"And what did you say to him?"

"What could I say, Ruth, except that I could just as easily buy the moon?"

"Would the freehold cost so much?"

"As the moon?"

"No, no, I don't mean that, you silly boy; but is land so very, very dear?"

"Compared with land in or near big towns or cities, it is very, very cheap."

"But I mean it would take a lot of money to buy Hillside?"

"You and I would think it a lot." And then the sound of footsteps was heard outside, followed a moment later by a timid knock at the door.

"I wonder who it can be?" Ruth said, starting to her feet. "I'm glad you are at home, or I should feel quite nervous."

"Do you think burglars would knock at the front door and ask if they might come in?" he questioned, with a laugh.

Ruth did not reply, but went at once to the door and opened it, much wondering who their visitor could be, for it was very rarely anyone called at so late an hour.

It had grown quite dark outside, so that she could only see the outline of two tall figures standing in the garden path.

She was quickly rea.s.sured by a familiar voice saying--

"Is your brother at home, Miss Penlogan?"

And then for some reason the hot blood rushed in a torrent to her neck and face.

CHAPTER XXVIII

A TRYING POSITION

William Menire was troubled about two things--troubles rarely come singly. The first trouble arose a week or two previously out of a request preferred by a cousin of his, a young farmer from a neighbouring parish, who wanted an introduction to Ruth Penlogan.

Sam Tremail was a good-looking young fellow of irreproachable character.

Moreover, he was well-to-do, his father and mother having retired and left a large farm on his hands. He stood nearly six feet in his boots, had never known a day's illness in his life, was only twenty-six years of age, lived in a capital house, and only wanted a good wife to make him the happiest man on earth.

Yet for some reason there was not a girl in his own parish that quite took his fancy. Not that there was any lack of eligible young ladies; not that he had set his heart on either beauty or fortune. Disdainful and disappointed mothers who had daughters to spare said that he was proud and stuck-up--that they did not know what the young men of the present day were coming to, and that Sam Tremail deserved to catch a tartar.

Some of these remarks were repeated to Sam, and he acknowledged their force. He had a feeling that he ought to marry a girl from his own parish. He admitted their eligibility. Some of them were exceedingly pretty, and one or two of them had money in their own right. Yet for some reason they left his heart untouched. They were admirable as acquaintances, or even friends, but they moved him to no deeper emotion.

He first caught sight of Ruth at the sale when her father's worldly goods were being disposed of by public auction. She looked so sad, so patient, so gentle, so meekly resigned, that a new chord in his nature seemed to be set suddenly vibrating, and it had gone on vibrating ever since. It might be pity he felt for her, or sympathy; but, whatever it was, it made him anxious to know her better. Her sweet, sad eyes haunted him, her tremulous lips made him long to comfort her.

How to get acquainted with her, however, remained an insoluble problem.

She was altogether outside the circle of his friends. She had lived all her life in another parish, and moved in an entirely different orbit.

While she lived with Mr. Varcoe at St. Hilary, he met her several times in the streets--for he went to St. Hilary market at least once a fortnight--but he had no excuse for speaking to her. He knew, of course, of the misfortune that had overtaken her, knew that she was earning her living in service of some kind, knew that her mother was in the workhouse, that her brother was in prison awaiting his trial, but all that only increased the volume of his compa.s.sion. He felt that he would willingly give all he possessed for the privilege of helping and comforting her.

For a long time he lost sight of her; then he learned that she had gone to keep house for her brother at St. Ivel. But St. Ivel was a long way from Pentudy, and there was practically no direct communication between the two parishes.

Then he learned that William Menire--a second cousin of his--was on friendly terms with the Penlogans; but the trouble was he hardly knew his relative by sight, and he had never made any effort to know him better. In the past, at any rate, the Menires had not been considered socially the equals of the Tremails. The Tremails had been large farmers for generations. The Menires were nothing in particular.

William was a grocer's a.s.sistant when his father died. How he had managed to maintain his mother and build up a flourishing business out of nothing was a story often told in St. Goram. The very severity of his struggle was perhaps in his favour. His neighbours sympathised with him in his uphill fight, and patronised his small shop when it was convenient to do so. So his business grew. Later on people discovered that they could get better stuff for the money at William's shop than almost anywhere else. Hence, when sympathy failed, self-interest took its place. As William's capital increased, he added new departments to his business, and vastly improved the appearance of his premises. He turned the whole side of his shop into a big window at his own expense, not asking Lord St. Goram for a penny.

At the time of which we write, William had reached the sober age of thirty-six, and was generally looked upon as a man of substance.

He was surprised one evening to receive a visit from his cousin, Sam Tremail. The young farmer had to make himself known. He did so in rather a clumsy fashion; but then, the task he had set himself was a delicate one, and he had not been trained in the art of diplomacy.

"It seems a pity," Sam said, with a benevolent smile, "that relatives should be as strangers to each other."

"Relationships don't count for much in these days, I fear," William answered cautiously. "Nevertheless, I am glad to see you."

"You think it is every man for himself, eh?" Sam questioned, with a slight blush.

"I don't say it is the philosophy or the practice of every man. But in the main----"

"Yes, I think you are right," Sam interjected, with a sudden burst of candour. "And, really, I don't want you to think that I am absolutely disinterested in riding over from Pentudy to see you."

"It is a long journey for nothing," William said, with a smile.

"Mind you, I have often wanted to know you better," Sam went on. "Father has often spoken of your pluck and perseverance. He admires you tremendously."

"It is very kind of him," William said, with a touch of cynicism in his tones. "I hope he is well. I have not seen him for years."

"He is first rate, thank you, and so is mother. I suppose you know they have retired from the farm?"

"No, I had not heard."

"I have it in my own hands now. For some things I wish I hadn't. I tried to persuade father and mother to live on in the house, but they had made up their minds to go and live in town, where they could have gas in the streets, and all that kind of thing. If I had only a sister to keep house it wouldn't be so bad."

"But why don't you get married?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, that is the very thing I have come to talk to you about."

And Sam turned all ways in his chair, and looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"Come to talk to me about?" William questioned, in a tone of surprise.

"You think it funny, of course; but the truth is----" And Sam looked apprehensively towards the door. "We shall not be overheard here, shall we?"

"There's no one in the house but myself, except the cook. Mother's gone out to see a neighbour."

"Oh, well, I'm glad I've caught you on the quiet, as it were. I wouldn't have the matter talked about for the world."