THE BIG HOUSE
It was when Mrs. Penlogan began to dispose of her furniture in order to
provide food and fuel that the landlord became alarmed about his rent,
and so promptly seized what remained in order to make himself secure.
It was three days after Christmas, and the weather was bitterly cold.
Mrs. Penlogan and Ruth looked at each other for a moment in silence, and
then burst into tears. What was to be done now she did not know. Ralph
was still in prison awaiting his trial, and so was powerless to help
them. Their money was all spent. Even their furniture was gone, and they
had no friends to whom they could turn for help.
Since Ralph's committal their old friends had fought shy of them. Ruth
felt the disgrace more keenly than did her mother. The cold looks of
people they had befriended in their better days cut her to the heart.
Ruth had tried to get the post of sewing mistress at the day school,
which had become vacant, but the fact that her brother was in prison
awaiting his trial proved an insuperable barrier. It would never do to
contaminate the tender hearts of the young by bringing them into contact
with one whose brother had been accused of a terrible crime.
She never realised before how sensitive the public conscience was, nor
how jealous all the St. Goramites were for the honour of the community.
People whom she had always understood were no better than they ought to
be, turned up their noses at her in haughty disdain. But that it was so
tragic, she could have laughed at the virtuous airs assumed by people
whose private life had long been the talk of the district.
It was a terrible blow to Ruth. The Penlogans, though looked upon as
somewhat exclusive, had been widely respected. David Penlogan was a man
in a thousand. Mistaken, some people thought, foolish in the investment
of his money, and much too trusting where human nature was involved, but
his sincerity and goodness no one doubted. The young people had been
less admired, for they seemed a little above their station. They spoke
the language of the gentry, and kept aloof from everything that savoured
of vulgarity. "They were too well educated for their position."
Their sudden and painful fall proved an occasion for much moralising.
"Pride goeth before a fall," was a passage of Scripture that found great
acceptance. If the Penlogans had not been so exclusive in their better
days, they would not have found themselves so destitute of friends now.
Two or three days practically without food or fire reduced Ruth and her
mother to a state bordering on despair. If they had possessed any pride
in the past it was all gone now. Hunger is a great leveller.
The relieving officer, when consulted, had little in the way of comfort
to offer, though he gave much sage advice. He had little doubt that the
parish would allow Mrs. Penlogan half a crown a week; that was the limit
of outdoor relief. Her husband had paid scores of pounds in the shape of
poor rate, but that counted for nothing. The justice of the strong
manifests itself in many ways. When a man is no longer able to
contribute to the maintenance of paupers in general, he becomes a pauper
himself. Cease to pay your poor rate, because you are too old to work,
and you cease to be a citizen, your vote is taken away, you are classed
among the social rubbish of your generation.
"But what is to become of me?" Ruth asked pitifully.
The relieving officer stroked the side of his nose and considered the
question for a moment before he answered.
"I'm afraid," he said, "the law makes no provision for such as you. You
see you are a able-bodied young woman. You must earn your own living."
"That is what I have been trying my best to do," she answered tearfully.
"But because poor Ralph has been wrongfully and wickedly accused, no one
will look at me."
"That, of course, we cannot 'elp," the relieving officer answered.
Ruth and her mother lay awake all the night and talked the matter over.
It was clearly beyond the bounds of possibility that two people could
live and pay rent out of half a crown a week. What then was to be done?
There was only one alternative, and Ruth had not the courage to face it.
Her mother was in feeble health, her spirit was broken, and to send her
alone into the workhouse would be to break her heart.
The maximum of cruelty with the minimum of charity appears to be the
principle on which our poor-law system is based. The sensitive and
self-respecting loathe the very thought of it, and no man with a heart
in him can wonder.
Mrs. Penlogan, however, had reached the limit of mental suffering. There
comes a point when the utmost is reached, when the lash can do no more,
when the nerves refuse to carry any heavier burden of pain. To the sad
and broken-hearted woman it seemed of little moment what became of her.
All that she asked was a lonely corner somewhere in which she might hide
herself and die.
She knew almost by instinct what was passing through Ruth's mind. She
lay silent, but she was not asleep.
"You are thinking about the workhouse, Ruth?" she said at length.
"They'll not have me there, mother, for I am healthy and able-bodied."
"There'll be something left from the furniture when the rent is paid,"
Mrs. Penlogan said, after a long pause. "You'll have to take it and face
the world. When I am in the workhouse you will be much more free."
"Mother!"
