Chapter Ten.Geoffrey Makes a Discovery.“You are an extremely handsome young woman, and I like the bright, intelligent look in your eyes,” said Geoffrey Trethick to himself; “but I’ll swear you have got a temper.”“You are a nice, frank, manly fellow,” said Rhoda Penwynn to herself; “and I wonder whether you are as sensible and not so stubborn as you look.”Introductions were just over in Mr Penwynn’s drawing-room, and Geoffrey, who was in no wise taken aback by the splendour of his host’s surroundings, walked across to where, cold and stiff and quiet, his travelling-companion stood, with one arm upon the mantelpiece, looking uneasily on.“It seems as if we are to be thrown together,” said Geoffrey, offering the young clergyman his hand, which the latter took as if under protest, and then glanced from Mr Penwynn to his daughter, as if in apology for allowing himself to be claimed as an acquaintance by his bluff travelling-companion.“You have met Mr Lee, then?” said the host stiffly.“Yes—yes,” said the new vicar; “Mr Trethick is an old Oxford man.”“And you don’t like him,” said Rhoda to herself, as she observed every thing; “and I don’t like you.”“We were fellow-passengers by the coach this morning,” said Geoffrey, and as he spoke he glanced by Mr Penwynn at where Rhoda was re-arranging some flowers, and found that the Reverend Edward Lee had brought his spectacles to bear in the same direction. Then, looking back at his host, he fancied that this gentleman had not been unobservant of the glances of his guests.Mr Penwynn smiled to himself directly after as Geoffrey moved towards Rhoda, and began talking to her about the view from the drawing-room window and his walk along the coast; but the young clergyman looked at his host as if in remonstrance at his allowing this stranger to make so free, when the door opened, and the servant announced,—“Mr Tregenna!”“Ah, Tregenna! You are late. Glad to see you.”“Business, my dear sir. The old story—business. My dear Miss Penwynn, you must forgive me,” he continued, speaking in a low voice full of deference, but with lips that did not seem to move as he spoke, as Rhoda turned from Geoffrey, and took a couple of steps towards the fresh comer—a tall, handsome man ofdistinguéappearance, but with a rather sallow complexion, made deeper by his jet black hair and whiskers.Geoffrey started slightly, and then gazed keenly at this man, who bent down over Rhoda Penwynn’s hand as he took it, and retained it just a moment longer than custom dictates, and smiled in her face directly after as, in a quiet, self-possessed way, she said that they had not been waiting.“Waiting? No!” said Mr Penwynn smiling; “but I should have thought you would have been first.”“I hurried all I could,” said Tregenna, as a slight flush came over Rhoda’s cheek; “but one cannot always command one’s time, even to devote it to one’s aims.”Geoffrey Trethick half-closed his eyes, as he looked on trying to think out something which had puzzled him, but without avail, and for the moment he gave it up, and began to turn over the leaves of an album, but taking ample notice the while of what was going on.“If I were interested in mine host’s daughter,” mused Geoffrey, “I should feel uncomfortable about that dark, smoothly-shaven gentleman. I don’t like the look of his mouth, and I don’t like his eyes, and—Most happy!”This last in answer to his host’s introduction to the last comer, who smiled upon him in the most friendly of ways, asked him what he thought of Carnac, seemed to be particularly refined, and then turned to go through a little preliminary chat with the new clergyman, who was more bland and agreeable than he had been to his travelling-companion.“Ah! the parson gets on better with you, my fine fellow,” said Geoffrey. “You haven’t so many corners as I have. Humph! I don’t like you, though. You seem to be the man in possession, though, here, and certainly she is a very charming girl.”He met Rhoda’s eyes as these thoughts passed through his mind, and she encountered his gaze with a frank, open look, though he fancied that she seemed a shade paler than when he was talking to her a few minutes before.Just then dinner was announced, and Mr Penwynn turned to speak to Geoffrey, but bit his lip and glanced at Tregenna, who, however, only smiled back and nodded, as if amused; for Rhoda, acting the part of mistress of the house, extended her gloved hand so unmistakably that Geoffrey stepped forward, the hand was laid upon his arm, and, passing the others, he led her across the hall to the handsome dining-room, thinking to himself that by rights the Reverend Edward Lee ought to have occupied his place.The dinner was good and well served, every thing making it evident that Mr Penwynn was a wealthy man, and one who liked to show it; but the ostentation was a good deal toned down by his child’s refined taste, and was not obtrusive. The conversation kept up was such as would be heard at any gentleman’s table, and it soon became evident that the West-country banker and his daughter were well-informed, and loved and cultivated refinement.Geoffrey particularly noted how clever and gentlemanly Mr Tregenna could be. By degrees it dawned upon him that he was the principal solicitor of the place, and without its troubling him in the slightest degree, he made out that Tregenna was evidently a suitor for Rhoda Penwynn’s hand. Both father and lover showed this, the former being plainly in favour of the match; while, in spite of her efforts to the contrary, Rhoda Penwynn displayed her consciousness of Tregenna’s expressive looks by redoubling her attention to Geoffrey and the new vicar—Geoffrey chatting freely, and in the most unembarrassed way, so different to any young man she had met before, and questioning her largely about the place and people.“A glass of wine with you, Mr Trethick,” said the host, who, in spite of advances, adhered somewhat to old customs. “Tregenna, will you join us?”“With pleasure,” said the latter, looking up and smiling, and as he did so the thought that had been puzzling Geoffrey all through the dinner met with a solution.He had been wondering—his wonder running like a vein through the whole of the conversation—where he had met Tregenna before; but now it came to him that for certain they had never met, but that it was that smooth, deep, mellow voice that he had heard, but where?“I have it,” he mentally exclaimed, as, raising his glass, he looked full in John Tregenna’s eyes. “You were the fellow I heard talking to that girl by the ruined mine?”
“You are an extremely handsome young woman, and I like the bright, intelligent look in your eyes,” said Geoffrey Trethick to himself; “but I’ll swear you have got a temper.”
“You are a nice, frank, manly fellow,” said Rhoda Penwynn to herself; “and I wonder whether you are as sensible and not so stubborn as you look.”
Introductions were just over in Mr Penwynn’s drawing-room, and Geoffrey, who was in no wise taken aback by the splendour of his host’s surroundings, walked across to where, cold and stiff and quiet, his travelling-companion stood, with one arm upon the mantelpiece, looking uneasily on.
“It seems as if we are to be thrown together,” said Geoffrey, offering the young clergyman his hand, which the latter took as if under protest, and then glanced from Mr Penwynn to his daughter, as if in apology for allowing himself to be claimed as an acquaintance by his bluff travelling-companion.
“You have met Mr Lee, then?” said the host stiffly.
“Yes—yes,” said the new vicar; “Mr Trethick is an old Oxford man.”
“And you don’t like him,” said Rhoda to herself, as she observed every thing; “and I don’t like you.”
“We were fellow-passengers by the coach this morning,” said Geoffrey, and as he spoke he glanced by Mr Penwynn at where Rhoda was re-arranging some flowers, and found that the Reverend Edward Lee had brought his spectacles to bear in the same direction. Then, looking back at his host, he fancied that this gentleman had not been unobservant of the glances of his guests.
Mr Penwynn smiled to himself directly after as Geoffrey moved towards Rhoda, and began talking to her about the view from the drawing-room window and his walk along the coast; but the young clergyman looked at his host as if in remonstrance at his allowing this stranger to make so free, when the door opened, and the servant announced,—
“Mr Tregenna!”
“Ah, Tregenna! You are late. Glad to see you.”
“Business, my dear sir. The old story—business. My dear Miss Penwynn, you must forgive me,” he continued, speaking in a low voice full of deference, but with lips that did not seem to move as he spoke, as Rhoda turned from Geoffrey, and took a couple of steps towards the fresh comer—a tall, handsome man ofdistinguéappearance, but with a rather sallow complexion, made deeper by his jet black hair and whiskers.
Geoffrey started slightly, and then gazed keenly at this man, who bent down over Rhoda Penwynn’s hand as he took it, and retained it just a moment longer than custom dictates, and smiled in her face directly after as, in a quiet, self-possessed way, she said that they had not been waiting.
“Waiting? No!” said Mr Penwynn smiling; “but I should have thought you would have been first.”
“I hurried all I could,” said Tregenna, as a slight flush came over Rhoda’s cheek; “but one cannot always command one’s time, even to devote it to one’s aims.”
Geoffrey Trethick half-closed his eyes, as he looked on trying to think out something which had puzzled him, but without avail, and for the moment he gave it up, and began to turn over the leaves of an album, but taking ample notice the while of what was going on.
“If I were interested in mine host’s daughter,” mused Geoffrey, “I should feel uncomfortable about that dark, smoothly-shaven gentleman. I don’t like the look of his mouth, and I don’t like his eyes, and—Most happy!”
This last in answer to his host’s introduction to the last comer, who smiled upon him in the most friendly of ways, asked him what he thought of Carnac, seemed to be particularly refined, and then turned to go through a little preliminary chat with the new clergyman, who was more bland and agreeable than he had been to his travelling-companion.
“Ah! the parson gets on better with you, my fine fellow,” said Geoffrey. “You haven’t so many corners as I have. Humph! I don’t like you, though. You seem to be the man in possession, though, here, and certainly she is a very charming girl.”
He met Rhoda’s eyes as these thoughts passed through his mind, and she encountered his gaze with a frank, open look, though he fancied that she seemed a shade paler than when he was talking to her a few minutes before.
Just then dinner was announced, and Mr Penwynn turned to speak to Geoffrey, but bit his lip and glanced at Tregenna, who, however, only smiled back and nodded, as if amused; for Rhoda, acting the part of mistress of the house, extended her gloved hand so unmistakably that Geoffrey stepped forward, the hand was laid upon his arm, and, passing the others, he led her across the hall to the handsome dining-room, thinking to himself that by rights the Reverend Edward Lee ought to have occupied his place.
The dinner was good and well served, every thing making it evident that Mr Penwynn was a wealthy man, and one who liked to show it; but the ostentation was a good deal toned down by his child’s refined taste, and was not obtrusive. The conversation kept up was such as would be heard at any gentleman’s table, and it soon became evident that the West-country banker and his daughter were well-informed, and loved and cultivated refinement.
Geoffrey particularly noted how clever and gentlemanly Mr Tregenna could be. By degrees it dawned upon him that he was the principal solicitor of the place, and without its troubling him in the slightest degree, he made out that Tregenna was evidently a suitor for Rhoda Penwynn’s hand. Both father and lover showed this, the former being plainly in favour of the match; while, in spite of her efforts to the contrary, Rhoda Penwynn displayed her consciousness of Tregenna’s expressive looks by redoubling her attention to Geoffrey and the new vicar—Geoffrey chatting freely, and in the most unembarrassed way, so different to any young man she had met before, and questioning her largely about the place and people.
