"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.
CHAPTER XLII
COALS OF FIRE
Ralph returned home by way of Calais and Dover, and on the following day he came face to face with Dorothy outside the lodge gates. He raised his hat and would have passed on, but she would not let him.
"Surely we may be friends?" she said, extending her hand to him, and her eyes were pleading and pathetic.
He stopped at once and smiled gravely.
"I thought it was your wish that we should meet as strangers," he said.
"Did I say that?" she questioned, and she turned away her eyes from him.
"Something to that effect," he answered, still smiling, though he felt as if every reason for smiles had passed from him.
"I have been expecting to see you for days past," she said, suddenly raising her eyes to his.
"I have been from home," he answered. "In fact, I have been to Boulogne."
"To Boulogne?" she asked, with a start, and the blood mounted in a torrent to her neck and face.
"I went across to see your father," he said slowly.
"Yes?" she questioned, and her face was set and tense.
"He was obdurate. He said he would rather see you in your coffin."
For a moment there was silence. Then she said —
"Was he very angry?"
"I am sorry to say he was. He evidently dislikes me very much – a feeling which I fear is mutual."
"I wonder you had the courage to ask him," she said at length.
"I would dare anything for your sake," he replied, with averted eyes. "I would defy him if you were willing. And, indeed, I cannot see why he should be the arbiter of your fate and mine."
"You must not forget that he is my father," she said quietly and deliberately.
"But you defied him in the case of Lord Probus."
"That was different. To have married Lord Probus would have been a sin. No, no. The cases are not parallel."
"Then you are still of the same mind?" he questioned.
"It would not be right," she said, after a long pause, "knowing father as I do, and knowing how keenly he feels all this."
"Then it is right to spoil my life, to fling all its future in shadow?"
"You will forget me," she said, with averted eyes.
"Perhaps so," he answered a little bitterly; "time is a great healer, they say," and he raised his hat again and turned away.
But her hand was laid on his arm in a moment.
"Now you are angry with me," she said, her eyes filling. "But don't you see it is as hard for me as for you? Oh, it is harder, for you are so much stronger than I."
"If we are to forget each other," he replied quietly and without looking at her, "we had better begin at once."
"But surely we may be friends?" she questioned.
"It is not a question of friendship," he answered, "but of forgetting, or of trying to forget."
"But I don't want to forget," she said impulsively. "I could not if I tried. A woman never forgets. I want to remember you, to think of your courage, your – your – "
"Folly," he interrupted.
She looked at him with a startled expression in her eyes.
"Is it folly to love?" she questioned.
"Yes, out of your own station. If I had loved anyone else but you – "
"No, no! Don't say that," she interrupted. "God knows best. We are strengthened and made better by the painful discipline of life."
He took her outstretched hand and held it for a moment, then raised it to his lips. So they parted. He could not feel angry or resentful. She was so sweet, so gentle, so womanly, that she compelled his reverence. It was better to have loved her and lost, than to have won any other woman on earth.
On the following afternoon, on reaching home, Ruth met him at the door with a puzzled expression in her eyes.
"Who do you think is in the parlour?" she questioned, with a touch of excitement in her voice.
"William Menire," he ventured, with a laugh.
"Then you are mistaken. William has gone to St. Hilary. But what do you say to the squire?"
"Sir John Hamblyn?"
She nodded.
"He's been waiting the best part of an hour."
For a moment he hesitated, then he strode past her into the house.
Sir John rose and bowed stiffly. Ralph closed the door behind him and waited for the squire to speak.
"I went down to the boat, hoping to catch you before you left Boulogne," Sir John began.
"I returned by way of Calais," was the quick reply.
"Ah, that explains. I was curious to have a little further talk with you. What you said about the lode excited me a great deal."
"I have little doubt of it."
"I own I have no claim upon you," Sir John went on, without heeding the interruption. "Still, keeping the knowledge to yourself can do you no good."
"That is quite true."
"While to me it would be everything."
