Chapter Thirty One.Geoffrey Makes Love.A long morning in the mine, now thoroughly cleared of water, and where, under the leadership of Dicky Pengelly, the picks were ringing merrily. Geoffrey had little good news to report, for the lode of tin was excessively poor; but all the same he felt that he could work on at a profit, and at any time they might strike a good rich vein. There was nothing, then, to mind.He had reported every thing to Mr Penwynn exactly as it occurred, and that gentleman seemed not only perfectly satisfied, but encouraged him to go on.“I have made the venture, Trethick,” he said, “and I will not play with it. I look to you to pull me up if it is going to be a losing affair; but it seems to me that to withhold capital would be a miserable policy: so go on. Do you think it can become worse?”“No,” said Geoffrey, firmly, “that I do not. The fact is, Mr Penwynn, I am disappointed in the mine.”“Disappointed? You don’t mean—”“No, no, sir, I’m not beaten,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “I mean I am disappointed in the mine, and I have found out two or three things about it.”“What sort of things?” said Mr Penwynn, uneasily.“Trickeries—sharpings,” said Geoffrey. “It is very evident that to sell that mine, or may be to impress shareholders with its value, the place has been more than once salted, as miners call it.”Mr Penwynn nodded.“Tin ore from other mines has been thrown down, and, of course, I saw through that directly; but in several places right at the end of drifts, Pengelly and I have found great pieces of ore fitted into the solid rock in the most artful manner, so that it needed no little care to find out that it was a trick.”“But are you sure that it is a trick?” said Mr Penwynn.“Certain, sir. It would have deceived an ordinary miner or owner.”“But did not deceive you?”“Well, sir, I take no credit to myself for that. I went through a course of mining study, and it is as simple as A B C.”“How so?”“Why, look here, sir. Only yesterday Pengelly called me to show me a rich place he had found.”“Yes. Well?”“I had to crush the poor fellow’s hopes at once. The thing was most artistically done, a quantity of tin-bearing quartz, evidentlyin situ.”“Yes.”“But I always carry this with me, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, pulling out a pocket-lens; “and that showed me at once that the quartz was veined with a different mineral from that all around, and also that the granulations of the stone were such as are found in the strata on the other side of the county, and not here.”Mr Penwynn said nothing, but looked hard at his manager.“They’ve spent a good deal of time and money to successfully swindle people, and cleverly too, where the same energy and outlay would have made a poor mine pay.”“Then you consider it a poor mine, Mr Trethick?”“Very, sir.”“But the report I had said that it was rich.”“Then the reporter was either a fool or a knave,” replied Geoffrey.“Humph!” ejaculated Mr Penwynn, “and you think then that we had better stop.”“Certainly not,” said Geoffrey, flushing. “It cannot give a poorer yield, for there are thousands of tons of such ore as we are now sending to grass, and which I can make yield at least five per cent dividend, while at any time we may ‘strike ile,’ as our friends the Yankees call it.”“Thank you, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, quietly; and he drew a long breath. “Go on, I leave myself in your hands.”Geoffrey did go on working most earnestly, and on this particular day he had come up out of the mine, weary in body and mind, gone to the cottage and changed, and then started off along the cliff for what he called a blow.“I’ll go and see poor old Mrs Prawle,” he said to himself; and in that disposition he went on till he came to the nook where he had interposed in Bess Prawle’s defence; when, seeing an inviting place, he sat down, and as he did so the whole scene came back.He did not know how it was, but there was a curiously uneasy sensation at his heart, and he found himself recalling Bess Prawle’s looks, her way of expressing her gratitude, and ended by taking himself to task.“I can go there often enough and chat with the poor old woman—poor soul, there’s a very pathetic side to her patient, uncomplaining life; but why should I go when it may cause uneasiness to others? Poor Bess! she’s a fine, handsome lass. I shall have her father making suggestions like Uncle Paul about poor Madge. ’Pon my soul, I must be a very fine-looking fellow,” he cried merrily.Then he laughed, took out a cigar, lit it, and sat smoking.“The people here have too much time on their hands,” he thought, “and it makes them scandalous. I wonder they don’t have the impudence to couple my name with that of—”“Bah! nonsense! what an idiot I am,” he said, sharply; and the next moment he was self-communing, and asking why he should be so uneasy at such an idea.For answer Rhoda’s face seemed to rise before him, quiet, earnest, and trustful. He seemed to hear her sweet, pleasant voice, not thrilling him as whispering of love; but it seemed to him now that she had given him encouragement, that her suggestions had been of endless value to him, and that she was always so kind and sisterly to him, that—that—was it sisterly this? Was his feeling brotherly?His brow grew rugged, and then as he thought on he began to feel startled at the new sensations that seemed to be springing up within his breast. He looked inward, and he obtained a glimpse of that which he had before ignored.“Oh, it’s absurd,” he said, half aloud; “I should be mad. I should be a scoundrel.”Then he stopped, for the face of Rhoda, with the large, searching eyes, was gazing full into his, and this time it was no fancy. She was returning from Gwennas Cove, and she had turned into the nook to see once more the spot that had aroused such envious feelings in her breast.“You here, Mr Trethick?” she said, quietly. “I did not expect to see you.”“I did not expect to see you here,” he said, as quietly; but his voice sounded different, and Rhoda looked up at him for a moment, and then let her eyelids fall.She had not held out her hand to him, neither had he offered his, and they stood there in that nook amidst the granite, surrounded by a solemn silence which neither seemed disposed to break.Nothing could have been more simple. They had met as they might have met at any time, and they might have walked back quietly to the town. It was the most everyday of occurrences, and yet it was the most important moment of their lives.They had both been blind, and now they were awakened, Rhoda to the fact that her heart was at length stirred to its deepest depths, Geoffrey to the knowledge that with all his strength of mind, his determination, his will, he was a man with all a man’s weaknesses, and, if weakness it could be called, he loved the woman who stood with him, face to face.He was dazzled, blinded at the revelation that had come like a lightning’s flash, and then a feeling of horror came upon him, for he felt that he had been treacherous.Then that horror seemed to be swept away by the stronger passion, and he looked earnestly in her face till the blue-veined lids were raised, and her eyes looked deeply and trustingly in his.How long was it? Neither of them knew, before Geoffrey said quietly the one word,—“Rhoda!”She looked up at him again, and then stood hesitating, for the thoughts of the petty scandal she had heard flashed before her; but she shook them off as if they had been venomous, and, looking him full in the face, she placed her hand in his with an air of such implicit faith as stirred him into speech.“I did not know this—I did not think this,” he said hoarsely; “and I feel as if I were acting the part of a treacherous villain to the man who has given me his confidence and trust.”“And why?” she said.“Because I know that I love you,” he said; “love you with all my heart. Rhoda, I must leave here. I ought not to have spoken as I did.”She looked up at him timidly, with a half-flinching fear in her face as she met his eyes, but it turned to a look of pride, and she laid another hand upon his arm.“No,” she said, “you must stay. Geoffrey, I could not bear it if you were to go.”He must have been more than man if he had not clasped her to his breast at that, and in that embrace he felt her head rest upon his shoulder, and knew that fate had been very kind to him, and that he had won the love of a woman who would be part and parcel of his future life.“And I had laughed at love,” he said, little thinking that there were witnesses of what was passing; “but now I know. Rhoda! Oh, my love!”He clasped her in his arms again, and for a moment her lips met his. Then with one consent they stood there hand in hand.“I will tell him at once,” said Geoffrey. “I know it will seem to him like madness; but I dare not meet him if I could not look him in the face. It is unfortunate, Rhoda, but yet I could not go back a moment of my life now.”“Unfortunate?” she said gently.“Yes. Have you thought what it may mean?”She shook her head.“The end of a dream of success. Mr Penwynn will say, what right have I to think of you? He will call me adventurer, ask me how I dared to presume, and bid me never enter his house again. I am his servant, and it will be just.”“My father will be just,” said Rhoda, gazing in his face; “and if he is surprised and angry at first, he loves me too well to cause me pain. Geoffrey: I am not ashamed of my choice.”He held her hands, looking down at her proudly, wondering that he had not loved her from the first.“You will succeed, Geoffrey,” she continued, “and we can wait, for we are young yet. My father, I know, already likes you for the same reason that you first won my esteem.”“And why was that?” he said, smiling.“You are so different to any one we ever knew before.”“Yes,” he said at last, “we can wait.”And so they were pledged one to the other. Geoffrey never seemed to know how it had happened; Rhoda could not have told when it was she began to love; but they both knew, as by a sudden inspiration, that they loved the deeper and stronger for the calmness upon the surface of their lives.There was no passionate wooing, there were no vows of constancy, all was simplicity itself; but the foundation upon which their love had been reared seemed firm as the granite around promised to be lasting; as the sea whose ripples were now golden in the setting sun, whose warm glow seemed to glorify the face of Rhoda, and intensify the love-light that glanced from her eyes. It was a time of calm, and peace, and rest, and as in the midst of this new joy, the quaint idea suggested itself that their love seemed somehow associated with the scent of the wild thyme they crushed beneath their feet, they stood there in silence, drinking in deep mental draughts of the new sensation, and wondering at their happiness the while.
A long morning in the mine, now thoroughly cleared of water, and where, under the leadership of Dicky Pengelly, the picks were ringing merrily. Geoffrey had little good news to report, for the lode of tin was excessively poor; but all the same he felt that he could work on at a profit, and at any time they might strike a good rich vein. There was nothing, then, to mind.
He had reported every thing to Mr Penwynn exactly as it occurred, and that gentleman seemed not only perfectly satisfied, but encouraged him to go on.
“I have made the venture, Trethick,” he said, “and I will not play with it. I look to you to pull me up if it is going to be a losing affair; but it seems to me that to withhold capital would be a miserable policy: so go on. Do you think it can become worse?”
“No,” said Geoffrey, firmly, “that I do not. The fact is, Mr Penwynn, I am disappointed in the mine.”
“Disappointed? You don’t mean—”
“No, no, sir, I’m not beaten,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “I mean I am disappointed in the mine, and I have found out two or three things about it.”
“What sort of things?” said Mr Penwynn, uneasily.
“Trickeries—sharpings,” said Geoffrey. “It is very evident that to sell that mine, or may be to impress shareholders with its value, the place has been more than once salted, as miners call it.”
Mr Penwynn nodded.
“Tin ore from other mines has been thrown down, and, of course, I saw through that directly; but in several places right at the end of drifts, Pengelly and I have found great pieces of ore fitted into the solid rock in the most artful manner, so that it needed no little care to find out that it was a trick.”
“But are you sure that it is a trick?” said Mr Penwynn.
“Certain, sir. It would have deceived an ordinary miner or owner.”
“But did not deceive you?”
“Well, sir, I take no credit to myself for that. I went through a course of mining study, and it is as simple as A B C.”
“How so?”
“Why, look here, sir. Only yesterday Pengelly called me to show me a rich place he had found.”
“Yes. Well?”
“I had to crush the poor fellow’s hopes at once. The thing was most artistically done, a quantity of tin-bearing quartz, evidentlyin situ.”
“Yes.”
“But I always carry this with me, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, pulling out a pocket-lens; “and that showed me at once that the quartz was veined with a different mineral from that all around, and also that the granulations of the stone were such as are found in the strata on the other side of the county, and not here.”
Mr Penwynn said nothing, but looked hard at his manager.
“They’ve spent a good deal of time and money to successfully swindle people, and cleverly too, where the same energy and outlay would have made a poor mine pay.”
“Then you consider it a poor mine, Mr Trethick?”
“Very, sir.”
“But the report I had said that it was rich.”
