"Oh yes, I know all about that," Ralph said, with a touch of scorn in his voice; "and a most iniquitous Act it was."

Sir John shrugged his shoulders, a very common habit of his. It was not his place to speak ill of an Act of Parliament which had put a good deal of money into his pocket and into the pockets of his professional brethren in all parts of the country.

"Into the merits of this particular Act," he said, a little stiffly, "we need not enter now. Suffice it that Hamblyn is quite at liberty to dispose of the freehold if he feels so inclined."

"And he intends to sell Hillside Farm?"

"Well, between ourselves, he does--that is, if he can get rid of it by private treaty. Naturally, he does not want the matter talked about. I understand there is a very valuable stone quarry in one corner of the estate."

"There is a quarry," Ralph answered slowly, for his thoughts were intent on another matter, "but whether it is very valuable or not I cannot say.

I should judge it is not of great value, or the squire would not want to sell the freehold."

"When a man is compelled to raise a large sum of money there is frequently for him no option."

"And is that the case with Sir John?"

"There can be no doubt whatever that he is hard up. His life interest in the Hamblyn estate is, I fancy, mortgaged to the hilt. If he can sell Hillside Farm at the price he is asking for it, he will have some ready cash to go on with."

"What is the price he names?"

"Twenty years' purchase on the net rental--the same on the mineral dues."

"There are no mineral dues," Ralph said quickly, and his thoughts flew back in a moment to that conversation he had with his father.

"Well, quarry dues, then," Sir John said, with a smile.

"And is your friend likely to purchase?" Ralph questioned.

"I believe he would like the farm. But he is a cautious man, and is anxious to find out all he can before he strikes a bargain."

"And will he be guided by your advice?"

"In the main he will."

"Then, if you are his friend, you will advise him to make haste slowly."

"You think the farm is not worth the money?"

"To the ordinary investor I am sure it is not. To the man who wants it for some sentimental reason the case is different."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, if I were a rich man, for instance, I might be disposed to give a good deal more for it than it is worth. You see, I helped to reclaim the land from the waste. I know every bush and tree on the farm. I remember every apple tree being planted. I love the place, for it was my home. My father died there----"

"Then why don't you buy it?" interrupted Sir John.

Ralph laughed.

"You might as well ask me why I don't buy the moon," he said. "If I had been allowed to go on with my present work I might have been able to buy it in time. Now it is quite out of the question."

"That is a pity," Sir John said meditatively.

"I don't know that it is," Ralph answered. "One cannot live on sentiment."

"And yet sentiment plays a great part in one's life."

"No doubt it does, but with the poor the first concern is how to live."

"Then, sentiment apart, you honestly think the place is not worth the money?"

"I'm sure it isn't. Jenkins told me not long ago that if he could not get his rent lowered he should give up the farm."

"And what about the quarry?"

"It will be worked out in half a dozen years at the outside."

"You think so?"

"I do honestly. I've no desire to do harm to the squire, though G.o.d knows he has been no friend to me. But twenty years' purchase at the present rental and dues would be an absurd price."

"I think it is rather stiff myself."

"Is Sir John selling the place through some local agent or solicitor?"

"Oh no. Messrs. Begum & Swear, Chancery Lane, are acting for him."

An hour later, Ralph was rolling away in an express train towards the west. He sat next the window, and kept his eyes steadily fixed on the scenery through which he pa.s.sed. And yet he saw very little of it; his thoughts were too intent on other things. Towns, villages, hamlets, homesteads, flew past, but he scarcely heeded. Wooded hills drew near and faded away in the distance. The river gleamed and flashed and hid itself. Gaily-dressed people made patches of colour in shady backwaters for a moment; the sparkle of a weir caught his eye, and was gone.

It was only in after days that he recalled the incidents of the journey; for the moment he could think of nothing but Dorothy Hamblyn and the sale of Hillside Farm. The sudden failure of his small commercial enterprise did not worry him. He knew the worst of that. To cry over spilt milk was waste both of time and energy. His business was not to bewail the past, but to face resolutely the future.

But Dorothy and the fate of Hillside Farm belonged to a different category. Dorothy he could not forget, try as he would. She had stolen his heart unconsciously, and he would never love another. At least, he would never love another in the same deep, pa.s.sionate, overmastering way. He was still angry with himself for his mad outburst of the previous day, and could not imagine what possessed him to speak as he did. He wondered, too, what she thought of him. Was her feeling one of pity, or anger, or amus.e.m.e.nt, or contempt, or was it a mixture of all these qualities?

Then, for a while, she would pa.s.s out of his mind, and a picture of Hillside Farm would come up before his vision. On the whole, he was not sorry that the squire was compelled to sell. It was a sort of Nemesis, a rough-and-ready vindication of justice and right.

The place never was his in equity, whatever it might be in law. If it belonged to anybody, it belonged to the man who reclaimed it from the wilderness.

No, he was not sorry that the squire was unable to keep it. It seemed to restore his faith in the existence of a moral order. A man who was not worthy to be a steward--who abused the power he possessed--ought to be deposed. It was in the eternal fitness of things that he should give place to a better man.

Ruth met him at St. Ivel Road Station, and they walked home together in the twilight. They talked fitfully, with long breaks in the conversation. He had told her by letter the result of his mission, so that he had nothing of importance to communicate.

"The men are very much cut up," she said, after a little lull in their talk, which had been mainly about London. "Several of them called this afternoon to know if I had heard any news; and when I told them that you were not going to contest the claim of the company, and that the works would cease, they looked as if they would cry."

"I hope they will be able to get work somewhere else," he answered quietly.

"But they will not get such wages as you have been giving them. You cannot imagine how popular you are. I believe the men would do anything for you."

"I believe they would do anything in reason," he said. "I have tried to treat them fairly, and I am quite sure they have done their best to treat me fairly. People are generally paid back in their own coin."