The Vicar's People

“True to me, eh?” said Geoffrey.

“Yes, poor child, she kept your secret, though she could not keep her own. She felt that she might injure you in your prospects.”

“You are arranging it all very nicely in your own mind, Uncle Paul,” said Geoffrey, quietly, for he was touched by the old man’s battle with self.

“Don’t ridicule me, Trethick,” he said, piteously. “I want to make amends for a great wrong. I feel I have been to blame. But be a man, Trethick, and you sha’n’t suffer for it. Look here, I am very old now, and I can’t take my money with me. Come, be reasonable, Trethick, for the poor child’s sake. We’ll forget the past and look at the future.”

“At my expense,” said Geoffrey.

“No, no, my boy. We are both men of the world, and can afford to laugh at what people say. Let’s make both those poor souls happy. There, I’ll sink all differences, and I’ll give her away; I will indeed. I haven’t been in a church these fifteen years, but I’ll come and give her away; and look here, my lad,” he cried, pulling out a slip of paper, “there’s a cheque on the Old Bank for a thousand pounds, payable to you – that’s Madge’s dowry to start with. Now, what do you say?”

“Humph! a thousand, eh?” said Geoffrey, looking admiringly at the speaker.

“Yes, a thousand pounds,” cried the old man.

“Will you make it two?” said Geoffrey.

An angry flush came in the old man’s face, but he looked across Geoffrey, and saw that poor broken Mrs Mullion was peering in at the doorway, and his rage went with his hesitation.

“Yes,” he said, “for her sake I’ll make it two.”

“Not enough,” said Geoffrey. “Will you make it five thousand down, and all your money bequeathed to us by will?”

The old man’s breath seemed to be taken away, and he stood gasping angrily; but once more the piteous aspect of the poor woman at the door disarmed him, and he said, in a low, hoarse voice, —

“I haven’t long to stop here. You shall have what you say, Trethick, only remove this cloud from the poor girl’s life.”

“Uncle Paul,” cried Geoffrey, turning upon him eagerly, “I always liked you, for I knew that you were a stanch old fellow under that rough bark, but I never thought you were so true a man as this. Five thousand pounds, eh? and you make me your heir? Give me your hand.”

The old man’s hand was slowly stretched out, and Geoffrey seized it.

“Yes,” said Uncle Paul, “and the past shall all be forgotten;” but a look of disgust, in spite of his efforts, came across his face at the mercenary spirit displayed.

“Five thousand pounds down?” said Geoffrey, “eh?”

“Five thousand pounds down.”

“As you say, Uncle Paul,” said Geoffrey, probing the old man to the quick, “you cannot live much longer. You have had your spell of life, and you will give that by deed of gift at once to save poor Madge’s fame, and the rest when you die?”

The old man nodded.

“Suppose I say make it ten thousand down?”

“Take – take it all,” said the old man, piteously; and then, in a low voice, “God help me to do one good act before I die.”

As he spoke he tried to withdraw his hand from Geoffrey’s.

“Take what I have,” he said again, “but wipe away the stain from that poor girl’s life.”

“God bless you, Uncle Paul,” cried Geoffrey, wringing the old man’s hand. “You’re a noble old fellow, but if your money was millions, instead of thousands, not a penny could I touch. Go and see the poor girl, and then you must see another, and come back and tell me that you ask my pardon for what you have said.”

The piteous look, the air of weakness, and the trembling of the hands passed away as if by magic, as Uncle Paul tore his fingers from Geoffrey’s grasp; and, in place of his mingled appeal and disgust, passion flashed from the old man’s eyes.

“Dog – coward – scoundrel!” he cried, shaking his cane threateningly. “Your success at the mine, and your hopes of wedding Rhoda Penwynn, have blinded you to all that is honourable and true, but you shall repent it.”

“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Geoffrey. “Mr Paul!”

“Silence, scoundrel!” he roared. “You shall live to see your mine a wreck; and as to that Rhoda Penwynn – ”

“Silence, yourself, old man,” cried Geoffrey, in a rage. “How dare you mention her name?”

“How dare I, dog?” he cried; “because she is too good, and pure, and virtuous for such a libertine as you. Out upon you for your worthlessness! I tell you, that girl will turn her back upon you in shame and disgust. You don’t know of what stuff our Cornish women are. I meant to keep this silent if I could. Now the town shall know you for what you are; and as for my poor niece – Heaven forgive her! – I would sooner see her in her coffin than the wife of such a heartless, cold-blooded, mercenary wretch.”

