UNCONSCIOUS SPEECH
Ralph had scarcely left the house when Dorothy sought her father in the
library. He was walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, and a
troubled expression in his eyes. He was much more distressed than he
liked to own even to himself. To be told to his face that he had caused
the death of one of his tenants would, under some circumstances, have
simply made him angry. But in the present case he felt, much more
acutely than was pleasant, that there was only too much reason for the
contention.
That David Penlogan had loved his little homestead there was no doubt
whatever. He had poured into it not only the savings of a lifetime and
the ungrudging labour of a dozen years, but he had poured into it the
affection of a generous and confiding nature. There was something almost
sentimental in David's affection for his little farm, and to have to
leave it was a heavier blow than he was able to bear. That his
misfortune had killed him seemed not an unreasonable supposition.
"But I am not responsible for that," Sir John said to himself angrily.
"I had no hand in killing off the 'lives.' That was a decree of
Providence."
But in spite of his reasoning, he could not shake himself free from an
uneasy feeling that he was in some way responsible.
Legally, no doubt, he had acted strictly within his rights. He had
exacted no more than in point of law was his due, but might there not be
a higher law than the laws of men? That was the question that troubled
him, and it troubled him for the first time in his life.
He was a very loyal citizen. He had been taught to regard Acts of
Parliament as something almost as sacred as the Ark of the Covenant, and
the authority of the State as supreme in all matters of human conduct.
Now for the first time a doubt crept into his mind, and it made him feel
decidedly uncomfortable. Man-made laws might, after all, have little or
no moral force behind them. Selfish men might make laws just to protect
their own selfish interests.
Legally, man's law backed him up in the position he had taken. But where
did God's law come in? He knew his Bible fairly well. He was a regular
church-goer, and followed the lessons Sunday by Sunday with great
diligence. And he felt, with a poignant sense of alarm, that Jesus
Christ would condemn what he had done. There was no glimmer of the
golden rule to be discerned in his conduct. He had not acted generously,
nor even neighbourly. He had extorted the uttermost farthing, not
because he had any moral claim to it, but because laws which men had
made gave him the right.
He was so excited that his mind worked much more rapidly than was usual
with him. He recalled again Ralph Penlogan's words about God punishing
him and their being quits. He disliked that young man. He ought to have
kicked him out of the house before he had time to utter his insults. But
he had not done so, and somehow his words had stuck. He wished it was
the son who had died instead of the father. David Penlogan, in spite of
his opinions and politics, was a mild and harmless individual; he would
not hurt his greatest enemy if he had the chance. But he was not so sure
of the son. He had a bolder and a fiercer nature, and if he had the
chance he might take the law into his own hands.
The door opened while these thoughts were passing through his mind, and
his daughter stood before him. He stopped suddenly in his walk, and his
hard face softened.
"Oh, father, I've heard such a dreadful piece of news," she said, "that
I could not help coming to tell you!"
"Dreadful news, Dorothy?" he questioned, in a tone of alarm.
"Well, it seems dreadful to me," she went on. "You heard about the
Penlogans being turned out of house and home, of course?"
"I heard that he had to leave his farm," he said shortly.
"Well, the trouble has killed him--broken his heart, people say. He had
a stroke yesterday morning, and now he's dead."
"Well, people must die some day," he said, with averted eyes.
"Yes, that is true. But I think if I were in Lord St. Goram's place I
should feel very unhappy."
"Why should Lord St. Goram feel unhappy?"
"Well, because he profited by the poor man's misfortune."
"What do you know about it?" he snapped almost angrily.
"Only what Ralph Penlogan told me."
"What, that young rascal who refused to open the gate for you?"
"That was just as much my fault as his, and he has apologised very
handsomely since."
"I am surprised, Dorothy, that you condescend to speak to such people,"
he said severely.
"I don't know why you should, father. He is well educated, and has been
brought up, as you know, quite respectably."
"Educated beyond his station. It's a mistake, and will lead to trouble
in the long-run. But what did he say to you?"
"I met him as he was walking into St. Goram, and he told me how they had
taken a little cottage, and were going to move into it next day--that
was yesterday. Then, of course, all the story came out, how the vicar's
son was the last 'life' on their little farm, and how, when he died, the
farm became the ground landlord's."
"And what did he say about the ground landlord?" he questioned.
"I don't remember his words very well, but he seemed most bitter,
because he had let the farm over their heads, without giving them a
chance of being tenants."
"Well?"
"I told him I thought it was a very cruel thing to do. Law is not
everything. David Penlogan had put all his savings into the farm, had
reclaimed the fields from the wilderness, and built the house with his
own money, and the lord of the manor had done nothing, and never spent a
penny-piece on it, and yet, because the chances of life had gone against
David, he comes in and takes possession--demands, like Shylock, his
pound of flesh, and actually turns the poor man out of house and home! I
told Ralph Penlogan that it was wicked--at least, if I did not tell him,
I felt it--and, I am sure, father, you must feel the same."
