The Vicar's People

At times it was impossible not to feel that the bucket coming rushing through the darkness was descending upon the heads of those who laboriously climbed down, or that the enormous piston-rod would crush them to death at its next movement, instead of working steadily on the other side of the stout dividing boards. But the rod worked on, and the chain rattled as the buckets rose and fell, and with the trickling and plashing of the water growing louder, the ladders more wet and coated with grease, the platforms more slippery and rotten, Geoffrey sturdily kept on descending, but with the thought always forcing itself upon his brain that every ladder would have to be climbed before he could see the light of day.

But Geoffrey possessed all the stubborn determination of a true Englishman. He was truly one of those who did not know when he was beaten, and he was ready to go on with a task he had begun until brain and muscle completely gave way, and then only would he have paused and waited for strength before beginning again.

They had stopped on one of the platforms to snuff the flaring candles, a supply of which the manager carried in a tin box slung from his shoulder, when once more from the other part of the shaft came the rushing noise of the ascending and descending buckets, and so close did they sound that Geoffrey involuntarily shrank, feeling that they must strike against him and crush him on the narrow platform where he stood. But after this his ears grew more accustomed to the sound, and he began again plodding steadily downward, the frantic desire to cling tightly to the ladder and ask for help growing weaker as he became more used to the task.

At last the manager stopped, and pointed to a black opening before him like a little arch in the side of the shaft.

“Here’s one of the old galleries,” he said. “Would you like to see it?”

“Are the men at work here?”

“Work? No! Nor haven’t been these fifty years. But there’s enough to see there to give you an idea of the mine, and it would save you from going down farther if you are sick of it.”

“I’m not sick of it,” said Geoffrey, stoutly. “I’m only warm. Go on down to the bottom, and let’s see the workings.”

“All right!” said the manager, smiling, as he gave Geoffrey a peculiar look; and a fresh start was made.

“That fellow Tregenna has done this to try me,” thought Geoffrey. “He could have given me an introduction to some mine where there was a regular cage. Never mind: I’m not chicken enough to give it up!” and, regardless of the rotten, wet ladders, he steadily went on, his spirits rising and his confidence increasing – for as he kept on noting the primitive way in which every thing was done, he felt more and more satisfied that if science were brought to bear in such a mine as this the profits must be largely increased.

For instance, he reasoned, here were the miners forced to undergo a long and arduous piece of toil before they could reach their work, and when their spell was over they had a fresh task to climb patiently up at a time when they were exhausted with toil, thus spending fruitlessly many hours every week.

“I’ve come to the right place,” he thought, with a feeling of exultation coming over him, “and if I don’t make my way it is my own fault.”

“Tired?” said the manager, from below.

“No,” was the sturdy answer. “Are you?”

A low, chuckling laugh came up to Geoffrey as he glanced down at the descending-light in the manager’s hat.

“Well, if you put it in that way, sir, I am; and we’ll get a little wind here by this old lode.”

He stopped on the next platform, and, Geoffrey joining him, he once more snuffed the candles. There was another opening going horizontally into the bowels of the earth, where a lode of tin had been followed until it had become worthless. The roof glistened with huge crystals, which flashed in the light of the candles as they were held inside what looked like a subterranean passage into a castle, the abode of some giant of the nether world.

“I suppose the workings below are just like this?” said Geoffrey.

“Just the same, sir,” was the eager reply; “and if you’d like to give up now, we could inspect this drive for a few hundred yards, and then go back. It’s rather dangerous, though, for there have been some falls from the roof, and the galleries are like a net.”

“But I don’t want to give up,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “and am ready as soon as ever you like.”

“I never got any one to get down farther than this,” said the manager, who started again, descending in silence, broken only by the occasional echoing whirr of the ascending and descending buckets, and the hiss and splash of the falling water. The heat seemed to increase, and the depth might have been miles, so endless seemed the ladders, and so tedious the descent.

“Give me a word if you feel likely to let go,” said Geoffrey’s guide just when they were on one of the wettest, weakest, and most slippery ladders of the descent. “There was a man once fell off this very ladder, and knocked off the man below him as well.”

“Were they hurt?” said Geoffrey.

“Don’t suppose as they were,” was the cool reply. “They broke through platform after platform, for the woodwork was very rotten just then. They couldn’t have known any thing after they fell, for they were quite dead when they got them up. It was a gashly job.”

