into the street.
The squire stared after him for several minutes, then went back into the room and fetched his hat, and was soon following.
When he got into the open air, however, Ralph was nowhere visible. He ran a few steps, first in one direction, then in another. Finally, he made his way down into the town. He did not go to the wharf, for no boat was sailing for several hours; but he loitered in the principal streets till he was hungry, and then reluctantly made his way toward his temporary home. He was in a state of almost feverish excitement, and hardly knew at times whether he was awake or dreaming.
What his exile in France meant to him, no one knew but himself. But his financial affairs were in such a tangle, that it was exile or disgrace, and his pride turned the scale in favour of exile. Now, suddenly, there had been opened up before him the prospect of release—but release upon terms.
He tried, over his lonely dinner, to review the situation; tried to put himself in the place of Ralph Penlogan. It was a profitable exercise. The lack of imagination is often the parent of wrong. He was bound to admit to himself that Ralph was under no obligation—moral or otherwise—to reveal his secret, or even to sell his knowledge.
"No doubt I have behaved badly to him," Sir John said to himself, "and badly to his father. He has good reason for hating me and thwarting me. By Jove! but we have changed places. He is the strong man now, and if he pays me back in my own coin, it is no more than I deserve."
Sir John did not make a good dinner that evening. His reflections interfered with his appetite.
"Should I tell if I were in his place?" he said to himself. And he answered his own question with a groan.
Under the influence of a cigar and a cup of black coffee, visions of prosperity floated before him. He saw himself back again in Hamblyn Manor, and in more than his old splendour. He saw himself free from the clutches of the money-lenders, and a better man for the experiences through which he had passed.
But his visions were constantly broken in upon by the reflection that his future lay in the hands of Ralph Penlogan, the young man he had so cruelly wronged. It was a hard battle he had to fight, for his pride seemed to pull him in opposite directions at the same time.
Half an hour before the boat started for Folkestone he was on the wharf, eagerly scanning the faces of all the passengers. He had made up his mind to try to persuade Ralph to go back with him and stay the night. His pride was rapidly breaking down under the pressure of unusual circumstances.
He remained till the boat cast off her moorings and the paddle-wheels began to churn the water in the narrow slip, then he turned away with a sigh. Ralph was not among the passengers.