“A glass of wine with you, Mr Trethick,” said the host, who, in spite of advances, adhered somewhat to old customs. “Tregenna, will you join us?”
“With pleasure,” said the latter, looking up and smiling, and as he did so the thought that had been puzzling Geoffrey all through the dinner met with a solution.
He had been wondering—his wonder running like a vein through the whole of the conversation—where he had met Tregenna before; but now it came to him that for certain they had never met, but that it was that smooth, deep, mellow voice that he had heard, but where?
“I have it,” he mentally exclaimed, as, raising his glass, he looked full in John Tregenna’s eyes. “You were the fellow I heard talking to that girl by the ruined mine?”
Chapter Eleven.An Opinion of Tregenna.“You’re a nice, smooth scoundrel,” said Geoffrey to himself, as he set down his glass, “and I have been drinking with you when I ought to have thrown the wine in your face, and told you that you were a blackguard.—But we don’t do this sort of thing in society. As long as there is a good thick coat of whitewash over the sepulchre, society does not mind, but smiles on ladies with no reputation if they are rich, and never opens its ears to the acts, deeds, and exploits of our nice young men. I wonder whether mine host knows your character, and what my fair young hostess feels? Don’t seem very sentimental about him, anyhow; and here’s my reverend friend quite cottoning to black whiskers, and enjoying his small talk. Ah! it’s a strange world.”A brisk little conversation was just now going off between Rhoda Penwynn and the new vicar, Tregenna throwing in a word here and there, Mr Penwynn smiling approval as he listened, while Geoffrey went on eating heartily, and following his thought.“I may be wrong,” he went on, “but I feel pretty sure I could say something that would make you change colour, my smooth, cleanly-shaven gentleman, and if I did I should make you my enemy for life. Well, perhaps I could bear that, but I don’t want enemies, I want friends. If I’m right, though, I don’t think you ought to win ma’mselle unless you reform, probationise, and she condones. There, what a string! As the old women say—’tain’t no business of mine.”He glanced across at Tregenna just then, and that gentleman met his eye, smiled, and the discussion being over, asked him how long he meant to stay in the west.“Stay?” said Geoffrey sharply. “Altogether.”Tregenna raised his eyebrows a little, and just then the young vicar, in reply to a question from Mr Penwynn, began speaking, in slow measured accents, about the vicarage to be built, and the alterations he meant to make at the church. A bright colour suffused his smooth pale face, as he found that Rhoda was listening to him, and that he was now monopolising the attention of the rest. However, he seemed to master his nervousness, and spoke out firmly and well to the end.“You may try,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling, “but I am afraid, my dear sir, that your ideas are as Utopian as those of Mr Trethick there. However, experience teaches, as the Latin proverb goes; but, as an old inhabitant, I venture to say that before many weeks are over, both of you gentlemen will confess that you have undertaken a Herculean task. Religiously, the people of the lower orders are as wedded to Wesleyanism as in their mining tactics they are to their old-fashioned ways. Our rough Cornish folk, gentlemen, are as hard to move as our own granite.”“Perhaps so, papa,” said Rhoda; “but we have not had many efforts made here to move them.”“Thank you, Miss Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, flushing, and speaking with animation. “Those are the first encouraging words I have heard. Your daughter has touched the very point, Mr Penwynn. I don’t want to talk like an egotist, but, speaking as an engineer, if you will show me one of your biggest pieces of Cornish granite, I’ll find a means of giving it a start; and I’ll be bound to say that if Mr Lee here is as determined as I, he will find a way of moving the hardest of your Cornish hearts. Sir, I believe in that little word ‘Try!’”The Reverend Edward Lee coloured slightly, and turned his glasses with more of interest upon the speaker, but he did not interpose.“I wish you both every success,” said Tregenna, smiling first on one and then on the other, and Mr Penwynn nodded his head, and laughed, saying,—“Youth is sanguine, Mr Trethick.Try!”“I will, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, in a voice that, though quiet, was so full of the spirit expressed by those two determined words that Tregenna glanced sharply at him, and then at Rhoda, to see what effect they had had upon her.She was bending a little forward, her lips parted, and a curious look in her face, as she gazed in the guest’s countenance, till, instinctively becoming aware that Tregenna’s eyes were fixed upon her, she let her own fall, but only to raise them directly after with a half-offended look of inquiry, as if asking why she was watched, and soon after she left the table.The gentlemen stayed but a short time over their wine, for Tregenna, after exchanging glances with Mr Penwynn, rose and made for the drawing-room, while Mr Penwynn suggested a cigar in the garden.“Yes, I should enjoy a smoke,” said Geoffrey, who suspected that this was a manoeuvre to give Tregenna an opportunity for atête-à-tête, but the vicar declined.“I have not smoked now for many years,” he said, and he glanced to the door as if to escape to the drawing-room in Tregenna’s wake, but Mr Penwynn proceeded to endorse Geoffrey’s suspicions.“Then I will not smoke either,” he said, passing his arm through that of his guest. “We’ll have a look round at the ferns and flowers till Mr Trethick has finished his cigar. They’ll bring us coffee directly, and then we will join them in the drawing-room.”There was no escape, so the young clergyman was marched off to inspect the peculiarities of his host’s choice ferns, with the beauties of the various sub-tropical plants that the banker had collected in his well-kept, rock-sheltered terrace. These being ended, the various points of interest in the distance about the bay were pointed put, evidently to gain time.Meanwhile Geoffrey, who felt somewhat amused, sat upon a rock, smoked an excellent cigar, and thought a good deal as he gazed out to sea.“Parson’s bored,” he said to himself. “He wants to get off to the drawing-room, and beam through his glasses on Miss Penwynn, who is unmistakably being courted by the smooth, dark gentleman. Most likely he is just now, with papa’s consent, popping the question. If she accepts him I should think it’s a pity, for somehow Mr Tregenna is not mybeau-idealof a gentleman, while she is a bright, clever girl. However, it is no business of mine.”He paused to knock the very long, carefully-preserved ash off the end of his cigar, which process seemed to be looked upon as one of very great importance, the cigar being petted and carefully smoothed down at the moist end where a little of the leaf was loose, lest this opening should at all interfere with the drawing; after which he tenderly replaced the roll of weed in his lips, uttered a sigh of satisfaction, such as might be given by any young man whose digestion was in perfect order, and exhaled a soft blue cloud of smoke.“Curious thing this love,” he continued to himself. “Every one seems to go in for it, to the ruffling of a calm, smooth life, and gets into trouble. What a blessing it is that I have no inclinations in that direction! Humph! I wonder what the lady has said? Bah! stuff! nonsense! what is it to me? I’m not going to set up as head moralist, and meddle with these affairs. Her father must know best.”He rose, and strolled down to the end of the terrace, to lean over a rugged mass of granite, and he was still there, enjoying the delicious calm of the evening, and marvelling at the beauty of the shadowy, phosphorescent sea, when he heard his host’s voice, and throwing aside the fragment of the cigar whose aroma was beginning to be marred by touches of burnt moustache, he turned to meet him.“Tea is ready, Mr Trethick,” he said. “Really I ought to apologise for my neglect.”“Neglect, eh?” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Why, I could bear to be neglected like this every night. You gave me one of the best cigars I ever lit, and let me lounge here and smoke it in peace. Don’t apologise, Mr Penwynn; I am quite satisfied.”In spite of his indifference, however, Geoffrey could not refrain from looking curiously at Rhoda and Tregenna as he entered the drawing-room, but their unruffled features told no tales.Rhoda was seated near the window, and Tregenna on the opposite side, looking more gentlemanly and polished than ever; while Rhoda at once rose, and began talking to the new vicar, leaving Geoffrey to chat over the handed-round tea to Tregenna about mines, their few successes, and their many failures.“Parson’s happy now, I hope,” thought Geoffrey, as Mr Penwynn came and carried off Tregenna, after a word of apology about business; and then, as they stood talking at the other end of the room, Mr Penwynn’s face was so fully in the light, that Geoffrey could not help noticing that he changed countenance.“Master Tregenna’s saying something unpleasant about business,” thought Geoffrey. “The glorious uncertainty of the law is, perhaps, having mine host upon the hip.”“Do you like music, Mr Trethick?” said a voice at his side, and he found that Rhoda Penwynn had left the vicar and approached unobserved.“You wicked young puss,” he said to himself. “You’ve come to make a buffer of me. That’s it, is it? Papa is turning angry about you, eh? and you fear a collision? Well, you shall find me full of spring.” Then, smiling—“Yes, I love music,” he said aloud. “I am a worshipper at a distance—rather a mild one, I should say. You will sing something, I hope?”Rhoda crossed readily to the piano, and sang a couple of ballads very sweetly, her voice being rich and resonant, and then it seemed to Geoffrey, who was turning over the music for her, that, in spite of a very brave effort to appear unconcerned, she was growing extremely nervous, for, instead of leaving the piano, she began to pick up piece after piece of music, glancing sharply from her father to Tregenna, and then at the vicar, who was placidly examining an album of scraps.“I wish you sang, Mr Trethick,” she said at last.“Do you?” he said, looking down at her troubled face.“Yes. Do you? Will you?”“Nature has not been very generous to me in the matter of voice. At least she has given me plenty, but the quality is coarse. I’ll try something though—with you.”“A duet? Oh, yes!” she said eagerly. “What have we? Could you—do you like Italian?”“Yes,” he said quietly, as he noticed how agitated she was growing, and how bravely she fought to keep it down, and preserve her composure towards her father’s guests. “Shall we try thatTrovatorepiece that you just turned over—Ai nostri monti.”“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, and there was a silence in the room as the rich harmony of the well-blended voices floated out upon the night air. For, in spite of his modest declaration, Geoffrey Trethick possessed a full deep voice, and, being a good musician, he thoroughly enjoyed his task.“Rather hard on a baritone to set him to sing tenor, Miss Penwynn,” he said, laughing. “But I say, what a delicious voice you have!”Rhoda glanced at him sharply, but the expression of admiration she could see was perfectly sincere, and she knew at once that he was not a man likely to flatter.That duet gave Rhoda Penwynn time to recover herself, and she was perfectly calm by the end—a calm she managed to maintain until the guests were about to depart.“By the way, Mr Lee,” said the banker, “have you obtained apartments? It is a disgrace to our place that the vicarage is not rebuilt.”“Oh, yes!” said the vicar, mildly, “I have obtained rooms.”“At Mrs Mullion’s, I presume?”“No,” said the vicar, turning his glasses for a moment on Geoffrey. “Mr Trethick has taken those.”“Indeed! Then you are at the hotel?”“No; I have made arrangements to board with a Miss Pavey, at a very pleasant cottage—Dinas Vale. Good-night!”“I’ll walk as far as your rooms with you, Mr Trethick,” said Tregenna, as they stepped out into the road. “Have a cigar?”They lit up, and strolled along the up-and-down ill-paved way, Tregenna evidently laying himself out to make friends with the new arrival, who made himself frank and pleasant, but, somehow, not cordial.“Drop in and have a chat with me, Mr Trethick,” said Tregenna, at parting. “I may be able to further your views. Any one will show you my place.”“Know it,” said Geoffrey. “Saw the brass plate on the gate.”“Yes,” laughed Tregenna, “one has to put out a sign. But come and see me; perhaps I can help you.”“I don’t like after-dinner promises,” laughed Geoffrey. “They are rash. I may put you to the test.”“Rash? Oh, no! We are not like that in the west. I shall be only too glad to help you to the best of my power. Good-night!”“Good-night!”Geoffrey remained at the garden gate thinking that his companion had spoken a great deal more loudly than was necessary. Then, as he had not finished his cigar, he resolved to smoke it out, and enjoy for a few minutes the cool night air.“I don’t like to be hasty,” he thought, “but I scarcely think that I shall trust you, Mr Tregenna, beyond the reach of my hand. If I am not very much mistaken your civility has a meaning, and you are a confounded scoundrel. If not, I beg your pardon.”“Yes,” he said, half aloud, after smoking on for a few minutes and thinking deeply, “it was your voice that I heard down in that old building. Now I wonder who was the girl?”As the thought crossed his mind, the faint sound of a closing casement smote his ear, when, like a flash, the light came.“By George! of course,” he said. “The other voice was familiar, too. It was our pretty little maiden here. Hang it all! I’ve tumbled into the thick of a mystery, and if I don’t take care I shall be in the middle of the mess.”“Hah?” he exclaimed, as he tapped at the door, “As I said before, it’s no business of mine, and her father knows best; but this love-making is the greatest nuisance under the sun, or I ought to say the moon.”