“Pleasant incident to relate now,” thought Geoffrey. Then aloud – “You don’t often have accidents?”

“Well, not very. We get a fall of rock sometimes, or a ladder breaks, or a man falls down the shaft. Now and then, too, there’s a bit of an accident with the powder when they are blasting. But we do pretty well. We’re not like your coal-mining folks, with their safety-lamps and gas.”

“The mines are, of course, free from foul air?”

“Oh, yes; sweet as a nut.”

“But how much farther is it?” said Geoffrey. “Surely we’ve come down a thousand feet.”

“Well, yes; I suppose we have,” said the man, coolly. “I don’t think there’s more than a half-dozen more ladders. Yes, seven,” he said.

These were steadily climbed down, but seemed the longest of them all. At last, however, they stood beside the great sump or water-cistern, which received the end of the vast pumping apparatus, all of which Geoffrey carefully examined with a look of disgust at its primitive character and clumsiness.

Chapter Fourteen

Pengelly – Miner

“I should just like to shake hands with you, sir,” said Geoffrey’s guide, wiping his hand carefully upon his flannel trousers after using his fingers to snuff both candles. “I never thought you’d come down half-way – that I didn’t. You’re a plucked un, sir. That’s about what you are, if you’ll excuse me.”

Geoffrey laughed, and shook hands with his guide, finding that he had risen wonderfully in the man’s estimation, the manager looking at him quite admiringly.

“My name’s Curnow,” he said, “Richard Curnow, and I’d like to see you again, sir. Now what can I show you?”

“Every thing!” exclaimed Geoffrey. “Let me see all the workings, and what sort of stuff you are sending up.”

“Why, you’ve been down a mine before, sir?” said the manager, curiously, and he gazed inquiringly in Geoffrey’s face with a look of suspicion, gradually growing plainer; but he remained very civil, and led the way through the maze of passages through which for many a generation the ore had been picked out – laboriously hewn out of the solid rock as the veins of tin were patiently followed. Every now and then some dark, echoing gallery struck off at right angles, till Geoffrey felt, as he stumbled on, that a stranger would soon lose his way in such a terrible labyrinth, if not his life through falling down one of the well-like pits yawning here and there at his feet.

Sometimes the way had a lofty roof, and the floor was clear; sometimes they had to stoop and wade through mud and water, and crawl round buttresses of rock to avoid a fall, or to step from sleeper to sleeper of a very primitive tramway.

“Let me see,” said the manager. “Amos Pengelly ought to be somewhere about here. Wait a minute, and let’s try if we can hear him.”

There were only a few distant echoing noises to be heard, as they stood in the midst of that black darkness, their candles just shedding a halo of light round them, and casting grotesque shadows of their forms upon the glistening walls, and they once more groped more than walked along, Geoffrey pausing now and again, though, to examine with his light the various tokens of minerals that could be seen cropping out on wall and roof, to all of which actions the guide gave an impatient shrug.

“They don’t mean any thing,” he said. “We’ve pretty well worked the old place out. There’s Amos!”

Geoffrey turned from the place he was examining, and could hear a confused sound; but after journeying on for about a hundred yards the manager stopped and touched his arm.

They had just reached a low side passage, at the end of which there was a faint glow, and there, keeping time to the clicking sharp strokes of a pick, came the sounds of a rich tenor voice, whose owner seemed to be throwing his whole soul into what he was singing.

“Hal – le – hal – le – lu – i – jah. Hal – le – hal – le – lu – i – jah.”

And so on slowly, every other syllable being accompanied by a stroke of the pick. Then, as the verse of the old-fashioned anthem being sung came to an end, there was a pause, the light seemed to be shifted, and the singer began again, but this time choosing Luther’s hymn as an accompaniment to the strokes of his pick.

“Here’s a gentleman come to see you, Amos! Creep out, my lad; we can’t get in to you.”

They had approached the singer till the ceiling was so low that it would have necessitated crawling to where Geoffrey could see by the light of a candle, stuck with a lump of clay against the rocky wall, a dark figure, half lying upon one side, vigorously working a sharp-pointed steel pickaxe, and chipping down fragments of glistening tin-grained quartz.

On hearing the summons, the figure gave itself a roll over and crawled slowly out, when in the short, lame, thick-set miner Geoffrey recognised the man with the piece of conger eel who had explained the fishing to him on the cliff.

