Chapter Twenty Two.A Business Interview.“Ah, Mr Trethick!” said the banker, quietly, as Geoffrey was ushered into his handsome study, crammed with books that he seldom read, “I hope I have not brought you up from any important engagement.”“Well, yes, I was going to be very busy,” said Geoffrey, “I had an appointment on the cliff.”“I am very sorry,” said the banker, “I thought—”“That I had nothing to do, and would come down directly. You were quite right, sir, and here I am.”“But your engagement?”“Was with myself—to go and loaf about and stare down deserted mine shafts, and growl at the obstinacy of proprietors who refuse to be made rich.”Mr Penwynn had begun to look disappointed; he now brightened a little.“You are quite at liberty then, Mr Trethick?”“Quite, sir.”“And willing to earn a few guineas?”“Most willing, sir. When shall I begin? I’m growing rusty from disuse.”Mr Penwynn sat thinking for a few moments, gazing at Geoffrey, and then he began,—“Rundell and Sharp spoke most highly of you, Mr Trethick.”“I thank them for their good opinion, sir.”“They said that you were a man most thoroughly to be trusted, and that you were conscientious to a degree.”“Indeed, sir,” said Geoffrey, sharply. “When did they say that?”Mr Penwynn was a little taken aback, but he recovered himself, and said with a smile,—“In a letter that I have received from them.”“Then you have been writing to make further inquiries about me, Mr Penwynn.”“Well—yes, I have.”“Good!” said Geoffrey, quietly. “Then I presume you are satisfied, Mr Penwynn?”“Yes, I am,” was the reply, “and on the strength of their recommendations I am about to try and throw something—just a trifle—in your way.”“Mining, I hope?”“Yes, Mr Trethick, mining; but on one condition.”“And what is that, Mr Penwynn?”“That I have your whole and sole effort to work for my interest to the best of your ability.”“Why, of course, sir,” said Geoffrey, “I should be taking your pay.”“Yes, Mr Trethick; but I have known cases where a man takes pay from one employer, and works in the interest of another.”“Mr Penwynn!”“I don’t for a moment hint that you would do such a thing, Mr Trethick. I merely say to you, I trust you to do for me the best you can, and not let yourself be tempted away from the path of rectitude by any of the scoundrels you may encounter.”“Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, warmly, “you ought not to speak to me like that after the letter you say you have had. But now, sir, suppose we proceed to business?”“Exactly?” said Mr Penwynn, drawing his chair a little nearer.“The fact is, Mr Trethick—this in confidence, mind, and for the present I don’t want to appear in the matter at all—I have been offered at a price a mine over which two or three companies have failed. I want to know whether it is worth my while to buy that mine, and I am going to act upon your Report.”“A tin-mine?” said Geoffrey.“Yes; a disused mine.”“Not Wheal Carnac?”“Yes, Wheal Carnac,” said Mr Penwynn, starting. “What of it?”“Buy it!” said Geoffrey, sharply.“Buy it?” said Mr Penwynn, frowning. “What do you mean?”“What I say,” said Geoffrey, eagerly; “buy it.”“You are not long in giving in a report, Mr Trethick,” said the banker, suspiciously. “May I ask what you know of Wheal Carnac?”“More than you suppose, sir,” was the reply. “I have been looking about that place a good deal, and I am of opinion that with capital I could make it pay.”“Oh, yes! so I suppose,” said the banker; “but you are going much too fast, Mr Trethick. What I want to know is whether the mine is worth buying at a price.”“What price?” exclaimed Geoffrey.Mr Penwynn hesitated, bit his nails, tapped the table, and looked again and again at his companion’s searching eyes.“Well,” he said at last—“this is in confidence, Mr Trethick—eight hundred pounds!”“Why the land’s worth it,” cried Geoffrey; “there can be no doubt about that.”“Possibly,” said Mr Penwynn.“The buildings—the material,” cried Geoffrey. “Why really, Mr Penwynn, I could give you a decisive answer at once. The place is worth buying.”The banker sat gazing at him in a curious, searching way, and he made no reply for a few minutes; but it was evident that he was a little infected by Geoffrey’s enthusiasm.“Are you willing to go down the mine as far as you can go, Mr Trethick—I mean for water—and to see what tokens you can find of tin ore?”“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “I’ll go down again if you like.”“Again?”“Yes; I’ve been down as far as I could go.”“You have, Mr Trethick?”“Yes, sir,” said Geoffrey, smiling, “I have.”“But right down to the water?”“Right down into it, sir,” replied Geoffrey, laughing. “I had a regular ducking, for my companion let the rope slip.”“Do you mean to tell me, Mr Trethick, that you made the descent of Wheal Carnac?”“To be sure I do, sir. Look here, Mr Penwynn, I took rather a fancy to that place. Every thing is so thorough and well done. Then I met with a rough mining fellow, one Amos Pengelly. Know him?”Mr Penwynn nodded.“He is sanguine about the mine, and asked me to examine it. I did so as far as I could, and then one night we procured a rope, and I rigged up a ship’s block on a stoutish cross-beam, took a lantern, and Pengelly let me down.”“By himself?”“Oh, yes! sir; he’s as strong as a horse. But he did duck me.”“Mr Trethick,” said the banker, pulling out his pocket-handkerchief, “do you mean to tell me that you trusted to one man to lower you down that pit?”“I do, Mr Penwynn, and a precious black pit it is; and, as I tell you, he let me down rather too far, but not till I had had a good look round.”“And what did you discover?” said the banker, wiping the palms of his wet hands.“Nothing,” said Geoffrey, bluntly. “No more than I could find out on the heap ofdébris. No thorough examination could be made without the mine were pumped out.”“And that would cost?—”“Fifty or a hundred pounds, perhaps two,” said Geoffrey. “Principally for carriage of pumping apparatus, fixing, and taking down again.”“You have been thoroughly into the matter, then,” said Mr Penwynn, who was growing more and more interested.“Thoroughly,” said Geoffrey, bluntly, “I don’t play with what I take up, sir.”The banker shifted his position, got up, walked about the room, sat down again, and began tapping the table with his fingers.“Will you have a cigar, Mr Trethick?” he said, unlocking a drawer.“Thanks, no,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t smoke over business.”There was another pause, during which Geoffrey sat patiently awaiting the banker’s orders, while that gentleman was evidently turning the affair well over in his mind.At last he spoke.“Mr Trethick,” he said, “what remuneration should you ask to undertake to examine that mine?”“Can’t be done without pumping out, sir.”“Supposing I place the necessary funds at your disposal?”Geoffrey drew his chair closer.“Do you mean this, Mr Penwynn?”“I never joke over business-matters, Mr Trethick,” said the banker.“Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, rising, and by his words chasing away from the banker’s mind any lingering doubt of his energy, “I have so much faith in making that mine pay, that I’ll do what you ask for nothing, but be content with a percentage on future profits.”“No, Mr Trethick, I never work in that way,” said Mr Penwynn. “I ask your services on what I suppose to be a fortnight or three weeks’ task. I want your best energies, and a truthful and just report, not highly coloured, rather the reverse. If you will do this for me, I will give you a fee of five-and-twenty guineas. Will that do?”“Do? Yes!” cried Geoffrey, flushing. “When shall I begin?”“When you please,” said the banker, smiling at his earnestness.“And you place funds at my disposal?”“Yes, to the amount of a hundred pounds. If that is not enough, you may spend another fifty. Then stop. But mind you are doing this under orders. I do not wish to appear in the matter yet. If it were known that I was going in for such a mad venture, as people would call it, I should lose all credit in the place. Not that it would much matter,” he added, with a contemptuous smile. “Well, Mr Trethick, shall we draw up a memorandum to the effect that you will give me your best services in this commission? I trust to you, implicitly.”“If you like,” said Geoffrey, grimly, as he once more rose and took an excited stride up and down the room. “Mr Penwynn,” he exclaimed, stopping short before the banker, “you have given me new life in this display of confidence. There’s my memorandum and bond, sir,” he cried, stretching out his broad, firm hand, and gripping that of the banker. “You sha’n’t repent it, come what may.”“I hope not, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling, “but time tries all.”“Oh, no!” said Geoffrey, sharply. “That’s an old saw, and I put no faith in saws. Time will try me, Mr Penwynn; there’s no doubt of that. And now I’m off.”“It’s close upon one o’clock,” said Mr Penwynn, glancing at his watch. “You’ll stay and have lunch?”“No, thanks,” said Geoffrey; “I’m going to work off some of this rust. But how am I to let you know how I am getting on?”“Don’t you trouble about that,” said Mr Penwynn, laughing. “You don’t know Carnac yet. Why, every step you take will be known all over the place, and people will be asking what madman is finding the money.”“I see,” said Geoffrey, nodding.“Give me a written report when you have done. Mr Chynoweth shall send you a cheque-book, and your cheques will be honoured to the sum I name.”Geoffrey looked him full in the eyes for a moment or two longer, and then strode off, Rhoda, who was at the window, seeing him pass, evidently deeply intent upon something, for he paid no heed to her, but made straight for Horton mine to see Pengelly, while Mr Penwynn walked up and down his study with a satisfied air, as if he considered that he had done a good morning’s work.“He’s the right man,” he said, rubbing his hands. “He’s as true as steel!”Putting on his hat, he walked down to the office, he knew not why, but taking a deeper interest in the affair each moment, and passing Tregenna on the opposite side of the way.“Send Mr Geoffrey Trethick a cheque-book, Chynoweth,” he said, as he entered his office, and spoiled a most interesting game of whist.Mr Chynoweth took down his slate, and made an entry.“Honour his cheques to the amount of a hundred and fifty.”This entry was also made upon the slate, and Mr Penwynn walked back to his lunch.Mr Chynoweth became thoughtful. He had played out a hand at whist in his desk that morning; and he had written an offer of marriage to Miss Pavey, who had won five and sixpence of him the previous night at whist; but this was a very important matter, and thinking that he could remain a bachelor a little longer, he took out his letter, opened, read it, sighed, and, striking a match, carefully burned it on the hearth.“Tregenna here—Trethick to draw cheques—what’s that mean?” said Mr Chynoweth, thoughtfully. “What does the governor mean by that? I hope he is not going in for mining. If he is—”He paused for a few moments.“I wouldn’t bet a crown he is not going to try Wheal Carnac.”
“Ah, Mr Trethick!” said the banker, quietly, as Geoffrey was ushered into his handsome study, crammed with books that he seldom read, “I hope I have not brought you up from any important engagement.”
“Well, yes, I was going to be very busy,” said Geoffrey, “I had an appointment on the cliff.”
“I am very sorry,” said the banker, “I thought—”
“That I had nothing to do, and would come down directly. You were quite right, sir, and here I am.”
“But your engagement?”
“Was with myself—to go and loaf about and stare down deserted mine shafts, and growl at the obstinacy of proprietors who refuse to be made rich.”
Mr Penwynn had begun to look disappointed; he now brightened a little.
“You are quite at liberty then, Mr Trethick?”
“Quite, sir.”
“And willing to earn a few guineas?”
“Most willing, sir. When shall I begin? I’m growing rusty from disuse.”
Mr Penwynn sat thinking for a few moments, gazing at Geoffrey, and then he began,—
“Rundell and Sharp spoke most highly of you, Mr Trethick.”
“I thank them for their good opinion, sir.”
“They said that you were a man most thoroughly to be trusted, and that you were conscientious to a degree.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Geoffrey, sharply. “When did they say that?”
Mr Penwynn was a little taken aback, but he recovered himself, and said with a smile,—
“In a letter that I have received from them.”
“Then you have been writing to make further inquiries about me, Mr Penwynn.”
“Well—yes, I have.”
“Good!” said Geoffrey, quietly. “Then I presume you are satisfied, Mr Penwynn?”
