The Vicar's People

This produced a remonstrance from a fellow-passenger, and he drew the window up again, and tried once more to think only of the mine and of old Prawle’s venture; but, as a matter of course, the thoughts of the old wrecker brought up others of his daughter and his invalid wife, when, naturally enough, the other invalid – poor Madge – followed; and then came the whole history of his connection with her family and his dismissal by Rhoda, and then —crash!

It was instantaneous – one moment they were going along at a rapid rate, the next there was a sharp, deafening crash; the glass flew in shivers, the strong carriage seemed to collapse like a bandbox, and they were at a standstill.

There were four passengers in the same compartment, and as soon as Geoffrey recovered from the stunning violence with which he was hurled against his opposite neighbour he roused himself to afford help. Fortunately, however, beyond a shaking, they had all escaped, and, after a struggle, they managed to get out through one of the windows on to the line.

Here all was confusion – lights were flashing, steam was hissing, and the shouts of the guards and engine-drivers were mingled with the cries and shrieks of the passengers, many of whom were imprisoned in the broken carriages, and some time elapsed before they could be set free.

It was the old story – a luggage train was being shunted and not sufficient time allowed, with the result that the fast night train had dashed at full speed into the goods trucks, and they and the brake-van formed a pile upon which the engine of the fast train seemed to have made an effort to climb; and then, defeated, the monster had fallen right over upon its side, setting fire to the trucks upon which it had dashed.

Fortunately the speed at which they had been going seemed to have saved the passengers. There were bruises and cuts without number, but no serious injury to person. The train, though, was in a state of chaos; both lines were badly blocked, and when Geoffrey could get an answer to a question, the reply was not encouraging, for he was told that at least six hours must elapse before he could go on.

The six expanded themselves into eight, and the consequence was that all Geoffrey’s plans were overset. The probability now was that he would not reach town until the sale was over, and, by a strange reversal, what he had looked upon as worthless the day before, now grew into a thing of such value that he was ready to make any sacrifice to carry out his commission in its entirety.

He was in a peculiar position, for he could not telegraph to the auctioneer to appoint an agent to bid for him, for he was not able to say to what price he would go. Old Prawle had left it to him, but even then he could not say “Bid so much.” Every thing must depend on what took place, and, under the circumstances, he felt that there was nothing for it but to make the best of his way there on the chance of being in time; London at last, and, without waiting a moment, he jumped into a cab, and bade the man drive to the city.

It is a long drive from Paddington to the Mart, and when he reached the place and had seen in which room the sale was to take place, he ran up to find another sale going on. Wheal Carnac had been up nearly an hour before.

After a little searching he found the auctioneer.

“Wheal Carnac was bought in, I suppose?” said Geoffrey, carelessly.

“No, sir, not this time,” said the auctioneer. “That mine’s an old friend here, but it has found a purchaser once more.”

“Did it make much?” said Geoffrey, hoarsely.

“Went for a song. Not half the value of the machinery.”

Geoffrey bit his lip.

“Who bought it?”

“Can’t say, sir. Or, stop a moment. Yes, of course,” he said, referring to his books. “It is a firm of solicitors. Agents for the real purchaser, I suppose.”

Geoffrey obtained the name of the firm of solicitors, found it was in Serjeant’s Inn, and went straight there, asked for the principal, and was shown in.

“Wheal Carnac? Oh, yes,” said a little, sharp-looking grey man. “We – that is – an agent from this house purchased it;” and he looked curiously at Geoffrey.

“For a client of yours, I presume?” said Geoffrey.

“Certainly you may presume so if you like, sir,” said the little lawyer.

“And possibly he would be ready to part with his purchase for a small profit over what he gave?”

“Possibly he might, my dear sir,” said the lawyer; “but I don’t think it is very probable.”

“May I ask why?” said Geoffrey.

“No, sir,” said the solicitor, smiling. “Well, there, I will admit that. Because our client – another admission you see, sir – I say because our client is a gentleman, who would not be tempted by a small profit. If you wish to buy, sir, you will have to give a handsome bonus for the purchase.”

“How much?” said Geoffrey, bluntly.

“Impossible to say, my dear sir,” said the solicitor. “I do not even know that our client would sell. In fact I do not believe he would. His name? Oh, no, I cannot give you his name.”

Geoffrey had the name of the firm down in his pocket-book, and as he stepped out into noisy Fleet Street he felt that he could do no more. There was nothing left for him but to go back to Carnac and tell old Prawle of his ill success. Then, perhaps, the old man would say to what extent he would go, and the place might, probably, be obtained by private contract.

