A PROPOSAL
Sam did not wait for an invitation. Flinging the reins over the gate
post, he marched boldly up the garden path, and greeted Ruth at the
door. She received him courteously, as was her nature, but a more
sensitive man might have felt that there was not much warmth in her
welcome.
"I was riding this way, and so I thought I would call," he explained. "I
hope I don't intrude?"
"Oh no, not at all. Will you come inside?"
"Thank you, I shall be pleased to rest a few minutes, and so will Nero.
Is your brother at home?"
"No, he has just gone down to Perranpool."
"Mr. Telfer has nearly finished his contract, I hear."
"So I am told."
"And the company have a mountain of concrete on their hands."
"Ralph says they are charging so enormously for it. Besides, they have
not sought out new markets."
"Markets would open if the stuff was not so poor. They managed to hustle
your brother out of his rights without getting his secret."
"Is that so?"
"So I am told. I know nothing about the matter myself. I can only repeat
what people are saying. By the by, I suppose you have heard that your
old home has been sold?"
"Yes."
"St. Goram seems to be quite excited about it. The people in my cousin's
shop can talk of nothing else."
"Then you have called on your cousin?"
"Just to say 'How d'ye do?' But Saturday afternoon appears to be a busy
day with him. Seems a shame that he has to turn out, doesn't it?"
"It is a shame."
"Of course, in a measure, it's his own fault. He ought not to have
opposed Lord St. Goram. A man in business ought not to have any
politics, and should keep out of public affairs."
"But suppose he agreed with Lord St. Goram?"
"Oh, that would make a difference, of course. A man ought to know on
which side his bread is buttered."
"And principle and conviction should not count?"
"I don't say that. A man can have any convictions he likes, so long as
he keeps them to himself; but in politics it is safest to side with the
powers that be."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it. Take the case of my Uncle Ned."
"I never heard of him," Ruth said innocently.
"Oh, well, his late landlord was a Liberal, and, of course, my uncle was
a Liberal. Then his landlord became a Unionist, and Uncle Ned became a
Unionist also. Well, then his landlord died and his son took possession.
He's a Conservative and true blue, and, of course, Uncle Ned is a Tory
of the Tories. What is the result? He gets no end of privileges.
Moreover, there is no fear of his being turned out of his farm."
"And you admire your Uncle Ned?"
"I think he might be a little less ostentatious. But he knows on which
side his bread is buttered. Now my Cousin William goes dead against his
own landlord; there's all the difference. Result, Ned remains and
prospers; William has notice to quit."
"I'd rather be William than your Uncle Ned."
"You would?"
"A thousand times. A man who places bread and butter before conscience
and conviction is a coward, and a man who changes his political creed to
please his landlord is too contemptible for words."
Sam turned uneasily in his chair and stared. He had never imagined that
this sweet-faced girl could speak so strongly. Moreover, he began to
fear that he had unconsciously put his foot into it. He had called for
the purpose of making love to Ruth, and had come perilously near to
making her angry.
How to get back to safer ground was a work of no small difficulty. He
could not unsay what he had said, and to attempt to trim would only
provoke her scorn. Neither could he suddenly change the subject without
considerable loss of dignity. So, after an awkward pause, he said--
"Everyone has a right to his or her own opinions, of course. For myself,
I should not be prepared to express myself so strongly."
"Perhaps you do not feel strongly," she said.
"I don't think I do," he replied, in a tone of relief; "that is, on
public questions. I am no politician, and, besides, there is always a
good deal to be said on both sides of every question. I try as far as
possible, you know, to keep an open mind," and he smiled benevolently,
and felt well pleased with himself.
After that conversation flagged. Ruth appeared to be absent-minded, and
in no mood for further talk. Nero outside champed at his bit, and was
eager to be on the move again. Sam turned his hat round and round in his
hands, and puzzled his brain as to how he should get near the subject
that was uppermost in his mind.
He started a number of topics--the weather, the chances of a fine day
for Summercourt Fair, the outbreak of measles at Doubleday, the price of
tin, the new travelling preacher, the Sunday-school anniversary at
Trebilskey, the large catch of pilchards at Mevagissey--but they all
came to a sudden and ignominious conclusion.
