The Vicar's People

“What the dev – ”

“It’s a letter for Mr Trethick,” cried the girl, hastily, “from Mr Penwynn, and it says ‘important.’”

“Then you should have sent it in,” cried the old man, shaking his fist at her.

“Penwynn – to see me this morning – important business,” read Geoffrey, flushing with pleasure. “Then,” he said aloud, “the tide has turned.”

“Oh, Mr Trethick! I’m so glad,” cried Madge; but her uncle made as if to throw something at her, and she ran out of the room, while Geoffrey hastily re-read the letter.

“Do you see that?” cried the old gentleman. “You’ve been talking nonsense to her, and you promised not.”

“I? no! Hang the girl!” cried Geoffrey, joyously. “Uncle Paul, old man, the tree’s going to bear fruit at last?”

Chapter Twenty One

The Vicar is Shocked

Geoffrey read it that he was to go up to. An Morlock, where he was informed that Mr Penwynn was engaged, but would be at liberty in a few minutes, and he was shown into the drawing-room, where he found the young vicar and Rhoda, who rose eagerly, but the next moment seemed rather constrained.

“The vicar has been discoursing of spiritual love,” said Geoffrey to himself, as he declined to notice, either Rhoda’s constraint or the young clergyman’s stiffness, but chatted away in his free-and-easy manner.

“By the way, Miss Penwynn,” he said, after a few moments’ conversation, during which he felt that he was in the way, “I saw you were at church last Sunday.”

“I was very glad to see you there, Mr Trethick,” interposed the vicar, hastily.

“Thanks,” said Geoffrey, bluffly. “I shall come – sometimes. Don’t you set me down as a heathen. I went to the chapel in the evening.”

“Indeed!” said the vicar, gazing at him in a horrified way, his looks plainly saying – “You a University man, and go to that chapel!”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “and heard a capital sermon.”

“Indeed!” said the vicar again, with a slightly supercilious smile.

“Capital,” said Geoffrey, “by a miner – a rough fellow – one Pengelly.”

“Yes, yes. I know Amos Pengelly,” said Rhoda, hastily.

“Then you know a capital preacher, Miss Penwynn,” cried Geoffrey, nodding to her. “He’s as rough and uncultivated as can be – rather illogical sometimes; but the fellow’s earnestness, and the way he swayed the congregation, were something startling.”

“He is one of the local preachers,” said Rhoda, “and, I believe, a very good man.”

As she spoke Rhoda involuntarily glanced at her visitor’s feet.

“With a most awful temper,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “He got quite angry with the people’s sins while he was preaching.”

“I must confess,” said the vicar, flushing, and speaking rather warmly – “hem! I must confess, Mr Trethick, that the way in which the people down here usurp the priestly office is very shocking, and – and really gives me a great deal of pain.”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey, coolly, “I dare say it would. But I do not see why it should. Here, for instance, is a truly earnest man who finds his way right to the hearts of the people, and he does what you do – prays that they may be led into better ways. His language is rough, I grant, but they understand its homeliness; and if they wouldn’t be so fond of groaning and shouting out ‘Glory’ and ‘Hallelujah’ at incongruous times I should not care. One thing is very evident: he rouses people out of what your clerical gentlemen would call their sinful lethargy.”

“I must say,” said the vicar, “that this is all very terrible to me.”

“Well, I suppose so,” continued Geoffrey. “You see, Mr Lee, you view it all from a University and High Church point of view.”

“And pray, sir, how would you view it?” said the vicar, with his usual nervousness dropped, and speaking like a doughty champion of the church militant, while Rhoda’s lips parted, and a slight flush came into her cheeks, as she grew quite excited over the verbal battle.

“How would I view it?” said Geoffrey. “Why, from a common-sense point of view – matter-of-fact – human nature.”

“Mr Trethick,” cried the vicar, “you – but I beg pardon, Miss Penwynn; this is not a discussion to carry on before you. Mr Trethick, we may talk of this again.”

“Oh, go on!” cried Rhoda, naïvely, with her excitement flashing out of her eyes. “I like it.”

“Then I will speak,” said the vicar, angrily. “Mr Trethick, you pain me by your remark, and I feel it my duty to say that your words savour of most heterodox opinions.”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “I suppose they do. I am decidedly unorthodox. I’ve studied nature too much to hold to many of our old college notions.”

“Perhaps you would advocate free thinking?” said the vicar, with a slight sneer; and Rhoda flushed a little more, as she eagerly looked at Geoffrey for his reply.

“Free thinking? Not I. ’Pon my word, Mr Lee, I believe I’m too religious for that.”

