even to himself. To be told to his face that he had caused the death of one of his tenants would, under some circumstances, have simply made him angry. But in the present case he felt, much more acutely than was pleasant, that there was only too much reason for the contention.
That David Penlogan had loved his little homestead there was no doubt whatever. He had poured into it not only the savings of a lifetime and the ungrudging labour of a dozen years, but he had poured into it the affection of a generous and confiding nature. There was something almost sentimental in David's affection for his little farm, and to have to leave it was a heavier blow than he was able to bear. That his misfortune had killed him seemed not an unreasonable supposition.
"But I am not responsible for that," Sir John said to himself angrily. "I had no hand in killing off the 'lives.' That was a decree of Providence."
But in spite of his reasoning, he could not shake himself free from an uneasy feeling that he was in some way responsible.
Legally, no doubt, he had acted strictly within his rights. He had exacted no more than in point of law was his due, but might there not be a higher law than the laws of men? That was the question that troubled him, and it troubled him for the first time in his life.
He was a very loyal citizen. He had been taught to regard Acts of Parliament as something almost as sacred as the Ark of the Covenant, and the authority of the State as supreme in all matters of human conduct. Now for the first time a doubt crept into his mind, and it made him feel decidedly uncomfortable. Man-made laws might, after all, have little or no moral force behind them. Selfish men might make laws just to protect their own selfish interests.
Legally, man's law backed him up in the position he had taken. But where did God's law come in? He knew his Bible fairly well. He was a regular church-goer, and followed the lessons Sunday by Sunday with great diligence. And he felt, with a poignant sense of alarm, that Jesus Christ would condemn what he had done. There was no glimmer of the golden rule to be discerned in his conduct. He had not acted generously, nor even neighbourly. He had extorted the uttermost farthing, not because he had any moral claim to it, but because laws which men had made gave him the right.
He was so excited that his mind worked much more rapidly than was usual with him. He recalled again Ralph Penlogan's words about God punishing him and their being quits. He disliked that young man. He ought to have kicked him out of the house before he had time to utter his insults. But he had not done so, and somehow his words had stuck. He wished it was the son who had died instead of the father. David Penlogan, in spite of his opinions and politics, was a mild and harmless individual; he would not hurt his greatest enemy if he had the chance. But he was not so sure of the son. He had a bolder and a fiercer nature, and if he had the chance he might take the law into his own hands.
The door opened while these thoughts were passing through his mind, and his daughter stood before him. He stopped suddenly in his walk, and his hard face softened.
"Oh, father, I've heard such a dreadful piece of news," she said, "that I could not help coming to tell you!"
"Dreadful news, Dorothy?" he questioned, in a tone of alarm.
"Well, it seems dreadful to me," she went on. "You heard about the Penlogans being turned out of house and home, of course?"
"I heard that he had to leave his farm," he said shortly.
"Well, the trouble has killed him – broken his heart, people say. He had a stroke yesterday morning, and now he's dead."
"Well, people must die some day," he said, with averted eyes.
"Yes, that is true. But I think if I were in Lord St. Goram's place I should feel very unhappy."
"Why should Lord St. Goram feel unhappy?"
"Well, because he profited by the poor man's misfortune."
"What do you know about it?" he snapped almost angrily.
"Only what Ralph Penlogan told me."
"What, that young rascal who refused to open the gate for you?"
"That was just as much my fault as his, and he has apologised very handsomely since."
"I am surprised, Dorothy, that you condescend to speak to such people," he said severely.
"I don't know why you should, father. He is well educated, and has been brought up, as you know, quite respectably."
"Educated beyond his station. It's a mistake, and will lead to trouble in the long-run. But what did he say to you?"
"I met him as he was walking into St. Goram, and he told me how they had taken a little cottage, and were going to move into it next day – that was yesterday. Then, of course, all the story came out, how the vicar's son was the last 'life' on their little farm, and how, when he died, the farm became the ground landlord's."
"And what did he say about the ground landlord?" he questioned.
"I don't remember his words very well, but he seemed most bitter, because he had let the farm over their heads, without giving them a chance of being tenants."
"Well?"
"I told him I thought it was a very cruel thing to do. Law is not everything. David Penlogan had put all his savings into the farm, had reclaimed the fields from the wilderness, and built the house with his own money, and the lord of the manor had done nothing, and never spent a penny-piece on it, and yet, because the chances of life had gone against David, he comes in and takes possession – demands, like Shylock, his pound of flesh, and actually turns the poor man out of house and home! I told Ralph Penlogan that it was wicked – at least, if I did not tell him, I felt it – and, I am sure, father, you must feel the same."
Sir John laughed a short, hard laugh.
"What is the use of the law, Dorothy," he said, "unless it is kept? It is no use getting sentimental because somebody is hanged."
"But surely, father, our duty to our neighbour is not to get all we can out of him?"
"I'm inclined to think that is the general practice, at any rate," he said, with a laugh.
She looked at him almost reproachfully for a moment, and then her eyes fell. He was quick to see the look of pain that swept over her face, and hastened to reassure her.
"You shouldn't worry yourself, Dorothy, about these matters," he said, in gentler tones. "You really shouldn't. You see, we can't help the world being what it is. Some are rich and some are poor. Some are weak and some are strong. Some have trouble all the way, and some have a good time of it from first to last, and nobody's to blame, as far as I know. If luck's fallen to our lot, we've all the more to be grateful for, don't you see. But the world's too big for us to mend, and it's no use trying. Now, run away, that's a good girl, and be happy as long as you can."
She drew herself up to her full height, and looked him steadily in the eyes. She had grown taller during her illness, and there was now a look upon her face such as he had never noticed before.
"I do wish, father," she said slowly, "that you would give over treating me as though I were a child, and had no mind of my own."
"Tut, tut!" he said sharply. "What's the matter now?"
"I mean what I say," she answered, in the same slow and measured fashion. "I may have been a child up to the time of my illness, but I have learned a lot since then. I feel like one who has awaked out of a sleep. My illness has
