The Vicar's People

“Mrs Mullion is going away, Trethick,” said the old man at last.

“Going away?”

“Yes; it will be better for Madge. Let them go somewhere to a distance. The poor girl wants change, and she’ll never be happy here.”

“No,” said Geoffrey, “I suppose not. Then you go with them?”

“I? No, my lad, I seem to be so used to this house that I don’t want to make a change. I can’t live much longer, Trethick, and I thought, perhaps, you would come back to the old place. There’ll be plenty of room for both of us, and we can smoke and quarrel in the old style.”

Geoffrey shook his head.

“I should like it,” he said; “but it won’t do, Uncle Paul. My career’s over here in Carnac, and I ought to have been off long enough ago, instead of idling away my time, and growing rusty.”

“Only you feel that you can’t leave the place, eh?”

Geoffrey frowned, and half turned away his head.

“Well,” said the old man, “Rhoda Penwynn is a fine girl, and full of purpose and spirit. There, sit down, man, sit down,” he cried, putting his cane across the door to prevent Geoffrey’s exit. “Can’t you bear to hear a few words of truth?”

Geoffrey looked at him angrily, but he resumed his place.

“I shouldn’t have thought much of her if she hadn’t thrown you over as she did, my lad.”

“Where was her faith?” cried Geoffrey.

“Ah, that’s sentiment, my lad, and not plain common-sense. Every thing looked black against you.”

“Black? Yes; and whose lips ought to have whitened my character?”

“Ah! it was an unlucky affair, Geoffrey, my boy, and we all owe you an apology. But look here: go and see her, and make it up.”

“I? Go to see Miss Penwynn, and beg her to take me on again – to be her lover, vice that scoun – Tchah! how hot-brained I am. De mortuis! Let him rest. But no, Uncle Paul. That’s all over now.”

“Don’t see it, my boy. She never cared a snap of the fingers for Tregenna.”

“But she accepted, and would have married him.”

“After she believed you to be a scoundrel, Trethick.”

“What right had she to consider me a scoundrel?” cried Geoffrey, hotly. “My character ought to have been her faith.”

“Yes,” said the old man, dryly; “but then she had the misfortune to be a woman of sense and not of sentiment. I think she did quite right.”

“Then I don’t,” said Geoffrey, hotly.

“Ah, that’s better,” said the old man; “it’s quite a treat to have a bit of a row, Trethick. It’s like going back to old times. I like Rhoda Penwynn better every day; and the way in which she helps the old man is something to be admired, sir. But how he – a clever, sharp fellow – allowed that Tregenna to involve him as he did, I don’t know.”

“I suppose he is very poor now,” said Geoffrey, who could not conceal his interest.

“Poor? I don’t believe he has a penny. The girl’s as good or as bad as destitute.”

Geoffrey did not speak, but sat with his eyes fixed upon a white-sailed fishing-boat far out upon the blue waters of the bay.

“She would have sacrificed herself for the old man, and I dare say have married Tregenna to save him, if she had not found out all that about poor Madge. I say, Trethick, if you really care for the girl, I think I should see her and make it up.”

“But I don’t care for her,” cried Geoffrey, hotly. “I detest – I hate her.”

“Humph!” said Uncle Paul, taking a fresh cheroot, and passing over the case to Geoffrey; “and this is the fellow who boasted that he had never told a lie?”

Just then there was a step on the gravel path, and Geoffrey shrank back in his place, the old man looking at him mockingly.

“There she is,” he said.

“You knew she was coming,” cried Geoffrey, in a low voice.

“Not I, boy. I knew that, like the good angel she is, she comes to see poor Madge; and if you won’t have her, I think I shall propose for her myself.”

As he spoke the old man got up and went to meet the visitor, taking her hand, drawing it through his arm, and leading her into the summer-house, where she stood, pale as ashes, on seeing it occupied by Geoffrey Trethick.

“This is no doing of mine, Miss Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, sternly, making a movement towards the door.

“Stop a minute, Trethick,” said the old man. “I must go in first and find whether Madge can see Miss Penwynn.”

They heard his step upon the gravel, and the stones flying; as he stamped down his cane, and then they stood in silence looking in each other’s eyes.

Geoffrey was the first to speak, and it was in a bitter, angry voice that he exclaimed, —

“I never thought to have stood face to face with you again; but as we have met, Rhoda Penwynn, ask my pardon.”