“Yes, I am,” was the reply, “and on the strength of their recommendations I am about to try and throw something—just a trifle—in your way.”
“Mining, I hope?”
“Yes, Mr Trethick, mining; but on one condition.”
“And what is that, Mr Penwynn?”
“That I have your whole and sole effort to work for my interest to the best of your ability.”
“Why, of course, sir,” said Geoffrey, “I should be taking your pay.”
“Yes, Mr Trethick; but I have known cases where a man takes pay from one employer, and works in the interest of another.”
“Mr Penwynn!”
“I don’t for a moment hint that you would do such a thing, Mr Trethick. I merely say to you, I trust you to do for me the best you can, and not let yourself be tempted away from the path of rectitude by any of the scoundrels you may encounter.”
“Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, warmly, “you ought not to speak to me like that after the letter you say you have had. But now, sir, suppose we proceed to business?”
“Exactly?” said Mr Penwynn, drawing his chair a little nearer.
“The fact is, Mr Trethick—this in confidence, mind, and for the present I don’t want to appear in the matter at all—I have been offered at a price a mine over which two or three companies have failed. I want to know whether it is worth my while to buy that mine, and I am going to act upon your Report.”
“A tin-mine?” said Geoffrey.
“Yes; a disused mine.”
“Not Wheal Carnac?”
“Yes, Wheal Carnac,” said Mr Penwynn, starting. “What of it?”
“Buy it!” said Geoffrey, sharply.
“Buy it?” said Mr Penwynn, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“What I say,” said Geoffrey, eagerly; “buy it.”
“You are not long in giving in a report, Mr Trethick,” said the banker, suspiciously. “May I ask what you know of Wheal Carnac?”
“More than you suppose, sir,” was the reply. “I have been looking about that place a good deal, and I am of opinion that with capital I could make it pay.”
“Oh, yes! so I suppose,” said the banker; “but you are going much too fast, Mr Trethick. What I want to know is whether the mine is worth buying at a price.”
“What price?” exclaimed Geoffrey.
Mr Penwynn hesitated, bit his nails, tapped the table, and looked again and again at his companion’s searching eyes.
“Well,” he said at last—“this is in confidence, Mr Trethick—eight hundred pounds!”
“Why the land’s worth it,” cried Geoffrey; “there can be no doubt about that.”
“Possibly,” said Mr Penwynn.
“The buildings—the material,” cried Geoffrey. “Why really, Mr Penwynn, I could give you a decisive answer at once. The place is worth buying.”
The banker sat gazing at him in a curious, searching way, and he made no reply for a few minutes; but it was evident that he was a little infected by Geoffrey’s enthusiasm.
“Are you willing to go down the mine as far as you can go, Mr Trethick—I mean for water—and to see what tokens you can find of tin ore?”
“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “I’ll go down again if you like.”
“Again?”
“Yes; I’ve been down as far as I could go.”
“You have, Mr Trethick?”
“Yes, sir,” said Geoffrey, smiling, “I have.”
“But right down to the water?”
“Right down into it, sir,” replied Geoffrey, laughing. “I had a regular ducking, for my companion let the rope slip.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Mr Trethick, that you made the descent of Wheal Carnac?”
“To be sure I do, sir. Look here, Mr Penwynn, I took rather a fancy to that place. Every thing is so thorough and well done. Then I met with a rough mining fellow, one Amos Pengelly. Know him?”
Mr Penwynn nodded.
“He is sanguine about the mine, and asked me to examine it. I did so as far as I could, and then one night we procured a rope, and I rigged up a ship’s block on a stoutish cross-beam, took a lantern, and Pengelly let me down.”
“By himself?”
“Oh, yes! sir; he’s as strong as a horse. But he did duck me.”
“Mr Trethick,” said the banker, pulling out his pocket-handkerchief, “do you mean to tell me that you trusted to one man to lower you down that pit?”
“I do, Mr Penwynn, and a precious black pit it is; and, as I tell you, he let me down rather too far, but not till I had had a good look round.”
“And what did you discover?” said the banker, wiping the palms of his wet hands.
“Nothing,” said Geoffrey, bluntly. “No more than I could find out on the heap ofdébris. No thorough examination could be made without the mine were pumped out.”
“And that would cost?—”
“Fifty or a hundred pounds, perhaps two,” said Geoffrey. “Principally for carriage of pumping apparatus, fixing, and taking down again.”
“You have been thoroughly into the matter, then,” said Mr Penwynn, who was growing more and more interested.
“Thoroughly,” said Geoffrey, bluntly, “I don’t play with what I take up, sir.”
The banker shifted his position, got up, walked about the room, sat down again, and began tapping the table with his fingers.
“Will you have a cigar, Mr Trethick?” he said, unlocking a drawer.
“Thanks, no,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t smoke over business.”
There was another pause, during which Geoffrey sat patiently awaiting the banker’s orders, while that gentleman was evidently turning the affair well over in his mind.
At last he spoke.
“Mr Trethick,” he said, “what remuneration should you ask to undertake to examine that mine?”
“Can’t be done without pumping out, sir.”
“Supposing I place the necessary funds at your disposal?”
Geoffrey drew his chair closer.
“Do you mean this, Mr Penwynn?”
“I never joke over business-matters, Mr Trethick,” said the banker.
“Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, rising, and by his words chasing away from the banker’s mind any lingering doubt of his energy, “I have so much faith in making that mine pay, that I’ll do what you ask for nothing, but be content with a percentage on future profits.”
“No, Mr Trethick, I never work in that way,” said Mr Penwynn. “I ask your services on what I suppose to be a fortnight or three weeks’ task. I want your best energies, and a truthful and just report, not highly coloured, rather the reverse. If you will do this for me, I will give you a fee of five-and-twenty guineas. Will that do?”
“Do? Yes!” cried Geoffrey, flushing. “When shall I begin?”
“When you please,” said the banker, smiling at his earnestness.
“And you place funds at my disposal?”
“Yes, to the amount of a hundred pounds. If that is not enough, you may spend another fifty. Then stop. But mind you are doing this under orders. I do not wish to appear in the matter yet. If it were known that I was going in for such a mad venture, as people would call it, I should lose all credit in the place. Not that it would much matter,” he added, with a contemptuous smile. “Well, Mr Trethick, shall we draw up a memorandum to the effect that you will give me your best services in this commission? I trust to you, implicitly.”
“If you like,” said Geoffrey, grimly, as he once more rose and took an excited stride up and down the room. “Mr Penwynn,” he exclaimed, stopping short before the banker, “you have given me new life in this display of confidence. There’s my memorandum and bond, sir,” he cried, stretching out his broad, firm hand, and gripping that of the banker. “You sha’n’t repent it, come what may.”
“I hope not, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling, “but time tries all.”
“Oh, no!” said Geoffrey, sharply. “That’s an old saw, and I put no faith in saws. Time will try me, Mr Penwynn; there’s no doubt of that. And now I’m off.”
“It’s close upon one o’clock,” said Mr Penwynn, glancing at his watch. “You’ll stay and have lunch?”
“No, thanks,” said Geoffrey; “I’m going to work off some of this rust. But how am I to let you know how I am getting on?”
“Don’t you trouble about that,” said Mr Penwynn, laughing. “You don’t know Carnac yet. Why, every step you take will be known all over the place, and people will be asking what madman is finding the money.”
“I see,” said Geoffrey, nodding.
“Give me a written report when you have done. Mr Chynoweth shall send you a cheque-book, and your cheques will be honoured to the sum I name.”
Geoffrey looked him full in the eyes for a moment or two longer, and then strode off, Rhoda, who was at the window, seeing him pass, evidently deeply intent upon something, for he paid no heed to her, but made straight for Horton mine to see Pengelly, while Mr Penwynn walked up and down his study with a satisfied air, as if he considered that he had done a good morning’s work.
“He’s the right man,” he said, rubbing his hands. “He’s as true as steel!”
Putting on his hat, he walked down to the office, he knew not why, but taking a deeper interest in the affair each moment, and passing Tregenna on the opposite side of the way.
“Send Mr Geoffrey Trethick a cheque-book, Chynoweth,” he said, as he entered his office, and spoiled a most interesting game of whist.
Mr Chynoweth took down his slate, and made an entry.
“Honour his cheques to the amount of a hundred and fifty.”
This entry was also made upon the slate, and Mr Penwynn walked back to his lunch.
Mr Chynoweth became thoughtful. He had played out a hand at whist in his desk that morning; and he had written an offer of marriage to Miss Pavey, who had won five and sixpence of him the previous night at whist; but this was a very important matter, and thinking that he could remain a bachelor a little longer, he took out his letter, opened, read it, sighed, and, striking a match, carefully burned it on the hearth.
“Tregenna here—Trethick to draw cheques—what’s that mean?” said Mr Chynoweth, thoughtfully. “What does the governor mean by that? I hope he is not going in for mining. If he is—”
He paused for a few moments.
“I wouldn’t bet a crown he is not going to try Wheal Carnac.”