“This is our Amos Pengelly,” said the manager, as if he were showing one of the curiosities of the mine; “works all week-days and sings psalms; goes out preaching on Sundays.”

“Well,” said Geoffrey, bluntly, “he might do worse.”

Amos nodded and looked curiously at the speaker, who went down on hands and knees to creep to where the miner had been at work; took down the candle from the wall, and examined the vein of glistening tin and the fragments that had been chipped off.

“Very poor stuff,” said Geoffrey, as he returned.

“Ah, we work out poorer stuff than that,” said the manager, “don’t we, Amos?”

“Ay,” said the miner, looking eagerly at the visitor. “Was you thinking of buying this mine, sir?”

“No!” said Geoffrey, shortly.

“Surveying it for some one else, perhaps?”

“What’s the good of talking like that, Amos,” said the manager, “when it is not for sale?”

“I heered as it was,” said Amos, still gazing searchingly at the well-built young man before him. “But whether it be or not, sir, if you wants to buy a good working and paying mine, you buy Wheal Carnac.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” laughed the manager, a man who had evidently been himself a working miner. “Oh, come, Amos! I wonder at you who call yourself a Christian man trying to persuade a stranger to buy that old swindle.”

“I don’t care!” cried Amos, excitedly, “Christian or no Christian,” and he gave his pick a blow on the rock which made the sparks fly, “I know there’s good stuff down that shaft, and if it arn’t been found yet it’s because they haven’t looked in the right place. You go and look at it, sir, and see what you think.”

“Don’t you do nothing of the sort, sir,” said the manager. “It’s a gashly old hole, down which thousands of pounds have been thrown, and machinery wasted over. Don’t you take any notice of what Amos says.”

“All right,” said the miner, making the sparks fly again as he smote the rock angrily. “I haven’t worked underground man and boy for five and twenty year without knowing something about it, and as I’m a honest man, why Wheal Carnac’s a fortune to them as know’d how to work it.”

“I’ll have another look at the place,” said Geoffrey, who was struck by the man’s earnestness.

“You just do, sir, you just do, and if that place don’t turn out right, I’ll – I’ll – ”

“Swallow your pick heft, eh, Amos?” said the manager, tauntingly.

“Nay, I won’t; but I’ll never believe in any thing again. But you can’t look at the stuff they got up, sir, she’s full of water.”

“And it would take hundreds of pounds to get her dry, eh, Amos? Don’t you worry your head about Wheal Carnac, sir, unless you want a place to work a company, and draw a salary until they are sick of it.”

“As some rogues down in these parts do,” said Amos, making the sparks fly again.

“I don’t know about rogues,” said the manager, laughing. “There’s always plenty of fools with heaps of money, which they want to invest in mines, and I don’t see why the adventurers shouldn’t have it as well as any one else.”

Geoffrey turned in disgust from the manager, and held his candle so that its light should fall upon the frank, honest face of the miner, whose ways rather won upon him.

“Look here, Pengelly,” he said, “you and I will have a chat about Wheal Carnac and a look at the ore together.”

“Will you, sir? will you?” cried the miner, excitedly. “I can show you some of the ore. When will you look?”

“Any time you like,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t suppose any thing will come of it, but I came to see all I can.”

“I’ve – I’ve waited years upon years to see that mine fairly tried,” cried Pengelly, “but every one laughs at me.”

“Of course they do, Amos,” said the manager, banteringly. “Why, you did trick one party into fooling away thousands.”

“Trick? trick? I tricked any one?” cried the miner, who had for the last few minutes been writhing under the lash of the other’s tongue. “It’s a lie – a cruel he!” he exclaimed, and in a furious burst of passion he whirled up his steel pick as though it had been a straw, to strike at the cause of his annoyance.

Amos Pengelly’s furious burst of passion was but of momentary duration. As Geoffrey made a step forward to seize his arm, the pick dropped from the man’s hand, his face became convulsed, and all token of menace had gone. One moment he had been ready to strike down the manager for hinting that he was dishonest; the next his arms fell to his sides, his head drooped, his shoulders heaved, and he turned away into the darkness of the mine, uttering a low, piteous moaning as if torn by some great agony that he wished to hide from the sight of man.

