Chapter Forty Five.Oak and Willow.Mr Chynoweth was in very good spirits one morning, for he had composed a letter, offering his hand and fortune to Miss Pavey, entirely to his satisfaction. It was written in a large engrossing hand upon superfine brief paper, and had the legal look that a document of so much importance ought to wear.“I think that will do it,” said Mr Chynoweth. “Her little income and my little income will make a big income; and with rubbers regularly three times a week, we ought to add something to the common fund.”So rubbing his hands with satisfaction, he proceeded to play a quiet game in his desk, which he had just finished as Mr Penwynn came in, when Mr Chynoweth referred to his slate, and told him where Geoffrey had gone to lodge.“It is nothing to me,” said the banker, “so long as he does his work. Any thing fresh?”“No, sir, nothing. He has been here this morning, and said there was little to report. He says all his efforts to relieve the mine are useless; that hardly any thing can be done.”“Tell him when he comes again that he must do something. I must call in fresh help if he is too ignorant to free the mine from water.”He might have called in the help of half the engineers in England, but they could not have shown him a satisfactory means of battling with the huge rush of water that entered the gap blown out by the wretched man. For beneath the sea there was always a torrent ready to take the place of any that might be pumped out, and, after endless investigations, Geoffrey Trethick and Pengelly gazed at each other in despair.It was bitterly tantalising. Here was the rich tin ore waiting for them in abundance, but no means of reaching and sending it up.They examined the shore. Went out in boats and sounded. Took into consideration the possibility of throwing in sand bags over the chasm, but on such a coast they would have been tossed aside by the first storm; and the despair at Geoffrey Trethick’s heart grew blacker.They were bitter times too, for Mr Penwynn. On the strength of the success, John Tregenna had presented himself, made a claim, and been handsomely paid off by the banker, who, wishing to be on good terms with the man he had formerly disappointed and being then in the full flush of triumph, had paid Tregenna double the amount agreed upon, and now he was too proud to demand it back, though it would have been a useless proceeding if he had.Large as was the sum he drew, Tregenna had been terribly wroth, but when the news came to him of the flooding of the mine he sat and gloated over his success, and laughed to himself till he began to think of the man Lannoe, his tool, and of the possibility of getting rid of him in some plausible way, so as to be sure of being free from demands for black mail.Then the days passed with more good news. It was certain, he knew, that Geoffrey had been dismissed from visiting at An Morlock, news that was delightful in its way. Then Lannoe did not come, though he was expecting him day after day, till a strange feeling of hope began to grow into a certainty, and at last he felt sure that the man had lost his life in his nefarious attempt.Lastly came to him the information that Geoffrey Trethick had gone to lodge with the Prawles; and John Tregenna laughed aloud as he thought once more of Rhoda, and of the time when he could renew his pretensions, and this time, perhaps, with better success.The days wore on, and finding that nothing could be done in the way of pumping out the mine, Geoffrey and Pengelly spent their time in the top galleries, to which the water had not reached, searching in vain for something in the way of reward.The former found his bad character seemed to have but little effect upon the poorer people of Carnac, even though Miss Pavey in her visiting said that he was a terrible wretch, and ought to be excommunicated by the church. His worst failing in the eyes of the people was his going to lodge at Prawle’s, and unwittingly in this he had done poor Madge an ill turn, for the news reached the cottage just at a time when old Paul had settled that Mrs Mullion should fetch her daughter home. When this news came he bade her wait.So time went on, and from the poorer folk there was always a shake or a nod as Geoffrey passed, and now and then an offering of fish from Tom Jennen or some other rough fellow with whom he had spent a night out in the bay.He was passing along the road one day, in a very morose humour, when he came full upon the Reverend Edward Lee, and was about to pass him with a short nod, but the vicar stopped.“How are you?” said Geoffrey, shortly.“Not well, Trethick,” said the vicar, holding out his hand, to the other’s great surprise.“Sorry for it,” said Geoffrey, grimly, shaking hands. “What is it—bile?”The vicar looked at him with a pained expression of countenance.“No,” he said, “I am sick at heart. We don’t see one another often, Trethick. May I walk with you?”“Oh, if you like,” said Geoffrey, as the vicar turned and walked by his side. “I was going over the hill yonder by Horton mine, to let the wind blow some of my bad temper out of me.”“I should like to go with you, Trethick,” said the vicar, eagerly.“Look here, Lee,” exclaimed Geoffrey, “I’m a man of the world, and rough usage has made me rough. If you want to talk pious platitudes to me by rote, please don’t, for we should be sure to quarrel. I am horribly unholy this morning.”“But I do not,” exclaimed the vicar, earnestly. “I want to talk to you as a man of the world.”“Come on, then,” said Geoffrey; “it’s a treat to talk to a civilised being now.”He thrust his arm through that of the young vicar, and hurried him on and on up-hill till the latter was breathless. Then he stopped.“Now then!” said Geoffrey, “here we are, right out on the top, with heaven above and the free air around; now talk to me like a man of the world.”The vicar followed Geoffrey’s example, and threw himself on the short, crisp turf, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and gazing at his companion with a curiously troubled air.“Now then,” said Geoffrey, “man of the world, make a beginning.”The vicar hesitated, and Geoffrey smiled.“Well, I’ll help you,” he said. “You want to know why I have not been at church lately?”“Yes,” said the vicar, eagerly catching at the ball thrown to him, “I did want to speak to you about that for one thing.”“Too wicked!” said Geoffrey. “Mind too much taken up with other things.”“Too much bent upon laying up treasure upon earth, Trethick, thinking too little of the treasure in heaven.”“I thought you said that you were going to talk to me like a man of the world,” said Geoffrey, sharply.“Yes, yes—I am,” was the hasty reply, for the vicar saw that a few more words in the same strain would send his companion away.“Go on then. You said you were heart-sick,” said Geoffrey. “What’s the matter?”“I am in a great deal of trouble, Trethick,” said the vicar, heavily. “I’m not a man of the world, but you are, and—and—I like you, Trethick, I don’t know why, but I wish we were better friends.”“You like me?” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Why, my good sir, you and I are like positive and negative poles; we repel one another.”