Sir John laughed a short, hard laugh.
"What is the use of the law, Dorothy," he said, "unless it is kept? It
is no use getting sentimental because somebody is hanged."
"But surely, father, our duty to our neighbour is not to get all we can
out of him?"
"I'm inclined to think that is the general practice, at any rate," he
said, with a laugh.
She looked at him almost reproachfully for a moment, and then her eyes
fell. He was quick to see the look of pain that swept over her face, and
hastened to reassure her.
"You shouldn't worry yourself, Dorothy, about these matters," he said,
in gentler tones. "You really shouldn't. You see, we can't help the
world being what it is. Some are rich and some are poor. Some are weak
and some are strong. Some have trouble all the way, and some have a good
time of it from first to last, and nobody's to blame, as far as I know.
If luck's fallen to our lot, we've all the more to be grateful for,
don't you see. But the world's too big for us to mend, and it's no use
trying. Now, run away, that's a good girl, and be happy as long as you
can."
She drew herself up to her full height, and looked him steadily in the
eyes. She had grown taller during her illness, and there was now a look
upon her face such as he had never noticed before.
"I do wish, father," she said slowly, "that you would give over treating
me as though I were a child, and had no mind of my own."
"Tut, tut!" he said sharply. "What's the matter now?"
"I mean what I say," she answered, in the same slow and measured
fashion. "I may have been a child up to the time of my illness, but I
have learned a lot since then. I feel like one who has awaked out of a
sleep. My illness has given me time to think. I have got into a new
world."
"Then, my love, get back into the old world again as quickly as
possible. It's not a bit of use your worrying your little head about
matters you cannot help, and which are past mending. It's your business
to enjoy yourself, and do as you are told, and get all the happiness out
of life that you can."
"There's no getting back, father," she answered seriously. "And there's
no use in pretending that you don't feel, and that you don't see. I
shall never be a little girl again, and perhaps I shall never be happy
again as I used to be; or, perhaps, I may be happy in a better and
larger way--but that is not the point. You must not treat me as a child
any longer, for I am a woman now."
"Oh, nonsense!" he said, in a tone of irritation.
"Why nonsense?" she asked quickly. "If I am old enough to be married, I
am old enough to be a woman----"
"Oh, I am not speaking of age," he interjected, in the same irritable
tone. "Of course you are old enough to be married, but you are not old
enough--and I hope you never will be--to worry yourself over other
people's affairs. I want my little flower to be screened from all the
rough winds of the world, and I am sure that is the desire of Lord
Probus."
"There you go again!" she said, with a sad little smile. "I'm only just
a hothouse plant, to be kept under glass. But that is what I don't want.
I don't want to be treated as though I should crumple up if I were
touched--I want to do my part in the world."
"Of course, my child, and your part is to look pretty and keep the
frowns away from your forehead, and make other folks happy by being
happy yourself."
"But really, father, I'm not a doll," she said, with just a touch of
impatience in her voice. "I'm afraid I shall disappoint you, but I
cannot help it. I've lived in dreamland all my life. Now I am awake, and
nothing can ever be exactly the same again as it has been."
"What do you mean by that, Dorothy?"
"Oh, I mean more than I can put into words," she said, dropping her eyes
slowly to the floor. "Everything is broken up, if you understand. The
old house is pulled down. The old plans and the old dreams are at an
end. What is going to take their place I don't know. Time alone will
tell." And she turned slowly round and walked out of the room.
An hour later she got into her bath-chair, and went out for her usual
airing.
"I think, Billy," she said to her attendant, "we will drive through the
plantation this afternoon. The downs will be too exposed to this wind."
"Yes, miss."
"In the plantation it will be quite sheltered--don't you think so?"
"Most of the way it will," he answered; "but there ain't half as much
wind as there was an hour ago."
"An hour ago it was blowing a gale. If it had kept on like that I
shouldn't have thought of going out at all."
"Which would have been a pity," Billy answered, with a grin, "for the
sun is a-shinin' beautiful."
Two or three times Billy had to stop the donkey, while he dragged large
branches out of the way. They were almost on the point of turning back
again when Dorothy said--
"Is that the trunk of a tree, Billy, lying across the road?"
"Well, miss, I was just a-wonderin' myself what it were. It don't look
like a tree exactly."
"And yet I cannot imagine what else it can be."
"Shall we drive on that far and see, miss?"
"I think we had better, Billy, though I did not intend going quite so
far."
A few minutes later Billy uttered an exclamation.
"Why, miss, it looks for all the world like a man!"
"Drive quickly," she said; "I believe somebody's been hurt!"
It did not take them long to reach the spot where Ralph Penlogan was
lying. Dorothy recognised him in a moment, and forgetting her weakness,
she sprang out of her bath-chair and ran and knelt down by his side.
He presented a rather ghastly appearance. The extreme pallor of his face
was accentuated by large splotches of blood. His eyelids were partly
open, showing the whites of his eyes. His lips were tightly shut as if
in pain.
