The Vicar's People

The vicar wiped the perspiration from his brow as Geoffrey went on.

“Not one soul of all who knew her came to the poor wretch’s help. Cast off by the man who robbed her of her fame, I found her maddened with despair. Rejected by her own people, I found her ready to die. Ready to die? I found her dying, for she had said to herself – ‘My people – my love – the whole world turn their backs upon me. What is there for me to do but die?’ What should you say to the man who, finding the poor girl drowning, leaps into the sea, drags her out, and, like some poor beggarly imitation of a Samaritan, takes her to a home, and gives her help and shelter, in defiance of the world? What would you say to such a man as that?” cried Geoffrey.

“That he was a hero,” cried the vicar.

“You lie,” cried Geoffrey, leaping up in his excitement. “You lie to my face, for you come and tell me I am a villain; that I wrecked the poor girl’s happiness; that the world scorns me; and you bid me, for what I have done, to marry the girl and give her the shelter of my name.”

“But, Trethick – Geoffrey, did you do this?”

“Did I do this? Yes, but – damnation! there was a devil of pride rose up within me, when, on top of my reverses with the mine, I found every one turn against me, and my accusers would not let me speak. Even she who should have been the first to take my part, turned from me and made me more bitter still.”

“But, Trethick,” cried the vicar, excitedly, “is this true?”

“True,” cried Geoffrey, throwing up his arms towards heaven, as he stood there now with the veins starting in his brow, and the passion working within him bringing him to such a pitch of excitement, that his companion could see his temples throb. “I scarcely spoke word about it before; but I swear by the God above us I never felt love, thought love, or dreamed of love but for one woman, and, Heaven help me, she has cast me off.”

He turned away and rushed headlong down the hill, but the paroxysm of rage was over, the excitement gone; and he returned directly to throw himself upon the turf.

“Did you ever see such a madman?” he cried, bitterly. “There, go on with your lecture; I’ll hear you to the end.”

“Trethick,” said the vicar, quietly; and Geoffrey turned slowly towards him, to find that his companion was kneeling there with outstretched hands.

“Well?” was the harsh response.

“I asked you to let me be your friend. I ask you again, Geoffrey, as I ask you now, to forgive my doubts.”

Geoffrey caught his outstretched hands.

“You believe me?”

“Believe you? Yes, every word. Forgive me for wronging you so cruelly. I’ll try and make amends.”

“Not by taking my part – not by speaking about this?”

“Why not?”

“As the cloud came so let it go,” cried Geoffrey. “The poor girl is silent about her lover, but the truth will come out of itself. Till then I am content to wait, and let the world have its say.”

“But he must marry her – poor girl!”

“No!” said Geoffrey, sternly. “No! Better let her bear her lot, hard as it may be. The man who could forsake her in her greatest need would never make her a husband worthy of her love. She must accept her fate.”

“But you, Geoffrey Trethick. It is unmanly not to clear your fame.”

“Maybe,” he said, bitterly; “but I don’t think I am like other men. I shall wait until Time shall bleach it once more white.”

“But why not leave your lodgings?” said the vicar. “Take apartments elsewhere.”

“What, make a cowardly retreat?” cried Geoffrey.

“But the world. It was an unfortunate thing for you to do. Why did you go there?”

“Out of defiance,” cried Geoffrey.

“But that is past now. Try and make an effort to crush this wretched scandal upon your name. It is a duty, Geoffrey.”

“That I will not do,” he said, stubbornly.

“And Rhoda?” said the vicar, softly.

Geoffrey started as if stung.

“Let her wait too,” he said, angrily. “When she humbles herself and asks my pardon she shall have it, and with it my farewell words. Lee, I loved that woman as strongly as man could love, but that love is dead.”

They stood together now in silence for a few moments. Then Geoffrey turned to go.

“I’ll drop in on you some day, Lee,” he said, in his usual light tone. “Good-by, old fellow. I think we understand each other now.”

“I’ll come with you,” said the vicar, quietly.

“Come with me, where?”

“To see poor Madge.”

And they went together down the hill, oak and willow; but the oak growing gnarled and bowed with a canker in its breast, and the willow growing stronger every hour.

Chapter Forty Six

A Thank-Offering

Six months had passed since the night Geoffrey Trethick saved Madge Mullion’s life, and his character and his ways had become, like the failure of Wheal Carnac, matters of the past.