“You’re a nice, smooth scoundrel,” said Geoffrey to himself, as he set down his glass, “and I have been drinking with you when I ought to have thrown the wine in your face, and told you that you were a blackguard.—But we don’t do this sort of thing in society. As long as there is a good thick coat of whitewash over the sepulchre, society does not mind, but smiles on ladies with no reputation if they are rich, and never opens its ears to the acts, deeds, and exploits of our nice young men. I wonder whether mine host knows your character, and what my fair young hostess feels? Don’t seem very sentimental about him, anyhow; and here’s my reverend friend quite cottoning to black whiskers, and enjoying his small talk. Ah! it’s a strange world.”
A brisk little conversation was just now going off between Rhoda Penwynn and the new vicar, Tregenna throwing in a word here and there, Mr Penwynn smiling approval as he listened, while Geoffrey went on eating heartily, and following his thought.
“I may be wrong,” he went on, “but I feel pretty sure I could say something that would make you change colour, my smooth, cleanly-shaven gentleman, and if I did I should make you my enemy for life. Well, perhaps I could bear that, but I don’t want enemies, I want friends. If I’m right, though, I don’t think you ought to win ma’mselle unless you reform, probationise, and she condones. There, what a string! As the old women say—’tain’t no business of mine.”
He glanced across at Tregenna just then, and that gentleman met his eye, smiled, and the discussion being over, asked him how long he meant to stay in the west.
“Stay?” said Geoffrey sharply. “Altogether.”
Tregenna raised his eyebrows a little, and just then the young vicar, in reply to a question from Mr Penwynn, began speaking, in slow measured accents, about the vicarage to be built, and the alterations he meant to make at the church. A bright colour suffused his smooth pale face, as he found that Rhoda was listening to him, and that he was now monopolising the attention of the rest. However, he seemed to master his nervousness, and spoke out firmly and well to the end.
“You may try,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling, “but I am afraid, my dear sir, that your ideas are as Utopian as those of Mr Trethick there. However, experience teaches, as the Latin proverb goes; but, as an old inhabitant, I venture to say that before many weeks are over, both of you gentlemen will confess that you have undertaken a Herculean task. Religiously, the people of the lower orders are as wedded to Wesleyanism as in their mining tactics they are to their old-fashioned ways. Our rough Cornish folk, gentlemen, are as hard to move as our own granite.”
“Perhaps so, papa,” said Rhoda; “but we have not had many efforts made here to move them.”
“Thank you, Miss Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, flushing, and speaking with animation. “Those are the first encouraging words I have heard. Your daughter has touched the very point, Mr Penwynn. I don’t want to talk like an egotist, but, speaking as an engineer, if you will show me one of your biggest pieces of Cornish granite, I’ll find a means of giving it a start; and I’ll be bound to say that if Mr Lee here is as determined as I, he will find a way of moving the hardest of your Cornish hearts. Sir, I believe in that little word ‘Try!’”
The Reverend Edward Lee coloured slightly, and turned his glasses with more of interest upon the speaker, but he did not interpose.
“I wish you both every success,” said Tregenna, smiling first on one and then on the other, and Mr Penwynn nodded his head, and laughed, saying,—
“Youth is sanguine, Mr Trethick.Try!”
“I will, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, in a voice that, though quiet, was so full of the spirit expressed by those two determined words that Tregenna glanced sharply at him, and then at Rhoda, to see what effect they had had upon her.
She was bending a little forward, her lips parted, and a curious look in her face, as she gazed in the guest’s countenance, till, instinctively becoming aware that Tregenna’s eyes were fixed upon her, she let her own fall, but only to raise them directly after with a half-offended look of inquiry, as if asking why she was watched, and soon after she left the table.
The gentlemen stayed but a short time over their wine, for Tregenna, after exchanging glances with Mr Penwynn, rose and made for the drawing-room, while Mr Penwynn suggested a cigar in the garden.
“Yes, I should enjoy a smoke,” said Geoffrey, who suspected that this was a manoeuvre to give Tregenna an opportunity for atête-à-tête, but the vicar declined.
“I have not smoked now for many years,” he said, and he glanced to the door as if to escape to the drawing-room in Tregenna’s wake, but Mr Penwynn proceeded to endorse Geoffrey’s suspicions.
“Then I will not smoke either,” he said, passing his arm through that of his guest. “We’ll have a look round at the ferns and flowers till Mr Trethick has finished his cigar. They’ll bring us coffee directly, and then we will join them in the drawing-room.”
There was no escape, so the young clergyman was marched off to inspect the peculiarities of his host’s choice ferns, with the beauties of the various sub-tropical plants that the banker had collected in his well-kept, rock-sheltered terrace. These being ended, the various points of interest in the distance about the bay were pointed put, evidently to gain time.
Meanwhile Geoffrey, who felt somewhat amused, sat upon a rock, smoked an excellent cigar, and thought a good deal as he gazed out to sea.
“Parson’s bored,” he said to himself. “He wants to get off to the drawing-room, and beam through his glasses on Miss Penwynn, who is unmistakably being courted by the smooth, dark gentleman. Most likely he is just now, with papa’s consent, popping the question. If she accepts him I should think it’s a pity, for somehow Mr Tregenna is not mybeau-idealof a gentleman, while she is a bright, clever girl. However, it is no business of mine.”
He paused to knock the very long, carefully-preserved ash off the end of his cigar, which process seemed to be looked upon as one of very great importance, the cigar being petted and carefully smoothed down at the moist end where a little of the leaf was loose, lest this opening should at all interfere with the drawing; after which he tenderly replaced the roll of weed in his lips, uttered a sigh of satisfaction, such as might be given by any young man whose digestion was in perfect order, and exhaled a soft blue cloud of smoke.
“Curious thing this love,” he continued to himself. “Every one seems to go in for it, to the ruffling of a calm, smooth life, and gets into trouble. What a blessing it is that I have no inclinations in that direction! Humph! I wonder what the lady has said? Bah! stuff! nonsense! what is it to me? I’m not going to set up as head moralist, and meddle with these affairs. Her father must know best.”
He rose, and strolled down to the end of the terrace, to lean over a rugged mass of granite, and he was still there, enjoying the delicious calm of the evening, and marvelling at the beauty of the shadowy, phosphorescent sea, when he heard his host’s voice, and throwing aside the fragment of the cigar whose aroma was beginning to be marred by touches of burnt moustache, he turned to meet him.
“Tea is ready, Mr Trethick,” he said. “Really I ought to apologise for my neglect.”
“Neglect, eh?” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Why, I could bear to be neglected like this every night. You gave me one of the best cigars I ever lit, and let me lounge here and smoke it in peace. Don’t apologise, Mr Penwynn; I am quite satisfied.”
In spite of his indifference, however, Geoffrey could not refrain from looking curiously at Rhoda and Tregenna as he entered the drawing-room, but their unruffled features told no tales.
Rhoda was seated near the window, and Tregenna on the opposite side, looking more gentlemanly and polished than ever; while Rhoda at once rose, and began talking to the new vicar, leaving Geoffrey to chat over the handed-round tea to Tregenna about mines, their few successes, and their many failures.
“Parson’s happy now, I hope,” thought Geoffrey, as Mr Penwynn came and carried off Tregenna, after a word of apology about business; and then, as they stood talking at the other end of the room, Mr Penwynn’s face was so fully in the light, that Geoffrey could not help noticing that he changed countenance.
“Master Tregenna’s saying something unpleasant about business,” thought Geoffrey. “The glorious uncertainty of the law is, perhaps, having mine host upon the hip.”
“Do you like music, Mr Trethick?” said a voice at his side, and he found that Rhoda Penwynn had left the vicar and approached unobserved.
“You wicked young puss,” he said to himself. “You’ve come to make a buffer of me. That’s it, is it? Papa is turning angry about you, eh? and you fear a collision? Well, you shall find me full of spring.” Then, smiling—“Yes, I love music,” he said aloud. “I am a worshipper at a distance—rather a mild one, I should say. You will sing something, I hope?”
Rhoda crossed readily to the piano, and sang a couple of ballads very sweetly, her voice being rich and resonant, and then it seemed to Geoffrey, who was turning over the music for her, that, in spite of a very brave effort to appear unconcerned, she was growing extremely nervous, for, instead of leaving the piano, she began to pick up piece after piece of music, glancing sharply from her father to Tregenna, and then at the vicar, who was placidly examining an album of scraps.
“I wish you sang, Mr Trethick,” she said at last.
“Do you?” he said, looking down at her troubled face.
“Yes. Do you? Will you?”
“Nature has not been very generous to me in the matter of voice. At least she has given me plenty, but the quality is coarse. I’ll try something though—with you.”
“A duet? Oh, yes!” she said eagerly. “What have we? Could you—do you like Italian?”