Chapter Twenty Three.How Tregenna Hooked his Fish.There was, of course, a reason for the banker’s actions.John Tregenna had at once taken advantage of the proposal that he should still be on friendly terms with the Penwynns, and, calling frequently and dining there, set himself, in a pleasant, frank manner, to remove any unpleasant feeling that might exist in Rhoda’s mind.To her he was gentlemanly and courteous, without formality, showing in every way that it was his desire that the past should be forgotten. With Mr Penwynn he resumed his old business relations, and, as the banker’s confidential solicitor, he finished and carried through a tiresome law case, which ridded Mr Penwynn of a good deal of anxiety, and put five hundred pounds in his pocket.“By the way,” he said, on the morning when he had brought in the news of the satisfactory settlement, and it had been discussed, “they want to sell Wheal Carnac.”“So Chynoweth told me some little time back,” said Mr Penwynn. “I wish they may get a customer.”“Well, so do I, if it comes to that,” said Tregenna, “because I am to have a hundred if I effect a sale.”“And where will you get customers? Why, they’ve wasted no end in putting it up for auction in London, advertisements and one way and the other.”“Yes, and that makes them willing now to part with the place for a mere song.”“Bah!” said Mr Penwynn. “The place is worthless. The money wasted there is enormous.”“Yes, they were pretty extravagant; but do you know, Penwynn, I’ve got hold of a man who used to work there.”“Yes?”“A man of the name of Lannoe.”“Lannoe, Lannoe? Why, that was the man who summoned a miner for half killing him.”“To be sure, yes, so it was. I remember now. Some quarrel about a girl.”“Of course. That scoundrel Prawle’s wench down at the Cove. Well, what about him?”“He swears to me that when the company broke up, and the owners would advance no more money, they had just got to good paying stuff.”“I don’t believe it,” said Mr Penwynn sharply.“Well I don’t put much faith in it myself, but they say where there’s smoke there’s fire.”“Not in this case, Tregenna, for Wheal Carnac was all smoke.”“Ha, ha, ha! That’s not so very bad, Penwynn,” said the solicitor, laughing; “but I cannot help thinking there may be something in it.”“Well, I tell you what I’d do then,” said Mr Penwynn, looking very serious; “you’re pretty warm, Tregenna; buy Wheal Carnac, and then buy up the machinery from some other mine that is in difficulties, work the concern on your own hook, and land a fortune.”Tregenna half-closed his eyes and tightened his lips into a dry smile of derision, as he looked at the banker, and then the two men burst into a hearty laugh.“Not exactly,” said Tregenna. “I don’t quite see myself performing such an act of lunacy at present; but really, seriously though, I do think there is something in that mine.”“Yes,” said Mr Penwynn, picking his teeth, “water!”“Yes, that’s the devil of it. Else they want so little for the place that I’d go to the expense of having it tested. In fact, they ask so small a sum now that a man might venture to buy it for nothing else but a spec, to sell again.”“Like me to buy it, perhaps,” said the banker, laughing.“I don’t know,” said Tregenna seriously; “but I wouldn’t mind going in for spending a little money in testing the place.”“Now look here, Tregenna,” said Mr Penwynn, “what is your game here?”“My game? Oh, that’s soon said. I want to make a hundred pounds commission on the sale, and get an account against the vendors for another fifty.”“Do you think there is any thing in that man’s words?”“Heaven knows,” said Tregenna; “but if they are true, the place, instead of being worth eight hundred pounds, would be worth more than as many thousands.”Mr Penwynn thrust his hands very deeply into his pockets and whistled softly, as he gazed searchingly at the other. For, though Tregenna had thrown some hundreds latterly in his way, he was still upon his guard.“I should estimate the land and foreshore as being worth the money,” said Tregenna. “There’s a good deal of it, and the building material in squared granite is worth a trifle. There’s plenty to build a couple of good houses.”“Ah! you want to make that hundred and fifty pounds, Tregenna.”“Yes, I do, certainly; but I don’t think the buyer could be much out of pocket unless he began mining on his own account. Of that I wash my hands. By the way, though, that would not make a bad building site.”“Too exposed,” said Mr Penwynn, thoughtfully.“Well, yes, it is exposed, certainly.”“What do they want for it?”“A thousand, but between ourselves they wouldn’t refuse eight hundred.”“No, I suppose not,” said Mr Penwynn, dryly. “Look here, Tregenna, what will you spring towards having the place pumped out, quietly you know, to see if there’s any truth in your fellow’s assertion?”Tregenna sat tapping the table with his fingers, and he did not reply.“You don’t seem to rise at that fly,” said Mr Penwynn, laughing.“I was thinking whether I could get them to advance fifty pounds for the purpose; but they’re so poor, and if they would it could only be on some undertaking to buy. I tell you what, Penwynn, I haven’t much faith in the fellow’s statement proving correct—I believe, mind you, he’s an honest fellow, but he may have been mistaken—in fact I haven’t much faith in any thing now,” he continued dismally; “but I tell you what I’ll do; I’ll stand fifty to your fifty to examine the place properly before you do any thing else, on one condition.”“What’s that?”“That if it turns out a failure and you don’t buy, you’ll make that fifty up to me out of something else—that you won’t let me be the loser.”“What else?”Tregenna laughed.“There’s no doing you, Penwynn, with an assumption of modesty. There, frankly, I want something more off it. If it turns out a good thing you will come down handsome.”“I will,” said Mr Penwynn. “You leave that to my honour, and I will.”Tregenna screwed up his face a little.“That’s rather vague, my dear sir,” he said.“Well, vague or no, what do you want?”“A thousand pounds.”“A thousand grandmothers,” said Mr Penwynn, pettishly.“Well, that’s not unreasonable,” said Tregenna. “I suppose—well, we won’t suppose, but put it in plain figures—if that mine should turn out well—”“Which it will not.”“Well, it is the merest chance, but I say if it does turn out well, I shall have ten per cent of its market value two years hence.”“Done,” said Mr Penwynn, holding out his hand.“Agreed,” said Tregenna, grasping it. “Now write a memo to that effect.”“Isn’t it premature rather, seeing that I have decided nothing?”“Well, perhaps it is,” said Tregenna, taking out his watch. “I must be off. Think the matter over for a few days. Shall I keep it quiet, or try elsewhere?”“Try elsewhere if you like,” said Mr Penwynn, carelessly.“All right. Good-morning,” said Tregenna. “My kind regards at home.”Mr Penwynn nodded, and Tregenna went out, nodded to Chynoweth, who was shutting down his desk-lid over a hand of whist, and then walked swiftly away, muttering one word—“Hooked!”
There was, of course, a reason for the banker’s actions.
John Tregenna had at once taken advantage of the proposal that he should still be on friendly terms with the Penwynns, and, calling frequently and dining there, set himself, in a pleasant, frank manner, to remove any unpleasant feeling that might exist in Rhoda’s mind.
To her he was gentlemanly and courteous, without formality, showing in every way that it was his desire that the past should be forgotten. With Mr Penwynn he resumed his old business relations, and, as the banker’s confidential solicitor, he finished and carried through a tiresome law case, which ridded Mr Penwynn of a good deal of anxiety, and put five hundred pounds in his pocket.
“By the way,” he said, on the morning when he had brought in the news of the satisfactory settlement, and it had been discussed, “they want to sell Wheal Carnac.”
“So Chynoweth told me some little time back,” said Mr Penwynn. “I wish they may get a customer.”
“Well, so do I, if it comes to that,” said Tregenna, “because I am to have a hundred if I effect a sale.”
“And where will you get customers? Why, they’ve wasted no end in putting it up for auction in London, advertisements and one way and the other.”
“Yes, and that makes them willing now to part with the place for a mere song.”
“Bah!” said Mr Penwynn. “The place is worthless. The money wasted there is enormous.”
“Yes, they were pretty extravagant; but do you know, Penwynn, I’ve got hold of a man who used to work there.”
“Yes?”
“A man of the name of Lannoe.”
“Lannoe, Lannoe? Why, that was the man who summoned a miner for half killing him.”
“To be sure, yes, so it was. I remember now. Some quarrel about a girl.”
“Of course. That scoundrel Prawle’s wench down at the Cove. Well, what about him?”
“He swears to me that when the company broke up, and the owners would advance no more money, they had just got to good paying stuff.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Mr Penwynn sharply.
“Well I don’t put much faith in it myself, but they say where there’s smoke there’s fire.”
“Not in this case, Tregenna, for Wheal Carnac was all smoke.”
“Ha, ha, ha! That’s not so very bad, Penwynn,” said the solicitor, laughing; “but I cannot help thinking there may be something in it.”
“Well, I tell you what I’d do then,” said Mr Penwynn, looking very serious; “you’re pretty warm, Tregenna; buy Wheal Carnac, and then buy up the machinery from some other mine that is in difficulties, work the concern on your own hook, and land a fortune.”
Tregenna half-closed his eyes and tightened his lips into a dry smile of derision, as he looked at the banker, and then the two men burst into a hearty laugh.
“Not exactly,” said Tregenna. “I don’t quite see myself performing such an act of lunacy at present; but really, seriously though, I do think there is something in that mine.”
“Yes,” said Mr Penwynn, picking his teeth, “water!”
“Yes, that’s the devil of it. Else they want so little for the place that I’d go to the expense of having it tested. In fact, they ask so small a sum now that a man might venture to buy it for nothing else but a spec, to sell again.”
“Like me to buy it, perhaps,” said the banker, laughing.
“I don’t know,” said Tregenna seriously; “but I wouldn’t mind going in for spending a little money in testing the place.”
“Now look here, Tregenna,” said Mr Penwynn, “what is your game here?”
“My game? Oh, that’s soon said. I want to make a hundred pounds commission on the sale, and get an account against the vendors for another fifty.”
“Do you think there is any thing in that man’s words?”
“Heaven knows,” said Tregenna; “but if they are true, the place, instead of being worth eight hundred pounds, would be worth more than as many thousands.”
Mr Penwynn thrust his hands very deeply into his pockets and whistled softly, as he gazed searchingly at the other. For, though Tregenna had thrown some hundreds latterly in his way, he was still upon his guard.
“I should estimate the land and foreshore as being worth the money,” said Tregenna. “There’s a good deal of it, and the building material in squared granite is worth a trifle. There’s plenty to build a couple of good houses.”
“Ah! you want to make that hundred and fifty pounds, Tregenna.”
“Yes, I do, certainly; but I don’t think the buyer could be much out of pocket unless he began mining on his own account. Of that I wash my hands. By the way, though, that would not make a bad building site.”
“Too exposed,” said Mr Penwynn, thoughtfully.
“Well, yes, it is exposed, certainly.”
“What do they want for it?”
“A thousand, but between ourselves they wouldn’t refuse eight hundred.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Mr Penwynn, dryly. “Look here, Tregenna, what will you spring towards having the place pumped out, quietly you know, to see if there’s any truth in your fellow’s assertion?”
Tregenna sat tapping the table with his fingers, and he did not reply.
“You don’t seem to rise at that fly,” said Mr Penwynn, laughing.
“I was thinking whether I could get them to advance fifty pounds for the purpose; but they’re so poor, and if they would it could only be on some undertaking to buy. I tell you what, Penwynn, I haven’t much faith in the fellow’s statement proving correct—I believe, mind you, he’s an honest fellow, but he may have been mistaken—in fact I haven’t much faith in any thing now,” he continued dismally; “but I tell you what I’ll do; I’ll stand fifty to your fifty to examine the place properly before you do any thing else, on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That if it turns out a failure and you don’t buy, you’ll make that fifty up to me out of something else—that you won’t let me be the loser.”
“What else?”
Tregenna laughed.
“There’s no doing you, Penwynn, with an assumption of modesty. There, frankly, I want something more off it. If it turns out a good thing you will come down handsome.”
“I will,” said Mr Penwynn. “You leave that to my honour, and I will.”
Tregenna screwed up his face a little.
“That’s rather vague, my dear sir,” he said.
“Well, vague or no, what do you want?”
“A thousand pounds.”
“A thousand grandmothers,” said Mr Penwynn, pettishly.
“Well, that’s not unreasonable,” said Tregenna. “I suppose—well, we won’t suppose, but put it in plain figures—if that mine should turn out well—”
“Which it will not.”
“Well, it is the merest chance, but I say if it does turn out well, I shall have ten per cent of its market value two years hence.”
“Done,” said Mr Penwynn, holding out his hand.
“Agreed,” said Tregenna, grasping it. “Now write a memo to that effect.”
“Isn’t it premature rather, seeing that I have decided nothing?”
“Well, perhaps it is,” said Tregenna, taking out his watch. “I must be off. Think the matter over for a few days. Shall I keep it quiet, or try elsewhere?”
“Try elsewhere if you like,” said Mr Penwynn, carelessly.
“All right. Good-morning,” said Tregenna. “My kind regards at home.”
Mr Penwynn nodded, and Tregenna went out, nodded to Chynoweth, who was shutting down his desk-lid over a hand of whist, and then walked swiftly away, muttering one word—
“Hooked!”
