The Vicar's People

“Yes,” said Rhoda, abruptly. “And you – are you going for a walk?”

Miss Pavey trembled, and it was evident that she was having a battle with her feelings. She was afraid to speak, and she looked supplicatingly in Rhoda’s eyes, which were fixed upon her in the most uncompromising way.

For a moment a subterfuge was trembling upon her lips, but honesty conquered, and, looking more bravely in Rhoda’s face, she said, —

“Yes, dear. Mr Lee wishes it! – I didn’t like it at first; but he says it is a duty, and I will do it, whatever anybody else may say.”

She said these last words almost passionately, as she looked defiantly at Rhoda.

“And what are you going to do, Miss Pavey?”

“No, no, dear Rhoda, let it be Martha still,” pleaded the little woman.

“Well then – Martha,” said Rhoda, with a smile.

“I am going to see, and take a few comforts to poor Madge Mullion,” said the little woman, with an apologetic look; and then, after another effort, “I have been twice before. Where have you been, dear?”

Rhoda looked at her half scornfully, and the change that had come over her weak little friend struck her as being almost absurd, as, in a defiant way, she said sharply, —

“I? Where have I been? Where you are going now. I have been to see Madge Mullion and that man’s child.”

She hurried away with her hand pressed upon her heart, as the words seemed to have leaped from her lips, while she felt that if she stayed there a moment longer she would burst out into a hysterical fit of laughter; and this feeling was still upon her as she passed through the rugged streets of the little town and hastened home.

Chapter Forty Nine

Old Prawle Wishes to Invest

The rugged pile of rocks along by the ruins of the old mine was a favourite spot with Geoffrey in these troubled days. From hence, when he had clambered into a sheltered nook, where there was a little natural platform, he could see the track towards the town, and think of that evening when, glorified by the wonderful sunset, he had enjoyed that strange dream of love and hope. Every grey-lichened stone seemed to light up once more as he took his seat there, and reflected those wondrous tints that had for the moment coloured his life before all had turned grey and gloomy once again.

He could see, too, Wheal Carnac from where he used to sit with his back against the natural wall, looking as hard and grim as the rock itself.

There lay the unlucky mine and the stony promontory, with the surges breaking fiercely at its base, as if the tide resented its presence and was always striving to tear down a pile that had served to crush the young man’s fortunes.

Time stole on, but his position remained the same; for though the vicar had urged him again and again to make some effort to clear himself, he had sternly refused.

“No,” he said, “I shall wait; and if you value my acquaintance, or friendship, if you like to call it so, I beg that you will say nothing to a soul upon my behalf.”

The vicar sighed, but he allowed himself to be swayed by Geoffrey, whom he feared to tell of his suspicions concerning the state of affairs at An Morlock, for he could not help seeing how rapidly John Tregenna was becoming Mr Penwynn’s master, and how helplessly the banker was drifting to a bitter end.

Geoffrey’s old blackened meerschaum used to be brought out, and as he leisurely smoked he used to think of all that had taken place since his first arrival in Carnac, and wonder whether he had been wanting in any way in his duties to those who had intrusted him with so important a task.

He was seated there one morning when, in the midst of the reverie in which he was indulging, he was interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and, looking up, he saw old Prawle approaching and beckoning to him in a mysterious fashion.

“What’s the matter?” said Geoffrey, starting up.

“I want you,” whispered the old man, though probably there was not a soul within half a mile.

“Well, what do you want?”

“Business – particular business. Come down to my place and talk.”

“Why, can’t you talk here?” said Geoffrey, gruffly.

“No, no. Come to my place.”

Soured, disappointed, and out of humour, Geoffrey was on the point of declining; but the old man had manifested so kindly a disposition towards him of late that he followed him without another word along the cliff to the Cove, where they descended the rough stairs to the bit of a cave; where the old man, instead of producing brandy and tobacco as Geoffrey expected, took down an old ship’s lantern, saw that it was well trimmed, placed some matches inside, and then placed it inside his rough jacket.

“Wait a bit,” he said, “and I’ll show you;” and he laughed audibly. “Look here. You carry this compass,” he continued, taking one from a shelf.

“But what do you want? What are you going to do?” said Geoffrey.

“I’ll tell you soon,” said the old man. “I’ve been talking it over with my Bessie, and she says I may trust you, and that I am to do it. I haven’t lived to my time for nothing.”

