Chapter Thirty Seven.An Eventful Night.It was four o’clock the next morning before Geoffrey went softly up the gravel path to the cottage, and, weary and sick at heart, let himself in.His clothes had partly dried upon him during his walk, for he had fetched Dr Rumsey from his house to attend poor Madge, the doctor being very quiet and saying little, Geoffrey thought, after hearing a few explanations.“She seems to have been very unhappy at home,” said Geoffrey, “and they quarrelled with her, I think. She must have been half-mad.”“And did she really try to drown herself?” said the doctor.“I wouldn’t answer the question,” replied Geoffrey; “but you, being a doctor, ought to know all—so I tell you, yes. She really did, and—pray hurry, old fellow: we may be too late.”“I am hurrying all I can, Trethick,” said the doctor; “but I must get in with some breath left in my body.”“Yes, of course; but could I do any good if I ran on first?”“No, not a bit. Bessie Prawle, you say, is with her. Poor lass—poor lass!”“So I say, with all my soul, doctor. But I would not put it abroad what has happened.”“These affairs tell their own tale, Trethick,” said the doctor.“Yes, yes, of course; but I’d keep it as quiet as I could.”“I am no scandal-monger, Trethick,” said the doctor, dryly; and they hurried on, Geoffrey waiting outside, and walking up and down with old Prawle while Mr Rumsey went in.At the end of a quarter of an hour he came to the door with a paper.“Prawle,” he said, “will you go to my house and give that to my wife?”“I’ll take it,” said Geoffrey, eagerly. “I’m going home.”“You will have to bring something back,” said the doctor.“All right: I’ll lose no time,” he said, cheerily; and he started off, and had to wait while Mrs Rumsey obtained the bottles from the surgery, sending them and a graduated glass for the doctor to mix himself.This done, there was the walk back to Gwennas, and then Geoffrey waited for the doctor, who kept coming out for a stroll in the cool starlight, and then returning.“I’ve been thinking that I ought to send you for Mrs Mullion, Trethick.”“What! Is she in danger?”“No; oh, no, poor lass; she’ll be better soon. You are going to wait about, I suppose?”“Oh, yes,” said Geoffrey; “you may want me to fetch something more, and I’ll wait to walk back with you.”The doctor went in, and old Prawle came up from below and touched him on the arm.“Come and sit down here,” he said, gruffly. “I’ve lit a fire below.”“Well, I am cold,” said Geoffrey; and he followed the old man down into a rough cave in the rock, where he kept old nets, a boat, and various pieces of fishing gear. A bright fire of wreck-wood was burning, and to this, with a shiver, Geoffrey walked up, whereupon the old man took a bottle out of a battered sea-chest, whose outside was splintered by the rocks in coming ashore, and poured him out a little spirit in a chipped and footless glass, frosted by the attrition of the sand in which it had been found.“Smuggled?” said Geoffrey, with a smile.“Drink it, and don’t ask questions, my lad.”“Your health, Father Prawle,” said Geoffrey, tossing it down. “It was rude. By George! what nectar. It puts life in a fellow. Shall we hear the doctor when he comes out?”“Yes, don’t be afeard, man, sit down,” said the old fellow. “I’m going to smoke.”“I’ll join you,” said Geoffrey, “if you have any tobacco. Mine’s soaked.”“Oh, yes,” said the old man. “I’ve passed many a night in sea-soaked clothes, but it won’t hurt you, my lad. Here’s some tobacco.”“I hope not,” said Geoffrey, taking the tobacco, filling, and lighting his pipe.“You got her out of the water then, eh?”“Yes,” said Geoffrey, shortly.“Poor lass!”Geoffrey nodded acquiescence, and they smoked for some time in silence.“It is very kind of Miss Prawle to take her in and attend her,” said Geoffrey at last; “but I’m sure poor Madge Mullion will be very grateful.”“My Bess arn’t made of stone,” said the old man, gruffly, as he sat staring hard across the ruddy fire, whose smoke went up through a rift. Then, re-filling the glass, he handed it to Geoffrey, who drank gladly of the spirit at the time; after which the old man refreshed himself, put on some more driftwood, and stared at his visitor.“I should have liked to hold some shares in that mine,” he said.“Yes, you ought to have had some, Father Prawle. Hush! was that the doctor?”“No, only the washing of the sea in the rock holes. Maybe you’ll get me some of those shares. I can pay for them.”“There is not one to be had, Father Prawle,” replied Geoffrey.“Maybe you’ll sell me some of yours, Master Trethick. I’ll pay you well.”“Mine!” cried Geoffrey, laughing. “I don’t hold one.”The old man looked at him very keenly, and then let his eyes fall.“If you would really like to have some,” said Geoffrey, “and I see a chance, I’ll secure them for you.”“Do, my lad. I’m doing you a good turn here without asking questions.”“And I’m very grateful to you,” said Geoffrey; “very grateful.”“Then do me a good turn.”“Because you were so free in telling me all about the mine?”“Let that bide, Master Trethick,” said the old man. “But, look here, I will tell you now, if you’ll get me a lot of shares.”“It’s too late, man—too late.”“Nay, but it isn’t. You get me shares, and you’ll see. I worked in yon mine.”“And did not make the proprietors’ fortune,” said Geoffrey, with a smile.“Nobody tried to make mine,” growled the old fellow, “and they treated me like a dog. I had to think of self. Look here, Mas’r Trethick, I hated you when you come here, for I thought you meant my Bess.”“I know you did,” said Geoffrey.“But I don’t think so now, and I tell you this. You get me shares, and it’ll be worth thousands to you. Get shares yourself too; and mind this, you’ve got to take care of your enemy.”“And who’s that?”The old man chuckled, and pointed with his pipe-stem out of the mouth of the cave, looking curiously weird and picturesque in the glow of the fire, with the black, uncouth shadows of the pieces of wreck-wood and boat-gear behind.“I don’t understand you,” said Geoffrey.“The sea, boy—the water’s your enemy, so look out.”“I will,” said Geoffrey; and then they smoked and chatted on, the old man going up three or four times to see if the doctor was ready to go; and at last, soon after three, he came back, looking more grim than ever, and not to trim the fire this time.“Doctor will come in five minutes,” he said, gruffly. “Will you have any more brandy?”“No, thanks, no,” said his visitor.“There, mind this, boy, get me shares, and get some yourself, but keep it secret from every one.”“I’ll help you if I can,” said Geoffrey, “for old acquaintance’ sake; but your promise of news comes too late.”“Nay, nay, we’ll see, we’ll see,” said the old man. “But look here, Master Trethick, are you going to marry that gal?”“What, Miss Mullion? No.”“Ho!” said the old man, gruffly.“Now, Trethick,” came from above; and Geoffrey hastily made his way up the rugged steps to where the doctor was waking.“How is she?” he cried eagerly.“Better: going on well,” said the doctor, shortly.“And in no danger?”“None whatever, if she is kept quiet, and her mind set at ease.”“Poor lass, I’ll do all I can,” said Geoffrey, earnestly. “I’ll have a long talk to Mrs Mullion and Paul in the morning—well, it is morning now—after breakfast. I’ll soon set it right. I think I can.”“That’s well,” said the doctor, as they walked on along the dark path.“You seem tired,” said Geoffrey, for the doctor was singularly reserved.“Very.”“So am I.”There was another silence for some time.“What are you thinking about, doctor?” said Geoffrey, at last.“About Madge Mullion. Look here, Trethick, I like you—”“Thanky, doctor, I like you, and I’m glad you’ve taken my hint about those shares.”“Hang the shares!” said the doctor. “Let me finish what I was going to say.”“Go ahead.”“Damn it, man, don’t be so cool and unconcerned.”“All right,” said Geoffrey.“I say I like you for some things, Trethick, and I’m by profession tolerably hard and callous; but it frets me, sir, to have seen that poor girl lying there, after trying in her despair to throw away her life, and you as cool and cavalier as can be.”“Well,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “I may be calm, but I was not, though, when I fetched you. As to my coolness, I haven’t changed my wet things after getting nearly drowned to save her, and I’m cheery because you told me there was no danger.”“No, but she’s very ill. And as to your saving the poor lass, it was no more than your duty. You needn’t brag about that.”“I don’t brag, doctor, so you need not be so peppery. I say, calling you up in the night don’t improve your temper.”“Hang it, Trethick, don’t be a brute,” cried the doctor. “I’ve known you nearly nine months, and I never liked you less than now.”“Thankye, doctor, but you’ll be better when you’ve had your breakfast. Come, don’t let’s part huffily. I am sorry I had to call you up, but you must charge extra.”“Look here, Trethick,” said the doctor, who was now regularly roused by the other’s coolness, “we don’t set ourselves up out here for a particularly moral people, but, hang it all, we have got hearts, and when a wrong is done to any one we try to repair it.”“Yes, and a very good plan, too,” said Geoffrey. “Why, doctor, you’re as huffy as can be.”“Trethick! There, I can’t keep it back,” cried the doctor, the last words having let loose the flood of his wrath. “How a man who is not a callous scoundrel can treat this affair so coolly, I don’t know.”“I don’t treat it coolly,” cried Geoffrey, surprised at the other’s warmth.“You do, sir; your conduct is blackguardly—cruel in the extreme. Have you no heart at all?”“Plenty, I hope,” cried Geoffrey, now growing warm in turn. “Look here, doctor, I don’t allow any man to call me a scoundrel and blackguard, without saying a word in reply. Please explain what you mean.”“What do I mean, sir; why, that poor girl.”“Well, what about her?”The doctor stopped short in the dark upon that shelf of cliff, and faced Geoffrey.“Look here! are you a fool, or a knave, or a scoundrel, Trethick, or all three?” he cried, angrily.“If you dare to say—Bah?” cried Geoffrey, “I won’t quarrel. You’re hipped, doctor—tired—upset—but don’t call a man names. It stirs up a fellow’s bile, as old Paul says.”The doctor panted in his anger, for calm, peaceable Dr Rumsey seemed quite transformed.“And you can talk like this?” he cried, “with that poor girl, the mother of your new-born child, lying an outcast from her home!”“What?” roared Geoffrey, catching at the doctor’s arm.“He is a fool!” exclaimed Dr Rumsey; and, wrenching away his arm, he strode off towards the town, leaving Geoffrey staring as if he were stunned.He was stunned mentally, and for a few minutes he felt as if he could not collect his thoughts. Then his first impulse was to run after the doctor.“Oh, it’s too absurd,” he cried; and at last, sick at heart, uneasy, and disgusted with his late companion, and not even yet fully realising his position in the tragedy of the night, he walked stiffly up to the cottage, hesitated for a few moments as to whether he should enter, and ended by letting himself in, and going to his room, to try and secure a few hours’ rest.
It was four o’clock the next morning before Geoffrey went softly up the gravel path to the cottage, and, weary and sick at heart, let himself in.
His clothes had partly dried upon him during his walk, for he had fetched Dr Rumsey from his house to attend poor Madge, the doctor being very quiet and saying little, Geoffrey thought, after hearing a few explanations.