Geoffrey went to an hotel, had a few hours’ rest and refreshment, and once more he was being hurried to the little mining town, where he arrived this time without adventure, bitter with disappointment, and seeing endless advantages in the possession of the mine now that it was gone from him forever. So enraged was he at the result of his journey that he could not bear to look at the mine as he walked towards Gwennas, but rigorously turned his eyes aside.

He had walked as far as the ruined pit when he started, for he heard his name pronounced, and, turning, there stood old Prawle, waiting to intercept him on his return.

“Now then,” he said, excitedly. “How much did you have to give, my lad? Quick! How much?”

“I have not bought the mine,” said Geoffrey.

“What?” cried the old man, furiously; and his weather-beaten countenance turned of a curious hue. “I told you to buy her, no matter what price.”

“There was an accident to the train. The mine was sold before I got there.”

“Sold!” cried the old man, with an oath. “Why didn’t you walk on?”

“Two hundred miles in eight hours,” said Geoffrey, grimly.

“Why didn’t you write or – or send?”

“I tried all; I thought of all; I spared no pains, Father Prawle,” said Geoffrey, commiserating, the old man’s disappointment. “You could not have saved it had you gone yourself.”

“But it was a fortune; it was a great fortune,” cried the old man, stamping with rage.

“No, no,” cried Geoffrey. “You might perhaps have made a little by it, or we might perhaps have hit upon some plan to get at the tin; but it was doubtful.”

“You’re a fool,” cried the old man, furiously.

“A terrible fool,” said Geoffrey, coolly.

“You don’t know,” stuttered old Prawle, who was beside himself with rage; “you don’t know, I tell you. Not half-way down that pit I could show you veins of copper so rich that your tin you found was not worth half.”

“What?” cried Geoffrey, staring at the old man to see if he were sane.

“She’s full of copper, Trethick. Do you think I would have spent money unless I was sure? She’s worth no end of money, and you’ve thrown away what would have been a great fortune for you as well as me.”

“But the copper? Are you sure?” cried Geoffrey, hoarsely.

“Am I sure?” cried the old man. “Didn’t I work in her for years? Of course I know.”

“Then why did you not say so before?” cried Geoffrey, angrily.

“Why should I say so?” replied the old man, fiercely. “I have myself to look after. People don’t come and give me money, and tell me to live out of that. They hate me, and call me ill names. No. I found the copper, and I said to myself, ‘If no one else finds it, that’s mine. I’ll buy that mine some day;’ and now, when the time has come, and we could have been rich, you let the mine go, and it is all for nothing.”

“You ought to have told me about that copper, Prawle. It would have been the saving of Mr Penwynn. I could have redeemed that mine from loss, and the water might have been removed sufficient for that.”

“Nay,” cried the old man; “you couldn’t have rid her of water without my plan, and I tell you I found the copper, and it was mine, and you have thrown it away.”

Geoffrey felt too much enraged to say much, but the old man went on.

“Helped Mr Penwynn! I suppose you would: the man who threw you over. Helped his girl, who threw you over, too, and who is going to marry John Tregenna some day.”

A fierce utterance was on Geoffrey’s lips, but this last remark of the old man seemed to silence him; and, prostrated by weariness and misery, he went on to the cottage, threw himself on his bed, and slept for twelve hours right away.

Chapter Fifty One

Madge Hears News

Madge Mullion was very ill, and she seemed to Geoffrey to be going back, as he sat looking at her a few days after his return from town.

There was something about the poor girl he liked, for she was simple-hearted and loving to a degree, and he would often sit in the next room apparently busy writing, but watching her intensity of affection for her child.

“Come, Madge,” he said to her, “why don’t you grow strong again, and be a woman and fight the world?”

Her eyes filled with tears, and he cried out impatiently, —

“Now, look here, Madge, you are going to cry, and tell me how sorry you are for the pain you have caused me, and beg me to forgive you for what you have done; and if ever you say such a thing to me again, I shall run out of the house.”

“No,” she faltered, “I was not, Mr Trethick. I was going to say, why should I grow well and strong again?”

“For that!” he said abruptly, and he pointed to the sleeping child.

She glided from the sofa to the side of the cradle, and laid her face against the little cheek.

“And, look here,” he said, “you are fretting yourself into the grave, Madge!”

“Yes, Mr Trethick.”