“Yes,” he said quietly, as he noticed how agitated she was growing, and how bravely she fought to keep it down, and preserve her composure towards her father’s guests. “Shall we try thatTrovatorepiece that you just turned over—Ai nostri monti.”
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, and there was a silence in the room as the rich harmony of the well-blended voices floated out upon the night air. For, in spite of his modest declaration, Geoffrey Trethick possessed a full deep voice, and, being a good musician, he thoroughly enjoyed his task.
“Rather hard on a baritone to set him to sing tenor, Miss Penwynn,” he said, laughing. “But I say, what a delicious voice you have!”
Rhoda glanced at him sharply, but the expression of admiration she could see was perfectly sincere, and she knew at once that he was not a man likely to flatter.
That duet gave Rhoda Penwynn time to recover herself, and she was perfectly calm by the end—a calm she managed to maintain until the guests were about to depart.
“By the way, Mr Lee,” said the banker, “have you obtained apartments? It is a disgrace to our place that the vicarage is not rebuilt.”
“Oh, yes!” said the vicar, mildly, “I have obtained rooms.”
“At Mrs Mullion’s, I presume?”
“No,” said the vicar, turning his glasses for a moment on Geoffrey. “Mr Trethick has taken those.”
“Indeed! Then you are at the hotel?”
“No; I have made arrangements to board with a Miss Pavey, at a very pleasant cottage—Dinas Vale. Good-night!”
“I’ll walk as far as your rooms with you, Mr Trethick,” said Tregenna, as they stepped out into the road. “Have a cigar?”
They lit up, and strolled along the up-and-down ill-paved way, Tregenna evidently laying himself out to make friends with the new arrival, who made himself frank and pleasant, but, somehow, not cordial.
“Drop in and have a chat with me, Mr Trethick,” said Tregenna, at parting. “I may be able to further your views. Any one will show you my place.”
“Know it,” said Geoffrey. “Saw the brass plate on the gate.”
“Yes,” laughed Tregenna, “one has to put out a sign. But come and see me; perhaps I can help you.”
“I don’t like after-dinner promises,” laughed Geoffrey. “They are rash. I may put you to the test.”
“Rash? Oh, no! We are not like that in the west. I shall be only too glad to help you to the best of my power. Good-night!”
“Good-night!”
Geoffrey remained at the garden gate thinking that his companion had spoken a great deal more loudly than was necessary. Then, as he had not finished his cigar, he resolved to smoke it out, and enjoy for a few minutes the cool night air.
“I don’t like to be hasty,” he thought, “but I scarcely think that I shall trust you, Mr Tregenna, beyond the reach of my hand. If I am not very much mistaken your civility has a meaning, and you are a confounded scoundrel. If not, I beg your pardon.”
“Yes,” he said, half aloud, after smoking on for a few minutes and thinking deeply, “it was your voice that I heard down in that old building. Now I wonder who was the girl?”
As the thought crossed his mind, the faint sound of a closing casement smote his ear, when, like a flash, the light came.
“By George! of course,” he said. “The other voice was familiar, too. It was our pretty little maiden here. Hang it all! I’ve tumbled into the thick of a mystery, and if I don’t take care I shall be in the middle of the mess.”
“Hah?” he exclaimed, as he tapped at the door, “As I said before, it’s no business of mine, and her father knows best; but this love-making is the greatest nuisance under the sun, or I ought to say the moon.”
Chapter Twelve.Cold Water.Mr John Tregenna had lost no time upon leaving the dining-room, but joined Rhoda, who sat looking rather pale, but prepared for the attack.She knew that it must come, and, in spite of a feeling of dread, she felt almost glad, when, seating himself beside her, he began, with plenty of calm, quiet assurance, to plead his cause, she listening patiently the while to all he had to say.Every word he uttered was to Rhoda as so much trouble over, and she would not look nor speak until he had finished, being determined to hear all he had to say, and to let him say it without hinderance, so that the matter should be ended once and for all.He was too cunning a man—too well versed in human nature—to attempt heroics with such a girl as Rhoda, and there was no enraptured catching of hands, no falling upon one knee, no passionate adjuration. Tregenna began by telling her that he had her father’s consent, and that he only wanted hers. That for years past he had loved her with a patient, growing love, which now permeated—he said permeated—his very being, and that it was his only desire that she should become his wife.As he spoke he held ready in one hand a very handsome diamond hoop ring, which was to be the token of their betrothal, for he felt no doubt upon the subject. Rhoda might make a little demur, and be a bit distant and coquettish, but he felt sure that she had been well schooled by her father, and she was just the woman to become his wife. She attracted him with her handsome face and finesveltefigure; she would look well at the head of his table; she would give him position; and, what was more, her father was very wealthy, and that wealth must finally come to him.Rhoda caught a glimpse of the ring in his hand, for as he fidgeted it about a ray flashed from it betraying its presence, and she knew what it was, for her lips tightened, and a hard look came into her eyes.At last he was silent, and waiting her reply.It was a hard task, but she was now well strung up, and turning to him quietly, she said,—“Don’t you think, Mr Tregenna, that it is necessary in such a case for there to exist a mutual feeling of attachment?”There was something so terribly cold and matter-of-fact in this—something, so to speak, so ungirlish—that it came upon Tregenna like a thunder-clap; but he was equal to the emergency.“No,” he said eagerly; “certainly not, if the lady has no prior attachment, which you, dear Rhoda, I am sure, have not.”“No, Mr Tregenna, I certainly have not,” she replied, quietly.“It is only necessary,” he exclaimed, “that the man should love. The love of the woman will grow.”“I do not agree with you, Mr Tregenna,” she replied, quietly.“But, my dearest Rhoda—”“Mr Tregenna,” she said firmly, “let us understand one another at once. From a feeling of respect for my father’s friend I have heard you to the end, and my respect for you has grown as I have noticed the gentlemanly manner in which you have made known to me your unfortunate attachment.”“Unfortunate?” he exclaimed, looking at her almost stunned.“Yes, unfortunate; because I must tell you frankly, Mr Tregenna, that I cannot give you the slightest hope.”“My dear Rhoda,” he exclaimed, “you mistake me. I do not ask you to be my wife now, but by-and-by. I only ask for time.”“Time can make no difference, Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, firmly; “and I have to ask you now, as a gentleman, to accept my refusal of your suit. Once, Mr Tregenna, for all, I can never become your wife.”“Then you do love some one else,” he cried, his rage for the moment mastering him.“Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, coldly, “this is a matter I am not bound to confess to you, but you will please recollect that I told you I had no prior attachment.”“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed hastily. “I had forgotten. I was mad. Pray forgive me, Rhoda. But listen, pray listen. You cannot think how cruelly this cuts me to the heart.”“I grieve to cause you pain, Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, “but you must give me credit for the fact that this has been none of my seeking. I must ask you now to let me bring what has been a most painful interview to an end.”“Painful?” he cried passionately. “It is death to all my hopes. But I cannot accept this as final. Time will work a change.”“Time will work no change, Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, firmly. “As my father’s friend I have heard you out, and I have tried to reply as kindly as I could.”Tregenna saw that he would be only injuring his cause by pressing his suit, and he desisted; but there was a curious look in his eye, which made Rhoda shiver, as he exclaimed,—“But the future, Rhoda—Miss Penwynn—dear Miss Penwynn? I am not to take this as a complete dismissal from your presence.”“Mr Tregenna,” replied Rhoda, “I have told you plainly that I can never become your wife. If I have been too blunt, or seemed unmaidenly, you must forgive it, and recollect that I have never known a mother’s care, but from a child had to assume a woman’s duties as the mistress of this house. As to the future—you are my father’s friend.”“And yours,” he cried eagerly.“My father’s friends are my friends,” said Rhoda, rather coldly. “We will then henceforth consider the words which you have addressed to me to-night as having never been spoken.”“As you will,” he said hoarsely; “but so long as this heart continues to beat I shall—”“Mr Tregenna,” exclaimed Rhoda, rising, and speaking with dignity, “you are hurt and grieved, but I must ask your forbearance in this.”“Forgive me,” he said humbly, as he bent down his head, and hid the strange look that crossed his face, “it shall be as you wish. We are friends, then. What shall we talk about now,” he added, with an almost imperceptible sneer, “books or flowers?”“I was about to ask you what you think of our guests,” said Rhoda, trying to be calm and unconcerned, for Tregenna made no effort to leave her.“Indeed!” he said listlessly, sinking back in his seat as Rhoda took a chair at a short distance. “Do you wish to know?”“Yes, I should be glad to hear.”“Well,” he said cynically, “my honest conviction about our new vicar is that he is a conceited, self-sufficient University prig, stuffed full of classics, and no more suited to manage the people of these parts than that rather obtrusive, stubborn-looking gentleman, Trethick, is to make his way amongst our miners. They will both come to grief.”“Do you think so?”“Undoubtedly. One will stay three months, and then exchange; the other three weeks, and then probably go abroad.”“Am I to take that as a prophecy?” said Rhoda, smiling.“Yes; and mark its fulfilment,” he replied, trying to speak lightly.“I think differently,” said Rhoda. “As to Mr Lee, I will hazard no conjecture; but Mr Trethick seems to me the kind of man who will force his way by sheer energy.”Tregenna’s eyes glistened as he watched the face before him with jealous suspicion, but it was as placid and emotionless as could be.“Do you think so?”“I do indeed,” replied Rhoda.“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “He is an interesting-looking youth.”He felt ready to bite off his own tongue as he uttered this sneer, which escaped him in the bitterness of his spirit, and he awoke to the falseness of the step he had taken by the look of surprise and resentment that appeared in Rhoda’s face.“Then we are to be friends,” he hastened to say eagerly; “always to be the best of friends?”“Yes, Mr Tregenna,” replied Rhoda, coldly; and theirtête-à-têtewas ended by the entry of the party from the garden.
Mr John Tregenna had lost no time upon leaving the dining-room, but joined Rhoda, who sat looking rather pale, but prepared for the attack.
She knew that it must come, and, in spite of a feeling of dread, she felt almost glad, when, seating himself beside her, he began, with plenty of calm, quiet assurance, to plead his cause, she listening patiently the while to all he had to say.
Every word he uttered was to Rhoda as so much trouble over, and she would not look nor speak until he had finished, being determined to hear all he had to say, and to let him say it without hinderance, so that the matter should be ended once and for all.
He was too cunning a man—too well versed in human nature—to attempt heroics with such a girl as Rhoda, and there was no enraptured catching of hands, no falling upon one knee, no passionate adjuration. Tregenna began by telling her that he had her father’s consent, and that he only wanted hers. That for years past he had loved her with a patient, growing love, which now permeated—he said permeated—his very being, and that it was his only desire that she should become his wife.