“She seems to have been very unhappy at home,” said Geoffrey, “and they quarrelled with her, I think. She must have been half-mad.”
“And did she really try to drown herself?” said the doctor.
“I wouldn’t answer the question,” replied Geoffrey; “but you, being a doctor, ought to know all—so I tell you, yes. She really did, and—pray hurry, old fellow: we may be too late.”
“I am hurrying all I can, Trethick,” said the doctor; “but I must get in with some breath left in my body.”
“Yes, of course; but could I do any good if I ran on first?”
“No, not a bit. Bessie Prawle, you say, is with her. Poor lass—poor lass!”
“So I say, with all my soul, doctor. But I would not put it abroad what has happened.”
“These affairs tell their own tale, Trethick,” said the doctor.
“Yes, yes, of course; but I’d keep it as quiet as I could.”
“I am no scandal-monger, Trethick,” said the doctor, dryly; and they hurried on, Geoffrey waiting outside, and walking up and down with old Prawle while Mr Rumsey went in.
At the end of a quarter of an hour he came to the door with a paper.
“Prawle,” he said, “will you go to my house and give that to my wife?”
“I’ll take it,” said Geoffrey, eagerly. “I’m going home.”
“You will have to bring something back,” said the doctor.
“All right: I’ll lose no time,” he said, cheerily; and he started off, and had to wait while Mrs Rumsey obtained the bottles from the surgery, sending them and a graduated glass for the doctor to mix himself.
This done, there was the walk back to Gwennas, and then Geoffrey waited for the doctor, who kept coming out for a stroll in the cool starlight, and then returning.
“I’ve been thinking that I ought to send you for Mrs Mullion, Trethick.”
“What! Is she in danger?”
“No; oh, no, poor lass; she’ll be better soon. You are going to wait about, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes,” said Geoffrey; “you may want me to fetch something more, and I’ll wait to walk back with you.”
The doctor went in, and old Prawle came up from below and touched him on the arm.
“Come and sit down here,” he said, gruffly. “I’ve lit a fire below.”
“Well, I am cold,” said Geoffrey; and he followed the old man down into a rough cave in the rock, where he kept old nets, a boat, and various pieces of fishing gear. A bright fire of wreck-wood was burning, and to this, with a shiver, Geoffrey walked up, whereupon the old man took a bottle out of a battered sea-chest, whose outside was splintered by the rocks in coming ashore, and poured him out a little spirit in a chipped and footless glass, frosted by the attrition of the sand in which it had been found.
“Smuggled?” said Geoffrey, with a smile.
“Drink it, and don’t ask questions, my lad.”
“Your health, Father Prawle,” said Geoffrey, tossing it down. “It was rude. By George! what nectar. It puts life in a fellow. Shall we hear the doctor when he comes out?”
“Yes, don’t be afeard, man, sit down,” said the old fellow. “I’m going to smoke.”
“I’ll join you,” said Geoffrey, “if you have any tobacco. Mine’s soaked.”
“Oh, yes,” said the old man. “I’ve passed many a night in sea-soaked clothes, but it won’t hurt you, my lad. Here’s some tobacco.”
“I hope not,” said Geoffrey, taking the tobacco, filling, and lighting his pipe.
“You got her out of the water then, eh?”
“Yes,” said Geoffrey, shortly.
“Poor lass!”
Geoffrey nodded acquiescence, and they smoked for some time in silence.
“It is very kind of Miss Prawle to take her in and attend her,” said Geoffrey at last; “but I’m sure poor Madge Mullion will be very grateful.”
“My Bess arn’t made of stone,” said the old man, gruffly, as he sat staring hard across the ruddy fire, whose smoke went up through a rift. Then, re-filling the glass, he handed it to Geoffrey, who drank gladly of the spirit at the time; after which the old man refreshed himself, put on some more driftwood, and stared at his visitor.
“I should have liked to hold some shares in that mine,” he said.
“Yes, you ought to have had some, Father Prawle. Hush! was that the doctor?”
“No, only the washing of the sea in the rock holes. Maybe you’ll get me some of those shares. I can pay for them.”
“There is not one to be had, Father Prawle,” replied Geoffrey.
“Maybe you’ll sell me some of yours, Master Trethick. I’ll pay you well.”
“Mine!” cried Geoffrey, laughing. “I don’t hold one.”
The old man looked at him very keenly, and then let his eyes fall.
“If you would really like to have some,” said Geoffrey, “and I see a chance, I’ll secure them for you.”
“Do, my lad. I’m doing you a good turn here without asking questions.”
“And I’m very grateful to you,” said Geoffrey; “very grateful.”
“Then do me a good turn.”
“Because you were so free in telling me all about the mine?”
“Let that bide, Master Trethick,” said the old man. “But, look here, I will tell you now, if you’ll get me a lot of shares.”
“It’s too late, man—too late.”
“Nay, but it isn’t. You get me shares, and you’ll see. I worked in yon mine.”
“And did not make the proprietors’ fortune,” said Geoffrey, with a smile.
“Nobody tried to make mine,” growled the old fellow, “and they treated me like a dog. I had to think of self. Look here, Mas’r Trethick, I hated you when you come here, for I thought you meant my Bess.”
“I know you did,” said Geoffrey.
“But I don’t think so now, and I tell you this. You get me shares, and it’ll be worth thousands to you. Get shares yourself too; and mind this, you’ve got to take care of your enemy.”
“And who’s that?”
The old man chuckled, and pointed with his pipe-stem out of the mouth of the cave, looking curiously weird and picturesque in the glow of the fire, with the black, uncouth shadows of the pieces of wreck-wood and boat-gear behind.
“I don’t understand you,” said Geoffrey.
“The sea, boy—the water’s your enemy, so look out.”
“I will,” said Geoffrey; and then they smoked and chatted on, the old man going up three or four times to see if the doctor was ready to go; and at last, soon after three, he came back, looking more grim than ever, and not to trim the fire this time.
“Doctor will come in five minutes,” he said, gruffly. “Will you have any more brandy?”
“No, thanks, no,” said his visitor.
“There, mind this, boy, get me shares, and get some yourself, but keep it secret from every one.”
“I’ll help you if I can,” said Geoffrey, “for old acquaintance’ sake; but your promise of news comes too late.”
“Nay, nay, we’ll see, we’ll see,” said the old man. “But look here, Master Trethick, are you going to marry that gal?”
“What, Miss Mullion? No.”
“Ho!” said the old man, gruffly.
“Now, Trethick,” came from above; and Geoffrey hastily made his way up the rugged steps to where the doctor was waking.
“How is she?” he cried eagerly.
“Better: going on well,” said the doctor, shortly.
“And in no danger?”
“None whatever, if she is kept quiet, and her mind set at ease.”
“Poor lass, I’ll do all I can,” said Geoffrey, earnestly. “I’ll have a long talk to Mrs Mullion and Paul in the morning—well, it is morning now—after breakfast. I’ll soon set it right. I think I can.”
“That’s well,” said the doctor, as they walked on along the dark path.
“You seem tired,” said Geoffrey, for the doctor was singularly reserved.
“Very.”
“So am I.”
There was another silence for some time.
“What are you thinking about, doctor?” said Geoffrey, at last.
“About Madge Mullion. Look here, Trethick, I like you—”
“Thanky, doctor, I like you, and I’m glad you’ve taken my hint about those shares.”
“Hang the shares!” said the doctor. “Let me finish what I was going to say.”
“Go ahead.”
“Damn it, man, don’t be so cool and unconcerned.”
“All right,” said Geoffrey.
“I say I like you for some things, Trethick, and I’m by profession tolerably hard and callous; but it frets me, sir, to have seen that poor girl lying there, after trying in her despair to throw away her life, and you as cool and cavalier as can be.”
“Well,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “I may be calm, but I was not, though, when I fetched you. As to my coolness, I haven’t changed my wet things after getting nearly drowned to save her, and I’m cheery because you told me there was no danger.”
“No, but she’s very ill. And as to your saving the poor lass, it was no more than your duty. You needn’t brag about that.”
“I don’t brag, doctor, so you need not be so peppery. I say, calling you up in the night don’t improve your temper.”
“Hang it, Trethick, don’t be a brute,” cried the doctor. “I’ve known you nearly nine months, and I never liked you less than now.”
“Thankye, doctor, but you’ll be better when you’ve had your breakfast. Come, don’t let’s part huffily. I am sorry I had to call you up, but you must charge extra.”
“Look here, Trethick,” said the doctor, who was now regularly roused by the other’s coolness, “we don’t set ourselves up out here for a particularly moral people, but, hang it all, we have got hearts, and when a wrong is done to any one we try to repair it.”
“Yes, and a very good plan, too,” said Geoffrey. “Why, doctor, you’re as huffy as can be.”
“Trethick! There, I can’t keep it back,” cried the doctor, the last words having let loose the flood of his wrath. “How a man who is not a callous scoundrel can treat this affair so coolly, I don’t know.”
“I don’t treat it coolly,” cried Geoffrey, surprised at the other’s warmth.
“You do, sir; your conduct is blackguardly—cruel in the extreme. Have you no heart at all?”
“Plenty, I hope,” cried Geoffrey, now growing warm in turn. “Look here, doctor, I don’t allow any man to call me a scoundrel and blackguard, without saying a word in reply. Please explain what you mean.”
“What do I mean, sir; why, that poor girl.”
“Well, what about her?”
The doctor stopped short in the dark upon that shelf of cliff, and faced Geoffrey.
“Look here! are you a fool, or a knave, or a scoundrel, Trethick, or all three?” he cried, angrily.
“If you dare to say—Bah?” cried Geoffrey, “I won’t quarrel. You’re hipped, doctor—tired—upset—but don’t call a man names. It stirs up a fellow’s bile, as old Paul says.”
The doctor panted in his anger, for calm, peaceable Dr Rumsey seemed quite transformed.
“And you can talk like this?” he cried, “with that poor girl, the mother of your new-born child, lying an outcast from her home!”
“What?” roared Geoffrey, catching at the doctor’s arm.
“He is a fool!” exclaimed Dr Rumsey; and, wrenching away his arm, he strode off towards the town, leaving Geoffrey staring as if he were stunned.
He was stunned mentally, and for a few minutes he felt as if he could not collect his thoughts. Then his first impulse was to run after the doctor.
“Oh, it’s too absurd,” he cried; and at last, sick at heart, uneasy, and disgusted with his late companion, and not even yet fully realising his position in the tragedy of the night, he walked stiffly up to the cottage, hesitated for a few moments as to whether he should enter, and ended by letting himself in, and going to his room, to try and secure a few hours’ rest.