“You must be a woman, and get well. That little thing must be your reason; so make a brave fight for it.”

Madge shook her head, and looked at him piteously.

“No,” she said, “I feel that I have not strength now, and as if the greatest kindness I could do to you, Mr Trethick, is to die.”

“Nonsense?” he said, kindly. “You have done me no harm – only brought me to my senses, and saved me from an ugly fate.”

“Ah! Mr Trethick,” she cried, “what bitter words! You do not mean them.”

“Oh, but I do, Madge,” he said, laughing cynically. “Look here, my lass, I rather like you, and we are a pair of miserable unfortunates. I shall have, to marry you, Madge, and force you to like and take care of your little one. Then we shall be able to go back to the cottage, and Mamma Mullion will bless us, and Uncle Paul will make us rich, and we shall all live happily afterwards, like the good people in the story-books.”

“Ah! Mr Trethick,” she said, softly, “do you think I cannot read your heart better than that? My trouble seems to have made me wiser than I was in my old silly, girlish days. Why do you say such foolish, bitter things? They only give me pain, and I know you do not mean them.”

“Oh,” he said, laughing, “but I do.”

“No, no, no,” she said, sadly. “You love Rhoda Penwynn with all your heart, and always will, and I have come upon your love like some cruel blight.”

“Curse Rhoda Penwynn!” he cried, savagely. “I love the woman who is to be John Tregenna’s wife?”

Madge started from her knees, and took two steps across the room to catch him by the arm.

“What? What is that you said?”

“That there is no such thing as true and honest love upon the face of this wretched earth,” he cried. “It is a puzzle and a muddle. For a wretched error I am thrown overhand – ”

“Speak what you said before,” she said, wildly; “tell me what you said.”

“I said that Rhoda Penwynn is about to marry John Tregenna, or John Tregenna is about to marry Rhoda Penwynn, which you like,” he said, almost brutally.

“Is – this true?” she said, hoarsely.

“Yes,” he cried, with the veins standing out in his forehead, as, in spite of the calm, cynical way in which he had schooled himself to bear all this, the passion burning at his heart would have vent. “Honesty, integrity, and virtue are to have their reward; long-suffering patience is to win the day; so I say to you again, Madge, you and I had better wed.”

“Go – go and leave me,” said Madge, hoarsely. “Mr Trethick – I want to be alone.”

Her looks brought Geoffrey back to his senses, and the ebullition of the passion was over.

“No: you are ill. Sit down there. Here, let me get you water – spirit – something, Madge. My poor girl, I have given you terrible pain by my mad words.”

“Mad words? Mr Trethick,” she cried, “were not those words true?”

He did not answer.

“They were true. I know they were; and yet she dared to come here and trample upon me in the midst of my wrongs.”

“Who? Who came here?” cried Geoffrey.

“Rhoda Penwynn, and accused me cruelly. She to dare to speak to me as she did,” cried Madge, whose face seemed quite transformed. “Half fainting as I was, I saw her take the child into her arms, and kiss and fondle it because it was his; and now she would step into my place. But, sooner than she shall be John Tregenna’s wife, I’ll stand between them at the altar, and – oh, God help me! what am I saying? – and I swore to him that I would die sooner than confess his shame.”

She threw herself sobbing upon the floor.

“What have I said – what have I said?” she moaned.

“Only the simple truth that I was sure I knew,” said Geoffrey, looking at her sadly. “Only words that it might have been kinder if you had spoken before.”

“But I could not – I dared not. He made me swear. He said it would be his ruin, Mr Trethick, and he promised that even if it was a year past, if I would be silent and help him, as soon as he had arranged his money matters I should be his wife; and I never said a word until now,” sobbed the wretched girl.

“And it was your ruin and mine instead, Madge,” said Geoffrey, coldly. “But there, my girl, I don’t accuse you. I felt sure it was so, and I have only waited for the truth to come.”

“And you will never forgive me,” she cried, piteously.

“Oh, yes, if my forgiveness will do you good, Madge, you have it freely. But there, I must go. I shall stifle if I stay here longer;” and, without another word, he went out and down amongst the rocks, seeming to take delight in trying to exhaust himself by hurrying over the most rugged parts to calm himself by physical exertion.

Over and over again he vowed that he would go and expose John Tregenna, but he always ended by vowing that he hated Rhoda Penwynn now, and that he would not stir a step even to meet her half-way.

It was past mid-day when he slowly climbed up once more to the cottage, and encountered Bessie at the door nursing the child.

