The Vicar's People

Stunned by the nature of the catastrophe, Geoffrey Trethick stood clutching the framework of the shaft, and leaned over listening to the surging roar of the water as it seemed to him to come bursting up through the winzes in fountains and rushing in triumph through each gallery and drive.

As for Pengelly, he had thrown himself upon the ground, and for a time neither spoke.

“Is this treachery or accident, Pengelly?” cried Trethick at last in a hoarse, changed voice.

“Call it judgment, sir – call it judgment,” groaned the miner. “If we sin, the punishment must find us out.”

“Pengelly?” cried Geoffrey, as he turned upon him in his rage. “There, I cannot argue with you now. What can we do?”

“Do!” cried Pengelly, piteously. “Do nothing. What can we do but pray and ask for mercy and help, sir, from above.”

“Help!” cried Geoffrey. “God helps those who help themselves. Let us be up and doing, man alive.”

“It’s no time to be up and doing now, sir,” replied Pengelly solemnly. “Listen, sir; do you hear? Hark at the water, as if the fountains of the great deep were broken up. Mr Trethick, sir,” he continued, incongruously, “we may stop the engine, for a dozen such could not master the water gathering there.”

“The wall was too thin to stand the pressure,” groaned Geoffrey, “and yet it seemed so safe. Is it possible that any tricks can have been played with the mine? Yes; I see it now,” he cried passionately. “That man you saw – those two fellows drunk – yes, of course. Look! the cage is down. Some one must have gone below to-night.”

Pengelly, roused by his companion’s words, seemed now to grasp their meaning, and, gazing from Geoffrey to the space where the cage should have been, he ran into the engine-house, and, turning the bars, threw the wheels in gear, when, after what seemed to be an interminable space of time, the dripping cage came up empty to the mouth.

“Some one has, been down,” said Pengelly, hoarsely; “but whoever it was has not come up;” and without another word, the miner walked slowly back into the engine-house, sat down, and buried his face in his hands.

For a time Geoffrey stood there, holding by the iron rail that protected the shaft, listening to the rushing water, for even yet he could hardly realise the appalling nature of the affair. A short time back it would have been a very serious loss! but now, just as prosperity in fullest tide had come upon them, sweeping away all doubts and fears, the calamity seemed greater than he could bear.

And Rhoda? Mr Penwynn? What was he to say to them?

Well, the former would pity and sympathise, and he must begin again.

The latter would help him no more.

It was horrible, and if he could only bring it home —

He shuddered, for he recalled Pengelly’s words.

Perhaps the cause of that mischief was below.

Then, like an icy blast, came the recollection of that other trouble – the suspicion that had been laid at his door; but he laughed that off with contempt, and turning at last, he followed Pengelly into the engine-house, where the fire burned ruddily, the two men slept, and, as if in mockery, the vast engine kept up its solemn, heavy thump, bent, apparently now, so Geoffrey thought, upon the task of pumping the Atlantic Ocean dry.

“Blow off the steam, man; throw open the furnace bars,” cried Geoffrey, suddenly, “and stop that cursed engine clank. The game’s up for the present. I’m going home to bed.”

Even as he spoke the words he recalled that he had no home, and Pengelly laid his hand upon his arm.

“I’ll do your orders, master,” he said sadly, “and then I’m going back to pray, for it’s a judgment on us, master, a judgment for our sins.”

He was about to say you, for in his simple breast the poor fellow believed the tale that was the talk of the little place.

“But he’s my master,” he had said; “and I’ll serve him true, for who knows but what I may some day make him sorrow for his sin, and see the light.”

Geoffrey turned upon him angrily, but Pengelly’s face disarmed him; and as the miner obeyed his orders and the clank of the great pump ceased, he threw himself upon the stone bench, and, staring in at the flaming furnace-fire, asked himself how he was to face the coming day.

Chapter Forty One

How Lannoe Earned his Hundred Pounds

Miner Lannoe had well made his plans, and, after abiding his time, he had arranged with a confederate to be at the shaft mouth ready to lower down the cage, when he should give the signal, and draw him up.

On second thoughts he told his confederate to lower down the cage first, and then to be ready to touch the handles of the engine in due form, and draw him up.

