The Vicar's People

“Look here, Pengelly, I must have lodgings somewhere. What am I to do? I’m not a dog to live in this kennel of an office.”

“You can share my place if you like.”

“No, no; I told you I would not.”

“I was talking to Mrs Prawle about it last even, sir.”

“What! you were over at the Cove?” said Geoffrey, eagerly. “How was poor Madge?”

“Very sadly, sir, they say. You haven’t been over for some days.”

“I? No, of course not,” said Geoffrey, sharply. “What should I do there?”

“Mrs Prawle said that if you could not get a better place, they had their little parlour and the one room out of it to spare; and Bessie said she would tend you if you liked.”

“But, hang it, man! I couldn’t go there,” cried Geoffrey.

“I don’t see why, sir,” said Pengelly, simply. “I couldn’t go there now, or I’d give up my place to you, but you could.”

“Oh, no – impossible!”

“They’re wonderfully clean people, sir,” continued Pengelly, “and, though the furnishing’s humble, they’d make you very comfortable, for old Master Prawle’s seldom in the house, and it’s little you’d want it for except for your breakfast and to sleep.”

“But that poor girl’s there,” cried Geoffrey.

“I don’t see why that should make any difference, sir,” said Pengelly. “I was talking to Bessie about it after Mrs Prawle had spoken, and I went against it; but she said it would be quite right, and hoped you would go.”

“Indeed!” said Geoffrey. “I say, Pengelly, how many times have you been there lately?”

“Every night, sir. It come of my taking a message, and money, and a parcel, from Mistress Mullion up at the cottage; for, though she can’t have her child back, because of old Mr Paul, her heart’s very sore about her, and she sends there every day.”

“And so you and Miss Bessie have been talking matters over, eh?”

“Yes, sir. I’m a poor fellow to go to a woman’s eye, but I’d try very hard to go to her heart,” said the miner, simply.

“I did not mean that, Pengelly,” said Geoffrey, smiling. “I meant about my matters.”

“Oh yes, sir, a deal; and if you can’t get elsewhere, I’d go there.”

The miner went off about his work, and Geoffrey began to think over what had been proposed.

“Oh, no; it would be madness to go there. It would be giving colour to the report;” and he dismissed the idea from his mind. But that evening, as he sat at the office-door upon the bleak, wind-swept promontory, with the remnants of a cheerless meal, brought him by one of the miners’ wives, upon the desk behind him, and the prospect of a night upon the bench beside the door, with a rolled-up coat for a pillow, his thoughts went back to the cottage at Gwennas, and he had to light a pipe to try and soothe himself, so bitter were his feelings.

“It’s too bad – a thousand times too bad for any thing,” he cried, as he gazed out to sea at the ever-darkening waves, now beginning to glitter with the reflections from the stars above.

“’Pon my soul, I’m the most unlucky fellow that ever breathed, and it’s miserable living like this. Suppose I go to old Prawle’s? I could sit with him down in his cave, and smoke, and drink smuggled liquor. I’m a drunkard by reputation, so why not indulge?

“I like poor old Mrs Prawle – and Bessie. Good lass.”

He had a long, quiet think, and then burst out into a cynical laugh.

“What would Carnac say if I went there?”

And directly after, in a hard fit of stubborn opposition, —

“What does Carnac say now? Damn Carnac. I will go, and they may say and think what they will.”

He had worked himself up into such a fit of passion, that for fear he should cool down, and let himself back out of what he looked upon as a bit of revenge upon the scandal-loving place, he started off at once, reached the cliff, and walked swiftly along to the Cove, where, as he came to the rapid descent, he stopped short to gaze at the place below.

On a stone outside the door, which was open, and from which came forth a soft flood of light, sat old Prawle, smoking away, with the bowl of his short black pipe glowing in the twilight like a star, while leaning against the door-post, with something in her arms, was Bessie Prawle, rocking herself to and fro, and singing an old Cornish ditty in a sweet, wild voice.

“By George!” said Geoffrey, softly, “I’d forgotten the bairn.”

He stood there watching that scene and listening to Bessie’s song for some time, and it set him thinking of women and children, and of what strength there is in their weakness to alter the journey of life. Then he thought of the suffering girl inside, lying there helpless and forsaken in her sorest time of need; and lastly he thought he would go back and try and furnish up the office and make it habitable, but just then a gruff voice hailed him with a rough —

“Hallo!”

