The Vicar's People

“But are you sure that it is a trick?” said Mr Penwynn.

“Certain, sir. It would have deceived an ordinary miner or owner.”

“But did not deceive you?”

“Well, sir, I take no credit to myself for that. I went through a course of mining study, and it is as simple as A B C.”

“How so?”

“Why, look here, sir. Only yesterday Pengelly called me to show me a rich place he had found.”

“Yes. Well?”

“I had to crush the poor fellow’s hopes at once. The thing was most artistically done, a quantity of tin-bearing quartz, evidently in situ.”

“Yes.”

“But I always carry this with me, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, pulling out a pocket-lens; “and that showed me at once that the quartz was veined with a different mineral from that all around, and also that the granulations of the stone were such as are found in the strata on the other side of the county, and not here.”

Mr Penwynn said nothing, but looked hard at his manager.

“They’ve spent a good deal of time and money to successfully swindle people, and cleverly too, where the same energy and outlay would have made a poor mine pay.”

“Then you consider it a poor mine, Mr Trethick?”

“Very, sir.”

“But the report I had said that it was rich.”

“Then the reporter was either a fool or a knave,” replied Geoffrey.

“Humph!” ejaculated Mr Penwynn, “and you think then that we had better stop.”

“Certainly not,” said Geoffrey, flushing. “It cannot give a poorer yield, for there are thousands of tons of such ore as we are now sending to grass, and which I can make yield at least five per cent dividend, while at any time we may ‘strike ile,’ as our friends the Yankees call it.”

“Thank you, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, quietly; and he drew a long breath. “Go on, I leave myself in your hands.”

Geoffrey did go on working most earnestly, and on this particular day he had come up out of the mine, weary in body and mind, gone to the cottage and changed, and then started off along the cliff for what he called a blow.

“I’ll go and see poor old Mrs Prawle,” he said to himself; and in that disposition he went on till he came to the nook where he had interposed in Bess Prawle’s defence; when, seeing an inviting place, he sat down, and as he did so the whole scene came back.

He did not know how it was, but there was a curiously uneasy sensation at his heart, and he found himself recalling Bess Prawle’s looks, her way of expressing her gratitude, and ended by taking himself to task.

“I can go there often enough and chat with the poor old woman – poor soul, there’s a very pathetic side to her patient, uncomplaining life; but why should I go when it may cause uneasiness to others? Poor Bess! she’s a fine, handsome lass. I shall have her father making suggestions like Uncle Paul about poor Madge. ’Pon my soul, I must be a very fine-looking fellow,” he cried merrily.

Then he laughed, took out a cigar, lit it, and sat smoking.

“The people here have too much time on their hands,” he thought, “and it makes them scandalous. I wonder they don’t have the impudence to couple my name with that of – ”

“Bah! nonsense! what an idiot I am,” he said, sharply; and the next moment he was self-communing, and asking why he should be so uneasy at such an idea.

For answer Rhoda’s face seemed to rise before him, quiet, earnest, and trustful. He seemed to hear her sweet, pleasant voice, not thrilling him as whispering of love; but it seemed to him now that she had given him encouragement, that her suggestions had been of endless value to him, and that she was always so kind and sisterly to him, that – that – was it sisterly this? Was his feeling brotherly?

His brow grew rugged, and then as he thought on he began to feel startled at the new sensations that seemed to be springing up within his breast. He looked inward, and he obtained a glimpse of that which he had before ignored.

“Oh, it’s absurd,” he said, half aloud; “I should be mad. I should be a scoundrel.”

Then he stopped, for the face of Rhoda, with the large, searching eyes, was gazing full into his, and this time it was no fancy. She was returning from Gwennas Cove, and she had turned into the nook to see once more the spot that had aroused such envious feelings in her breast.

“You here, Mr Trethick?” she said, quietly. “I did not expect to see you.”

“I did not expect to see you here,” he said, as quietly; but his voice sounded different, and Rhoda looked up at him for a moment, and then let her eyelids fall.

She had not held out her hand to him, neither had he offered his, and they stood there in that nook amidst the granite, surrounded by a solemn silence which neither seemed disposed to break.

Nothing could have been more simple. They had met as they might have met at any time, and they might have walked back quietly to the town. It was the most everyday of occurrences, and yet it was the most important moment of their lives.