Chapter Twenty Four.Hunting a Witch.Geoffrey strode right across the heather and stones to Horton mine, bent upon, if possible, securing the services of Pengelly if they were to be had. If not, he felt bound to take counsel with him, and let him know his every step.The manager was at his office, and welcomed Geoffrey in a very friendly way.“Want Pengelly, eh!” he said, looking at the speaker, inquiringly. “He won’t be here to-day. But look here, Mr Trethick, I like you. You’re a man with some stuff in you. Let me give you a word of advice.”“Thank you,” said Geoffrey. “What is it?”“Don’t let Amos Pengelly lead you into any scrape. He’s mad, that’s what he is; and if you don’t look out he’ll persuade you to take up some mining spec, such as that old fly-blown Wheal Carnac, and ruin you. The fact is, Mr Trethick, between you and me, Cornwall’s about pumped out. You understand.”“Yes, I understand,” said Geoffrey, who felt much amused.“You take care of yourself, and wait till something turns up. Don’t you be in too great a hurry. As for Amos Pengelly, he’s religious crazy, and half his time don’t know what he’s about.”“Where do you suppose he is to-day?”“Dressed up in his black satin waistcoat and long togs, gone preaching. There’s a revival meeting somewhere.”“All right; thanks,” said Geoffrey, and, with a bluff “good-morning,” he strode off back again; but before he had gone many yards he determined to try and make a short cut across to the cliff, west of Carnac.“I can have a good look at the old mine, and call in at Pengelly’s cottage and leave word that I want to see him,” thought Geoffrey.“That chap’ll get himself into a scrape with Amos Pengelly, if he don’t look out,” muttered the manager, as he watched his visitor out of sight. “He’s one of your jolly, honest sort, he is, and Amos Pengelly’s one of your religious kind. If them two put their heads together there’ll be a nice mess made of it.”After delivering himself of this prophecy, the manager went back into his office to begin a laborious process of making up accounts; while Geoffrey, with the brisk sea-breeze making his pulses throb, crossed rough scraps of pasture, leaped the quaint Cornish stiles of parallel blocks of stone, heavily-laden slopes of granite, stony track, and rugged ravine, with a tiny stream at the bottom, overhung with ferns.He had meant to make a bee-line for the cliff, but the country was more rugged than he anticipated. Then, too, he had to follow a path here and there formed on the top of the low granite walls that separated various plots; and the result was, that instead of striking the cliff just west of the town, he found himself beyond the older ruined mine, and nearly as far as Gwennas Cove.“Might as well go and see the old lady,” he said to himself, as he scrambled down the steep face of the cliff, and reached the shelf-like path. “No, I’ll get on with my work now,” he continued; and, turning at once for the town, he had not gone a hundred yards before he became aware of a loud shouting and yelling, as if something was being hunted along the cliff.“Why, what could they hunt here?” he said to himself. “Foxes? seals? Nonsense, they couldn’t get up the cliff. It must be—why, by George! it’s a woman.”He ran along the cliff towards where a woman, in a bright-coloured petticoat, seemed to be coming towards him, half surrounded by at least fifty people—men and women, and great fisher lads, some of whom seemed to have headed the fugitive, who, as Geoffrey came up, had taken refuge in a narrow cleft that ran up from the track, where there was one of the quaint old Cornish crosses, and now stood at bay.In less time than it takes to describe it, Geoffrey Trethick had seen that the fugitive was Bessie Prawle, with her hair dishevelled, wild-eyed, her clothes torn, and fouled with mud and fish refuse, some of which had bespattered her face, now bleeding quite profusely; but she uttered no sound, only turned her fierce defiant eyes on the crowd, who yelled, hissed, and pelted her with any thing that came to hand, some of the rough mining women, in their excitement, tearing up scraps of heath and grass for an impotent fling.“Yah! witch! witch!” reached Geoffrey’s ears as he dashed up, just as a great lout of a fisher lad, in a blue jersey, had picked up a lump of granite, and was about to fling it at the wretched girl.“Heave hard, my son,” cried several. “Don’t look at her eyes, or she’ll ill-wish you.”The lout raised the piece of stone, took good aim, and then struck heavily against a companion, who cannoned against another, and all three staggered over the cliff edge from the shelf on which they stood, to fall half-a-dozen feet, scrambling, on the granite slope below.For the impetus with which Geoffrey Trethick had thrown out one of his fists, driven by the full weight of his body, would have upset a giant, and coming as he did like a thunderbolt amongst them, the people divided right and left, some staggering, some falling, as he made his way up to where Bessie Prawle stood, in time to receive a dirty, half-rotten dog-fish right across his chest.“Who threw that?” he roared furiously.“I did,” cried a great stupid-looking young fisherman, “but it warn’t meant for you. Come away; she’s a witch. She’ll ill-wish you.”“I’ll ill-wish you and break every bone in your cowardly thick hide,” roared Geoffrey. “Call yourself a man,” he cried, “and throw at a woman!”“She’s a witch—a witch! We’re going to douse her,” shrieked a wild-looking woman, a regular bare-armed virago. “Now gals, have her out. Lay hold of the man, lads; have him away.”Urged by the woman’s words the big fisherman uttered a shout to his companions, and made at Bessie Prawle’s defender; but somehow, they did not know how, the little crowd saw the young fisherman go down, crash, and Geoffrey stamp one foot upon his chest and hold him there.This checked them, and the three lads who had gone over the cliff edge now scrambled back, furious, and ready to pick up stones or any thing that came within their reach.But they did not throw them, for Geoffrey’s angry eyes, and the prostrate man beneath his foot, had a wonderfully calming effect upon their angry passions.“Get back home—all of you,” he cried. “Shame upon your ignorance!”“She ill-wished Nance Allion’s gal, and she’s pining away,” cried one woman, angrily.“She ill-wished Mrs Roby’s gal, too, and she’s in a ’sumption,” cried another.“And she’s ill-wished my mother, so as she hasn’t any inside,” cried a great lubberly lad.“Ill-wished!” cried Geoffrey, in tones of contempt. “Get back, I say, all of you who call yourselves women; and as for you,” he raged, “you, you cowardly louts that stand here, I’ll hurl the first man or boy over the cliff who flings another stone.”There was a loud murmur here, but theémeutewas over, and the women and lads began to shrink away; while Bess Prawle, her defiant aspect gone, had sunk down now, panting and overcome, looking piteously up at Geoffrey, as he went upon one knee beside her, after letting the prostrate man shuffle away, and applied his handkerchief to her bleeding face.Poor Bess could not speak, but she caught the hand that helped in both of hers, and with a hysterical sob pressed it firmly to her lips.“Come, come,” he said, gently; “there’s nothing to mind now. Try and get up, and lean on my arm.”“Let me come, Mr Trethick,” said a voice that made Geoffrey start; “she is fainting.”Rhoda Penwynn, who had been walking on the cliff with Miss Pavey, had come up in time to hear Geoffrey’s furious words, and see the brave way in which he had defended poor Bessie. She had seen, too, the passionate kiss the poor girl had bestowed upon her defender’s hand, and, she knew not why, a feeling of sorrow seemed for the moment to master her alarm.Geoffrey made way for her on the instant, as she knelt down and loosened Bess’s throat and held a little vinaigrette to her nostrils, just in the middle of which acts Geoffrey’s services were again called into requisition, for Miss Pavey looked at him piteously, uttered a cry, and would have fallen but for the ready arm extended to help her gently down upon the heathery bank.The crowd had stood back, muttering menacingly; but the coming of the banker’s daughter had the effect of sending half the men shuffling farther off in an uneasy fashion, the others following, and soon after the little group was left alone.“Poor lass!” said Geoffrey, whose interest in Bessie was far greater than in fainting Miss Pavey, who lay back for the moment untended. “Do you know how this occurred, Miss Penwynn? Your people here seem to be half savages.”“I saw it all, Mr Trethick,” said Rhoda. “She is coming to now. Poor Miss Pavey has fainted, too. Pray hold the vinaigrette to her nostrils.”Geoffrey caught the little silver case, and held it so vigorously to the poor woman’s nose that her face, in spite of her efforts, became convulsed; and she uttered a loud sneeze, after which she faintly struggled up, wished that they had been alone, when she would have essayed to kiss Geoffrey’s hand out of gratitude, as she had seen Bess Prawle. As it was, she had to be content to look her thanks.“Thank you, miss—thank you,” said Bess, rising. “I felt sick and giddy. I’m better now. Thank you, too, sir. The cowards would have killed me if you had not come.”“Oh, don’t talk about the savages,” cried Geoffrey, who was full of sympathy for the poor ill-used girl. “But you are very weak still: here, take my arm, and I’ll see you home.”“I will go home with her, Mr Trethick,” said Rhoda, coldly.“Better still,” he said.“I—I think I can manage by myself,” said Bess, hoarsely.But the difficulty as to who should see her home was solved by the appearance of old Prawle himself, approaching at a trot, armed with a short steel-armed boat-hook, which looked a formidable weapon in the hands of the fierce-looking old man, who came up half-mad with rage, a boy having carried him the news that they were “going to douse Bess Prawle for a witch.”“What’s this? What’s all this?” he cried, savagely; and he looked from one to the other, as if in search of some one to assault.“Take me home, father—take me home,” said Bess, faintly. “Thank you, miss,” she continued, turning to Rhoda. “Mr Trethick, sir: I shall never forget this.”The fierce-looking old man glared at all in turn; but in spite of his savage aspect, Geoffrey noted that there was something inexpressibly tender in the way in which he drew his child’s arm through his, and directly after parsed his arm round her to give her more support, walking gently by her as the others watched them till they turned a corner of the cliff.“Miss Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, excitedly, breaking an awkward silence, “I could not have believed that such superstition existed in these later days.”“Superstition dies hard, Mr Trethick,” said Rhoda, rather coldly. “Shall we say good-morning here? Miss Pavey and I are going across the fields.”Geoffrey raised his hat, and took the very plain hint that he was to go, by passing on along the cliff, while Rhoda and her companion took to the upland path, which Geoffrey had so lately left.“Oh, my dearest child!” cried Miss Pavey, as soon as they were alone, and she could burst into a fit of ecstasies, “isn’t he noble—isn’t he grand—isn’t he heroic? Ah! Rhoda, Rhoda, if my heart were free it would fly from my bosom to such a chivalrous knight as he. It quite puts me in mind of the olden times.”Rhoda did not reply, for the scene she had witnessed had agitated her.“I declare I never saw any one behave so gallantly and well,” continued Miss Pavey. “He is quite a hero!”Still Rhoda did not reply, for there was an uneasy feeling in her breast, and, in spite of herself, she could not help recalling Bess’s act as she raised and passionately kissed Geoffrey Trethick’s hand.It was nothing to her, of course, and she hated to think of the things in which her companion would have gloried; but still old Mrs Prawle’s words and Geoffrey’s frequent visits to the Cove floated back, and a feeling of irritation and anger against him they had just left kept growing stronger and stronger.“I declare,” exclaimed Miss Pavey, suddenly, with quite a girlish giggle, “neglectful as he was to me, I feel smitten—absolutely smitten.”“What?” exclaimed Rhoda, harshly.“Oh! my dear child,” cried Miss Pavey, “don’t for goodness’ sake snap a poor creature up like that. But oh, you naughty, naughty girl! Have I touched the tender chord at last? Oh, Rhoda, my darling child, don’t be jealous; you have no cause!”“I—jealous?” cried Rhoda, frowning.“Not the slightest cause, dearest,” said Miss Pavey, simpering. “I would not confess such a thing to any one but you, dearest; but if Mr Trethick went down on his knees to me at this moment, much as I admire him, I should have to sayno!”“My dear Martha, what do you mean?” exclaimed Rhoda, half angrily.“I can’t help it, dearest,” sighed Miss Pavey. “That scene has made me feel hysterical and low; and I cannot help confessing to you, dearest Rhoda, that I love him.”“Love Mr Trethick?” cried Rhoda, whose eyes contracted.“No, no, dear! what a naughty, foolish girl you are, and how you do betray yourself.”“Betray myself?”“Yes, dear, your head is always running on this Mr Trethick. I was talking about Mr Lee—he is so pure, and saint-like, and sweet.”“Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten,” said Rhoda, dreamily; “I had almost forgotten that he lodges with you.”“Boards with me, dear; and I try to help him in his efforts with these dreadful people here. But tell me, dear, don’t you think it was very imprudent of Mr Trethick to go and lodge at Mrs Mullion’s?”“No,” said Rhoda; “why?”“Because of Madge, dear.”“I do not see why it is more imprudent than for Mr Lee to go and lodge with a lady I know.”“Board, my dear,” said Miss Pavey, with dignity. “But Mr Lee is a guest.”“But guests are men,” said Rhoda.Miss Pavey shook her head as if she did not agree; and as Rhoda had turned very silent since Mr Lee’s name had been mentioned, Miss Pavey came to the conclusion that her companion’s thoughts were of the young vicar, and felt a pang of pain.“Ah! Rhoda,” she said, with a sigh, “love is a strange thing, is it not?”Rhoda uttered an ejaculation that evidently meant disgust; but poor Miss Pavey did not understand it, and went prattling on by her companion’s side till they reached the town, where they separated, Rhoda gladly seeking her own room, to be alone and think, telling herself that the scenes she had witnessed—the words she had heard, had unstrung her more than she cared to own.
