IN LONDON TOWN
Ralph remained in London considerably longer than he had intended. Sir
John Liskeard was a very busy man, and the questions raised by Ralph
required time to consider. The equity of the case was simple and
straightforward enough; the law was quite another matter. Moreover, as
Sir John had been asked to give not merely a legal opinion, but some
friendly advice, the relative strength of the litigants had to be taken
into account.
Sir John was anxious to do his best for his young client. Ralph appeared
to be a coming man in the division he represented in Parliament, and as
Sir John's majority on the last election was only a narrow one, he was
naturally anxious to do all he could to strengthen his position in the
constituency. Hence he received Ralph very graciously, got him a seat
under the gallery during an important debate in the House of Commons,
took him to tea on the Terrace, pointed out to him most of the political
celebrities who happened to be in attendance at the House, and
introduced him to a few whom Ralph was particularly anxious to meet.
Fresh from the country and from the humdrum of village life, with palate
unjaded and all his enthusiasms at the full, this was a peculiarly
delightful experience. It was pleasant to meet men in the flesh whom he
had read about in books and newspapers, pleasant to breathe--if only for
an hour--a new atmosphere, charged with a subtle energy he could not
define.
Of course, there were painful disillusionments. Some noted people--in
appearance, at any rate--fell far short of his expectations. Great men
rose in the House to speak, and stuttered and spluttered the weakest and
emptiest platitudes. Honourables and right honourables and noble lords
appeared, in many instances, to be made of very common clay.
Ralph found himself wondering, as many another man has done, as he sat
watching and listening, by what curious or fatuous fate some of these
men in the gathering ever climbed into their exalted positions.
He put the question to Sir John when he had an opportunity.
"Most of them do not climb at all," was the laughing answer. "They are
simply pitchforked."
"But surely it is merit that wins in a place like this?"
Sir John laughed again.
"In some cases, no doubt. For instance, you see that short, thick-set
man yonder. Well, he's one of the most effective speakers in the House.
A few years ago he was a working shoemaker. Then you see that
white-headed man yonder, with large forehead and deep, sad-looking eyes.
Well, he was a village schoolmaster for thirty years, and now he is
acknowledged to be one of the ablest men we have. Then there is Blank,
in the corner seat there below the gangway, a most brilliant fellow--a
farmer's son, without any early advantages at all. But I don't suppose
that either of them will ever get into office, or into what you call an
exalted position."
"But why not?"
"Ah, well"--and Sir John shrugged his shoulders--"you see, the ruling
classes in this country belong to--well, to the ruling classes."
"But I thought ours was a purely democratic form of government?"
"It is. But the democracy dearly love a lord. They have no faith in
their own order. The ruling classes have; so they remain the ruling
classes. And who can blame them?"
"Still, when so much is at stake, the best men ought to be at the head
of affairs."
"Possibly they are--that is, the best available men. Tradition goes for
a good deal in a country like this. Certain positions are filled, as a
matter of course, by people of rank. An historic name counts for a good
deal."
"But suppose the bearer of the historic name should happen to be a
fool?"
"Oh, well, we muddle through somehow. Get an extra war or two, perhaps,
and an addition to the taxes and to the national debt. But we are a
patient people, and don't mind very much. Besides, the majority of the
people are easily gulled."
"Then promotion goes by favour?" Ralph questioned after a pause.
"Why, of course it does. Did you ever doubt it? Take the case of the
Imperial Secretary. Does any sane man in England, irrespective of creed
or party, imagine for a moment that he would have got into that position
if he had not been the nephew of a duke?"
"But isn't he a capable man?"
"Capable?"--and Sir John shrugged his shoulders again. "Why, if he had
to depend on his own merits he wouldn't earn thirty shillings a week in
any business house in the City."
Ralph walked away from the House of Commons with a curious feeling of
elation and disappointment. He had been greatly delighted in some
respects, and terribly disappointed in others.
In St. James's Park he sat down in the shadow of a large chestnut tree
and tried to sort out his emotions. He had been in London three days,
but had scarcely got his bearings yet. Everything was very new, very
strange, and very wonderful. On the whole, he thought he would be very
glad to get away from it. It seemed to him the loneliest place on earth.
On every side there was the ceaseless roar of traffic, like the breaking
of the sea, and yet there was not a friendly face or a familiar voice
anywhere in all the throng.