They had both been blind, and now they were awakened, Rhoda to the fact that her heart was at length stirred to its deepest depths, Geoffrey to the knowledge that with all his strength of mind, his determination, his will, he was a man with all a man’s weaknesses, and, if weakness it could be called, he loved the woman who stood with him, face to face.

He was dazzled, blinded at the revelation that had come like a lightning’s flash, and then a feeling of horror came upon him, for he felt that he had been treacherous.

Then that horror seemed to be swept away by the stronger passion, and he looked earnestly in her face till the blue-veined lids were raised, and her eyes looked deeply and trustingly in his.

How long was it? Neither of them knew, before Geoffrey said quietly the one word, —

“Rhoda!”

She looked up at him again, and then stood hesitating, for the thoughts of the petty scandal she had heard flashed before her; but she shook them off as if they had been venomous, and, looking him full in the face, she placed her hand in his with an air of such implicit faith as stirred him into speech.

“I did not know this – I did not think this,” he said hoarsely; “and I feel as if I were acting the part of a treacherous villain to the man who has given me his confidence and trust.”

“And why?” she said.

“Because I know that I love you,” he said; “love you with all my heart. Rhoda, I must leave here. I ought not to have spoken as I did.”

She looked up at him timidly, with a half-flinching fear in her face as she met his eyes, but it turned to a look of pride, and she laid another hand upon his arm.

“No,” she said, “you must stay. Geoffrey, I could not bear it if you were to go.”

He must have been more than man if he had not clasped her to his breast at that, and in that embrace he felt her head rest upon his shoulder, and knew that fate had been very kind to him, and that he had won the love of a woman who would be part and parcel of his future life.

“And I had laughed at love,” he said, little thinking that there were witnesses of what was passing; “but now I know. Rhoda! Oh, my love!”

He clasped her in his arms again, and for a moment her lips met his. Then with one consent they stood there hand in hand.

“I will tell him at once,” said Geoffrey. “I know it will seem to him like madness; but I dare not meet him if I could not look him in the face. It is unfortunate, Rhoda, but yet I could not go back a moment of my life now.”

“Unfortunate?” she said gently.

“Yes. Have you thought what it may mean?”

She shook her head.

“The end of a dream of success. Mr Penwynn will say, what right have I to think of you? He will call me adventurer, ask me how I dared to presume, and bid me never enter his house again. I am his servant, and it will be just.”

“My father will be just,” said Rhoda, gazing in his face; “and if he is surprised and angry at first, he loves me too well to cause me pain. Geoffrey: I am not ashamed of my choice.”

He held her hands, looking down at her proudly, wondering that he had not loved her from the first.

“You will succeed, Geoffrey,” she continued, “and we can wait, for we are young yet. My father, I know, already likes you for the same reason that you first won my esteem.”

“And why was that?” he said, smiling.

“You are so different to any one we ever knew before.”

“Yes,” he said at last, “we can wait.”

And so they were pledged one to the other. Geoffrey never seemed to know how it had happened; Rhoda could not have told when it was she began to love; but they both knew, as by a sudden inspiration, that they loved the deeper and stronger for the calmness upon the surface of their lives.

There was no passionate wooing, there were no vows of constancy, all was simplicity itself; but the foundation upon which their love had been reared seemed firm as the granite around promised to be lasting; as the sea whose ripples were now golden in the setting sun, whose warm glow seemed to glorify the face of Rhoda, and intensify the love-light that glanced from her eyes. It was a time of calm, and peace, and rest, and as in the midst of this new joy, the quaint idea suggested itself that their love seemed somehow associated with the scent of the wild thyme they crushed beneath their feet, they stood there in silence, drinking in deep mental draughts of the new sensation, and wondering at their happiness the while.

Chapter Thirty Two

Within Touch of Wealth

“Thank you, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, the next morning, and he looked very calm and stern as he spoke, “I expected this, for my daughter told me all last night. I might have known this would happen, though I confess to having been very blind. Now go on, what have you further to say? But, first of all, you are a man of sense and some experience in the world. You do not, you cannot, expect me to sanction your addresses?”

“No, sir, not now. I only ask you to put no pressure upon either of us, but to let us be free.”