“Well, Bessie,” he said, “you look startled. What’s the news?”

“Miss Mullion, Mr Trethick!”

“Well, what of her? Not worse?”

“No, Mr Trethick; she has put on her things and gone out I think she has gone up into the town.”

“Madge Mullion? Gone up to the town!”

“Yes, sir, unless – unless – oh pray – pray, sir, go and see.”

Chapter Fifty Two

John Tregenna’s Visitor

Mr Chynoweth was seated at his desk, with the heavy flap resting upon his head. The cards were dealt out in four packs, turned up so as to be beneath his eye, and it seemed as if some very particular hand was being played out; but Mr Chynoweth’s thoughts were wandering, and for quite half-an-hour he did not move a card.

“Curse him!” he said; and then there was another long pause, during which Mr Chynoweth’s thoughts still went on wandering.

“Hah!” he ejaculated at last; “he seems to hold all the trumps, and beats us at every game. I don’t know that I like the governor, but he has always been just to me, and paid me like a man, and trusted me. Yes, he has always trusted me, and I’m growing old in his service, and I can’t bear to see things going to the dogs. Yes, he holds all the trumps somehow, and he’ll win the rubber.”

There was another pause, during which Mr Chynoweth impatiently packed the cards, put them away, and shut down the heavy flap of his desk before taking up his slate, and sadly rubbing it with the piece of sponge attached by a string.

“Win the rubber, that’s what he’ll do. He’s got the governor into a regular hole, and under his thumb, and it seems that he’ll marry Miss Rhoda after all. Curse the mines! I wish he’d never touched them. An old fool! Hadn’t he had experience enough of what comes to those who dabble in mines? It’s wonderful! I shall be throwing my own poor savings down next like poor Rumsey, and – talk of the – Morning, Rumsey.”

“Ah, Chynoweth!” said Dr Rumsey, entering the office with his fishing-rod in his hand, and his creel hanging from his shoulder. “Nice morning.”

“Beautiful. How many trout?”

“Not a brace,” said the doctor, drawing the basket round, and peering in at the hole disconsolately. “One miserable little fellow, that’s all. Chynoweth, I’m regularly out of luck.”

“Ah, yes,” said Chynoweth; “you always do seem to hold bad hands.”

“Wretched,” said the doctor, with a grim smile; “and the money comes in horribly.”

“Always does when you want it.”

“Always,” asserted the doctor, and there was another pause.

“By the way, Chynoweth,” he said at last, as the clerk went on polishing his slate, “I hear that Wheal Carnac was sold in London the other day.”

“Yes.”

“Who bought it?”

“Don’t know. We haven’t heard. Deposit’s paid, and all that sort of thing. That’s all we know at present.”

“Do you – do you think that I could get fifty pounds lent me on those shares now?” said the doctor, hesitatingly.

Chynoweth shook his head.

“But I paid down five hundred for them – my wife’s money.”

“My dear Rumsey,” said Chynoweth, “you couldn’t raise fifty shillings upon them.”

The doctor raised the lid of his basket now, and gazed in at the unfortunate trout.

“It’s very hard,” he said, as if addressing the fish. “My expenses are so large.”

“Ten times mine,” said Chynoweth, “I dessay.”

“Do you – do you think Mr Penwynn would make me an advance, Chynoweth? I’ll deposit the shares with him.”

“Spades and aces, no!” cried Chynoweth. “The very name of Wheal Carnac would send him into a passion. I’ll ask him to make you an advance, Rumsey – that I will,” he continued, busily writing away upon his slate.

“Yes, do please.”

“No,” said Chynoweth, rubbing it all off again with the sponge. “It’s of no use. He hasn’t the money.”

“Hasn’t the money?”

“No; it’s hard times with us now, Rumsey, I can tell you, and where it’s all gone I can’t tell.”

“But I’m really in distress,” said the doctor. “There are several bills I must pay. I can’t put them off.”

Chynoweth looked at him, then at the slate, hesitated, thought, wrote “I O U fifty pounds” upon it, and rubbed it out, and ended by laying it down.

“Are you very hard up, Rumsey?” he said.

“I never was so pushed before,” said the doctor, dolefully. “Hang it, Chynoweth, I feel sometimes as if it is of no use to keep struggling on. It was bad enough before that scoundrel Trethick deluded me into buying those shares.”

“I don’t think Trethick is a scoundrel,” said Chynoweth, quietly.