“Come away, sir,” said the manager, quietly, “he won’t like to face us again to-day,” and as Geoffrey rather unwillingly followed him, the manager went on towards the foot of the shaft. “Poor old Amos! I believe he’s a bit touched in the head. I haven’t seen him in one of his fits of passion like that for months. He’s off now into one of the darkest corners he can find, and he’ll be down on his knees praying as hard as ever he can. His temper gets the better of him sometimes, and he’s such a religious chap that he won’t forgive himself for getting in a rage; but when he comes up to grass to-night he’ll walk straight to my office, as humble as a child, and beg my pardon.”

“And you’ll forgive him?” said Geoffrey.

“Forgive him? Oh, yes! poor chap. Why not? He can’t help it.”

“He seems an honest fellow,” said Geoffrey, musingly.

“Honest? Oh, yes! he’s honest as the day’s long, sir. I’d trust him with all our sales’ money without counting it. His failing is that he’s gone off religious crazy; and what’s as bad, he’s in love with a handsome girl who don’t care for him. Bess Prawle, down at the Cove, is as straight as an arrow, and poor Amos is quite a cripple, and not the sort of fellow to take the fancy of a dashing girl like she.”

“Poor fellow,” said Geoffrey, softly, as he followed his guide, who kept on conversing.

“Then, too, sir, poor old Amos got that craze on about Wheal Carnac, and wanting people to believe in it, so that altogether it’s no wonder he turns queer. People say that Bess Prawle, who’s a bit of a witch, has ill-wished him, but I don’t know. One thing I do know, though – poor old Amos is about as good a workman as ever handled a pick.”

“Then,” said Geoffrey, thoughtfully, “you think Wheal Carnac is worthless?”

“Worthless? Worthless? Ha-ha-ha!” roared the manager. “If you had lived down here you’d have laughed as I do to see what money’s been wasted there. No end of people have been took in with that mine. Just you go and have a look at it yourself, sir. You seem to know a bit about mining. Of course you can’t do much, but you can turn over a few of the stones and see what was dug out last. Now, sir, what do you say – would you like to see any more of the place?”

“No,” replied Geoffrey, who had been in several parts of the mine, and spoken to different men at work, “no, I have seen all I wish to see for one day,” and, following his guide to the foot of the shaft, the terrible array of ladders was attacked; and at last, with wearied and strained muscles, Geoffrey reached the mouth in safety, feeling as if he had never seen the sky look so pure and blue, or felt the breath of heaven so sweet.

He was drenched with perspiration, and only too glad to accept the manager’s hospitality, and have a wash and rest. But he was well satisfied with his visit, in which he had learned no little, but above all, he could not help dwelling upon the words of the miner, and feeling deeply impressed about the deserted mine – so deeply indeed that what had been merely a visit of curiosity proved to be the turning-point in his future career.

An hour afterwards he was striding back towards Carnac, while Amos Pengelly was still upon his knees in the darkest part of Horton Friendship, the great tears streaming from his eyes as he prayed, in all the sincerity of his great soul, for forgiveness of his burst of anger, and for strength to control the temper that mastered him from time to time, lest the day should come when he should go forth into the world with the curse of Cain upon his brow – for that was the black shadow that haunted the poor fellow’s life.

Chapter Fifteen

Mr Penwynn Makes a Friend

“I cannot help it, papa. You know how obedient I have always been to you; but in this case I really cannot give way.”

“Yes, yes, yes, Rhoda! you obey me in a thousand unimportant things, but now there is something upon which a great deal of our future turns you refuse.”

“I cannot – I never could love Mr Tregenna, papa.”

“He is a thorough gentleman, is he not?”

“Yes – oh, yes!”

“And handsome, and well-informed, and clever. A thoroughly polished – there, quite a ladies’ man.”

“Ladies’ man!” exclaimed Rhoda, in tones of disgust. “Handsome and well-informed, of course, papa.”

“Well then, my dear,” said Mr Penwynn, ignoring Rhoda’s peculiar look. “What more do you want?”

“Papa! do you think I want to marry a ladies’ man?” said Rhoda, scornfully.