As he spoke he held ready in one hand a very handsome diamond hoop ring, which was to be the token of their betrothal, for he felt no doubt upon the subject. Rhoda might make a little demur, and be a bit distant and coquettish, but he felt sure that she had been well schooled by her father, and she was just the woman to become his wife. She attracted him with her handsome face and finesveltefigure; she would look well at the head of his table; she would give him position; and, what was more, her father was very wealthy, and that wealth must finally come to him.
Rhoda caught a glimpse of the ring in his hand, for as he fidgeted it about a ray flashed from it betraying its presence, and she knew what it was, for her lips tightened, and a hard look came into her eyes.
At last he was silent, and waiting her reply.
It was a hard task, but she was now well strung up, and turning to him quietly, she said,—
“Don’t you think, Mr Tregenna, that it is necessary in such a case for there to exist a mutual feeling of attachment?”
There was something so terribly cold and matter-of-fact in this—something, so to speak, so ungirlish—that it came upon Tregenna like a thunder-clap; but he was equal to the emergency.
“No,” he said eagerly; “certainly not, if the lady has no prior attachment, which you, dear Rhoda, I am sure, have not.”
“No, Mr Tregenna, I certainly have not,” she replied, quietly.
“It is only necessary,” he exclaimed, “that the man should love. The love of the woman will grow.”
“I do not agree with you, Mr Tregenna,” she replied, quietly.
“But, my dearest Rhoda—”
“Mr Tregenna,” she said firmly, “let us understand one another at once. From a feeling of respect for my father’s friend I have heard you to the end, and my respect for you has grown as I have noticed the gentlemanly manner in which you have made known to me your unfortunate attachment.”
“Unfortunate?” he exclaimed, looking at her almost stunned.
“Yes, unfortunate; because I must tell you frankly, Mr Tregenna, that I cannot give you the slightest hope.”
“My dear Rhoda,” he exclaimed, “you mistake me. I do not ask you to be my wife now, but by-and-by. I only ask for time.”
“Time can make no difference, Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, firmly; “and I have to ask you now, as a gentleman, to accept my refusal of your suit. Once, Mr Tregenna, for all, I can never become your wife.”
“Then you do love some one else,” he cried, his rage for the moment mastering him.
“Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, coldly, “this is a matter I am not bound to confess to you, but you will please recollect that I told you I had no prior attachment.”
“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed hastily. “I had forgotten. I was mad. Pray forgive me, Rhoda. But listen, pray listen. You cannot think how cruelly this cuts me to the heart.”
“I grieve to cause you pain, Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, “but you must give me credit for the fact that this has been none of my seeking. I must ask you now to let me bring what has been a most painful interview to an end.”
“Painful?” he cried passionately. “It is death to all my hopes. But I cannot accept this as final. Time will work a change.”
“Time will work no change, Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, firmly. “As my father’s friend I have heard you out, and I have tried to reply as kindly as I could.”
Tregenna saw that he would be only injuring his cause by pressing his suit, and he desisted; but there was a curious look in his eye, which made Rhoda shiver, as he exclaimed,—
“But the future, Rhoda—Miss Penwynn—dear Miss Penwynn? I am not to take this as a complete dismissal from your presence.”
“Mr Tregenna,” replied Rhoda, “I have told you plainly that I can never become your wife. If I have been too blunt, or seemed unmaidenly, you must forgive it, and recollect that I have never known a mother’s care, but from a child had to assume a woman’s duties as the mistress of this house. As to the future—you are my father’s friend.”
“And yours,” he cried eagerly.
“My father’s friends are my friends,” said Rhoda, rather coldly. “We will then henceforth consider the words which you have addressed to me to-night as having never been spoken.”
“As you will,” he said hoarsely; “but so long as this heart continues to beat I shall—”
“Mr Tregenna,” exclaimed Rhoda, rising, and speaking with dignity, “you are hurt and grieved, but I must ask your forbearance in this.”
“Forgive me,” he said humbly, as he bent down his head, and hid the strange look that crossed his face, “it shall be as you wish. We are friends, then. What shall we talk about now,” he added, with an almost imperceptible sneer, “books or flowers?”
“I was about to ask you what you think of our guests,” said Rhoda, trying to be calm and unconcerned, for Tregenna made no effort to leave her.
“Indeed!” he said listlessly, sinking back in his seat as Rhoda took a chair at a short distance. “Do you wish to know?”
“Yes, I should be glad to hear.”
“Well,” he said cynically, “my honest conviction about our new vicar is that he is a conceited, self-sufficient University prig, stuffed full of classics, and no more suited to manage the people of these parts than that rather obtrusive, stubborn-looking gentleman, Trethick, is to make his way amongst our miners. They will both come to grief.”
“Do you think so?”
“Undoubtedly. One will stay three months, and then exchange; the other three weeks, and then probably go abroad.”
“Am I to take that as a prophecy?” said Rhoda, smiling.
“Yes; and mark its fulfilment,” he replied, trying to speak lightly.
“I think differently,” said Rhoda. “As to Mr Lee, I will hazard no conjecture; but Mr Trethick seems to me the kind of man who will force his way by sheer energy.”
Tregenna’s eyes glistened as he watched the face before him with jealous suspicion, but it was as placid and emotionless as could be.
“Do you think so?”
“I do indeed,” replied Rhoda.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “He is an interesting-looking youth.”
He felt ready to bite off his own tongue as he uttered this sneer, which escaped him in the bitterness of his spirit, and he awoke to the falseness of the step he had taken by the look of surprise and resentment that appeared in Rhoda’s face.
“Then we are to be friends,” he hastened to say eagerly; “always to be the best of friends?”
“Yes, Mr Tregenna,” replied Rhoda, coldly; and theirtête-à-têtewas ended by the entry of the party from the garden.
Chapter Thirteen.A Visit Underground.“Well, boy!”“Well, old gentleman!”The old gentleman, to wit, Uncle Paul, very yellow, very clean-shaven, and carefully got up, seemed disposed to resent this bluff manner of address; but he swallowed his annoyance with a gulp, thumped his cane on the gravel, and went on,—“Up early, then. The early bird gets the first pick of the worms.”“Yes, and stands the best chance of being caught by a prowling cat,” said Geoffrey.“Never mind; get up early and work. Be industrious, and save your money. That’s the way to get on. Take care of the pennies; the pounds will take care of themselves.”“Nonsense!” replied Geoffrey. “While you are scraping for pennies, you are missing your pounds.”“Rubbish!” said the old man, sharply. “Get up early, sir, and work. Early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise.”“Which is duly proved, asPunchsays,” laughed Geoffrey, “by the enormous fortunes accumulated, the health enjoyed, and the wisdom displayed by chimney-sweeps, and other people who rise before the lark.”“Why, you’re a sceptic, sir,” said the old man, showing his yellow teeth. “Do you know that’s a time-honoured proverb?”“Yes; but I don’t believe in time-honoured proverbs,” replied Geoffrey. “Early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise, indeed!”“And you are neither of the two last,” chuckled Uncle Paul, “even if you are the first.”“Quite right, old gentleman,” said Geoffrey, good-humouredly; “but I get up early on principle.”“Well, then, you didn’t have too much wine last night?”“No.”“Dine with Penwynn?”“I did.”“Any one else there?”“Yes.”“Who?”“A Mr Tregenna. Like to know what we had for dinner?”“No?” roared Uncle Paul. “Hang the dinner, sir. Any one else there?”“The new vicar.”“Hang the new vicar. The other fellow had some sense. He never asked me why I didn’t go to church.”“Don’t you go?”“I? no. It’s very odd,” said the old man, grimly; “but I always have a fit of bile coming on about Saturday night, and it lasts all Sunday. So you saw Tregenna?”“Yes, I saw Mr Tregenna.”“Slimy serpent. Hang him.”“By all means, if you like,” said Geoffrey, laughing, for the choleric ways and speeches of the old man amused him.“What did you think of the daughter, eh?” said the old fellow, with a croak that was evidently intended to do duty for a chuckle.“Very nice, sensible girl.”“Oh! you think so, do you?”“I do certainly.”“Marry her,” said Uncle Paul, giving him a poke with his cane. “Plenty of money. Couldn’t do better.”“But she could,” replied Geoffrey, laughing. “No, old gentleman, I’m not a marrying man.”“Or look here,” chuckled the old man, “I can find you a wife. No need though, she’ll fall in love with you herself without asking. Lovely woman, sir. Martha—Martha Pavey. Patty you know, but she’s not plump. He! he! he! Well matured and has a little income of her own. She isn’t above forty-four. Good-looking once. Nice shaped mouth till she set up in it a couple of rows of enamelled tombstones to the memory of so many departed teeth. Looks hard and unkissable now. I laughed at ’em when I saw ’em first. Never forgiven me since, and she always looks at me as if she would bite. Poor thing! Thinks I didn’t detect ’em, and goes about complaining of toothache.”“Poor woman,” said Geoffrey.“Poor fool!” snarled the other. “She thinks of nothing else but men.”“Woman’s nature,” said Geoffrey, “but I suppose it is the privilege of the old to be severe. You are old, you know.”“Devilish,” said the other. “Ah, boy, when you lean your face on your hand, and can feel your skull easily through your skin, you may take it for granted that you are pretty old.”“Suppose so,” said Geoffrey. “Going my way? No, I suppose not.”“How the devil d’you know where I’m going?” cried the old fellow, fiercely. “I am going your way, sir; I am.”“Come along, then,” said Geoffrey, coolly.“Where?” said Uncle Paul, who was thrown off his guard.“I’m going underground.”“Bah! That’s very clever, I suppose you think. That’s modern sharp, fast wit, is it? I’m going underground when my time comes, sir, like a man, and perhaps that won’t be till after you, sir.”The old man wiped his face upon his orange bandanna here, and looked fiercer than ever.“Why, what a jolly old pepperbox you are!” cried Geoffrey, laughing outright. “You are all cayenne and gunpowder. Wit be hanged! I said I was going underground, and so I am. I’m going down Horton Friendship mine. Mr Tregenna gave me his card for the manager.”“Ho!” ejaculated the old gentleman, calming down. “Nice man, Tregenna. Smooth and polished. Make a great friend of him; I would if I were you. He’ll show you how to go to the devil faster than any man I know.”“I’m afraid I want no teaching, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, gravely. “I say, by the way, whose cottage is that down in the cove about a couple of miles along the cliff?”“Oh! you’ve been there, have you,” said the old man, chuckling. “You are making some nice acquaintances, boy! Did you see pretty Bess?”“I saw a fine, handsome-looking lass.”“That’s she. Did she ill-wish you?”“Not that I know of. Does she do that sort of thing?” said Geoffrey, smiling.“Oh, yes!” sneered the old gentleman. “They say she’s a witch, and her father’s as scoundrelly an old wrecker and smuggler as ever breathed. He’s one of your kidney, too. Been a miner.”“A nice character to give a neighbour,” said Geoffrey.“Confound him! He’s no neighbour of mine, sir. You’d better get your new friend to go down Horton mine with you.”“What—Tregenna?”“No, no; Smuggler Prawle. He knows more about the mines than any one here.”“Does he?” said Geoffrey, eagerly. “Well, perhaps I may ask him some day.”They were standing just in front of the cottage, and as he spoke Geoffrey glanced upward, to see that Madge Mullion was at the upper window, standing back, but evidently gazing intently down upon him, ready to dart back, though, the moment he raised his eyes; and he went away thinking of his little adventure at Wheal Carnac the previous day, and of how strangely he had become possessed of a secret that might, if it were known, raise him up one, two, if not three, bitter enemies during his stay.It was a great nuisance, he thought, this bit of knowledge, for his conscience pricked him, and he asked himself whether he ought not to make some communication to Uncle Paul or Mrs Mullion.“And be called a meddlesome fool for my pains!” he exclaimed angrily. “No; I will not interfere with other people’s business. I have my hands full enough as it is.”His way out of the little town was over a rough granite-strewn hill, where the wind blew briskly, and the grass and heather seemed to be kept cut down close by the sharp Atlantic gales. His goal was a gaunt-looking building, perched on the highest point of the eminence, and of the customary Cornish mining type—a square, granite engine-house, with tall chimney, and a great beam projecting from the side, rising and falling at slow intervals as it pumped the water from the depths below, to send it flowing in a dirty stream towards the sea.Geoffrey went swinging along as if he had all the work in the world upon his shoulders, till he became aware of a figure coming in his direction by another track—one which evidently joined his a little on ahead—and he noted that the figure carried a fly-rod over his shoulder.