CONFLICTING EMOTIONS
Two days later Sir John's agent came across to Hillside Farm, and made a
careful inspection of the premises, after which he made out a list of
repairs that needed doing, and handed it to David.
"What is this?" David asked, taking the paper without looking at it.
"It is a list of repairs that you will have to execute before leaving
the place."
"Oh, indeed!" And David deliberately tore the paper in half, then threw
the pieces on the ground and stamped upon them.
"That's foolish," the agent said, "for you'll have to do the repairs
whether you like it or no."
"I never will," David answered vehemently. And he turned on his heel and
walked away.
In the end, the agent got the repairs done himself, and distrained upon
David's goods for the amount.
By Michaelmas Day David was ready to take his departure. Since his
interview with the squire he had never been seen to smile. He made no
complaint to anyone, neither did he sit in idleness and mope. There was
a good deal to be done before the final scene, and he did his full share
of it. The corn was threshed and sold. The cattle were disposed of at
Summercourt Fair. The root crops and hay were taken at a valuation by
the incoming tenant. The farm implements were disposed of at a public
auction, and when all the accounts had been squared, and the mortgage
cleared off, and the ground rent paid, David found himself in possession
of his household furniture and thirty pounds in hard cash.
David's neighbours sympathised with him greatly, but none of them gave
any more for what they bought than they could help. They admitted that
things went dirt cheap, that the cattle and implements were sold for a
great deal less than their real value; but that was inevitable in a
forced sale. When the seller was compelled to sell, and there was no
reserve, and the buyers were not compelled to buy, and there was very
little competition, the seller was bound to get the worst of it.
David looked sadly at the little heap of sovereigns--all that was left
out of the savings of a lifetime. He had spent a thousand pounds on the
farm, and, in addition, had put in twelve years of the hardest work of
his life, and this was all that was left. What he thought no one knew,
not even his wife, for he kept his thoughts and his feelings to himself.
The day before their departure, David took Ralph for a walk to the
extreme end of the farm.
"I have something to tell you, my boy, and something to show you."
Ralph wondered what there was to see that he had not already seen, but
he asked no questions.
"You may remember, Ralph," David said, when they had got some distance
from the house, "that I told you once that I had discovered a tin lode
running across the farm?"
"Yes, I remember well," Ralph answered, looking up with an interested
light in his eyes.
"I want to show it to you, my boy."
"Why, what's the use?" Ralph questioned, after a momentary pause. "If it
were a reef of gold it would be of no value to us."
"Yes, that seems true enough now," David answered sadly, "but there's no
knowing what may happen in the future."
"I don't see how we can ever benefit by it, whatever may happen."
"I am not thinking of myself, Ralph. My day's work is nearly over. But
new conditions may arise, new discoveries may be made, and if you know,
you may be able to sell your knowledge for something."
Ralph shook his head dubiously, and for several minutes they tramped
along side by side in silence.
Then David spoke again.
"It is farewell to-day, my boy. We shall toil in these fields no more."
"That fact by itself does not trouble me," Ralph said.
"You do not like farming," his father answered. "You never did; and
sometimes I have felt sorry to keep you here, and yet I could not spare
you. You have done the work of two, and you have done it for your bare
keep."
"I have done it for the squire," Ralph answered, with a cynical laugh.
"Ah, well, it is over now, my boy, and we know the worst. In a few years
nothing will matter, for we shall all be asleep."
Ralph glanced suddenly at his father, but quickly withdrew his eyes.
There was a look upon his face that hurt him--a look as of some hunted
creature that was appealing piteously for life.
For weeks past Ralph had wished that his father would get angry. If he
would only storm and rave at fortune generally, and at the squire in
particular, he believed that it would do him good. Such calm and quiet
resignation did not seem natural or healthy. Ralph sometimes wondered if
what his father predicted had come true--that the loss had broken his
heart.
They reached the outer edge of the farm at length, and David paused in
the shadow of a tree.
"Come here, my boy," he said. And Ralph went and stood by his side. "You
see the parlour chimney?" David questioned.
"Yes."
"Well, now draw a straight line from this tree to the parlour chimney,
and what do you strike?"
"Well, nothing except a gatepost over there in Stone Close."
"That's just it. It was while I was digging a pit to sink that post in
that I struck the back of the lode."
"And you say it's rich in tin?"
"Very. It intersects the big Helvin lode at that point, and the junction
makes for wealth. There'll be a fortune made out of this little farm
some day--not out of what grows on the surface, but out of what is dug
up from underground."
"And in which direction does the lode run?"
