His brain seemed almost on fire when at length he stepped through the heavy portal and found himself face to face with William Menire.

Ralph stared at him for several moments in astonishment. Why, of all the people in the world, should William Menire come to meet him? They had never been friends--they could scarcely be called acquaintances.

William, however, did not allow him to pursue this train of thought.

Springing forward at once, he grasped Ralph by the hand.

"I made inquiries," he said, speaking rapidly, "and I couldn't find out that anybody was coming to meet you. And I thought you might feel a bit lonely and cheerless, for the weather is nipping cold. So I brought a warm rug with me, and I've ordered breakfast at the King's Arms; for there ain't no train till a quarter-past ten, and we'll be home by----"

Then he stopped suddenly, for Ralph had burst into tears.

The prison fare, the iron hand of the law, the bitter injustice he had suffered so long, had only hardened him. He had shed not a single tear during all the months of his incarceration. But this touch of human kindness from one who was almost a stranger broke him down completely, and he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed outright.

William looked at him in bewilderment.

"I hope I have not said anything that's hurt you?" he questioned anxiously.

"No, no," Ralph said chokingly. "It's your kindness that has unmanned me for a moment. You are almost a stranger, and I have no claim upon you whatever." And he began to sob afresh.

"Oh, well, if that's all, I don't mind," William said, with a cheerful smile. "You see, we are neighbours--at least we were. And if a man can't do a neighbourly deed when he has a chance, he ain't worth much."

Ralph lifted his head at length, and wiped his eyes.

"Pardon me for being so weak," he said. "But I didn't expect----"

"Of course you didn't," William interrupted. "I knew it would be a surprise to you. But hadn't we better be going? I don't want the breakfast at the King's Arms to get cold."

"A word first," Ralph said eagerly. "Are my mother and sister well?"

"Well, your mother is only middling--nothing serious. But the weather's been very trying, and her appet.i.te's nothing to speak of. And, you see, she's worried a good deal about you."

"And my sister?" he interposed.

"She's very well, I believe. But let's get out of sight of this place, or it'll be getting on my nerves."

A quarter of an hour later they were seated in a cosy room before an appetising breakfast of steaming ham and eggs.

Ralph had a difficulty in keeping the tears back. The pleasant room, hung with pictures, the cheerful fire crackling in the grate, the white tablecloth and dainty china and polished knives and forks, the hot, fragrant tea and the delicious ham, were such a contrast from what he had endured so long, that he felt for a moment or two as if his emotion would completely overcome him.

William wisely did not look at him, but gave all his attention to the victuals, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of seeing his guest doing full justice to the fare.

During the journey home they talked mainly about what had happened in St. Goram since Ralph went away, but William could not bring himself to tell him the truth about his mother. Again and again he got to the point, and then his courage failed him.

At St. Ivel Road, William's trap was waiting for them, and they drove the two miles to St. Goram in silence.

Suddenly Ralph reached out his hand as if to grasp the reins.

"You are driving past our house," he said, in a tone of suppressed excitement.

"Yes, that's all right," William answered, in a tone of apparent unconcern. "They're not there now."

"Not there?" he questioned, with a gasp.

"No. You'll come along with me for a bit."

"But I do not understand," Ralph said, turning eager eyes on William's face.

"Oh, I'll explain directly. But look at the crowd of folk."

William had to bring his horse to a standstill, for the road was completely blocked. There was no shouting or hurrahing; no band to play "See the Conquering Hero comes." But the men uncovered their heads, and tears were running down the women's faces.

Ralph had to get out of the trap to steer his way as best he could to William's store. It was a slow and painful process, and yet it had its compensations. Children tugged at his coat-tails, and hard-fisted men squeezed his hand in silence, and women held up their chubby babies to him to be kissed, and young fellows his own age whispered a word of welcome. It was far more impressive than a noisy demonstration or the martial strains of a bra.s.s band. Of the sympathy of the people there could be no doubt whatever. Everybody realised now that he had been cruelly treated--that the suspicion that rested on him at first was base and unworthy; that he was not the kind of man to do a mean or cowardly deed; and that the wrong that was done was of a kind that could never be repaired.

They wondered as they crowded round him whether he knew of the crowning humiliation and wrong. The workhouse was a place that most of them regarded with horror. To become a pauper was to suffer the last indignity. There was nothing beyond it--no further reproach or shame.

It was the knowledge that Ralph's mother was in the workhouse, and that his little home had been broken up--perhaps for ever--that checked the shout and turned what might have been laughter into tears. Any attempt at merriment would have been a mockery under such circ.u.mstances. They were glad to see Ralph back again--infinitely glad; but knowing what they did, the pathos of his coming touched them to the quick.

Very few words were spoken, but tears fell like rain. Ralph wondered, as he pressed his way forward toward William Menire's shop, and yet he had not the courage to ask any questions. Behind the people's silent sympathy he felt there was something that had not yet been revealed. But what it was he could not guess. That his mother and Ruth were alive, he knew, for William had told him so. Perhaps something had happened in St.

Goram that William had not told him, which affected others more than it affected him.

William went in front and elbowed a pa.s.sage for Ralph.

"We be fine an' glad to see 'ee 'ome again," people whispered here and there, and Ralph would smile and say "Thank you," and then push on again.

William was in a perfect fever of excitement. He had been hoping almost against hope all the day. Whether his little scheme had succeeded or miscarried, he could not tell yet. He would know only when he crossed his own threshold. What his little scheme was he had confided to no one.

If it failed, he could still comfort himself with the thought that he had done his best. But he still hoped and prayed that what he had tried so hard to accomplish had come to pa.s.s.

CHAPTER XX

WILLIAM MENIRE'S RED-LETTER DAY

The crowd pressed close to the door of William's shop, but no one dared to enter. Ralph followed close upon his heels, still wondering and fearing. William lifted the flap of his counter and opened the door of the living-room beyond. No sooner had he done so than his heart gave a sudden bound. Ruth Penlogan came forward with pale face and eyes full of tears.

William's little plan had succeeded. Ruth was present to receive her brother. William tried to speak, but his voice failed him, and with a sudden rush of tears he turned back into the shop, closing the door behind him.

Ruth fell on her brother's neck, and began to sob. He led her to a large, antiquated sofa, and sat down by her side. He did not speak. He could wait till she had recovered herself. She dried her eyes at length and looked up into his face.

"You did not expect to see me here?" she questioned.

"No, I did not, Ruth; but where is mother?"

"Has he not told you?"

"Told me? She is not dead, is she?"