There had been scores of interesting topics since then. People had talked about Miss Pavey’s change, and how she followed the vicar like his shadow. There was that affair which had shaken Mr Penwynn’s little local bank, and the forced sales he had had to make to meet his engagements. The carriage had been put down at An Morlock, and there were people who said that no good would come of the banker’s great intimacy with John Tregenna, who was up at the house more frequently than he had been for some time past.

Geoffrey was as much at Coventry with the better-class people of Carnac as ever. Dr Rumsey nodded coldly when they met; old Mr Paul looked at him fiercely, and waited; and other people followed suit. There were no pleasant invitations to high tea, with rubbers of whist, and supper after. A man who had settled down as the companion of old Prawle, the wrecker, and made the cottage at Gwennas Cove his home, was not one to be received.

He used to laugh mockingly as he saw it all, and coolly accepted his fate. At the end of three months he had received a curt letter from Mr Penwynn, enclosing a cheque, and saying that his services were no more needed at Wheal Carnac; but Pengelly was kept on as care-taker of the valuable plant.

Then came rumours from time to time of talk of selling the mine, but no buyer could be found; and Geoffrey writhed as he thought of the treasures buried there, and of the impossibility of reaching them unless another shaft were sunk, and even then the prospects were so bad that the capital was not likely to be subscribed.

Old Prawle was generally the bearer of this news, and he took a wonderful interest in the place, though in a secretive, curious way; and after many chats with the old fellow, Geoffrey came to the conclusion that what he knew was of little worth, and the conversation ceased.

Sometimes he thought he would go, but the bitter spirit of obstinacy was in him more strongly than ever, and he stayed on, waiting, he said, for the apology he expected to get. When that came he meant to say good-by to the place forever. As it was he very rarely saw Rhoda, and when he did she refused to meet his eye.

One day there was a bit of excitement down on the cliff.

“Here you, Amos Pengelly, what have you got to say to it?” cried Tom Jennen. “You don’t carry on none o’ them games at chapel. Why don’t you set to and have thanksgiving, and turn chapel into green-grocer’s shop like up town in Penzaunce?”

Amos shook his head, but said nothing.

“Why,” said Tom Jennen, “you never see any thing like it, lads. I went up churchtown, and see something going on, when there was Penwynn’s gardener with a barrow full o’ gashly old stuff – carrots, and turnips, and ’tatoes, and apples, and pears, and a basket o’ grapes; an’ parson, and young Miss Rhoda, and Miss Pavey, all busy there inside turning the church into a reg’lar shop. Why, it’ll look a wonderful sight to-morrow.”

“They calls it harvest thanksgiving,” said another fisherman, “and I see pretty nigh a cartload o’ flowers, and wheat, and barley, and oats, go in. Won’t be no room for the people.”

“I thought the church looked very nicely,” interposed Amos Pengelly; “and if I wasn’t down on the plan to preach to-morrow at Saint Milicent, I’d go myself.”

“Lor’ a marcy, Amos Pengelly, don’t talk in that way,” said Tom Jennen. “I never go to church, and I never did go, but I never knew old parson carry on such games. Harvest thanksgiving indeed! I never see such a gashly sight in my life. Turnips in a church!”

“Well, but don’t you see,” said Amos, in an expounding tone of voice, “these here are all offerings for the harvest; and turnips and carrots may be as precious as offerings as your fine fruits, and grapes, and flowers.”

“Well said, lad,” exclaimed one of the fishermen; “and, like ’tatoes, a deal more useful.”

“Didn’t Cain an’ Abel bring their offerings to the altar?” said Amos, who gathered strength at these words of encouragement.

“Yes,” cried Tom Jennen, grinning, “and Cain’s ’tatoes, and turnips, and things weren’t much thought on, and all sorts o’ gashly trouble come out of it. Garden stuff ain’t the right thing for offerings. Tell ’ee what, lads, here’s our boat with the finest haul o’ mack’ral we’ve had this year, and Curnow’s boat half full o’ big hake. We arn’t got no lambs, but what d’yer say, Amos Pengelly, to our taking parson up a couple o’ pad o’ the finest mack’ral, and half a score o’ big hake?”

Tom Jennen winked at his companions as he said this, and his looks seemed to say, – “There’s a poser for him.”

Amos Pengelly rubbed one ear, and then he rubbed the other, as he stood there, apparently searching for precedent for such an act. He wanted to work in something from the New Testament about the Apostles and their fishing, and the miraculous draught, but poor Amos did not feel inspired just then, and at last, unable to find an appropriate quotation, he said, —

“I think it would be quite right, lads. It would be an offering from the harvest of the sea. Parson said he wanted all to give according to their means, and you, lads, have had a fine haul. Take up some of your best.”