“Then the reporter was either a fool or a knave,” replied Geoffrey.
“Humph!” ejaculated Mr Penwynn, “and you think then that we had better stop.”
“Certainly not,” said Geoffrey, flushing. “It cannot give a poorer yield, for there are thousands of tons of such ore as we are now sending to grass, and which I can make yield at least five per cent dividend, while at any time we may ‘strike ile,’ as our friends the Yankees call it.”
“Thank you, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, quietly; and he drew a long breath. “Go on, I leave myself in your hands.”
Geoffrey did go on working most earnestly, and on this particular day he had come up out of the mine, weary in body and mind, gone to the cottage and changed, and then started off along the cliff for what he called a blow.
“I’ll go and see poor old Mrs Prawle,” he said to himself; and in that disposition he went on till he came to the nook where he had interposed in Bess Prawle’s defence; when, seeing an inviting place, he sat down, and as he did so the whole scene came back.
He did not know how it was, but there was a curiously uneasy sensation at his heart, and he found himself recalling Bess Prawle’s looks, her way of expressing her gratitude, and ended by taking himself to task.
“I can go there often enough and chat with the poor old woman—poor soul, there’s a very pathetic side to her patient, uncomplaining life; but why should I go when it may cause uneasiness to others? Poor Bess! she’s a fine, handsome lass. I shall have her father making suggestions like Uncle Paul about poor Madge. ’Pon my soul, I must be a very fine-looking fellow,” he cried merrily.
Then he laughed, took out a cigar, lit it, and sat smoking.
“The people here have too much time on their hands,” he thought, “and it makes them scandalous. I wonder they don’t have the impudence to couple my name with that of—”
“Bah! nonsense! what an idiot I am,” he said, sharply; and the next moment he was self-communing, and asking why he should be so uneasy at such an idea.
For answer Rhoda’s face seemed to rise before him, quiet, earnest, and trustful. He seemed to hear her sweet, pleasant voice, not thrilling him as whispering of love; but it seemed to him now that she had given him encouragement, that her suggestions had been of endless value to him, and that she was always so kind and sisterly to him, that—that—was it sisterly this? Was his feeling brotherly?
His brow grew rugged, and then as he thought on he began to feel startled at the new sensations that seemed to be springing up within his breast. He looked inward, and he obtained a glimpse of that which he had before ignored.
“Oh, it’s absurd,” he said, half aloud; “I should be mad. I should be a scoundrel.”
Then he stopped, for the face of Rhoda, with the large, searching eyes, was gazing full into his, and this time it was no fancy. She was returning from Gwennas Cove, and she had turned into the nook to see once more the spot that had aroused such envious feelings in her breast.
“You here, Mr Trethick?” she said, quietly. “I did not expect to see you.”
“I did not expect to see you here,” he said, as quietly; but his voice sounded different, and Rhoda looked up at him for a moment, and then let her eyelids fall.
She had not held out her hand to him, neither had he offered his, and they stood there in that nook amidst the granite, surrounded by a solemn silence which neither seemed disposed to break.
Nothing could have been more simple. They had met as they might have met at any time, and they might have walked back quietly to the town. It was the most everyday of occurrences, and yet it was the most important moment of their lives.
They had both been blind, and now they were awakened, Rhoda to the fact that her heart was at length stirred to its deepest depths, Geoffrey to the knowledge that with all his strength of mind, his determination, his will, he was a man with all a man’s weaknesses, and, if weakness it could be called, he loved the woman who stood with him, face to face.
He was dazzled, blinded at the revelation that had come like a lightning’s flash, and then a feeling of horror came upon him, for he felt that he had been treacherous.
Then that horror seemed to be swept away by the stronger passion, and he looked earnestly in her face till the blue-veined lids were raised, and her eyes looked deeply and trustingly in his.
How long was it? Neither of them knew, before Geoffrey said quietly the one word,—
“Rhoda!”
She looked up at him again, and then stood hesitating, for the thoughts of the petty scandal she had heard flashed before her; but she shook them off as if they had been venomous, and, looking him full in the face, she placed her hand in his with an air of such implicit faith as stirred him into speech.
“I did not know this—I did not think this,” he said hoarsely; “and I feel as if I were acting the part of a treacherous villain to the man who has given me his confidence and trust.”
“And why?” she said.
“Because I know that I love you,” he said; “love you with all my heart. Rhoda, I must leave here. I ought not to have spoken as I did.”
She looked up at him timidly, with a half-flinching fear in her face as she met his eyes, but it turned to a look of pride, and she laid another hand upon his arm.
“No,” she said, “you must stay. Geoffrey, I could not bear it if you were to go.”
He must have been more than man if he had not clasped her to his breast at that, and in that embrace he felt her head rest upon his shoulder, and knew that fate had been very kind to him, and that he had won the love of a woman who would be part and parcel of his future life.
“And I had laughed at love,” he said, little thinking that there were witnesses of what was passing; “but now I know. Rhoda! Oh, my love!”
He clasped her in his arms again, and for a moment her lips met his. Then with one consent they stood there hand in hand.
“I will tell him at once,” said Geoffrey. “I know it will seem to him like madness; but I dare not meet him if I could not look him in the face. It is unfortunate, Rhoda, but yet I could not go back a moment of my life now.”
“Unfortunate?” she said gently.
“Yes. Have you thought what it may mean?”
She shook her head.
“The end of a dream of success. Mr Penwynn will say, what right have I to think of you? He will call me adventurer, ask me how I dared to presume, and bid me never enter his house again. I am his servant, and it will be just.”
“My father will be just,” said Rhoda, gazing in his face; “and if he is surprised and angry at first, he loves me too well to cause me pain. Geoffrey: I am not ashamed of my choice.”
He held her hands, looking down at her proudly, wondering that he had not loved her from the first.
“You will succeed, Geoffrey,” she continued, “and we can wait, for we are young yet. My father, I know, already likes you for the same reason that you first won my esteem.”
“And why was that?” he said, smiling.
“You are so different to any one we ever knew before.”
“Yes,” he said at last, “we can wait.”
And so they were pledged one to the other. Geoffrey never seemed to know how it had happened; Rhoda could not have told when it was she began to love; but they both knew, as by a sudden inspiration, that they loved the deeper and stronger for the calmness upon the surface of their lives.
There was no passionate wooing, there were no vows of constancy, all was simplicity itself; but the foundation upon which their love had been reared seemed firm as the granite around promised to be lasting; as the sea whose ripples were now golden in the setting sun, whose warm glow seemed to glorify the face of Rhoda, and intensify the love-light that glanced from her eyes. It was a time of calm, and peace, and rest, and as in the midst of this new joy, the quaint idea suggested itself that their love seemed somehow associated with the scent of the wild thyme they crushed beneath their feet, they stood there in silence, drinking in deep mental draughts of the new sensation, and wondering at their happiness the while.
Chapter Thirty Two.Within Touch of Wealth.“Thank you, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, the next morning, and he looked very calm and stern as he spoke, “I expected this, for my daughter told me all last night. I might have known this would happen, though I confess to having been very blind. Now go on, what have you further to say? But, first of all, you are a man of sense and some experience in the world. You do not, you cannot, expect me to sanction your addresses?”“No, sir, not now. I only ask you to put no pressure upon either of us, but to let us be free.”“In other words, give you the run of my house, and ample time for follies. You don’t want to come and live upon me?”“No, sir,” said Geoffrey, sternly. “I am somewhat of a man of the world. I tell you that my declaration to Miss Penwynn took me by surprise; but there are times when we cannot command ourselves. All I ask now is your indulgence towards me, knowing what I do, and time. I shall come very rarely to your house, and our business relations I hope will continue the same. I mean to succeed, sir,” he cried, striding up and down the banker’s room—“here if you will let me stay, elsewhere if you say to me go.”“If I say to you go?” said the banker, thoughtfully.“Yes, I give you my word of honour, Mr Penwynn, that I will not attempt to see Miss Penwynn again, and I will leave every thing at the mine so that my successor can carry on without a hitch.”“And if I say stay,” said the banker, coldly, “what then?”“I am your manager, Mr Penwynn, and I shall remember that I am your servant until you bid me come to your house as a friend. You may trust me, sir,” he said, gazing frankly in the banker’s eyes. “I had ambition to spur me on before; I have a far greater incentive now.”Mr Penwynn sat thinking for a few minutes, and then said quietly,—“Mr Trethick, I ask you,as my manager, to stay.”“And if I succeed, sir, what then?”“Succeed first, and then we’ll talk.”There was considerable emphasis upon a portion of the banker’s speech, and Geoffrey rose, and, without another word, left the room.“I am to stay,” he thought exultingly, and his first idea was that he should go and tell Rhoda; but he recollected that he must henceforth look at her from a distance. It was only reasonable, he felt. What right had he, a penniless adventurer, to aspire to Rhoda’s hand? It was madness, he owned; but time was before him, and he had her love.He had the indorsement of her love when he returned from the mine that evening, for Madge Mullion brought him a note that he saw at a glance was in Rhoda’s handwriting, and a throb of joy ran through him as he caught the envelope.Then, looking up, he saw the bearer’s eyes gazing wistfully at him, and he noted, more and more, how pale and wan she looked.“Why, Madge,” he said, “are you unwell?”She shook her head, and hurried away.“Poor girl,” he muttered, “I cannot have made her look like this. She must be ill, and fretting about some one else.”He was opening the letter as he spoke, and his eyes flashed as they ran over the few simple lines the note contained.They were very short. They only told of the interview between father and daughter, and bade Geoffrey remember that though they would seldom meet now, the future was before them, and Rhoda added, “My daily prayer will be for your success.”“For my success,” said Geoffrey, firmly, as he placed the letter in one particular fold of his pocket-book. “Then now I am going to work.”Rather a curious declaration for one whose labours had for months been almost herculean, but it did not seem to occur to Geoffrey that it was strange; and, after partaking of his tea, he was about to go in and see Uncle Paul, when there was a step outside, and directly after the girl came in to say that Amos Pengelly wanted to see him.“Show him in, girl,” said Geoffrey; and directly after there was a heavy limping step; the miner entered, and, without a word, banged down a great lump of granite quartz upon the table.“There,” he cried excitedly, “that’s not salt.”Geoffrey looked at him wonderingly, took up the piece of granite, which sparkled with black grains in a band of ruddy mineral running through the piece, and turned it over and over by the light.“That didn’t come from nowhere else, master,” said Pengelly.Still Geoffrey did not reply, but continued to examine the piece of rock, the miner’s excitement being so great that he could hardly contain himself.“Where did you get this?” said Geoffrey, at last.“In the four-east drive.”“Under the sea?” said Geoffrey, sharply.“Yes, sir.”“When?”“Not an hour ago.”“You staid down then, Pengelly?”“Yes. Iss, my son. I knew there was good stuff down there somewhere, and I’ve hit it now.”“Have you been searching much, Pengelly?”“Every night, master, since the mine was opened,” said Pengelly, proudly, “I felt that my character was at stake. I would find it. I prayed and wrastled that I might find it, master,” he cried, with flashing eyes, “and my prayer is heard.”“Pengelly,” cried Trethick, “there’s thirty per cent of metal in that rock—thirty? Perhaps more,” he cried excitedly.He caught up his hat, and together they hurried down to the mine, where, in spite of the lateness of the hour, the engine was going, and a stream of water pouring forth, for it needed some effort to keep the galleries dry.Mining garments were soon donned, lamps taken, and, to the surprise of the man in charge of the engine, the manager announced his intention of descending; and, stepping into the cage, Pengelly and he were soon rushing down into the bowels of the earth, to step out at last six hundred feet from the surface, and then thread their way along the dark stone passages of the silent place.For the mine was deserted now for the night, and there was nothing for company but their own shadows thrown grotesquely on the sparkling walls and floor.Pengelly led the way with no little agility, making light of lumps of refuse remaining from the old working of the mine, and even yet not removed, for Geoffrey’s venture had been in quite another direction.As they went on, Pengelly pointed here and there to freshly chipped places where he had been, pursuing his investigations without success, and at last he stopped short at the end of the gallery, facing the rock.“They had got to success,” said the miner, hoarsely. “Only another foot, and they would have reached the lode. Look here, master.”“Give me the pick,” cried Geoffrey, excitedly; and, snatching the tool, as Pengelly held the lamp, he made the gallery echo and send long, loud reverberations along its course. The rock spat forth a shower of sparks, while Geoffrey proceeded to cut out a goodly-sized fragment of the stone from the bottom of the new fracture where Pengelly had been at work.It was a strange scene, and the shadow of the young man, as it was cast here and there upon the rock, looked like some hideous spirit of the mine waving its arms, and menacing him with a monstrous pick. There was something awful too, in the harsh, clanging noises repeated from the stony walls; and every stroke of the implement he wielded seemed to draw forth threatening flashes of light, as the toiler smote on at the hard rock that had lain there virgin from far back in those distant ages whose dim vistas are so full of awe to the inquiring mind.But neither Pengelly nor Trethick thought of aught but the value of the ore that the latter was hewing, till he had detached a far larger lump than that brought to him by his follower.“Take hold, Pengelly,” said Geoffrey, excitedly, as he picked up the dislodged fragment, and, thrusting it into the miner’s hands, he took the lamp, which made the dew upon his forehead glisten; and then, with trembling hands, he held the light close to the wall, examining it carefully here and there, right in where the pieces had been cut and at the side. Then, not satisfied, he took the pick, and cut here and there at the dripping, slimy sides that had been coated with a curious growth while under water for years, and against which the newly-cut portions flashed out bright and clean.A cut here, a few chips there, ceiling, floor a few yards back, in all directions, and the result was the same, namely, that the quartz rock was similar to that where the grand rich vein of tin was running; and, after full five hours’ hard toil, patiently lighted the while by Pengelly, it was literally forced upon Geoffrey that trickery had no existence here; that the rock had never been tampered with by speculators, but was virgin and pure as it had been from the beginning of time, and he knew that the old proprietory had ceased their efforts in this direction when riches were within their grasp.Then, and then only, did Geoffrey draw out a pocket-lens for his final look, close it, throw down the piece of ore, and catching Pengelly’s hands in his, shake them with a hearty grip.“Right!” he cried, “there is no salt here, Pengelly. Wheal Carnac is a great success.”He stopped short, listening to a sound that had at first been but a faint murmur, but had increased by slow degrees to a heavy roar, and he realised that which he had for the time forgotten—that they were beneath the sea, and that the crust of rock between them and the mighty waters must be very thin.