"It's got to come, Ruth. I would much rather go down to St. Ivel and
throw myself into a shaft, but that would be self-murder, and a murderer
cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven. So I will endure as patiently
as I can, and as long as God wills. When it is over, it will seem but a
dream. I want to see father again when the night ends. Dear David, I am
glad he went when he did."
"If he had lived we should not have come to this," Ruth answered
tearfully.
"If he had lived a paralytic, Ruth, our lot would have been even worse.
So it is better that God took him before he became a burden to himself."
"And yet but for the cruel laws made by the rich and powerful he would
still be with us, and we should not have been turned out of the dear old
home."
"That is over and past, Ruth," Mrs. Penlogan answered, with a sigh. "Ah
me! if this life were all, it would not be worth the living--at least
for the poor and oppressed. But we have to endure as best we may. You
can tell Mr. Thomas that I will go to the workhouse whenever he likes to
fetch me."
"Do you really mean it, mother?"
"Yes, Ruth. I've thought it all over. It's the only thing left. It
wouldn't be right to lie here and die of starvation. Maybe when the
storm has spent itself there will come a time of peace."
"Yes, in the grave, mother."
"If God so wills," she answered. "But I would like to live to see
Ralph's name cleared before the world."
"I have almost given up hope of that," Ruth answered sadly. "How can the
poor defend themselves against the rich? Poor Ralph will stand
undefended before judge and jury, and we have seen how easy it is to
work up a case and make every link fit into its place."
"Perhaps God will stand by him," Mrs. Penlogan answered, but in doubting
tones. "Oh, if I only had faith as I once had! But I seem like a reed
that has been broken by the storm. I try my hardest to believe, but
doubts will come. And yet, who knows, God may be better than our fears."
"God appears to be on the side of the rich and strong," Ruth answered, a
little defiantly. "Why should John Hamblyn be allowed to work his will
on everybody? Even his daughter is kept a prisoner at home, lest she
should show her sympathy to us."
"That is only gossip, Ruth. She may have no desire to come, or she may
not have the courage. She knows now the part her father has played."
To this Ruth made no answer, and then silence fell until it was time to
get up.
The day passed for the most part as the night had done, in discussing
the situation. The last morsel of food in the house had disappeared, and
strict watch was kept that they pawned no more of the furniture.
Mrs. Penlogan never once faltered in her purpose.
"It will be better than dying of starvation," she said. "Besides, it
will set you free."
"Free?" Ruth gasped. "It will be a strange kind of freedom to find
oneself in a hostile world alone."
"You will be able to defend yourself, Ruth, and I do not think anyone
will molest you."
"Please don't imagine that I am afraid," Ruth answered defiantly. "But
you, mother, in that big, cheerless house, will break your heart," and
she burst into tears.
"No, don't fret, child," the mother said soothingly. "My heart cannot be
broken any more than it is already. Maybe I shall grow more cheerful
when I've had enough to eat."
On the following day Ruth went with her mother in the workhouse van to
the big house. It was the most silent journey she ever took, and the
saddest. She would rather have followed her mother to the cemetery--at
least, so she thought at the time. There was such a big lump in her
throat that she could not talk. Her mother seemed only vaguely to
comprehend what the journey meant. Her eyes saw nothing on the way, her
thoughts were in some far-distant place. She got out of the van quite
nimbly when they reached the end of their journey, and stood for a
moment on the threshold as if undecided.
"You had better not come in," she said at length. "We will say good-bye
here."
"Do you think you can bear it, mother?" Ruth questioned, the tears
welling suddenly up into her eyes.
"Oh yes," she answered, with a pathetic smile. "There'll be nothing to
worry about, you know, and I shall have plenty to eat."
Ruth threw her arms about her mother's neck and burst into a passion of
tears. "Oh, I never thought we should come to this!" she sobbed.
[Illustration: "RUTH THREW HER ARMS ABOUT HER MOTHER'S NECK AND BURST
INTO A PASSION OF TEARS."]
"It won't matter, my girl, when we are in heaven," was the quiet and
patient answer.
"But we are not in heaven, mother. We are here on this wicked, cruel
earth, and it breaks my heart to see you suffer so."
"My child, the suffering is in the past. The storm has done its worst. I
feel as though I couldn't worry any more. I am just going to be still
and wait."
"I shall come and see you as often as I can," Ruth said, giving her
mother a final hug, "and you'll not lose heart, will you?"
"No. I shall think of you and Ralph, and if there's a ray of hope
anywhere I shall cherish it."
So they parted. Ruth watched her mother march away through a long
corridor in charge of an attendant, watched her till a door swung and
hid her from sight. Then, brushing her hand resolutely across her eyes,
she turned away to face the world alone.