A BITTER INTERVIEW
Dr. Barrow remained at the Manor House most of the night. It was clear
from his manner, as well as from the words he let fall, that he regarded
Dorothy's case as serious. Sir John refused to go to bed.
"I shall not sleep in any case," he said. "And I prefer to remain
downstairs, so that I can hear the latest news."
Lord Probus remained with him till after midnight, though very few words
passed between them. Now and then they looked at each other in a dumb,
despairing fashion, but neither had the courage to talk about what was
uppermost in their thoughts.
Just as the daylight was struggling into the room, the doctor came in
silently, and dropped with a little sigh into an easy-chair.
"Well?" Sir John questioned, looking at him with stony eyes.
"She is a little easier for the moment," was the quiet, unemotional
answer.
"You think she will pull through?"
"I hope so, but I shall be able to speak with more confidence later."
"The wound in her head is a bad one?"
The doctor smiled. "If that were all, we would soon have her on her feet
again."
"But what other injuries has she sustained?"
"It is impossible to say just at present. She evidently fell under the
horse. The wonder is she's alive at all."
"I suppose nobody knows how it happened?" Sir John questioned after a
pause.
"Well, I believe nobody saw the accident, though young Ralph Penlogan
was near the spot at the time--and a fortunate thing too, or she might
have remained where she fell till midnight."
"You have seen the young man?"
"He had carried her in his arms from Treliskey Plantation to the
junction of the high road."
"Without assistance?"
"Without assistance. What else could he do? There was not a soul near
the spot. Since you closed the road through the plantation, it is never
used now, except by the few people to whom you have granted the right of
way."
"So young Penlogan was in the plantation, was he?"
"I really don't know. He may have been on the common."
Sir John frowned. "Do you know," he said, after a pause, "that I dislike
that young man exceedingly."
"Indeed?"
"He is altogether above his station. I believe he is clever, mind you,
and all that, but what does a working-man's son want to bother himself
with mechanics and chemistry for?"
"Why not?" the doctor asked, with slightly raised eyebrows.
"Why? Because this higher education, as it is called, is bringing the
country to the dogs. Get an educated proletariat, and the reign of the
nobility and gentry is at an end. You see the thin end of the wedge
already. Your Board-school boys and girls are all cursed with notions;
they are too big for their jackets, too high for their station; they
have no respect for squire or parson, and they are too high and mighty
to do honest work."
"I cannot say that has been my experience," the doctor said quietly; and
he rose from his chair and began to pull on his gloves.
"You are not going?" Sir John questioned anxiously.
"For an hour or two. I should like, with your permission, to telegraph
to Dr. Roscommon. You know he is regarded now as the most famous surgeon
in the county."
"But surely, doctor----" Sir John began, with a look of consternation in
his eyes.
"I should like to have his opinion," the doctor said quietly.
"Of course--of course! Get the best advice you can. No expense must be
spared. My child must be saved at all costs."
"Rest assured we shall do our best," the doctor answered, and quietly
left the room.
For the best part of another hour Sir John paced restlessly up and down
the room, then he dropped into an easy-chair and fell fast asleep.
He was aroused at length by a timid knock at the door.
"Come in!" he answered sleepily, fancying for a moment that he was in
bed, and that his servant had brought him his shaving-water.
The next moment he was on his feet, with an agitated look in his eyes.
A servant entered, followed by Ralph Penlogan, who looked as if he had
not slept for the night.
Instead of waiting to know if Sir John would see him, Ralph had stalked
into the room on the servant's heels. He was too anxious to stand on
ceremony, too eager to unburden his mind. He had never had a moment's
peace since his meeting with Dorothy Hamblyn the previous afternoon. He
felt like a criminal, and would have given all he possessed if he could
have lived over the previous afternoon again.
Sir John recognised him in a moment, and drew himself up stiffly. He
never felt altogether at ease in the presence of the Penlogans. He knew
that he had "done" the father, driven a most unfair bargain with him,
and it is said a man never forgives a fellow-creature he has wronged.
"I have come to speak to you about the accident to your daughter," Ralph
said, plunging at once into the subject that filled his mind.
"Yes, yes; I am glad you have called," Sir John said, walking to the
mantelpiece and leaning his elbow on it.
"I hope she is better?" Ralph went on. "You think she will recover?"
"I am sorry to say she is very seriously injured," Sir John answered
slowly; "but, naturally, we hope for the best."
Ralph dropped his eyes to the floor, and for a moment was silent.
"Dr. Barrow tells me that you were near the spot at the time of the
accident," Sir John went on; "for that reason I am glad you have
called."