“In other words, give you the run of my house, and ample time for follies. You don’t want to come and live upon me?”

“No, sir,” said Geoffrey, sternly. “I am somewhat of a man of the world. I tell you that my declaration to Miss Penwynn took me by surprise; but there are times when we cannot command ourselves. All I ask now is your indulgence towards me, knowing what I do, and time. I shall come very rarely to your house, and our business relations I hope will continue the same. I mean to succeed, sir,” he cried, striding up and down the banker’s room – “here if you will let me stay, elsewhere if you say to me go.”

“If I say to you go?” said the banker, thoughtfully.

“Yes, I give you my word of honour, Mr Penwynn, that I will not attempt to see Miss Penwynn again, and I will leave every thing at the mine so that my successor can carry on without a hitch.”

“And if I say stay,” said the banker, coldly, “what then?”

“I am your manager, Mr Penwynn, and I shall remember that I am your servant until you bid me come to your house as a friend. You may trust me, sir,” he said, gazing frankly in the banker’s eyes. “I had ambition to spur me on before; I have a far greater incentive now.”

Mr Penwynn sat thinking for a few minutes, and then said quietly, —

“Mr Trethick, I ask you, as my manager, to stay.”

“And if I succeed, sir, what then?”

“Succeed first, and then we’ll talk.”

There was considerable emphasis upon a portion of the banker’s speech, and Geoffrey rose, and, without another word, left the room.

“I am to stay,” he thought exultingly, and his first idea was that he should go and tell Rhoda; but he recollected that he must henceforth look at her from a distance. It was only reasonable, he felt. What right had he, a penniless adventurer, to aspire to Rhoda’s hand? It was madness, he owned; but time was before him, and he had her love.

He had the indorsement of her love when he returned from the mine that evening, for Madge Mullion brought him a note that he saw at a glance was in Rhoda’s handwriting, and a throb of joy ran through him as he caught the envelope.

Then, looking up, he saw the bearer’s eyes gazing wistfully at him, and he noted, more and more, how pale and wan she looked.

“Why, Madge,” he said, “are you unwell?”

She shook her head, and hurried away.

“Poor girl,” he muttered, “I cannot have made her look like this. She must be ill, and fretting about some one else.”

He was opening the letter as he spoke, and his eyes flashed as they ran over the few simple lines the note contained.

They were very short. They only told of the interview between father and daughter, and bade Geoffrey remember that though they would seldom meet now, the future was before them, and Rhoda added, “My daily prayer will be for your success.”

“For my success,” said Geoffrey, firmly, as he placed the letter in one particular fold of his pocket-book. “Then now I am going to work.”

Rather a curious declaration for one whose labours had for months been almost herculean, but it did not seem to occur to Geoffrey that it was strange; and, after partaking of his tea, he was about to go in and see Uncle Paul, when there was a step outside, and directly after the girl came in to say that Amos Pengelly wanted to see him.

“Show him in, girl,” said Geoffrey; and directly after there was a heavy limping step; the miner entered, and, without a word, banged down a great lump of granite quartz upon the table.

“There,” he cried excitedly, “that’s not salt.”

Geoffrey looked at him wonderingly, took up the piece of granite, which sparkled with black grains in a band of ruddy mineral running through the piece, and turned it over and over by the light.

“That didn’t come from nowhere else, master,” said Pengelly.

Still Geoffrey did not reply, but continued to examine the piece of rock, the miner’s excitement being so great that he could hardly contain himself.

“Where did you get this?” said Geoffrey, at last.

“In the four-east drive.”

“Under the sea?” said Geoffrey, sharply.

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“Not an hour ago.”

“You staid down then, Pengelly?”

“Yes. Iss, my son. I knew there was good stuff down there somewhere, and I’ve hit it now.”

“Have you been searching much, Pengelly?”

“Every night, master, since the mine was opened,” said Pengelly, proudly, “I felt that my character was at stake. I would find it. I prayed and wrastled that I might find it, master,” he cried, with flashing eyes, “and my prayer is heard.”

“Pengelly,” cried Trethick, “there’s thirty per cent of metal in that rock – thirty? Perhaps more,” he cried excitedly.