“Why, it’s the doctor off fishing!” said Geoffrey to himself, as he recognised the fresh-coloured face surmounting the light tweeds. “What a horribly healthy place this must be. Morning, doctor!”“Good-morning. Did you get your lodgings all right?” said the new-comer, scanning Geoffrey’s face as if in search of the seeds of disease, and looking disappointed.“Yes, thanks.”“Well, don’t fall in love with Madge Mullion, or old Mr Paul will be setting me to work to poison you.”“Confound it all!” cried Geoffrey, facing round as he stopped short. “Do you people here think of nothing else but falling in love?”“Well, I don’t know,” said the doctor, dreamily, as he pushed his soft hat on one side, and gave his head a rub. “Fortunately for me they do think a great deal of that sort of thing.”“So it seems. I’ve heard enough of it during the past four-and-twenty hours to make it seem as if your people thought young women were gunpowder, and I was a match.”“Ah, yes!” said the doctor, sadly. “It’s the old story, you know—marrying and giving in marriage. What should we do for our population without?”“Population don’t seem to keep you very busy, doctor.”“Pretty well,” he said quietly: “pretty well; people have very large families about here, but they emigrate.”“Do they?” said Geoffrey.“Yes, the mining trade has been bad. But people have very large families about here,” said the doctor, with a sigh. “I’ve got ten of them.”“Fruitful vine and olive branches round the table, eh?” said Geoffrey.“Ye-es,” said the doctor, making an imaginary cast with his fly-rod over the heather; “but when the vine is too fruitful it rather shades the table, you know.”“So I should suppose,” replied Geoffrey, with a slight grimace. “Have you good fishing here?”“No—oh no! Nothing but small trout in the little streams, and they are getting poisoned by the mining refuse.”“I’ll try them some day,” said Geoffrey.“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said the doctor, nervously. “It isn’t worth your while, and it’s very hard work to get a dish now-a-days,” and he glanced with anxious eyes at his companion. For, on non-busy mornings, Mr James Rumsey, MRCSE—the “doctor” being a local degree—found it useful to take his rod and capture a dish of trout for the home dinner, if he did not go out in the bay, in a borrowed boat, in search of something more substantial.“Ah well, we’ll see,” said Geoffrey. “Yonder’s Horton Friendship, is it not?”“Yes, that’s it,” said the doctor, who seemed relieved. “That’s the manager’s office close by. They’ve got a manager there.”“Oh! have they?” said Geoffrey, who was amused by the doctor’s subdued, weary way. “All right; I’m going to see it, though. Good-morning.”“Good-morning,” said the doctor, and making dreamy casts with his rod, he went on over the heather.“Looks dull, and as if he had lived too much in the shade—of the vine and olive branches,” said Geoffrey, as he strode along. “Well, ten branches would keep off a good deal of the sun of a man’s life. What a row those stamps make!”The rattling noise was caused by a row of iron-faced piles, which were being raised and let fall by a great cogged barrel upon a quantity of pieces of tin ore, with which they were fed, and as he drew nearer to watch them, the noise was almost deafening; but all the same he stopped to watch them curiously, and evidently dissatisfied with the primitive nature of the machine.Farther on he paused to watch where a dozen women and boys were busy directing the flow of a stream of muddy water over a series of sloping boards, so as to wash the crushed ore free from earthy particles and powdered stone, till it fell of its own gravity into a trough prepared for its reception, where it looked like so much coffee-grounds waiting to be taken out and dried.“Very, very primitive, and full of waste,” muttered Geoffrey then, as he noted the ruddy, healthy look of the people who ceased working to stare at the stranger, an example followed by a couple of men whose clothes seemed reddened by some mineral.The manager welcomed the visitor in the most civil manner, and furnished him with a rough suit of flannel for the descent, as well as a stiff, solid kind of hat, which did duty for helmet, to protect his head from falling stones, and also for holder of a large tallow candle, which was stuck in front, so as to leave his hands at liberty.The necessity for this was shown as soon as they reached the great square shaft, which was divided by a stout wooden partition into two. Up one of these came and went, by means of a rusty iron chain running over a wheel, a couple of long iron skeps or buckets, one of which, full of tin ore mingled with quartz rock and the ruddy mineral which Geoffrey had noted, came to the surface as they reached the pit.“We go down here,” said Geoffrey’s companion, as a man lifted a heavy trap-door in a framework of planks, worn by many feet, and disclosing a dark hole up which came a hot, steaming vapour, which floated away in a thin cloud.Geoffrey was as brave as most men, but he could not avoid a feeling of shrinking, as he saw what he had undertaken to do. He had expected to step into a cage such as was in use at coalpits, or perhaps have had to make use of the peculiar machine which lowered the miners from platform to platform ten or a dozen feet at a time; but here, as he gazed down into the dark, misty heat, he found that he would have to trust entirely to his own nerve and strength, for the descent was by a series of wet, greasy, nearly perpendicular ladders, placed zigzag from platform to platform, and with very little to save him from a fall too awful to contemplate.The manager watched him narrowly before asking if he was ready, and on receiving an answer in the affirmative, he went down to the first wet, rotten-looking platform, where he stopped, and on being joined by Geoffrey he struck a match, and lit the candles in their caps.“How deep is the mine?” asked Geoffrey.“Two hundred fathom,” was the reply.“Twelve hundred feet!” said Geoffrey. “A good long descent by ladders. How is it you have no chain and cage?”“Money!” was the abrupt reply, and after a warning to him to hold tight, the manager, a rough-spoken Cornishman, continued the descent, Geoffrey following, and finding every thing of the most primitive character. The ladders were clumsily made, splashed with candle grease, and terribly worn; the platforms so old and rotten that they seemed unsafe; and yet down for twelve hundred feet stretched these ladders, one after the other, in apparently interminable length.Geoffrey Trethick’s nerves were strong, but they were well put to the test, for every now and then a step of the ladder gave, or rattled beneath his weight. Now he would find a round so greasy that his foot would slip, while his candle sputtered, and several times nearly became extinguished, as they passed some shower of water that forced itself out of a vein in the rock.“Rather rough work,” said the manager, and his voice sounded echoing and strange in the gloomy shaft, seeming to whisper past him, and die away amidst the maze of ladders overhead.“Rather!” replied Geoffrey, who was beginning to be drenched with perspiration. “How much farther?” he continued.“Farther! Oh, we are not half-way down yet, sir—nothing like it,” was the reply. “Like to rest?”“No. Go on.”Down—down—down—lower and lower, in one apparently endless descent, with the noise of the trickling water growing louder and louder, and ever and again a hoarse, rattling, clanging noise as the chain bore buckets up and buckets down, and the great pump worked its mighty piston to free the mine from the water collected in the sump.At times it was impossible not to feel that the bucket coming rushing through the darkness was descending upon the heads of those who laboriously climbed down, or that the enormous piston-rod would crush them to death at its next movement, instead of working steadily on the other side of the stout dividing boards. But the rod worked on, and the chain rattled as the buckets rose and fell, and with the trickling and plashing of the water growing louder, the ladders more wet and coated with grease, the platforms more slippery and rotten, Geoffrey sturdily kept on descending, but with the thought always forcing itself upon his brain that every ladder would have to be climbed before he could see the light of day.But Geoffrey possessed all the stubborn determination of a true Englishman. He was truly one of those who did not know when he was beaten, and he was ready to go on with a task he had begun until brain and muscle completely gave way, and then only would he have paused and waited for strength before beginning again.They had stopped on one of the platforms to snuff the flaring candles, a supply of which the manager carried in a tin box slung from his shoulder, when once more from the other part of the shaft came the rushing noise of the ascending and descending buckets, and so close did they sound that Geoffrey involuntarily shrank, feeling that they must strike against him and crush him on the narrow platform where he stood. But after this his ears grew more accustomed to the sound, and he began again plodding steadily downward, the frantic desire to cling tightly to the ladder and ask for help growing weaker as he became more used to the task.At last the manager stopped, and pointed to a black opening before him like a little arch in the side of the shaft.“Here’s one of the old galleries,” he said. “Would you like to see it?”“Are the men at work here?”“Work? No! Nor haven’t been these fifty years. But there’s enough to see there to give you an idea of the mine, and it would save you from going down farther if you are sick of it.”“I’m not sick of it,” said Geoffrey, stoutly. “I’m only warm. Go on down to the bottom, and let’s see the workings.”“All right!” said the manager, smiling, as he gave Geoffrey a peculiar look; and a fresh start was made.“That fellow Tregenna has done this to try me,” thought Geoffrey. “He could have given me an introduction to some mine where there was a regular cage. Never mind: I’m not chicken enough to give it up!” and, regardless of the rotten, wet ladders, he steadily went on, his spirits rising and his confidence increasing—for as he kept on noting the primitive way in which every thing was done, he felt more and more satisfied that if science were brought to bear in such a mine as this the profits must be largely increased.For instance, he reasoned, here were the miners forced to undergo a long and arduous piece of toil before they could reach their work, and when their spell was over they had a fresh task to climb patiently up at a time when they were exhausted with toil, thus spending fruitlessly many hours every week.“I’ve come to the right place,” he thought, with a feeling of exultation coming over him, “and if I don’t make my way it is my own fault.”“Tired?” said the manager, from below.“No,” was the sturdy answer. “Are you?”A low, chuckling laugh came up to Geoffrey as he glanced down at the descending-light in the manager’s hat.“Well, if you put it in that way, sir, I am; and we’ll get a little wind here by this old lode.”He stopped on the next platform, and, Geoffrey joining him, he once more snuffed the candles. There was another opening going horizontally into the bowels of the earth, where a lode of tin had been followed until it had become worthless. The roof glistened with huge crystals, which flashed in the light of the candles as they were held inside what looked like a subterranean passage into a castle, the abode of some giant of the nether world.“I suppose the workings below are just like this?” said Geoffrey.“Just the same, sir,” was the eager reply; “and if you’d like to give up now, we could inspect this drive for a few hundred yards, and then go back. It’s rather dangerous, though, for there have been some falls from the roof, and the galleries are like a net.”“But I don’t want to give up,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “and am ready as soon as ever you like.”“I never got any one to get down farther than this,” said the manager, who started again, descending in silence, broken only by the occasional echoing whirr of the ascending and descending buckets, and the hiss and splash of the falling water. The heat seemed to increase, and the depth might have been miles, so endless seemed the ladders, and so tedious the descent.“Give me a word if you feel likely to let go,” said Geoffrey’s guide just when they were on one of the wettest, weakest, and most slippery ladders of the descent. “There was a man once fell off this very ladder, and knocked off the man below him as well.”“Were they hurt?” said Geoffrey.“Don’t suppose as they were,” was the cool reply. “They broke through platform after platform, for the woodwork was very rotten just then. They couldn’t have known any thing after they fell, for they were quite dead when they got them up. It was a gashly job.”“Pleasant incident to relate now,” thought Geoffrey. Then aloud—“You don’t often have accidents?”“Well, not very. We get a fall of rock sometimes, or a ladder breaks, or a man falls down the shaft. Now and then, too, there’s a bit of an accident with the powder when they are blasting. But we do pretty well. We’re not like your coal-mining folks, with their safety-lamps and gas.”“The mines are, of course, free from foul air?”“Oh, yes; sweet as a nut.”“But how much farther is it?” said Geoffrey. “Surely we’ve come down a thousand feet.”“Well, yes; I suppose we have,” said the man, coolly. “I don’t think there’s more than a half-dozen more ladders. Yes, seven,” he said.These were steadily climbed down, but seemed the longest of them all. At last, however, they stood beside the great sump or water-cistern, which received the end of the vast pumping apparatus, all of which Geoffrey carefully examined with a look of disgust at its primitive character and clumsiness.