“But why should we, Trethick? You seem always to exercise a strange power over me. I did not like you at first.”“No,” said Geoffrey. “I was too rough and outspoken; too irreligious. I shocked you.”“Yes, yes. That is true,” said the vicar.“Then you found that I was a rival, and you hated me?”“No: not hated you,” said the vicar, sadly. “I felt that we could never be friends. That was all.”“Look here, Lee,” said Trethick; “are you a saint, or a humbug?”“Certainly not the first,” said the vicar, smiling. “I sincerely hope not the second.”“No: I don’t believe you are,” said Geoffrey, shortly. “Well, sir, the game’s up. I’ve failed in my projects, and I’ve failed in my love. The way is open. I am no rival now.”“Trethick,” said the vicar, earnestly, “can’t we be friends?” and he held out his hand.“Oh, yes, if you like,” said Geoffrey, bitterly. “But why should you want to be friends with such a blackguard? There, man, go and have your way. I’m out of the race.”“You are speaking very bitterly, Trethick,” said the vicar, sadly.“You are bitterly disappointed with your failures. So am I. It is as Mr Penwynn said that evening: we have not been able to make our way.”“But you are making your way,” said Geoffrey.“No,” replied the vicar, shaking his head, “not at all. I cannot move these people. I try all I can; I have done every thing possible, but they prefer to go to that wretched chapel, and to hear such men as Pengelly. Trethick, I speak to you as a man of the world,” he continued, growing each moment more earnest, and his face flushing. “I am in despair; that is why I came to you, whom I know to be disappointed, as I am myself. I cannot get at these people’s hearts. I yearn to do good amongst them, but I cannot stir them, while you seem to touch them to the core. If I announced that you would preach to them next week, the place would be thronged; as it is, it is nearly empty. Why is this?”“Because I am the sinner, you the saint,” said Geoffrey, bitterly. “There, don’t look shocked, man; it is because you are too clever—too scholarly with them; you put on the priest’s garment, and with it the priest’s mask, and completely hide your nature. Let them know your profession by your ways, sir, and not by your cassock. I believe you are a good fellow at heart. Your words now prove it; but you have grown so full of belief in form and ceremony that you think them all in all. Why, Lee,” he cried, lighting up, “I could get these people to follow me like dogs.”“Yes,” said the vicar, sadly; “but they shun me.”“No,” said Geoffrey; “I am boasting. But still I believe I could move them. Look here, Lee, you are in earnest over this?”“Earnest?” cried the other. “I’d give any thing to win them to my side.”“Then be more of a man, less of a priest. Don’t draw such a line of distinction between you. Mix with them more. Never mind the long cassock and ritualistic hat. Take more interest in their pursuits, and let them feel how much your nature, however polished, is like theirs.”“I will, Trethick. Yes, you are right. I am sure you are right.”“I believe—I hope I am,” said Geoffrey.“I am sure of it,” cried the vicar; “and I see now how unsuited much of my teaching has been. But now about yourself, Trethick, let me begin by being more human, and helping you.”“How can you help me?” said Geoffrey, bitterly. “I am a hopeless bankrupt in pocket and morals, so the world says; and I am cut off from all that I looked forward to with happiness. Why don’t you be up and doing, man, as I told you?” he cried, with a mocking devil in his eyes; “the way is open—go and win the race.”“I do not understand you,” said the vicar, sadly.“Don’t understand? You know you loved Rhoda Penwynn.”“I did love her—very dearly,” said the vicar, simply.“And not now?”He shook his head.“Miss Penwynn would never have cared for me,” he said, quietly; “I soon learned that. These things are a mystery, Trethick. Don’t speak of that any more. It hurts me.”Geoffrey nodded.“Here, sit down,” he cried, “I’m tired, bodily and mentally. I feel as if I want my mother-earth—to nurse me. There,” he cried, settling himself upon the turf with a grim smile, “sometimes, lately, I’ve felt as if I should like her to take me in her cold, clayey arms, to sleep never to wake again.”“Don’t talk like that, Trethick,” said the vicar, appealingly; “life is too real and good to be carelessly thrown away.”“Right, Lee; you are right—quite right. Well, then,” he said, “I won’t; but look here, man, you want to win the people to your side—here is your opportunity. That poor girl—Margaret Mullion.”“Yes,” said the vicar, eagerly. “I wanted to talk to you about her.”“Go on then.”“I dared not commence,” he said, “I shrank from beginning; but that was one reason why I longed to talk to you, Trethick.”“Well,” said the other, smiling. “I am all attention.”“I wanted—not to reproach you for your sin, Trethick—”“That’s right,” said Geoffrey, smiling bitterly.“Don’t treat it with levity, for heaven’s sake, Trethick,” cried the vicar. “Think of the poor girl—of her life blasted—of the wrecked fame, and of the expiation that might be made by way of atonement.”“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “I have thought of all that.”“But an hour ago I was with the broken-hearted mother, who was sobbing at my feet.”“And she asked you to see me?”“Yes. Begged me to see you and appeal to you, and I said I would. Mr Trethick, in our great Master’s name, think of all this—think of the poor girl’s fall, and try to make amends. No, no, don’t interrupt me till I have done. I tell you I have knelt and prayed, night after night, that your heart might be softened, and that your reckless spirit might be tutored into seeing what was right, and into ceasing from this rebellion against the laws of God and man.”“Laws of God and man, eh?” said Geoffrey, mockingly.“Yes; is it not written that the adulterer and adulteress shall be stoned?”“Yes,” cried Geoffrey, fiercely; “and is it not written—‘He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone’? Damn it all, Lee, I’m sick of this. I’ve been stoned to death ever since this cursed affair got wind. My mistress—the woman I was to marry—casts the first stone at my devoted head; every one follows suit, and I am battered so that I don’t know myself.”“You are mocking,” cried the vicar.“I am not mocking,” cried Geoffrey; “but I am half-mad. And you,” he cried, passionately, “even you, who call yourself my friend, are like the rest. But what have you done for this wretched girl, abased and heart-broken in her sin—what have you done?—you and the better-class people? Treated her worse than the beasts that perish. One and all. And this is Christianity! Shame upon you! shame!”The vicar looked at him appealingly as Geoffrey went on.“Have you been to her and spoken words of comfort?”“No,” said the vicar, humbly.“Have you taken her by the hand, and bidden her go and sin no more?”“No.”“Have you tried to lead her to a better way—helped her, and guided others to help her in her sore distress?”The vicar shook his head.“And yet you say, How am I to win the hearts of these 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.