“Thank you, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, the next morning, and he looked very calm and stern as he spoke, “I expected this, for my daughter told me all last night. I might have known this would happen, though I confess to having been very blind. Now go on, what have you further to say? But, first of all, you are a man of sense and some experience in the world. You do not, you cannot, expect me to sanction your addresses?”
“No, sir, not now. I only ask you to put no pressure upon either of us, but to let us be free.”
“In other words, give you the run of my house, and ample time for follies. You don’t want to come and live upon me?”
“No, sir,” said Geoffrey, sternly. “I am somewhat of a man of the world. I tell you that my declaration to Miss Penwynn took me by surprise; but there are times when we cannot command ourselves. All I ask now is your indulgence towards me, knowing what I do, and time. I shall come very rarely to your house, and our business relations I hope will continue the same. I mean to succeed, sir,” he cried, striding up and down the banker’s room—“here if you will let me stay, elsewhere if you say to me go.”
“If I say to you go?” said the banker, thoughtfully.
“Yes, I give you my word of honour, Mr Penwynn, that I will not attempt to see Miss Penwynn again, and I will leave every thing at the mine so that my successor can carry on without a hitch.”
“And if I say stay,” said the banker, coldly, “what then?”
“I am your manager, Mr Penwynn, and I shall remember that I am your servant until you bid me come to your house as a friend. You may trust me, sir,” he said, gazing frankly in the banker’s eyes. “I had ambition to spur me on before; I have a far greater incentive now.”
Mr Penwynn sat thinking for a few minutes, and then said quietly,—
“Mr Trethick, I ask you,as my manager, to stay.”
“And if I succeed, sir, what then?”
“Succeed first, and then we’ll talk.”
There was considerable emphasis upon a portion of the banker’s speech, and Geoffrey rose, and, without another word, left the room.
“I am to stay,” he thought exultingly, and his first idea was that he should go and tell Rhoda; but he recollected that he must henceforth look at her from a distance. It was only reasonable, he felt. What right had he, a penniless adventurer, to aspire to Rhoda’s hand? It was madness, he owned; but time was before him, and he had her love.
He had the indorsement of her love when he returned from the mine that evening, for Madge Mullion brought him a note that he saw at a glance was in Rhoda’s handwriting, and a throb of joy ran through him as he caught the envelope.
Then, looking up, he saw the bearer’s eyes gazing wistfully at him, and he noted, more and more, how pale and wan she looked.
“Why, Madge,” he said, “are you unwell?”
She shook her head, and hurried away.
“Poor girl,” he muttered, “I cannot have made her look like this. She must be ill, and fretting about some one else.”
He was opening the letter as he spoke, and his eyes flashed as they ran over the few simple lines the note contained.
They were very short. They only told of the interview between father and daughter, and bade Geoffrey remember that though they would seldom meet now, the future was before them, and Rhoda added, “My daily prayer will be for your success.”
“For my success,” said Geoffrey, firmly, as he placed the letter in one particular fold of his pocket-book. “Then now I am going to work.”
Rather a curious declaration for one whose labours had for months been almost herculean, but it did not seem to occur to Geoffrey that it was strange; and, after partaking of his tea, he was about to go in and see Uncle Paul, when there was a step outside, and directly after the girl came in to say that Amos Pengelly wanted to see him.
“Show him in, girl,” said Geoffrey; and directly after there was a heavy limping step; the miner entered, and, without a word, banged down a great lump of granite quartz upon the table.
“There,” he cried excitedly, “that’s not salt.”
Geoffrey looked at him wonderingly, took up the piece of granite, which sparkled with black grains in a band of ruddy mineral running through the piece, and turned it over and over by the light.
“That didn’t come from nowhere else, master,” said Pengelly.
Still Geoffrey did not reply, but continued to examine the piece of rock, the miner’s excitement being so great that he could hardly contain himself.
“Where did you get this?” said Geoffrey, at last.
“In the four-east drive.”
“Under the sea?” said Geoffrey, sharply.
“Yes, sir.”
“When?”
“Not an hour ago.”
“You staid down then, Pengelly?”
“Yes. Iss, my son. I knew there was good stuff down there somewhere, and I’ve hit it now.”
“Have you been searching much, Pengelly?”
“Every night, master, since the mine was opened,” said Pengelly, proudly, “I felt that my character was at stake. I would find it. I prayed and wrastled that I might find it, master,” he cried, with flashing eyes, “and my prayer is heard.”
“Pengelly,” cried Trethick, “there’s thirty per cent of metal in that rock—thirty? Perhaps more,” he cried excitedly.
He caught up his hat, and together they hurried down to the mine, where, in spite of the lateness of the hour, the engine was going, and a stream of water pouring forth, for it needed some effort to keep the galleries dry.
Mining garments were soon donned, lamps taken, and, to the surprise of the man in charge of the engine, the manager announced his intention of descending; and, stepping into the cage, Pengelly and he were soon rushing down into the bowels of the earth, to step out at last six hundred feet from the surface, and then thread their way along the dark stone passages of the silent place.
For the mine was deserted now for the night, and there was nothing for company but their own shadows thrown grotesquely on the sparkling walls and floor.
Pengelly led the way with no little agility, making light of lumps of refuse remaining from the old working of the mine, and even yet not removed, for Geoffrey’s venture had been in quite another direction.
As they went on, Pengelly pointed here and there to freshly chipped places where he had been, pursuing his investigations without success, and at last he stopped short at the end of the gallery, facing the rock.
“They had got to success,” said the miner, hoarsely. “Only another foot, and they would have reached the lode. Look here, master.”
“Give me the pick,” cried Geoffrey, excitedly; and, snatching the tool, as Pengelly held the lamp, he made the gallery echo and send long, loud reverberations along its course. The rock spat forth a shower of sparks, while Geoffrey proceeded to cut out a goodly-sized fragment of the stone from the bottom of the new fracture where Pengelly had been at work.
It was a strange scene, and the shadow of the young man, as it was cast here and there upon the rock, looked like some hideous spirit of the mine waving its arms, and menacing him with a monstrous pick. There was something awful too, in the harsh, clanging noises repeated from the stony walls; and every stroke of the implement he wielded seemed to draw forth threatening flashes of light, as the toiler smote on at the hard rock that had lain there virgin from far back in those distant ages whose dim vistas are so full of awe to the inquiring mind.
But neither Pengelly nor Trethick thought of aught but the value of the ore that the latter was hewing, till he had detached a far larger lump than that brought to him by his follower.
“Take hold, Pengelly,” said Geoffrey, excitedly, as he picked up the dislodged fragment, and, thrusting it into the miner’s hands, he took the lamp, which made the dew upon his forehead glisten; and then, with trembling hands, he held the light close to the wall, examining it carefully here and there, right in where the pieces had been cut and at the side. Then, not satisfied, he took the pick, and cut here and there at the dripping, slimy sides that had been coated with a curious growth while under water for years, and against which the newly-cut portions flashed out bright and clean.
A cut here, a few chips there, ceiling, floor a few yards back, in all directions, and the result was the same, namely, that the quartz rock was similar to that where the grand rich vein of tin was running; and, after full five hours’ hard toil, patiently lighted the while by Pengelly, it was literally forced upon Geoffrey that trickery had no existence here; that the rock had never been tampered with by speculators, but was virgin and pure as it had been from the beginning of time, and he knew that the old proprietory had ceased their efforts in this direction when riches were within their grasp.
Then, and then only, did Geoffrey draw out a pocket-lens for his final look, close it, throw down the piece of ore, and catching Pengelly’s hands in his, shake them with a hearty grip.
“Right!” he cried, “there is no salt here, Pengelly. Wheal Carnac is a great success.”
He stopped short, listening to a sound that had at first been but a faint murmur, but had increased by slow degrees to a heavy roar, and he realised that which he had for the time forgotten—that they were beneath the sea, and that the crust of rock between them and the mighty waters must be very thin.