They had both worked at mines long enough to be quite conversant with the lowering and raising of a cage, and a promise of half a sovereign and unlimited beer was quite enough to enlist a man he knew in his service – a convenient kind of man, who was stupid enough to do what he was told without asking questions.

But this would necessitate the agreement of the two men who would be on duty keeping the engine pumping all night, for the mine was still very wet.

But Lannoe knew how to manage them. A bottle of smuggled brandy, which he knew how to get, was quite sufficient for the purpose, especially when drugged with tobacco, and thoroughly fulfilled his wishes, doing more too than he anticipated for his employer’s service.

He was obliged to trust to his confederate, for he had made up his mind to stay down, but his orders were simple in the extreme. The man had only to stroll into the engine-house, when he had seen every one off the premises, with the bottle of brandy under his arm, propose a drink, and not drink himself.

“If he don’t keep all square it will be awkward,” thought Lannoe, as he hung back when the other men left the pit; and, pulling out some bread and cheese, sat down in the dark and made a hearty meal.

“That’ll give a fellow strength,” he muttered, when he had done. “Now let’s see what’s what? Ugh! it’s a gashly job; but a hundred pound’s a big lump, and it may be a hundred and fifty.”

He took out a box of matches, lit a lantern, and walked cautiously towards the foot of the shaft, to find that the cage had been lowered down since the men went up – Pengelly with the last batch; and from that he argued that his confederate was on the watch.

To make sure he uttered a low whistle, which went up, seeming to increase as it rose, and an answer came back.

“That’s right,” he muttered. “I should stand awkward if he wasn’t there.”

He felt a strange sense of hesitation come over him, and a tremor of dread that made him flinch from his task, till he thought of Pengelly, and the money that was to be his reward.

“There’s nothing to be scared about,” he muttered. “If he wasn’t there I could get up the winze, and then up to the next gallery by the ladders, so I’m all right.”

Satisfying himself that he had nothing to fear on his own account, he turned and went on along the dark galleries, all of which were pretty familiar to him, till he reached the place where the new workings were going on, and stopped by the end of the passage where Geoffrey had marked out the portion that was not to be touched.

The man’s face looked very stern and grim as he took out of his pocket along cartridge, ready for blasting purposes, one which he had filched from the receptacle, and three fuses, which he tied together, end to end, so as to make one of extraordinary length.

Laying these upon a ledge ready, he went off to a niche in the rock some distance off and returned with a miner’s tamping-iron, and slipping off his frock, and turning up the sleeves of his tight jersey shirt, he paused for a few moments to consider.

As he stood listening, the stillness of the mine was awful, and the sweat stood out upon his forehead as he glanced timorously round; but, nerving himself with the thoughts of revenge and reward, he poised the bar, and the next minute the galleries were echoing to the strokes of the tamping-iron, while the sparks flew thick and fast from the stone.

He was an old and practised hand, knowing full well how to wield the implement so as to bore a hole big enough to hold the cartridge, and he toiled steadily on, forgetting his fear in his work, determined to go in a certain distance, and then insert the cartridge, light the fuse, and escape.

He calculated pretty well what the consequences would be. The thin wall at the end of the gallery would have a goodly piece blown out, and the water would rush in, flooding the mine beyond possibility of redemption.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, with the sparks flying fast, and once more the light from his lantern, as in the case of Geoffrey, cast that strange, weird shadow, as of the evil genius of the mine waving its arms, and threatening the intruder upon his realms.

Now the man paused and examined the edge of the tool he used, and wiped his forehead that was bedewed with sweat. Then he worked on again, till the sparks flew faster and faster, and he grimly laughed as he thought of what would be the consequences should one reach the cartridge.

“No fear of that,” he said, half aloud; and he worked on again for quite an hour before he stopped to rest.

“It’s gashly work all alone here,” he muttered, and he stood listening, but the only sound he heard was the regular thumping beat of the great pump, and the rushing noise of water, which came to him softened by the distance through which it travelled.

Another long attack upon the rock, with the tamping-iron going in deeper and deeper, till, with a grim look of satisfaction, he finished his work, and wiped and stood the tool aside.

“That’s long habit,” he said, half aloud. “That tool won’t be wanted any more; and, perhaps, a lad named Lannoe, with a hundred pound in his pocket, and a place where he can get more if he wants it, may stand better with old Prawle than a lame, preaching hound as ain’t so rich after all.”