Mr Chynoweth was in very good spirits one morning, for he had composed a letter, offering his hand and fortune to Miss Pavey, entirely to his satisfaction. It was written in a large engrossing hand upon superfine brief paper, and had the legal look that a document of so much importance ought to wear.
“I think that will do it,” said Mr Chynoweth. “Her little income and my little income will make a big income; and with rubbers regularly three times a week, we ought to add something to the common fund.”
So rubbing his hands with satisfaction, he proceeded to play a quiet game in his desk, which he had just finished as Mr Penwynn came in, when Mr Chynoweth referred to his slate, and told him where Geoffrey had gone to lodge.
“It is nothing to me,” said the banker, “so long as he does his work. Any thing fresh?”
“No, sir, nothing. He has been here this morning, and said there was little to report. He says all his efforts to relieve the mine are useless; that hardly any thing can be done.”
“Tell him when he comes again that he must do something. I must call in fresh help if he is too ignorant to free the mine from water.”
He might have called in the help of half the engineers in England, but they could not have shown him a satisfactory means of battling with the huge rush of water that entered the gap blown out by the wretched man. For beneath the sea there was always a torrent ready to take the place of any that might be pumped out, and, after endless investigations, Geoffrey Trethick and Pengelly gazed at each other in despair.
It was bitterly tantalising. Here was the rich tin ore waiting for them in abundance, but no means of reaching and sending it up.
They examined the shore. Went out in boats and sounded. Took into consideration the possibility of throwing in sand bags over the chasm, but on such a coast they would have been tossed aside by the first storm; and the despair at Geoffrey Trethick’s heart grew blacker.
They were bitter times too, for Mr Penwynn. On the strength of the success, John Tregenna had presented himself, made a claim, and been handsomely paid off by the banker, who, wishing to be on good terms with the man he had formerly disappointed and being then in the full flush of triumph, had paid Tregenna double the amount agreed upon, and now he was too proud to demand it back, though it would have been a useless proceeding if he had.
Large as was the sum he drew, Tregenna had been terribly wroth, but when the news came to him of the flooding of the mine he sat and gloated over his success, and laughed to himself till he began to think of the man Lannoe, his tool, and of the possibility of getting rid of him in some plausible way, so as to be sure of being free from demands for black mail.
Then the days passed with more good news. It was certain, he knew, that Geoffrey had been dismissed from visiting at An Morlock, news that was delightful in its way. Then Lannoe did not come, though he was expecting him day after day, till a strange feeling of hope began to grow into a certainty, and at last he felt sure that the man had lost his life in his nefarious attempt.
Lastly came to him the information that Geoffrey Trethick had gone to lodge with the Prawles; and John Tregenna laughed aloud as he thought once more of Rhoda, and of the time when he could renew his pretensions, and this time, perhaps, with better success.
The days wore on, and finding that nothing could be done in the way of pumping out the mine, Geoffrey and Pengelly spent their time in the top galleries, to which the water had not reached, searching in vain for something in the way of reward.
The former found his bad character seemed to have but little effect upon the poorer people of Carnac, even though Miss Pavey in her visiting said that he was a terrible wretch, and ought to be excommunicated by the church. His worst failing in the eyes of the people was his going to lodge at Prawle’s, and unwittingly in this he had done poor Madge an ill turn, for the news reached the cottage just at a time when old Paul had settled that Mrs Mullion should fetch her daughter home. When this news came he bade her wait.
So time went on, and from the poorer folk there was always a shake or a nod as Geoffrey passed, and now and then an offering of fish from Tom Jennen or some other rough fellow with whom he had spent a night out in the bay.
He was passing along the road one day, in a very morose humour, when he came full upon the Reverend Edward Lee, and was about to pass him with a short nod, but the vicar stopped.
“How are you?” said Geoffrey, shortly.
“Not well, Trethick,” said the vicar, holding out his hand, to the other’s great surprise.
“Sorry for it,” said Geoffrey, grimly, shaking hands. “What is it—bile?”
The vicar looked at him with a pained expression of countenance.
“No,” he said, “I am sick at heart. We don’t see one another often, Trethick. May I walk with you?”
“Oh, if you like,” said Geoffrey, as the vicar turned and walked by his side. “I was going over the hill yonder by Horton mine, to let the wind blow some of my bad temper out of me.”
“I should like to go with you, Trethick,” said the vicar, eagerly.
“Look here, Lee,” exclaimed Geoffrey, “I’m a man of the world, and rough usage has made me rough. If you want to talk pious platitudes to me by rote, please don’t, for we should be sure to quarrel. I am horribly unholy this morning.”
“But I do not,” exclaimed the vicar, earnestly. “I want to talk to you as a man of the world.”
“Come on, then,” said Geoffrey; “it’s a treat to talk to a civilised being now.”
He thrust his arm through that of the young vicar, and hurried him on and on up-hill till the latter was breathless. Then he stopped.
“Now then!” said Geoffrey, “here we are, right out on the top, with heaven above and the free air around; now talk to me like a man of the world.”
The vicar followed Geoffrey’s example, and threw himself on the short, crisp turf, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and gazing at his companion with a curiously troubled air.
“Now then,” said Geoffrey, “man of the world, make a beginning.”
The vicar hesitated, and Geoffrey smiled.
“Well, I’ll help you,” he said. “You want to know why I have not been at church lately?”
“Yes,” said the vicar, eagerly catching at the ball thrown to him, “I did want to speak to you about that for one thing.”
“Too wicked!” said Geoffrey. “Mind too much taken up with other things.”
“Too much bent upon laying up treasure upon earth, Trethick, thinking too little of the treasure in heaven.”
“I thought you said that you were going to talk to me like a man of the world,” said Geoffrey, sharply.
“Yes, yes—I am,” was the hasty reply, for the vicar saw that a few more words in the same strain would send his companion away.
“Go on then. You said you were heart-sick,” said Geoffrey. “What’s the matter?”
“I am in a great deal of trouble, Trethick,” said the vicar, heavily. “I’m not a man of the world, but you are, and—and—I like you, Trethick, I don’t know why, but I wish we were better friends.”
“You like me?” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Why, my good sir, you and I are like positive and negative poles; we repel one another.”
“But why should we, Trethick? You seem always to exercise a strange power over me. I did not like you at first.”
“No,” said Geoffrey. “I was too rough and outspoken; too irreligious. I shocked you.”
“Yes, yes. That is true,” said the vicar.
