DEVELOPMENTS
The Penlogans' cottage had been empty two full days before the people of
St. Goram became aware that anything unusual had happened. That Ruth and
her mother were reduced to considerable straits was a matter of common
knowledge. People could not dispose of a quantity of their furniture
without the whole neighbourhood getting to know, and in several
quarters--notably at the Wheat Sheaf, and in Dick Lowry's smithy, and in
the shop of William Menire, general dealer--the question was discussed
as to how long the Penlogans could hold out, and what would become of
them in the end.
To offer them charity was what no one had the courage to do, and for a
Penlogan to ask it was almost inconceivable. Since the event which had
landed Ralph in prison, Mrs. Penlogan and Ruth had withdrawn themselves
more than ever from public gaze. They evidently wanted to see no one,
and it was equally clear they desired no one to see them. What little
shopping they did was done after dark, and when Ruth went to chapel she
stole in late, and retired before the congregation could get a look at
her.
Hence for two days no one noticed that no smoke appeared above the
chimney of the Penlogans' cottage, and that no one had been seen going
in or coming out of the house. On the third day, however, William
Menire--whose store they had patronised while they had any money to
spend--became uneasy in his mind on account of the non-appearance of
Ruth.
His thoughts had been turned in her direction because he had been
expecting for some time that she would be asking for credit, and he had
seriously considered the matter as to what answer he should make. To
trust people who had no assets and no income was, on the face of it, a
very risky proceeding. On the other hand, Ruth Penlogan had such a sweet
and winning face, and was altogether so good to look upon, that he felt
he would have considerable difficulty in saying no to her. William was a
man who was rapidly reaching the old age of youth, and so far had
resisted successfully all the blandishments of the fair sex; but he had
to own to himself that if he were thrown much in the company of Ruth
Penlogan he would have to tighten up the rivets of his armour, or else
weakly and ignominiously surrender.
While the Penlogans lived at Hillside he knew very little of them. They
did not deal with him, and he had no opportunity of making their
acquaintance. But since they came to the cottage Ruth had often been in
his shop to make some small purchase. He sold everything, from flour to
hob nails and from calico to mouse traps, and Ruth had found his shop in
this respect exceedingly convenient. It saved her from running all over
the village to make her few purchases.
William had been impressed from the first by her gentle ways and her
refined manner of speech. She spoke with the tone and accent of the
quality, and had he not been informed who she was he would have taken
her for some visitor at one of the big houses.
For two days William had watched with considerable interest for Ruth's
appearance. He felt that it did him good to look into her sweet, serious
eyes, and he had come to the conclusion that if she asked for credit he
would not be able to say no. He might have to wait for a considerable
time for his money, but after all money was not everything--the
friendship of a girl like Ruth Penlogan was surely worth something.
As the third morning, however, wore away, and Ruth did not put in an
appearance, William--as we have seen--got a little anxious. And when his
mother--who kept house for him--was able to take his place behind the
counter, he took off his apron, put on his bowler hat, and stole away
through the village in the direction of St. Ivel.
The cottage stood quite alone, just over the boundary of St. Goram
parish, and was almost hidden by a tall thorn hedge. As William drew
near he noticed that the chimneys were smokeless, and this did not help
to allay his anxiety. As he walked up to the door he noticed that none
of the blinds were drawn, and this in some measure reassured him.
He knocked loudly with his knuckles, and waited. After awhile he knocked
again, and drew nearer the door and listened. A third time he knocked,
and then he began to get a little concerned. He next tried the handle,
and discovered that the door was locked.
"Well, this is curious, to say the least of it," he reflected. "I hope
they are not both dead in the house together."
After awhile he seized the door handle and gave the door a good rattle,
but no one responded to the assault, and with a puzzled expression in
his eyes William heaved a sigh, and began to retrace his steps towards
the village.
"I'll go to Budda," he said to himself. "A policeman ought to know what
to do for the best. Anyhow, if a policeman breaks into a house, nobody
gets into trouble for it." And he quickened his pace till he was almost
out of breath.