“Hallo, Father Prawle!” he cried, and he went down, Bessie retiring into the cottage as he came into sight, “What’s the news about the mine?” said the old man.

“Bad,” was the reply. “Don’t go away, Miss Bessie. How is your patient?”

“Not well, Mr Trethick,” she said, coming back and standing before him with the baby in her arms, and gazing firmly and unshrinkingly in his face.

“I’m sorry. Poor lass!” he said. “May I come in?”

Bessie drew back, and he stooped and entered the room, where poor invalid Mrs Prawle was seated; and half an hour after the affair was so far decided that he had been referred to old Prawle himself to settle terms.

The old man had descended the rock-hewn steps to his bit of a cavern, from which came up the loud crackling of wood, while a ruddy glow shone out on the darkened rocks.

“Ahoy, there!” shouted Geoffrey.

“Ahoy!” echoed the old man. “Come down.”

Geoffrey descended, to find a ruddy fire burning, and a quaint old copper kettle singing in the hottest place.

“I thought you’d come down and have a pipe and a drop o’ brandy before you went back, my lad,” said the old man, in his grim, gruff way. “Sit down on yon tub. There’s some good tobacco there.”

“Ah, that looks sociable,” said Geoffrey, who was at heart a very gregarious animal. “I want to talk to you about terms.”

“What, for the mine?” said the old man, sharply.

“No: for lodgings, if you’ll have such a bad character in the house as I.”

“Been talking to them?” said the old fellow.

“Yes; and they are quite willing. Are you?”

“Oh, ay, I’m willing enough,” said Prawle, roughly. “I like bad characters,” he chuckled. “We’re all bad characters here – so they say.”

“Then I shall be in the right place,” said Geoffrey, cynically. “But come, what shall I pay you?”

“Whatever the old woman thinks right, my lad,” said the old man, who, in spite of his grim ways, seemed to glance with favouring eyes at his visitor. “Sattle it with that poor soul up yonder, and pay her the bit of money regular. Let her think – hold that glass upright while I pour in the hot water – now help yourself to the brandy. Never paid duty in its life,” he whispered, grinning.

Geoffrey poured in the spirit, and helped himself to the sugar. The old man mixed for himself, tasted, nodded, and went on —

“Let her think, poor soul, that she’s saving and helping to pay for her keep, and it will make her happy. Better than selling sweets.”

“That’s settled then, Father Prawle?”

“Sattled,” said the old man, holding out a great, gnarled hand, and giving Geoffrey’s a tremendous grip. “We don’t want the brass, but it pleases her.”

“And I may come down here and smoke a pipe when I like?”

“Ay, ay, my lad, and welcome,” said old Prawle. “You’ll find the brandy in the locker here, and the key’s always up on that ledge of rock yonder in the niche, and the matches are over t’other side there in that one. There’s always plenty of wreck-wood for a bit of fire, and I keep the breaker there full of fresh water.”

“Good,” said Geoffrey, smiling. “Then I shall come to-morrow, Father Prawle, and the world may say what it likes.”

“That for the world!” cried the old man, contemptuously exhaling a great puff of smoke. “The world’s called me wrecker, smuggler, and thief. The world has called my bonnie lass there witch. Let it. I’m a rough old fellow, Master Trethick, and I’d ha’ knocked you down at one time – I’d ha’ throwed you over the cliff at one time, ’fore I knowed you; but you stood up like a man for my bonnie lass there, and you’ve said a many kind word to my poor creetur up yonder, and there’s my hand.”

He held out the great gnarled fist again, and Geoffrey took it and had his own tightly gripped.

“I don’t care for what people say,” growled the old fellow. “This place is mine, and I could buy a dozen such if I liked. You’re welcome, my lad, as long as you like, and when you care to go I can give you as good a bit o’ fishing as a man could have, and as good a drop of brandy and bit of tobacco. As to Mullion’s lass, that’s no affair o’ mine, and I sha’n’t make it any affair o’ mine; but it’s as fine a little youngster as I ever see.”

Geoffrey’s countenance, that had been glowing from the joint effects of the warmth of the fire and old Prawle’s hospitable words, grew dark once more; but he sat chatting to the old man for another hour, and then returned to the office by the mine.

The next day Carnac society had another shock right to the centre, and Miss Pavey was outraged in her tenderest feelings by the news which she heard, and which she hastened to take to An Morlock, namely, that that wicked young man had now joined poor lost Madge Mullion at the Cove.