"It might be a bad thing. In the past, excuse me for saying it, you have used your wealth and your influence neither wisely nor well. In fact, you have prostituted both to selfish and unworthy ends."
"I have been foolish, I own, and I have had to pay dearly for it. You think I pressed your father hard, but I was hard pressed myself. If I hadn't allowed myself to drift into the hands of those villainous Jews I should have been a better man."
"But are you not in their hands still?"
"Well, yes, up to a certain point I am. At present they are practically running the estates."
"And when will you be free?"
"Well, I hardly know. You see they keep piling up interest in such a way that it is difficult to discover where I am. But a rich lode would enable me to clear off everything."
"I am not sure of that. If during your lifetime they have got a hold on the estates, how do you know they would not appropriate the lode with the rest?"
Sir John looked blank, and for several moments was silent.
"Do you know," he said at length, "that I have already paid three times more in interest than the total amount I borrowed?"
"I can quite believe that," was the answer. "Would you mind telling me the amount you did borrow?"
Sir John named the sum.
Ralph regarded him in silence for several moments.
"It is a large sum," he said at length, "a very large sum. And yet, if I am not greatly mistaken, it is but a trifle in comparison with the value of the lode I have referred to."
"You do not mean that?" the squire said eagerly.
"But it would be folly to make its existence known until you have got out of the hands of those money-lenders," Ralph went on.
"They would grab it all, you think?"
"I fear so. If all one hears about their cunning is true, there is scarcely any hope for a man who once gets into their clutches. The law seems powerless. You had better have made yourself a bankrupt right off."
"I don't know; the disgrace is so great."
Ralph curled his lip scornfully.
"It seems to me you strain at a gnat and swallow a camel," he said.
"I have been hard pressed," the squire answered dolefully.
For several seconds neither of them spoke again. Ralph was evidently fighting a hard battle with himself. It is not easy to be magnanimous when it is more than probable your magnanimity will be abused. Why should he be kind to this man? He had received nothing but cruelty at his hands. Should he turn his cheek to the smiter? Should he restrain himself when he had the chance of paying off old scores? Was it not human, after all, to say an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth? Was not revenge sweet?
They were facing each other in the very house from which he and his mother and Ruth had been evicted, the house in which his father had died of a broken heart. Did not every stone in it cry out for vengeance? This man had shown them no mercy. In the hour of their greatest need he had been more cruel than any fabled Shylock. He had insisted upon his pound of flesh, though it meant beggary to them all. He had pursued them with a vindictiveness that was almost without a parallel. And now that the tables had been turned, and the tyrant, bereft of his power, was pleading for mercy, was he to kiss the hand that before had struck him?
Moreover, what guarantee was there that if this man were restored to his old position he would be any better than he was before? Was not his heart what it had always been? Was he not a tyrant by nature?
Sir John watched the look of perplexity gather and deepen on Ralph's face, and guessed the struggle that was going on within him. He felt very humble, and more penitent than Ralph knew.
The younger man lifted his head at length, and his brow cleared.
"I have been strongly tempted," he said slowly, "to mete out to you what you have measured to us."
"I have no claim to be considered," Sir John said humbly.
"You have thwarted me, or tried to thwart me, at every stage of my life," Ralph went on.
"I know I have been no friend to you," was the feeble reply.
"And if I help you back to power, I have no guarantee that you will not use that power to thwart me again."
The squire let his eyes fall to the ground, but did not reply.
"However, to play the part of the dog in the manger," Ralph went on, "is not a very manly thing to do, so I have decided to tell you all I know."
"You will reveal the lode to me?" he questioned eagerly.
"Yes. It will be good for the neighbourhood and the county in any case."
The squire sat down suddenly, and furtively wiped his eyes.
"But the money-lenders will have to be squared first. Will you allow me to tackle them for you? I should enjoy the bull-baiting."
"You mean – "
"I mean that in any case they must not be allowed to get the lode into their hands."
"I don't know how it is to be avoided."