"There isn't much to tell," Ralph answered, without raising his eyes,
"but I am anxious to tell what there is."
"Ah!" Sir John gasped, glancing across at his visitor suspiciously.
"After what has happened, you can't blame me more than I blame myself,"
Ralph went on; "though, of course, I never imagined for a moment that
she would attempt to leap the gate."
"I don't quite understand," Sir John said stiffly.
"Well, it was this way. I was leaning on the stile leading down into
Dingley Bottom, when someone rode up and ordered me to open the gate
leading into Treliskey Plantation. If the lady had asked me to open the
gate I should have done it in a minute."
"So you refused to do a neighbourly act, did you?"
"I told her I was not her servant, at which she got very indignant, and
ordered me to do as I was told."
"And you refused a second time?"
"I did. In fact, I felt very bitter. People in our class suffer so many
indignities from the rich that we are apt to be soured."
"Soured, indeed! Your accursed Board-school pride not only makes cads of
you, but criminals!" And Sir John's eyes blazed with passion.
"I am not going to defend myself any further," Ralph said, raising his
eyes and looking him full in the face. "I am sorry now that I did not
open the gate--awfully sorry. I would give anything if I could live over
yesterday afternoon again!"
"I should think so, indeed!" Sir John said, in his most biting tones.
"And understand this, young man, if my daughter dies I shall hold you
responsible for her death!"
Ralph's face grew very white, but he did not reply.
Sir John, however, was in no mood to be silent. He had a good many
things bottled up in his mind, and Ralph's visit gave him an excuse for
pulling the cork out.
"I want to say this also to you," he said, "now that you have given me
an opportunity of opening my mind--that I consider young men of your
stamp a danger and a menace to the neighbourhood!"
Ralph looked at him without flinching, but he did not speak.
"There was a time," Sir John went on, "when people knew how to respect
their betters, when the working classes kept their place and did not
presume, and when such as you would never have ventured into this house
by the front door!"
"I came by the nearest way," Ralph answered, "and did not trouble to
inquire which door it was."
"Your father no doubt thinks he has been doing a wise thing in keeping
himself on short commons to give you what he foolishly imagines is an
education."
"Excuse me, but we are all kept on short commons because you took
advantage of my father's ignorance. If he had had a little better
education he would not have allowed himself to be duped by you!" And he
turned and made for the door.
But Sir John intercepted him, with flashing eyes and passion-lined face.
"Have you come here to insult me?" he thundered. "By Heaven, I've a good
mind to call my servants in and give you a good horsewhipping!"
Ralph stood still and scowled angrily.
"I neither came here to insult you nor to be insulted by you! I came
here to express my regret that I did not pocket my pride and open the
gate for your daughter. I have made the best amends in my power, and
now, if you will let me, I will go home."
"I am not sure that I will let you!" Sir John said angrily. "It seems to
me the proper thing would be to send for the police and get you locked
up. How do I know that you did not put something in the way to prevent
my daughter's horse clearing the gate? I know that you hate your
betters--like most of your class, alas! in these times----"
"We should not hate you if you dealt justly by us!" Ralph retorted.
"Dealt justly, indeed!" Sir John sneered. "It makes me ill to hear such
as you talking about justice! You ought to be thankful that you are
allowed to live in the parish at all!"
"We are. We are grateful for the smallest mercies--grateful for room to
walk about."
"That's more than some of you deserve," Sir John retorted angrily. "Now
go home and help your father on the farm. And, by Jove, tell him if he's
behind with his ground rent this year I'll make him sit up."
Ralph's eyes blazed in a moment. That ground rent was to him the sum of
all iniquity. It represented to him the climax of greed and injustice.
The bitterness of it had eaten out all the joy of his father's life and
robbed his mother of all the fruits of her thrift and economy.
Ralph's face was toward the door; but he turned in a moment, white with
passion.
"I wonder you are not ashamed to speak of that ground rent," he said
slowly, and with biting emphasis. "You, who took advantage of my
father's love for his native place, and of his ignorance of legal
phraseology--you, who robbed a poor man of his savings, and cheated his
children out of their due. Ground rent, indeed! I wonder the word does
not stick in your throat and choke you." And before Sir John could reply
he had pulled open the door and passed out into the hall.
He walked home by the forbidden path through the plantation, feeling
more reckless and defiant than he had ever felt before. He was in the
mood to run his head against any brick wall that might stand in his way;
he almost hoped that a keeper would cross his path and arrest him. He
wanted to have another tilt with Sir John, and show him how lightly he
regarded his authority.
