The Squire's Daughter Part 37

So it came to pa.s.s that Mary Penlogan had such a funeral as she herself would have chosen, and in the grave of her husband her children laid her to rest. People came from far and near to pay their last tribute of respect. Even Sir John Hamblyn sent his steward to represent him. He was too conscience-stricken to come himself.

And when the grave had been filled in, the crowd still lingered and talked to each other of the brave and patient souls whose only legacy to their children was the heritage of an untarnished name.

CHAPTER XXII

A FRESH START

Some people said it was a stroke of good luck, others that it was an exhibition of native genius, others still that it was the result of having a good education, and a few that it was just a dispensation of Providence, and nothing else. But whether luck or genius, Providence or education, all were agreed that Ralph Penlogan had struck a vein which, barring accidents, would lead him on to fortune.

For six months he had worked on the "floors" of St. Ivel Mine, and earned fourteen shillings a week thereat; but as a friendly miner and his wife boarded and lodged him for eight shillings a week, he did not do badly. His savings, if not large, were regular. Most months he laid by a pound, and felt that he had taken the first step on the road to independence, if not to fortune.

As the weeks sped away, and springtime grew into summer, and all the countryside lay smiling and beautiful in the warmth of the sunshine, his spirits rose imperceptibly; the sense of injustice that had burdened him gradually grew lighter, the bitter memory of Bodmin Gaol faded slowly from his mind, his grief at the loss of his parents pa.s.sed unconsciously into painless resignation, and life, for its own sake, seemed to gather a new meaning.

He was young and strong, and in perfect health. Consequently, youth and strength and hope and confidence a.s.serted themselves in spite of everything. How could he help dreaming bright dreams of the future when the earth lay basking in beauty in the light of the summer sun, and away at the end of the valley a triangular glimpse of the sea carried his thoughts into the infinite?

So strong he felt, so full of life and vitality, that nothing seemed impossible to him. He was not impatient. He was so young that he could afford to bide his time. He would lay the foundation slowly and with care. He had to creep before he could walk, and walk before he could run.

Now and then, it is true, he had his bitter and angry moments, when the memory of the past swept over him like an icy flood, and when a sense of intolerable injustice seemed to wrap the world in darkness and shut out all hope of the future.

One such moment he had when he contracted with William Jenkins to mow down a field of hay on Hillside Farm. He could do this only by working overtime, which usually meant working sixteen hours a day. But he was anxious to earn all he could, so that at the earliest possible date he might get a little home together for himself and Ruth.

He had not seen Hillside for many a month until the day he went to interview William Jenkins. He knew it would cost him a pang, but he could not afford to wait on sentiment or emotion. And yet he hardly realised how deeply the place was enshrined in his heart until he stood knocking at the door of the house that was once his home.

He was glad that n.o.body heard his first knock. He thought he had got beyond the reach of emotion, but it was not so. Suddenly, as a wave rises and breaks upon the sh.o.r.e, a flood of memory swept over him. He was back again in the dear dead past, with all the hopes of boyhood dancing before his eyes. He saw his father coming up the home-close with a smile upon his face, his mother in the garden gathering flowers with which to decorate the table. He could almost fancy he heard Ruth singing in the parlour as she bent over her sewing.

Then the wave retreated, leaving him cold and numbed and breathless. It was his home no longer. He was standing, a stranger, at the door that once he opened by right. His eyes cleared at length, and he looked out across the fields that he had helped to reclaim from the waste. How familiar the landscape was! He knew every mound and curve, every bush and tree. Could it be possible that in one short year, and less, so much had happened?

He pulled himself together after a few moments, and knocked at the door again. William Jenkins started and looked confused when he saw Ralph standing before him, for he had never been able to shake off an uneasy feeling that he had not done a kind and neighbourly thing when he took Hillside Farm over David Penlogan's head, even though Sir John's agent had pressed him to do so.

Ralph plunged into the object of his visit after a kindly greeting.

"I hear you are letting out your hay crop to be cut," he said, "and I came across to see if I could get the job."

"I did not know you were out of work," Jenkins said uneasily.

"I'm not," Ralph answered. "But I want to put in a little overtime these long days. Besides, you know I'm used to farm work."

"But if you work only overtime it will take you a long time to get down the crop."

"Oh, not so long. It's light till nearly ten o'clock. Besides, we're in for a spell of fine weather, and a day or two longer won't make any difference."

"The usual price per acre, I suppose?" the farmer questioned, after a pause.

"Well, I presume n.o.body would be inclined to take less," Ralph said, with a laugh.

The farmer dived his hands into his pockets, contemplated the evening sky for several minutes, took two or three long strides down the garden path and back again, cleared his throat once or twice, and then he said--

"Will waant yer money, 'spose, when the job's done?"

"Unless you prefer to pay in advance."

The farmer grinned, and dug a hole into the ground with his heel.

"There ain't too much money to be made out of this place, I'm thinkin',"

he said at length.

"Not at the price you suggest," Ralph said, with a twinkle in his eye.

The farmer grinned again.

"I didn't main it that way," he said, digging another hole in the gravel. "I was thinkin' of myself. The farm ain't as good as I took it to be."

"But it will mend every year."

"Ef it don't I shall wish I never see'd it. The crops are lookin' only very middlin', I can a.s.sure 'ee."

"Sorry to hear that. But what about the hay-field?"

"I 'spose you've got a scythe?"

"I can get one, in any case."

"Well, 'spose we say done!" And Jenkins contemplated the evening sky again with considerable interest.

Afterwards Ralph wished that he had found work for his spare time almost anywhere rather than on Hillside Farm. There was not a single thing that did not remind him in some way of the past. He would raise his head unconsciously, expecting to see his father working by his side. The flutter of Mrs. Jenkins' print dress in the garden would cause the word "mother" to leap to his lips unbidden, and when the daylight faded, and the moon began to peep over the hill, he would turn his face towards the house, fancying that Ruth was calling him to supper.

He finished the task at length, and dropped his hard-earned silver into his pocket.

"It'll be a dear crop of hay for me, I'm thinkin'," Jenkins said lugubriously.

"It isn't so heavy as it might be," Ralph answered. "A damp spring suits Hillside best."

"I sometimes wish your father had it instead of me." And Jenkins twisted his shoulders uncomfortably.

"Father is better off," Ralph answered slowly, looking across the valley to a distant line of hills.

"Ay, it's to be hoped so, for there ain't much better off here, I'm thinkin'. It's mostly worse off. And as we get owlder we feel it more 'n more."

"So you regret taking the farm already?" Ralph questioned almost unconsciously.

"I ded'n say so. We've got to make a livin' somehow, leastways we've got to try." And he turned suddenly round and walked into the house.

Ralph walked across the fields to interview Peter Ladock, whose farm adjoined. He struck the boundary hedge at a point where a gnarled and twisted oak made a feature in the landscape. Half-way over the hedge he paused abruptly. This was the point his father had asked him to keep in his memory, and yet until this moment he had never once thought of it.

Not that it mattered: the county was intersected with tin lodes, iron lodes, copper lodes, and lead lodes, and most of them would not pay for the working. And very likely this lode, if it existed--for, after all, his father had had very little opportunity of demonstrating its existence--would turn out to be no better than the rest.