“You will repent all this when you are cool,” cried Geoffrey, whose own rage was driven away in dread lest the old man should fall before him in some fit.

“Out of my sight, dog! Leave this house.”

“Uncle Paul, you are mad. Will you listen to reason?”

“Go!” cried the old man panting, as he threatened the tall, sturdy young fellow with his stick; “go, and present yourself at Penwynn’s, and be shown the door. Out! Go! I cannot breathe the same air with so heartless a villain.”

“If I leave this house,” said Geoffrey, “it is for good. No apologies will bring me back.”

“Apologies,” cried the old man. “Oh, if Heaven would give me back my strength but for one short hour! Scoundrel!” he cried, sinking back in his chair, “if I were but a man instead of such a poor old wreck – ”

“Mrs Mullion! quick!” cried Geoffrey, for the old man’s appearance alarmed him; but the poor woman had heard all, and was already at her brother-in-law’s side. “What shall we do?”

“Let him leave the place,” panted the old man. “Don’t let him touch me – don’t let him come near me – let him leave the place. He tortures me. Why did I bring him here?”

“Fate, I suppose,” said Geoffrey, coldly. “I thought she had been too kind. Shall I fetch Rumsey, Mrs Mullion?”

“No, no, no. Pray go – pray go,” sobbed the poor woman. “Oh, Mr Trethick! Mr Trethick! what have I done that you should treat me so?”

“There, for heaven’s sake, don’t you begin,” cried Geoffrey. “I can bear no more. You people here are mad. There, I’ll rid you of my presence, Mrs Mullion. I’ll go and put up some where else till you have come to your senses, and then perhaps – no, I cannot come back here. I’m going down to Rumsey’s, and I’ll send him up. Poor old fellow?” he said; and he came a step towards where, with half-closed eyes, Uncle Paul sat back, panting heavily; but at the first step forward he shrank away with such a look of loathing that Geoffrey strode into the passage, seized his hat, and went off across the garden, and down the cliff path to send up Dr Rumsey to the stricken old man.

Chapter Thirty Nine

More Unpleasantries

Dr Rumsey was in, Mrs Rumsey said, but he was engaged. She would give Mr Trethick’s message, and she turned sharply round and shut the door.

“Confound the woman,” exclaimed Geoffrey, frowning, and he went off towards the mine.

His way lay through the principal street, and as he was passing the hotel it suddenly struck him that he had had a terrible night, and that he was half-starved.

“The engine won’t work without coal,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “I must have breakfast,” and, going in, he ordered the meal, ate heartily, and then, feeling refreshed and brighter, he hesitated as to what he should do – go down to the mine or walk across to Gwennas.

He stopped, thinking, —

“If I go to Gwennas, people will say that the case is clear against me.

“If I don’t go they will say that it is clearer, for I stop away because I am a coward, and that my conduct is cruel.

“Well, I won’t be brutal, at all events; so here goes to see Father Prawle, and to know how the poor girl is.”

He started off walking fast, but just then who should come round the corner but a thin figure in black, half-way between a sister of mercy and a lady in deep mourning.

“Miss Pavey, by all that’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “What a transformation. What has become of the rainbow?”

“Ah, Miss Pavey,” he said. “Good-morning.”

To his astonishment and disgust, the lady darted a look of horror at him and crossed the road.

“This is pleasant,” he cried, angrily. “Why, that woman must know of it, and – ”

He felt a chill of horror run through him, for he knew that she would go, if she had not already been, straight up to An Morlock and acquaint Rhoda with the events of the night, no doubt pleasantly dressed up.

“She must have seen the Rumseys this morning!”

He hesitated for a moment, and then turned to go straight up to An Morlock.

“I’ll go and tell Penwynn all about it.”

“Pooh! Absurd,” he cried. “What’s come to me? Am I to go and deny a scandal before I have been accused by my friends? Ridiculous.”

Laughing at himself for what he called his folly, he went right off along the cliff, looking with pride at the smoking of the Wheal Carnac chimney shaft, and pausing for a moment or two, with a smile of gratification upon his lips, to watch the busy figures about the buildings and to listen to the rattle and noise of the machinery.

Going on, he came to the slope down from the cliff path to the beach, and he could not help a shudder as he saw how dangerous it was even by daylight.

