FAILURE OR FORTUNE
Farmer Jenkins was grimly contemptuous. He hated miners. "They were
always messing up things," sinking pits, covering the hillsides with
heaps of rubbish, erecting noisy and unsightly machinery, cutting
watercourses through fruitful fields, breaking down fences, and,
generally speaking, destroying the peace and quietness of a
neighbourhood.
He told Ralph to his face that he considered he was a fool.
"Possibly you are right, Mr. Jenkins," Ralph said, with a laugh.
"Ay, and you'll laugh t'other side of your face afore you've done with
it."
"You think so?"
"It don't require no thinking over. Yer father sunk all his bit of money
in this place, in bringing it under cultivation; and now you're throwing
your bit of money after his, and other folks' to boot, in undoin' all he
did, and turning the place into a desert again."
"But suppose the real wealth of this place is under the surface, Mr.
Jenkins?"
"Suppose the sky falls. I tell 'ee there ain't no wealth except what
grows. However, 'tain't no business of mine. If folks like to make fools
of their selves and throw away their bit of money, that's their own
look-out." And Farmer Jenkins spat on the ground and departed.
Jim Brewer pulled off his coat, and set to work at a point indicated by
Ralph to sink a pit.
That was the beginning of what Ruth laughingly called "Great St. Goram
Mine," with an emphasis on the word "great."
After watching Jim for a few minutes, Ralph pulled off his coat also,
and began to assist his employee. It did not look a very promising
commencement for a great enterprise.
The ground was hard and stony, and Jim's strength was not what it had
been, nor what it would be providing he got proper food and plenty of
it; while Ralph could scarcely be said to be proficient in the use of
pick and shovel.
By the end of the third day they had got through the "rubbly ground," as
Jim called it, and had struck what seemed a bed of solid rock.
Ralph got intensely excited. He had little doubt that this was the lode,
the existence of which his father had accidentally discovered. With the
point of his pick he searched round for fissures; but the rock was very
closely knit, and he had had no experience in rock working.
Jim Brewer, as a practical miner, showed much more skill, and when Ralph
returned to his home that evening his pockets were full of bits of rock
that had been splintered from the lode.
"Well, Ralph, what news?" was Ruth's first question when she met him at
the door. She was as much excited over the prospecting expedition as he
was.
"We've struck something," he said eagerly, "but whether it's father's
lode or no I'm not certain yet."
"But how will you find out?"
"I've got a sample in my pocket," he said, with a little laugh. "I'll
test it after supper," and he went into his little laboratory and
emptied his pockets on the bench.
By the time he had washed, and brushed his hair, supper was ready.
"And who've you seen to-day?" he said, as he sat down opposite his
sister.
"Not many people," she said, blushing slightly. "Mr. Tremail called this
afternoon."
He looked up suddenly with a questioning light in his eyes. Sam's name
had scarcely been mentioned for the last two or three weeks, and whether
Ruth had accepted him or rejected him was a matter that had ceased to
trouble him. In fact, his mind had been so full of other things that
there was no place left for the love affairs of Sam Tremail and his
sister.
"Oh, indeed," he said slowly and hesitatingly; "then I suppose by this
time it may be regarded as a settled affair?"
"Yes, it is quite settled," she said, and the colour deepened on her
neck and face.
"Well, he's a good fellow--a very good fellow by all accounts," he said,
with a little sigh. "I shall be sorry to lose you. Still, I don't know
that you could have done much better."
"Oh, but you are not going to lose me yet," she answered, with a bright
little laugh, though she did not raise her eyes to meet his.
"Well, no. Not for a month or two, I presume. But I have noticed that
when men become engaged they get terribly impatient," and he dropped his
eyes to his plate again.
"Yes, I have heard the same thing," she replied demurely. "But the truth
is, I have decided not to get married at all."
"You mean----"
"I could not accept his offer, Ralph. I think a woman must care an awful
lot for a man before she can consent to marry him."
