speak.
"I suppose your father has never told you that we have lost our little farm?" he questioned abruptly, turning his head and looking hard at her at the same time.
"No. How have you lost it? I do not understand."
"Well, it was this way." And he went on to explain the nature of the tenure on which his father leased his farm, but he was careful to avoid any mention of her father's name.
"And you say that in twelve years all the three 'lives' have died?"
"That is unfortunately the case."
"And you have no longer any right to the house you built, nor to the fields you reclaimed from the downs?"
"That is so."
"And the lord of the manor has taken possession?"
"He has let it to another man, who takes possession the day after to-morrow."
"And the lord of the manor puts the rent into his own pocket?"
"Yes."
"And your father has to go out into the world and start afresh?"
"We leave Hillside to-morrow. I'm going to St. Goram now, to see if the little cottage is ready. After to-morrow father starts life afresh, in his old age, having lost everything."
"But wasn't your father very foolish to risk his all on such a chance? Life is always such an uncertain thing."
"I think he was very foolish; and he thinks so now. But at the time he was very hopeful. He thought the cost of bringing the land under cultivation would be much less than it has proved to be. He hoped, too, that the crops would be much heavier. Then, you see, he was born in the parish, and he wanted to end his days in it – in a little home of his own."
"It seems very hard," she said, with a distant look in her eyes.
"It's terribly hard," he answered; "and made all the harder by the landlord letting the farm over father's head."
"He could have let you remain?"
"Of course he could, if he had been disposed to be generous, or even just."
"I've often heard that Lord St. Goram is a very hard man."
He started, and looked at her with a questioning light in his eyes.
"He needn't have claimed all his pound of flesh," she went on. "Law isn't everything. Nobody would have expected that all three 'lives' would have died in a dozen years."
"I believe the law of average works out to about forty-seven years," he said.
"In which case your father ought to have his farm another thirty-five years."
"He ought. In fact, no lease ought to be less than ninety-nine years. However, the chances of life have gone against father, and so we must submit."
"I don't understand any man exacting all his rights in such a case," she said sympathetically. "If only people would do to others as they would be done unto, how much happier the world would be!"
"Ah, if that were the case," he said, with a smile, "soldiers and policemen and lawyers would find all their occupations gone."
"But, all the same, what's religion worth if we don't try to put it into practice? The lord of the manor has, no doubt, the law on his side. He can legally claim his pound of flesh, but there's no justice in it."
"It seems to me the strong do not often know what justice means," he said, with an icy tone in his voice.
"No; don't say that," she replied, looking at him reproachfully. "I think most people are really kind and good, and would like to help people if they only knew how."
"I'm afraid most people think only of themselves," he answered.
"No, no; I'm sure – " Then she paused suddenly, while a look of distress or of annoyance swept over her face. "Why, here comes Lord Probus," she said, in a lower tone of voice, while the hot blood flamed up into her pale cheeks in a moment.
Ralph turned quickly round and looked towards the park gates.
"Is that Lord Probus?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Good – " But he did not finish the sentence. She looked up into his face, and saw that it was dark with anger or disgust. Then she glanced again at the approaching figure of her affianced husband, then back again to the tall, handsome youth who stood by her side, and for a moment she involuntarily contrasted the two men. The lord and the commoner; the rich brewer and the poor, ejected tenant.
"Please pardon me for detaining you so long," he said hurriedly.
"You have not detained me at all," she replied. "It has been a pleasure to talk to you, for the days are very long and very dull."
"I hope you will soon be as well as ever," he answered; and he turned quickly on his heel and strode away.
"And I hope your father will soon – " But the end of the sentence did not reach his ears. For the moment he was not concerned about himself. The tragedy of his own life seemed of small account. It was the tragedy of her life that troubled him. It seemed a wicked thing that this fragile girl – not yet out of her teens – should marry a man old enough almost to be her grandfather.
What lay behind it, he wondered? What influences had been brought to bear upon her to win her consent? Was she going of her own free will into this alliance, or had she been tricked or coerced?
He recalled again the picture of her when she sat on her horse in the glow of the summer sunshine. She was only a girl then – a heedless, thoughtless, happy girl, who did not know what life meant, and who in all probability had never given five minutes' serious thought to its duties and responsibilities. But eight or nine weeks of suffering had wrought a great change in her. She was a woman now, facing life seriously and thoughtfully. Did she regret, he wondered, the promise she had made? Was she still willing to be the wife of this old man?
Ralph felt the blood tingling to his finger-tips. It was no business of his. What did it matter to him what Sir John Hamblyn or any of his tribe did, or neglected to do? If Dorothy Hamblyn chose to marry a Chinaman or a Hindoo, that was no concern of his. He had no interest in her, and never would have.
He pulled himself up again at that point. He had no interest in her, it was true, and yet he was interested – more interested than in any other girl he had ever seen. So interested, in fact, that nothing could happen to her without it affecting him.
He reached the cottage at length at the far end of the village. It was but a tiny crib, but it was the best they could get at so short a notice, and they would not have got that if Sir John Hamblyn could have had his way.
Ralph could hardly repress a groan when he stepped over the threshold. It was so painfully small after their roomy house at Hillside. The whitewashers and paperhangers had just finished, and were gathering up their tools, and a couple of charwomen were scouring the floors.
A few minutes later there was a patter on the uncarpeted stairs, and Ruth appeared, with red eyes and dishevelled hair.
"There seems nothing that I can do," he said, without appearing to notice that she had been crying.
"Not