At night old Mr Paul heard the news as well, as he tottered through the place by the help of his stick, and he went back home, and smoked the first cheroot he had smoked for days, to tell Mrs Mullion; and the news had somewhat the colour of hope in the poor, sad mother’s eyes.

Chapter Forty Five

Oak and Willow

Mr Chynoweth was in very good spirits one morning, for he had composed a letter, offering his hand and fortune to Miss Pavey, entirely to his satisfaction. It was written in a large engrossing hand upon superfine brief paper, and had the legal look that a document of so much importance ought to wear.

“I think that will do it,” said Mr Chynoweth. “Her little income and my little income will make a big income; and with rubbers regularly three times a week, we ought to add something to the common fund.”

So rubbing his hands with satisfaction, he proceeded to play a quiet game in his desk, which he had just finished as Mr Penwynn came in, when Mr Chynoweth referred to his slate, and told him where Geoffrey had gone to lodge.

“It is nothing to me,” said the banker, “so long as he does his work. Any thing fresh?”

“No, sir, nothing. He has been here this morning, and said there was little to report. He says all his efforts to relieve the mine are useless; that hardly any thing can be done.”

“Tell him when he comes again that he must do something. I must call in fresh help if he is too ignorant to free the mine from water.”

He might have called in the help of half the engineers in England, but they could not have shown him a satisfactory means of battling with the huge rush of water that entered the gap blown out by the wretched man. For beneath the sea there was always a torrent ready to take the place of any that might be pumped out, and, after endless investigations, Geoffrey Trethick and Pengelly gazed at each other in despair.

It was bitterly tantalising. Here was the rich tin ore waiting for them in abundance, but no means of reaching and sending it up.

They examined the shore. Went out in boats and sounded. Took into consideration the possibility of throwing in sand bags over the chasm, but on such a coast they would have been tossed aside by the first storm; and the despair at Geoffrey Trethick’s heart grew blacker.

They were bitter times too, for Mr Penwynn. On the strength of the success, John Tregenna had presented himself, made a claim, and been handsomely paid off by the banker, who, wishing to be on good terms with the man he had formerly disappointed and being then in the full flush of triumph, had paid Tregenna double the amount agreed upon, and now he was too proud to demand it back, though it would have been a useless proceeding if he had.

Large as was the sum he drew, Tregenna had been terribly wroth, but when the news came to him of the flooding of the mine he sat and gloated over his success, and laughed to himself till he began to think of the man Lannoe, his tool, and of the possibility of getting rid of him in some plausible way, so as to be sure of being free from demands for black mail.

Then the days passed with more good news. It was certain, he knew, that Geoffrey had been dismissed from visiting at An Morlock, news that was delightful in its way. Then Lannoe did not come, though he was expecting him day after day, till a strange feeling of hope began to grow into a certainty, and at last he felt sure that the man had lost his life in his nefarious attempt.

Lastly came to him the information that Geoffrey Trethick had gone to lodge with the Prawles; and John Tregenna laughed aloud as he thought once more of Rhoda, and of the time when he could renew his pretensions, and this time, perhaps, with better success.

The days wore on, and finding that nothing could be done in the way of pumping out the mine, Geoffrey and Pengelly spent their time in the top galleries, to which the water had not reached, searching in vain for something in the way of reward.

The former found his bad character seemed to have but little effect upon the poorer people of Carnac, even though Miss Pavey in her visiting said that he was a terrible wretch, and ought to be excommunicated by the church. His worst failing in the eyes of the people was his going to lodge at Prawle’s, and unwittingly in this he had done poor Madge an ill turn, for the news reached the cottage just at a time when old Paul had settled that Mrs Mullion should fetch her daughter home. When this news came he bade her wait.

So time went on, and from the poorer folk there was always a shake or a nod as Geoffrey passed, and now and then an offering of fish from Tom Jennen or some other rough fellow with whom he had spent a night out in the bay.

He was passing along the road one day, in a very morose humour, when he came full upon the Reverend Edward Lee, and was about to pass him with a short nod, but the vicar stopped.

“How are you?” said Geoffrey, shortly.

“Not well, Trethick,” said the vicar, holding out his hand, to the other’s great surprise.

“Sorry for it,” said Geoffrey, grimly, shaking hands. “What is it – bile?”

The vicar looked at him with a pained expression of countenance.

“No,” he said, “I am sick at heart. We don’t see one another often, Trethick. May I walk with you?”