“Then you found that I was a rival, and you hated me?”
“No: not hated you,” said the vicar, sadly. “I felt that we could never be friends. That was all.”
“Look here, Lee,” said Trethick; “are you a saint, or a humbug?”
“Certainly not the first,” said the vicar, smiling. “I sincerely hope not the second.”
“No: I don’t believe you are,” said Geoffrey, shortly. “Well, sir, the game’s up. I’ve failed in my projects, and I’ve failed in my love. The way is open. I am no rival now.”
“Trethick,” said the vicar, earnestly, “can’t we be friends?” and he held out his hand.
“Oh, yes, if you like,” said Geoffrey, bitterly. “But why should you want to be friends with such a blackguard? There, man, go and have your way. I’m out of the race.”
“You are speaking very bitterly, Trethick,” said the vicar, sadly.
“You are bitterly disappointed with your failures. So am I. It is as Mr Penwynn said that evening: we have not been able to make our way.”
“But you are making your way,” said Geoffrey.
“No,” replied the vicar, shaking his head, “not at all. I cannot move these people. I try all I can; I have done every thing possible, but they prefer to go to that wretched chapel, and to hear such men as Pengelly. Trethick, I speak to you as a man of the world,” he continued, growing each moment more earnest, and his face flushing. “I am in despair; that is why I came to you, whom I know to be disappointed, as I am myself. I cannot get at these people’s hearts. I yearn to do good amongst them, but I cannot stir them, while you seem to touch them to the core. If I announced that you would preach to them next week, the place would be thronged; as it is, it is nearly empty. Why is this?”
“Because I am the sinner, you the saint,” said Geoffrey, bitterly. “There, don’t look shocked, man; it is because you are too clever—too scholarly with them; you put on the priest’s garment, and with it the priest’s mask, and completely hide your nature. Let them know your profession by your ways, sir, and not by your cassock. I believe you are a good fellow at heart. Your words now prove it; but you have grown so full of belief in form and ceremony that you think them all in all. Why, Lee,” he cried, lighting up, “I could get these people to follow me like dogs.”
“Yes,” said the vicar, sadly; “but they shun me.”
“No,” said Geoffrey; “I am boasting. But still I believe I could move them. Look here, Lee, you are in earnest over this?”
“Earnest?” cried the other. “I’d give any thing to win them to my side.”
“Then be more of a man, less of a priest. Don’t draw such a line of distinction between you. Mix with them more. Never mind the long cassock and ritualistic hat. Take more interest in their pursuits, and let them feel how much your nature, however polished, is like theirs.”
“I will, Trethick. Yes, you are right. I am sure you are right.”
“I believe—I hope I am,” said Geoffrey.
“I am sure of it,” cried the vicar; “and I see now how unsuited much of my teaching has been. But now about yourself, Trethick, let me begin by being more human, and helping you.”
“How can you help me?” said Geoffrey, bitterly. “I am a hopeless bankrupt in pocket and morals, so the world says; and I am cut off from all that I looked forward to with happiness. Why don’t you be up and doing, man, as I told you?” he cried, with a mocking devil in his eyes; “the way is open—go and win the race.”
“I do not understand you,” said the vicar, sadly.
“Don’t understand? You know you loved Rhoda Penwynn.”
“I did love her—very dearly,” said the vicar, simply.
“And not now?”
He shook his head.
“Miss Penwynn would never have cared for me,” he said, quietly; “I soon learned that. These things are a mystery, Trethick. Don’t speak of that any more. It hurts me.”
Geoffrey nodded.
“Here, sit down,” he cried, “I’m tired, bodily and mentally. I feel as if I want my mother-earth—to nurse me. There,” he cried, settling himself upon the turf with a grim smile, “sometimes, lately, I’ve felt as if I should like her to take me in her cold, clayey arms, to sleep never to wake again.”
“Don’t talk like that, Trethick,” said the vicar, appealingly; “life is too real and good to be carelessly thrown away.”
“Right, Lee; you are right—quite right. Well, then,” he said, “I won’t; but look here, man, you want to win the people to your side—here is your opportunity. That poor girl—Margaret Mullion.”
“Yes,” said the vicar, eagerly. “I wanted to talk to you about her.”
“Go on then.”
“I dared not commence,” he said, “I shrank from beginning; but that was one reason why I longed to talk to you, Trethick.”
“Well,” said the other, smiling. “I am all attention.”
“I wanted—not to reproach you for your sin, Trethick—”
“That’s right,” said Geoffrey, smiling bitterly.
“Don’t treat it with levity, for heaven’s sake, Trethick,” cried the vicar. “Think of the poor girl—of her life blasted—of the wrecked fame, and of the expiation that might be made by way of atonement.”
“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “I have thought of all that.”
“But an hour ago I was with the broken-hearted mother, who was sobbing at my feet.”
“And she asked you to see me?”
“Yes. Begged me to see you and appeal to you, and I said I would. Mr Trethick, in our great Master’s name, think of all this—think of the poor girl’s fall, and try to make amends. No, no, don’t interrupt me till I have done. I tell you I have knelt and prayed, night after night, that your heart might be softened, and that your reckless spirit might be tutored into seeing what was right, and into ceasing from this rebellion against the laws of God and man.”
“Laws of God and man, eh?” said Geoffrey, mockingly.
“Yes; is it not written that the adulterer and adulteress shall be stoned?”
“Yes,” cried Geoffrey, fiercely; “and is it not written—‘He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone’? Damn it all, Lee, I’m sick of this. I’ve been stoned to death ever since this cursed affair got wind. My mistress—the woman I was to marry—casts the first stone at my devoted head; every one follows suit, and I am battered so that I don’t know myself.”
“You are mocking,” cried the vicar.
“I am not mocking,” cried Geoffrey; “but I am half-mad. And you,” he cried, passionately, “even you, who call yourself my friend, are like the rest. But what have you done for this wretched girl, abased and heart-broken in her sin—what have you done?—you and the better-class people? Treated her worse than the beasts that perish. One and all. And this is Christianity! Shame upon you! shame!”
The vicar looked at him appealingly as Geoffrey went on.
“Have you been to her and spoken words of comfort?”
“No,” said the vicar, humbly.
“Have you taken her by the hand, and bidden her go and sin no more?”
“No.”
“Have you tried to lead her to a better way—helped her, and guided others to help her in her sore distress?”
The vicar shook his head.