Chapter Thirty Eight.A Stormy Interview.Geoffrey Trethick’s slumbers were very short and disturbed, and, after tossing about for some time, he got up to think out his position. The events of the past night seemed dream-like now, and there were times when he was ready to treat them as hallucinations; but the sea-soaked suit of clothes thrown over a chair were proof positive of the reality of poor Madge Mullion’s attempted suicide, and his brow contracted as he thought of the wretched girl’s state.“Poor lass!” he muttered; and by the light of the doctor’s charge he read a score of trifles which had been sealed to him before.“I’ll go straight down to him, and have it out as soon as he’s up. An idiot! What the deuce does he mean? However, I’ll soon put that right.”He looked at his watch and found it was only seven, so that it would be of no use to go down yet to Rumsey’s. He could not sleep, and he did not feel disposed to read, so he determined to go for a walk till breakfast-time, and then he would have a talk to Mrs Mullion and Uncle Paul.But he had no sooner made up his mind to speak to them on the poor girl’s behalf than he began to realise the delicacy of his position.Suppose they took the same view of the case as Dr Rumsey?“Confound it all!” he cried. “How absurd, to be sure.”He finished dressing, opened door and window, and went down, meeting the servant girl looking red-eyed and dishevelled, as if she had not been to bed all night.He had seen that Uncle Paul’s bedroom door was wide open, but did not note that the bed had been unoccupied; and he was, therefore, not surprised to hear the old man’s cough as he entered his own room.“Trethick! Trethick!” he called, and Geoffrey crossed the passage, meeting Mrs Mullion, who ran out with her handkerchief to her eyes, and her face averted.“Ashamed of being so hard on her child,” thought Geoffrey; and then he started, shocked at the old man’s aspect, as, with his hat on, he sat there, looking yellow, wrinkled, sunken of eye and cheek, with all his quick, sharp ways gone, and with generally the aspect of one just recovering from some terrible shock.“Good heavens, Mr Paul, how ill you look!” cried Geoffrey, anxiously, as the thought struck him that he had not been to bed all night.“Yes,” said the old man, “I feel ill.”“Let me run down and fetch Rumsey. Stop, I’ll get you a little, brandy first.”“No, no. I don’t want brandy,” said the old man, gazing at him wildly, and with his face now cadaverous in the extreme. “Rumsey can’t help me. Help me yourself.”“Yes. What shall I do for you?”“Sit down, Trethick.”He took a chair, looking intently at the speaker.“Trethick, will you smoke a cheroot?”“No, not now.”“Not now? Well, another time, then,” said the old man, whose voice seemed quite changed. “I’m afraid, Trethick, I have got a dreadful temper.”“Horrible—sometimes,” said Geoffrey, smiling.“But my bark is worse than my bite. I’m not so bad as I seem.”“I know that, old fellow. I always have known it.”“You went out about nine last night, and didn’t come back till four this morning.”“You heard me come in then?”“Yes. We have not been to bed all night. I have been out looking for Madge.”“Indeed!” said Geoffrey, quietly, as he bit his lips to keep back a little longer that which he knew.“I’m not speaking angrily, am I, my boy?”“No. I never saw you so calm before.”“It is a calm after the storm, Trethick. I was in a terrible fit last night. Mrs Mullion, my sister-in-law, confessed it all to me, and I was mad with the disgrace. I—I struck her. Yes,” he continued, pitifully, “I was a brute, I know. I—I struck her—that poor, weak, foolish girl, and drove her from the house.”“You—struck her, Mr Paul?” said Geoffrey.“Yes, my boy. I was mad, for she did not deny her shame, only begged me to kill her, and then—then, she uttered a wild cry, and ran out of the house. I seem to hear it now,” he continued, with a shudder. “I’ve been out searching for her, but—but I have not told a soul. We must keep it quiet, Trethick, for all our sakes. But tell me, did she—did she come to you?”“No,” said Geoffrey, sternly.“But you have seen her? Don’t tell me, boy, that you have not seen her. We felt that as you did not come back she had come to you.”Geoffrey was silent for a few moments, thinking of his position; for here, in spite of his quiet way, was a fresh accuser, and poor Mrs Mullion’s silent avoidance had only been another charge.“The poor girl did not come to me,” said Geoffrey, at last. “Your cruelty, Mr Paul, drove her away, and but for the fact that I happened to be on the cliff and saw her go by, she would be floating away somewhere on the tide—dead.”“Did—did she try to jump in?” cried the old man, hoarsely.“She was nearly dead when I fetched her out. A few seconds more would have ended her miserable life.”The old man shrank back in his chair, trembling now like a leaf, his jaw dropped, and his eyes staring.“And I should have murdered her,” he gasped. “But you jumped in and saved her?”Geoffrey nodded.“Thank God!” cried the old man, fervently. “Thank God!”“Poor girl! it was a narrow escape,” continued Geoffrey. “She has suffered cruelly, and you must forgive her, Mr Paul, and take her back.”“Yes, yes,” said the old man, “we’ll talk about that. But shake hands, Trethick. You’re a brave fellow, after all. That wipes off a great deal. Poor Madge: poor child!”The old man held out his hand, but Geoffrey did not offer to take it.“You saved the poor girl then, Trethick. We felt that you must be with her. Where is she now? Why didn’t you bring her back?”“She would sooner have gone back into the sea,” said Geoffrey, sternly. “I took her on to Prawle’s cottage, at Gwennas.”“And she is there now?”“Yes, sir, with her helpless infant.”The old man sank back again with a harsh catching of the breath, and they sat in silence gazing one at the other, as if trying to get breath for the encounter to come.Uncle Paul was the first to speak.“I’m—I’m not angry now, Trethick. I’m going to be very humble, and appeal to you.”“Indeed!” said Geoffrey, over whose countenance a very stern, stubborn look began to make its way.“Yes, yes. I’m going to appeal to you. I beg your pardon, Trethick, if I have said or done any thing to hurt your feelings. I’m very, very sorry I was so cruel to the poor child last night, but it came upon me like a shock, and the disgrace seemed to madden me. I have a hot, bad temper, I know; but, poor child, I’ll forgive her—forgive you both.”“Thanks,” said Geoffrey, mockingly; and he was about to speak, but refrained, as the old man made an effort and rose from his chair to go behind Trethick, and stand there silently for a few moments as if to master his voice before laying a hand upon the young man’s shoulder.“I did wrong, Trethick, when I brought you up here—very wrong. I ought to have known better, but I did it in a mean, selfish spirit to save my own money, when I had plenty for all.”“Indeed!” said Geoffrey, coldly, and a set frown came upon his brow.“Yes, it was an ill-advised step, and I am punished for it. But, Trethick, my lad, in my rough way I do love my poor, dead brother’s wife and child, and, God knows, I would sooner have been a beggar than have seen this disgrace come upon them.”“Mr—”“No, no, hear me out, Trethick,” cried the old man, imploringly. “I don’t blame you so much as I do poor Madge. She was always a foolish, light, thoughtless girl, fond of admiration; and I know she has always thrown herself in your way; but I said to myself he is too sterling and stanch a fellow to act otherwise than as we could wish.”“Look here, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, sternly. “Once for all, let me tell you that you are labouring under a mistake. Do you accuse me of this crime?”“No, no, we won’t call it a crime,” said the old man. “But hear me out, Trethick. I am not angry now. I want to do what is for the best. I don’t ask you to humble yourself or confess.”“Confess!” cried Geoffrey, scornfully. “Mr Paul, you insult me by your suspicions.”“But the poor girl, Trethick. Her poor mother is heart-broken. Oh, man, man! why did you come like a curse beneath this, roof?”“Look here, Mr Paul,” cried Geoffrey, whom the night’s adventures and loss of sleep had made irritable, “when you can talk to me in a calm, sensible way, perhaps I can convince you that you are wronging me by your suspicions.”A spasm of rage shot across the old man’s face, but he seemed to make an effort, and mastered himself.“Don’t be heartless,” he said, “I implore you. There, you see how humble I am. There, there—let bygones be bygones. I know you will act like a man by her. Never mind the shame and disgrace, Trethick. She loves you, poor child, and amongst us we have made her suffer cruelly. I have been brutal to her for being as true to you as steel.”“True to me, eh?” said Geoffrey.“Yes, poor child, she kept your secret, though she could not keep her own. She felt that she might injure you in your prospects.”“You are arranging it all very nicely in your own mind, Uncle Paul,” said Geoffrey, quietly, for he was touched by the old man’s battle with self.“Don’t ridicule me, Trethick,” he said, piteously. “I want to make amends for a great wrong. I feel I have been to blame. But be a man, Trethick, and you sha’n’t suffer for it. Look here, I am very old now, and I can’t take my money with me. Come, be reasonable, Trethick, for the poor child’s sake. We’ll forget the past and look at the future.”“At my expense,” said Geoffrey.“No, no, my boy. We are both men of the world, and can afford to laugh at what people say. Let’s make both those poor souls happy. There, I’ll sink all differences, and I’ll give her away; I will indeed. I haven’t been in a church these fifteen years, but I’ll come and give her away; and look here, my lad,” he cried, pulling out a slip of paper, “there’s a cheque on the Old Bank for a thousand pounds, payable to you—that’s Madge’s dowry to start with. Now, what do you say?”“Humph! a thousand, eh?” said Geoffrey, looking admiringly at the speaker.“Yes, a thousand pounds,” cried the old man.“Will you make it two?” said Geoffrey.An angry flush came in the old man’s face, but he looked across Geoffrey, and saw that poor broken Mrs Mullion was peering in at the doorway, and his rage went with his hesitation.“Yes,” he said, “for her sake I’ll make it two.”“Not enough,” said Geoffrey. “Will you make it five thousand down, and all your money bequeathed to us by will?”The old man’s breath seemed to be taken away, and he stood gasping angrily; but once more the piteous aspect of the poor woman at the door disarmed him, and he said, in a low, hoarse voice,—“I haven’t long to stop here. You shall have what you say, Trethick, only remove this cloud from the poor girl’s life.”“Uncle Paul,” cried Geoffrey, turning upon him eagerly, “I always liked you, for I knew that you were a stanch old fellow under that rough bark, but I never thought you were so true a man as this. Five thousand pounds, eh? and you make me your heir? Give me your hand.”The old man’s hand was slowly stretched out, and Geoffrey seized it.“Yes,” said Uncle Paul, “and the past shall all be forgotten;” but a look of disgust, in spite of his efforts, came across his face at the mercenary spirit displayed.“Five thousand pounds down?” said Geoffrey, “eh?”“Five thousand pounds down.”“As you say, Uncle Paul,” said Geoffrey, probing the old man to the quick, “you cannot live much longer. You have had your spell of life, and you will give that by deed of gift at once to save poor Madge’s fame, and the rest when you die?”The old man nodded.“Suppose I say make it ten thousand down?”“Take—take it all,” said the old man, piteously; and then, in a low voice, “God help me to do one good act before I die.”As he spoke he tried to withdraw his hand from Geoffrey’s.“Take what I have,” he said again, “but wipe away the stain from that poor girl’s life.”“God bless you, Uncle Paul,” cried Geoffrey, wringing the old man’s hand. “You’re a noble old fellow, but if your money was millions, instead of thousands, not a penny could I touch. Go and see the poor girl, and then you must see another, and come back and tell me that you ask my pardon for what you have said.”The piteous look, the air of weakness, and the trembling of the hands passed away as if by magic, as Uncle Paul tore his fingers from Geoffrey’s grasp; and, in place of his mingled appeal and disgust, passion flashed from the old man’s eyes.“Dog—coward—scoundrel!” he cried, shaking his cane threateningly. “Your success at the mine, and your hopes of wedding Rhoda Penwynn, have blinded you to all that is honourable and true, but you shall repent it.”“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Geoffrey. “Mr Paul!”“Silence, scoundrel!” he roared. “You shall live to see your mine a wreck; and as to that Rhoda Penwynn—”“Silence, yourself, old man,” cried Geoffrey, in a rage. “How dare you mention her name?”“How dare I, dog?” he cried; “because she is too good, and pure, and virtuous for such a libertine as you. Out upon you for your worthlessness! I tell you, that girl will turn her back upon you in shame and disgust. You don’t know of what stuff our Cornish women are. I meant to keep this silent if I could. Now the town shall know you for what you are; and as for my poor niece—Heaven forgive her!—I would sooner see her in her coffin than the wife of such a heartless, cold-blooded, mercenary wretch.”“You will repent all this when you are cool,” cried Geoffrey, whose own rage was driven away in dread lest the old man should fall before him in some fit.“Out of my sight, dog! Leave this house.”“Uncle Paul, you are mad. Will you listen to reason?”“Go!” cried the old man panting, as he threatened the tall, sturdy young fellow with his stick; “go, and present yourself at Penwynn’s, and be shown the door. Out! Go! I cannot breathe the same air with so heartless a villain.”“If I leave this house,” said Geoffrey, “it is for good. No apologies will bring me back.”“Apologies,” cried the old man. “Oh, if Heaven would give me back my strength but for one short hour! Scoundrel!” he cried, sinking back in his chair, “if I were but a man instead of such a poor old wreck—”“Mrs Mullion! quick!” cried Geoffrey, for the old man’s appearance alarmed him; but the poor woman had heard all, and was already at her brother-in-law’s side. “What shall we do?”“Let him leave the place,” panted the old man. “Don’t let him touch me—don’t let him come near me—let him leave the place. He tortures me. Why did I bring him here?”“Fate, I suppose,” said Geoffrey, coldly. “I thought she had been too kind. Shall I fetch Rumsey, Mrs Mullion?”“No, no, no. Pray go—pray go,” sobbed the poor woman. “Oh, Mr Trethick! Mr Trethick! what have I done that you should treat me so?”“There, for heaven’s sake, don’t you begin,” cried Geoffrey. “I can bear no more. You people here are mad. There, I’ll rid you of my presence, Mrs Mullion. I’ll go and put up some where else till you have come to your senses, and then perhaps—no, I cannot come back here. I’m going down to Rumsey’s, and I’ll send him up. Poor old fellow?” he said; and he came a step towards where, with half-closed eyes, Uncle Paul sat back, panting heavily; but at the first step forward he shrank away with such a look of loathing that Geoffrey strode into the passage, seized his hat, and went off across the garden, and down the cliff path to send up Dr Rumsey to the stricken old man.