“I’m much obliged to Miss Bessie for her trust,” said Geoffrey bitterly; “but what is it? Are you going to dig up some of your old hoards of money?”

“No, no; no, no,” chuckled the old fellow, grimly. “I don’t bury my money. I know what I’m about. Come along.”

Geoffrey followed him down the rest of the rough way to the rocky shore, where the old man’s boat was lying, and between them they ran her out into the tiny harbour, formed by a few jutting pieces of rock, got in, and, after arranging some great boulders as ballast, old Prawle was about to take both sculls, when Geoffrey took one.

“Here, I’ll pull as well,” he said. “I want work.”

“Pull then,” said the old man. As soon as he had placed the lantern and compass in the stern of the boat, the oars fell with a splash, and, timing the effort exactly, they rode out on a gently-heaving wave, and then old Prawle kept the boat about fifty yards from where the waves beat on the time-worn rocks.

“Tide’s just right,” said the old man. “Easy. Pull steadily, my lad. There’s no hurry. Hear about old Master Penwynn?”

“No. What?” said Geoffrey, sharply.

“They say things are going very bad with him, and that he’ll soon be as poor as you.”

“No,” said Geoffrey. “I did hear that he had losses some months ago. But is this true?”

“P’r’aps not,” said old Prawle, gruffly. “Tom Jennen and some of ’em were talking about it. Amos Pengelly heard it, too.”

Geoffrey was silent, and his heart began to throb as he thought of Rhoda, and of how it must bitterly affect her. Only a few months ago, and it seemed as if he had secured for her the fortune of a princess; now she was to be as poor as he, and they were still estranged.

“You oughtn’t to mind,” said old Prawle, laughing. “Penwynn did not behave so well to you.”

“Would you mind changing the conversation, Mr Prawle?” said Geoffrey, sharply, when the old man uttered a low chuckle and went on steadily rowing.

“Are we going to fish?” said Geoffrey, after they had been rowing along in the shadow of the rocks for some time.

“Yes: to fish for money, my lad,” said the old fellow. “Pull steady.”

Geoffrey obeyed, and after his long days of enforced idleness, during which his thoughts had seemed to eat into his mind like cankers, there was something quite refreshing in the rowing over the heaving sea, and joined to it there was a spice of excitement to know what the old man really meant.

They rowed on and on with the bright waters of the bay on one side, and the weed-hung, weather-worn granite on the other, where every wave that ran beneath them seemed to playfully dash at the rocks, to lift the long, tangled brown and olive-green weeds, toss them, and deck them with gems as if they were the tresses of some uncouth sea-monster, before dashing up the wall that checked their way, and falling back in spray.

After a time, as Geoffrey glanced over his shoulder, he caught sight of the towering chimney above Wheal Carnac, and as he snatched his gaze, as it were, away, he found that old Prawle was watching him, and he uttered a low, chuckling laugh.

“Yon’s the mine,” he said, looking at Geoffrey curiously, as the young man took so tremendous a tug at his oar that the boat was pulled slightly round.

“Easy, my lad; easy,” said old Prawle. “Don’t you like the look of the mine?”

Geoffrey did not answer, but pulled away, though with less violence; and so they rowed on till suddenly old Prawle exclaimed, as they were lying now well under the promontory, —

“You’d best give me the other oar.”

Without a word Geoffrey obeyed, and watched him curiously as, after taking both sculls now, he turned the boat’s head towards the rocks, and waiting his time, as he pulled gently on, he paused till a good wave came in, and then, balancing the little boat on the top, allowed it to be carried right in between a couple of masses of rock, barely wide enough apart to admit of its passing. Then, pulling one oar sharply, he turned round by another mass of rock, and Geoffrey found that they were in smooth water, floating in under a rough arch, so low that they had to bend right down in the boat for a minute; after which the ceiling rose, and he found that they were in a rugged cavern, whose light only came from the low opening through which they had passed. It was a gloomy, weird-looking place, in which the waves plashed, and sucked, and sounded hollow, echoing, and strange, each wave that came softly rolling in, carrying them forward as it passed under them, and then seemed to continue its journey into the darkness ahead.

“Mouth’s covered at high water,” said old Prawle, as he laid the oars in the boat.

“Then how shall we get out?” said Geoffrey, to whom the idea of being caught by the tide and drowned in such a place as this had, in spite of his troubles, no attraction.

“Same as we got in,” growled old Prawle. “’Fraid?”