“And yet you say, How am I to win the hearts of these 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.“Well then,” said Tom Jennen, “let’s go and drink parson’s health in that there ale;” and he gave his lips, which were very dry with excitement, a hearty smack.“Ay, lad,” was chorused, “we will.”They did; and Amos Pengelly thought it was no harm to join.
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.
“Well then,” said Tom Jennen, “let’s go and drink parson’s health in that there ale;” and he gave his lips, which were very dry with excitement, a hearty smack.
“Ay, lad,” was chorused, “we will.”
They did; and Amos Pengelly thought it was no harm to join.
Chapter Forty Seven.A Meeting.“How’s Madge?” said Geoffrey one morning, as he encountered Bess Prawle coming out of the bedroom with the baby in her arms.“Very poorly,” said Bess sadly. “She’s wearing away, I think.”“Had I better get Dr Rumsey to call?”“No,” said Bess quietly; “no doctor will do her any good. Poor mother’s very ill too this morning. I hardly know what to do first.”“Well, it is precious hard on you, Bessie,” said Geoffrey. “We make a regular slave of you amongst us. Why not have a woman to come in and help? Money isn’t flush: but I can pay her.”“Oh, no, Mr Trethick, I can manage,” cried Bess. “No woman would come here to help.”Geoffrey frowned.“We’re such a bad lot, eh?”“They don’t like me,” said Bess, smiling; “and father would not care to have a strange woman here.”“And so you get worked to death,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t like it, Bess, my lassie,” he continued, while the girl flushed slightly with pleasure, as she noted the interest he took in her. “Something must be done, or I shall be obliged to take Madge away and get her lodgings elsewhere.”“You’ll—you’ll take Miss Mullion away?” cried Bess excitedly, as she laid her hand upon his arm. “No, no: don’t do that, Mr Trethick.”“Why not? Would you rather she stayed here?”“Yes,” said Bess softly, “I would rather she stayed here. I’ll do the best I can for her.”“God bless you, Bessie!” cried Geoffrey warmly. “You’re a good, true-hearted lass, and I shall never forget your kindness. Well, I must see if some help can’t be managed for you.”Bess flushed a little more deeply, for his words and interest were very sweet to her. Then, looking up cheerfully, she said that it was only a matter of a day or two.“Father is quite taking to baby too,” she said. “He nursed it for over an hour last night.”“Did he?” cried Geoffrey, laughing. “I wish I had been here. I say, Bessie, does tobacco-smoke make it sneeze?”“No: not much,” said Bessie wonderingly.“Then look here,” cried Geoffrey, “I’m not going to let the old man beat me. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to nurse as well as he. Give us hold. I’m going out to loaf on the cliff, and look at the sea, and smoke a pipe and think, and I’ll take the baby.”“Mr Trethick!” cried Bess.“I mean it,” he said, laughing. “Here, come on, young one. Which way up do you hold it, Bessie?”“Oh, Mr Trethick,” cried Bessie. “Don’t—please don’t take it.”“Shall!” said Geoffrey; and to Bessie’s amusement and annoyance, for a something in the act seemed to give her pain, he laughingly took the baby and held it in his arms.“But you won’t take it out, Mr Trethick,” protested Bess.“Indeed, but I shall,” he said. “I always say what I mean.”“But you can’t, sir. It must be dressed, and have on its hood.”“Bother!” cried Geoffrey; “it has got on too much already, and the sea-breeze will do it good. Come along, young top-heavy,” he continued, laughing. “I shall be in the corner where I smoke my pipe, Bessie. Come and fetch the little soft dab when you’ve done.”He went laughing off, not seeing Bessie’s countenance contract with pain, and, talking to the round-eyed, staring infant, he made his way up out of the Cove and along the cliff path, towards Carnac, to where the rock retired in one spot, forming a sunny little nook, full of soft, dry turf, stunted ferns and pink stonecrop, and scented with wild thyme. It was a place much affected by Geoffrey, where he could sit and watch the changing sea, and try to scheme his future. Here he seated himself on the turf, with his shoulders against the rock.“Well, you are a rum little joker,” he cried, as he packed the baby up between his knees, nipping its loose garments so as to hold its little form up steady, all but the head, which kept nodding at him, the tiny intelligence therein seeming to find something vastly amusing in the dark, robust man’s face, and laughing merrily every now and then, after a staring, open-eyed inspection. “Keep your mouth shut, you drivelling little morsel, will you?” cried Geoffrey, using his pocket-handkerchief to the fount-like lips. “I enjoy you, young ’un, ’pon my word I do.”Here there were three or four nods and another laugh.“Hold still, will you?” cried Geoffrey, “or you’ll wobble that head off. There now, you’re square. Good heavens! what a lot of toggery you have got on. Why don’t she give you one good thick flannel sack, instead of all these stringed, and pinned, and buttoned wonders! That’s right; go it. I’m comic, arn’t I? Why, you jolly young jester, you are always on the grin.”The baby relapsed into a state of solemnity, gently bowing its head forwards and backwards, and making a few awkward clutches at Geoffrey’s nose, which was nearly a yard away.“Shouldn’t have thought there was so much fun in a bit of a thing like this,” continued Geoffrey, putting his hands behind his head, and resting them on the rock. “My ideas of a baby were that it was a sort of bagpipe that was always playing a discordant tune. Oh, I say, baby! for shame! I’m afraid your digestion is not perfect. In good society we always put our hand before our mouth when we make a noise like that. Here, this is the way. Hold still, you soft little atom. Why, I don’t believe you’ve a bone in your body.”Geoffrey’s hands had come from behind his head once more, and he laughingly placed one tiny, clutched fist before the wet mouth, for by no amount of persuasion could the hand be made to keep open.“There, you fat little pudge, now hold still, and don’t keep on laughing like a clown.”Geoffrey resumed his former position, and stared at the baby, and the baby stared at him.“I suppose this is Geoffrey Trethick?” he said at last; “but if I had been coming along the cliff and saw myself I shouldn’t have known him. Well, it is a chance to study human life and its helplessness. I begin to see now why women like babies. They’re so soft, and helpless, and appealing. A baby is a something with which a woman can do just as she likes, for I suppose there is nothing a woman likes so much as having her own way.”Here a spasm of mirth seemed to convulse the baby, which threw back its head and laughed, and babbled, and crowed.“Oh, you agree with that opinion, do you, youngster? Well, that’s right. Hold still now. Do you hear? I don’t want to take you home to your mother in two pieces. I wonder whether a baby ever did wobble off its head?”Here there was a pause, during which Geoffrey lay back with half-closed eyes, lazily watching his charge.