He rose to his feet at length almost in despair, and looked towards the
door. For some reason the task he had set himself was far more difficult
than he had imagined. In his ride from Pentudy he had rehearsed his
speech to the listening hedgerows with great diligence, and with
considerable animation. He had rounded his periods till they seemed
almost perfect. He had decided on the measure of emphasis to be laid on
certain passages. But now, when he stood face to face with the girl he
coveted, the speech eluded him almost entirely, while such passages as
he could remember did not seem at all fitting to the occasion. The time
clearly was not propitious. He would have to postpone his declaration to
a more convenient season.
"I'm afraid I must be going," he said desperately.
"Your horse seems to be getting impatient," Ruth replied, looking out of
the window.
"It's not the horse I care for," he blurted out; "it's you."
"Me?" she questioned innocently.
"Do you think anything else matters when you are about?" he asked in a
tone almost of defiance.
"I fear I do not understand," she said, with a bewildered expression in
her eyes.
"Oh, you must understand," he replied vehemently. "You must have seen
that I love you."
"No, no!"
"Don't interrupt me, please, now that I've started. Give me a
chance--oh, do give me a chance. I've loved you ever since your father's
sale. I'm sure it's love I feel for you. Whenever people talk about my
getting married, my thoughts always turn to you in a moment. I waited
and waited for a chance of speaking to you, and thought it would never
come; and now that I've got to know you a bit----"
"But you don't know me," she interrupted.
"Yes, I do. Besides, William has told me how good you are; and then I'm
willing to wait until I know you better, and you know me better. I don't
ask you to say Yes to-day, and please don't say No. I'm sure I could
make you happy. You should have a horse of your own to ride if you
wanted one, and I would be as good to you as ever I could, and I don't
think I'm a bad sort. Ask my Cousin William, and he'll tell you that I'm
a steady-going fellow. I know I'm not clever, nor anything of that sort;
but I would look after you really well--I would, indeed. And think of
it. You may need a friend some day. You may be left alone, as it were;
your brother may get married. There's never any knowing what may happen.
But if you would let me look after you and care for you, you wouldn't
have a worry in the world. Think of it----"
She put up her hand deprecatingly, for when his tongue was once unloosed
his words flowed without a break. He looked very manly and handsome,
too, as he stood before her, and there was evident sincerity in his
tones.
He broke off suddenly, and stood waiting. He felt that he had done the
thing very clumsily, but that was perhaps inevitable under the
circumstances.
Ruth looked up and met his eyes. She was no flirt; she was deeply moved
by his confession. Moreover, when he spoke of her being alone some day
and needing protection, he touched a sympathetic chord in her heart. She
was to be left alone sooner than he knew. Already preparations had begun
for her brother's departure.
"Please do not say any more," she said gently. "I do not doubt your
sincerity for a moment."
"But you are not offended with me?" he gasped.
"No, I am not offended with you. Indeed, I feel greatly honoured by your
proposal."
"Then you will think it over?" he interrupted. "Say you will think it
over. Don't send me away without hope."
She smiled a sweet, pathetic smile, and answered--
"Yes, I will think it over."
"Thank you so much," he said, with beaming face. "That is the most I
could hope for to-day," and he held out his hand to her, which she took
shyly and diffidently.
"If you can only bring yourself to say Yes," he said, as he stood in the
doorway, "I will do my best to make you the happiest woman in the
world."
She did not reply, however. From behind the window curtains she watched
him mount his horse and ride away; then she dropped into an easy-chair
and stared into space.
It is sometimes said that a woman rarely gets the man she wants--that
he, unknowing and unseeing, goes somewhere else, and she makes no sign.
Later on she accepts the second best, or it may be the third best, and
tries to be content.
Ruth wondered if contentment was ever to be found along that path, if
the heart grew reconciled to the absence of romance, if the passion of
youth was but the red glare of sunrise which quickly faded into the
sober light of day.
Sam Tremail was not a man to be despised. He was no wastrel, no unknown
adventurer. He was a man of character and substance. He had been a good
son; he would doubtless make a good husband. Could she be content?
No halo of romance gathered about his name. No beautiful and tender
passion shook her heart when she thought of him. Life at Pentudy would
be sober and grey and commonplace. There would be no passion flowers, no
crimson and scarlet and gold. On the other hand, there would be no want,
no mean and niggling economies, no battle for daily bread. Was solid
comfort more lasting, and therefore more desirable, than the richly-hued
vesture of romance?
How about the people she knew--the people who had reached middle
life--the people who were beginning to descend the western slope? Had
there been any romance in their life? Had they thrilled at the beginning
at the touch of a hand? Had their hearts leaped at the sound of a voice?