“No,” said Geoffrey, sturdily. “I don’t want to be caught though.”

“I’ve been several times,” said the old man, with a hoarse chuckle. “It scared me the first time, but I soon found there was plenty of room.”

“Bit of smuggling?” said Geoffrey.

“Iss, my son,” said the old man, with a laugh. “I don’t believe there’s a soul ever been in this zorn besides me.”

“But you don’t smuggle now?” said Geoffrey.

“No, not unless I want a drop of brandy or Hollands gin.”

“Then why have you come here?”

“Ha, ha, ha! I’ll show you,” said the old man, laughing. “I haven’t lived here for nothing. Wait till I’ve lit the lantern, and we’ll see.”

He took the matches, and as he struck one the roof and sides of the cave seemed to flash with metallic green, but Geoffrey saw that it was only the bright, wet moss that he had found in the adit of the old mine, and he sat there watching the old man, as he lit and closed the lantern, set it down on the thwart, and then proceeded to guide the boat forward along the narrow channel of water, over which the granite roof spread in a low arch, sometimes rising ten or twenty feet, but more often coming down as if to crush them.

They must have gone several hundred yards, and still they went on, though it grew much more narrow, till there was little more than room enough for the boat to go along, but the water seemed deep beneath her keel, and the cavern or rift still wound on.

“What have you got in here, Father Prawle?” said Geoffrey, at length, after sitting for some time watching the strange effects of light and shadow, as the old man forced the boat along by thrusting the boat-hook against the roof or sides.

“Nothing,” said the old man, laconically.

“Then why have we come?”

“Wait and see.”

“All right,” said Geoffrey, and, leaning back, he began to think of Rhoda, and of the news he had heard, wondering the while whether she would ever be brave enough to do him justice, and frankly own that she was wrong.

Then he thought of her being poor, and, looking at it in one light, he did not feel very sorry, though he felt a kind of pang to think that she would miss so many of the old refinements of life.

“Which —vide self – any one can very well do without,” he said, half aloud.

“What?” growled his guide.

“I was only muttering, Father Prawle. How much farther are we going?”

“Not far.”

The old man forced the boat along for quite another hundred yards, and then, taking hold of the painter, he leaped upon a rock and secured the rope.

“Jump out, and bring the lamp and the compass, my lad,” said the old fellow, in his rough, grim way; and on Geoffrey landing he said to the old man, sharply, —

“Is there ore in here?”

“Nothing but some poor tin,” was the reply. “But look there, my lad. The boat won’t go up that narrow bit, but that runs on at least a hundred fathom, for I’ve waded as far as that.”

“What, up that narrow hole?” said Geoffrey, as he peered along a place that looked a mere crack in the rock floored with water.

“Yes, up that narrow place. Now what do you say?”

“I don’t say any thing,” replied Geoffrey. “Why have we come here?”

“Bah! Take your compass, lad. Which way does that bit of a cut run?”

“Nor-east by east,” said Geoffrey, holding the compass flat.

“Well, suppose you drive right through that nat’ral adit, as you may call it, for thirty or forty, or p’r’aps fifty fathom, what would you hit?”

“I see your meaning now,” cried Geoffrey, excitedly. “Of course, yes, we must strike one of the galleries in Wheal Carnac which run under the promontory from the other side.”

“And if you do drive through, what then?” chuckled the old man.

“Why, you’ll have an adit that will clear the water off as fast as it comes in.”

“To be sure you will,” said Prawle.

“But only to a certain level,” said Geoffrey, despondently. “It is of no use, Prawle; the tin would be fathoms below.”

“Damn the tin, boy,” cried the old man, excitedly; and, as they stood on a narrow shelf of rock there, he gripped Geoffrey fiercely by the arm. “Look here, you, Master Trethick, no man ever did me an ill turn but what I paid him off, and no man ever did me a good turn but I paid him off.”

“I never did you an ill turn,” said Geoffrey.

“No,” said the old man, “but you did me a good one, and I wouldn’t have minded now if you’d have had my Bessie; but that’s nayther here nor there. If she likes lame Amos Pengelly better o’ the two, why she must have him; but you helped her when she was hard put to it, and now look here, I’m going to do you a good turn, and myself too.”

“How? I tell you that your adit would be good for nothing,” cried Geoffrey.

“Tchah! Look here,” cried the old man, pulling a sale bill out of his pocket. “Here it all is – Wheal Carnac.”