Chapter Thirty Three.Too Fast.It was too late to go up to An Morlock on the night of the discovery; but Geoffrey Trethick was there by breakfast-time, to find Rhoda in the morning-room, and Mr Penwynn not yet down.Rhoda read his face as he entered and threw a heavy bag on the table to catch her hands in his.“Half the distance got over!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “Wheal Carnac is a success.”“Is this keeping your word, Mr Trethick?” said a stern voice; but Geoffrey and Rhoda did not start apart.“I could not keep back my news, Mr Penwynn,” cried Geoffrey, going to the table and seizing the bag.“News! What news?”“That you own one of the richest mines in Cornwall, Mr Penwynn,” cried Geoffrey. “Look here.”The banker looked at him to see if he was sane; then at the piece of ore that had been brought, which he inspected again and again through his glasses.“Very, very rich stuff,” he said at last. “But is this from Wheal Carnac?”“Yes, sir, as I had hoped. We have struck an enormously rich lode. The poor fellows must have been within inches of it years ago when they left off; and, yes, of course,” he said, as he recalled the noise of the water heard on the previous night, “they must have been afraid to go any farther on account of the sea.”“And,” said Mr Penwynn, whose customary calmness was swept away by the news, “do you mean to tell me, Trethick, that Wheal Carnac is going to turn out a very valuable property?”“I tell you, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, proudly, “that unless some strange, unforeseen accident occurs to spoil the project, Wheal Carnachasturned out an enormously valuable property.”The banker glanced at the rich ore and then at Geoffrey, who had no hesitation in sitting down to breakfast, and drinking in with the mundane coffee the proud and joyous glances of his love.Over the meal he told them of Pengelly’s researches, and of his announcement on the previous night; then of his visit and careful examination of the gallery.“There’s nothing to fear,” he said, “but the water; and I dare say I can guard against that.”The banker became very silent, and sat after Geoffrey had ended, glancing from one to the other, reading as plainly as if it were writ in plain English of his daughter’s love for the enterprising, manly young fellow at his table.Mr Penwynn was weighing matters of the heart in his own mind, just as he would have weighed any business speculation; and when from time to time his matter-of-fact worldliness bade him treat Geoffrey in a plain business-like manner, a look from Rhoda seemed to master him, and he felt as yielding as so much modelling-clay.“It seems a great folly,” he thought. “He is a stranger, an adventurer, and yet his first venture brings me wealth. There,” he said to himself, at last, “I’m rich enough, and I’m getting old very fast; let me see her happy if I can.”There was something so frank and friendly in his way of speaking to Geoffrey afterwards that, without a word, Rhoda came to him, laid her hands upon his shoulders and her cheek upon his breast.She let it lie there for a minute or two, and then, with a glance at him full of affection, she left his side, and, half-timidly, in a way so very different to her usual self, she crossed to Geoffrey and placed her hands in his.“This is going on fast, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling, and looking half-perplexed; “but we have only a hint of success yet. I am a man of the world, recollect, and I want to see a big banking balance to the credit of the mine.”“Never fear, sir, that shall follow. Only give me time.”“Well, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, after a struggle with self, in which, after sordidness and avarice had nearly won the victory, a look from Rhoda’s transformed, happy face turned the scale, “what am I to say to you about a share in the prosperity?”“Let’s get the big balance in the bank first, sir,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “We will not divide a castle in the air.”“But it would be more business-like and careful if you made your bargain now.”“So I should have thought a month ago, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, holding out his hand. “Our interests ran together then. Now—I think—I hope—they are one, and I cannot strike bargains with the father of the woman!—”He stopped and looked at Rhoda, who slowly raised her eyes to his, and then her hands, which he took softly, reverently, and kissed. Then he turned to Mr Penwynn and finished his sentence—“most dearly love.”The banker watched them very thoughtfully, for it seemed hardly real to him. In fact, at times he asked himself if it were not a dream.He was roused from recollections of his own career, some five-and-twenty years before, by Geoffrey turning to him abruptly.“Mr Penwynn,” he said, “I leave myself in your hands. I am working in our mutual interests.”“And suppose I play false?” said Mr Penwynn.“You can’t, sir,” cried Geoffrey, “with Rhoda here. If you treated me hard, you would be behaving ill to your daughter, and that you will not do. Now, good-morning. When will you come down and see the lode?”“I’m not fond of going down mines,” said Mr Penwynn.“But in this case you will, I think,” said Geoffrey.—“I’ll answer for your safety. Miss Penwynn—Rhoda?”“Yes,” she cried, answering his unspoken question, “I will come down too. I shall not be afraid, and I want to christen the Rhoda vein.”“To be sure,” cried Geoffrey, “the vein that is to bring us all wealth and happiness.”He hurried away, and Rhoda ran to the window to see him pass; while Mr Penwynn picked up the piece of tin ore, balanced it in his hands, and, recalling certain rumours of tricks that had been played upon mine-owners, he said to himself,—“Suppose he should play me false?”And directly after, when he saw Rhoda’s hand waved to Trethick, as he glanced back,—“Suppose he should play her false?” for certain other rumours came to his mind. “Poor girl, it would break her heart.”Just then, bright, flushed, and animated, Rhoda turned to him.“No,” he said to himself, “she has too much pride.”
It was too late to go up to An Morlock on the night of the discovery; but Geoffrey Trethick was there by breakfast-time, to find Rhoda in the morning-room, and Mr Penwynn not yet down.
Rhoda read his face as he entered and threw a heavy bag on the table to catch her hands in his.
“Half the distance got over!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “Wheal Carnac is a success.”
“Is this keeping your word, Mr Trethick?” said a stern voice; but Geoffrey and Rhoda did not start apart.
“I could not keep back my news, Mr Penwynn,” cried Geoffrey, going to the table and seizing the bag.
“News! What news?”
“That you own one of the richest mines in Cornwall, Mr Penwynn,” cried Geoffrey. “Look here.”
The banker looked at him to see if he was sane; then at the piece of ore that had been brought, which he inspected again and again through his glasses.
“Very, very rich stuff,” he said at last. “But is this from Wheal Carnac?”
“Yes, sir, as I had hoped. We have struck an enormously rich lode. The poor fellows must have been within inches of it years ago when they left off; and, yes, of course,” he said, as he recalled the noise of the water heard on the previous night, “they must have been afraid to go any farther on account of the sea.”
“And,” said Mr Penwynn, whose customary calmness was swept away by the news, “do you mean to tell me, Trethick, that Wheal Carnac is going to turn out a very valuable property?”
“I tell you, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, proudly, “that unless some strange, unforeseen accident occurs to spoil the project, Wheal Carnachasturned out an enormously valuable property.”
The banker glanced at the rich ore and then at Geoffrey, who had no hesitation in sitting down to breakfast, and drinking in with the mundane coffee the proud and joyous glances of his love.
Over the meal he told them of Pengelly’s researches, and of his announcement on the previous night; then of his visit and careful examination of the gallery.
“There’s nothing to fear,” he said, “but the water; and I dare say I can guard against that.”
The banker became very silent, and sat after Geoffrey had ended, glancing from one to the other, reading as plainly as if it were writ in plain English of his daughter’s love for the enterprising, manly young fellow at his table.
Mr Penwynn was weighing matters of the heart in his own mind, just as he would have weighed any business speculation; and when from time to time his matter-of-fact worldliness bade him treat Geoffrey in a plain business-like manner, a look from Rhoda seemed to master him, and he felt as yielding as so much modelling-clay.
“It seems a great folly,” he thought. “He is a stranger, an adventurer, and yet his first venture brings me wealth. There,” he said to himself, at last, “I’m rich enough, and I’m getting old very fast; let me see her happy if I can.”
There was something so frank and friendly in his way of speaking to Geoffrey afterwards that, without a word, Rhoda came to him, laid her hands upon his shoulders and her cheek upon his breast.
She let it lie there for a minute or two, and then, with a glance at him full of affection, she left his side, and, half-timidly, in a way so very different to her usual self, she crossed to Geoffrey and placed her hands in his.
“This is going on fast, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling, and looking half-perplexed; “but we have only a hint of success yet. I am a man of the world, recollect, and I want to see a big banking balance to the credit of the mine.”
“Never fear, sir, that shall follow. Only give me time.”
“Well, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, after a struggle with self, in which, after sordidness and avarice had nearly won the victory, a look from Rhoda’s transformed, happy face turned the scale, “what am I to say to you about a share in the prosperity?”
“Let’s get the big balance in the bank first, sir,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “We will not divide a castle in the air.”
“But it would be more business-like and careful if you made your bargain now.”
“So I should have thought a month ago, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, holding out his hand. “Our interests ran together then. Now—I think—I hope—they are one, and I cannot strike bargains with the father of the woman!—”
He stopped and looked at Rhoda, who slowly raised her eyes to his, and then her hands, which he took softly, reverently, and kissed. Then he turned to Mr Penwynn and finished his sentence—“most dearly love.”
The banker watched them very thoughtfully, for it seemed hardly real to him. In fact, at times he asked himself if it were not a dream.
He was roused from recollections of his own career, some five-and-twenty years before, by Geoffrey turning to him abruptly.
“Mr Penwynn,” he said, “I leave myself in your hands. I am working in our mutual interests.”
“And suppose I play false?” said Mr Penwynn.
“You can’t, sir,” cried Geoffrey, “with Rhoda here. If you treated me hard, you would be behaving ill to your daughter, and that you will not do. Now, good-morning. When will you come down and see the lode?”
“I’m not fond of going down mines,” said Mr Penwynn.
“But in this case you will, I think,” said Geoffrey.—“I’ll answer for your safety. Miss Penwynn—Rhoda?”
“Yes,” she cried, answering his unspoken question, “I will come down too. I shall not be afraid, and I want to christen the Rhoda vein.”
“To be sure,” cried Geoffrey, “the vein that is to bring us all wealth and happiness.”
He hurried away, and Rhoda ran to the window to see him pass; while Mr Penwynn picked up the piece of tin ore, balanced it in his hands, and, recalling certain rumours of tricks that had been played upon mine-owners, he said to himself,—
“Suppose he should play me false?”
And directly after, when he saw Rhoda’s hand waved to Trethick, as he glanced back,—
“Suppose he should play her false?” for certain other rumours came to his mind. “Poor girl, it would break her heart.”
Just then, bright, flushed, and animated, Rhoda turned to him.
“No,” he said to himself, “she has too much pride.”