Mr Penwynn looked at the bright flushed face, and felt as proud as he did vexed. He was seated at a writing-table, and the blotting-paper before him bore testimony to his annoyance, for it was covered with the initials of unpleasant words, which he kept dotting down to relieve his feelings – a habit in which he indulged sometimes at the office, as Mr Chynoweth was well aware. He nearly spoiled a new quill pen in dashing down another letter, and then went on, —

“No, no, of course not, Rhody; but Tregenna is not a silly dandy. Besides, as I have before told you, he is very useful to me, and an alliance with him would be most valuable. There, there – you must think the matter over.”

“I cannot, papa. I have told Mr Tregenna plainly that he must not hope.”

“Nonsense, my dear; take time. Let the matter rest awhile. Be friends with him, and in a few months you will be ready to regret this hasty decision.”

“No, papa,” said Rhoda, decidedly. “Mr Tregenna can never be more to me than an acquaintance.”

“You have not heard any thing – any serious – there, any scandal?”

“I, papa? I have heard that he is too attentive – there, it is not that.”

“Then try not to be so foolish, my dear. I am going down to the office, and I shall see Tregenna again to-day. Let me tell him that he is not to look upon the matter as finally closed. Poor fellow! I never saw a man look so dejected. I could not have believed that he would take it so to heart.”

“Papa,” said Rhoda, impetuously, “I have promised Mr Tregenna that we should continue friends. If you lead him to believe that he is to persevere with his suit, I shall absolutely hate him.”

Mr Penwynn turned upon her angrily, but as she stood before him, with heightened colour and flashing eyes, gazing full in his face, he felt that she was no weak girl to be subdued by a burst of parental anger, and forced into a course against which her spirit rebelled. For some reason or other she evidently felt an intense repugnance to Tregenna, and, though he would gladly have gained the day, and made the solicitor his ally, he felt that at present there was not the slightest chance for such a consummation of his plans. He knew his child’s character only too well, and seeing how hopeless it was at present to persevere, he made a virtue of necessity and gave way.

“Well, well, my dear,” he said, quietly, “God knows that I would not force on this affair against your prospects of happiness. There, there,” he continued, taking her in his arms, “we must not fall out, Rhody. I can’t afford to have clouds come between us. Wicked tyrant,” he said, laughing, “and oppressor of the poor as you think me, Rhody, I want your love, my child, and I must have it.”

“Papa, papa!” she cried, clinging to him, “pray forgive me. I could not love Mr Tregenna. And why should you wish to rob yourself? I have only enough love for you, dear,” she continued, taking his face between her hands, and kissing him passionately. “If I reproach you sometimes about the poor people, it is because I am so jealous of my father’s good name, and it cuts me to the heart to think that the people should not look up to, and venerate him as I do myself.”

“Tut-tut-tut! my darling. If I were a saint they would still talk. Am I not working for you? I want you to be rich, and to stand as high in the world as I can contrive.”

“Yes, yes, I know, dear,” she said, with her hand playing about his face and caressing his grey hair; “but I would rather be poor than lose the people’s respect.”

“Well, well, Rhody, my darling,” he said, smiling, “we’ll be rich and respectable as well. There, there, I must go. John Tregenna must get some one else to cure his broken heart. Good-by, my dear, good-by.”

“And you are not angry with me, papa?”

“Not a bit, Rhody,” he said, kissing her affectionately, and looking at her with eyes suffused, but full of pride. “Angry? no! God bless you, my dear! I’m disappointed, but I don’t know but what I like you all the better for your spirit.”

He hurried away to hide his weakness, for his love for his child was the one soft spot in his nature.

“I’m glad, and yet I’m sorry,” he said. “Tregenna would have been a powerful friend, and now what I have to hope is that he will not prove to be a bitter enemy. I must fight it out, I suppose, just as I have fought out far worse troubles.”

“Any one been, Chynoweth?” he said to his confidential clerk, as he entered his office.

“Mr Tregenna’s waiting to see you, sir.”

“Humph! so soon,” muttered Mr Penwynn, who was somewhat taken aback; but he put a good face upon it, entered his private room, and shook hands with the solicitor, whose eyes were fixed upon him inquiringly.

“Well,” he said, “what news?”

“Bad,” replied Mr Penwynn, quietly.

“You have had a long talk with her?”

“Yes – a very long talk.”

“What does she say?”

“She is immovable.” John Tregenna’s face grew very dark, and he rose from his chair to walk excitedly up and down the office.

“Did you – did you ask for time?” he said hoarsely.

“I did indeed, Tregenna.”

“Did you tell her that I was your best friend?”