"Due east and west. We are standing on it now, and it passes under the
house."
"Then it passes under Peter Ladock's farm also?" Ralph questioned. And
he turned and looked over the boundary hedge across their neighbour's
farm.
"Ay; but the lode's no use out there," David said.
"Why?"
"Well, you see, 'tisn't mineral-bearing strata, that's all. I dug a pit
just where you are standing, and came upon the lode two feet below the
surface. But there's no tin in it here scarcely. It's the same lode that
the spring comes out of down in the delf, and I've sampled it there. But
all along that high ridge where it cuts through the Helvin it's richer
than anything I know in this part of the county."
"But the tin might give out as you sink."
"It might, but it would be something unheard of, if it did. If I know
anything about mining--and I think I know a bit--that lode will be
twenty per cent. richer a hundred fathoms down than it is at the
surface."
"Oh, well!" Ralph said, with a sigh, "rich or poor, it can make no
difference to us."
"Perhaps not--perhaps not," David said wistfully. "But it may be
valuable to somebody some day. I have passed the secret to you. Some day
you may pass it on to another. The future is with God," and he drew a
long breath, and turned his face toward home, which in a few hours would
be his home no more.
Ralph turned his face in another direction.
"I think I will go on to St. Goram," he said, "and see how they are
getting on with the cottage. You see we have to move into it to-morrow."
"As you will," David answered, and he strode away across the stubble.
Ralph struck across the fields into Dingley Bottom, and then up the
gentle slant toward Treliskey Plantation. When he reached the stile he
rested for several minutes, and recalled the meeting and conversation
between Dorothy Hamblyn and himself. How long ago it seemed, and how
much had happened since then.
Though he loathed the very name of Hamblyn, he was, nevertheless,
thankful that the squire's daughter was getting slowly better. She had
been seen once or twice in St. Goram in a bath-chair, drawn by a donkey.
"Looking very pale and so much older," the villagers said.
By all the rules of logic and common sense, Ralph felt that he ought not
only to hate the squire, but everybody belonging to him. Sir John was
the tyrant of the parish, the oppressor of the poor, the obstructor of
everything that was for the good of the people, and no doubt his
daughter had inherited his temper and disposition; while as for the son,
people said that he gave promise of being worse than his father.
But for some reason Ralph was never able to work up any angry feeling
against Dorothy. He hardly knew why. She had given evidence of being as
imperious and dictatorial as any autocrat could desire. She had spoken
to him as if he were her stable boy.
And yet----
He recalled how he had rested her fair head upon his lap, how he had
carried her in his arms and felt her heart beating feebly against his,
how he had given her to drink down in the hollow, and when he lifted her
up again she clasped her arms feebly about his neck, and he felt her
cheek almost close to his.
It is true he did not know then that she was the squire's daughter, and
so he let his sympathies go out to her unawares. But the curious thing
was he had not been able to recall his sympathy, though he had
discovered directly after that she was the daughter of the man he hated
above all others.
As he made his way across the broad and billowy common towards the high
road, he found himself wondering what Lord Probus was like. By all the
laws and considerations of self-interest, he ought to have been
wondering how he and his father were to earn their living--for, as yet,
that was a problem that neither of them had solved. But for a moment it
was a relief to forget the sorrowful side of life, and think of
something else. And, as he had carried Dorothy Hamblyn in his arms every
step of the way down the high road, it was the most natural thing in the
world that his thoughts should turn in her direction, and from her to
the man she had promised to marry.
For some reason or other he felt a little thrill of satisfaction that
the wedding had not taken place, and that there was no prospect of its
taking place for several months to come.
Not that it could possibly make any difference to him; only he did not
see why the rich and strong should always have their heart's desire,
while others, who had as much right to live as they had, were cheated
all along the line.
Who Lord Probus was Ralph had not the slightest idea. He was a
comparatively new importation. He had bought Rostrevor Castle from the
Penwarricks, who had fallen upon evil times, and had restored it at
great expense. But beyond that Ralph knew nothing.
That he was a young man Ralph took for granted. An elderly bachelor
would not want to marry, and a young girl like Dorothy Hamblyn would
never dream of marrying an elderly man.
To Ralph Penlogan it seemed almost a sin that a mere child, as Dorothy
seemed to be, should think of marriage at all. But since she was going
to get married, it was perfectly natural to assume that she was going to
marry a young man.
He reached the high road at length, and then hurried forward with long
strides in the direction of St. Goram.
The cottage they had taken was at the extreme end of the village, and,
curiously enough, was in the neighbouring parish of St. Ivel.