Chapter Thirty Four.A Bargain.“What?” roared Tregenna, furiously.“It’ll turn out the richest mine in Cornwall, sir.”“You’re a fool! Absurd! Ridiculous!” cried Tregenna, biting his nails, and then making his teeth grit together as he glared at the rough miner before him.“Dessay I be,” said the man, surlily; “but I’ve been at work in the gallery all day, and I never see such tin ore before.”“And I’ve let this go for a paltry few hundreds—a thousand or two at most,” muttered Tregenna. “But it can’t be true. Are you sure?” he said aloud.“Sure enough, sir, and I thought you’d like to know. I didn’t expect to be called a fool for my pains.”“No, no, of course not, Lannoe,” said Tregenna, hurriedly. “I was put out. I’ve heard the gossip all day, but I thought it exaggerated. I’m glad you’ve come.”“Oh, there’s no ’zaggeration ’bout it,” said the man. “I’ve kept an eye on it all ever since the mine was dried, just as you wished, and they was getting nothing but rubbish, till Amos Pengelly, who was always picking about, hit upon this vein.”“Damn Amos Pengelly!” cried Tregenna, savagely.“To which I says ‘Amen,’” said the miner.“Then the place will turn out immensely rich, and that fellow Trethick will make quite a fortune.”“Iss, sir, that’s so,” said the miner. “Master Penwynn and young miss come down in the cage to-night to see it, and young miss took hold of a pick that Master Trethick held for her, and chipped off a bit or two, and there was a lot of smiling atween ’em.”Tregenna’s face turned ghastly white, and he changed his position so that the man should not see it; but the miner was keen enough to read him, and he went on, evidently glorying in the torture he was inflicting.“Master Trethick took ’em back to the cage, and helped young miss in again, and went up with them, and him and Master Penwynn seemed wonderful thick together.”Tregenna’s face was ashy now, and he made a motion with one hand for the man to desist, but he went on.“It do seem hard, sir,” he said, “when, after planting the mine on to Master Penwynn, believing it would half ruin him and do for that there Trethick, it should turn out all t’other way.”“How did you know I had any such thoughts?” cried Tregenna, fiercely.“How did I know?” said the man, chuckling. “You know I arn’t a fool, Mas’r Tregenna, or you wouldn’t have set me to get work in that there mine, and report every thing to you.”For answer Tregenna unlocked a drawer in his table, and took out a packet of papers, neatly endorsed, and tied up with red tape.“Look here, Lannoe,” he said, shaking the papers at the man, “your tongue runs too fast, and you forget your position. You are a man of bad character whom I got off at the assize for a crime that would have given you penal servitude. You can be a useful man; and when you came to me begging I gave you money and I got you work. Suppose, on further consideration of your case, I should find out that there was a little evidence left out that would convict you, and feel it my duty to make it known, so that the prosecution could have a new trial?”“You wouldn’t do that, Mas’r Tregenna, sir,” growled the man. “I’m too useful to you. There, I’ll hold my tongue.”“You had better,” said Tregenna, who had now somewhat recovered himself. “And so this mine’s going to be enormously rich?”“Not a doubt of it, sir, unless the water breaks in.”“Water breaks in? What, is the vein near the sea?”“Goes right under it, sir,” said the man, watching intently where the packet of papers was placed, Tregenna seeing it, and resolving to place them elsewhere. “You see, the people who failed seem to have driven right in there, till, finding nothing, they were afraid to go farther for fear of the sea breaking through.”“And might it not break through now?”“Well, it might, sir; but Master Trethick’s one of your clever, careful sort, and he’ll take care that nothing goes wrong. He had the men busy with props, and struts, and planking all day long. There’ll be no water break in there.”“Curse it, it’s most unfortunate!” cried Tregenna, biting his nails. “I’d have given any thing sooner than it should have turned out as it has.”“Hundred pound, p’r’aps,” said Lannoe, looking at him sidewise.“Yes, I’d have given a hundred pounds if the mine had turned out a failure.”“Hand it over,” said the miner, abruptly.“What do you mean?”“You said you’d give a hundred pounds if that there mine turned out a complete failure, and I say hand it over.”“Look here, Lannoe,” cried Tregenna, unable to contain his excitement, “can you—do you know—curse it, man, speak out!”“What for? What’s the good?” said the man, hoarsely. “Hundred pounds—hundred pounds. Give me the hundred pounds and you’ll see.”Tregenna looked at him strangely.“I don’t pay for work until it’s done,” he said.“And I don’t work unless I’m paid,” said the man, roughly.“And suppose you break faith?”“And suppose you get me tried all over again?” said Lannoe. “Look here, Master Tregenna, you’re a gentleman, and I’m only a rough miner, but we are both on the same road. I arn’t blind, so you may just as well speak plain. I know, you know, and speak plain, and don’t hide it from you about Bess Prawle, and my being kicked off and threatened. You don’t suppose I let Amos Pengelly half kill me when he threw me on the rocks without owing him for it and wanting to pay it back, even if I do work with him now all smooth? Why can’t you speak plain too? I know, you know, about your wanting young miss, and the old man saying you shouldn’t, and your Amos Pengelly—this here bullying, ordering Londoner—coming and throwing you. There, master, you’d better hand over that hundred pounds.”“And if I do?” said Tregenna, leaning forward, placing his elbows on the table as he faced Lannoe, and joined his hands carefully as if he were going to say his prayers.“Wait and see,” said the man. “You don’t want to know, sir. You want to hear that Wheal Carnac’s a failure, and I’m the man as can make it one. Now what do you say?”Tregenna remained thinking for a time, with hate and revenge against cautiousness fighting for the mastery.It was two to one, and cautiousness was beaten.“I’ll give you the hundred pounds, Lannoe,” he said; “but I warn you that if you play me false I’ll have the police on your track at once. You may think think you could get away, or throw it back in my face that I set you to do something; but you could not get away, and my character would be set against yours if you brought any charge against me.”“Who’s going to?” cried the man.“And if it cost me a couple of thousand pounds, man, I’d have you in the dock.”“Don’t I tell you I’d do any thing to pay Amos Pengelly, master. Hand over that money.”“I have not got it here,” said Tregenna.“What?”“You don’t suppose a gentleman keeps a hundred pounds always in his pocket, do you?”“I should,” said the man, grimly, “if I’d got it. Give us a bit o’ paper then to take to the bank to-morrow.”“Shall I tell the crier to go round and shout that I have given you a hundred pounds for some reason or another? Don’t be a fool, man!”“Give me notes, then,” said Lannoe.“Every one of which, if I had them, would be numbered as having been paid to me. No, Lannoe, I have given you my word that I will pay you; and, what is more,” he cried, excitedly, “if—if, I say—you understand? I’ll give you another fifty.”“Shake hands,” said the man; and Tregenna unwillingly placed his white beringed fingers in the miner’s horny paw, to take them out afterwards red and crushed.“I’ll trust you, Lannoe, and you must trust me.”“Right, master,” said the miner. “Then look here. Where—”“That will do,” said Tregenna. “I want to know nothing. I’ll hear nothing. Come to me some day when you think it wise, and there is the money for you.”He pointed to the door, and the man nodded and went away.
“What?” roared Tregenna, furiously.
“It’ll turn out the richest mine in Cornwall, sir.”
“You’re a fool! Absurd! Ridiculous!” cried Tregenna, biting his nails, and then making his teeth grit together as he glared at the rough miner before him.
“Dessay I be,” said the man, surlily; “but I’ve been at work in the gallery all day, and I never see such tin ore before.”
“And I’ve let this go for a paltry few hundreds—a thousand or two at most,” muttered Tregenna. “But it can’t be true. Are you sure?” he said aloud.
“Sure enough, sir, and I thought you’d like to know. I didn’t expect to be called a fool for my pains.”
“No, no, of course not, Lannoe,” said Tregenna, hurriedly. “I was put out. I’ve heard the gossip all day, but I thought it exaggerated. I’m glad you’ve come.”
“Oh, there’s no ’zaggeration ’bout it,” said the man. “I’ve kept an eye on it all ever since the mine was dried, just as you wished, and they was getting nothing but rubbish, till Amos Pengelly, who was always picking about, hit upon this vein.”
“Damn Amos Pengelly!” cried Tregenna, savagely.
“To which I says ‘Amen,’” said the miner.
“Then the place will turn out immensely rich, and that fellow Trethick will make quite a fortune.”
“Iss, sir, that’s so,” said the miner. “Master Penwynn and young miss come down in the cage to-night to see it, and young miss took hold of a pick that Master Trethick held for her, and chipped off a bit or two, and there was a lot of smiling atween ’em.”
Tregenna’s face turned ghastly white, and he changed his position so that the man should not see it; but the miner was keen enough to read him, and he went on, evidently glorying in the torture he was inflicting.
“Master Trethick took ’em back to the cage, and helped young miss in again, and went up with them, and him and Master Penwynn seemed wonderful thick together.”
Tregenna’s face was ashy now, and he made a motion with one hand for the man to desist, but he went on.
“It do seem hard, sir,” he said, “when, after planting the mine on to Master Penwynn, believing it would half ruin him and do for that there Trethick, it should turn out all t’other way.”
“How did you know I had any such thoughts?” cried Tregenna, fiercely.
“How did I know?” said the man, chuckling. “You know I arn’t a fool, Mas’r Tregenna, or you wouldn’t have set me to get work in that there mine, and report every thing to you.”
For answer Tregenna unlocked a drawer in his table, and took out a packet of papers, neatly endorsed, and tied up with red tape.
“Look here, Lannoe,” he said, shaking the papers at the man, “your tongue runs too fast, and you forget your position. You are a man of bad character whom I got off at the assize for a crime that would have given you penal servitude. You can be a useful man; and when you came to me begging I gave you money and I got you work. Suppose, on further consideration of your case, I should find out that there was a little evidence left out that would convict you, and feel it my duty to make it known, so that the prosecution could have a new trial?”
“You wouldn’t do that, Mas’r Tregenna, sir,” growled the man. “I’m too useful to you. There, I’ll hold my tongue.”
“You had better,” said Tregenna, who had now somewhat recovered himself. “And so this mine’s going to be enormously rich?”
“Not a doubt of it, sir, unless the water breaks in.”
“Water breaks in? What, is the vein near the sea?”
“Goes right under it, sir,” said the man, watching intently where the packet of papers was placed, Tregenna seeing it, and resolving to place them elsewhere. “You see, the people who failed seem to have driven right in there, till, finding nothing, they were afraid to go farther for fear of the sea breaking through.”
“And might it not break through now?”
“Well, it might, sir; but Master Trethick’s one of your clever, careful sort, and he’ll take care that nothing goes wrong. He had the men busy with props, and struts, and planking all day long. There’ll be no water break in there.”
“Curse it, it’s most unfortunate!” cried Tregenna, biting his nails. “I’d have given any thing sooner than it should have turned out as it has.”
“Hundred pound, p’r’aps,” said Lannoe, looking at him sidewise.
“Yes, I’d have given a hundred pounds if the mine had turned out a failure.”
“Hand it over,” said the miner, abruptly.
“What do you mean?”
“You said you’d give a hundred pounds if that there mine turned out a complete failure, and I say hand it over.”
“Look here, Lannoe,” cried Tregenna, unable to contain his excitement, “can you—do you know—curse it, man, speak out!”
“What for? What’s the good?” said the man, hoarsely. “Hundred pounds—hundred pounds. Give me the hundred pounds and you’ll see.”
Tregenna looked at him strangely.
“I don’t pay for work until it’s done,” he said.
“And I don’t work unless I’m paid,” said the man, roughly.
“And suppose you break faith?”
“And suppose you get me tried all over again?” said Lannoe. “Look here, Master Tregenna, you’re a gentleman, and I’m only a rough miner, but we are both on the same road. I arn’t blind, so you may just as well speak plain. I know, you know, and speak plain, and don’t hide it from you about Bess Prawle, and my being kicked off and threatened. You don’t suppose I let Amos Pengelly half kill me when he threw me on the rocks without owing him for it and wanting to pay it back, even if I do work with him now all smooth? Why can’t you speak plain too? I know, you know, about your wanting young miss, and the old man saying you shouldn’t, and your Amos Pengelly—this here bullying, ordering Londoner—coming and throwing you. There, master, you’d better hand over that hundred pounds.”
“And if I do?” said Tregenna, leaning forward, placing his elbows on the table as he faced Lannoe, and joined his hands carefully as if he were going to say his prayers.
“Wait and see,” said the man. “You don’t want to know, sir. You want to hear that Wheal Carnac’s a failure, and I’m the man as can make it one. Now what do you say?”
Tregenna remained thinking for a time, with hate and revenge against cautiousness fighting for the mastery.
It was two to one, and cautiousness was beaten.
“I’ll give you the hundred pounds, Lannoe,” he said; “but I warn you that if you play me false I’ll have the police on your track at once. You may think think you could get away, or throw it back in my face that I set you to do something; but you could not get away, and my character would be set against yours if you brought any charge against me.”
“Who’s going to?” cried the man.
“And if it cost me a couple of thousand pounds, man, I’d have you in the dock.”
“Don’t I tell you I’d do any thing to pay Amos Pengelly, master. Hand over that money.”
“I have not got it here,” said Tregenna.
“What?”
“You don’t suppose a gentleman keeps a hundred pounds always in his pocket, do you?”
“I should,” said the man, grimly, “if I’d got it. Give us a bit o’ paper then to take to the bank to-morrow.”
“Shall I tell the crier to go round and shout that I have given you a hundred pounds for some reason or another? Don’t be a fool, man!”