“Put the thing away; it makes me feel half-mad to see it. I tore one down,” cried Geoffrey.

“You be quiet,” continued the old man, holding the bill against the mossy rock, so that the light from the lantern fell upon the big letters.

“Here you are, you see – To be sold by auction, at the M, A, R, T, Mart, Token-house-yard, unless pre – vi – ously disposed of by private contract.”

“Don’t I tell you it half drives me mad to think of the mine being sold?”

“With all the pumping and other gear, nearly new engines, and modern machinery,” read on old Prawle.

“Are you doing this to tantalise me, Prawle?” cried Geoffrey. “The whole affair will go for a song.”

“To be sure,” chuckled the old man. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for, my lad – for a song, a mere song, eh?”

“It’s horrible!” cried Geoffrey, despairingly, “when there’s tin enough there – ”

“Hang the tin, I tell you! It’s grand, boy, grand. Look, Mr Trethick, go up to London and buy it.”

“Buy it?” said Geoffrey.

“Yes; buy it for as little as you can get it for.”

“What, to sell the machinery out of it? No, that I won’t.”

“Nay, nay, to work it, lad. Buy it, and you and me will make fortunes, eh?”

“I tell you that your plan’s worse than useless. The ore is far below the level to which we should get the water.”

“Give’s your hand, Trethick,” said the old man, sharply. “Will you swear that you’ll play fair with me?”

“If you like,” said Geoffrey.

“I’ll take your word without a swear,” said the old man. “Shake hands, lad.”

Geoffrey carelessly gave him his hand, which the old man gripped.

“Now look here,” he said, “I’ll trust you, and I’ll find you the money to go and buy that mine.”

“But it will be throwing your money away,” said Geoffrey.

“Then I’ll throw it away,” cried old Prawle. “I want Wheal Carnac, and I’ve always meant to have her. Now then, will you go and buy her for me, and work her for me afterwards on shares?”

“Yes, if you like,” said Geoffrey, sadly. “We might, perhaps, hit upon something; and anyhow I don’t think you will have to pay so much that you would lose.”

“Go and buy her for me, then. As soon as we get back you shall go up to London and buy her for me as cheap as you can. You can go to the old lawyer I’ll tell you of for the money to pay down, as much as is wanted, and then just you come back to me and I’ll talk to you about what I mean to do.”

“Very good,” said Geoffrey, “I will; but it means a good bit of money.”

“You buy it,” said old Prawle; “and whatever you do, don’t let it go; but buy it as cheaply as you can.”

Geoffrey stood looking at the old man for a few minutes, and in those few minutes his whole connection with the mine seemed to pass in review before him; and as it did, he asked himself whether he should be doing right in letting the old man invest his money like this.

“Well,” said Prawle, “what are you thinking about?”

“You,” he said sharply. “Suppose, when you have spent your savings on this mine, it should turn out a dead failure?”

“Well, what then?”

“You would lose something.”

“Well, I know that, don’t I? Do you suppose I’m a babby? There, I’ve bided my time, my lad, and I know what I’m doing. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey.

“And you’ll stick to me, my lad, when the mine’s my property?”

“I will, Prawle,” said Geoffrey, earnestly, as he shook off his forebodings; “and, somehow or another, I’ll make it pay.”

“That’ll do, my lad; we understand one another, and you won’t repent it. Just give one more look at your compass.”

Geoffrey did so.

“Now then, you feel pretty sure you can hit the workings from here?”

“Yes, I feel certain,” said Geoffrey; “and it will relieve the mine without pumping, but not so that we can get the tin.”

“That’ll do,” said the old man, nodding. “Come along.”

He led the way to the boat, and once more kneeling in her bows, he directed their way along the subterranean passage, while Geoffrey leaned back in the stern watching him, and thinking that if he had been an artist he would have desired no better suggestion for a picture of Charon ferrying some unfortunate soul across the Styx, so weird and darksome was their way, so strange and gloomy the shadows cast, till once more in the distance appeared a faint gleam of light playing upon the surface of the water. Then the low arch came into view, and soon after they were out in broad daylight once again, and rowing steadily towards the Cove.

Chapter Fifty

Too Late

There was no time to lose if he intended to be present at the sale, so hastily putting a few things in a bag, Geoffrey bade Madge good-by, and brought a smile in her thin, worn face as he took up the little one and kissed it, giving it a toss, and setting it off crowing and laughing before replacing it in Bessie’s arms.