Geoffrey strode right across the heather and stones to Horton mine, bent upon, if possible, securing the services of Pengelly if they were to be had. If not, he felt bound to take counsel with him, and let him know his every step.
The manager was at his office, and welcomed Geoffrey in a very friendly way.
“Want Pengelly, eh!” he said, looking at the speaker, inquiringly. “He won’t be here to-day. But look here, Mr Trethick, I like you. You’re a man with some stuff in you. Let me give you a word of advice.”
“Thank you,” said Geoffrey. “What is it?”
“Don’t let Amos Pengelly lead you into any scrape. He’s mad, that’s what he is; and if you don’t look out he’ll persuade you to take up some mining spec, such as that old fly-blown Wheal Carnac, and ruin you. The fact is, Mr Trethick, between you and me, Cornwall’s about pumped out. You understand.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Geoffrey, who felt much amused.
“You take care of yourself, and wait till something turns up. Don’t you be in too great a hurry. As for Amos Pengelly, he’s religious crazy, and half his time don’t know what he’s about.”
“Where do you suppose he is to-day?”
“Dressed up in his black satin waistcoat and long togs, gone preaching. There’s a revival meeting somewhere.”
“All right; thanks,” said Geoffrey, and, with a bluff “good-morning,” he strode off back again; but before he had gone many yards he determined to try and make a short cut across to the cliff, west of Carnac.
“I can have a good look at the old mine, and call in at Pengelly’s cottage and leave word that I want to see him,” thought Geoffrey.
“That chap’ll get himself into a scrape with Amos Pengelly, if he don’t look out,” muttered the manager, as he watched his visitor out of sight. “He’s one of your jolly, honest sort, he is, and Amos Pengelly’s one of your religious kind. If them two put their heads together there’ll be a nice mess made of it.”
After delivering himself of this prophecy, the manager went back into his office to begin a laborious process of making up accounts; while Geoffrey, with the brisk sea-breeze making his pulses throb, crossed rough scraps of pasture, leaped the quaint Cornish stiles of parallel blocks of stone, heavily-laden slopes of granite, stony track, and rugged ravine, with a tiny stream at the bottom, overhung with ferns.
He had meant to make a bee-line for the cliff, but the country was more rugged than he anticipated. Then, too, he had to follow a path here and there formed on the top of the low granite walls that separated various plots; and the result was, that instead of striking the cliff just west of the town, he found himself beyond the older ruined mine, and nearly as far as Gwennas Cove.
“Might as well go and see the old lady,” he said to himself, as he scrambled down the steep face of the cliff, and reached the shelf-like path. “No, I’ll get on with my work now,” he continued; and, turning at once for the town, he had not gone a hundred yards before he became aware of a loud shouting and yelling, as if something was being hunted along the cliff.
“Why, what could they hunt here?” he said to himself. “Foxes? seals? Nonsense, they couldn’t get up the cliff. It must be—why, by George! it’s a woman.”
He ran along the cliff towards where a woman, in a bright-coloured petticoat, seemed to be coming towards him, half surrounded by at least fifty people—men and women, and great fisher lads, some of whom seemed to have headed the fugitive, who, as Geoffrey came up, had taken refuge in a narrow cleft that ran up from the track, where there was one of the quaint old Cornish crosses, and now stood at bay.
In less time than it takes to describe it, Geoffrey Trethick had seen that the fugitive was Bessie Prawle, with her hair dishevelled, wild-eyed, her clothes torn, and fouled with mud and fish refuse, some of which had bespattered her face, now bleeding quite profusely; but she uttered no sound, only turned her fierce defiant eyes on the crowd, who yelled, hissed, and pelted her with any thing that came to hand, some of the rough mining women, in their excitement, tearing up scraps of heath and grass for an impotent fling.
“Yah! witch! witch!” reached Geoffrey’s ears as he dashed up, just as a great lout of a fisher lad, in a blue jersey, had picked up a lump of granite, and was about to fling it at the wretched girl.
“Heave hard, my son,” cried several. “Don’t look at her eyes, or she’ll ill-wish you.”
The lout raised the piece of stone, took good aim, and then struck heavily against a companion, who cannoned against another, and all three staggered over the cliff edge from the shelf on which they stood, to fall half-a-dozen feet, scrambling, on the granite slope below.
For the impetus with which Geoffrey Trethick had thrown out one of his fists, driven by the full weight of his body, would have upset a giant, and coming as he did like a thunderbolt amongst them, the people divided right and left, some staggering, some falling, as he made his way up to where Bessie Prawle stood, in time to receive a dirty, half-rotten dog-fish right across his chest.
“Who threw that?” he roared furiously.
“I did,” cried a great stupid-looking young fisherman, “but it warn’t meant for you. Come away; she’s a witch. She’ll ill-wish you.”
“I’ll ill-wish you and break every bone in your cowardly thick hide,” roared Geoffrey. “Call yourself a man,” he cried, “and throw at a woman!”
“She’s a witch—a witch! We’re going to douse her,” shrieked a wild-looking woman, a regular bare-armed virago. “Now gals, have her out. Lay hold of the man, lads; have him away.”
Urged by the woman’s words the big fisherman uttered a shout to his companions, and made at Bessie Prawle’s defender; but somehow, they did not know how, the little crowd saw the young fisherman go down, crash, and Geoffrey stamp one foot upon his chest and hold him there.
This checked them, and the three lads who had gone over the cliff edge now scrambled back, furious, and ready to pick up stones or any thing that came within their reach.
But they did not throw them, for Geoffrey’s angry eyes, and the prostrate man beneath his foot, had a wonderfully calming effect upon their angry passions.
“Get back home—all of you,” he cried. “Shame upon your ignorance!”
“She ill-wished Nance Allion’s gal, and she’s pining away,” cried one woman, angrily.
“She ill-wished Mrs Roby’s gal, too, and she’s in a ’sumption,” cried another.
“And she’s ill-wished my mother, so as she hasn’t any inside,” cried a great lubberly lad.
“Ill-wished!” cried Geoffrey, in tones of contempt. “Get back, I say, all of you who call yourselves women; and as for you,” he raged, “you, you cowardly louts that stand here, I’ll hurl the first man or boy over the cliff who flings another stone.”
There was a loud murmur here, but theémeutewas over, and the women and lads began to shrink away; while Bess Prawle, her defiant aspect gone, had sunk down now, panting and overcome, looking piteously up at Geoffrey, as he went upon one knee beside her, after letting the prostrate man shuffle away, and applied his handkerchief to her bleeding face.
Poor Bess could not speak, but she caught the hand that helped in both of hers, and with a hysterical sob pressed it firmly to her lips.
“Come, come,” he said, gently; “there’s nothing to mind now. Try and get up, and lean on my arm.”
“Let me come, Mr Trethick,” said a voice that made Geoffrey start; “she is fainting.”
Rhoda Penwynn, who had been walking on the cliff with Miss Pavey, had come up in time to hear Geoffrey’s furious words, and see the brave way in which he had defended poor Bessie. She had seen, too, the passionate kiss the poor girl had bestowed upon her defender’s hand, and, she knew not why, a feeling of sorrow seemed for the moment to master her alarm.
Geoffrey made way for her on the instant, as she knelt down and loosened Bess’s throat and held a little vinaigrette to her nostrils, just in the middle of which acts Geoffrey’s services were again called into requisition, for Miss Pavey looked at him piteously, uttered a cry, and would have fallen but for the ready arm extended to help her gently down upon the heathery bank.
The crowd had stood back, muttering menacingly; but the coming of the banker’s daughter had the effect of sending half the men shuffling farther off in an uneasy fashion, the others following, and soon after the little group was left alone.
“Poor lass!” said Geoffrey, whose interest in Bessie was far greater than in fainting Miss Pavey, who lay back for the moment untended. “Do you know how this occurred, Miss Penwynn? Your people here seem to be half savages.”
“I saw it all, Mr Trethick,” said Rhoda. “She is coming to now. Poor Miss Pavey has fainted, too. Pray hold the vinaigrette to her nostrils.”
Geoffrey caught the little silver case, and held it so vigorously to the poor woman’s nose that her face, in spite of her efforts, became convulsed; and she uttered a loud sneeze, after which she faintly struggled up, wished that they had been alone, when she would have essayed to kiss Geoffrey’s hand out of gratitude, as she had seen Bess Prawle. As it was, she had to be content to look her thanks.
“Thank you, miss—thank you,” said Bess, rising. “I felt sick and giddy. I’m better now. Thank you, too, sir. The cowards would have killed me if you had not come.”
“Oh, don’t talk about the savages,” cried Geoffrey, who was full of sympathy for the poor ill-used girl. “But you are very weak still: here, take my arm, and I’ll see you home.”
“I will go home with her, Mr Trethick,” said Rhoda, coldly.
“Better still,” he said.
“I—I think I can manage by myself,” said Bess, hoarsely.
But the difficulty as to who should see her home was solved by the appearance of old Prawle himself, approaching at a trot, armed with a short steel-armed boat-hook, which looked a formidable weapon in the hands of the fierce-looking old man, who came up half-mad with rage, a boy having carried him the news that they were “going to douse Bess Prawle for a witch.”
“What’s this? What’s all this?” he cried, savagely; and he looked from one to the other, as if in search of some one to assault.
“Take me home, father—take me home,” said Bess, faintly. “Thank you, miss,” she continued, turning to Rhoda. “Mr Trethick, sir: I shall never forget this.”
The fierce-looking old man glared at all in turn; but in spite of his savage aspect, Geoffrey noted that there was something inexpressibly tender in the way in which he drew his child’s arm through his, and directly after parsed his arm round her to give her more support, walking gently by her as the others watched them till they turned a corner of the cliff.
“Miss Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, excitedly, breaking an awkward silence, “I could not have believed that such superstition existed in these later days.”
“Superstition dies hard, Mr Trethick,” said Rhoda, rather coldly. “Shall we say good-morning here? Miss Pavey and I are going across the fields.”
Geoffrey raised his hat, and took the very plain hint that he was to go, by passing on along the cliff, while Rhoda and her companion took to the upland path, which Geoffrey had so lately left.
“Oh, my dearest child!” cried Miss Pavey, as soon as they were alone, and she could burst into a fit of ecstasies, “isn’t he noble—isn’t he grand—isn’t he heroic? Ah! Rhoda, Rhoda, if my heart were free it would fly from my bosom to such a chivalrous knight as he. It quite puts me in mind of the olden times.”
Rhoda did not reply, for the scene she had witnessed had agitated her.
“I declare I never saw any one behave so gallantly and well,” continued Miss Pavey. “He is quite a hero!”
Still Rhoda did not reply, for there was an uneasy feeling in her breast, and, in spite of herself, she could not help recalling Bess’s act as she raised and passionately kissed Geoffrey Trethick’s hand.
It was nothing to her, of course, and she hated to think of the things in which her companion would have gloried; but still old Mrs Prawle’s words and Geoffrey’s frequent visits to the Cove floated back, and a feeling of irritation and anger against him they had just left kept growing stronger and stronger.
“I declare,” exclaimed Miss Pavey, suddenly, with quite a girlish giggle, “neglectful as he was to me, I feel smitten—absolutely smitten.”
“What?” exclaimed Rhoda, harshly.
“Oh! my dear child,” cried Miss Pavey, “don’t for goodness’ sake snap a poor creature up like that. But oh, you naughty, naughty girl! Have I touched the tender chord at last? Oh, Rhoda, my darling child, don’t be jealous; you have no cause!”
“I—jealous?” cried Rhoda, frowning.
“Not the slightest cause, dearest,” said Miss Pavey, simpering. “I would not confess such a thing to any one but you, dearest; but if Mr Trethick went down on his knees to me at this moment, much as I admire him, I should have to sayno!”
“My dear Martha, what do you mean?” exclaimed Rhoda, half angrily.