“Give me notes, then,” said Lannoe.
“Every one of which, if I had them, would be numbered as having been paid to me. No, Lannoe, I have given you my word that I will pay you; and, what is more,” he cried, excitedly, “if—if, I say—you understand? I’ll give you another fifty.”
“Shake hands,” said the man; and Tregenna unwillingly placed his white beringed fingers in the miner’s horny paw, to take them out afterwards red and crushed.
“I’ll trust you, Lannoe, and you must trust me.”
“Right, master,” said the miner. “Then look here. Where—”
“That will do,” said Tregenna. “I want to know nothing. I’ll hear nothing. Come to me some day when you think it wise, and there is the money for you.”
He pointed to the door, and the man nodded and went away.
Chapter Thirty Five.Under the Sea.Busy times in Wheal Carnac. There had been plenty of visitors in the shape of managers of different mines, to whom the news had come; and all went away astounded at the wealth of the new vein. The demand for shares was enormous, but there were none to be had. Tregenna had had the last, taken to blind Mr Penwynn, and he had sold them to Dr Rumsey, who had invested the whole of his wife’s little fortune in the mine, and the next morning after the news had spread, the doctor had hurried up to the cottage, where Geoffrey was seated at breakfast with Uncle Paul, an unusually fine sole from the trawler having brought them together.Madge opened the door to the doctor, who shook hands with her in a friendly way; and then, as their eyes met, Madge’s friendly smile changed into a look of fear, under the doctor’s searching gaze. She flushed, then turned deadly pale, and ended by shrinking back with a piteous look, and holding up her hands in a pleading way.Dr Rumsey’s lips tightened, and he said quietly,—“Tell Mr Trethick I am here.”“Come in, Rumsey,” cried Geoffrey’s hearty voice. “You’re in time for breakfast, man. You are just right. Uncle Paul’s as bilious as—as himself.”Madge was forgotten for the moment, and the doctor shook hands warmly with the young man and with Uncle Paul, as a chair was placed for him, and the bell rung for a cup and saucer and plate, for, truth to say, though the doctor had partaken of the morning meal, he sometimes rose from it with a better appetite than was quite necessary for a proper fulfilment of the digestive functions.“My dear Trethick,” he cried, with the tears in his eyes, “God bless you for the hint! The news about the mine is glorious.”“That’s right,” said Geoffrey. “Eat your sole, man, before it gets cold,” for a hot plate had been brought in by Madge herself, who seemed very eager to attend upon the visitor.“You—you don’t mean to say that you have been investing in mining shares, Rumsey?” cried Uncle Paul.“Indeed, but I hope he has,” said Geoffrey, heartily.“I have: every penny we had,” cried the doctor.“More fool you!” cried Uncle Paul. “Why, Rumsey, how can you expect a man to trust you with his internal management if you go and do such insane things?”“Uncle Paul don’t believe in the mine even yet,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “That will do, Miss Madge,” he said; “I’ll ring for more hot water if we want it.”The doctor saw Madge’s appealing look at him, and a half-frightened glance at Geoffrey, and he saw too, as the girl left the room, that Uncle Paul was watching him very narrowly.When he spoke again his manner was changed, and there was quite a coldness about it, which Geoffrey noticed.“You hold on,” he said, attributing it to nervousness caused by Uncle. Paul’s attitude—“you hold on, Rumsey, and don’t you be tempted at any price to sell. I warrant, my dear fellow, that you’ve made by that one stroke a handsome provision for your wife, more than you could have made by doctoring the whole county.”“Then why don’t you invest?” snarled Uncle Paul.“Because I’ve got no money,” said Geoffrey, coolly. “Why don’t you, who have?”“Because I’m not quite such an old fool as you think.”The doctor warmed up again under the sunshine of Geoffrey’s cheery ways, and soon after they were walking down towards the cliff, the doctor thanking Geoffrey again heartily as they parted, the one to make his rounds, the other to go to the busy mine.Geoffrey had not gone half-way before he met old Prawle, coming direct from Wheal Carnac.“Hallo, old man!” he cried. “How’s poor mother? By Jove, I must come and see the dear old lady again.”“Better—better,” said Prawle, hastily.“That’s well; and Miss Bessie?”“Yes, yes, quite well,” said the old man, hastily. “I want to see you.”“Come along down to my office. Been to the mine?”“Yes, yes. I’ve been down.”“Ah, you old fox!” cried Geoffrey. “You wouldn’t tell me, but you see we found it out.”“Yes, yes,” said Prawle, still speaking in a hasty way, contrary to his wont. “I’ll buy some shares.”“No, you won’t,” said Geoffrey, laughing.“Why not, eh? You’ll let me?”“There isn’t a share to be had, old man. No, sir, you are too late. You, knowing what you did, Prawle, should have made friends, and taken your share of the good things.”The old man looked at him with a curiously sly expression of countenance.“None to be had?” he said, dubiously.“Not a share, Father Prawle: for those who hold them know their value now, and will not part.”The old fellow hesitated as if he half meant to say something, but he did not say it, and went his way; while Geoffrey went on to the mine, busied himself a little about some fresh arrangements for stampers and improved crushing apparatus, and then descended the mine to seek out Pengelly.He found him hard at work superintending a gang of wielders of the pick, eager to make a goodly show of ore to send up to grass, and Geoffrey stopped about till the men went off to their dinners, when he and Pengelly had a long conversation about the state of the mine at this place.“I’ve been measuring and calculating, Pengelly, and I find that you are so near the water here that not an inch must be cut on the face of the drive, rich as it is. We must go down, and trust to finding the lode right away.”“What, and leave this?” said Pengelly. “Why, it’s madness.”“Madness or no, I shall not have it touched, Pengelly,” said Trethick, firmly. “Lay your ear against the rock. You can almost feel the beat of the water. I make it that we are right out four hundred feet under the sea at high water. We must run no risks.”For answer Pengelly began to ply his pick vigorously on the floor of the gallery, marking out the portion to be sunk so as to be deeper down in the rock, and where there would be no risk of the sea breaking in.Geoffrey had well made his plans by night, and was the last, as he thought, to leave the pit, and he then went straight to his rooms to refresh himself before writing to several engineers for various necessaries that would be required for the greatly increased output from the mine.
Busy times in Wheal Carnac. There had been plenty of visitors in the shape of managers of different mines, to whom the news had come; and all went away astounded at the wealth of the new vein. The demand for shares was enormous, but there were none to be had. Tregenna had had the last, taken to blind Mr Penwynn, and he had sold them to Dr Rumsey, who had invested the whole of his wife’s little fortune in the mine, and the next morning after the news had spread, the doctor had hurried up to the cottage, where Geoffrey was seated at breakfast with Uncle Paul, an unusually fine sole from the trawler having brought them together.
Madge opened the door to the doctor, who shook hands with her in a friendly way; and then, as their eyes met, Madge’s friendly smile changed into a look of fear, under the doctor’s searching gaze. She flushed, then turned deadly pale, and ended by shrinking back with a piteous look, and holding up her hands in a pleading way.
Dr Rumsey’s lips tightened, and he said quietly,—
“Tell Mr Trethick I am here.”
“Come in, Rumsey,” cried Geoffrey’s hearty voice. “You’re in time for breakfast, man. You are just right. Uncle Paul’s as bilious as—as himself.”
Madge was forgotten for the moment, and the doctor shook hands warmly with the young man and with Uncle Paul, as a chair was placed for him, and the bell rung for a cup and saucer and plate, for, truth to say, though the doctor had partaken of the morning meal, he sometimes rose from it with a better appetite than was quite necessary for a proper fulfilment of the digestive functions.
“My dear Trethick,” he cried, with the tears in his eyes, “God bless you for the hint! The news about the mine is glorious.”
“That’s right,” said Geoffrey. “Eat your sole, man, before it gets cold,” for a hot plate had been brought in by Madge herself, who seemed very eager to attend upon the visitor.
“You—you don’t mean to say that you have been investing in mining shares, Rumsey?” cried Uncle Paul.
“Indeed, but I hope he has,” said Geoffrey, heartily.
“I have: every penny we had,” cried the doctor.
“More fool you!” cried Uncle Paul. “Why, Rumsey, how can you expect a man to trust you with his internal management if you go and do such insane things?”
“Uncle Paul don’t believe in the mine even yet,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “That will do, Miss Madge,” he said; “I’ll ring for more hot water if we want it.”
The doctor saw Madge’s appealing look at him, and a half-frightened glance at Geoffrey, and he saw too, as the girl left the room, that Uncle Paul was watching him very narrowly.
When he spoke again his manner was changed, and there was quite a coldness about it, which Geoffrey noticed.
“You hold on,” he said, attributing it to nervousness caused by Uncle. Paul’s attitude—“you hold on, Rumsey, and don’t you be tempted at any price to sell. I warrant, my dear fellow, that you’ve made by that one stroke a handsome provision for your wife, more than you could have made by doctoring the whole county.”
“Then why don’t you invest?” snarled Uncle Paul.
“Because I’ve got no money,” said Geoffrey, coolly. “Why don’t you, who have?”
“Because I’m not quite such an old fool as you think.”
The doctor warmed up again under the sunshine of Geoffrey’s cheery ways, and soon after they were walking down towards the cliff, the doctor thanking Geoffrey again heartily as they parted, the one to make his rounds, the other to go to the busy mine.
Geoffrey had not gone half-way before he met old Prawle, coming direct from Wheal Carnac.
“Hallo, old man!” he cried. “How’s poor mother? By Jove, I must come and see the dear old lady again.”
“Better—better,” said Prawle, hastily.
“That’s well; and Miss Bessie?”
“Yes, yes, quite well,” said the old man, hastily. “I want to see you.”
“Come along down to my office. Been to the mine?”
“Yes, yes. I’ve been down.”
“Ah, you old fox!” cried Geoffrey. “You wouldn’t tell me, but you see we found it out.”
“Yes, yes,” said Prawle, still speaking in a hasty way, contrary to his wont. “I’ll buy some shares.”
“No, you won’t,” said Geoffrey, laughing.
“Why not, eh? You’ll let me?”
“There isn’t a share to be had, old man. No, sir, you are too late. You, knowing what you did, Prawle, should have made friends, and taken your share of the good things.”
The old man looked at him with a curiously sly expression of countenance.
“None to be had?” he said, dubiously.
“Not a share, Father Prawle: for those who hold them know their value now, and will not part.”
The old fellow hesitated as if he half meant to say something, but he did not say it, and went his way; while Geoffrey went on to the mine, busied himself a little about some fresh arrangements for stampers and improved crushing apparatus, and then descended the mine to seek out Pengelly.
He found him hard at work superintending a gang of wielders of the pick, eager to make a goodly show of ore to send up to grass, and Geoffrey stopped about till the men went off to their dinners, when he and Pengelly had a long conversation about the state of the mine at this place.
“I’ve been measuring and calculating, Pengelly, and I find that you are so near the water here that not an inch must be cut on the face of the drive, rich as it is. We must go down, and trust to finding the lode right away.”
“What, and leave this?” said Pengelly. “Why, it’s madness.”
“Madness or no, I shall not have it touched, Pengelly,” said Trethick, firmly. “Lay your ear against the rock. You can almost feel the beat of the water. I make it that we are right out four hundred feet under the sea at high water. We must run no risks.”
For answer Pengelly began to ply his pick vigorously on the floor of the gallery, marking out the portion to be sunk so as to be deeper down in the rock, and where there would be no risk of the sea breaking in.