“I wonder what time it is,” he muttered, with a shiver; and, having now completed one stage of his work, he hesitated, thinking of his means of escape; and, taking up his lantern, he went rapidly along to the foot of the shaft, listened for a few minutes, and then uttered a low whistle, which went reverberating up the long shaft to the still night air, and another whistle came back in answer.

“One whistle, make ready; two, draw up,” muttered Lannoe; and once more he threaded his way along the galleries, till he reached the spot where he had been at work.

Here a shrinking sensation seemed to come over him again, for he took the cartridge and fingered it about, held the lantern up to the hole he had made, and asked himself whether he had not better go on and drive it through to the water, so as to let it run in, though he knew all the while that a small pump would easily master as much water as forced its way in through such a hole.

Then he tried the fuse.

Yes, there was plenty of that to burn till he reached the foot of the shaft. Perhaps he might be up before the charge exploded. There was nothing to fear, then.

But still he hesitated, and a word or two would have made him give up his task and escape for his life.

It was not to be: for the thought of the money mastered him. He could easily force more from his employer, who dare not refuse; and, to make matters better, he would be having a rich revenge upon Pengelly.

Was it safe to trust his mate about the drawing up?

Bah! What matter! He could escape without his help if he failed; and, rousing his courage to the sticking-point, he vowed he would wait no longer.

The rest was done in desperate haste and with his hands trembling. The tamping was bold, manly work, but he had to deal now with a great cartridge of gunpowder, he told himself, and he must be careful.

He was careful as he thought, but he would have exercised more care if he had known that the stolen cartridge was not gunpowder, but formed of one of the newly-discovered explosives, made by Geoffrey’s own hands.

He laid his fuse ready for attachment, and placed the lantern a little farther back.

But no: that would not do; his shadow was thrown right across the hole, and he had to change the position of the lantern.

That would do well, and there was no danger; but still he hesitated, and he drew his arm across his wet forehead.

Of course – yes – he must not forget that. He must not leave his jacket behind; and, laying down the cartridge once more, he leisurely put on his frock and cap, hesitated a few minutes longer, and then, with the thoughts of the yellow gold blinding his eyes, he seemed to nerve himself to desperation, picking up the cartridge, and trying to fit it into the hole he had bored.

It went in easily enough for a part of the distance; but the action of the tool had made the hole slightly funnel-shaped, and the cartridge would not go in so far as he wished.

True, he might have fired it where it was, but then he would not have been sure of the result. The wall of rock was comparatively thin, he knew, but unless the cartridge was well in, a sufficiency might not be brought down, and his wish was to make so terrible a gap that no pump ever made, or likely to be made, could keep down the water in the deluged mine.

How it would rush in, carrying all before it, as soon as the shot was fired. He had seen dozens of such blastings, and he knew what great chasms were blown out of the solid rock. Here, where the wall was thin, the whole side would be blown back into the sea, and then where would rich Wheal Carnac be?

John Tregenna would say, at all events, that he had well done his work, he thought; but how was this cartridge to be forced farther in?

He laid it down for a moment, and took up the iron, thinking to enlarge the hole, but he knew it would be an hour’s work, and now he was strung up he wanted it done.

He tried the cartridge again. It nearly fitted; a good drive with the back of the tamping-iron would force it in. So, twisting it round and round, he screwed the paper-covered roll in for so goodly a distance that it was well placed in the wall, and needed, he thought, but a slight thrust or two to send it home.

He was ignorant, and blinded by his desire to finish the task he had undertaken; desperate, too, with the fear that was beginning to master him; and catching up the iron once more, he hesitated for a moment as he turned it round, and then, placing the butt end in the hole, he gave the cartridge a sharp blow.

In the act of striking he moderated the blow, so as not to strike fire from the rock; but no fire was needed there, the percussion was sufficient to explode the mighty imprisoned force, and, as that blow fell, there was one deafening crash, a pause, and then an awful rush of water that swept off the shattered fragments of the dead miner from the floor, and wall, and ceiling, and churned them up and bore them along through the galleries of the ruined mine.

For Lannoe’s blast had been a success. He had blown out so great a mass of the thin wall that the pump had not been invented that could master such a rush of water as that which poured in to flood the mine.

