"It's got to come, Ruth. I would much rather go down to St. Ivel and throw myself into a shaft, but that would be self-murder, and a murderer cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven. So I will endure as patiently as I can, and as long as G.o.d wills. When it is over, it will seem but a dream. I want to see father again when the night ends. Dear David, I am glad he went when he did."

"If he had lived we should not have come to this," Ruth answered tearfully.

"If he had lived a paralytic, Ruth, our lot would have been even worse.

So it is better that G.o.d took him before he became a burden to himself."

"And yet but for the cruel laws made by the rich and powerful he would still be with us, and we should not have been turned out of the dear old home."

"That is over and past, Ruth," Mrs. Penlogan answered, with a sigh. "Ah me! if this life were all, it would not be worth the living--at least for the poor and oppressed. But we have to endure as best we may. You can tell Mr. Thomas that I will go to the workhouse whenever he likes to fetch me."

"Do you really mean it, mother?"

"Yes, Ruth. I've thought it all over. It's the only thing left. It wouldn't be right to lie here and die of starvation. Maybe when the storm has spent itself there will come a time of peace."

"Yes, in the grave, mother."

"If G.o.d so wills," she answered. "But I would like to live to see Ralph's name cleared before the world."

"I have almost given up hope of that," Ruth answered sadly. "How can the poor defend themselves against the rich? Poor Ralph will stand undefended before judge and jury, and we have seen how easy it is to work up a case and make every link fit into its place."

"Perhaps G.o.d will stand by him," Mrs. Penlogan answered, but in doubting tones. "Oh, if I only had faith as I once had! But I seem like a reed that has been broken by the storm. I try my hardest to believe, but doubts will come. And yet, who knows, G.o.d may be better than our fears."

"G.o.d appears to be on the side of the rich and strong," Ruth answered, a little defiantly. "Why should John Hamblyn be allowed to work his will on everybody? Even his daughter is kept a prisoner at home, lest she should show her sympathy to us."

"That is only gossip, Ruth. She may have no desire to come, or she may not have the courage. She knows now the part her father has played."

To this Ruth made no answer, and then silence fell until it was time to get up.

The day pa.s.sed for the most part as the night had done, in discussing the situation. The last morsel of food in the house had disappeared, and strict watch was kept that they p.a.w.ned no more of the furniture.

Mrs. Penlogan never once faltered in her purpose.

"It will be better than dying of starvation," she said. "Besides, it will set you free."

"Free?" Ruth gasped. "It will be a strange kind of freedom to find oneself in a hostile world alone."

"You will be able to defend yourself, Ruth, and I do not think anyone will molest you."

"Please don't imagine that I am afraid," Ruth answered defiantly. "But you, mother, in that big, cheerless house, will break your heart," and she burst into tears.

"No, don't fret, child," the mother said soothingly. "My heart cannot be broken any more than it is already. Maybe I shall grow more cheerful when I've had enough to eat."

On the following day Ruth went with her mother in the workhouse van to the big house. It was the most silent journey she ever took, and the saddest. She would rather have followed her mother to the cemetery--at least, so she thought at the time. There was such a big lump in her throat that she could not talk. Her mother seemed only vaguely to comprehend what the journey meant. Her eyes saw nothing on the way, her thoughts were in some far-distant place. She got out of the van quite nimbly when they reached the end of their journey, and stood for a moment on the threshold as if undecided.

"You had better not come in," she said at length. "We will say good-bye here."

"Do you think you can bear it, mother?" Ruth questioned, the tears welling suddenly up into her eyes.

"Oh yes," she answered, with a pathetic smile. "There'll be nothing to worry about, you know, and I shall have plenty to eat."

Ruth threw her arms about her mother's neck and burst into a pa.s.sion of tears. "Oh, I never thought we should come to this!" she sobbed.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "RUTH THREW HER ARMS ABOUT HER MOTHER'S NECK AND BURST INTO A Pa.s.sION OF TEARS."]

"It won't matter, my girl, when we are in heaven," was the quiet and patient answer.

"But we are not in heaven, mother. We are here on this wicked, cruel earth, and it breaks my heart to see you suffer so."

"My child, the suffering is in the past. The storm has done its worst. I feel as though I couldn't worry any more. I am just going to be still and wait."