Rhoda’s eyes flashed angrily, but the look was subdued on the instant by one that was full of emotion, and, with half-closed eyes, she joined her hands together, and was about to sink upon her knees, but Geoffrey caught her arms and stopped her.

“No,” he said, sharply; “I do not ask you to degrade yourself. Ask my pardon.”

“Forgive me, Geoffrey; my love for you had made me mad.”

Anger, bitterness, determination, promises never to speak, all were gone like a flash of light as Geoffrey Trethick heard those words; and Rhoda Penwynn was clasped tightly to his breast.

The next moment – minute – hour – it might have been either for aught the occupants of the little look-out knew – they became aware of the presence of Mr Paul, who stood in the open doorway, leaning upon his cane.

“Well, Trethick,” he said, mockingly, “when are you going away?”

“Heaven knows,” cried Geoffrey. “When I have turned Cornwall upside down, I think.”

“Hah!” ejaculated the old man, quietly, as he looked from one to the other. “It’s a wonderful thing this love. It’s all right, then, now?”

As he spoke he took Rhoda’s hand, and patted it. “I’m very glad, my dear,” he said, tenderly, “very glad, for he’s a good, true fellow, though he has got a devil of a temper of his own. Now go in and see poor Madge, and I wish you could put some of the happiness I can read in those eyes into her poor dark breast.”

He kissed her hand as he led her to the house with all the courtly delicacy of a gentleman of the old school; while, unable to believe in the change, Geoffrey walked up and down the little summer-house like a wild beast in a cage:

He was interrupted by the return of Uncle Paul, who took his seat and looked at the young man in a half-smiling, half-contemptuous fashion.

“Laugh away,” cried Geoffrey. “I don’t mind it a bit.”

“I’m not laughing at you, boy. But there, light your cigar again, or take a fresh one. I want to talk to you.”

Geoffrey obeyed. He would have done any thing the old man told him then, and they sat smoking in silence, Geoffrey’s ears being strained to catch the murmurs of a voice he knew, as it came from an open window, for Rhoda was reading by the invalid’s couch.

“There, never mind her now,” said the old man. “Look here, do you know that she won’t have a penny?”

“I sincerely hope not,” said Geoffrey.

“And you’ve got none,” said the old man. “How are you going to manage?”

“Set to work again now that I have something to work for,” cried Geoffrey, jumping up and again beginning to pace the summer-house.

“Sit down, stupid, and do husband some of that vitality of yours. You’ll drive me mad if you go on in that wild-beast way.”

Geoffrey laughed.

“Ah, that’s better,” said the old man. “I haven’t seen that grin upon your face for months. But now look here, boy, what are you thinking of doing?”

“I don’t know,” said Geoffrey. “A hundred things. First of all I shall try once more to hunt out the people who bought Wheal Carnac, and see if they will take me on.”

“What, to lose their money?”

“No, sir, but to make money for them.”

“Then you don’t know who bought it?”

“No; I tried the agents in town, but they were close as could be.”

“Of course,” said the old man. “They were told to be. He did not want it known.”

“How do you know?” said Geoffrey.

“Because I told them.”

“Then you know who bought the mine?”

“Well, yes, of course. It was I.”

Geoffrey’s cigar dropped from his hand, and he sank back, staring.

“Do you know what you have done?” he cried.

“Yes, made a fool of myself, I suppose; but I thought I’d have it, and you shall realise all you can for me out of the place. I got it very cheaply. Perhaps I shall build a house there – if I live.”

“Build! House!” cried Geoffrey. “Why, if old Prawle is right, the mine is rich in copper to a wonderful extent.”

“And the water?”

“Can easily be led away.”

“Then take it, my boy, and do with it the best you can,” said the old man. “I bought it for the merest song, and money has ceased to have any charms for me.”

“Mr Paul!”

“Geoffrey, my dear boy, I’ve never forgotten those words of yours. You said you were sure that I had a soft spot in my hearty and – God bless you, my lad!” – cried the old man fervently, “you were about the only one, with your frank, bluff way, who could touch it. I’d have given you something, Geoffrey, if you could have married Madge; but there, that’s over, and I’m only an old fool after all.”

Chapter Sixty Two

Last Chronicles

“I always did believe in her,” cried Amos Pengelly proudly, as he saw, some six months later, the rich copper ore being brought up in a mighty yield from out of Wheal Carnac.