The explosion was sharp, and it roared through the galleries, but the rush of water seemed to drown it, so that the noise which reached dead Lannoe’s mate did not startle his drink-confused brain. He only wondered why Lannoe was so long; and at last, when quite wearied out, he saw Geoffrey Trethick and Pengelly come, he thought it was a good excuse for going, and he ran away.

Chapter Forty Two

An Unkindly Stroke

Rhoda Penwynn felt suspicious of Miss Pavey as she entered her room, blowing her nose very loudly, and then holding her handkerchief to her face, where one of her teeth was supposed to ache.

There was a great change in Miss Pavey’s personal appearance, and her bright colours had given place to quite a sister-of-mercy style of garb, including a black crape veil, through which, on entering, she had given Rhoda quite a funereal kiss, as if to prepare her for her adverse news – news which she dreaded to communicate, for she felt afraid of how Rhoda might compose herself under such a trial.

“Why, Martha,” said Rhoda, smiling, “surely there is nothing wrong – you are not in mourning?”

“Oh dear, no, love. It is the festival of Saint Minima, virgin and martyr.”

Here Miss Pavey sighed.

“Oh!” ejaculated Rhoda, quietly. “How is Mr Lee?” she added, after an awkward pause.

“Not well, dear – not well. He works too hard, and troubles himself too much about the wicked people here. Poor fellow! how saintly are his efforts for their good. But what do you think, Rhoda, dear?”

“I don’t know.”

“He has taken to calling me Sister Martha!”

“Well,” said Rhoda, smiling, “as you are working so hard with him now in the parish, it is very kindly and nice, even if it does sound formal or ceremonial – Sister Martha.”

“I must confess,” said Miss Pavey, “that I don’t like it. Of course we work together – like brother and sister. But I don’t think it was necessary.”

“Neither do I,” said Rhoda, smiling.

“I do not agree with Mr Lee, of course, in all things,” continued Miss Pavey, “but he is very good.”

“Most energetic,” assented Rhoda.

“You know, I suppose, that we are to have a new harmonium?”

“I did not know it,” said Rhoda, looking curiously at her visitor, who kept down her veil, and whose conscious manner indicated that she had something particular to say – something unpleasant, Rhoda was sure.

“Oh, yes; a new and expensive one; and I am to play it,” continued Miss Pavey. “We disputed rather as to where it should stand. Mr Lee wished it to be in the north-east end, but I told him that it would be so much out of sight there that I was sure it would not be heard, so it is to be on the south side of the little chancel.”

“Yes,” said Rhoda, who was waiting for the object of Miss Pavey’s visit; “that seems to be a good place.”

“Yes, dear, he willingly gave way; but he would not about the babies.”

“About the babies?” exclaimed Rhoda.

“Yes, dear. It was only this morning. We were discussing baptism and infant-baptism, and I don’t know what possessed me, but it was in the heat of argument. Babies are so soft and nice, Rhoda, dear. I’m not ashamed to say so to you, because we are alone – but they really are – and I do like them; and it horrifies me, dear, to think of what the Church says about them if they’ve not been baptised. Poor little things! And really, I’m afraid I spoke very plainly. But, oh, Rhoda! my love, how shocking this is about Madge Mullion.”

“About Madge Mullion?” cried Rhoda, excitedly, for she knew now from her visitor’s manner that her disagreeable communication had come. “What do you mean?”

“It’s too shocking to talk about, dear – about her and Mr Trethick, and – ”

Here she got up, raised her veil above her lips, and whispered for some moments in Rhoda’s ear.

“I’ll not believe it,” cried Rhoda, starting up with flaming face and flashing eyes. “How dare you utter such a cruel calumny, Miss Pavey?”

“My dearest Rhoda,” cried her visitor, whose red eyes and pale face as she raised her veil, bore out the truth of her assertion, “I have been crying half the night about it for your sake, for I knew it would nearly break your heart.”

“Break my heart!” cried Rhoda, scornfully. “I tell you it is impossible. For shame, Martha Pavey. I know you to be fond of a little gossip and news, but how dare you come and insult me with such a tale as this?”

“My dearest Rhoda, my darling Rhoda,” cried the poor woman, throwing herself at her friend’s feet, and sobbing violently, “you don’t know how I love you – how much I think of your happiness. It is because I would not have you deceived and ill-treated by a wicked man that I come to you and risk your anger.”