“Religious?”

“Yes! Why not? Cannot a man go to chapel, or, in other words, leave off going to church sometimes, without being taxed with irreligion? Look here, Mr Lee, you and I are about contemporaries, and do you know I think if we want to get on here in our different lines of life, the first thing we have to do is to learn of the people.”

“My duty here, sir,” said the vicar, coldly, and growing very pale and upright, “is to teach.”

“So is mine,” said Geoffrey, laughing; “yours spiritual, mine carnal; but, my dear fellow, the first thing we have to do, it seems to me, is to learn the right way to the people’s hearts.”

Rhoda glanced from one to the other, and her pulses began to beat, as she clasped her hands on her lap and excitedly listened for more.

“Perhaps so,” said the vicar, coldly, and he glanced at the door, as if to bring the interview to an end, and yet not liking to leave Geoffrey there the master of the situation.

“For instance, take your sermon last Sunday.”

“Mr Trethick!” cried the vicar, half rising.

“Don’t be offended, I mean no harm,” said Geoffrey, smiling, “and I am not talking to an elder, but a contemporary, as I said before. Besides, Miss Penwynn heard it, and she shall be judge.”

“I beg, Mr Trethick,” began the vicar, but on glancing at Rhoda’s eager face, he determined not to be mastered in argument, especially upon his own ground.

“I maintain,” said Geoffrey, coolly, “that your sermon was a masterly bit of logic.”

The vicar stared.

“A capital line of argument.”

Rhoda nodded.

“Most scholarly.”

A faint flush began to appear in the vicar’s cheeks.

“In fact, an excellent sermon,” said Geoffrey.

“Then why do you allude to it?” said the vicar, rather warmly.

“Because I maintain that it was perfectly unsuited for a simple-minded, ignorant congregation of fishermen and miners. What do they care about how Saint Augustine wrote, or Polycarp thought, or the doings of Chrysostom the Golden Mouthed? Your words about the heresies and the Gnostics and Manichaeans were all thrown away. The early days of the Church don’t interest them a bit, but they can understand about the patriarchs and their troubles and weaknesses, because the masterly hand that wrote their lives painted them as men similar to themselves.”

“Mr Trethick!”

“All right; I’ve just done,” said Geoffrey. “There was another sermon of yours too, I heard you preach, a well-meant one, but somehow you did not get hold of them. You had taken the text about the apostles becoming fishers of men, and the rough fellows could not see that it was their duty to give up their boats and nets, and forsake their wives and little ones, as you downright told them they ought.”

“I hope I know my duty, Mr Trethick,” said the vicar, sternly.

“I hope you do, sir; but somehow, as I say, you don’t get hold of them. Now Pengelly seems to fit what he says to their everyday life, and shows them how to follow the apostles’ example in their self-denial and patience. Why, my dear sir, the people here care no more for the early fathers of the Church than – than I do,” he added, at a loss for a simile.

“Mr Trethick, you surprise me,” gasped the vicar, “you pain me.”

“Do I?” said Geoffrey. “Well, I don’t want to do so. Now that man on Sunday night; he took for his text – ”

“Miss Penwynn, Mr Trethick,” said the vicar, rising, “I find – the time – I must say good-morning.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been too free-speaking,” said Geoffrey, earnestly, as he held out his hand. “It’s a bad habit of mine to get warm in argument; and I dare say I’ve been preaching most heretically.”

The vicar hesitated for a moment, but Geoffrey’s manner disarmed him, and besides, Rhoda was looking on.

The result was that he shook hands warmly, and said, with a smile, “Mr Trethick, we must have a few more arguments. I am not beaten yet. Good-morning.”

“Beaten? no,” said Geoffrey. “Good-morning. Miss Penwynn, I’m afraid I’ve shocked you,” he said, merrily, as soon as they were left alone; and as he spoke he could not help admiring the bright, animated face before him; for after the vicar’s smooth, flowing speeches that morning, Geoffrey’s brisk, sharp way had seemed to her like the racy breeze of the sea, fanning her spirit, and making her very pulses tingle.

“Shocked?” she said, eagerly; “I liked the discussion. I do love to hear a man speak as he really feels.”

“Do you?” said Geoffrey, showing his white teeth. “Well really, Miss Penwynn, if we ever meet much in the future you will invariably hear me speak as I feel. I always did it, and invariably got myself into trouble.”

“For being honest?” said Rhoda.

“Yes, for being honest. We’re a strange people, Miss Penwynn. Every one advocates the truth, and straightforwardness, but, as a rule, those two qualities find very little favour.”