“I can’t help it, dearest,” sighed Miss Pavey. “That scene has made me feel hysterical and low; and I cannot help confessing to you, dearest Rhoda, that I love him.”
“Love Mr Trethick?” cried Rhoda, whose eyes contracted.
“No, no, dear! what a naughty, foolish girl you are, and how you do betray yourself.”
“Betray myself?”
“Yes, dear, your head is always running on this Mr Trethick. I was talking about Mr Lee—he is so pure, and saint-like, and sweet.”
“Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten,” said Rhoda, dreamily; “I had almost forgotten that he lodges with you.”
“Boards with me, dear; and I try to help him in his efforts with these dreadful people here. But tell me, dear, don’t you think it was very imprudent of Mr Trethick to go and lodge at Mrs Mullion’s?”
“No,” said Rhoda; “why?”
“Because of Madge, dear.”
“I do not see why it is more imprudent than for Mr Lee to go and lodge with a lady I know.”
“Board, my dear,” said Miss Pavey, with dignity. “But Mr Lee is a guest.”
“But guests are men,” said Rhoda.
Miss Pavey shook her head as if she did not agree; and as Rhoda had turned very silent since Mr Lee’s name had been mentioned, Miss Pavey came to the conclusion that her companion’s thoughts were of the young vicar, and felt a pang of pain.
“Ah! Rhoda,” she said, with a sigh, “love is a strange thing, is it not?”
Rhoda uttered an ejaculation that evidently meant disgust; but poor Miss Pavey did not understand it, and went prattling on by her companion’s side till they reached the town, where they separated, Rhoda gladly seeking her own room, to be alone and think, telling herself that the scenes she had witnessed—the words she had heard, had unstrung her more than she cared to own.
Chapter Twenty Five.Tom Jennen’s Opinion.“Poor lass!” said Geoffrey, as he walked in the direction of Pengelly’s cottage. “They’d have half killed her. I wish I had hit those fellows harder. It will frighten the poor old woman to death.”He then went on thinking a little about Rhoda Penwynn.“She must have seen me flourishing my fists,” he said, laughing. “I must have looked gentlemanly. I like that girl somehow, but by George, she’s as proud as a peacock. Pea-hens are not proud. I wonder whether she will marry that Tregenna after all.”He was brought back from surmise to reality by the sight of the people clustering about the cottages on the cliff, as he entered the little town and noted that a variety of ominous scowls awaited him. There were plenty of women about, and they had stones and stale fish in their hands. The rough lads had increased in number, and a number of the fishermen, among whom was Tom Jennen, were standing by the rails as if to see some expected sight.“Hang me if I don’t think they are getting up a warm reception for this respectable individual. That’s pleasant! A sort of running marine pillory. What shall I do? Go back?”“Not this time!” he said, setting his teeth, and taking a very shabby old black meerschaum from a case; he closed the fastening with a loud snap, pulled out an india-rubber pouch, filled the pipe, deliberately walking slowly and calmly along gazing in the most unruffled way in the faces of the women, and not deigning to notice the rough lads, all of whom seemed to be only waiting for a signal to begin showering their missiles upon his head.Suddenly the great stupid-looking fisher lad whom Geoffrey had knocked down, strode out in front of him, spread his legs apart, set his arms akimbo, and pretty well barred the narrow granite-paved way.A low buzz of excitement arose, the lads grasped their missiles ready to throw, but the women dropped their arms to their sides or behind them, as they gazed at the fine, manly young fellow, who looked at them with a half-mocking smile upon his lip as he passed.Geoffrey did not flinch. On the contrary, a red spot appeared in each of his cheeks as he put the amber mouth-piece of his pipe between his lips, strode forward, laid one strong hand upon the fellow’s shoulder, and, apparently without effort, swung him round.“Stand aside, you cowardly hound!” he cried aloud; went on three or four yards, and stopped in front of Tom Jennen and the group of men who stood staring with all their might.“Give us a light, fisherman!” said Geoffrey, bluffly.“Light? Ay, my lad,” was the reply, and the rough fellow brought out a brass box of matches, and handed it to Geoffrey, who coolly opened it, struck a match, and sheltered light and pipe between the hollow of his hands, drew vigorously, and puffed out clouds of smoke between his fingers, after which he returned the box with a bluff “Thanky!”“Where does Amos Pengelly live?” he said then.“Up yon turn, ninth house, with a green door,” said Tom Jennen. “There’s a gashly old bit o’ rock opposite.”As he spoke, he pointed to a narrow steep path which Geoffrey had passed, and which necessitated his running the gauntlet again, as it were.But he was equal to the task.“I say, fisherman,” he said, addressing Tom Jennen, but meaning it for the group, “If I were you I should use the rope’s-end there, and try to make those cowardly young lubbers men!”Then thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked coolly back, looking woman after woman in the face, turned up the passage, and was gone.No sooner was his back turned, than the boys uttered a yell, and made as if to throw, but the women turned upon them fiercely, and Tom Jennen and his mates cleared the road by making a menacing charge.“Well, of all the smart young chaps as ever I set eyes on,” said one woman, “he’s about the best. Put that there gashly old fish down, Jan Dwiod, or I’ll give you a smack i’ th’ mouth.”“That’s pluck, that is,” said Tom Jennen, with his hands very far down in his pockets. “That’s the sorter stuff as men’s made on. That’s pluck, that is,” he continued, nodding at every one in turn, and then at intervals repeating the words—“that’s pluck!” Geoffrey did not know it then, but his cool treatment of the party lying in wait for him, had made him, as it were, a king, and in place of menace on his next appearance in the streets there was a smile on every lip, and he might have had the help of all for the holding up of a hand.Meanwhile he had reached Pengelly’s cottage to knock and be told by a woman next door that the owner was gone out preaching, and wouldn’t be back till night.“Ask him to run up to Mrs Mullion’s when he comes,” said Geoffrey, and the woman promising to convey his message, he went back to his lodgings to dine and complete his plans.
“Poor lass!” said Geoffrey, as he walked in the direction of Pengelly’s cottage. “They’d have half killed her. I wish I had hit those fellows harder. It will frighten the poor old woman to death.”
He then went on thinking a little about Rhoda Penwynn.
“She must have seen me flourishing my fists,” he said, laughing. “I must have looked gentlemanly. I like that girl somehow, but by George, she’s as proud as a peacock. Pea-hens are not proud. I wonder whether she will marry that Tregenna after all.”
He was brought back from surmise to reality by the sight of the people clustering about the cottages on the cliff, as he entered the little town and noted that a variety of ominous scowls awaited him. There were plenty of women about, and they had stones and stale fish in their hands. The rough lads had increased in number, and a number of the fishermen, among whom was Tom Jennen, were standing by the rails as if to see some expected sight.
“Hang me if I don’t think they are getting up a warm reception for this respectable individual. That’s pleasant! A sort of running marine pillory. What shall I do? Go back?”
“Not this time!” he said, setting his teeth, and taking a very shabby old black meerschaum from a case; he closed the fastening with a loud snap, pulled out an india-rubber pouch, filled the pipe, deliberately walking slowly and calmly along gazing in the most unruffled way in the faces of the women, and not deigning to notice the rough lads, all of whom seemed to be only waiting for a signal to begin showering their missiles upon his head.
Suddenly the great stupid-looking fisher lad whom Geoffrey had knocked down, strode out in front of him, spread his legs apart, set his arms akimbo, and pretty well barred the narrow granite-paved way.
A low buzz of excitement arose, the lads grasped their missiles ready to throw, but the women dropped their arms to their sides or behind them, as they gazed at the fine, manly young fellow, who looked at them with a half-mocking smile upon his lip as he passed.
Geoffrey did not flinch. On the contrary, a red spot appeared in each of his cheeks as he put the amber mouth-piece of his pipe between his lips, strode forward, laid one strong hand upon the fellow’s shoulder, and, apparently without effort, swung him round.
“Stand aside, you cowardly hound!” he cried aloud; went on three or four yards, and stopped in front of Tom Jennen and the group of men who stood staring with all their might.
“Give us a light, fisherman!” said Geoffrey, bluffly.
“Light? Ay, my lad,” was the reply, and the rough fellow brought out a brass box of matches, and handed it to Geoffrey, who coolly opened it, struck a match, and sheltered light and pipe between the hollow of his hands, drew vigorously, and puffed out clouds of smoke between his fingers, after which he returned the box with a bluff “Thanky!”
“Where does Amos Pengelly live?” he said then.
“Up yon turn, ninth house, with a green door,” said Tom Jennen. “There’s a gashly old bit o’ rock opposite.”
As he spoke, he pointed to a narrow steep path which Geoffrey had passed, and which necessitated his running the gauntlet again, as it were.
But he was equal to the task.
“I say, fisherman,” he said, addressing Tom Jennen, but meaning it for the group, “If I were you I should use the rope’s-end there, and try to make those cowardly young lubbers men!”
Then thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked coolly back, looking woman after woman in the face, turned up the passage, and was gone.
No sooner was his back turned, than the boys uttered a yell, and made as if to throw, but the women turned upon them fiercely, and Tom Jennen and his mates cleared the road by making a menacing charge.
“Well, of all the smart young chaps as ever I set eyes on,” said one woman, “he’s about the best. Put that there gashly old fish down, Jan Dwiod, or I’ll give you a smack i’ th’ mouth.”
“That’s pluck, that is,” said Tom Jennen, with his hands very far down in his pockets. “That’s the sorter stuff as men’s made on. That’s pluck, that is,” he continued, nodding at every one in turn, and then at intervals repeating the words—“that’s pluck!” Geoffrey did not know it then, but his cool treatment of the party lying in wait for him, had made him, as it were, a king, and in place of menace on his next appearance in the streets there was a smile on every lip, and he might have had the help of all for the holding up of a hand.
Meanwhile he had reached Pengelly’s cottage to knock and be told by a woman next door that the owner was gone out preaching, and wouldn’t be back till night.
“Ask him to run up to Mrs Mullion’s when he comes,” said Geoffrey, and the woman promising to convey his message, he went back to his lodgings to dine and complete his plans.