“I wonder we did not break our necks,” he thought, as he went cautiously down, and then amongst the granite boulders and weed-hung masses to where he had leaped in and swum to poor Madge’s help, for there it all was plainly enough – the long spit of rocks running out like a pier, the swirling water, and the waving masses of slimy weed.

“It’s a good job it was night,” he thought. “Hang me, if I shouldn’t have hesitated to dive in now.”

All the same he would not have hesitated a moment; but it was a wild, awesome place, and the chances of a swimmer getting easily ashore, after a dive from the rocks, were not many.

He went on picking his way as nearly as he could to follow the steps taken on the previous night towards the farther sloping path, pausing again as he came opposite to the adit of the old mine up on the cliff.

It was an ugly, low archway, fringed with ferns, and whose interior was glossy with what looked like green metallic tinsel, but proved to be a dark, glistening, wet lichen or moss.

The place, like all others of its kind, had an attraction for Geoffrey, and he went in a short distance to peer forward into the gloom of the narrow passage through the rock, and to listen to the dripping, echoing sounds of the falling water.

It was a part of the working of the old mine, and, doubtless, had been driven in first by the adventurers in search of a vein of tin or copper, after striking which they had sunk the perpendicular shaft on the cliff – the one by the path where he had had his encounter with Pengelly; and, by a little calculation, he reckoned that this adit or passage would be about a hundred yards long.

“I’ll have lights some day, and Pengelly and I will explore it.”

He went no farther, for there was always the danger of coming upon one of the minor shafts, or “winzes” as they were called, which are made for ventilating the mine, and joining the upper and lower galleries together. In this case the winzes would have been full of water, like the great shaft, up to the level of the adit, which would run off the surplus to the beach.

More by force of habit than for any particular reason, he threw a great stone in, to make a crashing noise, which went echoing and reverberating along the dripping passage, and then he went on.

“Poor lass, she would have had a poor chance,” he said, “if she had thrown herself down the old shaft up yonder. I don’t think I dare have dived down there. Nay,” he added, laughing, “I am sure I dare not.”

He went on fast now, noting the difficulties of the pathway up which he had helped Madge in the dark; and then, pausing half-way up to take breath, he uttered an exclamation.

“I shouldn’t have thought it possible,” he said. “Why, it seems almost madness now. Well, I got her there safely, and I have been thanked for my trouble.”

Old Prawle was hanging about, busy, as usual, with a fishing-line, as Geoffrey went down into the Cove, nodded, and tapped gently at the door.

“Well, Bessie,” he said, in his light, cheery way, “how is she?”

“Better, Mr Trethick,” said Bessie coldly; and the bright look passed from his face as he saw the girl’s distant manner.

“Has the doctor been?”

“Yes, Mr Trethick.”

“What does he say?”

“That she is to have perfect rest and quiet.”

“And your mother?”

“Better, sir. Will you speak to her?”

Geoffrey hesitated a moment, and then seeing that Bessie was misinterpreting his looks, he said sharply, —

“Yes, I will;” and following Bessie in, he found the invalid in her old place, airing and burning more things than usual, but there was such a reproachful, piteous look in her eyes, that he was quite taken aback.

“It’s of no use. I can’t argue with them,” thought Geoffrey.

“Here, Mrs Prawle,” he said aloud, “will you kindly see that every thing possible is done for that poor girl. You will be at some expense, of course, till Mrs Mullion and her uncle fetch them home. Take that.”

He laid a five-pound note on the table, and walked straight out, Bessie drawing on one side to let him pass, her face looking cold and thin, and her eyes resting on the floor.

“Pleasant,” muttered Geoffrey, and with an abrupt “Good-morning” he went out to where old Prawle was at work.

“Here, walk part of the way along the cliff with me,” he said. “Come away from the cottage.”

The old man looked up at him from under his shaggy eyebrows, and then followed him for a couple of hundred yards, and stopped.

“Won’t that do?” he said. “Are you going to give me some money for them two?”

“I’ve left five pounds with your wife,” said Geoffrey, sharply.

“Oh, come, that’s handsome,” said the old man. “But you couldn’t have done less.”

“Look here,” said Geoffrey, sharply, “you know what I told you last night.”

“Yes, I know,” said the old man, grimly.

“You tell them the same. I couldn’t talk to them. Undeceive them about it, and be kind to the poor lass. I’ll do all I can for you, Prawle, about the shares.”