He caught up his hat, and together they hurried down to the mine, where, in spite of the lateness of the hour, the engine was going, and a stream of water pouring forth, for it needed some effort to keep the galleries dry.

Mining garments were soon donned, lamps taken, and, to the surprise of the man in charge of the engine, the manager announced his intention of descending; and, stepping into the cage, Pengelly and he were soon rushing down into the bowels of the earth, to step out at last six hundred feet from the surface, and then thread their way along the dark stone passages of the silent place.

For the mine was deserted now for the night, and there was nothing for company but their own shadows thrown grotesquely on the sparkling walls and floor.

Pengelly led the way with no little agility, making light of lumps of refuse remaining from the old working of the mine, and even yet not removed, for Geoffrey’s venture had been in quite another direction.

As they went on, Pengelly pointed here and there to freshly chipped places where he had been, pursuing his investigations without success, and at last he stopped short at the end of the gallery, facing the rock.

“They had got to success,” said the miner, hoarsely. “Only another foot, and they would have reached the lode. Look here, master.”

“Give me the pick,” cried Geoffrey, excitedly; and, snatching the tool, as Pengelly held the lamp, he made the gallery echo and send long, loud reverberations along its course. The rock spat forth a shower of sparks, while Geoffrey proceeded to cut out a goodly-sized fragment of the stone from the bottom of the new fracture where Pengelly had been at work.

It was a strange scene, and the shadow of the young man, as it was cast here and there upon the rock, looked like some hideous spirit of the mine waving its arms, and menacing him with a monstrous pick. There was something awful too, in the harsh, clanging noises repeated from the stony walls; and every stroke of the implement he wielded seemed to draw forth threatening flashes of light, as the toiler smote on at the hard rock that had lain there virgin from far back in those distant ages whose dim vistas are so full of awe to the inquiring mind.

But neither Pengelly nor Trethick thought of aught but the value of the ore that the latter was hewing, till he had detached a far larger lump than that brought to him by his follower.

“Take hold, Pengelly,” said Geoffrey, excitedly, as he picked up the dislodged fragment, and, thrusting it into the miner’s hands, he took the lamp, which made the dew upon his forehead glisten; and then, with trembling hands, he held the light close to the wall, examining it carefully here and there, right in where the pieces had been cut and at the side. Then, not satisfied, he took the pick, and cut here and there at the dripping, slimy sides that had been coated with a curious growth while under water for years, and against which the newly-cut portions flashed out bright and clean.

A cut here, a few chips there, ceiling, floor a few yards back, in all directions, and the result was the same, namely, that the quartz rock was similar to that where the grand rich vein of tin was running; and, after full five hours’ hard toil, patiently lighted the while by Pengelly, it was literally forced upon Geoffrey that trickery had no existence here; that the rock had never been tampered with by speculators, but was virgin and pure as it had been from the beginning of time, and he knew that the old proprietory had ceased their efforts in this direction when riches were within their grasp.

Then, and then only, did Geoffrey draw out a pocket-lens for his final look, close it, throw down the piece of ore, and catching Pengelly’s hands in his, shake them with a hearty grip.

“Right!” he cried, “there is no salt here, Pengelly. Wheal Carnac is a great success.”

He stopped short, listening to a sound that had at first been but a faint murmur, but had increased by slow degrees to a heavy roar, and he realised that which he had for the time forgotten – that they were beneath the sea, and that the crust of rock between them and the mighty waters must be very thin.

Chapter Thirty Three

Too Fast

It was too late to go up to An Morlock on the night of the discovery; but Geoffrey Trethick was there by breakfast-time, to find Rhoda in the morning-room, and Mr Penwynn not yet down.

Rhoda read his face as he entered and threw a heavy bag on the table to catch her hands in his.

“Half the distance got over!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “Wheal Carnac is a success.”

“Is this keeping your word, Mr Trethick?” said a stern voice; but Geoffrey and Rhoda did not start apart.

“I could not keep back my news, Mr Penwynn,” cried Geoffrey, going to the table and seizing the bag.

“News! What news?”

“That you own one of the richest mines in Cornwall, Mr Penwynn,” cried Geoffrey. “Look here.”

The banker looked at him to see if he was sane; then at the piece of ore that had been brought, which he inspected again and again through his glasses.

