CHAPTER XXVI

TRUTH WILL OUT

Ralph went back to his hotel with the intention of packing his bag, and returning home by the first available train. He had got what he came to London to get, and there was no need for him to waste more time and money in the big city. He was not disappointed. The learned counsel had taken precisely the view he had expected, and had given the advice that might be looked for from a friend and well-wisher.

He was not sorry he had come. The reasoned opinion of a man of law and a man of affairs was worth paying for. Though he had practically lost everything, he would go back home better satisfied. He would not be able to blame himself for either cowardice or stupidity. His business now was to submit with the best grace possible to those who were more powerful than himself.

It was annoying, no doubt, to see the harvest of his research and industry and enterprise reaped by other people--by people who had never given an hour's thought or labour to the matter. But his experience was by no means peculiar. It was only on rare occasions the inventor profited by the labour of his brains. It was the financier who pocketed the gold. The man of intellect laboured, the man of finance entered into his labours.

As Ralph made his way slowly along the Strand he could not help wondering what his next move would be when he got home. As far as he could see, he was on his beam-ends once more. There appeared to be no further scope for enterprise in St. Ivel or in St. Goram. He might go back to the mine again and work for fourteen shillings a week, but such a prospect was not an inviting one. He was built on different lines from most of his neighbours. The steady work and the steady wage and the freedom from responsibility did not appeal to him as it appealed to so many people. He rather liked responsibility. The question of wage was of very secondary importance. He disliked the smooth, well-trodden paths.

The real interest in life was in carving out new paths for himself and other people.

But there were no new paths to be carved out in St. Ivel or in the neighbouring parishes. The one new thing of a generation--born in his own brain--had been taken out of his hands, and there was nothing left but the old ruts, worn deep by the feet of many generations.

He began to wonder what all the people who jostled him in the street did for a living. Was there anything new or fresh in their lives, or did they travel the same weary round day after day and year after year?

The sight of so many people in the street doing nothing--or apparently doing nothing--oppressed him. The side walks were crowded. 'Buses were thronged, cabs and hansoms rolled past, filled, seemingly, with idle people. And yet nearly everybody appeared to be eager and alert. What were they after? What phantom were they pursuing? What object had they in life? He turned down a quiet street at length, glad to escape the noise and bustle, and sought the shelter of his hotel.

Before proceeding to pack his bag, however, he consulted a time-table, and discovered, somewhat to his chagrin, that there was no train that would take him to St. Goram that day. He could get as far as Plymouth, but no farther.

"It's no use making two bites at a cherry," he said to himself; "so I'll stay where I am another day."

An hour or two later he found himself once more in the Park in the shadow of the trees. It was here he first saw Dorothy, and he cherished a vague hope that she might pa.s.s that way again. He called himself a fool for throwing oil on the flame of a hopeless pa.s.sion, but in his heart he pitied himself more than he blamed.

Moreover, he needed something to draw away his thoughts from himself. If he brooded too long on his disappointments, he might lose heart and hope. It was much pleasanter to think of Dorothy than of the treatment he had received at the hands of the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company, so he threw himself, with a sigh, on an empty seat and watched the people pa.s.sing to and fro.

Most people walked slowly, for the day was hot. The ladies carried sunshades, and were clad in the flimsiest materials. The roar of the streets was less insistent than when he sat there before. But London still seemed to him an inexpressibly lonely place.

He was never quite sure how long he sat there. An hour, perhaps. Perhaps two hours. Time was not a matter that concerned him just then. His brain kept alternating between the disappointments of the past and hopes of the future. He came to himself with a start. The rustle of a dress, accompanied by a faint perfume as of spring violets, caused him to raise his head with a sudden movement.

"I thought I could not be mistaken!"

The words fell upon his ears with a curious sense of remoteness such as one experiences sometimes in dreams.

The next moment he was on his feet, his face aglow, his eyes sparkling with intense excitement.

"Did I not see you two days ago? Pardon me for speaking, but really, to see one from home is like a draught of water to a thirsty traveller."

And Dorothy's voice ended in a little ripple of timid laughter.

"It is a long time since you were at St. Goram?" he said, in a questioning tone.

"I scarcely remember how long," she answered. "It seems ages and ages.

Won't you tell me all the news?"

"I shall be delighted," he said; and he walked away by her side.

"Father writes to me every week or two," she went on, "but I can never get any news out of him. I suppose it is that nothing happens in St.

Goram."

"In the main we move in the old ruts," he answered slowly. "Besides, your father will not be interested in the common people, as they are called."

"He is getting very tired of the place. He wants to get his household into the very smallest compa.s.s, so that he can spend more time in London and abroad."

"Do you like living in London?"

"In the winter, very much; but in the summer I pine for St. Goram. I want the breeze of the downs and the shade of the plantation."

"But you will be running down before the summer is over?"

"I am afraid not. To begin with, I cannot get away very well, and then I think my father intends practically to shut up the house at the end of this month."

"And your brother?"

"He will stay with my Aunt f.a.n.n.y in London--she is my father's sister, you know--or he may go abroad with father for a month or two." And she sighed unconsciously.

For a while they walked on in silence. They had left the hot yellow path for the green turf. In front of them was a belt of trees, with chairs dotted about in the shadow. Ralph felt as though he were in dreamland.

It seemed scarcely credible that he should be walking and talking with the daughter of Sir John Hamblyn.

Dorothy broke the silence at length, and her words came with manifest effort.

"I hope my father expressed his regret, and apologised for the mistake he made?"

"Oh, as to that," he said, with a short laugh, "I am afraid I have given him no opportunity. You see, I have been very much occupied, and then I don't live in St. Goram now."

"And--and--your people?"

"You know, I suppose, that my mother is dead?"

"No; I had not heard. Oh, I am so sorry!"

"She died the day after I came back from prison."

"Oh, how sad!"

"I don't think she thought so. She was glad to welcome me back again, of course, and to know that my innocence had been established. But since father died she seemed to have nothing to live for."

Then silence fell again for several minutes. They had reached the shadow of the trees, and Dorothy suggested that they should sit down and rest a while. Ralph pulled up a chair nearly opposite her. He still felt like one in a dream. Every now and then he raised his eyes to her face, and thought how beautiful she had grown.

"Do you know," she said, breaking the silence again, "I was almost afraid to speak to you just now."

"Afraid?"

"You have suffered a good deal at our hands."

"Well?" His heart was in a tumult, but he kept himself well in hand.