“Any commission for town, ladies?” he said; “ribbons, laces, or what do you say to a new hood for the squire here?”

Just then the dark face of old Prawle appeared at the door, and, reminding him of his commission, he started off at once to catch the coach.

“It’s a rum world,” he said, as he gazed at the smokeless chimneys of the great mine as he went on, and then, leaning more to his task, he began to picture the place busy once more, with its panting engines, and the click and rattle of the ore-reducing machinery.

“I’ll show old Penwynn yet,” he said to himself, “that there’s money to be made out of the place. Poor old fellow, though, it will be a grievous disappointment to him, and he will feel it deeply.”

He walked on with his eyes still fixed on the promontory upon which the mine was standing, and so immersed was he in thought that he almost ran up against two people before he saw them.

“I beg – ”

He would have said “your pardon,” but the words froze upon his lips, and he went by feeling half stunned; for the couple he had passed were Rhoda Penwynn and Tregenna, the former looking deadly pale as his eyes encountered hers for a moment, the latter calm, self-possessed, and supercilious.

Geoffrey could not trust himself to look back, but tore along the cliff path at a tremendous rate, feeling ready at any moment to break into a run, but refraining by an effort.

His journey was for the time being forgotten, and he saw nothing but the finale of a life-drama, whose last scene was a wedding, with Rhoda the wife of the man she had formerly rejected, and his heart beat heavily and fast.

He was moved more than he thought it possible under the circumstances; and in the hot rage that took possession of him he could find no palliation of Rhoda’s conduct. It was evident, he said to himself, that she was engaged to John Tregenna now, and that the last faint hope that, like some tiny spark, he had kept alive was now extinct.

“Ah, Trethick! Where are you going?”

“Eh? Oh, Lee, is that you?”

“Yes; I’m glad to see you. Why don’t you come down to me?”

“What, for Miss Pavey to look horrors, and want to fumigate the house, after the advent of such a social leper?” he said laughingly.

“My dear Trethick, why will you talk like this – and to me?” said the vicar, smiling. “But I am stopping you. Were you going somewhere?”

“I? No. Not I. Yes I was, though,” he exclaimed. “I am going up to London. I forgot.”

The vicar looked at him wonderingly, his manner was so strange.

“Oh, I’m not going out of my mind, man. It’s all right,” exclaimed Geoffrey, laughing. The next moment his face became ashy white, and his eyes seemed to dilate as, in the distance, he caught sight of Rhoda and Tregenna coming back into the town.

The vicar saw the direction of his gaze, followed it, and sighed, for he had seen the couple together half an hour before.

Geoffrey coloured as he saw that the vicar was evidently reading his thoughts, and he said lightly, —

“Yes, I’m off to town for a day or two, but you need not say I’m going. Good-by.”

He did not pause to shake hands, but strode hastily away, secured his seat upon the coach, and that night was well on his way to Plymouth.

Try how he would, he could not shake off the recollection of his meeting with Rhoda.

It was nothing to him, he kept on assuring himself, but there was her pale face ever confronting him; and the more he strove to call her heartless, cold, and cruel, the more the recollection of their short, happy engagement came back.

He was bound now on a fresh expedition, whose aim was to secure the mine and to make money, and, with a half-laugh, he exclaimed, “What for?”

He frowned heavily the next moment, as he saw that his quick utterance had drawn the attention of a couple of his fellow-passengers; and, determining to master what he called his childish emotion, he thought of Rhoda all the more.

This went on for hours, till he felt so exasperated with what he called his weakness that he would gladly have got out of the carriage at the next station, and walked a few miles to calm himself; but this was, of course, impossible, and he sat there listening to the rattle of the train, as it seemed to make up words and sentences, which kept on repeating themselves with a most irritating effect.

Station after station was passed, and the time glided on till he found it was now half-past ten.

They were due at Bristol half an hour past midnight, and a train left there soon after, reaching London about half-past four in the morning, when, after a few hours’ rest, he would be in ample time for the sale.

At the best of times a railway journey by night is trying to the nerves of the strongest; to a man in Geoffrey Trethick’s state of excitement it was irritating in the extreme. He tried every position he could scheme to make himself comfortable, and have a few hours’ rest, but in vain. Every attitude was wearisome and produced irksomeness, till, in utter despair, he let down the window to gaze at the murky night they were rushing through.