"I shall come and see you as often as I can," Ruth said, giving her mother a final hug, "and you'll not lose heart, will you?"

"No. I shall think of you and Ralph, and if there's a ray of hope anywhere I shall cherish it."

So they parted. Ruth watched her mother march away through a long corridor in charge of an attendant, watched her till a door swung and hid her from sight. Then, brushing her hand resolutely across her eyes, she turned away to face the world alone.

CHAPTER XVII

DEVELOPMENTS

The Penlogans' cottage had been empty two full days before the people of St. Goram became aware that anything unusual had happened. That Ruth and her mother were reduced to considerable straits was a matter of common knowledge. People could not dispose of a quant.i.ty of their furniture without the whole neighbourhood getting to know, and in several quarters--notably at the Wheat Sheaf, and in d.i.c.k Lowry's smithy, and in the shop of William Menire, general dealer--the question was discussed as to how long the Penlogans could hold out, and what would become of them in the end.

To offer them charity was what no one had the courage to do, and for a Penlogan to ask it was almost inconceivable. Since the event which had landed Ralph in prison, Mrs. Penlogan and Ruth had withdrawn themselves more than ever from public gaze. They evidently wanted to see no one, and it was equally clear they desired no one to see them. What little shopping they did was done after dark, and when Ruth went to chapel she stole in late, and retired before the congregation could get a look at her.

Hence for two days no one noticed that no smoke appeared above the chimney of the Penlogans' cottage, and that no one had been seen going in or coming out of the house. On the third day, however, William Menire--whose store they had patronised while they had any money to spend--became uneasy in his mind on account of the non-appearance of Ruth.

His thoughts had been turned in her direction because he had been expecting for some time that she would be asking for credit, and he had seriously considered the matter as to what answer he should make. To trust people who had no a.s.sets and no income was, on the face of it, a very risky proceeding. On the other hand, Ruth Penlogan had such a sweet and winning face, and was altogether so good to look upon, that he felt he would have considerable difficulty in saying no to her. William was a man who was rapidly reaching the old age of youth, and so far had resisted successfully all the blandishments of the fair s.e.x; but he had to own to himself that if he were thrown much in the company of Ruth Penlogan he would have to tighten up the rivets of his armour, or else weakly and ignominiously surrender.

While the Penlogans lived at Hillside he knew very little of them. They did not deal with him, and he had no opportunity of making their acquaintance. But since they came to the cottage Ruth had often been in his shop to make some small purchase. He sold everything, from flour to hob nails and from calico to mouse traps, and Ruth had found his shop in this respect exceedingly convenient. It saved her from running all over the village to make her few purchases.

William had been impressed from the first by her gentle ways and her refined manner of speech. She spoke with the tone and accent of the quality, and had he not been informed who she was he would have taken her for some visitor at one of the big houses.

For two days William had watched with considerable interest for Ruth's appearance. He felt that it did him good to look into her sweet, serious eyes, and he had come to the conclusion that if she asked for credit he would not be able to say no. He might have to wait for a considerable time for his money, but after all money was not everything--the friendship of a girl like Ruth Penlogan was surely worth something.

As the third morning, however, wore away, and Ruth did not put in an appearance, William--as we have seen--got a little anxious. And when his mother--who kept house for him--was able to take his place behind the counter, he took off his ap.r.o.n, put on his bowler hat, and stole away through the village in the direction of St. Ivel.

The cottage stood quite alone, just over the boundary of St. Goram parish, and was almost hidden by a tall thorn hedge. As William drew near he noticed that the chimneys were smokeless, and this did not help to allay his anxiety. As he walked up to the door he noticed that none of the blinds were drawn, and this in some measure rea.s.sured him.

He knocked loudly with his knuckles, and waited. After awhile he knocked again, and drew nearer the door and listened. A third time he knocked, and then he began to get a little concerned. He next tried the handle, and discovered that the door was locked.

"Well, this is curious, to say the least of it," he reflected. "I hope they are not both dead in the house together."

After awhile he seized the door handle and gave the door a good rattle, but no one responded to the a.s.sault, and with a puzzled expression in his eyes William heaved a sigh, and began to retrace his steps towards the village.

"I'll go to Budda," he said to himself. "A policeman ought to know what to do for the best. Anyhow, if a policeman breaks into a house, n.o.body gets into trouble for it." And he quickened his pace till he was almost out of breath.