“What, up to church?” cried Tom Jennen. “It’ll make a reg’lar gashly old smell.”

“Nay,” said Amos, “they’d be fresh enough to-morrow.”

“You daren’t take ’em up to parson, Tom Jennen,” said one of the men, grinning.

Tom took a fresh bit of tobacco, spat several times down on to the boulders, and narrowly missed a mate, who responded with a lump of stone from the beach below, and then, frowning hugely, he exclaimed, —

“I lay a gallon o’ ale I dare take up a hundred o’ mack’ral and half a score o’ hake, come now.”

“Ye daren’t,” chorused several. “Parson’ll gie ye such a setting down.”

“I dare,” cried Tom Jennen, grinning. “I arn’t feard o’ all the parsons in Cornwall. I’ll take it up.”

“Bet you a gallon o’ ale you won’t,” said one.

“Done,” cried Tom Jennen, clapping his hand into that of his mate.

“And I’ll lay you a gallon,” said another.

“And I,” – “and I,” – “and I,” cried several.

“Done! done! done!” cried Tom Jennen, grinning. “Get the fish, lads. I arn’t afraid o’ the gashly parson. I’ll take ’em.”

Amos Pengelly looked disturbed, but he said nothing.

“What’s he going to do with all the stuff afterwards?” said Tom Jennen.

“Give it to the poor folk, I hear,” said Amos.

“Then he shall have the fish,” cried Tom Jennen. “Anyhow, I’ll take ’em up.”

There was a regular roar of laughter here, and a proposal was made to go and drink one of the gallons of ale at once, a proposal received with acclamation, for now that the bet had been decided upon, the want of a little Dutch courage was felt: for, in spite of a show of bravado, there was not a man amongst the group of fishermen who did not, in his religiously-superstitious nature, feel a kind of shrinking, and begin to wonder whether “parson” might not curse them for their profanity in taking up in so mocking a spirit such an offering as fish.

“Thou’lt come and have a drop o’ ale, Amos Pengelly,” said Tom Jennen.

“No,” said Amos, “I’m going on.”

“Nay, nay, come and have a drop;” and almost by force Amos was restrained, and to a man the group joined in keeping him amongst them, feeling as if his presence, being a holy kind of man, might mitigate any pains that might befall them.

If one only had hinted at the danger, the rest would have followed, and the plan would have come to an end; but no one would show the white feather, and, with plenty of laughing and bravado, first one and then a second gallon of ale was drunk by the group, now increased to sixteen or seventeen men; after which they went down to the boats, the fish were selected, and four baskets full of the best were carried in procession up to the church, with Tom Jennen chewing away at his quid, his hands in his pockets, and swaggering at the head of the party.

It was a novel but a goodly offering of the silvery harvest of the sea, and by degrees the noisy talking and joking of the men subsided, till they spoke in whispers of what “parson” would say, and how they would draw off and leave Tom Jennen to bear the brunt as soon as they had set the baskets down by the porch; and at last they moved on in silence.

There was not one there who could have analysed his own feelings, but long before they reached the church they were stealing furtive glances one at the other, and wishing they had not come, wondering too, whether any misfortune would happen to boat or net in their next trip.

But for very shame, they would have set down the baskets on the rough stones and hurried away; but the wager had been made, and there was Tom Jennen in front rolling along, his hands deeper than ever in his pockets, first one shoulder forward and then the other. He drew a hand out once to give a tug at the rings in his brown ears, but it went back and down, and somehow, in spite of his bravado, a curious look came over Tom Jennen’s swarthy face, and he owned to himself that he didn’t like “the gashly job.”

“But I arn’t ’fraid o’ no parsons,” he said to himself, “and he may say what he will. I’ll win them six gallons o’ ale whether he ill-wishes or curses me, or what he likes.”

The dash and go of the party of great swarthy, black-haired fellows, in their blue jerseys and great boots, was completely evaporated as they reached the church, Tom Jennen being the only one who spoke, after screwing himself up.

“Stand ’em down here, lads,” he said; and the baskets, with their beautiful iridescent freight of mackerel, were placed in the porch, the men being glad to get rid of their loads; and their next idea was to hurry away, but they only huddled together in a group, feeling very uncomfortable, and Tom Jennen was left standing quite alone.