"Will you leave the matter to me and William Menire?"
"You mean you will help me?"
"We shall be helping the neighbourhood."
Sir John struggled hard to keep the tears back, but failed.
"And you impose no condition?" he sobbed at length.
"No, I impose no condition. If the thing is to be done, let it be done freely."
"You unman me altogether," the squire said, with brimming eyes. "I did not expect, I really didn't. I have no claim, and I've been beastly hard on you. I know I have, and I'm sorry, real sorry, mind you; and if – if – "
"We'll let the 'ifs' go for the present, if you don't mind," Ralph said, with a dry laugh. "There are a good many present difficulties to be met. I should like to see your agreement with the money-lenders."
"You shall see everything. If you can only get me out of this hole you will make me the most thankful man alive!"
Ralph smiled dubiously.
"When can I see the papers?" he asked.
"To-day if you like. They are at the Manor."
"Very good. I will walk across after tea, or will you fetch them here?"
"If it would not be troubling you to walk so far – "
"I will come with pleasure."
The squire felt very chastened and humble as he made his way slowly back to the Manor, through Treliskey Plantation. Magnanimity is rarely lost on anyone, kindness will melt the hardest heart. The squire's pride was being slowly undermined, his arrogance seemed almost a contemptible thing.
By contrast with Ralph's nobler character he began to see how mean and poor was his own. He had prided himself so much on his name and pedigree, and yet he was only beginning to see how unworthy he had proved of both. What, after all, was the mere accident of birth in comparison with moral greatness? Measured by any right standard, Ralph Penlogan was an infinitely better man than he. He had not only intellect, but heart. He possessed that true nobility which enabled a man to forgive his enemy. He was turning in a very literal sense his cheek to the smiter.
Sir John entered the house with a curious feeling of diffidence. His home, and yet not his. The dowager made him welcome, and placed the library and a bedroom above at his disposal for as long as he might care to stay.
Dorothy was delighted to have her father with her again, and yet she was strangely puzzled as to the object of his visit. She was puzzled still more when a little later Ralph Penlogan was shown into the room where she and her father sat.
She rose to her feet in a moment, while a hot blush swept over her neck and face. For a second or two she stood irresolute, and glanced hastily from one to the other. What was the meaning of it all? Her father, instead of glaring angrily at his visitor, received him with the greatest cordiality and even deference, while Ralph advanced with no sign of fear or hesitation.
Neither of them appeared for the moment to be conscious of her presence. Ralph did not even look towards her.
Then her father said in a low voice —
"You can leave us for a little while, Dorothy."
She hurried out of the room with flaming cheeks and fast-beating heart. What could her father want with Ralph Penlogan? What was the mystery underlying his hurried visit? Could it have any reference to herself? Had her father relented? Had he at last come to see that character was more than social position – that a man was great not by virtue of birth, but by virtue of achievement?
For the best part of an hour she sat in her own room waiting and listening. Then the dowager summoned her to read an article to her out of the Spectator.
It grew dark at last, and Dorothy sought her own room once more, but she was so restless she could not sit still. The very air seemed heavy with fate. Her father and Ralph were still closeted in the library. What could they have to say to each other that kept them so long?
When the lamps were lighted she stole out of her room and waited for a few moments on the landing. Then she ran lightly down the stairs into the hall. The library door was still closed, but a moment later it was pulled slightly open. She drew back into a recess and pulled a curtain in front of her, though why she did so she hardly knew.
She could hear distinctly a murmur of voices, then came a merry peal of laughter. She had not heard her father laugh so merrily for years.
Then the two men walked out into the hall side by side, and began to converse in subdued tones. She could see them very distinctly. How handsome Ralph looked in the light of the lamp.
The squire went with his visitor to the front door, and opened it. She caught Ralph's parting words, "I will see to the matter without delay. Good-night!"
When the squire returned from the door he saw Dorothy standing under the lamp with a look of inquiry in her eyes.
CHAPTER XLIII
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.