Chapter Twenty Six.A Night at the Mine.As Geoffrey rattled the garden gate he heard a rustle at one of the windows, and, looking up, there was Madge ready to welcome him with a smile.“Oh! you’re there, are you, madam,” he said to himself. “How are you?”He nodded to her civilly enough, and was going on to the house, when from out of the look-out there came a rough “Hallo!”“Hallo, old gentleman!” said Geoffrey, and, turning aside, he entered the summer-house, where Uncle Paul sat smoking, cane in hand, with which he pointed up towards the window where Madge had been.“Why didn’t you kiss your hand at her, eh?” snarled Uncle Paul.“Didn’t think of it, old fellow,” replied Geoffrey, coolly.“I’ve warned you about it, you know,” said the old man, angrily. “Well, have you seen Penwynn?”“Yes.”“And what has he got to say?”“Given the instructions.”“To go back to London? Well, I’m glad of it; very glad of it.”“Thank you,” said Geoffrey, lighting his pipe. “No, old gentleman, I’ve got my first job, and now I’m going to work.”“What, smoking?”“Yes, engine-fire smoking soon, I hope.”“What, are you going to spend somebody’s money over a mine?”“Yes.”“Then it will be smoke. Whose money—a company’s?”“Business is business, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey. “I can’t tell you whose money is going to be spent, for I don’t believe I know. But I’ll tell you this much, I’m going to open out Wheal Carnac.”“Wheal Carnac?”“Yes, and at once.”“Then—but bah! it don’t matter, you’ll be paid. My hundred’s gone, so its nothing to me.”They sat smoking in silence, for Geoffrey returned such short answers that the old man was offended, and scarcely a word was said. After a time, Geoffrey took out a note-book and began to make entries and draw, without noticing how intently his companion was watching him, and this went on till Mrs Mullion came and announced that the young engineer’s composite tea-dinner was ready, to which he went in without a word.“Nice company he’s getting,” said Uncle Paul, sourly. “Humph! he can be busy enough, now I want him. Here, hi! Trethick!” he shouted across the passage when he went in, “I’m going down to Rumsey’s to-night. We’re going to play whist. Come with me?”“No, thanks,” said Geoffrey. “I’ve got other cards to play now.”“Hang him and his independence! What a nuisance! And he plays such a good hand. I meant to have him for a partner. Well, never mind, if he’s busy like that it will keep him from thinking about Madge. Hallo!” he exclaimed, as he heard the gate click, “that girl’s off again. I wonder where she’s going now?”He returned to his own tea, and before it was finished there was another click, when, on looking up curiously, it was to see Pengelly come limping up the path.“Humph! we shall have the house full of miners now, I suppose. Ah, well, thank goodness, it isn’t my money that’s going to be sunk.”Pengelly was admitted, and his first act, on being left alone with Geoffrey, was to catch his hand, and hold it tightly between both of his.“Why, Pengelly man, what’s the matter?” cried Geoffrey, wondering at his strange manner.“I’ve heard all, Mr Trethick, every word. I’ve heard all.”“All? All what?” cried Geoffrey.“About those wretches—those blind, weak wretches—and my poor injured Bess.”“Oh!” cried Geoffrey, “I’d forgotten all about it, man. Bah! that’s nothing.”“Nothing?” cried Pengelly, with the tears standing in his eyes, “nothing? Mr Trethick, sir, if you’d let me be your dog, I’d follow you to the world’s end.”“Oh, come, come, Pengelly! don’t think any more of that. How is she, though?”“Better now, sir, and she told me all about it, and how brave you had been. God bless her! she spoke kinder to me than she had ever spoke before.”“I’m glad she was not much hurt, Pengelly. Poor weak-minded fools, what a charge to get up against her! But come, pass that over. I’ve news for you, Pengelly. I’m going to pump out Wheal Carnac.”“You are?” cried Pengelly, joyfully.“I am.”“Then your fortune’s made.”“Is it?” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Well, my lad, can you leave your present work for a week or two, and come and help me a little?”“If you’ll have me to help you, Mr Trethick, there’s no work in the world shall keep me back; and, what’s more, I swear to you that I’ll never leave you till Wheal Carnac’s the greatest paying mine in West Cornwall.”“Come, that’s cheering, Pengelly,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Why, you are more sanguine than ever.”“Sanguine, sir? No, it’s sureness, that’s what my feeling is;” and, sitting down at Geoffrey’s request, he was soon going into business-matters with him—where to obtain temporary pumping gear, chain and buckets, wheels, and the like, their planning taking so long that it was past nine when Pengelly rose to go.“I should like to stretch my legs too, Pengelly,” said Geoffrey. “I’ll walk down with you. What do you say to getting a lantern, and having a look round the place to-night?”“I can get a lantern,” cried Pengelly, eagerly; and they went out together, meeting Madge just outside the gate, and she hurried by them with bended head, but Geoffrey hardly noticed her, being intent upon his mission.A lantern was obtained, and matches, and they were soon down upon the shore, climbing along the rough path towards the promontory upon which, just dimly seen against the sky-line, stood out the dark, weird-looking engine-house. The foam that broke upon the rocks at the promontory’s base was all aglow now with phosphorescent light, which rose and fell, and flashed with a wondrous brilliancy.“Poor night for the fisher lads, sir,” said Pengelly.“Indeed! why?”“Their nets will be all a-light with the brime, sir, and every thread will stand out in the deep water, as if afire, and not a fish will go near.”They clambered on, higher and higher, till they reached the engine-house, into which they proposed to go, and there light the lantern.“If they see us from the harbour, what will they think?” said Geoffrey.“That we are ghosts or demons, the weak creatures,” cried Pengelly, scornfully. “It will keep them away: not a man will come near if they see our light. Keep this way, sir, you are getting too near the shaft.”Geoffrey hastily altered his position, and closely following Pengelly he entered the great engine-house behind him, and then stood waiting while the lame miner struck a match, which blazed up, and then he dropped it, for there, plainly seen in the momentary glare, stood a dark, strange-looking figure, within a few feet of a heap of stones.In spite of his manhood, Geoffrey felt a chill run through him, for seen in that momentary light the aspect of the figure was so weird and strange.“It’s only a man!” exclaimed Pengelly, rapidly striking a second match, and holding it to the candle in the lantern. “Hey, Master Prawle! what are you doing here?”As he spoke he threw the light full upon the old smuggler’s rugged features, Prawle growling the while as he began to fill a blackened pipe.“What am I doing here, Amos Pengelly? Why, filling my pipe.”“And playing ghost to frighten honest men, Prawle, eh? I say, old fellow,” cried Geoffrey, “we’ve got you on the right spot, so you may as well speak out all you know.”“All I know?” said Prawle. “I don’t know nothing, only that I come for a walk, and stepped in here to light my pipe.”“Light your pipe, eh?” cried Geoffrey, laughing.“Yes,” said Prawle, spitefully, “and found you courting.”“Found me?” exclaimed Geoffrey. “Why, I’ve been with Amos Pengelly these two hours. Eh, Amos?”“Ah, well, if it warn’t you it were somebody else. What do you want here?” growled the old fellow.“Oh! we’ve come in to light our pipes,” said Geoffrey, laughing.Prawle growled, and, after a furtive look round, turned to go.“Warn’t you two here ’bout two hour ago?” he said, sharply.“No; neither of us,” replied Geoffrey. “But come, Prawle, let us two be a little more friendly. Why can’t you speak out? If you will be frank and honest with me, I’ll make it worth your while.”“I don’t want you to make it worth no whiles of mine,” growled Prawle. “I can get my living, I dessay.”“Of course you can, man; but other people have got to get theirs. Sit down now, and let’s have a talk. Let’s hear all you know about the mine.”“What mine? This mine? Wheal Carnac?” said Prawle, quickly. “Nothing; nothing at all. Only everybody’s ruined who takes it. Why?”“Only that I’m going to work it,” said Geoffrey, “and it might be worth your while to tell me all you know.”“Work it? You going to work it?” cried Prawle, eagerly. “You?”“Yes: I,” said Geoffrey. “Now then, what do you say? Will you help me?”The old man stood scowling and blinking at them in the dim light shed by the lantern, and as his eyes rested upon Geoffrey they seemed less fierce in their gaze; but his face grew very rugged again, as he exclaimed,—“I can’t help you. I know nothing about the place. What are you going to do? When are you going to begin?”“My dear Mr Prawle,” said Geoffrey, “I invited you to cooperate with me, and you declined. Now will you allow me to show you the door. Pengelly, let me hold the lantern for Mr Prawle to see his way. Pray take care, Mr Prawle, and don’t make a mistake about the shaft. It is not fenced in. Your life is valuable, you know. Good-night.”Geoffrey smilingly held the lantern for the old man to see his way, and Prawle looked at him in a puzzled fashion, as if not knowing what to make of his speech. One moment he seemed disposed to resent it; the next he took it in good part, and, as he got outside, after looking suspiciously from one to the other, he said, hastily, as if ashamed of his weakness,—“I don’t want to quarrel, but don’t you have nothing to do with this pit. It’s a bad un—a bad un, and has ruined scores. Thanky for helping my Bess.”The next moment he was gone.“Pleasant style of man, your father-in-law-to-be, Pengelly,” said Geoffrey, coolly, as he returned with the miner into the engine-house. “What was he doing here?”“I can’t quite make out, sir,” said Pengelly, thoughtfully. “He always was fond of hanging about here of a night, as if jealous that any one should notice the place.”“Bit of smuggling—hiding-place?” suggested Geoffrey.“I’ve thought that sometimes, sir, and sometimes I’ve thought there was another reason. He’s a strange old fellow in his ways.”“Yes, there’s no doubt about that,” said Geoffrey. “But what have you got there?”Pengelly had just stooped and picked up a fragment of stone, which glittered as he held it to the lantern.“Bit o’ tin, sir, and I was wondering how it come here.”Geoffrey took the piece of rough ore and examined it.“Why, it is perfectly fresh,” he said. “That fracture has been made quite lately.”“Yes,” said Pengelly, nodding, “it’s quite new, sir. The old man knows more than he’ll own to. He’s been chipping about here to-night with a hammer; I know, and this is some of his work.”They looked about amongst thedébris, but could find nothing more for some time, till, climbing a little way up the heap of granite scraps that had been evidently dislodged when the machinery was moved, Pengelly uttered an exclamation.“What have you found?” cried Geoffrey, as he saw the miner hold down the light.“It’s what I said, sir,” exclaimed Pengelly. “Look, sir, he’s been chipping and hammering here. Depend upon it the old man knows the mine’s rich.”“But he wouldn’t be chipping the old stones here,” said Geoffrey, examining the fragments, which looked as if some one had been hammering up some pieces of ore.“It’s some he found and brought in,” said Pengelly. “He’s a regular old fox, sir, and you see by and by when he finds we are going right, if he don’t come to us—to you I mean, sir—and offer to sell what he knows.”“And, perhaps, by that time we shall have found it out. Eh, Pengelly?”“We’ll try, sir,” replied the miner; and then together they had a good look round the place, making plans for the fixing of the necessary machinery, Geoffrey growing more and more satisfied with the earnestness and sagacity of his companion, who seemed to throw himself heart and soul into the work in hand. Then, after appointing to meet in good time the next morning, they made their way back to the cliff and separated.“This has been an eventful day,” said Geoffrey, as, after softly letting himself in with the key that he had taken, he quietly took off his heavy boots, and, slippers in hand, stole up-stairs to his bedroom.As he reached the door, however, a faint sob reached his ear, and as he stood listening it was very evident that some one was in grievous trouble, sobbing and crying as if her heart would break.“That must be Miss Madge!” said Geoffrey to himself. “Poor wench! the course of her true love does not seem to run very smooth. Well, I can’t comfort her, and they say that a good cry always does a woman good. So, my dear, you must have your good cry and get better. I’m afraid that women are very silly things if they are not sisters or mothers.”He said the words rather cynically, but, after undressing, he lay there thinking a good deal about Madge Mullion and her love affairs; then about Bess Prawle and her witchcrafts, laughing so heartily at the people’s folly that the bed rattled; then, lastly, Wheal Carnac filled his mind, and, sleeping or waking, he could think of nothing but pumping machinery, the emptying of the shaft, and the coming of the hour when he should be the first to go down to inspect the place, and then was it to be fortune or disappointment, success or failure?In this instance it was to be sleep, for at length his regular, low breathing told of a weary man’s rest; while, just at the end of the passage, Madge Mullion’s flushed face was full of pain, her soft auburn hair was tangled, and the pillow soaked with tears.
As Geoffrey rattled the garden gate he heard a rustle at one of the windows, and, looking up, there was Madge ready to welcome him with a smile.
“Oh! you’re there, are you, madam,” he said to himself. “How are you?”
He nodded to her civilly enough, and was going on to the house, when from out of the look-out there came a rough “Hallo!”
“Hallo, old gentleman!” said Geoffrey, and, turning aside, he entered the summer-house, where Uncle Paul sat smoking, cane in hand, with which he pointed up towards the window where Madge had been.
“Why didn’t you kiss your hand at her, eh?” snarled Uncle Paul.
“Didn’t think of it, old fellow,” replied Geoffrey, coolly.
“I’ve warned you about it, you know,” said the old man, angrily. “Well, have you seen Penwynn?”
“Yes.”
“And what has he got to say?”
“Given the instructions.”
“To go back to London? Well, I’m glad of it; very glad of it.”