Geoffrey had well made his plans by night, and was the last, as he thought, to leave the pit, and he then went straight to his rooms to refresh himself before writing to several engineers for various necessaries that would be required for the greatly increased output from the mine.
Chapter Thirty Six.Despair.There was the sound of angry words in the back part of Mrs Mullion’s house that night, and more than once Geoffrey fancied he heard Uncle Paul’s voice raised high, but he had so often heard the old man storming about some trifle that he paid little heed to it, but finished the work he had on hand, thought how he would have liked to go up to An Morlock for an hour or two, and ended by bidding himself be patient, and all that would follow.It was not yet nine, he found, and the house being very silent, he concluded that the old man had gone off somewhere for a rubber of whist.“I wouldn’t half mind a rubber myself,” he thought. “I wonder where he has gone?”“No. It won’t do. No rubbers. I’ll go and have a stroll on the cliff side and stretch my legs, or else I sha’n’t sleep, for my brain is all in a buzz.”In this intent he put on his hat, lit his pipe, and went out, fancying he heard a sob in the farther room, but, not being sure, he attached little importance thereto.“What a lovely night,” he mentally exclaimed, as, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he descended the rugged lane, turned to the right, and went off along the cliff.He had come out for repose, but his brain refused to be at rest, for now came back the sounds that he had heard in the cottage that evening.“The old man’s been rowing that poor girl,” he thought, “finding out something concerning her carryings-on with somebody or another. Well, poor lass, I suppose she likes him; and, heigho! I feel very lenient now with people who go in for the commodity called love.“I suppose it is Tregenna,” he continued. “If it is, he is a thorough-paced scoundrel, or he would acknowledge her openly. He’s playing fast and loose with her, and that’s what makes her look so pale and ill.”He walked on, trying to enjoy the beauty of the starlit night, and the glittering of the smooth, heaving sea, but in vain, for the thought of the sobbing and angry words kept coming back and haunting him, as it were, no matter how fast he walked.“Now, why the dickens should I make it my business? And yet it seems to be, through knowing the girl and living in the house. I can’t interfere, of course, and tell what I know; but, really, if the fellow is trifling with her it ought to be stopped. Why don’t the old man know and settle it? He don’t, of course, or he would not behave to me as he does, and it would be too mean to put him on the scent. If it’s as I think, and the old man does get to know of it, he’ll half kill Tregenna. Hang the fellow! he’s enough to make one believe in metempsychosis, and think he was once a serpent. I suppose he’s the sort of fellow some women would like, though. But not all.”He went on more slowly, for his thoughts now were pleasant, and as he glanced down at the sea, which was one dark sheet of spangled star-drops, playing and shimmering in the ebon blackness, he began to plan how he would carry on the mine, and to think of how suddenly a great change had come over his life.“What a turn of fortune’s wheel!” he exclaimed; and then back went his thoughts to Mrs Mullion’s cottage and poor Madge.“Poor little lassie, if he’s behaving badly to her—whoever thehemay be, for, after all, it was fancy. She is not fretting about me. It is very hard upon her to be bullied at home as well. There’s something about her I like. Ought I to tell old Paul what I know?“Then there would be a row. Tregenna would turn upon me and say it was a lie, and a cowardly attack. He’d, of course, ask for proof, and I have none.“Oh, confound it all! it’s no business of mine. They must settle it amongst themselves. Hallo! what’s that?”A figure passed by him so rapidly that he was half-startled. Then, seeing that it was a woman, and hearing the rustling of the dress on ahead, he took a step or two forward as if in chase.“What on earth am I doing?” he muttered petulantly. “Who in the world could that be? It couldn’t be Bessie Prawle going home. No; I’m sure it was not her walk, and yet nobody else would be likely to be going along here at this time of night. Who could it be?”He stopped short, took off his hat, and began to fan his forehead.“I’m as hot and excited to-night as can be,” he said, half laughing. “Well, no wonder. It’s enough to turn a stronger brain than mine. Such good fortune does not fall to every man’s lot in so short a time. Now suppose I behave like a rational being?”Just then there was the rattle of stones on one of the rough paths that led from the cliff to the beach.“Whoever it was has fallen,” he cried. “Why, what madness to attempt to go down there in the dark! I shall break my own neck going after her.”Risk or none, he began to descend the steep path, but only to find that whoever had fallen had risen, and was making for the beach.“Why, what folly,” thought Geoffrey, as he stopped in the semi-darkness. “It must be some one who knows her way pretty well.”For a moment he thought of calling to her, but there seemed no reason for such a proceeding, and he felt that he might frighten whoever it was; and at last, concluding that there was no occasion for him to follow, he was about to turn back, when a thought flashed across him which made him tremble.“Good heavens!” he ejaculated, “it’s Madge!” and full of the horrible thought that in her trouble she could have come there but for one purpose, he began rapidly to descend the rest of the way, falling heavily twice in his haste to reach the beach, and running no little risk of serious injury.There was about a hundred yards of wave-worn granite between the cliff foot and where the calm sea heaved gently, and fringed the rocks with a soft phosphorescent light; and here, in the shadow, he paused to try and make out in which direction the figure had gone. His heart was beating wildly, as much from excitement as his exertion, and his sole thought now was to over take and prison the hand of the poor girl he believed it to be.It was a horrible sensation that of standing helplessly there, eager to stay the wretched girl, but ignorant of the way she had taken. The faint wash of the sea drowned her footsteps, and as he gazed in every direction the dark, rocky beach looked weird and strange, the faint gleam of the phosphorescence adding to the wildness of the scene.“Madge—Madge Mullion—Madge!” he shouted hoarsely, troubling himself little now who might hear; but there was no reply, and, cautiously making his way amongst the rocks and over the slippery patches of bladder-wrack and broad slimy-fronded weed, he narrowly escaped a fall.Was it fancy after all, or had he really seen some one come down?It could not be fancy, he felt sure, and as the minutes glided by he was the more convinced that he was right in his conjecture, and that it was Madge.“Poor lass!” he exclaimed. “Heaven help her! has it come to this?”Feeling sure that if his surmise was right, she would be down by some rocks that ran out like a rugged pier into the sea, he crept cautiously on, and strained his eyes to try and make out the figure of her he sought, but in vain; and he was about giving up in despair, mingled with a hope that he was mistaken, when his heart seemed for the moment to stand still, for there was a wild cry from a spot some fifty yards away, followed by a splash; and as he dashed on, regardless of rock and slippery weed, he saw the phosphorescent sea ripple and play about where the poor girl had plunged into the deep water, from quite at the end of the natural pier.Geoffrey did not hesitate for a moment, but as he reached the brink he plunged in, striking himself against a mass of rock, but fortunately without injury; and, in spite of being dressed, he swam strongly and well in the direction where he had seen the luminous water in agitation.The distance was farther than he anticipated, and the tide was against him; still this was something in his favour, for it swept the figure of the drowning girl towards him, and as he rose he caught sight of a faint splash or two, making the water flash as she feebly beat the surface with her hands.But for the unusually luminous state of the sea that night, Geoffrey Trethick’s effort must have been in vain. As it was, his sturdy strokes took him to the side of the drowning girl, and catching her dress, he transferred a stout fold to his teeth, and swan; for the shore.It was a harder task than he anticipated, and when at last he reached the rocks, rough here with limpets, slimy there with anemones, like clots of blood, and long strangling weeds, it required no little effort to climb to a place of safety.At last, though, he staggered amongst the rocks and stones with his dripping burthen, and then paused with her, resting on one knee to press the streaming hair from her face, and try to bring her back to life.Dark as it was he could see that it was Madge, and he paused, wondering what he had better do.To leave her while he went for help meant, perhaps, leaving her to her death; while to carry her up the rugged cliff path was almost impossible in the dark.While he was hesitating, a low moan from his burthen’s lips told of returning consciousness, and he roused her a little more.“Why, Madge, my poor child,” he said, “has it come to this?”She uttered a wild cry, and burst into a passion of sobbing.“Let me go—let me die,” she cried passionately. “Why did you get me out?”“Hush, Madge! Hush, girl!” he cried. “Are you mad?”“Yes, yes,” she wailed, “and there is nothing for me but to die.”“Nonsense, girl?” he cried, half angrily, for her unreason annoyed him. “Here, can you walk? Take hold of my arm, and let me help you home.”“Home!” she wailed. “I have no home. My uncle has driven me away.”“Then I’ll take you back,” cried Geoffrey, angrily. “The old man is mad.”“No, no, no,” she cried passionately; and she struggled from his grasp, and made a desperate effort to get back to the sea, but he caught her and held her fast.“Be quiet,” he cried angrily. “You foolish girl Madge, you’ll come home at once.”“No, no, Mr Trethick; no,” she sobbed hoarsely; and her strength astonished him. “I cannot—dare not go back. You don’t know. Oh, God, forgive me! Let me die!”“Not know?” cried Geoffrey. “I know quite enough. Look here, you silly girl, I don’t want to hurt you, but you make me angry. You shall come home.”“No, no, no,” she cried; and she struggled with him till he lifted her from the rocks, threw her down and held her, he panting almost as heavily as she.“You’ll repent all this to-morrow,” he said. “If I let you have your way there’ll be no repentance. Do you know what you are doing?”“Yes,” she moaned. “I cannot live; I want to die.”“Then, my good girl,” cried Geoffrey, “you’ll find that you can live, and that it’s of no use to want to die. There, there, Madge, my poor lass, I’m speaking like a brute to you, but you have made me angry with your struggles. Come, come, my poor child, let me help you home, and you’ll find your mother ready to forgive you and take you to her heart.”“Me? me?” cried the wretched girl. “No, no, never again. Let me—pray let me, dear, dear Mr Trethick, pray let me go.”“Yes,” he said sternly, “home.”“No, no; I have no home now. You are cruel to me,” she cried, with a fresh struggle.“Madge,” said Geoffrey, after easily mastering her this time, “I want to help you in your trouble, my poor girl. Come, let me help you up. Will you let me take you to Prawle’s? It is nearer than the cottage, and, if I ask her, Bessie Prawle will give you shelter at least for the night.”“Oh, no, no, no,” moaned the poor girl.“Yes, my child, yes. There, come, get up. That’s well. I tell you, I want to help you. There, you will go with me there.”Poor Madge! she had let him help her to her senses, and as she heard his kindly voice she sank down, clasped his knees, and laid her face against them, sobbing wildly.“There, come, come,” he said, “or we shall be having you ill. There, that’s well. There’s a path up here farther on, and we shall soon be at the cove.”She made no further resistance, but, leaning heavily upon his arm and moaning piteously the while, she let him half lead, half carry, her up a cliff slope farther from the town than that which they had come down, and the road to which lay by the dark arch of the adit running to the shaft of the old mine on the way to Gwennas.It was almost a riddle to Geoffrey afterwards how he led the poor girl up to the path and along to Gwennas Cove; but at last, nearly tired out, he descended the steep slope, saw with joy that there was a light in the cottage, and, on knocking, Bessie came to the door with a candle, to stand staring in wonder at the sight which met her eyes.“Quick, Bessie! for heaven’s sake?” cried Geoffrey, “or she will be dead.”“Miss Mullion!” cried Bess, flushing; “and here!”“Bess Prawle, if you have a woman’s heart, take this poor creature in,” cried Geoffrey, sharply; and, giving him one quick, half-upbraiding look, Bess took his helpless burthen in her arms, and helped to carry her to the old sofa beneath the window-sill.“What can I do?” cried Geoffrey, as he gazed in the stony face. “Good heavens! Is she dead?”“Nigh to it, sir,” said Bess, in a low, sad voice; but ere she had well finished Geoffrey was running up the path on his way to Carnac.