“Now of course you don’t know it, youngster, and it does not trouble you a bit, but you are one too many in this rolling world of ours. People talk about purity and innocence, and little things fresh from their Maker’s hands; but, as my friend Lee says, you’re a child of sin and shame: that’s what you are.”“Do you hear?” he continued. “Why, you’re laughing at it, as hard as ever you can laugh. Oh, it’s funny, is it? Well, I suppose you are right, but it’s no joke for poor Madge.”The baby laughed and crowed loudly here, ending by coughing till it was nearly black in the face.“Serve you right too, you unnatural little wretch, laughing like that at your mother’s troubles. You’re a chip of the old block, and no mistake. I’ve a good mind to pitch you off the cliff into the sea. Oh, you’re not afraid, arn’t you?” he continued, with his face close to the baby, who wanted re-arranging after the coughquake from which it had suffered, with the result that the two little hands that had opened during the coughing clutched and tightened themselves in Geoffrey’s crisp beard, from which they refused to be torn.“Well, look here, young one,” continued Geoffrey, after freeing his beard with a good deal of trouble, and leaving two or three curling hairs in the little fists. “You seem to have made up your mind to back up public opinion, you do, and evidently intend to adopt me as your father. Well, I don’t mind. I feel just in the humour to do mad things, so why not adopt you? I dare say I could manage to keep you as well as myself; but you won’t get fat. I don’t care. But look here, youngster, can you sit it out if I have a pipe, and not set to and sneeze off your miserable little head?“Ah, you smile acquiescence, do you?” said Geoffrey. “Well, then, here goes.”As he spoke, he began fumbling in his pocket for his pipe-case, tobacco-pouch, and match-box, all of which, in his laughing humour, he placed before the child, then stuck the match-box in one fist, the pipe in the other, and balanced the soft India-rubber pouch on the nodding head.“Now then, stupid! Do you want to commit self-infanticide with phosphorus? Don’t suck those matches. It’s my belief, baby, that if you were thrown down in a provision warehouse you’d prolong your existence to an indefinite extent. Will you be quiet?” he exclaimed, laughing aloud. “Well, of all the funny little beggars that ever existed you are the most droll. There, now you’ve got your mouth all over the dye from that leather case. Wait a moment. There, if you must smoke you shall smoke, but don’t be so hungry after it that you must suck the case.”He took the pipe-case from the little hand, opened and took out the pipe, wiped it, and then playfully closed the tiny fingers round the blackened stem of the old meerschaum, and guided the amber mouth-piece into the wet mouth.The baby began to suck and rub the mouth-piece eagerly against its little gums, till it had a suspicion of the intense bitter of the pipe, when the look of content upon the soft, round little features gradually changed into such a droll grimace of disgust that Geoffrey lay back and laughed till the tears came into his eyes, and he wiped them away, and laughed heartily again and again.“Oh, you rum little customer!” he exclaimed; “you’ve done me no end of good. I have not laughed like that since I came down to Carnac. Why, you’ve made my ribs ache, that you have—the devil!”For at that moment, briskly walking along the cliff path, Rhoda turned the corner, and came right upon the pair.Rhoda stopped as if petrified, and a fierce look of indignation flashed from her eyes.Geoffrey was as much surprised, but he had more self-control, and, returning the indignant glance with one full of defiance, he kept his place in the sunny nook, lying right back, and went on tossing the baby to and fro, balancing it on his knees, and then pretending to make it walk up his broad chest, which, however, seemed to heave up into a mountain beneath the tiny feet.The silence in that sheltered nook was painful, and the low moan of the restless sea even seemed to be hushed, as the child threw back its little head, and kicked and laughed and crowed with delight.“Pitiful, contemptible coward!” thought Rhoda, biting her lip to keep down her anger. “And I once cared about this degraded wretch!”“I wouldn’t move to save my life!” thought Geoffrey. “You doubting, incredulous, proud, faithless woman! You shall beg my pardon yet.”He had a wonderful mastery over himself as far as his face was concerned, and he returned Rhoda’s angry look with one as bitter, if not worse; but though he could keep smooth his face, he was not wholly master of his emotions, as it proved.For just as Rhoda was trying to summon up force enough to make her tear herself away with a look of intensified scorn and contempt, Geoffrey’s hands, which held the baby, instead of lightly tossing it up and down, involuntarily gripped its little tender ribs so fiercely that the merry crow was changed into a loud wail of pain, and, with a hysterical laugh that jarred through every nerve of Geoffrey’s frame, Rhoda rushed away, to burst, as soon as she was out of sight, into a passion of tears.“You little wretch!” roared Geoffrey, springing up and shaking the baby. “What do you mean by making me look such a fool? Be quiet, or I’ll throw you into the sea. Hang me, what an idiot I must have looked,” he cried, stamping up and down with the baby in his hands, and then stuffing it roughly in a niche in the rock. “Be quiet, will you,” he roared, shaking his fist in the poor little thing’s face; “be quiet, or I’ll smash you!”The cessation of the shaking, and the appearance of the fist close to its snub nose had the desired effect. The storm passed, and sunshine burst forth over the little face, followed by a laugh and a futile effort to catch at the hand.“Poor little beggar?” cried Geoffrey, carefully taking up the helpless thing once more. “There, I don’t care, do I, baby?” he cried, laughing and grinding his teeth together as the tiny fists grasped and held on to his beard, while the little eyes laughed in his. “Let her see me, and think what she likes. Come along, young ’un. I’m not cross with you. You couldn’t help it. Here, hold your little wet button-hole still, and I’ll give you a kiss. No, no—kiss: don’t suck, stupid?” he said, laughing; and then the anger passed away, as a convulsion swept over the tiny face, and consequent upon a hair from Geoffrey’s beard touching the apology for a nose, the baby sneezed three times.“Well done, young one,” he cried. “Feel better? No? Give us another.”He raised the little thing once more and kissed it, and as he lowered it again something prompted him to look back, and as he did he saw that Rhoda was in full view upon the cliff, that she had turned, and that she must have seen that kiss.Rage took possession of his soul again, and he nearly made the child shriek in his fierce grip.“Spying, eh?” he cried. “Well, if you will be a petty child, ma’am, so will I;” and, hugging the baby in his arms, he walked on, kissing it over and over again, till meeting Bessie Prawle, he cried out, “Here; catch!” and tossed the little thing into her arms.