“Well, boy!”
“Well, old gentleman!”
The old gentleman, to wit, Uncle Paul, very yellow, very clean-shaven, and carefully got up, seemed disposed to resent this bluff manner of address; but he swallowed his annoyance with a gulp, thumped his cane on the gravel, and went on,—
“Up early, then. The early bird gets the first pick of the worms.”
“Yes, and stands the best chance of being caught by a prowling cat,” said Geoffrey.
“Never mind; get up early and work. Be industrious, and save your money. That’s the way to get on. Take care of the pennies; the pounds will take care of themselves.”
“Nonsense!” replied Geoffrey. “While you are scraping for pennies, you are missing your pounds.”
“Rubbish!” said the old man, sharply. “Get up early, sir, and work. Early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise.”
“Which is duly proved, asPunchsays,” laughed Geoffrey, “by the enormous fortunes accumulated, the health enjoyed, and the wisdom displayed by chimney-sweeps, and other people who rise before the lark.”
“Why, you’re a sceptic, sir,” said the old man, showing his yellow teeth. “Do you know that’s a time-honoured proverb?”
“Yes; but I don’t believe in time-honoured proverbs,” replied Geoffrey. “Early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise, indeed!”
“And you are neither of the two last,” chuckled Uncle Paul, “even if you are the first.”
“Quite right, old gentleman,” said Geoffrey, good-humouredly; “but I get up early on principle.”
“Well, then, you didn’t have too much wine last night?”
“No.”
“Dine with Penwynn?”
“I did.”
“Any one else there?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A Mr Tregenna. Like to know what we had for dinner?”
“No?” roared Uncle Paul. “Hang the dinner, sir. Any one else there?”
“The new vicar.”
“Hang the new vicar. The other fellow had some sense. He never asked me why I didn’t go to church.”
“Don’t you go?”
“I? no. It’s very odd,” said the old man, grimly; “but I always have a fit of bile coming on about Saturday night, and it lasts all Sunday. So you saw Tregenna?”
“Yes, I saw Mr Tregenna.”
“Slimy serpent. Hang him.”
“By all means, if you like,” said Geoffrey, laughing, for the choleric ways and speeches of the old man amused him.
“What did you think of the daughter, eh?” said the old fellow, with a croak that was evidently intended to do duty for a chuckle.
“Very nice, sensible girl.”
“Oh! you think so, do you?”
“I do certainly.”
“Marry her,” said Uncle Paul, giving him a poke with his cane. “Plenty of money. Couldn’t do better.”
“But she could,” replied Geoffrey, laughing. “No, old gentleman, I’m not a marrying man.”
“Or look here,” chuckled the old man, “I can find you a wife. No need though, she’ll fall in love with you herself without asking. Lovely woman, sir. Martha—Martha Pavey. Patty you know, but she’s not plump. He! he! he! Well matured and has a little income of her own. She isn’t above forty-four. Good-looking once. Nice shaped mouth till she set up in it a couple of rows of enamelled tombstones to the memory of so many departed teeth. Looks hard and unkissable now. I laughed at ’em when I saw ’em first. Never forgiven me since, and she always looks at me as if she would bite. Poor thing! Thinks I didn’t detect ’em, and goes about complaining of toothache.”
“Poor woman,” said Geoffrey.
“Poor fool!” snarled the other. “She thinks of nothing else but men.”
“Woman’s nature,” said Geoffrey, “but I suppose it is the privilege of the old to be severe. You are old, you know.”
“Devilish,” said the other. “Ah, boy, when you lean your face on your hand, and can feel your skull easily through your skin, you may take it for granted that you are pretty old.”
“Suppose so,” said Geoffrey. “Going my way? No, I suppose not.”
“How the devil d’you know where I’m going?” cried the old fellow, fiercely. “I am going your way, sir; I am.”
“Come along, then,” said Geoffrey, coolly.
“Where?” said Uncle Paul, who was thrown off his guard.
“I’m going underground.”
“Bah! That’s very clever, I suppose you think. That’s modern sharp, fast wit, is it? I’m going underground when my time comes, sir, like a man, and perhaps that won’t be till after you, sir.”
The old man wiped his face upon his orange bandanna here, and looked fiercer than ever.
“Why, what a jolly old pepperbox you are!” cried Geoffrey, laughing outright. “You are all cayenne and gunpowder. Wit be hanged! I said I was going underground, and so I am. I’m going down Horton Friendship mine. Mr Tregenna gave me his card for the manager.”
“Ho!” ejaculated the old gentleman, calming down. “Nice man, Tregenna. Smooth and polished. Make a great friend of him; I would if I were you. He’ll show you how to go to the devil faster than any man I know.”
“I’m afraid I want no teaching, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, gravely. “I say, by the way, whose cottage is that down in the cove about a couple of miles along the cliff?”
“Oh! you’ve been there, have you,” said the old man, chuckling. “You are making some nice acquaintances, boy! Did you see pretty Bess?”
“I saw a fine, handsome-looking lass.”
“That’s she. Did she ill-wish you?”
“Not that I know of. Does she do that sort of thing?” said Geoffrey, smiling.
“Oh, yes!” sneered the old gentleman. “They say she’s a witch, and her father’s as scoundrelly an old wrecker and smuggler as ever breathed. He’s one of your kidney, too. Been a miner.”
“A nice character to give a neighbour,” said Geoffrey.
“Confound him! He’s no neighbour of mine, sir. You’d better get your new friend to go down Horton mine with you.”
“What—Tregenna?”
“No, no; Smuggler Prawle. He knows more about the mines than any one here.”
“Does he?” said Geoffrey, eagerly. “Well, perhaps I may ask him some day.”
They were standing just in front of the cottage, and as he spoke Geoffrey glanced upward, to see that Madge Mullion was at the upper window, standing back, but evidently gazing intently down upon him, ready to dart back, though, the moment he raised his eyes; and he went away thinking of his little adventure at Wheal Carnac the previous day, and of how strangely he had become possessed of a secret that might, if it were known, raise him up one, two, if not three, bitter enemies during his stay.
It was a great nuisance, he thought, this bit of knowledge, for his conscience pricked him, and he asked himself whether he ought not to make some communication to Uncle Paul or Mrs Mullion.
“And be called a meddlesome fool for my pains!” he exclaimed angrily. “No; I will not interfere with other people’s business. I have my hands full enough as it is.”
His way out of the little town was over a rough granite-strewn hill, where the wind blew briskly, and the grass and heather seemed to be kept cut down close by the sharp Atlantic gales. His goal was a gaunt-looking building, perched on the highest point of the eminence, and of the customary Cornish mining type—a square, granite engine-house, with tall chimney, and a great beam projecting from the side, rising and falling at slow intervals as it pumped the water from the depths below, to send it flowing in a dirty stream towards the sea.
Geoffrey went swinging along as if he had all the work in the world upon his shoulders, till he became aware of a figure coming in his direction by another track—one which evidently joined his a little on ahead—and he noted that the figure carried a fly-rod over his shoulder.
“Why, it’s the doctor off fishing!” said Geoffrey to himself, as he recognised the fresh-coloured face surmounting the light tweeds. “What a horribly healthy place this must be. Morning, doctor!”
“Good-morning. Did you get your lodgings all right?” said the new-comer, scanning Geoffrey’s face as if in search of the seeds of disease, and looking disappointed.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Well, don’t fall in love with Madge Mullion, or old Mr Paul will be setting me to work to poison you.”
“Confound it all!” cried Geoffrey, facing round as he stopped short. “Do you people here think of nothing else but falling in love?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the doctor, dreamily, as he pushed his soft hat on one side, and gave his head a rub. “Fortunately for me they do think a great deal of that sort of thing.”
“So it seems. I’ve heard enough of it during the past four-and-twenty hours to make it seem as if your people thought young women were gunpowder, and I was a match.”
“Ah, yes!” said the doctor, sadly. “It’s the old story, you know—marrying and giving in marriage. What should we do for our population without?”
“Population don’t seem to keep you very busy, doctor.”
“Pretty well,” he said quietly: “pretty well; people have very large families about here, but they emigrate.”
