George Manville Fenn (continued 2)

He found himself wondering again why his thoughts had taken such a turn, and why he should have said “she.”

“What nonsense!” he exclaimed. “I shall be writing a romance of a ruined mine directly,” and going on to the slope of débris he began kicking out and examining the old fragments that had been dug from the bowels of the earth, taking out his pocket-lens, and minutely inspecting each piece for traces of metallic ore, but finding little to reward his pains.

“There was a lot of money wasted here, I’ll be bound,” he exclaimed, as he turned off and once more began to follow the track.

“It’s a grand coast-line,” he thought, as he walked on past and under the huge masses of grey granite, dotted with green fern and pink stonecrop, till he found the path begin to descend rapidly into a ravine, full of ferny nooks and spots made musical by the dripping water of the springs. The place had very precipitous sides, with a bright rushing stream foaming on towards the sea, where it spread its waters over the pure sands of a tiny cove.

There were a couple of boats drawn up below a large straggling granite cottage, built evidently a portion at a time upon a shelf of rock well out of the reach of the waves; and upon a platform in front of the unlovely place, hedged in with stones, was some attempt at a garden.

So steep was the track down as he approached the place, Geoffrey could easily have leaped from this slope on to the cottage roof, which was as rugged as the walls, and altogether the dwelling had a wild, uncouth aspect, in no wise improved by some old ship wood and lumber lying about.

But this was all redeemed by the beauty of the little cove, with the breaking waves which seemed to sweep up the waters of the little stream after its gurgling course, amidst lichenous stones from where it had sprung high up the ravine out of a bower of many-tinted greens.

“Just the spot for a smuggler or a wrecker, or a fellow to build a house to boat and fish, and live away from the world. I should like to lodge here,” he continued, as his eyes wandered over the scene. “Wish I could paint, and—ah! you would come in capitally. Hallo! she’s coming to me. No, my lass,” he said, as if speaking to her, though she was too distant to hear, “it’s labour in vain. I don’t want a guide to any caves or dripping wells, or to buy specimens of ore, spar, or the like. By Jove, though, she’s very handsome. Why, she must be a gypsy.”

This was said as a young woman came into sight from the cottage below, looked up, and on catching sight of the visitor seemed to speak to some one within, and then hurried up to meet him.

As Geoffrey remarked, she was very handsome, but it was a wild, rugged, half-savage kind of beauty. Dark-eyed, brown-skinned, with a ruddy flush which showed how little she sheltered from the weather, while her abundant black hair was carelessly twisted up, and hung down in a massive knot between her shoulders. Her dress was of the commonest cotton, and slovenly made, a short print gown being tied round her waist, over a bright-coloured serge petticoat, while in one hand she held a print hood. But, in spite of her ungraceful clothing, Geoffrey could see that she was lithe, strong, and active, and there was no little natural grace in the undulations of her unfettered form, as she hurried up to meet him.

“Come here and buy some sweets,” she said, in a voice as full of command as entreaty, and as she looked him boldly yet curiously in the face, he saw that her lips were red and full, over large but beautifully white teeth.

“Sweets? Nonsense, my lass. I don’t eat sweets. What cove is this?”

“Gwennas,” said the girl. “Come down and buy some sweets. Here’s the money.”

Geoffrey stared, as the girl held out a penny in her large, well-shaped hand.

“Poor lass! A love case for a sovereign. She’s crazy,” said Geoffrey to himself, and, changing his manner, he took the coin from the girl’s hand, receiving, at the same time, a smile for reward. “What’s your name, my lass?” he said aloud.

“Bessie—Elizabeth Prawle,” said the girl, shortly. “You’re a stranger.”

“Yes,” he said, looking at her sidewise. “Do they sell sweets here?”

“Yes,” said the girl, sharply.

“And you are very fond of them, eh?”

They were going side by side towards the cottage, when the girl faced round, looked at him in a puzzled way for a moment, and then laughed merrily.

“They are not for me,” she said, sharply, as they reached the rough rocky platform in front of the cottage. “Here, father, this gentleman is going to buy some sweets.”

“Is he? Oh!”