There was the sound of angry words in the back part of Mrs Mullion’s house that night, and more than once Geoffrey fancied he heard Uncle Paul’s voice raised high, but he had so often heard the old man storming about some trifle that he paid little heed to it, but finished the work he had on hand, thought how he would have liked to go up to An Morlock for an hour or two, and ended by bidding himself be patient, and all that would follow.
It was not yet nine, he found, and the house being very silent, he concluded that the old man had gone off somewhere for a rubber of whist.
“I wouldn’t half mind a rubber myself,” he thought. “I wonder where he has gone?”
“No. It won’t do. No rubbers. I’ll go and have a stroll on the cliff side and stretch my legs, or else I sha’n’t sleep, for my brain is all in a buzz.”
In this intent he put on his hat, lit his pipe, and went out, fancying he heard a sob in the farther room, but, not being sure, he attached little importance thereto.
“What a lovely night,” he mentally exclaimed, as, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he descended the rugged lane, turned to the right, and went off along the cliff.
He had come out for repose, but his brain refused to be at rest, for now came back the sounds that he had heard in the cottage that evening.
“The old man’s been rowing that poor girl,” he thought, “finding out something concerning her carryings-on with somebody or another. Well, poor lass, I suppose she likes him; and, heigho! I feel very lenient now with people who go in for the commodity called love.
“I suppose it is Tregenna,” he continued. “If it is, he is a thorough-paced scoundrel, or he would acknowledge her openly. He’s playing fast and loose with her, and that’s what makes her look so pale and ill.”
He walked on, trying to enjoy the beauty of the starlit night, and the glittering of the smooth, heaving sea, but in vain, for the thought of the sobbing and angry words kept coming back and haunting him, as it were, no matter how fast he walked.
“Now, why the dickens should I make it my business? And yet it seems to be, through knowing the girl and living in the house. I can’t interfere, of course, and tell what I know; but, really, if the fellow is trifling with her it ought to be stopped. Why don’t the old man know and settle it? He don’t, of course, or he would not behave to me as he does, and it would be too mean to put him on the scent. If it’s as I think, and the old man does get to know of it, he’ll half kill Tregenna. Hang the fellow! he’s enough to make one believe in metempsychosis, and think he was once a serpent. I suppose he’s the sort of fellow some women would like, though. But not all.”
He went on more slowly, for his thoughts now were pleasant, and as he glanced down at the sea, which was one dark sheet of spangled star-drops, playing and shimmering in the ebon blackness, he began to plan how he would carry on the mine, and to think of how suddenly a great change had come over his life.
“What a turn of fortune’s wheel!” he exclaimed; and then back went his thoughts to Mrs Mullion’s cottage and poor Madge.
“Poor little lassie, if he’s behaving badly to her—whoever thehemay be, for, after all, it was fancy. She is not fretting about me. It is very hard upon her to be bullied at home as well. There’s something about her I like. Ought I to tell old Paul what I know?
“Then there would be a row. Tregenna would turn upon me and say it was a lie, and a cowardly attack. He’d, of course, ask for proof, and I have none.
“Oh, confound it all! it’s no business of mine. They must settle it amongst themselves. Hallo! what’s that?”
A figure passed by him so rapidly that he was half-startled. Then, seeing that it was a woman, and hearing the rustling of the dress on ahead, he took a step or two forward as if in chase.
“What on earth am I doing?” he muttered petulantly. “Who in the world could that be? It couldn’t be Bessie Prawle going home. No; I’m sure it was not her walk, and yet nobody else would be likely to be going along here at this time of night. Who could it be?”
He stopped short, took off his hat, and began to fan his forehead.
“I’m as hot and excited to-night as can be,” he said, half laughing. “Well, no wonder. It’s enough to turn a stronger brain than mine. Such good fortune does not fall to every man’s lot in so short a time. Now suppose I behave like a rational being?”
Just then there was the rattle of stones on one of the rough paths that led from the cliff to the beach.
“Whoever it was has fallen,” he cried. “Why, what madness to attempt to go down there in the dark! I shall break my own neck going after her.”
Risk or none, he began to descend the steep path, but only to find that whoever had fallen had risen, and was making for the beach.
“Why, what folly,” thought Geoffrey, as he stopped in the semi-darkness. “It must be some one who knows her way pretty well.”
For a moment he thought of calling to her, but there seemed no reason for such a proceeding, and he felt that he might frighten whoever it was; and at last, concluding that there was no occasion for him to follow, he was about to turn back, when a thought flashed across him which made him tremble.
“Good heavens!” he ejaculated, “it’s Madge!” and full of the horrible thought that in her trouble she could have come there but for one purpose, he began rapidly to descend the rest of the way, falling heavily twice in his haste to reach the beach, and running no little risk of serious injury.
There was about a hundred yards of wave-worn granite between the cliff foot and where the calm sea heaved gently, and fringed the rocks with a soft phosphorescent light; and here, in the shadow, he paused to try and make out in which direction the figure had gone. His heart was beating wildly, as much from excitement as his exertion, and his sole thought now was to over take and prison the hand of the poor girl he believed it to be.
It was a horrible sensation that of standing helplessly there, eager to stay the wretched girl, but ignorant of the way she had taken. The faint wash of the sea drowned her footsteps, and as he gazed in every direction the dark, rocky beach looked weird and strange, the faint gleam of the phosphorescence adding to the wildness of the scene.
“Madge—Madge Mullion—Madge!” he shouted hoarsely, troubling himself little now who might hear; but there was no reply, and, cautiously making his way amongst the rocks and over the slippery patches of bladder-wrack and broad slimy-fronded weed, he narrowly escaped a fall.
Was it fancy after all, or had he really seen some one come down?
It could not be fancy, he felt sure, and as the minutes glided by he was the more convinced that he was right in his conjecture, and that it was Madge.
“Poor lass!” he exclaimed. “Heaven help her! has it come to this?”
Feeling sure that if his surmise was right, she would be down by some rocks that ran out like a rugged pier into the sea, he crept cautiously on, and strained his eyes to try and make out the figure of her he sought, but in vain; and he was about giving up in despair, mingled with a hope that he was mistaken, when his heart seemed for the moment to stand still, for there was a wild cry from a spot some fifty yards away, followed by a splash; and as he dashed on, regardless of rock and slippery weed, he saw the phosphorescent sea ripple and play about where the poor girl had plunged into the deep water, from quite at the end of the natural pier.
Geoffrey did not hesitate for a moment, but as he reached the brink he plunged in, striking himself against a mass of rock, but fortunately without injury; and, in spite of being dressed, he swam strongly and well in the direction where he had seen the luminous water in agitation.
The distance was farther than he anticipated, and the tide was against him; still this was something in his favour, for it swept the figure of the drowning girl towards him, and as he rose he caught sight of a faint splash or two, making the water flash as she feebly beat the surface with her hands.
But for the unusually luminous state of the sea that night, Geoffrey Trethick’s effort must have been in vain. As it was, his sturdy strokes took him to the side of the drowning girl, and catching her dress, he transferred a stout fold to his teeth, and swan; for the shore.
It was a harder task than he anticipated, and when at last he reached the rocks, rough here with limpets, slimy there with anemones, like clots of blood, and long strangling weeds, it required no little effort to climb to a place of safety.
At last, though, he staggered amongst the rocks and stones with his dripping burthen, and then paused with her, resting on one knee to press the streaming hair from her face, and try to bring her back to life.
Dark as it was he could see that it was Madge, and he paused, wondering what he had better do.
To leave her while he went for help meant, perhaps, leaving her to her death; while to carry her up the rugged cliff path was almost impossible in the dark.
While he was hesitating, a low moan from his burthen’s lips told of returning consciousness, and he roused her a little more.
“Why, Madge, my poor child,” he said, “has it come to this?”
She uttered a wild cry, and burst into a passion of sobbing.
“Let me go—let me die,” she cried passionately. “Why did you get me out?”
“Hush, Madge! Hush, girl!” he cried. “Are you mad?”
“Yes, yes,” she wailed, “and there is nothing for me but to die.”
“Nonsense, girl?” he cried, half angrily, for her unreason annoyed him. “Here, can you walk? Take hold of my arm, and let me help you home.”
“Home!” she wailed. “I have no home. My uncle has driven me away.”
“Then I’ll take you back,” cried Geoffrey, angrily. “The old man is mad.”
“No, no, no,” she cried passionately; and she struggled from his grasp, and made a desperate effort to get back to the sea, but he caught her and held her fast.
“Be quiet,” he cried angrily. “You foolish girl Madge, you’ll come home at once.”
“No, no, Mr Trethick; no,” she sobbed hoarsely; and her strength astonished him. “I cannot—dare not go back. You don’t know. Oh, God, forgive me! Let me die!”
“Not know?” cried Geoffrey. “I know quite enough. Look here, you silly girl, I don’t want to hurt you, but you make me angry. You shall come home.”
“No, no, no,” she cried; and she struggled with him till he lifted her from the rocks, threw her down and held her, he panting almost as heavily as she.
“You’ll repent all this to-morrow,” he said. “If I let you have your way there’ll be no repentance. Do you know what you are doing?”
“Yes,” she moaned. “I cannot live; I want to die.”
“Then, my good girl,” cried Geoffrey, “you’ll find that you can live, and that it’s of no use to want to die. There, there, Madge, my poor lass, I’m speaking like a brute to you, but you have made me angry with your struggles. Come, come, my poor child, let me help you home, and you’ll find your mother ready to forgive you and take you to her heart.”
“Me? me?” cried the wretched girl. “No, no, never again. Let me—pray let me, dear, dear Mr Trethick, pray let me go.”
“Yes,” he said sternly, “home.”
“No, no; I have no home now. You are cruel to me,” she cried, with a fresh struggle.
“Madge,” said Geoffrey, after easily mastering her this time, “I want to help you in your trouble, my poor girl. Come, let me help you up. Will you let me take you to Prawle’s? It is nearer than the cottage, and, if I ask her, Bessie Prawle will give you shelter at least for the night.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” moaned the poor girl.
“Yes, my child, yes. There, come, get up. That’s well. I tell you, I want to help you. There, you will go with me there.”
Poor Madge! she had let him help her to her senses, and as she heard his kindly voice she sank down, clasped his knees, and laid her face against them, sobbing wildly.
“There, come, come,” he said, “or we shall be having you ill. There, that’s well. There’s a path up here farther on, and we shall soon be at the cove.”
She made no further resistance, but, leaning heavily upon his arm and moaning piteously the while, she let him half lead, half carry, her up a cliff slope farther from the town than that which they had come down, and the road to which lay by the dark arch of the adit running to the shaft of the old mine on the way to Gwennas.
It was almost a riddle to Geoffrey afterwards how he led the poor girl up to the path and along to Gwennas Cove; but at last, nearly tired out, he descended the steep slope, saw with joy that there was a light in the cottage, and, on knocking, Bessie came to the door with a candle, to stand staring in wonder at the sight which met her eyes.
“Quick, Bessie! for heaven’s sake?” cried Geoffrey, “or she will be dead.”
“Miss Mullion!” cried Bess, flushing; “and here!”
“Bess Prawle, if you have a woman’s heart, take this poor creature in,” cried Geoffrey, sharply; and, giving him one quick, half-upbraiding look, Bess took his helpless burthen in her arms, and helped to carry her to the old sofa beneath the window-sill.
“What can I do?” cried Geoffrey, as he gazed in the stony face. “Good heavens! Is she dead?”
“Nigh to it, sir,” said Bess, in a low, sad voice; but ere she had well finished Geoffrey was running up the path on his way to Carnac.