“Oh, if you like,” said Geoffrey, as the vicar turned and walked by his side. “I was going over the hill yonder by Horton mine, to let the wind blow some of my bad temper out of me.”

“I should like to go with you, Trethick,” said the vicar, eagerly.

“Look here, Lee,” exclaimed Geoffrey, “I’m a man of the world, and rough usage has made me rough. If you want to talk pious platitudes to me by rote, please don’t, for we should be sure to quarrel. I am horribly unholy this morning.”

“But I do not,” exclaimed the vicar, earnestly. “I want to talk to you as a man of the world.”

“Come on, then,” said Geoffrey; “it’s a treat to talk to a civilised being now.”

He thrust his arm through that of the young vicar, and hurried him on and on up-hill till the latter was breathless. Then he stopped.

“Now then!” said Geoffrey, “here we are, right out on the top, with heaven above and the free air around; now talk to me like a man of the world.”

The vicar followed Geoffrey’s example, and threw himself on the short, crisp turf, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and gazing at his companion with a curiously troubled air.

“Now then,” said Geoffrey, “man of the world, make a beginning.”

The vicar hesitated, and Geoffrey smiled.

“Well, I’ll help you,” he said. “You want to know why I have not been at church lately?”

“Yes,” said the vicar, eagerly catching at the ball thrown to him, “I did want to speak to you about that for one thing.”

“Too wicked!” said Geoffrey. “Mind too much taken up with other things.”

“Too much bent upon laying up treasure upon earth, Trethick, thinking too little of the treasure in heaven.”

“I thought you said that you were going to talk to me like a man of the world,” said Geoffrey, sharply.

“Yes, yes – I am,” was the hasty reply, for the vicar saw that a few more words in the same strain would send his companion away.

“Go on then. You said you were heart-sick,” said Geoffrey. “What’s the matter?”

“I am in a great deal of trouble, Trethick,” said the vicar, heavily. “I’m not a man of the world, but you are, and – and – I like you, Trethick, I don’t know why, but I wish we were better friends.”

“You like me?” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Why, my good sir, you and I are like positive and negative poles; we repel one another.”

“But why should we, Trethick? You seem always to exercise a strange power over me. I did not like you at first.”

“No,” said Geoffrey. “I was too rough and outspoken; too irreligious. I shocked you.”

“Yes, yes. That is true,” said the vicar.

“Then you found that I was a rival, and you hated me?”

“No: not hated you,” said the vicar, sadly. “I felt that we could never be friends. That was all.”

“Look here, Lee,” said Trethick; “are you a saint, or a humbug?”

“Certainly not the first,” said the vicar, smiling. “I sincerely hope not the second.”

“No: I don’t believe you are,” said Geoffrey, shortly. “Well, sir, the game’s up. I’ve failed in my projects, and I’ve failed in my love. The way is open. I am no rival now.”

“Trethick,” said the vicar, earnestly, “can’t we be friends?” and he held out his hand.

“Oh, yes, if you like,” said Geoffrey, bitterly. “But why should you want to be friends with such a blackguard? There, man, go and have your way. I’m out of the race.”

“You are speaking very bitterly, Trethick,” said the vicar, sadly.

“You are bitterly disappointed with your failures. So am I. It is as Mr Penwynn said that evening: we have not been able to make our way.”

“But you are making your way,” said Geoffrey.

“No,” replied the vicar, shaking his head, “not at all. I cannot move these people. I try all I can; I have done every thing possible, but they prefer to go to that wretched chapel, and to hear such men as Pengelly. Trethick, I speak to you as a man of the world,” he continued, growing each moment more earnest, and his face flushing. “I am in despair; that is why I came to you, whom I know to be disappointed, as I am myself. I cannot get at these people’s hearts. I yearn to do good amongst them, but I cannot stir them, while you seem to touch them to the core. If I announced that you would preach to them next week, the place would be thronged; as it is, it is nearly empty. Why is this?”

“Because I am the sinner, you the saint,” said Geoffrey, bitterly. “There, don’t look shocked, man; it is because you are too clever – too scholarly with them; you put on the priest’s garment, and with it the priest’s mask, and completely hide your nature. Let them know your profession by your ways, sir, and not by your cassock. I believe you are a good fellow at heart. Your words now prove it; but you have grown so full of belief in form and ceremony that you think them all in all. Why, Lee,” he cried, lighting up, “I could get these people to follow me like dogs.”