Suddenly he started and leaned eagerly forward. That was a familiar
face, surely, and a familiar voice. Two people passed close to where he
sat--a young man and a young woman. Her skirts almost brushed his boots;
her sunshade--which she was swinging--came within an inch of his hand.
Dorothy Hamblyn! The words leapt to his lips unconsciously, but he did
not utter them. She passed on brightly--joyously, it seemed to him, but
she was quite unaware of his presence. In the main, her eyes were fixed
on the young man by her side--a slim, faultlessly dressed young man,
with pale face, retreating chin, and a bored expression in his eyes.
Ralph rose to his feet and followed them. His heart was beating fast,
his knees trembled in spite of himself, his brain was in a whirl. What
he purposed doing or where he purposed going never occurred to him. He
simply followed a sudden impulse, whether it led to his undoing or not.
He kept them in sight until they reached Hyde Park Corner. Then the
crowd swallowed them up for several moments. But he caught sight of them
again on the other side and followed them into the Park. For several
minutes he had considerable difficulty in disentangling them from the
crowd of people that hurried to and fro, but a large white plume Dorothy
wore in her hat assisted him. They came to a full stop at length, and
sat down on a couple of chairs. He discovered an empty chair on the
other side of the road, and sat down opposite.
He was near enough to see her features distinctly, near enough to see
the light sparkle in her eyes, but not near enough to hear anything she
said. That, however, did not matter. He was content for the moment to
look at her. He wanted nothing better.
How beautiful she was! She was no longer the squire's "little maid," she
was a woman now. Nearly two years had passed since he last saw her, and
those years had ripened all her charms and rounded them into perfection.
He could look his fill without being observed. If she cast her eyes in
his direction she would not recognise him--probably she had forgotten
his existence.
His nerves were still thrilling with a strange ecstasy. His eyes drank
in greedily every line and curve and expression of her face. In all this
great London there was no other face, he was sure, that could compare
with it, no other smile that was half so sweet.
She rose at length, slowly and with seeming reluctance, to her feet. Her
companion at once sprang to her side. Ralph rose also, and faced them.
Why he did so he did not know. He was still following a blind and
unreasoning impulse. She paused for a moment or two and looked
steadfastly in his direction, then turned and quickly walked away, and a
moment later was swallowed up in the multitude.
Ralph took one step forward, then turned back and sat down with a jerk.
He had come to himself at last.
"Well, I have played the fool with a vengeance," he muttered to himself.
"I have just pulled down all I have been trying for the last two years
to build up."
The next moment he was unconscious of his surroundings again. Crowds of
people passed and re-passed, but he saw one face only, the face that had
never ceased to haunt him since the hour when, in her bright, imperious
way, she commanded him to open the gate.
How readily and vividly he recalled every incident of that afternoon. He
felt her arms about his neck even now. He was hurrying across the downs
once more in the direction of St. Goram. His heart was thrilling with a
new sensation.
He came to himself again after a while and sauntered slowly out of the
Park. Beauty and wealth and fashion jostled him on every side, but it
was a meaningless show to him. Had Ruth been with him she would have
gone into ecstasies over the hats and dresses, for such creations were
never seen in St. Goram, nor even dreamed of.
Men have to be educated to appreciate the splendours and glories of
feminine attire, and, generally speaking, the education is a slow and
disappointing process. The male eye is not quick in detecting the
subtleties of lace and chiffon, the values of furs and furbelows.
"Women dress to please the men," somebody has remarked. That may be true
in some cases. More frequently, it is to be feared, they dress to make
other women envious.
Ralph's education in the particular line referred to had not even
commenced. He knew nothing of the philosophy of clothes. He was vaguely
conscious sometimes that some people were well dressed and others ill
dressed, that some women were gowned becomingly and others unbecomingly,
but beyond that generalisation he never ventured.
He had begun to dress well himself almost without knowing it. He
instinctively avoided everything that was loud or noticeable. Nature had
given him a good figure--tall, erect, and well proportioned. Moreover,
he was free from the vanity which makes a man self-conscious, and he was
sufficiently well educated to know what constituted a gentleman.
He got back to the small hotel at which he was staying in time for an
early dinner, after which he strolled into the Embankment Gardens and
listened to the band. Later still, he found himself sitting on one of
the seats in Trafalgar Square listening to the splash of the fountains
and dreaming of home, and yet in every dream stood out the exquisite
face and figure of Dorothy Hamblyn.