The old man nodded and uttered a growl that might have been “All right,” or “Thanks,” or any thing else, and then Geoffrey went on towards Carnac.

“Tell them the same,” said the rugged old fellow, with a grim chuckle. “Why, I might preach to ’em for a month, and then they wouldn’t believe it any more than I could myself.”

Pengelly was anxiously awaiting his principal at the mine, ready to lay certain reports before him about the drive that was being made, and he did it all in so stern and distant a way that Geoffrey could not help seeing that his right-hand man had heard the report, and, what was more, believed it. The result was that it raised up a spirit of resentment in the young man’s breast that made him retire within himself snail fashion; but with this difference, that he left his horns pointing menacingly outside; and for the rest of that day he was not a pleasant person to consult upon any matter.

For in spite of the contempt with which he treated the whole affair, and his determination to completely ignore the matter, it was always torturing him, and there was the constant thought in his mind that Rhoda must sooner or later hear of it, if she had not already been apprised by Miss Pavey or some other tattling friend.

“Let them. If she’s the woman I believe her, she’ll write to me in a quiet indirect way, not referring to it, of course, but to let me see her confidence in me is not shaken.”

The amount of work he got through on that day was tremendous, and as he worked his spirits rose. He strengthened his plans for guarding against the breaking in of the sea; and at last, completely fagged out, he ascended from the mine, changed, and washed in the office, and, without speaking to Pengelly, went straight to Dr Rumsey’s.

The doctor saw him coming, and came to the door.

“Find you apartments, Mr Trethick?” he said, coldly. “In an ordinary way it would be impossible. Under the present circumstances it is doubly so.”

“Very good,” said Geoffrey, sharply. “You persist, then, in believing that?”

“I would rather not discuss the matter, Mr Trethick,” said the doctor. “Good evening.”

“I must go to the hotel, then, that’s all,” said Geoffrey to himself. “Confound them all! They will find that I’ve Cornish blood in my veins, and can be as pig-headed in obstinacy as the best.”

Chapter Forty

Something Wrong

They were civil enough to him at the hotel, but Geoffrey could not help noticing that there was a peculiar something in his reception.

Of course it was strange his going there, and it led to talking about him; of this he could not help feeling sure.

“Let them talk,” he muttered, “if it pleases them;” and, after a late dinner, and spending an hour or two in writing, he made up his mind to go to bed and have a good night’s rest, to make up for the losses of the previous night.

He felt that he would like to know how old Mr Paul was, but he could not send or ask with any degree of comfort, so he went to bed at ten.

But it was not to rest. His nerves had been so unduly excited by the events of the past twenty-four hours that, try how he would, he could not get to sleep.

As a rule, strong, healthy, and hearty, no sooner was his head upon his pillow than he dropped off into a deep slumber. But this night his mind was in a continuous whirl. He tossed, he turned, got up and bathed his beating temples and burning forehead, scrubbed himself with a towel, and lay down again, but there was no sleep.

Now he was following poor Madge along the cliff, and plunging into the sea to save her. Then he was facing Bessie Prawle, whose eyes looked reproachfully at him. Again, he would be back at the cottage going through that pitiful scene with poor old Mr Paul; and when at last he succeeded in dismissing that from his mind, he was haunted by the face of Rhoda gazing at him with such a look of scorn and contempt that he was obliged to sit up in bed to make sure it was not real.

“Upsets a man’s nerves, no matter how strong he may be,” argued Geoffrey; and he once more threw himself down, wishing that he was back at the cottage, for, as it was comparatively early, there were noises in the hotel that helped to keep him awake.

At last, about midnight, he seemed to have successfully laid the whole of the unrestful spirits that had been haunting him, and, feeling calmer, he uttered a sigh of satisfaction, and felt that he was going now to enjoy his well-earned rest, when a fresh thought leaped to his brain, and that was about Wheal Carnac.

He had been down the mine that evening, and every thing was progressing admirably. The machinery was in perfect order, the men settling down more and more to their work, and they were in a high state of delight at the success that had attended Pengelly’s investigations. Why then should he trouble himself about Wheal Carnac?

He argued with himself that it was imagination, due to the excited state of his nerves and the worries of the day. He felt that it was that; but, in spite of his reasoning, he could not rest. Sleep seemed to be out of the question, and yet he would be terribly unfit for the next day’s work.