“How’s Madge?” said Geoffrey one morning, as he encountered Bess Prawle coming out of the bedroom with the baby in her arms.
“Very poorly,” said Bess sadly. “She’s wearing away, I think.”
“Had I better get Dr Rumsey to call?”
“No,” said Bess quietly; “no doctor will do her any good. Poor mother’s very ill too this morning. I hardly know what to do first.”
“Well, it is precious hard on you, Bessie,” said Geoffrey. “We make a regular slave of you amongst us. Why not have a woman to come in and help? Money isn’t flush: but I can pay her.”
“Oh, no, Mr Trethick, I can manage,” cried Bess. “No woman would come here to help.”
Geoffrey frowned.
“We’re such a bad lot, eh?”
“They don’t like me,” said Bess, smiling; “and father would not care to have a strange woman here.”
“And so you get worked to death,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t like it, Bess, my lassie,” he continued, while the girl flushed slightly with pleasure, as she noted the interest he took in her. “Something must be done, or I shall be obliged to take Madge away and get her lodgings elsewhere.”
“You’ll—you’ll take Miss Mullion away?” cried Bess excitedly, as she laid her hand upon his arm. “No, no: don’t do that, Mr Trethick.”
“Why not? Would you rather she stayed here?”
“Yes,” said Bess softly, “I would rather she stayed here. I’ll do the best I can for her.”
“God bless you, Bessie!” cried Geoffrey warmly. “You’re a good, true-hearted lass, and I shall never forget your kindness. Well, I must see if some help can’t be managed for you.”
Bess flushed a little more deeply, for his words and interest were very sweet to her. Then, looking up cheerfully, she said that it was only a matter of a day or two.
“Father is quite taking to baby too,” she said. “He nursed it for over an hour last night.”
“Did he?” cried Geoffrey, laughing. “I wish I had been here. I say, Bessie, does tobacco-smoke make it sneeze?”
“No: not much,” said Bessie wonderingly.
“Then look here,” cried Geoffrey, “I’m not going to let the old man beat me. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to nurse as well as he. Give us hold. I’m going out to loaf on the cliff, and look at the sea, and smoke a pipe and think, and I’ll take the baby.”
“Mr Trethick!” cried Bess.
“I mean it,” he said, laughing. “Here, come on, young one. Which way up do you hold it, Bessie?”
“Oh, Mr Trethick,” cried Bessie. “Don’t—please don’t take it.”
“Shall!” said Geoffrey; and to Bessie’s amusement and annoyance, for a something in the act seemed to give her pain, he laughingly took the baby and held it in his arms.
“But you won’t take it out, Mr Trethick,” protested Bess.
“Indeed, but I shall,” he said. “I always say what I mean.”
“But you can’t, sir. It must be dressed, and have on its hood.”
“Bother!” cried Geoffrey; “it has got on too much already, and the sea-breeze will do it good. Come along, young top-heavy,” he continued, laughing. “I shall be in the corner where I smoke my pipe, Bessie. Come and fetch the little soft dab when you’ve done.”
He went laughing off, not seeing Bessie’s countenance contract with pain, and, talking to the round-eyed, staring infant, he made his way up out of the Cove and along the cliff path, towards Carnac, to where the rock retired in one spot, forming a sunny little nook, full of soft, dry turf, stunted ferns and pink stonecrop, and scented with wild thyme. It was a place much affected by Geoffrey, where he could sit and watch the changing sea, and try to scheme his future. Here he seated himself on the turf, with his shoulders against the rock.
“Well, you are a rum little joker,” he cried, as he packed the baby up between his knees, nipping its loose garments so as to hold its little form up steady, all but the head, which kept nodding at him, the tiny intelligence therein seeming to find something vastly amusing in the dark, robust man’s face, and laughing merrily every now and then, after a staring, open-eyed inspection. “Keep your mouth shut, you drivelling little morsel, will you?” cried Geoffrey, using his pocket-handkerchief to the fount-like lips. “I enjoy you, young ’un, ’pon my word I do.”
Here there were three or four nods and another laugh.
“Hold still, will you?” cried Geoffrey, “or you’ll wobble that head off. There now, you’re square. Good heavens! what a lot of toggery you have got on. Why don’t she give you one good thick flannel sack, instead of all these stringed, and pinned, and buttoned wonders! That’s right; go it. I’m comic, arn’t I? Why, you jolly young jester, you are always on the grin.”
The baby relapsed into a state of solemnity, gently bowing its head forwards and backwards, and making a few awkward clutches at Geoffrey’s nose, which was nearly a yard away.
“Shouldn’t have thought there was so much fun in a bit of a thing like this,” continued Geoffrey, putting his hands behind his head, and resting them on the rock. “My ideas of a baby were that it was a sort of bagpipe that was always playing a discordant tune. Oh, I say, baby! for shame! I’m afraid your digestion is not perfect. In good society we always put our hand before our mouth when we make a noise like that. Here, this is the way. Hold still, you soft little atom. Why, I don’t believe you’ve a bone in your body.”
Geoffrey’s hands had come from behind his head once more, and he laughingly placed one tiny, clutched fist before the wet mouth, for by no amount of persuasion could the hand be made to keep open.
“There, you fat little pudge, now hold still, and don’t keep on laughing like a clown.”
Geoffrey resumed his former position, and stared at the baby, and the baby stared at him.
“I suppose this is Geoffrey Trethick?” he said at last; “but if I had been coming along the cliff and saw myself I shouldn’t have known him. Well, it is a chance to study human life and its helplessness. I begin to see now why women like babies. They’re so soft, and helpless, and appealing. A baby is a something with which a woman can do just as she likes, for I suppose there is nothing a woman likes so much as having her own way.”
Here a spasm of mirth seemed to convulse the baby, which threw back its head and laughed, and babbled, and crowed.
“Oh, you agree with that opinion, do you, youngster? Well, that’s right. Hold still now. Do you hear? I don’t want to take you home to your mother in two pieces. I wonder whether a baby ever did wobble off its head?”
Here there was a pause, during which Geoffrey lay back with half-closed eyes, lazily watching his charge.