“I arn’t afeard,” he said to himself; but he felt very uncomfortable all the same. “He’ll whack me with big words, that’s what he’ll do, but they’ll all run off me like the sea-water off a shag’s back. I arn’t feard o’ he, no more’n I am o’ Amos Pengelly;” and, glancing back at his mates, he gave a sharp rap on the church door with a penny piece that he dragged out of his right-hand pocket, just as if it had been a counter, and he was going to call for the ale he meant to win.

There was a bit of a tremor ran through the group of brave-hearted, stalwart fishermen at this, just as if they had had an electric shock; and the men who would risk their lives in the fiercest storms felt the desire to run off stronger than ever, like a pack of mischievous boys; but not one stirred.

The door was opened by Miss Pavey, who was hot and flushed, and who had a great sheaf of oats in one hand and a big pair of scissors in the other, while the opening door gave the fishermen a view of the interior of the little church, bright with flowers in pot and bunch, while sheaves of corn, wreaths of evergreens, and artistically-piled-up masses of fruits and vegetables produced an effect very different to that imagined by the rough, seafaring men, who took a step forward to stare at the unusual sight.

Miss Pavey dropped her big scissors, which hung from her waist by a stout white cotton cord, something like a friar’s girdle; and as her eyes fell from the rough fishermen to the great baskets of fish, she uttered the one word, —

“My!”

“Here, I want parson, miss,” growled Tom Jennen, setting his teeth, and screwing his mahogany-brown face into a state of rigid determination.

“Hallo, my lads, what have you got here?” cried a cheery voice, as Geoffrey Trethick strode up.

“Fish! Can’t yer see?” growled Tom Jennen, defiantly.

“Here – here are the fishermen, Mr Lee,” faltered Miss Pavey; and, looking flushed with exertion, and bearing a great golden orange pumpkin in his arms, the Reverend Edward Lee came to the door, laid the pumpkin where it was to form the base of a pile of vegetables, and then, with his glasses glimmering and shining, he stood framed in the Gothic doorway, with Miss Pavey and Geoffrey on either side, both looking puzzled, Tom Jennen and the fish in the porch, and the group of swarthy, blue-jerseyed fishers grouped behind.

Now was the time for the tongue-thrashing to come in, and the roar of laughter from the fishermen, who had given up all hopes of winning the ale, but who were willing enough to pay for the fun of seeing “parson’s” looks and Tom Jennen’s thrashing, especially as they would afterwards all join in a carouse and help to drink the rest of the ale.

“Brought you some fish for your deckyrations, parson,” roared Tom Jennen, who had screwed his courage up, and, as he told himself, won the bet.

There was no answer, no expostulation, no air of offence, no look of injured pride, and, above all, no roar of laughter from his assembled mates.

For a moment or two the vicar looked at the offering, and the idea of incongruity struck him, but no thought of the men perpetrating a joke against his harvest festival. The next moment a rapt look seemed to cross his face, and he took off his glasses, gazing straight before him as visions of the past floated to his mind’s eye. To him, then, the bright bay behind the group suggested blue Galilee, and he thought of the humble fisher-folk who followed his great Master’s steps, and the first-fruits of the harvest of the sea became holy in his eyes.

Geoffrey Trethick looked at him wonderingly, and Miss Pavey felt a something akin to awe as she watched the young hero of her thoughts, with tears in her eyes; while he, with a slight huskiness in his voice, as he believed that at last he was moving the hearts of these rough, stubborn people, said simply, —

“I thank you, my men, for your generous offering,” and he stretched his hands involuntarily over the fish, “God’s blessing in the future be upon you when you cast your nets, and may he preserve you from the perils of the sea.”

“Amen!” exclaimed a loud voice from behind.

It was the voice of Amos Pengelly, who had stood there unobserved: and then there was utter silence, as the vicar replaced his glasses, little thinking that his few simple words and demeanour had done more towards winning over the rough fishermen before him than all his previous efforts or a year of preaching would have done.

“I am very glad,” he said, smiling, and holding out his hand to Tom Jennen, who hesitated for a moment, and then gave his great, horny paw a rub on both sides against his flannel trousers before giving the delicate, womanly fingers a tremendous squeeze.

“I am very glad to see you,” continued the vicar, passing Jennen, and holding out his hand to each of the fishermen in turn, hesitating for a moment as he came to Amos Pengelly, the unhallowed usurper of the holy office of the priest; but he shook hands with him warmly, beaming upon him through his glasses, while the men stood as solemn as if about to be ordered for execution, and so taken aback at the way in which their offering had been received that not one dared gaze at the other.