For old Prawle was right. There were rich veins of copper in the mine, which were easily obtained after an adit had been opened through the zorn to relieve it of the water.

The old man felt sore about it at the time, but on seeing what a lucrative position his son-in-law elect had taken in the mine, he soon got over his soreness, and was one of the first to congratulate Geoffrey upon his success, reaping, too, something for himself, while, by a private arrangement, Geoffrey was able to place Dr Rumsey’s shares in a very different position, making that worthy, as he whipped the little streams, exclaim, —

“And only to think of it! I might have almost given those shares away.”

Mrs Mullion and her daughter left Carnac, but not to go far – the old man objected, for he did not care for long journeys to visit them, and he did not seem happy unless he had paid a visit once a month, showing as he did a very genuine attachment to his niece.

The last chronicle to be recorded of the little Cornish town is that upon a certain morning Miss Pavey came blushing and simpering to Rhoda, while her father was down at his office, where, to Mr Chynoweth’s great delight, there were business-matters to record once more upon the slate, and something of the old good times were beginning to return.

Miss Pavey kissed Rhoda affectionately, congratulated her upon the near approach of her marriage, and ended by simpering a good deal, and saying that she had a boon that she wanted her to grant.

“Do you mean a favour?” said Rhoda, smiling.

“Yes, dearest Rhoda; but you are so dreadfully matter-of-fact,” simpered Miss Pavey; and then she laughed, and covered her face with her hands.

“I think I can tell you what you want to ask,” said Rhoda, smiling.

“Oh, no, no, no! Don’t say it. It seems so shocking,” cried Miss Pavey from behind her hands.

“You want to be my bridesmaid,” said Rhoda, “and I’m sure you shall, if it will make you happy.”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Pavey blankly, as she dropped her hands into her lap. “It wasn’t that, dear.”

“What was it, then?” said Rhoda wonderingly.

“I thought – I hoped – I fancied,” faltered Miss Pavey, “that you would not mind my – oh dear! I can hardly tell you.”

The hands went up over her face again.

“Why surely, Martha, you are not going to be married?” said Rhoda.

“Yes, dear. Isn’t it shocking?” exclaimed Miss Pavey, more volubly now the murder was out. “I used to think that Mr Lee would have proposed to me, for no one knows what I have done for that man; and you know, dear, how much interest I have taken in the parish for his sake.”

“Yes, you have taken a great deal of interest in the parish, I know,” replied Rhoda.

“But I have long come to the conclusion, dear, that he is a man who will never marry. Oh dear no! I can read it in his countenance. Seriously though, to deal with the matter plainly, I do not think he would have done wrong; but, as I have said, dear, he is not a marrying man.”

“But you have not told me the name of the gentleman to whom you are going to be married.”

“Oh, my dear Rhoda, how droll you are. You are so wrapped up in your own affairs that you forget. Why, Mr Chynoweth, of course. Poor man, he has been so pressing of late, that I don’t like to refuse him any longer, dear. It would be unkind; and I must own that we are very fond of each other, and I thought I should like for us to be married with you.”

“I’m sure I congratulate you, Martha,” said Rhoda, smiling; “and if it will afford you any gratification, by all means be married at the same time; but I must warn you that our wedding will be a very quiet, tame affair.”

“Oh, yes, dear, and so will ours, for Mr Chynoweth says that we cannot afford to spend money upon ourselves. Oh, Rhoda, I am sure you envy me!”

“No,” said Rhoda, smiling, as a strange sense of the happiness in her own possession thrilled her veins. “I only congratulate you.”

“So strange, is it not?” said Miss Pavey. “You remember, my dear, my remark when I told you about the coming of the two gentlemen by the coach. Ah, Rhoda, dearest, that has not all come to pass, but what giddy things we were in those happy days.”

Rhoda felt disposed to rescind her promise, but she did not, and Miss Pavey had her wish.

The last we have to record of Geoffrey Trethick is that, as a prosperous mine owner, his favourite practice is to get back to An Morlock and seat himself with his back to the rocks, and his knees up, the said knees nipping between them a portion of the garments of a sturdy baby, who nods and laughs at him, and makes catches at his face in the most absurd way; and somehow all this nonsense does not seem in any way to cause annoyance to the tall, handsome woman at his side. They both, perhaps, recall a similar scene that took place long back near Gwennas Cove; but there is never any allusion to that past; for whenever Geoffrey evinces any desire to speak of past troubles, somehow or another he finds that his lips are sealed.