“Yes,” said the vicar, sadly; “but they shun me.”

“No,” said Geoffrey; “I am boasting. But still I believe I could move them. Look here, Lee, you are in earnest over this?”

“Earnest?” cried the other. “I’d give any thing to win them to my side.”

“Then be more of a man, less of a priest. Don’t draw such a line of distinction between you. Mix with them more. Never mind the long cassock and ritualistic hat. Take more interest in their pursuits, and let them feel how much your nature, however polished, is like theirs.”

“I will, Trethick. Yes, you are right. I am sure you are right.”

“I believe – I hope I am,” said Geoffrey.

“I am sure of it,” cried the vicar; “and I see now how unsuited much of my teaching has been. But now about yourself, Trethick, let me begin by being more human, and helping you.”

“How can you help me?” said Geoffrey, bitterly. “I am a hopeless bankrupt in pocket and morals, so the world says; and I am cut off from all that I looked forward to with happiness. Why don’t you be up and doing, man, as I told you?” he cried, with a mocking devil in his eyes; “the way is open – go and win the race.”

“I do not understand you,” said the vicar, sadly.

“Don’t understand? You know you loved Rhoda Penwynn.”

“I did love her – very dearly,” said the vicar, simply.

“And not now?”

He shook his head.

“Miss Penwynn would never have cared for me,” he said, quietly; “I soon learned that. These things are a mystery, Trethick. Don’t speak of that any more. It hurts me.”

Geoffrey nodded.

“Here, sit down,” he cried, “I’m tired, bodily and mentally. I feel as if I want my mother-earth – to nurse me. There,” he cried, settling himself upon the turf with a grim smile, “sometimes, lately, I’ve felt as if I should like her to take me in her cold, clayey arms, to sleep never to wake again.”

“Don’t talk like that, Trethick,” said the vicar, appealingly; “life is too real and good to be carelessly thrown away.”

“Right, Lee; you are right – quite right. Well, then,” he said, “I won’t; but look here, man, you want to win the people to your side – here is your opportunity. That poor girl – Margaret Mullion.”

“Yes,” said the vicar, eagerly. “I wanted to talk to you about her.”

“Go on then.”

“I dared not commence,” he said, “I shrank from beginning; but that was one reason why I longed to talk to you, Trethick.”

“Well,” said the other, smiling. “I am all attention.”

“I wanted – not to reproach you for your sin, Trethick – ”

“That’s right,” said Geoffrey, smiling bitterly.

“Don’t treat it with levity, for heaven’s sake, Trethick,” cried the vicar. “Think of the poor girl – of her life blasted – of the wrecked fame, and of the expiation that might be made by way of atonement.”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “I have thought of all that.”

“But an hour ago I was with the broken-hearted mother, who was sobbing at my feet.”

“And she asked you to see me?”

“Yes. Begged me to see you and appeal to you, and I said I would. Mr Trethick, in our great Master’s name, think of all this – think of the poor girl’s fall, and try to make amends. No, no, don’t interrupt me till I have done. I tell you I have knelt and prayed, night after night, that your heart might be softened, and that your reckless spirit might be tutored into seeing what was right, and into ceasing from this rebellion against the laws of God and man.”

“Laws of God and man, eh?” said Geoffrey, mockingly.

“Yes; is it not written that the adulterer and adulteress shall be stoned?”

“Yes,” cried Geoffrey, fiercely; “and is it not written – ‘He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone’? Damn it all, Lee, I’m sick of this. I’ve been stoned to death ever since this cursed affair got wind. My mistress – the woman I was to marry – casts the first stone at my devoted head; every one follows suit, and I am battered so that I don’t know myself.”

“You are mocking,” cried the vicar.

“I am not mocking,” cried Geoffrey; “but I am half-mad. And you,” he cried, passionately, “even you, who call yourself my friend, are like the rest. But what have you done for this wretched girl, abased and heart-broken in her sin – what have you done? – you and the better-class people? Treated her worse than the beasts that perish. One and all. And this is Christianity! Shame upon you! shame!”

The vicar looked at him appealingly as Geoffrey went on.

“Have you been to her and spoken words of comfort?”

“No,” said the vicar, humbly.

“Have you taken her by the hand, and bidden her go and sin no more?”

“No.”

“Have you tried to lead her to a better way – helped her, and guided others to help her in her sore distress?”

The vicar shook his head.

“And yet you say, How am I to win the hearts of these people?”