"And _vice versa_," he answered. "Yes, yes, I think you are quite right
in that. But how did he take it, Ruth?"
"Not at all badly. Indeed, I think he was prepared for my answer. When
he was leaving he met Mary Telfer outside the gate, and he stood for
quite a long time laughing and talking with her."
"I did not know he knew her."
"He met her here a fortnight ago."
"Did Mary know why he came here?"
"I don't know. I never told her."
"I am very glad on the whole you have said No to him. Mind you, he's a
good fellow, and, as things go, an excellent catch. And yet, if I had to
make choice for you, it would not be Sam Tremail. At least I would not
place him first."
"And who would you place first?" she questioned, raising her eyes
timidly to his.
"Ah, well, that is a secret. No, I am not going to tell you; for women,
you know, always go by the rule of contrary."
"If you had gone abroad," Ruth said, after a long pause, "and I had been
left alone, I might have given Mr. Tremail a different answer. I don't
know. When a good home is offered to a lonely woman the temptation is
great. But when I knew that you were going to stay at home, and that
Hillside was to be ours once more, I could think of nothing else. Do you
think I would leave Hillside for Pentudy?"
"But Hillside is not ours altogether, Ruth."
"It is as good as ours," she answered, with a smile. "William Menire
does not want it; he told me so. He said nothing would make him happier
than to see me living there again."
"Did he tell you that?"
"He did."
"That's strange. I always understood he did his best to bring about a
match between you and Sam Tremail."
"He may have done so. I don't know. He had always a good word for his
cousin. On the whole, I think he was quite indifferent."
"William can never be indifferent where his friends are concerned."
"Oh, then, perhaps he will be pleased that I am going to remain to keep
house for you."
And then the subject dropped.
Directly supper was over, Ralph retired to his work-room and laboratory,
and began with such appliances as he had to grind the stones into
powder. It was no easy task, for the rock was hard and of exceedingly
fine texture.
Ruth joined him when she had finished her work, and watched him with
great interest. His first test was made with the ordinary "vanning
shovel," his second with the aid of chemicals. But neither test seemed
conclusive or satisfactory.
"There's something wrong somewhere," he said, as he put away his tools.
"I must do my next test in the daylight."
Ruth got very anxious as the days passed away. She learned from her
brother that he had employed more men to sink further prospecting pits
along the course of the lode, but with what results she was unable to
discover.
Ralph, for some reason, had grown strangely reticent. He spent very
little time at home, and that little was chiefly passed in his
laboratory. His face became so serious that she feared for the worst,
and refrained from asking questions lest she should add to his anxiety.
William Menire dropped in occasionally of an evening, but she noticed
that the one topic of all others was avoided as if by mutual consent. At
last Ruth felt as if she could bear the suspense no longer.
"Do tell me, Ralph," she said; "is the whole thing what you call a
frost?"
"Why do you ask?" he questioned.
"Because you are so absorbed, and look so terribly anxious."
"I am anxious," he said, "very anxious."
"Then, so far, the lode has proved to be worthless?" she questioned.
"It is either worthless, or else is so rich in mineral that I hardly
like to think about it."
"I don't understand," she said.
"Well, it is this way. The tests we have made so far show such a large
percentage of tin that I am afraid we are mistaken."
"How? In what way?"
"If there had been a less quantity, I should not have doubted that it
was really tin, but there is so much of it that I'm afraid. Now do you
understand?"
"But surely you ought to be able to find out?"
"Oh yes; we shall find out in time. A quantity of stuff is in the hands
of expert assayers at the present time, and we are awaiting their
report. If their final test should harmonise with the others, why--well,
I will not say what."
"And when do you expect to hear?"
"I hope, to-morrow morning."
"But why have you kept me in the dark all this time?"
"Because we did not wish to make you anxious. It is bad enough that
William and I should be so much on the _qui vive_ that we are unable to
sleep, without robbing you of your sleep also."
"I don't think I shall be robbed of my sleep," she said, with a laugh.
"Then you are not anxious?" he questioned.