“Thank you,” said Geoffrey, lighting his pipe. “No, old gentleman, I’ve got my first job, and now I’m going to work.”
“What, smoking?”
“Yes, engine-fire smoking soon, I hope.”
“What, are you going to spend somebody’s money over a mine?”
“Yes.”
“Then it will be smoke. Whose money—a company’s?”
“Business is business, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey. “I can’t tell you whose money is going to be spent, for I don’t believe I know. But I’ll tell you this much, I’m going to open out Wheal Carnac.”
“Wheal Carnac?”
“Yes, and at once.”
“Then—but bah! it don’t matter, you’ll be paid. My hundred’s gone, so its nothing to me.”
They sat smoking in silence, for Geoffrey returned such short answers that the old man was offended, and scarcely a word was said. After a time, Geoffrey took out a note-book and began to make entries and draw, without noticing how intently his companion was watching him, and this went on till Mrs Mullion came and announced that the young engineer’s composite tea-dinner was ready, to which he went in without a word.
“Nice company he’s getting,” said Uncle Paul, sourly. “Humph! he can be busy enough, now I want him. Here, hi! Trethick!” he shouted across the passage when he went in, “I’m going down to Rumsey’s to-night. We’re going to play whist. Come with me?”
“No, thanks,” said Geoffrey. “I’ve got other cards to play now.”
“Hang him and his independence! What a nuisance! And he plays such a good hand. I meant to have him for a partner. Well, never mind, if he’s busy like that it will keep him from thinking about Madge. Hallo!” he exclaimed, as he heard the gate click, “that girl’s off again. I wonder where she’s going now?”
He returned to his own tea, and before it was finished there was another click, when, on looking up curiously, it was to see Pengelly come limping up the path.
“Humph! we shall have the house full of miners now, I suppose. Ah, well, thank goodness, it isn’t my money that’s going to be sunk.”
Pengelly was admitted, and his first act, on being left alone with Geoffrey, was to catch his hand, and hold it tightly between both of his.
“Why, Pengelly man, what’s the matter?” cried Geoffrey, wondering at his strange manner.
“I’ve heard all, Mr Trethick, every word. I’ve heard all.”
“All? All what?” cried Geoffrey.
“About those wretches—those blind, weak wretches—and my poor injured Bess.”
“Oh!” cried Geoffrey, “I’d forgotten all about it, man. Bah! that’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” cried Pengelly, with the tears standing in his eyes, “nothing? Mr Trethick, sir, if you’d let me be your dog, I’d follow you to the world’s end.”
“Oh, come, come, Pengelly! don’t think any more of that. How is she, though?”
“Better now, sir, and she told me all about it, and how brave you had been. God bless her! she spoke kinder to me than she had ever spoke before.”
“I’m glad she was not much hurt, Pengelly. Poor weak-minded fools, what a charge to get up against her! But come, pass that over. I’ve news for you, Pengelly. I’m going to pump out Wheal Carnac.”
“You are?” cried Pengelly, joyfully.
“I am.”
“Then your fortune’s made.”
“Is it?” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Well, my lad, can you leave your present work for a week or two, and come and help me a little?”
“If you’ll have me to help you, Mr Trethick, there’s no work in the world shall keep me back; and, what’s more, I swear to you that I’ll never leave you till Wheal Carnac’s the greatest paying mine in West Cornwall.”
“Come, that’s cheering, Pengelly,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Why, you are more sanguine than ever.”
“Sanguine, sir? No, it’s sureness, that’s what my feeling is;” and, sitting down at Geoffrey’s request, he was soon going into business-matters with him—where to obtain temporary pumping gear, chain and buckets, wheels, and the like, their planning taking so long that it was past nine when Pengelly rose to go.
“I should like to stretch my legs too, Pengelly,” said Geoffrey. “I’ll walk down with you. What do you say to getting a lantern, and having a look round the place to-night?”
“I can get a lantern,” cried Pengelly, eagerly; and they went out together, meeting Madge just outside the gate, and she hurried by them with bended head, but Geoffrey hardly noticed her, being intent upon his mission.
A lantern was obtained, and matches, and they were soon down upon the shore, climbing along the rough path towards the promontory upon which, just dimly seen against the sky-line, stood out the dark, weird-looking engine-house. The foam that broke upon the rocks at the promontory’s base was all aglow now with phosphorescent light, which rose and fell, and flashed with a wondrous brilliancy.
“Poor night for the fisher lads, sir,” said Pengelly.
“Indeed! why?”
“Their nets will be all a-light with the brime, sir, and every thread will stand out in the deep water, as if afire, and not a fish will go near.”
They clambered on, higher and higher, till they reached the engine-house, into which they proposed to go, and there light the lantern.
“If they see us from the harbour, what will they think?” said Geoffrey.
“That we are ghosts or demons, the weak creatures,” cried Pengelly, scornfully. “It will keep them away: not a man will come near if they see our light. Keep this way, sir, you are getting too near the shaft.”
Geoffrey hastily altered his position, and closely following Pengelly he entered the great engine-house behind him, and then stood waiting while the lame miner struck a match, which blazed up, and then he dropped it, for there, plainly seen in the momentary glare, stood a dark, strange-looking figure, within a few feet of a heap of stones.
In spite of his manhood, Geoffrey felt a chill run through him, for seen in that momentary light the aspect of the figure was so weird and strange.
“It’s only a man!” exclaimed Pengelly, rapidly striking a second match, and holding it to the candle in the lantern. “Hey, Master Prawle! what are you doing here?”
As he spoke he threw the light full upon the old smuggler’s rugged features, Prawle growling the while as he began to fill a blackened pipe.
“What am I doing here, Amos Pengelly? Why, filling my pipe.”
“And playing ghost to frighten honest men, Prawle, eh? I say, old fellow,” cried Geoffrey, “we’ve got you on the right spot, so you may as well speak out all you know.”
“All I know?” said Prawle. “I don’t know nothing, only that I come for a walk, and stepped in here to light my pipe.”
“Light your pipe, eh?” cried Geoffrey, laughing.
“Yes,” said Prawle, spitefully, “and found you courting.”
“Found me?” exclaimed Geoffrey. “Why, I’ve been with Amos Pengelly these two hours. Eh, Amos?”
“Ah, well, if it warn’t you it were somebody else. What do you want here?” growled the old fellow.
“Oh! we’ve come in to light our pipes,” said Geoffrey, laughing.
Prawle growled, and, after a furtive look round, turned to go.
“Warn’t you two here ’bout two hour ago?” he said, sharply.
“No; neither of us,” replied Geoffrey. “But come, Prawle, let us two be a little more friendly. Why can’t you speak out? If you will be frank and honest with me, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I don’t want you to make it worth no whiles of mine,” growled Prawle. “I can get my living, I dessay.”
“Of course you can, man; but other people have got to get theirs. Sit down now, and let’s have a talk. Let’s hear all you know about the mine.”
“What mine? This mine? Wheal Carnac?” said Prawle, quickly. “Nothing; nothing at all. Only everybody’s ruined who takes it. Why?”
“Only that I’m going to work it,” said Geoffrey, “and it might be worth your while to tell me all you know.”
“Work it? You going to work it?” cried Prawle, eagerly. “You?”
“Yes: I,” said Geoffrey. “Now then, what do you say? Will you help me?”
The old man stood scowling and blinking at them in the dim light shed by the lantern, and as his eyes rested upon Geoffrey they seemed less fierce in their gaze; but his face grew very rugged again, as he exclaimed,—
“I can’t help you. I know nothing about the place. What are you going to do? When are you going to begin?”
“My dear Mr Prawle,” said Geoffrey, “I invited you to cooperate with me, and you declined. Now will you allow me to show you the door. Pengelly, let me hold the lantern for Mr Prawle to see his way. Pray take care, Mr Prawle, and don’t make a mistake about the shaft. It is not fenced in. Your life is valuable, you know. Good-night.”
Geoffrey smilingly held the lantern for the old man to see his way, and Prawle looked at him in a puzzled fashion, as if not knowing what to make of his speech. One moment he seemed disposed to resent it; the next he took it in good part, and, as he got outside, after looking suspiciously from one to the other, he said, hastily, as if ashamed of his weakness,—
“I don’t want to quarrel, but don’t you have nothing to do with this pit. It’s a bad un—a bad un, and has ruined scores. Thanky for helping my Bess.”
The next moment he was gone.
“Pleasant style of man, your father-in-law-to-be, Pengelly,” said Geoffrey, coolly, as he returned with the miner into the engine-house. “What was he doing here?”
“I can’t quite make out, sir,” said Pengelly, thoughtfully. “He always was fond of hanging about here of a night, as if jealous that any one should notice the place.”
“Bit of smuggling—hiding-place?” suggested Geoffrey.
“I’ve thought that sometimes, sir, and sometimes I’ve thought there was another reason. He’s a strange old fellow in his ways.”
“Yes, there’s no doubt about that,” said Geoffrey. “But what have you got there?”
Pengelly had just stooped and picked up a fragment of stone, which glittered as he held it to the lantern.
“Bit o’ tin, sir, and I was wondering how it come here.”
Geoffrey took the piece of rough ore and examined it.
“Why, it is perfectly fresh,” he said. “That fracture has been made quite lately.”
“Yes,” said Pengelly, nodding, “it’s quite new, sir. The old man knows more than he’ll own to. He’s been chipping about here to-night with a hammer; I know, and this is some of his work.”
They looked about amongst thedébris, but could find nothing more for some time, till, climbing a little way up the heap of granite scraps that had been evidently dislodged when the machinery was moved, Pengelly uttered an exclamation.
“What have you found?” cried Geoffrey, as he saw the miner hold down the light.
“It’s what I said, sir,” exclaimed Pengelly. “Look, sir, he’s been chipping and hammering here. Depend upon it the old man knows the mine’s rich.”
“But he wouldn’t be chipping the old stones here,” said Geoffrey, examining the fragments, which looked as if some one had been hammering up some pieces of ore.
“It’s some he found and brought in,” said Pengelly. “He’s a regular old fox, sir, and you see by and by when he finds we are going right, if he don’t come to us—to you I mean, sir—and offer to sell what he knows.”
“And, perhaps, by that time we shall have found it out. Eh, Pengelly?”
“We’ll try, sir,” replied the miner; and then together they had a good look round the place, making plans for the fixing of the necessary machinery, Geoffrey growing more and more satisfied with the earnestness and sagacity of his companion, who seemed to throw himself heart and soul into the work in hand. Then, after appointing to meet in good time the next morning, they made their way back to the cliff and separated.
“This has been an eventful day,” said Geoffrey, as, after softly letting himself in with the key that he had taken, he quietly took off his heavy boots, and, slippers in hand, stole up-stairs to his bedroom.
As he reached the door, however, a faint sob reached his ear, and as he stood listening it was very evident that some one was in grievous trouble, sobbing and crying as if her heart would break.
“That must be Miss Madge!” said Geoffrey to himself. “Poor wench! the course of her true love does not seem to run very smooth. Well, I can’t comfort her, and they say that a good cry always does a woman good. So, my dear, you must have your good cry and get better. I’m afraid that women are very silly things if they are not sisters or mothers.”
He said the words rather cynically, but, after undressing, he lay there thinking a good deal about Madge Mullion and her love affairs; then about Bess Prawle and her witchcrafts, laughing so heartily at the people’s folly that the bed rattled; then, lastly, Wheal Carnac filled his mind, and, sleeping or waking, he could think of nothing but pumping machinery, the emptying of the shaft, and the coming of the hour when he should be the first to go down to inspect the place, and then was it to be fortune or disappointment, success or failure?
In this instance it was to be sleep, for at length his regular, low breathing told of a weary man’s rest; while, just at the end of the passage, Madge Mullion’s flushed face was full of pain, her soft auburn hair was tangled, and the pillow soaked with tears.