It took William a much longer time than usual to make his rounds that morning. He was so absent-minded—or, more correctly, his mind was so engrossed with other things—that he allowed his horse on several occasions to nibble the grass by the roadside.
He was no more interested in business matters when he got back. He would pause in the middle of weighing a pound of sugar or starch, completely forgetting where he was or what he was doing.
His mother let him be. She knew that he was greatly troubled at Lord St. Goram's refusal to renew the lease of his shop, and, like a wise woman, did not worry him with needless questions.
That evening, when the shutters were put up, he went to St. Ivel again. He would have some further talk with Ralph about the farm. He would be able also to feast his eyes again on Ruth's sweet face; perhaps, also, if he had strength and courage enough, he might be able to speak a good word for his Cousin Sam.
His thoughts, however, were in such a tangle, and his motives so uncertain, that he walked very slowly, and did not see a single thing on the road. Before he reached the cottage he stopped short, and, taking an order-book and a pencil from his pocket, he dotted down in a series of propositions and questions the chief points of the problem. They ran in this order:—
1. I have as much right to love Ruth Penlogan as anyone else.
2. Though I'm only a shopkeeper, and a dozen years her senior, there's nothing to hinder me from taking my chance.
3. If buying Hillside would help me, and make Ruth happy, where's the wrong? Cannot say.
4. But if buying Hillside would spoil Sam's chance, is that right? Doubtful.
5. Am I called upon to help Sam's cause to the detriment of my own? Also doubtful.