“You don’t?”

“No; I believe he is as honest as the day.”

“Indeed?” said the doctor, in what was meant as a sarcastic tone. “Nice honesty. Let alone my case, look at Madge Mullion.”

“Ah, poor lass, he hasn’t behaved very well to her. That’s what I think. But look here, Rumsey, I’ve won a few pounds of you in my time.”

“Have you? Well yes, I suppose you have, Chynoweth. You always seemed to make more of a study of whist than I did.”

“Eh? Yes. Think so?” said Chynoweth, glancing at his desk-lid to see that it was close. “But look here, Rumsey, it’s of no use to ask the governor for money now.”

“But I must. What am I to do?”

“Well, look here, I’ll lend you fifty pounds.”

“You – you, Chynoweth?”

“Yes,” said the little man, quietly; and, without noticing the excited, overcome look of his visitor, he methodically wrote put an I O U, and placed it before him to sign.

“This – this is more than I expected of you, Chynoweth,” said the doctor, huskily.

“Well, do you know, Rumsey, it’s more than I expected of myself. But there you are,” he continued, taking notes to the amount from his pocket-book, “and pay me back a little at a time.”

“If I live I will,” said the doctor; and, hastily catching up the money, he hurried away to conceal his emotion.

“Poor old Rumsey!” muttered Chynoweth. “He’s a good fellow, and some of these days, I dessay, I shall have to be in his hands. Oh, you’re here again, are you?”

“Mr Penwynn in his room, Chynoweth?” said Tregenna, entering unceremoniously, and going towards the door of the banker’s sanctum.

“No, sir; not come yet,” said the clerk, rising.

“All right, I’ll wait. I want to write a letter or two.”

He walked in and shut the door, while Chynoweth resumed his place.

“Nice state of affairs,” he muttered. “Who’s master here now?”

John Tregenna evidently, for he made no scruple about taking Mr Penwynn’s seat at his table, and writing letter after letter, ringing twice for Chynoweth to answer some question, and then going on with his work, over which he had been very intent for quite an hour, when there was a tap at the door.

“Come in. Well, Chynoweth, Mr Penwynn arrived?”

“No, sir. Here’s a lady, sir, wants to see you. She says she has been up to your house, and they said you were here.”

“A lady? Is it Miss Penwynn?”

“No,” said a voice which made Tregenna sink back in his chair; “it is not Miss Penwynn;” and Madge Mullion, closely veiled, and looking tall in the thick cloak she wore, walked straight into the room.

Chynoweth hesitated for a moment, and then softly withdrew, nodding his head.

“So the devil is going to get his due, eh?” he said to himself. “I’d give something if I could go down to listening at key-holes, but I can’t do it – I can’t do it – I can’t do it!” and he went back to his desk.

“You here, Miss Mullion?” exclaimed Tregenna, making an effort to recover his composure.

“Yes, I am here,” she said, very sternly; and Tregenna noticed that it seemed to be no longer the weak, vain, flattery-loving girl who was speaking, but a woman made worldly and strong by trouble.

“And what can I do for you, Miss Mullion?” he said, coolly. “Will you take a seat?”

She stood gazing at him without speaking – without moving, while his dark, handsome face grew calmer and more composed.

“I came – to ask you – a question,” she said at last, in measured tones; and, as she spoke, she pressed one hand upon her breast, as if to aid her in speaking coolly.

“Certainly,” he said politely; “but this is not my office, Miss Mullion, and I have no right to transact legal business here.”

As he spoke he took a sheet of foolscap paper, and a fresh dip of ink, as if to make notes of her business.

“I came to ask you, John Tregenna,” she said at last, in answer to his inquiring look, “whether the report that I have heard is true.”

“Report? True?” he said. “Really, Miss Mullion – ”

“I have heard,” she continued, speaking in a slow, painful way, every word sounding harsh and metallic, while her face was fixed and stony in its immobility – “I have heard a report that you are – to be married – to Rhoda Penwynn.”

“Well, really, Miss Mullion,” he said, smiling, “this is a strange question;” and he looked at her with an amused, perfectly unruffled expression.

“Is it true?” she said, in a louder voice, which Tregenna knew must reach the outer office.

“Well, really – it is somewhat strange that you should come and ask me such a question, Miss Mullion; but, since you have asked it – yes, I am.”

Madge raised her veil as he made this avowal, but it seemed to give her no shock; there was no trace of emotion in her face, as she gazed straight in his eyes.