At last he could bear it no longer, and, feeling that rest would not come unless he could satisfy himself that the place was safe, he got up and dressed.

“I’m growing a wise man,” he said, mockingly. “I wonder whether any one has run away with the mine? Perhaps there is a burglary on, and they are breaking into the boiler.”

At the same time he felt that a walk in the cool night air would calm his nerves, and he prepared to descend, when a new difficulty assailed him.

It was past midnight now, every one in the place had retired, and no doubt he would have some difficulty in getting out.

“I say the people here are mad,” he thought; “they will think me mad. Well, let them.”

He went down as cautiously as he could, and found that his difficulty about getting out was only imaginary, for the door was easily opened, and, as he closed it behind him, and felt the cool night air upon his forehead, he uttered a sigh of relief.

His plans were soon made; he would go first to Pengelly, and knock him up and hear his report: for the manager was going to stay there a couple or three hours after his superior had left the mine.

He felt some compunction in this; but he knew Pengelly’s interest in the works, and how willing he would be to answer questions; so he walked on, thinking over two or three plans which he had been revolving in his mind to propose to Mr Penwynn for Pengelly’s benefit, and as a reward for his discovery.

Every thing was very still under the brilliant starlit sky, and as Geoffrey reached the narrow lane where Pengelly lived, he again felt some little compunction at arousing him; but, as he had gone so far, he determined to proceed.

The slight tap he gave on the door was quite sufficient to waken the miner, and Geoffrey plainly heard him leap out of bed. The next moment the casement just above his head was opened.

“What’s the matter?” he said quickly.

“Nothing, I hope, Pengelly.”

“Oh, it’s you, sir!”

“Yes, it is I, Pengelly. Tell me, did you leave all right?”

“Yes, sir; quite right.”

“At what time?”

“I was there till nine, sir. Have you been since?”

“No, Pengelly; but I have got an uneasy feeling upon me that something might be wrong. I couldn’t sleep, so I came on to you.”

“Guilty conscience,” thought Pengelly.

“I think,” continued Geoffrey, “I’ll walk on down there to see if every thing is right. Good-night.”

“No, sir, stop a minute, and I’ll come too.”

Geoffrey protested, but as he protested Pengelly jumped into his flannel trousers and frock, and in the time that a modern gentleman would have taken to unbutton his eyelids and think about his bath, the miner was dressed and coming down.

“It’s a shame to rouse you up, Pengelly, about such a fancy as mine,” said Geoffrey. “I was restless, and that made me fidget about the mine.”

“Well, sir, she’s worth fidgetting about,” said Pengelly. “Let’s go down. It won’t do any harm. There’s the two engine-men on, and it will show them that we may we expected at any time, and teach them their duty.”

Geoffrey longed to say something in his own defence to the miner, as they went along under the starlit sky, but his pride kept him silent; and, gradually growing calmer and at his ease as the fresh breeze from the sea blew upon his face, they went on and on till they began climbing the rugged path to where the engine-house stood up dim and gaunt against the sky, with its lit-up windows and door having a grotesque resemblance to the face of some fiery monster, who was uttering a low, panting roar.

They found the engine steadily working, raising and lowering the enormous rod of the series of pumps, and a steady, rushing noise told that the water was running fast.

“They’re both fast asleep,” said Pengelly. “Hallo! who’s that?”

“Where?” said Geoffrey. “I don’t see any one.”

“I’d be sworn I saw some one go away,” exclaimed Pengelly, leaping forward, but only to return to where Geoffrey stood.

“I expect it was fancy, sir; but let’s go and rouse them up. They’ve no business to be asleep.”

He led the way into the engine-house, where, by the glow from the stoke-hole fire, the two men on duty could be seen lying back on the stone bench that formed their seat, fast asleep; and, though Pengelly shook them again and again, he could only evoke a deep stertorous snore from each in turn.

“I don’t like this, sir,” said Pengelly. “Let’s take a look round.”

Geoffrey took a lantern from a rough shelf, and together they visited office, stables, and the various buildings, ending by going towards the shaft, when Pengelly suddenly uttered a cry.

“What’s wrong?” cried Geoffrey, excitedly, though the knowledge had come to him at the same moment as to his man.

“She’s burst in, sir. Oh, listen! She’s burst in!”

And as Geoffrey bent over the shaft, the fearful sound of the rushing water flooding the mine rose from the echoing depths upon his ear.