Geoffrey Trethick’s slumbers were very short and disturbed, and, after tossing about for some time, he got up to think out his position. The events of the past night seemed dream-like now, and there were times when he was ready to treat them as hallucinations; but the sea-soaked suit of clothes thrown over a chair were proof positive of the reality of poor Madge Mullion’s attempted suicide, and his brow contracted as he thought of the wretched girl’s state.
“Poor lass!” he muttered; and by the light of the doctor’s charge he read a score of trifles which had been sealed to him before.
“I’ll go straight down to him, and have it out as soon as he’s up. An idiot! What the deuce does he mean? However, I’ll soon put that right.”
He looked at his watch and found it was only seven, so that it would be of no use to go down yet to Rumsey’s. He could not sleep, and he did not feel disposed to read, so he determined to go for a walk till breakfast-time, and then he would have a talk to Mrs Mullion and Uncle Paul.
But he had no sooner made up his mind to speak to them on the poor girl’s behalf than he began to realise the delicacy of his position.
Suppose they took the same view of the case as Dr Rumsey?
“Confound it all!” he cried. “How absurd, to be sure.”
He finished dressing, opened door and window, and went down, meeting the servant girl looking red-eyed and dishevelled, as if she had not been to bed all night.
He had seen that Uncle Paul’s bedroom door was wide open, but did not note that the bed had been unoccupied; and he was, therefore, not surprised to hear the old man’s cough as he entered his own room.
“Trethick! Trethick!” he called, and Geoffrey crossed the passage, meeting Mrs Mullion, who ran out with her handkerchief to her eyes, and her face averted.
“Ashamed of being so hard on her child,” thought Geoffrey; and then he started, shocked at the old man’s aspect, as, with his hat on, he sat there, looking yellow, wrinkled, sunken of eye and cheek, with all his quick, sharp ways gone, and with generally the aspect of one just recovering from some terrible shock.
“Good heavens, Mr Paul, how ill you look!” cried Geoffrey, anxiously, as the thought struck him that he had not been to bed all night.
“Yes,” said the old man, “I feel ill.”
“Let me run down and fetch Rumsey. Stop, I’ll get you a little, brandy first.”
“No, no. I don’t want brandy,” said the old man, gazing at him wildly, and with his face now cadaverous in the extreme. “Rumsey can’t help me. Help me yourself.”
“Yes. What shall I do for you?”
“Sit down, Trethick.”
He took a chair, looking intently at the speaker.
“Trethick, will you smoke a cheroot?”
“No, not now.”
“Not now? Well, another time, then,” said the old man, whose voice seemed quite changed. “I’m afraid, Trethick, I have got a dreadful temper.”
“Horrible—sometimes,” said Geoffrey, smiling.
“But my bark is worse than my bite. I’m not so bad as I seem.”
“I know that, old fellow. I always have known it.”
“You went out about nine last night, and didn’t come back till four this morning.”
“You heard me come in then?”
“Yes. We have not been to bed all night. I have been out looking for Madge.”
“Indeed!” said Geoffrey, quietly, as he bit his lips to keep back a little longer that which he knew.
“I’m not speaking angrily, am I, my boy?”
“No. I never saw you so calm before.”
“It is a calm after the storm, Trethick. I was in a terrible fit last night. Mrs Mullion, my sister-in-law, confessed it all to me, and I was mad with the disgrace. I—I struck her. Yes,” he continued, pitifully, “I was a brute, I know. I—I struck her—that poor, weak, foolish girl, and drove her from the house.”
“You—struck her, Mr Paul?” said Geoffrey.
“Yes, my boy. I was mad, for she did not deny her shame, only begged me to kill her, and then—then, she uttered a wild cry, and ran out of the house. I seem to hear it now,” he continued, with a shudder. “I’ve been out searching for her, but—but I have not told a soul. We must keep it quiet, Trethick, for all our sakes. But tell me, did she—did she come to you?”
“No,” said Geoffrey, sternly.
“But you have seen her? Don’t tell me, boy, that you have not seen her. We felt that as you did not come back she had come to you.”
Geoffrey was silent for a few moments, thinking of his position; for here, in spite of his quiet way, was a fresh accuser, and poor Mrs Mullion’s silent avoidance had only been another charge.
“The poor girl did not come to me,” said Geoffrey, at last. “Your cruelty, Mr Paul, drove her away, and but for the fact that I happened to be on the cliff and saw her go by, she would be floating away somewhere on the tide—dead.”
“Did—did she try to jump in?” cried the old man, hoarsely.
“She was nearly dead when I fetched her out. A few seconds more would have ended her miserable life.”
The old man shrank back in his chair, trembling now like a leaf, his jaw dropped, and his eyes staring.
“And I should have murdered her,” he gasped. “But you jumped in and saved her?”
Geoffrey nodded.
“Thank God!” cried the old man, fervently. “Thank God!”
“Poor girl! it was a narrow escape,” continued Geoffrey. “She has suffered cruelly, and you must forgive her, Mr Paul, and take her back.”
“Yes, yes,” said the old man, “we’ll talk about that. But shake hands, Trethick. You’re a brave fellow, after all. That wipes off a great deal. Poor Madge: poor child!”
The old man held out his hand, but Geoffrey did not offer to take it.
“You saved the poor girl then, Trethick. We felt that you must be with her. Where is she now? Why didn’t you bring her back?”
“She would sooner have gone back into the sea,” said Geoffrey, sternly. “I took her on to Prawle’s cottage, at Gwennas.”
“And she is there now?”
“Yes, sir, with her helpless infant.”
The old man sank back again with a harsh catching of the breath, and they sat in silence gazing one at the other, as if trying to get breath for the encounter to come.
Uncle Paul was the first to speak.
“I’m—I’m not angry now, Trethick. I’m going to be very humble, and appeal to you.”
“Indeed!” said Geoffrey, over whose countenance a very stern, stubborn look began to make its way.
“Yes, yes. I’m going to appeal to you. I beg your pardon, Trethick, if I have said or done any thing to hurt your feelings. I’m very, very sorry I was so cruel to the poor child last night, but it came upon me like a shock, and the disgrace seemed to madden me. I have a hot, bad temper, I know; but, poor child, I’ll forgive her—forgive you both.”
“Thanks,” said Geoffrey, mockingly; and he was about to speak, but refrained, as the old man made an effort and rose from his chair to go behind Trethick, and stand there silently for a few moments as if to master his voice before laying a hand upon the young man’s shoulder.
“I did wrong, Trethick, when I brought you up here—very wrong. I ought to have known better, but I did it in a mean, selfish spirit to save my own money, when I had plenty for all.”
“Indeed!” said Geoffrey, coldly, and a set frown came upon his brow.
“Yes, it was an ill-advised step, and I am punished for it. But, Trethick, my lad, in my rough way I do love my poor, dead brother’s wife and child, and, God knows, I would sooner have been a beggar than have seen this disgrace come upon them.”
“Mr—”
“No, no, hear me out, Trethick,” cried the old man, imploringly. “I don’t blame you so much as I do poor Madge. She was always a foolish, light, thoughtless girl, fond of admiration; and I know she has always thrown herself in your way; but I said to myself he is too sterling and stanch a fellow to act otherwise than as we could wish.”
“Look here, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, sternly. “Once for all, let me tell you that you are labouring under a mistake. Do you accuse me of this crime?”
“No, no, we won’t call it a crime,” said the old man. “But hear me out, Trethick. I am not angry now. I want to do what is for the best. I don’t ask you to humble yourself or confess.”
“Confess!” cried Geoffrey, scornfully. “Mr Paul, you insult me by your suspicions.”
“But the poor girl, Trethick. Her poor mother is heart-broken. Oh, man, man! why did you come like a curse beneath this, roof?”
“Look here, Mr Paul,” cried Geoffrey, whom the night’s adventures and loss of sleep had made irritable, “when you can talk to me in a calm, sensible way, perhaps I can convince you that you are wronging me by your suspicions.”