“Mr Trethick, would you mind?” said the vicar, apologetically, as he stooped to one handle of the finest basket of mackerel. “How beautiful they look.”

“Certainly not,” said Geoffrey, who took the other handle, and they, between them, bore the overflowing basket up to the foot of the lectern.

“We’ll make a pile of them here,” exclaimed the vicar, whose face was flushed with pleasure; and, setting the basket down, they returned for another, Miss Pavey, scissors in hand, once more keeping guard at the door.

“I am so glad,” he continued. “I wanted something by the reading-desk, and these fish are so appropriate to our town.”

“Let’s go and get parson ten times as many, lads,” cried Tom Jennen, excitedly.

“No, no,” said the vicar, laying his hand upon the rough fellow’s sleeve; “there are plenty here. It is not the quantity, my lads, but the way in which the offering is made.”

There was an abashed silence once more amongst the guilty group, which was broken by the vicar saying, —

“Will you come in and see what we have done?”

There was a moment’s hesitation and a very sheepish look, but as the head sheep, in the person of Tom Jennen, took off his rough cap, stooped, and lifted a basket and went in on tip-toe, the rest followed, their heavy boots, in spite of their efforts, clattering loudly on the red and black tiled floor, while the vicar took from them with his own hands the remainder of the fish, and placed them round the desk.

“I wish we could have had some pieces of ore, Mr Trethick,” said the vicar. “I should have liked to have represented some offerings of our other great industry here.”

“I’ll bring you some tin and copper, sir,” cried Amos Pengelly, who had been staring about, cap in hand, and wishing he might get up in that little stone pulpit and preach.

“And I will send you the first winnings from Wheal Carnac, Mr Lee,” said Geoffrey, quietly; and as he spoke he saw that Rhoda Penwynn, who had been grouping ferns by the communion rails, and hearing all, was present, and had heard his words, but she turned away.

“Will you?” cried the vicar, eagerly. “I thank you both, and I pray, Geoffrey Trethick, that your venture may prosper yet.”

“Thank you,” said Geoffrey, quietly, and he looked smilingly in the young vicar’s face till his scrutiny seemed to evoke a womanly blush.

In the mean time the fishermen, hanging close together in a group, stood cap in hand, staring round at the decorations of the church, and, lastly, at the wondrous tints upon the fish, that seemed to be intensified and made dazzling as the sun streamed through a stained glass window and fell upon the glistening heaps. One pointed to this heap of fruits, another to that, but no one spoke, and Tom Jennen furtively removed his tobacco quid, and stuffed the dirty-brown, wet morsel into the secrecy of his trousers pocket, giving his hand a polish after upon the top of one of his high fisher-boots.

“I’ll ask them all to come to church to-morrow,” whispered the vicar eagerly to Geoffrey, as Rhoda now came up, and a chilly greeting passed between her and the miner.

“No,” he said quickly; “don’t undo your work. You have moved them more than you imagine. Let well alone.”

A slight frown crossed Rhoda’s brow – forced there to keep herself from marking her approval of his words; and just then a diversion occurred, for Tom Jennen gave a pull at the crisp hair upon his forehead, muttered something about not hindering the stowage, and went off on tip-toe, his mates saluting the vicar in turn, and going gently out. Miss Pavey smiled as she closed the door behind them, and bowed in answer to their “Good-day, ma’am.”

Not a word was spoken as they made their way in a cluster down to the rails by the steep causeway leading to the boats, where they all grouped together, and stared from one to the other, waiting for some one to speak.

That some one proved to be Tom Jennen, who, after hunting out his quid from where it lay, in company with some half-pence, a stray button, and a lucky sixpence that acted as a charm against the evil eye, picked off some pieces of flue, tucked the quid in his cheek, and said gruffly, —

“It’s a gashly old job, lads, and we’ve been sold.”

“Ay, we have that,” was chorused; and the men nodded and shook their heads.

“I wouldn’t ha’ done it if I’d knowed he was such a good sort,” growled Tom, rather excitedly, “for he is a good sort, arn’t he?”

“Ay, lad, that he is,” was the ready answer.

“And what I say is this,” cried Tom. “I won the bet fair and square, and let him as says I didn’t, say so right out like a man.”

“Ay, lad, you won it fair enough,” was the reply.