“I’m afraid there is a great deal in what you say,” said Rhoda, thoughtfully.

“I’m sure there is,” exclaimed Geoffrey. “It’s a queer world altogether, but I like it all the same.”

“I hope we all do,” replied Rhoda, smiling.

“Of course; and we do all like it,” said Geoffrey, in an imperious way; “and when next you hear any one, my dear young lady, calling it a vale of tears, and wanting to be somewhere else, you set that person down as an impostor or a fool.”

Rhoda raised her eyebrows, feeling half-annoyed at his freedom, half amused.

“It’s a splendid world, and it’s half bitters, half sweets.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, and wisely so. The bitters make us like the sweets. I find old Mr Paul up yonder do me no end of good when I’m put out. He’s all bitters.”

“And Madge Mullion supplies the sweets,” thought Rhoda.

“Don’t you think I ought to have gone into the Church, Miss Penwynn?” said Geoffrey, abruptly.

“No. Why?”

“Because I’m so fond of preaching. Somehow it always sets me going if I come across a man with about two notions only in his head, which he jumps to the conclusion will do admirably for the north and south poles of the world, and that he has nothing else to do but set the world turning upon them; and gets cross if some one tells him the world is really turning the other way. But I’m preaching again. There, I frightened the parson away, and if I don’t change my tone, or Mr Penwynn does not soon send for me, I shall scare you as well.”

“I am not so easily alarmed,” said Rhoda, laughing; “but I hope you are meeting with success in your efforts, Mr Trethick?”

“Success, my dear madam?” replied Geoffrey, laughing outright. “Why, I have been hammering away ever since I came down, months now, and have not succeeded in any thing but in making the people harder against me.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you. Sympathy’s nice,” said Geoffrey. “But I’m not beaten yet, Miss Penwynn, and now I think the sun is going to shine, for Mr Penwynn has sent me a line asking me to come and see him; and I have a shrewd suspicion that it means business.”

“Mr Penwynn will see you, sir, in the study,” said a servant, opening the door; and, after a frank good-by, Geoffrey swung out of the room, Rhoda’s eyes following him till the door closed.

But she did not sigh, she did not go to the glass and look conscious, she did not begin to commune with her spirit, she only said, quietly, —

“There is a something about him that I like!”

Chapter Twenty Two

A Business Interview

“Ah, Mr Trethick!” said the banker, quietly, as Geoffrey was ushered into his handsome study, crammed with books that he seldom read, “I hope I have not brought you up from any important engagement.”

“Well, yes, I was going to be very busy,” said Geoffrey, “I had an appointment on the cliff.”

“I am very sorry,” said the banker, “I thought – ”

“That I had nothing to do, and would come down directly. You were quite right, sir, and here I am.”

“But your engagement?”

“Was with myself – to go and loaf about and stare down deserted mine shafts, and growl at the obstinacy of proprietors who refuse to be made rich.”

Mr Penwynn had begun to look disappointed; he now brightened a little.

“You are quite at liberty then, Mr Trethick?”

“Quite, sir.”

“And willing to earn a few guineas?”

“Most willing, sir. When shall I begin? I’m growing rusty from disuse.”

Mr Penwynn sat thinking for a few moments, gazing at Geoffrey, and then he began, —

“Rundell and Sharp spoke most highly of you, Mr Trethick.”

“I thank them for their good opinion, sir.”

“They said that you were a man most thoroughly to be trusted, and that you were conscientious to a degree.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Geoffrey, sharply. “When did they say that?”

Mr Penwynn was a little taken aback, but he recovered himself, and said with a smile, —

“In a letter that I have received from them.”

“Then you have been writing to make further inquiries about me, Mr Penwynn.”

“Well – yes, I have.”

“Good!” said Geoffrey, quietly. “Then I presume you are satisfied, Mr Penwynn?”

“Yes, I am,” was the reply, “and on the strength of their recommendations I am about to try and throw something – just a trifle – in your way.”

“Mining, I hope?”

“Yes, Mr Trethick, mining; but on one condition.”

“And what is that, Mr Penwynn?”

“That I have your whole and sole effort to work for my interest to the best of your ability.”

“Why, of course, sir,” said Geoffrey, “I should be taking your pay.”

“Yes, Mr Trethick; but I have known cases where a man takes pay from one employer, and works in the interest of another.”

“Mr Penwynn!”

“I don’t for a moment hint that you would do such a thing, Mr Trethick. I merely say to you, I trust you to do for me the best you can, and not let yourself be tempted away from the path of rectitude by any of the scoundrels you may encounter.”

“Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, warmly, “you ought not to speak to me like that after the letter you say you have had. But now, sir, suppose we proceed to business?”

“Exactly?” said Mr Penwynn, drawing his chair a little nearer.

“The fact is, Mr Trethick – this in confidence, mind, and for the present I don’t want to appear in the matter at all – I have been offered at a price a mine over which two or three companies have failed. I want to know whether it is worth my while to buy that mine, and I am going to act upon your Report.”

“A tin-mine?” said Geoffrey.

“Yes; a disused mine.”

“Not Wheal Carnac?”

“Yes, Wheal Carnac,” said Mr Penwynn, starting. “What of it?”

“Buy it!” said Geoffrey, sharply.

“Buy it?” said Mr Penwynn, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“What I say,” said Geoffrey, eagerly; “buy it.”

“You are not long in giving in a report, Mr Trethick,” said the banker, suspiciously. “May I ask what you know of Wheal Carnac?”

“More than you suppose, sir,” was the reply. “I have been looking about that place a good deal, and I am of opinion that with capital I could make it pay.”

“Oh, yes! so I suppose,” said the banker; “but you are going much too fast, Mr Trethick. What I want to know is whether the mine is worth buying at a price.”

“What price?” exclaimed Geoffrey.

Mr Penwynn hesitated, bit his nails, tapped the table, and looked again and again at his companion’s searching eyes.

“Well,” he said at last – “this is in confidence, Mr Trethick – eight hundred pounds!”

“Why the land’s worth it,” cried Geoffrey; “there can be no doubt about that.”

“Possibly,” said Mr Penwynn.

“The buildings – the material,” cried Geoffrey. “Why really, Mr Penwynn, I could give you a decisive answer at once. The place is worth buying.”

The banker sat gazing at him in a curious, searching way, and he made no reply for a few minutes; but it was evident that he was a little infected by Geoffrey’s enthusiasm.

“Are you willing to go down the mine as far as you can go, Mr Trethick – I mean for water – and to see what tokens you can find of tin ore?”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “I’ll go down again if you like.”

“Again?”

“Yes; I’ve been down as far as I could go.”

“You have, Mr Trethick?”

“Yes, sir,” said Geoffrey, smiling, “I have.”

“But right down to the water?”

“Right down into it, sir,” replied Geoffrey, laughing. “I had a regular ducking, for my companion let the rope slip.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Mr Trethick, that you made the descent of Wheal Carnac?”

“To be sure I do, sir. Look here, Mr Penwynn, I took rather a fancy to that place. Every thing is so thorough and well done. Then I met with a rough mining fellow, one Amos Pengelly. Know him?”

Mr Penwynn nodded.

“He is sanguine about the mine, and asked me to examine it. I did so as far as I could, and then one night we procured a rope, and I rigged up a ship’s block on a stoutish cross-beam, took a lantern, and Pengelly let me down.”

“By himself?”

“Oh, yes! sir; he’s as strong as a horse. But he did duck me.”

“Mr Trethick,” said the banker, pulling out his pocket-handkerchief, “do you mean to tell me that you trusted to one man to lower you down that pit?”

“I do, Mr Penwynn, and a precious black pit it is; and, as I tell you, he let me down rather too far, but not till I had had a good look round.”

“And what did you discover?” said the banker, wiping the palms of his wet hands.

“Nothing,” said Geoffrey, bluntly. “No more than I could find out on the heap of débris. No thorough examination could be made without the mine were pumped out.”

“And that would cost? – ”

“Fifty or a hundred pounds, perhaps two,” said Geoffrey. “Principally for carriage of pumping apparatus, fixing, and taking down again.”

“You have been thoroughly into the matter, then,” said Mr Penwynn, who was growing more and more interested.

“Thoroughly,” said Geoffrey, bluntly, “I don’t play with what I take up, sir.”

The banker shifted his position, got up, walked about the room, sat down again, and began tapping the table with his fingers.

“Will you have a cigar, Mr Trethick?” he said, unlocking a drawer.

“Thanks, no,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t smoke over business.”

There was another pause, during which Geoffrey sat patiently awaiting the banker’s orders, while that gentleman was evidently turning the affair well over in his mind.

At last he spoke.

“Mr Trethick,” he said, “what remuneration should you ask to undertake to examine that mine?”

“Can’t be done without pumping out, sir.”

“Supposing I place the necessary funds at your disposal?”

Geoffrey drew his chair closer.

“Do you mean this, Mr Penwynn?”