A spasm of rage shot across the old man’s face, but he seemed to make an effort, and mastered himself.
“Don’t be heartless,” he said, “I implore you. There, you see how humble I am. There, there—let bygones be bygones. I know you will act like a man by her. Never mind the shame and disgrace, Trethick. She loves you, poor child, and amongst us we have made her suffer cruelly. I have been brutal to her for being as true to you as steel.”
“True to me, eh?” said Geoffrey.
“Yes, poor child, she kept your secret, though she could not keep her own. She felt that she might injure you in your prospects.”
“You are arranging it all very nicely in your own mind, Uncle Paul,” said Geoffrey, quietly, for he was touched by the old man’s battle with self.
“Don’t ridicule me, Trethick,” he said, piteously. “I want to make amends for a great wrong. I feel I have been to blame. But be a man, Trethick, and you sha’n’t suffer for it. Look here, I am very old now, and I can’t take my money with me. Come, be reasonable, Trethick, for the poor child’s sake. We’ll forget the past and look at the future.”
“At my expense,” said Geoffrey.
“No, no, my boy. We are both men of the world, and can afford to laugh at what people say. Let’s make both those poor souls happy. There, I’ll sink all differences, and I’ll give her away; I will indeed. I haven’t been in a church these fifteen years, but I’ll come and give her away; and look here, my lad,” he cried, pulling out a slip of paper, “there’s a cheque on the Old Bank for a thousand pounds, payable to you—that’s Madge’s dowry to start with. Now, what do you say?”
“Humph! a thousand, eh?” said Geoffrey, looking admiringly at the speaker.
“Yes, a thousand pounds,” cried the old man.
“Will you make it two?” said Geoffrey.
An angry flush came in the old man’s face, but he looked across Geoffrey, and saw that poor broken Mrs Mullion was peering in at the doorway, and his rage went with his hesitation.
“Yes,” he said, “for her sake I’ll make it two.”
“Not enough,” said Geoffrey. “Will you make it five thousand down, and all your money bequeathed to us by will?”
The old man’s breath seemed to be taken away, and he stood gasping angrily; but once more the piteous aspect of the poor woman at the door disarmed him, and he said, in a low, hoarse voice,—
“I haven’t long to stop here. You shall have what you say, Trethick, only remove this cloud from the poor girl’s life.”
“Uncle Paul,” cried Geoffrey, turning upon him eagerly, “I always liked you, for I knew that you were a stanch old fellow under that rough bark, but I never thought you were so true a man as this. Five thousand pounds, eh? and you make me your heir? Give me your hand.”
The old man’s hand was slowly stretched out, and Geoffrey seized it.
“Yes,” said Uncle Paul, “and the past shall all be forgotten;” but a look of disgust, in spite of his efforts, came across his face at the mercenary spirit displayed.
“Five thousand pounds down?” said Geoffrey, “eh?”
“Five thousand pounds down.”
“As you say, Uncle Paul,” said Geoffrey, probing the old man to the quick, “you cannot live much longer. You have had your spell of life, and you will give that by deed of gift at once to save poor Madge’s fame, and the rest when you die?”
The old man nodded.
“Suppose I say make it ten thousand down?”
“Take—take it all,” said the old man, piteously; and then, in a low voice, “God help me to do one good act before I die.”
As he spoke he tried to withdraw his hand from Geoffrey’s.
“Take what I have,” he said again, “but wipe away the stain from that poor girl’s life.”
“God bless you, Uncle Paul,” cried Geoffrey, wringing the old man’s hand. “You’re a noble old fellow, but if your money was millions, instead of thousands, not a penny could I touch. Go and see the poor girl, and then you must see another, and come back and tell me that you ask my pardon for what you have said.”
The piteous look, the air of weakness, and the trembling of the hands passed away as if by magic, as Uncle Paul tore his fingers from Geoffrey’s grasp; and, in place of his mingled appeal and disgust, passion flashed from the old man’s eyes.
“Dog—coward—scoundrel!” he cried, shaking his cane threateningly. “Your success at the mine, and your hopes of wedding Rhoda Penwynn, have blinded you to all that is honourable and true, but you shall repent it.”
“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Geoffrey. “Mr Paul!”
“Silence, scoundrel!” he roared. “You shall live to see your mine a wreck; and as to that Rhoda Penwynn—”
“Silence, yourself, old man,” cried Geoffrey, in a rage. “How dare you mention her name?”
“How dare I, dog?” he cried; “because she is too good, and pure, and virtuous for such a libertine as you. Out upon you for your worthlessness! I tell you, that girl will turn her back upon you in shame and disgust. You don’t know of what stuff our Cornish women are. I meant to keep this silent if I could. Now the town shall know you for what you are; and as for my poor niece—Heaven forgive her!—I would sooner see her in her coffin than the wife of such a heartless, cold-blooded, mercenary wretch.”
“You will repent all this when you are cool,” cried Geoffrey, whose own rage was driven away in dread lest the old man should fall before him in some fit.
“Out of my sight, dog! Leave this house.”
“Uncle Paul, you are mad. Will you listen to reason?”
“Go!” cried the old man panting, as he threatened the tall, sturdy young fellow with his stick; “go, and present yourself at Penwynn’s, and be shown the door. Out! Go! I cannot breathe the same air with so heartless a villain.”
“If I leave this house,” said Geoffrey, “it is for good. No apologies will bring me back.”
“Apologies,” cried the old man. “Oh, if Heaven would give me back my strength but for one short hour! Scoundrel!” he cried, sinking back in his chair, “if I were but a man instead of such a poor old wreck—”
“Mrs Mullion! quick!” cried Geoffrey, for the old man’s appearance alarmed him; but the poor woman had heard all, and was already at her brother-in-law’s side. “What shall we do?”
“Let him leave the place,” panted the old man. “Don’t let him touch me—don’t let him come near me—let him leave the place. He tortures me. Why did I bring him here?”
“Fate, I suppose,” said Geoffrey, coldly. “I thought she had been too kind. Shall I fetch Rumsey, Mrs Mullion?”
“No, no, no. Pray go—pray go,” sobbed the poor woman. “Oh, Mr Trethick! Mr Trethick! what have I done that you should treat me so?”
“There, for heaven’s sake, don’t you begin,” cried Geoffrey. “I can bear no more. You people here are mad. There, I’ll rid you of my presence, Mrs Mullion. I’ll go and put up some where else till you have come to your senses, and then perhaps—no, I cannot come back here. I’m going down to Rumsey’s, and I’ll send him up. Poor old fellow?” he said; and he came a step towards where, with half-closed eyes, Uncle Paul sat back, panting heavily; but at the first step forward he shrank away with such a look of loathing that Geoffrey strode into the passage, seized his hat, and went off across the garden, and down the cliff path to send up Dr Rumsey to the stricken old man.
Chapter Thirty Nine.More Unpleasantries.Dr Rumsey was in, Mrs Rumsey said, but he was engaged. She would give Mr Trethick’s message, and she turned sharply round and shut the door.“Confound the woman,” exclaimed Geoffrey, frowning, and he went off towards the mine.His way lay through the principal street, and as he was passing the hotel it suddenly struck him that he had had a terrible night, and that he was half-starved.“The engine won’t work without coal,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “I must have breakfast,” and, going in, he ordered the meal, ate heartily, and then, feeling refreshed and brighter, he hesitated as to what he should do—go down to the mine or walk across to Gwennas.He stopped, thinking,—“If I go to Gwennas, people will say that the case is clear against me.“If I don’t go they will say that it is clearer, for I stop away because I am a coward, and that my conduct is cruel.“Well, I won’t be brutal, at all events; so here goes to see Father Prawle, and to know how the poor girl is.”He started off walking fast, but just then who should come round the corner but a thin figure in black, half-way between a sister of mercy and a lady in deep mourning.“Miss Pavey, by all that’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “What a transformation. What has become of the rainbow?”“Ah, Miss Pavey,” he said. “Good-morning.”To his astonishment and disgust, the lady darted a look of horror at him and crossed the road.“This is pleasant,” he cried, angrily. “Why, that woman must know of it, and—”He felt a chill of horror run through him, for he knew that she would go, if she had not already been, straight up to An Morlock and acquaint Rhoda with the events of the night, no doubt pleasantly dressed up.“She must have seen the Rumseys this morning!”He hesitated for a moment, and then turned to go straight up to An Morlock.“I’ll go and tell Penwynn all about it.”“Pooh! Absurd,” he cried. “What’s come to me? Am I to go and deny a scandal before I have been accused by my friends? Ridiculous.”Laughing at himself for what he called his folly, he went right off along the cliff, looking with pride at the smoking of the Wheal Carnac chimney shaft, and pausing for a moment or two, with a smile of gratification upon his lips, to watch the busy figures about the buildings and to listen to the rattle and noise of the machinery.Going on, he came to the slope down from the cliff path to the beach, and he could not help a shudder as he saw how dangerous it was even by daylight.“I wonder we did not break our necks,” he thought, as he went cautiously down, and then amongst the granite boulders and weed-hung masses to where he had leaped in and swum to poor Madge’s help, for there it all was plainly enough—the long spit of rocks running out like a pier, the swirling water, and the waving masses of slimy weed.“It’s a good job it was night,” he thought. “Hang me, if I shouldn’t have hesitated to dive in now.”All the same he would not have hesitated a moment; but it was a wild, awesome place, and the chances of a swimmer getting easily ashore, after a dive from the rocks, were not many.He went on picking his way as nearly as he could to follow the steps taken on the previous night towards the farther sloping path, pausing again as he came opposite to the adit of the old mine up on the cliff.It was an ugly, low archway, fringed with ferns, and whose interior was glossy with what looked like green metallic tinsel, but proved to be a dark, glistening, wet lichen or moss.The place, like all others of its kind, had an attraction for Geoffrey, and he went in a short distance to peer forward into the gloom of the narrow passage through the rock, and to listen to the dripping, echoing sounds of the falling water.It was a part of the working of the old mine, and, doubtless, had been driven in first by the adventurers in search of a vein of tin or copper, after striking which they had sunk the perpendicular shaft on the cliff—the one by the path where he had had his encounter with Pengelly; and, by a little calculation, he reckoned that this adit or passage would be about a hundred yards long.“I’ll have lights some day, and Pengelly and I will explore it.”He went no farther, for there was always the danger of coming upon one of the minor shafts, or “winzes” as they were called, which are made for ventilating the mine, and joining the upper and lower galleries together. In this case the winzes would have been full of water, like the great shaft, up to the level of the adit, which would run off the surplus to the beach.More by force of habit than for any particular reason, he threw a great stone in, to make a crashing noise, which went echoing and reverberating along the dripping passage, and then he went on.“Poor lass, she would have had a poor chance,” he said, “if she had thrown herself down the old shaft up yonder. I don’t think I dare have dived down there. Nay,” he added, laughing, “I am sure I dare not.”He went on fast now, noting the difficulties of the pathway up which he had helped Madge in the dark; and then, pausing half-way up to take breath, he uttered an exclamation.