"Not very."
"Why not?"
"Because father was not the man to be mistaken in a matter of that kind.
If any man in Cornwall knew tin when he saw it, it was father."
"I am glad you are so hopeful," he said; and he went off into his
laboratory. He did not tell her that the possibilities of mistake were
far more numerous than she had any conception of, and that it was
possible for the cleverest experts to be mistaken until certain tests
had been applied.
William Menire turned up a little later in the evening, and joined Ralph
in his laboratory. He would have preferred remaining in the
sitting-room, but Ruth gave him no encouragement to stay. She had grown
unaccountably reserved with him of late. He was half afraid sometimes
that in some way he had offended her. There was a time, and not so long
ago, when she seemed pleased to be in his company, when she talked with
him in the freest manner, when she even showed him little attentions.
But all that was at an end. Ever since that morning when he had rushed
into the house with the announcement that their offer for Hillside Farm
had been accepted, she had been distinctly distant and cool with him.
He wondered if Ruth had read his heart better than he had been able to
read it himself; wondered whether his love for her had coloured his
motives. He had been anxious to act unselfishly; to act without
reference to his love for Ruth. He was not so sure that he had done so.
And if Ruth had guessed that he hoped to win her favour by being
generous to her brother--and to her--then he could understand why she
was distant with him now. Ruth's love was not to be bought with favours.
Unconsciously William himself became shy and reserved when Ruth was
about. The fear that she mistrusted him made him mistrustful of himself.
He felt as though he had done a mean thing, and had been found out. If
by chance he caught her looking at him, he fancied there was reproach in
her eyes, and so he avoided looking at her as much as possible.
All this tended to deepen the reserve that had grown up between them.
Neither understood the other, and William had not the courage to have
the matter out with her. A few plain questions and a few plain answers
would have solved the difficulty and made two people as happy as mortals
could ever hope to be; but, as often happens in this world, the
questions were not asked and the unspoken fear grew and intensified
until it became absolute conviction.
Ruth did not join her brother and William in the laboratory. She sat
near the fire with a lamp by her side and some unfinished work in her
lap. She caught up her work every now and then, and plied a few vigorous
stitches; then her hands would relax again, and a dreamy, far-away look
would come into her eyes.
Now and then a low murmur of voices would come through from the little
shed at the back, but she could distinguish nothing that was said. One
thing she was conscious of, there was no note of mirth or merriment, no
suggestion of laughter, in the sounds that fell on her ear. The hours
were so big with Fate, so much was trembling in the balance, that there
was no place for anything but the most serious talk.
"Nothing seems of much importance to men but business," she said to
herself, with a wistful look in her eyes. "Life consists in the
abundance of the things which they possess. They get their joy out of
conflict--battle. We women live a life apart, and dream dreams with
which they have no sympathy, and see visions which they never see."
The evening wore away unconsciously. The men talked, the woman dreamed,
but neither the talk nor the dreams brought much satisfaction.
Ruth stirred herself at length and got supper ready for three, but
William would not stay. He had remained much too long already, and had
no idea it was so late.
Ruth did not press him, she left that to her brother. Once or twice
William looked towards her, but she avoided his glance. Like all women,
she was proud at heart. William was conscious that Ruth's invitation was
coldly formal. If he remained he would be very uncomfortable.
"No, I must get back," he said decidedly, without again looking at Ruth;
and with a hasty good-evening he went out into the dark.
For a few minutes he walked rapidly, then he slackened his pace.
"She grows colder than ever," he said to himself. "She intends me to see
without any mistake that if I expected to win her love by favours, I'm
hugely mistaken. Well, well!" and he sighed audibly. "To-morrow morning
we shall know, I expect, whether it is failure or fortune," he went on,
after a long pause. "It's a tremendous risk we are running, and yet I
would rather win Ruth Penlogan than all the wealth there is in
Cornwall."
William did not sleep well that night. Neither did Ralph nor Ruth. They
were all intensely anxious for what the morrow should bring.