“Do they?” said Geoffrey.
“Yes, the mining trade has been bad. But people have very large families about here,” said the doctor, with a sigh. “I’ve got ten of them.”
“Fruitful vine and olive branches round the table, eh?” said Geoffrey.
“Ye-es,” said the doctor, making an imaginary cast with his fly-rod over the heather; “but when the vine is too fruitful it rather shades the table, you know.”
“So I should suppose,” replied Geoffrey, with a slight grimace. “Have you good fishing here?”
“No—oh no! Nothing but small trout in the little streams, and they are getting poisoned by the mining refuse.”
“I’ll try them some day,” said Geoffrey.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said the doctor, nervously. “It isn’t worth your while, and it’s very hard work to get a dish now-a-days,” and he glanced with anxious eyes at his companion. For, on non-busy mornings, Mr James Rumsey, MRCSE—the “doctor” being a local degree—found it useful to take his rod and capture a dish of trout for the home dinner, if he did not go out in the bay, in a borrowed boat, in search of something more substantial.
“Ah well, we’ll see,” said Geoffrey. “Yonder’s Horton Friendship, is it not?”
“Yes, that’s it,” said the doctor, who seemed relieved. “That’s the manager’s office close by. They’ve got a manager there.”
“Oh! have they?” said Geoffrey, who was amused by the doctor’s subdued, weary way. “All right; I’m going to see it, though. Good-morning.”
“Good-morning,” said the doctor, and making dreamy casts with his rod, he went on over the heather.
“Looks dull, and as if he had lived too much in the shade—of the vine and olive branches,” said Geoffrey, as he strode along. “Well, ten branches would keep off a good deal of the sun of a man’s life. What a row those stamps make!”
The rattling noise was caused by a row of iron-faced piles, which were being raised and let fall by a great cogged barrel upon a quantity of pieces of tin ore, with which they were fed, and as he drew nearer to watch them, the noise was almost deafening; but all the same he stopped to watch them curiously, and evidently dissatisfied with the primitive nature of the machine.
Farther on he paused to watch where a dozen women and boys were busy directing the flow of a stream of muddy water over a series of sloping boards, so as to wash the crushed ore free from earthy particles and powdered stone, till it fell of its own gravity into a trough prepared for its reception, where it looked like so much coffee-grounds waiting to be taken out and dried.
“Very, very primitive, and full of waste,” muttered Geoffrey then, as he noted the ruddy, healthy look of the people who ceased working to stare at the stranger, an example followed by a couple of men whose clothes seemed reddened by some mineral.
The manager welcomed the visitor in the most civil manner, and furnished him with a rough suit of flannel for the descent, as well as a stiff, solid kind of hat, which did duty for helmet, to protect his head from falling stones, and also for holder of a large tallow candle, which was stuck in front, so as to leave his hands at liberty.
The necessity for this was shown as soon as they reached the great square shaft, which was divided by a stout wooden partition into two. Up one of these came and went, by means of a rusty iron chain running over a wheel, a couple of long iron skeps or buckets, one of which, full of tin ore mingled with quartz rock and the ruddy mineral which Geoffrey had noted, came to the surface as they reached the pit.
“We go down here,” said Geoffrey’s companion, as a man lifted a heavy trap-door in a framework of planks, worn by many feet, and disclosing a dark hole up which came a hot, steaming vapour, which floated away in a thin cloud.
Geoffrey was as brave as most men, but he could not avoid a feeling of shrinking, as he saw what he had undertaken to do. He had expected to step into a cage such as was in use at coalpits, or perhaps have had to make use of the peculiar machine which lowered the miners from platform to platform ten or a dozen feet at a time; but here, as he gazed down into the dark, misty heat, he found that he would have to trust entirely to his own nerve and strength, for the descent was by a series of wet, greasy, nearly perpendicular ladders, placed zigzag from platform to platform, and with very little to save him from a fall too awful to contemplate.
The manager watched him narrowly before asking if he was ready, and on receiving an answer in the affirmative, he went down to the first wet, rotten-looking platform, where he stopped, and on being joined by Geoffrey he struck a match, and lit the candles in their caps.
“How deep is the mine?” asked Geoffrey.
“Two hundred fathom,” was the reply.
“Twelve hundred feet!” said Geoffrey. “A good long descent by ladders. How is it you have no chain and cage?”
“Money!” was the abrupt reply, and after a warning to him to hold tight, the manager, a rough-spoken Cornishman, continued the descent, Geoffrey following, and finding every thing of the most primitive character. The ladders were clumsily made, splashed with candle grease, and terribly worn; the platforms so old and rotten that they seemed unsafe; and yet down for twelve hundred feet stretched these ladders, one after the other, in apparently interminable length.
Geoffrey Trethick’s nerves were strong, but they were well put to the test, for every now and then a step of the ladder gave, or rattled beneath his weight. Now he would find a round so greasy that his foot would slip, while his candle sputtered, and several times nearly became extinguished, as they passed some shower of water that forced itself out of a vein in the rock.
“Rather rough work,” said the manager, and his voice sounded echoing and strange in the gloomy shaft, seeming to whisper past him, and die away amidst the maze of ladders overhead.
“Rather!” replied Geoffrey, who was beginning to be drenched with perspiration. “How much farther?” he continued.
“Farther! Oh, we are not half-way down yet, sir—nothing like it,” was the reply. “Like to rest?”
“No. Go on.”
Down—down—down—lower and lower, in one apparently endless descent, with the noise of the trickling water growing louder and louder, and ever and again a hoarse, rattling, clanging noise as the chain bore buckets up and buckets down, and the great pump worked its mighty piston to free the mine from the water collected in the sump.
At times it was impossible not to feel that the bucket coming rushing through the darkness was descending upon the heads of those who laboriously climbed down, or that the enormous piston-rod would crush them to death at its next movement, instead of working steadily on the other side of the stout dividing boards. But the rod worked on, and the chain rattled as the buckets rose and fell, and with the trickling and plashing of the water growing louder, the ladders more wet and coated with grease, the platforms more slippery and rotten, Geoffrey sturdily kept on descending, but with the thought always forcing itself upon his brain that every ladder would have to be climbed before he could see the light of day.
But Geoffrey possessed all the stubborn determination of a true Englishman. He was truly one of those who did not know when he was beaten, and he was ready to go on with a task he had begun until brain and muscle completely gave way, and then only would he have paused and waited for strength before beginning again.
They had stopped on one of the platforms to snuff the flaring candles, a supply of which the manager carried in a tin box slung from his shoulder, when once more from the other part of the shaft came the rushing noise of the ascending and descending buckets, and so close did they sound that Geoffrey involuntarily shrank, feeling that they must strike against him and crush him on the narrow platform where he stood. But after this his ears grew more accustomed to the sound, and he began again plodding steadily downward, the frantic desire to cling tightly to the ladder and ask for help growing weaker as he became more used to the task.
At last the manager stopped, and pointed to a black opening before him like a little arch in the side of the shaft.
“Here’s one of the old galleries,” he said. “Would you like to see it?”
“Are the men at work here?”
“Work? No! Nor haven’t been these fifty years. But there’s enough to see there to give you an idea of the mine, and it would save you from going down farther if you are sick of it.”
“I’m not sick of it,” said Geoffrey, stoutly. “I’m only warm. Go on down to the bottom, and let’s see the workings.”
“All right!” said the manager, smiling, as he gave Geoffrey a peculiar look; and a fresh start was made.
“That fellow Tregenna has done this to try me,” thought Geoffrey. “He could have given me an introduction to some mine where there was a regular cage. Never mind: I’m not chicken enough to give it up!” and, regardless of the rotten, wet ladders, he steadily went on, his spirits rising and his confidence increasing—for as he kept on noting the primitive way in which every thing was done, he felt more and more satisfied that if science were brought to bear in such a mine as this the profits must be largely increased.
For instance, he reasoned, here were the miners forced to undergo a long and arduous piece of toil before they could reach their work, and when their spell was over they had a fresh task to climb patiently up at a time when they were exhausted with toil, thus spending fruitlessly many hours every week.
“I’ve come to the right place,” he thought, with a feeling of exultation coming over him, “and if I don’t make my way it is my own fault.”
“Tired?” said the manager, from below.
“No,” was the sturdy answer. “Are you?”
A low, chuckling laugh came up to Geoffrey as he glanced down at the descending-light in the manager’s hat.
“Well, if you put it in that way, sir, I am; and we’ll get a little wind here by this old lode.”
He stopped on the next platform, and, Geoffrey joining him, he once more snuffed the candles. There was another opening going horizontally into the bowels of the earth, where a lode of tin had been followed until it had become worthless. The roof glistened with huge crystals, which flashed in the light of the candles as they were held inside what looked like a subterranean passage into a castle, the abode of some giant of the nether world.
“I suppose the workings below are just like this?” said Geoffrey.
“Just the same, sir,” was the eager reply; “and if you’d like to give up now, we could inspect this drive for a few hundred yards, and then go back. It’s rather dangerous, though, for there have been some falls from the roof, and the galleries are like a net.”
“But I don’t want to give up,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “and am ready as soon as ever you like.”
“I never got any one to get down farther than this,” said the manager, who started again, descending in silence, broken only by the occasional echoing whirr of the ascending and descending buckets, and the hiss and splash of the falling water. The heat seemed to increase, and the depth might have been miles, so endless seemed the ladders, and so tedious the descent.
“Give me a word if you feel likely to let go,” said Geoffrey’s guide just when they were on one of the wettest, weakest, and most slippery ladders of the descent. “There was a man once fell off this very ladder, and knocked off the man below him as well.”
“Were they hurt?” said Geoffrey.
“Don’t suppose as they were,” was the cool reply. “They broke through platform after platform, for the woodwork was very rotten just then. They couldn’t have known any thing after they fell, for they were quite dead when they got them up. It was a gashly job.”
“Pleasant incident to relate now,” thought Geoffrey. Then aloud—“You don’t often have accidents?”
“Well, not very. We get a fall of rock sometimes, or a ladder breaks, or a man falls down the shaft. Now and then, too, there’s a bit of an accident with the powder when they are blasting. But we do pretty well. We’re not like your coal-mining folks, with their safety-lamps and gas.”
“The mines are, of course, free from foul air?”
“Oh, yes; sweet as a nut.”
“But how much farther is it?” said Geoffrey. “Surely we’ve come down a thousand feet.”
“Well, yes; I suppose we have,” said the man, coolly. “I don’t think there’s more than a half-dozen more ladders. Yes, seven,” he said.
These were steadily climbed down, but seemed the longest of them all. At last, however, they stood beside the great sump or water-cistern, which received the end of the vast pumping apparatus, all of which Geoffrey carefully examined with a look of disgust at its primitive character and clumsiness.