“I shouldn’t have thought it possible,” he said. “Why, it seems almost madness now. Well, I got her there safely, and I have been thanked for my trouble.”Old Prawle was hanging about, busy, as usual, with a fishing-line, as Geoffrey went down into the Cove, nodded, and tapped gently at the door.“Well, Bessie,” he said, in his light, cheery way, “how is she?”“Better, Mr Trethick,” said Bessie coldly; and the bright look passed from his face as he saw the girl’s distant manner.“Has the doctor been?”“Yes, Mr Trethick.”“What does he say?”“That she is to have perfect rest and quiet.”“And your mother?”“Better, sir. Will you speak to her?”Geoffrey hesitated a moment, and then seeing that Bessie was misinterpreting his looks, he said sharply,—“Yes, I will;” and following Bessie in, he found the invalid in her old place, airing and burning more things than usual, but there was such a reproachful, piteous look in her eyes, that he was quite taken aback.“It’s of no use. I can’t argue with them,” thought Geoffrey.“Here, Mrs Prawle,” he said aloud, “will you kindly see that every thing possible is done for that poor girl. You will be at some expense, of course, till Mrs Mullion and her uncle fetch them home. Take that.”He laid a five-pound note on the table, and walked straight out, Bessie drawing on one side to let him pass, her face looking cold and thin, and her eyes resting on the floor.“Pleasant,” muttered Geoffrey, and with an abrupt “Good-morning” he went out to where old Prawle was at work.“Here, walk part of the way along the cliff with me,” he said. “Come away from the cottage.”The old man looked up at him from under his shaggy eyebrows, and then followed him for a couple of hundred yards, and stopped.“Won’t that do?” he said. “Are you going to give me some money for them two?”“I’ve left five pounds with your wife,” said Geoffrey, sharply.“Oh, come, that’s handsome,” said the old man. “But you couldn’t have done less.”“Look here,” said Geoffrey, sharply, “you know what I told you last night.”“Yes, I know,” said the old man, grimly.“You tell them the same. I couldn’t talk to them. Undeceive them about it, and be kind to the poor lass. I’ll do all I can for you, Prawle, about the shares.”The old man nodded and uttered a growl that might have been “All right,” or “Thanks,” or any thing else, and then Geoffrey went on towards Carnac.“Tell them the same,” said the rugged old fellow, with a grim chuckle. “Why, I might preach to ’em for a month, and then they wouldn’t believe it any more than I could myself.”Pengelly was anxiously awaiting his principal at the mine, ready to lay certain reports before him about the drive that was being made, and he did it all in so stern and distant a way that Geoffrey could not help seeing that his right-hand man had heard the report, and, what was more, believed it. The result was that it raised up a spirit of resentment in the young man’s breast that made him retire within himself snail fashion; but with this difference, that he left his horns pointing menacingly outside; and for the rest of that day he was not a pleasant person to consult upon any matter.For in spite of the contempt with which he treated the whole affair, and his determination to completely ignore the matter, it was always torturing him, and there was the constant thought in his mind that Rhoda must sooner or later hear of it, if she had not already been apprised by Miss Pavey or some other tattling friend.“Let them. If she’s the woman I believe her, she’ll write to me in a quiet indirect way, not referring to it, of course, but to let me see her confidence in me is not shaken.”The amount of work he got through on that day was tremendous, and as he worked his spirits rose. He strengthened his plans for guarding against the breaking in of the sea; and at last, completely fagged out, he ascended from the mine, changed, and washed in the office, and, without speaking to Pengelly, went straight to Dr Rumsey’s.The doctor saw him coming, and came to the door.“Find you apartments, Mr Trethick?” he said, coldly. “In an ordinary way it would be impossible. Under the present circumstances it is doubly so.”“Very good,” said Geoffrey, sharply. “You persist, then, in believing that?”“I would rather not discuss the matter, Mr Trethick,” said the doctor. “Good evening.”“I must go to the hotel, then, that’s all,” said Geoffrey to himself. “Confound them all! They will find that I’ve Cornish blood in my veins, and can be as pig-headed in obstinacy as the best.”
Dr Rumsey was in, Mrs Rumsey said, but he was engaged. She would give Mr Trethick’s message, and she turned sharply round and shut the door.
“Confound the woman,” exclaimed Geoffrey, frowning, and he went off towards the mine.
His way lay through the principal street, and as he was passing the hotel it suddenly struck him that he had had a terrible night, and that he was half-starved.
“The engine won’t work without coal,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “I must have breakfast,” and, going in, he ordered the meal, ate heartily, and then, feeling refreshed and brighter, he hesitated as to what he should do—go down to the mine or walk across to Gwennas.
He stopped, thinking,—
“If I go to Gwennas, people will say that the case is clear against me.
“If I don’t go they will say that it is clearer, for I stop away because I am a coward, and that my conduct is cruel.
“Well, I won’t be brutal, at all events; so here goes to see Father Prawle, and to know how the poor girl is.”
He started off walking fast, but just then who should come round the corner but a thin figure in black, half-way between a sister of mercy and a lady in deep mourning.
“Miss Pavey, by all that’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “What a transformation. What has become of the rainbow?”
“Ah, Miss Pavey,” he said. “Good-morning.”
To his astonishment and disgust, the lady darted a look of horror at him and crossed the road.
“This is pleasant,” he cried, angrily. “Why, that woman must know of it, and—”
He felt a chill of horror run through him, for he knew that she would go, if she had not already been, straight up to An Morlock and acquaint Rhoda with the events of the night, no doubt pleasantly dressed up.
“She must have seen the Rumseys this morning!”
He hesitated for a moment, and then turned to go straight up to An Morlock.
“I’ll go and tell Penwynn all about it.”
“Pooh! Absurd,” he cried. “What’s come to me? Am I to go and deny a scandal before I have been accused by my friends? Ridiculous.”
Laughing at himself for what he called his folly, he went right off along the cliff, looking with pride at the smoking of the Wheal Carnac chimney shaft, and pausing for a moment or two, with a smile of gratification upon his lips, to watch the busy figures about the buildings and to listen to the rattle and noise of the machinery.
Going on, he came to the slope down from the cliff path to the beach, and he could not help a shudder as he saw how dangerous it was even by daylight.
“I wonder we did not break our necks,” he thought, as he went cautiously down, and then amongst the granite boulders and weed-hung masses to where he had leaped in and swum to poor Madge’s help, for there it all was plainly enough—the long spit of rocks running out like a pier, the swirling water, and the waving masses of slimy weed.
“It’s a good job it was night,” he thought. “Hang me, if I shouldn’t have hesitated to dive in now.”
All the same he would not have hesitated a moment; but it was a wild, awesome place, and the chances of a swimmer getting easily ashore, after a dive from the rocks, were not many.
He went on picking his way as nearly as he could to follow the steps taken on the previous night towards the farther sloping path, pausing again as he came opposite to the adit of the old mine up on the cliff.
It was an ugly, low archway, fringed with ferns, and whose interior was glossy with what looked like green metallic tinsel, but proved to be a dark, glistening, wet lichen or moss.
The place, like all others of its kind, had an attraction for Geoffrey, and he went in a short distance to peer forward into the gloom of the narrow passage through the rock, and to listen to the dripping, echoing sounds of the falling water.
It was a part of the working of the old mine, and, doubtless, had been driven in first by the adventurers in search of a vein of tin or copper, after striking which they had sunk the perpendicular shaft on the cliff—the one by the path where he had had his encounter with Pengelly; and, by a little calculation, he reckoned that this adit or passage would be about a hundred yards long.
“I’ll have lights some day, and Pengelly and I will explore it.”
He went no farther, for there was always the danger of coming upon one of the minor shafts, or “winzes” as they were called, which are made for ventilating the mine, and joining the upper and lower galleries together. In this case the winzes would have been full of water, like the great shaft, up to the level of the adit, which would run off the surplus to the beach.
More by force of habit than for any particular reason, he threw a great stone in, to make a crashing noise, which went echoing and reverberating along the dripping passage, and then he went on.
“Poor lass, she would have had a poor chance,” he said, “if she had thrown herself down the old shaft up yonder. I don’t think I dare have dived down there. Nay,” he added, laughing, “I am sure I dare not.”
He went on fast now, noting the difficulties of the pathway up which he had helped Madge in the dark; and then, pausing half-way up to take breath, he uttered an exclamation.
“I shouldn’t have thought it possible,” he said. “Why, it seems almost madness now. Well, I got her there safely, and I have been thanked for my trouble.”
Old Prawle was hanging about, busy, as usual, with a fishing-line, as Geoffrey went down into the Cove, nodded, and tapped gently at the door.
“Well, Bessie,” he said, in his light, cheery way, “how is she?”
“Better, Mr Trethick,” said Bessie coldly; and the bright look passed from his face as he saw the girl’s distant manner.
“Has the doctor been?”
“Yes, Mr Trethick.”
“What does he say?”
“That she is to have perfect rest and quiet.”
“And your mother?”
“Better, sir. Will you speak to her?”
Geoffrey hesitated a moment, and then seeing that Bessie was misinterpreting his looks, he said sharply,—
“Yes, I will;” and following Bessie in, he found the invalid in her old place, airing and burning more things than usual, but there was such a reproachful, piteous look in her eyes, that he was quite taken aback.
“It’s of no use. I can’t argue with them,” thought Geoffrey.
“Here, Mrs Prawle,” he said aloud, “will you kindly see that every thing possible is done for that poor girl. You will be at some expense, of course, till Mrs Mullion and her uncle fetch them home. Take that.”
He laid a five-pound note on the table, and walked straight out, Bessie drawing on one side to let him pass, her face looking cold and thin, and her eyes resting on the floor.
“Pleasant,” muttered Geoffrey, and with an abrupt “Good-morning” he went out to where old Prawle was at work.
“Here, walk part of the way along the cliff with me,” he said. “Come away from the cottage.”
The old man looked up at him from under his shaggy eyebrows, and then followed him for a couple of hundred yards, and stopped.
“Won’t that do?” he said. “Are you going to give me some money for them two?”
“I’ve left five pounds with your wife,” said Geoffrey, sharply.
“Oh, come, that’s handsome,” said the old man. “But you couldn’t have done less.”
“Look here,” said Geoffrey, sharply, “you know what I told you last night.”
“Yes, I know,” said the old man, grimly.
“You tell them the same. I couldn’t talk to them. Undeceive them about it, and be kind to the poor lass. I’ll do all I can for you, Prawle, about the shares.”
The old man nodded and uttered a growl that might have been “All right,” or “Thanks,” or any thing else, and then Geoffrey went on towards Carnac.
“Tell them the same,” said the rugged old fellow, with a grim chuckle. “Why, I might preach to ’em for a month, and then they wouldn’t believe it any more than I could myself.”