As good luck would have it, he met Budda half-way up the village, and at
once took him into his confidence.
Budda put on an expression of great profundity.
"I think we ought to break into the house," William said hurriedly.
This proposition Budda negatived at once. To do what anyone else advised
would show lack of originality on the part of the force. If William had
suggested that they ask Dick Lowry the smith to pick the lock, Budda
would have gone at once and battered the door down. Initiative and
originality are the chief characteristics of the men in blue.
"Let me see," said Budda, looking wise and stroking his chin with great
tenderness, "Amos Bice the auctioneer is the landlord, if I'm not
greatly mistook."
"Then possibly he knows something?" William said anxiously.
"Possibly he do," Budda answered oracularly. "I will walk on and see
him."
"I will walk along with you," William replied. "I confess I'm getting a
bit curious. Everybody knows, of course, that they're terribly hard up,
though I must say they've paid cash down for everything got at my
store."
"Been disposing of their furniture, I hear," Budda said shortly.
"So it is reported," William replied. "That implies sore straits, and
they are not the sort of people, by all accounts, to ask for help."
"Would die sooner," Budda replied laconically.
"Then perhaps they're dead," William said, with a little gasp. "It must
be terrible hard for people who have known better days."
Amos Bice looked up with a start when Budda and William Menire entered
his small office.
"I have come to inquire," Budda began, quite ignoring his companion, "if
you know anything about--well, about what has become of the Penlogans?"
"Well, I do--of course," he said, slowly and reflectively; though why he
should have added "of course" was not quite clear.
William began to breathe a little more freely. Budda looked
disappointed. Budda revelled in mysteries, and when a mystery was
cleared up all the interest was taken out of it.
"Then you know where they are?" Budda questioned shortly.
"I know where the mother is--I am not so sure of the daughter. But
naturally it is not a matter that I care to talk about, particularly as
they did not wish their doings to be the subject of common gossip."
"May I ask why you do not care to talk about them?" Budda questioned
severely.
"Well, it's this way. I'm the owner of the cottage, as perhaps you know.
The rent is paid quarterly in advance. They paid their first quarter at
Michaelmas. The next was due, of course, at Christmas. Well, you see, I
found they were getting rid of their furniture rapidly, and in my own
interests I had naturally to put a stop to it. Well, this brought things
to a head. You see, the boy is in prison awaiting his trial, the mother
is ailing, and the girl has found no way yet of earning her living, or
hadn't a week ago. So, being brought to a full stop, they had to face
the question and submit to the inevitable. I took all the furniture at a
valuation--in fact, for a good deal more than it was worth--and after
subtracting the rent, handed them over the balance. Mr. Thomas got an
order for the old lady to go into the workhouse, and the girl, as I
understand, is going to try to get a place in domestic service."
William Menire almost groaned. The idea of this sweet, gentle, ladylike
girl being an ordinary domestic drudge seemed almost an outrage.
"And how long ago is all this?" Budda asked severely.
"Oh, just the day before yesterday. No, let me see. It was the day
before that."
"And you have said nothing about it?"
"It was no business of mine to gossip over other people's affairs."
"They seem to have been very brave people," William remarked timidly.
"What some people would call proud," the auctioneer replied. "Not that I
object. I like to see people showing a little proper pride. Some people
would have boasted that they had heaps of money coming to them, and
would have gone into debt everywhere. The Penlogans wouldn't buy a thing
they couldn't pay for."
"It's what I call a great come down for them," Budda remarked
sententiously; and then the two men took their departure, Budda to
spread the news of the Penlogans' last descent in the social scale, and
William to meditate more or less sadly on the chances of human life.
Before the church clock pointed to the hour of noon all St. Goram was
agog with the news, and for the rest of the day little else was talked
about. People were very sorry, of course--at any rate, they said they
were; they paid lip service to the god of convention. It was a great
come down for people who had occupied a good position, but the ways of
Providence were very mysterious, and their duty was to be very grateful
that no such calamity had overtaken them.