No keeper, however, showed his face. He was left in undisturbed
possession of field and fell. He whistled loudly and defiantly, as he
strutted through the dim aisles of the plantation, and tried to persuade
himself that he was not a bit sorry that Sir John at that moment was
suffering all the tortures of suspense. He would have persuaded himself,
if he could, that he did not care whether Dorothy Hamblyn lived or died;
but that was altogether beyond his powers. He did care. Every fibre of
his being seemed to plead for her recovery.
He came at length upon the scene of the previous day's accident. To all
appearances no one had visited it. The broken gate had not been touched.
On the ground was a dark stain which had been crimson the day before,
but no one would notice it unless it were pointed out; for the rest,
Nature showed no regard for human pain or grief.
It was a glorious morning in late summer. The woods were at their best;
the fields were yellowing in all directions to the harvest. High in the
blue heavens the larks were trilling their morning song, while in the
banks and hedges the grasshoppers were whirring and chattering with all
their might. It was a morning to inspire the heart with confidence and
hope, to cleanse the eyes from the dust of doubt, and to uplift the
spirit from the fogs of pessimism and despair.
And yet Ralph Penlogan heard no song that morning, nor even saw the
sunshine. A dull weight was pressing on his heart which he had no power
to lift. Anger and regret struggled within him for the mastery, while
constantly a new emotion--which he did not understand as yet--ran
through his veins like liquid fire.
When he reached the stile he rested for a few moments, and recalled the
scene of the previous day. It was not difficult. The face of the fair
horsewoman he would never forget; the soft, imperious voice rang through
his brain like the sound of evening bells. Her smile was like sunshine
on waving corn.
Then in his fancy he saw Jess dart forward, and then came the sickening
sound of splintering wood. What happened after that he knew all too
well.
It would be a cruel thing for death to blot out a smile so sweet, and
the grave to hide a face so fair. While there were so many things in the
world that were neither lovely nor useful nor inspiring, it would seem
like a sin against Nature to blot out and destroy so sweet a presence.
Let the weeds be plucked up, let the thorns be burned; but the flowers
should be allowed to remain to brighten the world and gladden the hearts
of men.
He sprang over the stile at length, and strode away in the direction of
Dingley Bottom with a scowl upon his face.
What right had he to be thinking about the squire's daughter? Did he not
despise the class to which she belonged? Did he not hate her father
because, having a giant's strength, he used it like a giant? Had not the
justice of the strong become a byword and a loathing? Had he not sworn
eternal enmity to the oppressor and all who shared his gains?
On the brow of the next low hill he paused again. Before him, in a
little hollow, lay the homestead his father had built; and spread out on
three sides were the fields he had reclaimed from the wilderness.
It had been a hard and almost heartbreaking task, for when he commenced
the enterprise he had but a faint idea what it would cost. It seemed
easy enough to root up the furze bushes and plough down the heather, and
the soil looked so loamy and rich that he imagined a heavy crop would be
yielded the first year.
And yet it was not to make money that David Penlogan had leased a
portion of Polskiddy Downs, and built a house thereon. It was rather
that he might have a quiet resting-place in the evening of his life, and
be able to spend his days in the open air--in the wind and sunshine--and
be set free from the perils that beset an underground captain in a
Cornish mine.
With what high hopes he embarked upon the enterprise none but David
knew. It was his one big investment. All the savings of a lifetime went
into it. He took his hoarded sovereigns out of the bank without
misgiving, and felt as happy as a king, while he toiled like a slave.
His neighbours stared and shook their heads when it leaked out on what
terms he had taken the lease.
"Sir John has been too many for you, David," an old farmer said to him
one day. "You might as well empty your purse in his pocket right off.
You'll not have money enough to buy a coffin with when he's finished
with you."
But David knew better, or fancied he did, which is much the same thing.
He hired horses and ploughs and stubbers and hedgers and ditchers, and
masons and carpenters, and for a year that corner of Polskiddy Downs was
alive with people.
The house was built from plans David prepared himself. Barn and cowsheds
were erected at a convenient distance. Hedges were carried in straight
lines across the newly cultivated fields. A small orchard was planted
beyond the kitchen garden, and everything, to David's hopeful eyes,
looked promising for the future.
That was twelve years ago, and in those years David had grown to be an
old man. He had spent his days in the open air, it is true--in the wind
and sunshine, and in the rain and snow--and he had contracted rheumatism
and bronchitis, and all the heart had gone out of him in the hopeless
struggle.
As Ralph looked out over the not too fruitful fields which his father
had reclaimed from the waste with such infinite toil, and at the
sacrifice of all his savings, he forgot the fair face of Dorothy
Hamblyn, which had been haunting him all the way back, and remembered
only the iron hand of her father.