Pengelly was anxiously awaiting his principal at the mine, ready to lay certain reports before him about the drive that was being made, and he did it all in so stern and distant a way that Geoffrey could not help seeing that his right-hand man had heard the report, and, what was more, believed it. The result was that it raised up a spirit of resentment in the young man’s breast that made him retire within himself snail fashion; but with this difference, that he left his horns pointing menacingly outside; and for the rest of that day he was not a pleasant person to consult upon any matter.
For in spite of the contempt with which he treated the whole affair, and his determination to completely ignore the matter, it was always torturing him, and there was the constant thought in his mind that Rhoda must sooner or later hear of it, if she had not already been apprised by Miss Pavey or some other tattling friend.
“Let them. If she’s the woman I believe her, she’ll write to me in a quiet indirect way, not referring to it, of course, but to let me see her confidence in me is not shaken.”
The amount of work he got through on that day was tremendous, and as he worked his spirits rose. He strengthened his plans for guarding against the breaking in of the sea; and at last, completely fagged out, he ascended from the mine, changed, and washed in the office, and, without speaking to Pengelly, went straight to Dr Rumsey’s.
The doctor saw him coming, and came to the door.
“Find you apartments, Mr Trethick?” he said, coldly. “In an ordinary way it would be impossible. Under the present circumstances it is doubly so.”
“Very good,” said Geoffrey, sharply. “You persist, then, in believing that?”
“I would rather not discuss the matter, Mr Trethick,” said the doctor. “Good evening.”
“I must go to the hotel, then, that’s all,” said Geoffrey to himself. “Confound them all! They will find that I’ve Cornish blood in my veins, and can be as pig-headed in obstinacy as the best.”
Chapter Forty.Something Wrong.They were civil enough to him at the hotel, but Geoffrey could not help noticing that there was a peculiar something in his reception.Of course it was strange his going there, and it led to talking about him; of this he could not help feeling sure.“Let them talk,” he muttered, “if it pleases them;” and, after a late dinner, and spending an hour or two in writing, he made up his mind to go to bed and have a good night’s rest, to make up for the losses of the previous night.He felt that he would like to know how old Mr Paul was, but he could not send or ask with any degree of comfort, so he went to bed at ten.But it was not to rest. His nerves had been so unduly excited by the events of the past twenty-four hours that, try how he would, he could not get to sleep.As a rule, strong, healthy, and hearty, no sooner was his head upon his pillow than he dropped off into a deep slumber. But this night his mind was in a continuous whirl. He tossed, he turned, got up and bathed his beating temples and burning forehead, scrubbed himself with a towel, and lay down again, but there was no sleep.Now he was following poor Madge along the cliff, and plunging into the sea to save her. Then he was facing Bessie Prawle, whose eyes looked reproachfully at him. Again, he would be back at the cottage going through that pitiful scene with poor old Mr Paul; and when at last he succeeded in dismissing that from his mind, he was haunted by the face of Rhoda gazing at him with such a look of scorn and contempt that he was obliged to sit up in bed to make sure it was not real.“Upsets a man’s nerves, no matter how strong he may be,” argued Geoffrey; and he once more threw himself down, wishing that he was back at the cottage, for, as it was comparatively early, there were noises in the hotel that helped to keep him awake.At last, about midnight, he seemed to have successfully laid the whole of the unrestful spirits that had been haunting him, and, feeling calmer, he uttered a sigh of satisfaction, and felt that he was going now to enjoy his well-earned rest, when a fresh thought leaped to his brain, and that was about Wheal Carnac.He had been down the mine that evening, and every thing was progressing admirably. The machinery was in perfect order, the men settling down more and more to their work, and they were in a high state of delight at the success that had attended Pengelly’s investigations. Why then should he trouble himself about Wheal Carnac?He argued with himself that it was imagination, due to the excited state of his nerves and the worries of the day. He felt that it was that; but, in spite of his reasoning, he could not rest. Sleep seemed to be out of the question, and yet he would be terribly unfit for the next day’s work.At last he could bear it no longer, and, feeling that rest would not come unless he could satisfy himself that the place was safe, he got up and dressed.“I’m growing a wise man,” he said, mockingly. “I wonder whether any one has run away with the mine? Perhaps there is a burglary on, and they are breaking into the boiler.”At the same time he felt that a walk in the cool night air would calm his nerves, and he prepared to descend, when a new difficulty assailed him.It was past midnight now, every one in the place had retired, and no doubt he would have some difficulty in getting out.“I say the people here are mad,” he thought; “they will think me mad. Well, let them.”He went down as cautiously as he could, and found that his difficulty about getting out was only imaginary, for the door was easily opened, and, as he closed it behind him, and felt the cool night air upon his forehead, he uttered a sigh of relief.His plans were soon made; he would go first to Pengelly, and knock him up and hear his report: for the manager was going to stay there a couple or three hours after his superior had left the mine.He felt some compunction in this; but he knew Pengelly’s interest in the works, and how willing he would be to answer questions; so he walked on, thinking over two or three plans which he had been revolving in his mind to propose to Mr Penwynn for Pengelly’s benefit, and as a reward for his discovery.Every thing was very still under the brilliant starlit sky, and as Geoffrey reached the narrow lane where Pengelly lived, he again felt some little compunction at arousing him; but, as he had gone so far, he determined to proceed.The slight tap he gave on the door was quite sufficient to waken the miner, and Geoffrey plainly heard him leap out of bed. The next moment the casement just above his head was opened.“What’s the matter?” he said quickly.“Nothing, I hope, Pengelly.”“Oh, it’s you, sir!”“Yes, it is I, Pengelly. Tell me, did you leave all right?”“Yes, sir; quite right.”“At what time?”“I was there till nine, sir. Have you been since?”“No, Pengelly; but I have got an uneasy feeling upon me that something might be wrong. I couldn’t sleep, so I came on to you.”“Guilty conscience,” thought Pengelly.“I think,” continued Geoffrey, “I’ll walk on down there to see if every thing is right. Good-night.”“No, sir, stop a minute, and I’ll come too.”Geoffrey protested, but as he protested Pengelly jumped into his flannel trousers and frock, and in the time that a modern gentleman would have taken to unbutton his eyelids and think about his bath, the miner was dressed and coming down.“It’s a shame to rouse you up, Pengelly, about such a fancy as mine,” said Geoffrey. “I was restless, and that made me fidget about the mine.”“Well, sir, she’s worth fidgetting about,” said Pengelly. “Let’s go down. It won’t do any harm. There’s the two engine-men on, and it will show them that we may we expected at any time, and teach them their duty.”Geoffrey longed to say something in his own defence to the miner, as they went along under the starlit sky, but his pride kept him silent; and, gradually growing calmer and at his ease as the fresh breeze from the sea blew upon his face, they went on and on till they began climbing the rugged path to where the engine-house stood up dim and gaunt against the sky, with its lit-up windows and door having a grotesque resemblance to the face of some fiery monster, who was uttering a low, panting roar.They found the engine steadily working, raising and lowering the enormous rod of the series of pumps, and a steady, rushing noise told that the water was running fast.“They’re both fast asleep,” said Pengelly. “Hallo! who’s that?”“Where?” said Geoffrey. “I don’t see any one.”“I’d be sworn I saw some one go away,” exclaimed Pengelly, leaping forward, but only to return to where Geoffrey stood.“I expect it was fancy, sir; but let’s go and rouse them up. They’ve no business to be asleep.”He led the way into the engine-house, where, by the glow from the stoke-hole fire, the two men on duty could be seen lying back on the stone bench that formed their seat, fast asleep; and, though Pengelly shook them again and again, he could only evoke a deep stertorous snore from each in turn.“I don’t like this, sir,” said Pengelly. “Let’s take a look round.”Geoffrey took a lantern from a rough shelf, and together they visited office, stables, and the various buildings, ending by going towards the shaft, when Pengelly suddenly uttered a cry.“What’s wrong?” cried Geoffrey, excitedly, though the knowledge had come to him at the same moment as to his man.“She’s burst in, sir. Oh, listen! She’s burst in!”And as Geoffrey bent over the shaft, the fearful sound of the rushing water flooding the mine rose from the echoing depths upon his ear.Stunned by the nature of the catastrophe, Geoffrey Trethick stood clutching the framework of the shaft, and leaned over listening to the surging roar of the water as it seemed to him to come bursting up through the winzes in fountains and rushing in triumph through each gallery and drive.As for Pengelly, he had thrown himself upon the ground, and for a time neither spoke.“Is this treachery or accident, Pengelly?” cried Trethick at last in a hoarse, changed voice.“Call it judgment, sir—call it judgment,” groaned the miner. “If we sin, the punishment must find us out.”“Pengelly?” cried Geoffrey, as he turned upon him in his rage. “There, I cannot argue with you now. What can we do?”“Do!” cried Pengelly, piteously. “Do nothing. What can we do but pray and ask for mercy and help, sir, from above.”“Help!” cried Geoffrey. “God helps those who help themselves. Let us be up and doing, man alive.”“It’s no time to be up and doing now, sir,” replied Pengelly solemnly. “Listen, sir; do you hear? Hark at the water, as if the fountains of the great deep were broken up. Mr Trethick, sir,” he continued, incongruously, “we may stop the engine, for a dozen such could not master the water gathering there.”“The wall was too thin to stand the pressure,” groaned Geoffrey, “and yet it seemed so safe. Is it possible that any tricks can have been played with the mine? Yes; I see it now,” he cried passionately. “That man you saw—those two fellows drunk—yes, of course. Look! the cage is down. Some one must have gone below to-night.”Pengelly, roused by his companion’s words, seemed now to grasp their meaning, and, gazing from Geoffrey to the space where the cage should have been, he ran into the engine-house, and, turning the bars, threw the wheels in gear, when, after what seemed to be an interminable space of time, the dripping cage came up empty to the mouth.“Some one has, been down,” said Pengelly, hoarsely; “but whoever it was has not come up;” and without another word, the miner walked slowly back into the engine-house, sat down, and buried his face in his hands.For a time Geoffrey stood there, holding by the iron rail that protected the shaft, listening to the rushing water, for even yet he could hardly realise the appalling nature of the affair. A short time back it would have been a very serious loss! but now, just as prosperity in fullest tide had come upon them, sweeping away all doubts and fears, the calamity seemed greater than he could bear.And Rhoda? Mr Penwynn? What was he to say to them?Well, the former would pity and sympathise, and he must begin again.The latter would help him no more.It was horrible, and if he could only bring it home—He shuddered, for he recalled Pengelly’s words.Perhaps the cause of that mischief was below.Then, like an icy blast, came the recollection of that other trouble—the suspicion that had been laid at his door; but he laughed that off with contempt, and turning at last, he followed Pengelly into the engine-house, where the fire burned ruddily, the two men slept, and, as if in mockery, the vast engine kept up its solemn, heavy thump, bent, apparently now, so Geoffrey thought, upon the task of pumping the Atlantic Ocean dry.“Blow off the steam, man; throw open the furnace bars,” cried Geoffrey, suddenly, “and stop that cursed engine clank. The game’s up for the present. I’m going home to bed.”Even as he spoke the words he recalled that he had no home, and Pengelly laid his hand upon his arm.“I’ll do your orders, master,” he said sadly, “and then I’m going back to pray, for it’s a judgment on us, master, a judgment for our sins.”He was about to sayyou, for in his simple breast the poor fellow believed the tale that was the talk of the little place.“But he’s my master,” he had said; “and I’ll serve him true, for who knows but what I may some day make him sorrow for his sin, and see the light.”Geoffrey turned upon him angrily, but Pengelly’s face disarmed him; and as the miner obeyed his orders and the clank of the great pump ceased, he threw himself upon the stone bench, and, staring in at the flaming furnace-fire, asked himself how he was to face the coming day.