“You should treat all such scandal with scorn,” cried Rhoda. “Whoever has put it about deserves – deserves – oh, I don’t know what to say bad enough! You know it is impossible.”

“I – I wish I could think it was,” sobbed Miss Pavey. “That Madge was always a wicked girl, and I’m afraid she tempted him to evil.”

Rhoda’s eyes flashed upon her again; and, without another word, she left her visitor, and went straight to her own room.

Martha Pavey stood with clasped hands for a few moments gazing after her, and then, with a weary sigh, she lowered her veil and was about to leave the house, when she encountered Mr Penwynn.

“Have the goodness to step back into the drawing-room, Miss Pavey,” said the banker, whose face wore a very troubled look; and, in obedience to his wish, she went back trembling, and took the seat he pointed out, while he placed one on the other side of the table, and began tapping it with his fingers, according to his custom.

Miss Pavey looked at him timidly, and her breath came fast, for she was exceedingly nervous, and she dreaded that which she felt the banker was about to say.

He hesitated for some few moments, glancing at her and then out of the window, but at last he seemed to have made up his mind.

“Miss Pavey,” he said, “you are a very old friend of my daughter.”

“Oh, yes, Mr Penwynn; you know I am!” she cried.

“You take great interest in her welfare and happiness?”

“More I may say than in my own, Mr Penwynn.”

“You are a great deal about in the town too, now?”

“Yes, a great deal, Mr Penwynn.”

“In fact, you assist Mr Lee a good deal – in visiting – and the like.”

“A great deal, Mr Penwynn.”

“And therefore you are very likely to know the truth of matters that are going on in the place?”

“Oh, yes, Mr Penwynn; but what do you mean?”

“Simply this, Miss Pavey. I am a father, and you are a woman of the world – a middle-aged lady to whom I may speak plainly.”

“Mr Penwynn?” cried the lady, rising.

“No, no, don’t rise, Miss Pavey, pray. This is a matter almost of life and death. It is a question of Rhoda’s happiness. I believe you love my child, and, therefore, at such a time, as I have no lady-friends to whom I could speak of such a thing, I speak to you, our old friend, and Rhoda’s confidante.”

“But, Mr Penwynn!” cried the lady, with flaming cheeks.

“This is no time, madam, for false sentiment. We are both middle-aged people, and I speak plainly.”

“Oh, Mr Penwynn!” cried the lady, indignantly.

“Tell me,” he said, sharply, “have you been making some communication to Rhoda?”

“Yes,” she said, in a whisper, and she turned away her face.

“Is that communication true?”

She looked at him for a few moments, and then said, —

“Yes.”

“That will do, ma’am,” he said, drawing in his breath with a low hiss; and, rising and walking to the window, he took no further notice of his visitor, who gladly escaped from the room.

A few minutes later he rang the bell.

“Send down and see if Dr Rumsey is at home,” he said.

The servant glanced at him to see if he was ill, left the room, and in half an hour the doctor was closeted with the banker in his study.

“I’m a little feverish, Rumsey,” said Mr Penwynn, quietly; “write me out a prescription for a saline draught.”

Dr Rumsey asked him a question or two, and wrote out the prescription. The banker took it, and passed over a guinea, which the doctor hesitated to take.

“Put it in your pocket, Rumsey,” said his patient, dryly. “Never refuse money. That’s right. Now I have a question or two to ask you.”

“About the mine, Mr Penwynn?” cried the doctor, piteously. “Yes, every shilling of my poor wife’s money! Five hundred pounds. But I ought to have known better, and shall never forget it. Is there any hope?”

“I don’t know,” said the banker, coldly. “But it was not that I wanted to ask you. It was about Geoffrey Trethick.”

“Curse Geoffrey Trethick for a smooth-tongued, heartless, brazen scoundrel!” cried the doctor, rising from his general calm state to a furious burst of passion. “The money’s bad enough. He swore to me, on his word of honour, that the mine would be a success, and I let myself be deceived, for I thought him honest. Now he has come out in his true colours.”

“That report about him then is true?”

“True,” cried the doctor, bitterly, “as true as truth; and a more heartless scoundrel I never met.”

“He denies it, I suppose?”

“Denies it? Of course: as plausibly as if he were as innocent as the little babe itself. That poor woman, Mrs Mullion, is broken-hearted, and old Paul will hardly get over it. He has had a fit since.”