“Very, very rich stuff,” he said at last. “But is this from Wheal Carnac?”

“Yes, sir, as I had hoped. We have struck an enormously rich lode. The poor fellows must have been within inches of it years ago when they left off; and, yes, of course,” he said, as he recalled the noise of the water heard on the previous night, “they must have been afraid to go any farther on account of the sea.”

“And,” said Mr Penwynn, whose customary calmness was swept away by the news, “do you mean to tell me, Trethick, that Wheal Carnac is going to turn out a very valuable property?”

“I tell you, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, proudly, “that unless some strange, unforeseen accident occurs to spoil the project, Wheal Carnac has turned out an enormously valuable property.”

The banker glanced at the rich ore and then at Geoffrey, who had no hesitation in sitting down to breakfast, and drinking in with the mundane coffee the proud and joyous glances of his love.

Over the meal he told them of Pengelly’s researches, and of his announcement on the previous night; then of his visit and careful examination of the gallery.

“There’s nothing to fear,” he said, “but the water; and I dare say I can guard against that.”

The banker became very silent, and sat after Geoffrey had ended, glancing from one to the other, reading as plainly as if it were writ in plain English of his daughter’s love for the enterprising, manly young fellow at his table.

Mr Penwynn was weighing matters of the heart in his own mind, just as he would have weighed any business speculation; and when from time to time his matter-of-fact worldliness bade him treat Geoffrey in a plain business-like manner, a look from Rhoda seemed to master him, and he felt as yielding as so much modelling-clay.

“It seems a great folly,” he thought. “He is a stranger, an adventurer, and yet his first venture brings me wealth. There,” he said to himself, at last, “I’m rich enough, and I’m getting old very fast; let me see her happy if I can.”

There was something so frank and friendly in his way of speaking to Geoffrey afterwards that, without a word, Rhoda came to him, laid her hands upon his shoulders and her cheek upon his breast.

She let it lie there for a minute or two, and then, with a glance at him full of affection, she left his side, and, half-timidly, in a way so very different to her usual self, she crossed to Geoffrey and placed her hands in his.

“This is going on fast, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling, and looking half-perplexed; “but we have only a hint of success yet. I am a man of the world, recollect, and I want to see a big banking balance to the credit of the mine.”

“Never fear, sir, that shall follow. Only give me time.”

“Well, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, after a struggle with self, in which, after sordidness and avarice had nearly won the victory, a look from Rhoda’s transformed, happy face turned the scale, “what am I to say to you about a share in the prosperity?”

“Let’s get the big balance in the bank first, sir,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “We will not divide a castle in the air.”

“But it would be more business-like and careful if you made your bargain now.”

“So I should have thought a month ago, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, holding out his hand. “Our interests ran together then. Now – I think – I hope – they are one, and I cannot strike bargains with the father of the woman! – ”

He stopped and looked at Rhoda, who slowly raised her eyes to his, and then her hands, which he took softly, reverently, and kissed. Then he turned to Mr Penwynn and finished his sentence – “most dearly love.”

The banker watched them very thoughtfully, for it seemed hardly real to him. In fact, at times he asked himself if it were not a dream.

He was roused from recollections of his own career, some five-and-twenty years before, by Geoffrey turning to him abruptly.

“Mr Penwynn,” he said, “I leave myself in your hands. I am working in our mutual interests.”

“And suppose I play false?” said Mr Penwynn.

“You can’t, sir,” cried Geoffrey, “with Rhoda here. If you treated me hard, you would be behaving ill to your daughter, and that you will not do. Now, good-morning. When will you come down and see the lode?”

“I’m not fond of going down mines,” said Mr Penwynn.

“But in this case you will, I think,” said Geoffrey. – “I’ll answer for your safety. Miss Penwynn – Rhoda?”

“Yes,” she cried, answering his unspoken question, “I will come down too. I shall not be afraid, and I want to christen the Rhoda vein.”

“To be sure,” cried Geoffrey, “the vein that is to bring us all wealth and happiness.”

He hurried away, and Rhoda ran to the window to see him pass; while Mr Penwynn picked up the piece of tin ore, balanced it in his hands, and, recalling certain rumours of tricks that had been played upon mine-owners, he said to himself, —