They were civil enough to him at the hotel, but Geoffrey could not help noticing that there was a peculiar something in his reception.
Of course it was strange his going there, and it led to talking about him; of this he could not help feeling sure.
“Let them talk,” he muttered, “if it pleases them;” and, after a late dinner, and spending an hour or two in writing, he made up his mind to go to bed and have a good night’s rest, to make up for the losses of the previous night.
He felt that he would like to know how old Mr Paul was, but he could not send or ask with any degree of comfort, so he went to bed at ten.
But it was not to rest. His nerves had been so unduly excited by the events of the past twenty-four hours that, try how he would, he could not get to sleep.
As a rule, strong, healthy, and hearty, no sooner was his head upon his pillow than he dropped off into a deep slumber. But this night his mind was in a continuous whirl. He tossed, he turned, got up and bathed his beating temples and burning forehead, scrubbed himself with a towel, and lay down again, but there was no sleep.
Now he was following poor Madge along the cliff, and plunging into the sea to save her. Then he was facing Bessie Prawle, whose eyes looked reproachfully at him. Again, he would be back at the cottage going through that pitiful scene with poor old Mr Paul; and when at last he succeeded in dismissing that from his mind, he was haunted by the face of Rhoda gazing at him with such a look of scorn and contempt that he was obliged to sit up in bed to make sure it was not real.
“Upsets a man’s nerves, no matter how strong he may be,” argued Geoffrey; and he once more threw himself down, wishing that he was back at the cottage, for, as it was comparatively early, there were noises in the hotel that helped to keep him awake.
At last, about midnight, he seemed to have successfully laid the whole of the unrestful spirits that had been haunting him, and, feeling calmer, he uttered a sigh of satisfaction, and felt that he was going now to enjoy his well-earned rest, when a fresh thought leaped to his brain, and that was about Wheal Carnac.
He had been down the mine that evening, and every thing was progressing admirably. The machinery was in perfect order, the men settling down more and more to their work, and they were in a high state of delight at the success that had attended Pengelly’s investigations. Why then should he trouble himself about Wheal Carnac?
He argued with himself that it was imagination, due to the excited state of his nerves and the worries of the day. He felt that it was that; but, in spite of his reasoning, he could not rest. Sleep seemed to be out of the question, and yet he would be terribly unfit for the next day’s work.
At last he could bear it no longer, and, feeling that rest would not come unless he could satisfy himself that the place was safe, he got up and dressed.
“I’m growing a wise man,” he said, mockingly. “I wonder whether any one has run away with the mine? Perhaps there is a burglary on, and they are breaking into the boiler.”
At the same time he felt that a walk in the cool night air would calm his nerves, and he prepared to descend, when a new difficulty assailed him.
It was past midnight now, every one in the place had retired, and no doubt he would have some difficulty in getting out.
“I say the people here are mad,” he thought; “they will think me mad. Well, let them.”
He went down as cautiously as he could, and found that his difficulty about getting out was only imaginary, for the door was easily opened, and, as he closed it behind him, and felt the cool night air upon his forehead, he uttered a sigh of relief.
His plans were soon made; he would go first to Pengelly, and knock him up and hear his report: for the manager was going to stay there a couple or three hours after his superior had left the mine.
He felt some compunction in this; but he knew Pengelly’s interest in the works, and how willing he would be to answer questions; so he walked on, thinking over two or three plans which he had been revolving in his mind to propose to Mr Penwynn for Pengelly’s benefit, and as a reward for his discovery.
Every thing was very still under the brilliant starlit sky, and as Geoffrey reached the narrow lane where Pengelly lived, he again felt some little compunction at arousing him; but, as he had gone so far, he determined to proceed.
The slight tap he gave on the door was quite sufficient to waken the miner, and Geoffrey plainly heard him leap out of bed. The next moment the casement just above his head was opened.
“What’s the matter?” he said quickly.
“Nothing, I hope, Pengelly.”
“Oh, it’s you, sir!”
“Yes, it is I, Pengelly. Tell me, did you leave all right?”
“Yes, sir; quite right.”
“At what time?”
“I was there till nine, sir. Have you been since?”
“No, Pengelly; but I have got an uneasy feeling upon me that something might be wrong. I couldn’t sleep, so I came on to you.”
“Guilty conscience,” thought Pengelly.
“I think,” continued Geoffrey, “I’ll walk on down there to see if every thing is right. Good-night.”
“No, sir, stop a minute, and I’ll come too.”
Geoffrey protested, but as he protested Pengelly jumped into his flannel trousers and frock, and in the time that a modern gentleman would have taken to unbutton his eyelids and think about his bath, the miner was dressed and coming down.
“It’s a shame to rouse you up, Pengelly, about such a fancy as mine,” said Geoffrey. “I was restless, and that made me fidget about the mine.”
“Well, sir, she’s worth fidgetting about,” said Pengelly. “Let’s go down. It won’t do any harm. There’s the two engine-men on, and it will show them that we may we expected at any time, and teach them their duty.”
Geoffrey longed to say something in his own defence to the miner, as they went along under the starlit sky, but his pride kept him silent; and, gradually growing calmer and at his ease as the fresh breeze from the sea blew upon his face, they went on and on till they began climbing the rugged path to where the engine-house stood up dim and gaunt against the sky, with its lit-up windows and door having a grotesque resemblance to the face of some fiery monster, who was uttering a low, panting roar.
They found the engine steadily working, raising and lowering the enormous rod of the series of pumps, and a steady, rushing noise told that the water was running fast.
“They’re both fast asleep,” said Pengelly. “Hallo! who’s that?”
“Where?” said Geoffrey. “I don’t see any one.”
“I’d be sworn I saw some one go away,” exclaimed Pengelly, leaping forward, but only to return to where Geoffrey stood.
“I expect it was fancy, sir; but let’s go and rouse them up. They’ve no business to be asleep.”
He led the way into the engine-house, where, by the glow from the stoke-hole fire, the two men on duty could be seen lying back on the stone bench that formed their seat, fast asleep; and, though Pengelly shook them again and again, he could only evoke a deep stertorous snore from each in turn.
“I don’t like this, sir,” said Pengelly. “Let’s take a look round.”
Geoffrey took a lantern from a rough shelf, and together they visited office, stables, and the various buildings, ending by going towards the shaft, when Pengelly suddenly uttered a cry.
“What’s wrong?” cried Geoffrey, excitedly, though the knowledge had come to him at the same moment as to his man.
“She’s burst in, sir. Oh, listen! She’s burst in!”
And as Geoffrey bent over the shaft, the fearful sound of the rushing water flooding the mine rose from the echoing depths upon his ear.
Stunned by the nature of the catastrophe, Geoffrey Trethick stood clutching the framework of the shaft, and leaned over listening to the surging roar of the water as it seemed to him to come bursting up through the winzes in fountains and rushing in triumph through each gallery and drive.
As for Pengelly, he had thrown himself upon the ground, and for a time neither spoke.
“Is this treachery or accident, Pengelly?” cried Trethick at last in a hoarse, changed voice.
“Call it judgment, sir—call it judgment,” groaned the miner. “If we sin, the punishment must find us out.”
“Pengelly?” cried Geoffrey, as he turned upon him in his rage. “There, I cannot argue with you now. What can we do?”
“Do!” cried Pengelly, piteously. “Do nothing. What can we do but pray and ask for mercy and help, sir, from above.”
“Help!” cried Geoffrey. “God helps those who help themselves. Let us be up and doing, man alive.”
“It’s no time to be up and doing now, sir,” replied Pengelly solemnly. “Listen, sir; do you hear? Hark at the water, as if the fountains of the great deep were broken up. Mr Trethick, sir,” he continued, incongruously, “we may stop the engine, for a dozen such could not master the water gathering there.”
“The wall was too thin to stand the pressure,” groaned Geoffrey, “and yet it seemed so safe. Is it possible that any tricks can have been played with the mine? Yes; I see it now,” he cried passionately. “That man you saw—those two fellows drunk—yes, of course. Look! the cage is down. Some one must have gone below to-night.”
Pengelly, roused by his companion’s words, seemed now to grasp their meaning, and, gazing from Geoffrey to the space where the cage should have been, he ran into the engine-house, and, turning the bars, threw the wheels in gear, when, after what seemed to be an interminable space of time, the dripping cage came up empty to the mouth.
“Some one has, been down,” said Pengelly, hoarsely; “but whoever it was has not come up;” and without another word, the miner walked slowly back into the engine-house, sat down, and buried his face in his hands.
For a time Geoffrey stood there, holding by the iron rail that protected the shaft, listening to the rushing water, for even yet he could hardly realise the appalling nature of the affair. A short time back it would have been a very serious loss! but now, just as prosperity in fullest tide had come upon them, sweeping away all doubts and fears, the calamity seemed greater than he could bear.
And Rhoda? Mr Penwynn? What was he to say to them?
Well, the former would pity and sympathise, and he must begin again.
The latter would help him no more.
It was horrible, and if he could only bring it home—
He shuddered, for he recalled Pengelly’s words.
Perhaps the cause of that mischief was below.
Then, like an icy blast, came the recollection of that other trouble—the suspicion that had been laid at his door; but he laughed that off with contempt, and turning at last, he followed Pengelly into the engine-house, where the fire burned ruddily, the two men slept, and, as if in mockery, the vast engine kept up its solemn, heavy thump, bent, apparently now, so Geoffrey thought, upon the task of pumping the Atlantic Ocean dry.
“Blow off the steam, man; throw open the furnace bars,” cried Geoffrey, suddenly, “and stop that cursed engine clank. The game’s up for the present. I’m going home to bed.”
Even as he spoke the words he recalled that he had no home, and Pengelly laid his hand upon his arm.
“I’ll do your orders, master,” he said sadly, “and then I’m going back to pray, for it’s a judgment on us, master, a judgment for our sins.”
He was about to sayyou, for in his simple breast the poor fellow believed the tale that was the talk of the little place.
“But he’s my master,” he had said; “and I’ll serve him true, for who knows but what I may some day make him sorrow for his sin, and see the light.”
Geoffrey turned upon him angrily, but Pengelly’s face disarmed him; and as the miner obeyed his orders and the clank of the great pump ceased, he threw himself upon the stone bench, and, staring in at the flaming furnace-fire, asked himself how he was to face the coming day.