The Squire's Daughter Part 45

"It must require a good deal of grace to keep you from hating us most intensely."

"I am afraid I am not as good a hater as I would like to be."

"As you would like to be?"

"It has not been for want of trying, I can a.s.sure you. But Fate loves to make fools of us."

"I don't think I quite understand," she said, looking puzzled.

"Do you want to understand?" he questioned, speaking slowly and steadily, though every drop of blood in his veins seemed to be at boiling point.

"Yes, very much," she answered, making a hole in the ground with her sunshade.

"Then you shall know," he said, with his eyes on some distant object. He had grown quite reckless. He feared nothing, cared for nothing. It would be a huge joke to tell this proud daughter of the house of Hamblyn the honest truth. Moreover, it might help him to defy the Fate that was mocking him, might help to relieve the tension of the last few days, and would certainly put an end to the possibility of her ever speaking to him again.

"You are right when you say I have suffered a good deal, I won't say at your hands, but at the hands of your father, and Heaven knows my hatred of him has not lacked intensity." Then he paused suddenly and looked at her, but she did not raise her eyes.

"You are his daughter," he went on, slowly and bitingly, "his own flesh and blood. You bear a name that I loathe more than any other name on earth."

She winced visibly, and her cheeks became crimson.

"But Fate has been cruel to me in every way. Your very kindness to me, to Ruth, to my mother, has only added to my torture----"

"Added to----"

But he did not let her finish the sentence. His nerves were strung up to the highest point of tension. He felt, in a sense, outside himself. He was no longer master of his own emotions.

"Had you been like your father," he continued, "I could have hated you also. But it may be that, to punish me for hating your father so bitterly, G.o.d made me love you."

She rose to her feet in a moment, her face ashen.

"Don't go away," he said, quietly and deliberately. "It will do you no harm to hear me out. I did not seek this interview. I shall never seek another. A man who has been in prison, and whose mother died in the workhouse----"

"In the workhouse?" she said, with a gasp.

"Thanks to your father," he said slowly and bitterly. "And yet, in spite of all this, I had dared to love you. No, don't sneer at me," he said, mistaking a motion of her lips. "G.o.d knows I have about as much as I can bear. I tried to hate you. I felt it almost a religious duty to hate you. I fought against the pa.s.sion that has conquered me till I had no strength left."

She had sat down again, with her eyes upon the ground, but her bosom was heaving as though a tempest raged beneath.

"Why have you told me this?" she said at length, with a sudden fierce light in her eyes.

"Oh, I hardly know," he said, with a reckless laugh. "For the fun of it, I expect. Don't imagine I have any ulterior object in view, save that of self-defence."

"Self-defence?"

"Yes; you will despise me now. My effrontery and impertinence will be too much even for your large charity. I can fancy how the tempest of your scorn is gathering. I don't mind it. Let it rage. It may help to turn my heart against you."

She did not answer him; she sat quite still with her eyes fixed upon the ground.

He looked at her for several moments in silence, and his mood began to change. What spirit had possessed him to talk as he had done?

She rose to her feet at length, and raised her eyes timidly to his face.

Whether she was angry or disgusted, or only sorry, he could not tell.

He rose also, but he scarcely dared to look at her.

"Good-afternoon," she said at length; and she held out her hand to him.

"Good-afternoon," he answered; but he did not take her outstretched hand, he pretended not even to see it.

He stood still and watched her walk away out into the level sunshine; watched her till she seemed but a speck of colour in the hazy distance.

Then, with a sigh, he turned his face towards the City. He still felt more or less like one in a dream: there seemed to be an air of unreality about everything. Perhaps he would come to himself directly and discover that he was not in London at all.

He did not return to his hotel until nearly bedtime. The porter handed him a letter which came soon after he went out.

It was from Sir John Liskeard, and requested that Ralph would call on him again at his rooms in the Temple on the following morning, any time between ten and half-past. No reason was given why Sir John wanted this second interview.

Ralph stood staring at the letter for several moments, then slowly put it back into the envelope, and into his pocket.

"Perhaps some new facts have come to light," he said to himself, as he made his way slowly up the stairs, and a thrill of hope and expectancy shot through his heart. "Perhaps my journey to London may not be without fruit after all. I wonder now----"

And when he awoke next morning he was still wondering.

CHAPTER XXVII

HOME AGAIN

"I am sorry to have troubled you to call again," was Sir John's greeting, "but there is a little matter that quite slipped my memory yesterday. Won't you be seated?"

Ralph sat down, still hoping that he was going to hear some good news.

"It is nothing about the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company," Sir John went on, "and, in fact, nothing that concerns you personally."

Ralph's face fell, and the sparkle went out of his eyes. It was foolish of him ever to hope for anything. Good news did not come his way. He did not say anything, however.

"The truth is, a friend of mine is considering the advisability of purchasing Hillside Farm, and has asked me to make one or two inquiries about it."

Ralph gave a little gasp, but remained silent.

"Now, I presume," Sir John said, with a little laugh, "if there is a man alive who knows everything about the farm there is to be known you are that man."

"But I do not understand," Ralph said. "I have always understood that the Hamblyn estate is strictly entailed."

"That is true of the original estate. But you may or you may not be aware that Hillside came to Sir John by virtue of the Land Enclosures Act."