And if so, why was there no sign of it to-day? Did familiarity always
breed contempt? Did possession kill romance? Did the crimson of the
morning always fade into the grey of noon?
Would it be better to marry without dreams and illusions, to begin with
the sober grey, the prose and commonplace, than begin with some
richly-hued dreams that would fade and disappear before the honeymoon
came to an end? To be disillusioned was always painful. And yet, would
not one swift month of rich romance, of deep-eyed, passionate love, be
worth a lifetime of grey and sober prose?
Ruth was still thinking when Ralph returned from Perranpool.
Meanwhile Sam was trotting homeward in a very jubilant frame of mind. He
pulled up in front of William Menire's shop and beckoned to his cousin.
"I want you to congratulate me, old man," he said, when William stood at
his horse's head.
William's face fell in a moment, and his lips trembled in spite of
himself.
"Have you--you--been to--to----?" William began.
"I've just come from there," Sam interrupted, with a laugh. "Been there
for the last hour, and now I'm off home feeling that I have done a good
day's work."
"You have proposed to her?"
"I have! It required a good bit of courage, but I've done it."
"And she has accepted?"
"She has not rejected me, at any rate. I didn't ask for a definite
answer right off. But it is all right, my boy, I'm sure it is. Now, give
us your hand. You've been a good friend to me. But for you I might never
have got to know her."
William reached up his hand slowly and silently.
"It's often been a wonder to me," Sam said, squeezing his kinsman's
hand, "that you never looked in that direction yourself; but I'm glad
you never did."
"It would have been no use," William said sadly. "I'm not the kind of
man to take any girl's fancy."
"Oh, that's all nonsense," Sam said gaily. "I admit that a great many
girls like a fellow with a lot of dash and go, and are not particular
about his past so long as he has a winning tongue and a smart exterior.
But all girls are not built that way. Why, I can fancy you being a
perfect hero in some people's eyes."
"You must have a vivid imagination," William said, with a smile; and
then Sam put spurs to his horse and galloped away.
William went back to his work behind his counter with a pathetic and
far-away look in his eyes. He was glad when the little group of
customers were served, and he was left alone for a few minutes.
He had intended going to see the Penlogans that evening, but he decided
now that he would not go. While Ruth was free he had a right to look at
her and admire her, but he was not sure that that right was his any
longer.
He wondered if Sam noticed that he did not congratulate him. He could
not get out the words somehow.
He sat down at length with his elbow on the counter, and rested his head
on his hand. He began to realise that he had built more on the
acquisition of Hillside Farm than he knew. He had hoped in some vague
way that the farm would be a bond between him and Ruth. Well, well, it
was at an end now; the one romance of his life had vanished. His
unspoken love would remain unspoken.
The next day being Sunday, all the characters in this story had time for
meditation. Ruth and Ralph walked to Veryan that they might worship once
more in the little chapel made sacred to them by the memory of father
and mother. Ruth had great difficulty in keeping back the tears. How
often she had sat in that bare and comfortless pew holding her father's
hand. How she missed him again. How acute and poignant was her sense of
loss.
She never once looked at her brother. He sat erect and motionless by her
side, but she doubted if he heard the sermon. The thought of the coming
separation lay heavy upon him as it did upon her.
On their way back Ruth plucked up her courage and told Ralph of Sam
Tremail's proposal the previous afternoon.
Ralph stopped short for a moment, and looked at her.
"Now I understand why you have been so absent-minded," he said at
length. "I was afraid you were fretting because I was going away."
"If I fretted, I should try and not let you see," she answered. "You
have enough to bear already."
"The thought of leaving you unprotected is the hardest part," he said.
"Would it be a relief to you if I accepted Sam Tremail's offer?" she
questioned.
"Supposing you cared for him enough, it would be," he replied. "Sam is a
good fellow by all accounts. Socially, he is much above us."
"I have nothing against him," she answered slowly, "nothing! And I am
quite sure he meant all he said."
"And do you care for him?"
She shook her head slowly and smiled--
"I neither like him nor dislike him. But he offers me protection and a
good home."
"To be free from worry is a great thing," he answered, looking away
across the distant landscape; and then he thought of Dorothy Hamblyn,
and wondered if love and romance were as much to a woman as to a man.
"Yes, freedom from worry is doubtless a great thing," she said, after a
long pause, "but is it the greatest and best?"
But she waited in vain for an answer. Ralph was thinking of something
else.