Dorothy wondered at her own calmness and nerve. She had no disposition
to faint or to cry out. She placed her ear close to Ralph's mouth and
remained still for several seconds. Then she sprang quickly to her feet.
"Unharness the donkey, Billy," she said, in quick, decided tones, "and
ride into St. Goram and fetch Dr. Barrow!"
"Yes, miss." And in a few seconds Billy was galloping away as fast as
the donkey could carry him.
Dorothy watched him until he had passed beyond the gate and was out on
the common. Then she turned her attention again to Ralph. That he was
unconscious was clear, but he was not dead. There were evidences also
that he had scrambled a considerable distance after he was struck.
For several moments she stood and looked at him, then she sat down by
his side. He gave a groan at length and tried to sit up, and she got
closer to him, and made his head comfortable on her lap.
After a while he opened his eyes and looked with a bewildered expression
into her face.
"Who are you?" he asked abruptly, and he made another effort to sit up.
"You had better lie still," she said gently. "You have got hurt, and Dr.
Barrow will be here directly."
"I haven't got hurt," he said, in decided tones, "and I don't want to
lie still. But who are you?"
"Don't you remember me?" she questioned.
"No, I don't," he said, in the same decisive way. "You are not Ruth, and
I don't know who you are, nor why you keep me here."
"I am not keeping you," she answered quietly. "You are unable to walk,
but I have sent for the doctor, and he will bring help."
For a while he did not speak, but his eyes searched her face with a
puzzled and baffled look.
"You are very pretty," he said at length. "But you are not Ruth."
"No; I am Dorothy Hamblyn," she answered.
He knitted his brows and looked at her intently, then he tried to shake
his head.
"Hamblyn?" he questioned slowly. "I hate the Hamblyns--I hate the very
name! All except the squire's little maid," and he closed his eyes, and
was silent for several moments. Then he went on again--
"I wish I could hate the squire's little maid too, but I can't. I've
tried hard, but I can't. She's so pretty, and she's to marry an old man,
old enough to be her grandfather. Oh, it's a shame, for he'll break her
heart. If I were only a rich man I'd steal her."
"Hush, hush!" she said quickly. "Do you know what you are saying?"
He opened his eyes slowly and looked at her again, but there was no
clear light of recognition in them. For several minutes he talked
incessantly on all sorts of subjects, but in the end he got back to the
question that for the moment seemed to dominate all the rest.
"You can't be the squire's little maid," he said, "for she is going to
marry an old man. Don't you think it is a sin?"
"Hush, hush!" she said, in a whisper.
"I think it's a sin," he went on. "And if I were rich and strong I
wouldn't allow it. I wish she were poor, and lived in a cottage; then I
would work and work, and wait and hope, and--and----"
"Yes?" she questioned.
"We would fight the world together," he said, after a long pause.
She did not reply, but a mist came up before her eyes and blotted out
the surrounding belt of trees, and the noise of the wind seemed to die
suddenly away into silence, and a new world opened up before her--a land
where springtime always dwelt, and beauty never grew old.
Ralph lay quite still, with his head upon her lap. He appeared to have
relapsed into unconsciousness again.
She brushed her hand across her eyes at length and looked at him, and as
she did so her heart fluttered strangely and uncomfortably in her bosom.
A curious spell seemed to be upon her. Her nerves thrilled with an
altogether new sensation. She grew almost frightened, and yet she had no
desire to break the spell; the pleasure infinitely exceeded the pain.
She felt like one who had strayed unconsciously into forbidden ground,
and yet the landscape was so beautiful, and the fragrance of the flowers
was so sweet, and the air was so soft and cool, and the music of the
birds and the streams was so delicious, that she had neither the courage
nor the inclination to go away.
She did not try to analyse this new sensation that thrilled her to the
finger-tips. She did not know what it meant, or what it portended.
She took her pocket-handkerchief at length and began to wipe the
bloodstains from Ralph's face, and while she did so the warm colour
mounted to her own cheeks.
There was no denying that he was very handsome, and she had already had
proof of his character. She recalled the day when she lay in his strong
arms, with her head upon his shoulder, and he carried her all the way
down to the cross roads. How strange that she should be performing a
similar service for him now! Was some blind, unthinking fate weaving the
threads of their separate lives into the same piece?
The colour deepened in her cheeks until they grew almost crimson. The
words to which she had just listened from his lips seemed to flash upon
her consciousness with a new meaning, and she found herself wondering
what would happen if she had been only a peasant's child.
A minute or two later the sound of wheels was heard on the grass-grown
road. Ralph turned his head uneasily, and muttered something under his
breath.
"Help is near," she whispered. "The doctor is coming."
He looked up into her eyes wonderingly.
"Don't tell the squire's little maid that I love her," he said slowly.
"I've tried to hate her, but I cannot."
She gave a little gasp, and tried to speak, but a lump rose in her
throat which threatened to choke her.
"But her father," he went on slowly, "he's a--a----" but he did not
finish the sentence.
When the doctor reached his side he was quite unconscious again.