Next morning, because he had nothing to do, and because he was already
tired of sight-seeing, he made his way again into St. James's Park, and
found a seat near the lake and in the shadow of the trees. He told
himself that he came there in the hope that he might see Dorothy Hamblyn
again.
He knew it was a foolish thing to do. But he had come to the unheroic
conclusion during the night that it was of no use fighting against Fate.
He loved Dorothy Hamblyn passionately, madly, and that was the end of
it. He could not help it. He had tried his best to root out the foolish
infatuation, and he had almost hoped that he was succeeding. But
yesterday's experience had torn the veil from his eyes, and revealed to
him the fact that he was more hopelessly in love than ever.
How angry he was with himself he did not know. The folly of it made him
ashamed. His presumption filled him with amazement. If anyone else of
his own class had done the same thing he would have laughed him to
scorn. In truth, he could have kicked himself for his folly.
Then, unconsciously, his mood would change, and self-pity would take the
place of scorn. He was not to blame. He was the victim of a cruel and
cynical Fate. He was being punished for hating her father so intensely.
It was the Nemesis of an evil passion.
He spent most of the day in the Park, and kept an eager look-out in all
directions; but the vision of Dorothy's face did not again gladden his
eyes. A hundred times he started, and the warm blood rushed in a torrent
to his face, then he would walk slowly on again.
On the following morning he met Sir John Liskeard, by appointment, in
his chambers in the Temple.
"He had been going into the case," he explained to Ralph, "with
considerable care, but even now he had not found out all he wanted to
know. He had, however, discovered one or two facts which had an
important bearing on the case."
He was careful to explain, again, that in equity he considered Ralph's
claim incontestable, while nothing could be more honourable than the way
in which he had tried to come to terms with the company. He spoke
strongly of the high-handed and tyrannous way in which a rich and
powerful company were trying to crush a poor man and rob him of the
fruits of his skill and enterprise.
But, on the other hand, there was no doubt whatever that the company
would be able to cite a clear case. To begin with, the agreement, or the
concession, was very loosely worded. Moreover, no time limit had been
set, which might imply that the company retained the right of
withdrawing the concession at any moment. It was also contended by some
of the shareholders that the company, as a whole, could not be held
responsible for mistakes made by the chairman. That, however, he held
was a silly contention, inasmuch as the agreement was stamped with the
company's seal, and was signed by the secretary and two directors.
On the other hand, there could be no doubt that the concession had been
hurriedly made, no one at the time realising that there was any value in
the rubbish heap that had been accumulating for the biggest part of a
century. On one point, however, the company had cleverly forestalled
them. It had purchased, recently, the freehold of Daniel Rickard's farm.
This, no doubt, was a very astute move, and mightily strengthened the
company's position.
"I am bound, also, to point out one other fact," the lawyer went on. "I
have discovered that both Lord Probus and Lord St. Goram are
considerable shareholders in the concern. They are both tremendously
impressed by what I may term 'the potentialities of the tailing heap.'
In fact, they believe there's a huge fortune in it, and they are
determined that the company shall reap the reward of your discovery."
"They need not be so greedy," Ralph said bitterly. "They have both far
more than they know how to spend, and they might have been willing to
give a beginner a chance."
"You know the old saying," Sir John said, with a smile. "'Much would
have more.'"
"I've heard it," Ralph said moodily.
"You will understand I am not talking to you merely as a lawyer. There
is no doubt whatever that you have a case, and a very clear case. I may
add, a very strong case."
"And what, roughly speaking, would it cost to fight it in a court of
law?"
Sir John shrugged his shoulders and smiled knowingly.
"I might name a minimum figure," he said, and he did.
Ralph started, and half rose from his chair.
"That settles the matter," he said, after a pause.
"It would be a very unequal contest," Sir John remarked.
"You mean----"
"I mean, they could take it from court to court, and simply cripple you
with law costs."
"So, as usual, the weak must go to the wall?"
"To be quite candid with you, I could not advise you to risk what you
have made."
"What I have made is very little indeed," Ralph answered.
"I thought you had made a small fortune."
"I could have made a little if I had been given time; but I have spent
most of the profit in increasing and improving the plant."
"I am sorry. To say the least, it is rough on you."
"It is what I have been used to all my life," Ralph said absently. "The
powerful appear to recognise no law but their own strength."
When Ralph found himself in the street again his thoughts immediately
turned towards home.