“I never joke over business-matters, Mr Trethick,” said the banker.

“Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, rising, and by his words chasing away from the banker’s mind any lingering doubt of his energy, “I have so much faith in making that mine pay, that I’ll do what you ask for nothing, but be content with a percentage on future profits.”

“No, Mr Trethick, I never work in that way,” said Mr Penwynn. “I ask your services on what I suppose to be a fortnight or three weeks’ task. I want your best energies, and a truthful and just report, not highly coloured, rather the reverse. If you will do this for me, I will give you a fee of five-and-twenty guineas. Will that do?”

“Do? Yes!” cried Geoffrey, flushing. “When shall I begin?”

“When you please,” said the banker, smiling at his earnestness.

“And you place funds at my disposal?”

“Yes, to the amount of a hundred pounds. If that is not enough, you may spend another fifty. Then stop. But mind you are doing this under orders. I do not wish to appear in the matter yet. If it were known that I was going in for such a mad venture, as people would call it, I should lose all credit in the place. Not that it would much matter,” he added, with a contemptuous smile. “Well, Mr Trethick, shall we draw up a memorandum to the effect that you will give me your best services in this commission? I trust to you, implicitly.”

“If you like,” said Geoffrey, grimly, as he once more rose and took an excited stride up and down the room. “Mr Penwynn,” he exclaimed, stopping short before the banker, “you have given me new life in this display of confidence. There’s my memorandum and bond, sir,” he cried, stretching out his broad, firm hand, and gripping that of the banker. “You sha’n’t repent it, come what may.”

“I hope not, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling, “but time tries all.”

“Oh, no!” said Geoffrey, sharply. “That’s an old saw, and I put no faith in saws. Time will try me, Mr Penwynn; there’s no doubt of that. And now I’m off.”

“It’s close upon one o’clock,” said Mr Penwynn, glancing at his watch. “You’ll stay and have lunch?”

“No, thanks,” said Geoffrey; “I’m going to work off some of this rust. But how am I to let you know how I am getting on?”

“Don’t you trouble about that,” said Mr Penwynn, laughing. “You don’t know Carnac yet. Why, every step you take will be known all over the place, and people will be asking what madman is finding the money.”

“I see,” said Geoffrey, nodding.

“Give me a written report when you have done. Mr Chynoweth shall send you a cheque-book, and your cheques will be honoured to the sum I name.”

Geoffrey looked him full in the eyes for a moment or two longer, and then strode off, Rhoda, who was at the window, seeing him pass, evidently deeply intent upon something, for he paid no heed to her, but made straight for Horton mine to see Pengelly, while Mr Penwynn walked up and down his study with a satisfied air, as if he considered that he had done a good morning’s work.

“He’s the right man,” he said, rubbing his hands. “He’s as true as steel!”

Putting on his hat, he walked down to the office, he knew not why, but taking a deeper interest in the affair each moment, and passing Tregenna on the opposite side of the way.

“Send Mr Geoffrey Trethick a cheque-book, Chynoweth,” he said, as he entered his office, and spoiled a most interesting game of whist.

Mr Chynoweth took down his slate, and made an entry.

“Honour his cheques to the amount of a hundred and fifty.”

This entry was also made upon the slate, and Mr Penwynn walked back to his lunch.

Mr Chynoweth became thoughtful. He had played out a hand at whist in his desk that morning; and he had written an offer of marriage to Miss Pavey, who had won five and sixpence of him the previous night at whist; but this was a very important matter, and thinking that he could remain a bachelor a little longer, he took out his letter, opened, read it, sighed, and, striking a match, carefully burned it on the hearth.

“Tregenna here – Trethick to draw cheques – what’s that mean?” said Mr Chynoweth, thoughtfully. “What does the governor mean by that? I hope he is not going in for mining. If he is – ”

He paused for a few moments.

“I wouldn’t bet a crown he is not going to try Wheal Carnac.”

Chapter Twenty Three

How Tregenna Hooked his Fish

There was, of course, a reason for the banker’s actions.

John Tregenna had at once taken advantage of the proposal that he should still be on friendly terms with the Penwynns, and, calling frequently and dining there, set himself, in a pleasant, frank manner, to remove any unpleasant feeling that might exist in Rhoda’s mind.

To her he was gentlemanly and courteous, without formality, showing in every way that it was his desire that the past should be forgotten. With Mr Penwynn he resumed his old business relations, and, as the banker’s confidential solicitor, he finished and carried through a tiresome law case, which ridded Mr Penwynn of a good deal of anxiety, and put five hundred pounds in his pocket.