“Now of course you don’t know it, youngster, and it does not trouble you a bit, but you are one too many in this rolling world of ours. People talk about purity and innocence, and little things fresh from their Maker’s hands; but, as my friend Lee says, you’re a child of sin and shame: that’s what you are.”
“Do you hear?” he continued. “Why, you’re laughing at it, as hard as ever you can laugh. Oh, it’s funny, is it? Well, I suppose you are right, but it’s no joke for poor Madge.”
The baby laughed and crowed loudly here, ending by coughing till it was nearly black in the face.
“Serve you right too, you unnatural little wretch, laughing like that at your mother’s troubles. You’re a chip of the old block, and no mistake. I’ve a good mind to pitch you off the cliff into the sea. Oh, you’re not afraid, arn’t you?” he continued, with his face close to the baby, who wanted re-arranging after the coughquake from which it had suffered, with the result that the two little hands that had opened during the coughing clutched and tightened themselves in Geoffrey’s crisp beard, from which they refused to be torn.
“Well, look here, young one,” continued Geoffrey, after freeing his beard with a good deal of trouble, and leaving two or three curling hairs in the little fists. “You seem to have made up your mind to back up public opinion, you do, and evidently intend to adopt me as your father. Well, I don’t mind. I feel just in the humour to do mad things, so why not adopt you? I dare say I could manage to keep you as well as myself; but you won’t get fat. I don’t care. But look here, youngster, can you sit it out if I have a pipe, and not set to and sneeze off your miserable little head?
“Ah, you smile acquiescence, do you?” said Geoffrey. “Well, then, here goes.”
As he spoke, he began fumbling in his pocket for his pipe-case, tobacco-pouch, and match-box, all of which, in his laughing humour, he placed before the child, then stuck the match-box in one fist, the pipe in the other, and balanced the soft India-rubber pouch on the nodding head.
“Now then, stupid! Do you want to commit self-infanticide with phosphorus? Don’t suck those matches. It’s my belief, baby, that if you were thrown down in a provision warehouse you’d prolong your existence to an indefinite extent. Will you be quiet?” he exclaimed, laughing aloud. “Well, of all the funny little beggars that ever existed you are the most droll. There, now you’ve got your mouth all over the dye from that leather case. Wait a moment. There, if you must smoke you shall smoke, but don’t be so hungry after it that you must suck the case.”
He took the pipe-case from the little hand, opened and took out the pipe, wiped it, and then playfully closed the tiny fingers round the blackened stem of the old meerschaum, and guided the amber mouth-piece into the wet mouth.
The baby began to suck and rub the mouth-piece eagerly against its little gums, till it had a suspicion of the intense bitter of the pipe, when the look of content upon the soft, round little features gradually changed into such a droll grimace of disgust that Geoffrey lay back and laughed till the tears came into his eyes, and he wiped them away, and laughed heartily again and again.
“Oh, you rum little customer!” he exclaimed; “you’ve done me no end of good. I have not laughed like that since I came down to Carnac. Why, you’ve made my ribs ache, that you have—the devil!”
For at that moment, briskly walking along the cliff path, Rhoda turned the corner, and came right upon the pair.
Rhoda stopped as if petrified, and a fierce look of indignation flashed from her eyes.
Geoffrey was as much surprised, but he had more self-control, and, returning the indignant glance with one full of defiance, he kept his place in the sunny nook, lying right back, and went on tossing the baby to and fro, balancing it on his knees, and then pretending to make it walk up his broad chest, which, however, seemed to heave up into a mountain beneath the tiny feet.
The silence in that sheltered nook was painful, and the low moan of the restless sea even seemed to be hushed, as the child threw back its little head, and kicked and laughed and crowed with delight.
“Pitiful, contemptible coward!” thought Rhoda, biting her lip to keep down her anger. “And I once cared about this degraded wretch!”
“I wouldn’t move to save my life!” thought Geoffrey. “You doubting, incredulous, proud, faithless woman! You shall beg my pardon yet.”
He had a wonderful mastery over himself as far as his face was concerned, and he returned Rhoda’s angry look with one as bitter, if not worse; but though he could keep smooth his face, he was not wholly master of his emotions, as it proved.
For just as Rhoda was trying to summon up force enough to make her tear herself away with a look of intensified scorn and contempt, Geoffrey’s hands, which held the baby, instead of lightly tossing it up and down, involuntarily gripped its little tender ribs so fiercely that the merry crow was changed into a loud wail of pain, and, with a hysterical laugh that jarred through every nerve of Geoffrey’s frame, Rhoda rushed away, to burst, as soon as she was out of sight, into a passion of tears.
“You little wretch!” roared Geoffrey, springing up and shaking the baby. “What do you mean by making me look such a fool? Be quiet, or I’ll throw you into the sea. Hang me, what an idiot I must have looked,” he cried, stamping up and down with the baby in his hands, and then stuffing it roughly in a niche in the rock. “Be quiet, will you,” he roared, shaking his fist in the poor little thing’s face; “be quiet, or I’ll smash you!”
The cessation of the shaking, and the appearance of the fist close to its snub nose had the desired effect. The storm passed, and sunshine burst forth over the little face, followed by a laugh and a futile effort to catch at the hand.
“Poor little beggar?” cried Geoffrey, carefully taking up the helpless thing once more. “There, I don’t care, do I, baby?” he cried, laughing and grinding his teeth together as the tiny fists grasped and held on to his beard, while the little eyes laughed in his. “Let her see me, and think what she likes. Come along, young ’un. I’m not cross with you. You couldn’t help it. Here, hold your little wet button-hole still, and I’ll give you a kiss. No, no—kiss: don’t suck, stupid?” he said, laughing; and then the anger passed away, as a convulsion swept over the tiny face, and consequent upon a hair from Geoffrey’s beard touching the apology for a nose, the baby sneezed three times.
“Well done, young one,” he cried. “Feel better? No? Give us another.”
He raised the little thing once more and kissed it, and as he lowered it again something prompted him to look back, and as he did he saw that Rhoda was in full view upon the cliff, that she had turned, and that she must have seen that kiss.
Rage took possession of his soul again, and he nearly made the child shriek in his fierce grip.
“Spying, eh?” he cried. “Well, if you will be a petty child, ma’am, so will I;” and, hugging the baby in his arms, he walked on, kissing it over and over again, till meeting Bessie Prawle, he cried out, “Here; catch!” and tossed the little thing into her arms.