This was uttered in a low, hoarse growl, by a strongly-built, rugged fisher-looking man, in a blue Jersey, and very thick flannel trousers, braced up right over his chest. He wore no hat, but a shaggy crop of grizzled hair shaded his weather-beaten, inflamed face, as he sat on a block of granite, as rugged as himself, overhauling a long fishing-line, whose hooks he was sticking in pieces of blackened cork.

He looked up for a moment frowningly at the visitor, with a pair of dark piercing eyes, drew a great gnarled hand across his mouth to wipe away the tobacco-juice, lowered his eyes, got up, stooped, and displayed an enormous patch upon his trousers, reseated himself, and went on with his work.

“Come in,” said the girl, quickly, and she led the way into a large low room, roughly but well furnished, and scrupulously clean. It was a compound of rustic farmhouse kitchen with a flavour of parlour and ship’s chandlery or boating store. For along the massive beams, and wherever a great peg could be driven in, hung nets, lines, and other fishing gear. A ship’s lantern hung here; there was a binnacle there. Odds and ends of cabin furniture were mingled with well-polished Windsor chairs, and brass decorated chests of drawers. There was plenty of ornamentation too. Shells, a sword-fish, dried marine animals, sponges and seaweeds, masses of coral, fragments of bright spar, and some gay pieces of china, lay upon chimney-piece and shelves; in addition to which there was the model of a full-rigged ship in full sail, fitted up in a great glass case.

“Quite an old curiosity shop,” thought Geoffrey, as he saw all this at a glance, and noted that the well-cleaned floor was sprinkled with sand, save where a great home-made shred rug lay in front of the bright black fireplace, on whose hob a great copper kettle shone from its dark corner like a misted sun.

The light came through the open door, and formed quite a Rembrandtish picture in the low, darkened room, falling as it did in mote-sparkling rays, like a band of sunbeams, right across a bent figure in an old well-washed chintz-covered armchair.

The first thing that struck Geoffrey was the figure’s occupation. The day was warm, but she was seated very close to the fire, airing a garment carefully spread over her knees, and from which came a most unmistakable odour of scorching, reminding the visitor very strongly of his late visit to Mrs Mullion’s on the cliff. A pair of very thin white hands were busy adding mesh after mesh to a herring net, while as they entered, the bent down head was eagerly raised, and Geoffrey saw a face whose white hair and pallid, piteous look, told its own tale, as the weary-looking eyes scanned his face.

“Another customer, mother,” said the girl, quickly. “Oh, why don’t you be more careful? you’ll burn yourself to death.”

“It’s cold, Bessie; it’s cold, dear, but that’s well—that’s well,” said the invalid, whose hands began to tremble, so that she missed a stitch or two in her net. “Be quick, dear, be quick.”

“Yes, mother. Did you say a pen’orth, sir?”

“No, I want sixpen’orth, my lass,” said Geoffrey.

The girl darted a grateful look at him as she took a covered glass jar from the window-sill, and as she rattled the coloured sticks of candy which were its contents, Geoffrey heard a sigh of satisfaction from the invalid, a glance showing him that the head was once more bent down over the net.

“Fine weather, Mrs Prawle,” said Geoffrey, hazarding a shot, as the girl busily rustled a paper bag.

“Yes, yes,” said the invalid, looking up at him, “I suppose it is, sir. I hope you will come again.”

The girl darted a quick look at him.

“Oh, yes! of course,” replied Geoffrey, whose eyes wandered over the pitiable picture before him. “I shall come again.”

“I’m so anxious to get up a connection, sir,” continued the invalid, “and Gwennas Cove is rather out of the way.”

“I should think it is—rather!” said Geoffrey to himself, and he could hardly refrain from smiling at the poor woman’s idea of getting up a connection in that wild spot.

“Yes, Bess, take the money. Thank you kindly, sir. Good-day, sir; good-day;” and the invalid began to carefully turn the airing garment upon her knees, though there was no more dampness in it than in one of the red-hot pieces of wood over which she hung.

Geoffrey felt disposed to stay, but his time was short, and, after a cheery “good-day,” he strode out, followed by the girl, to find that the rugged-looking old man was gone, patch and all; but the girl hurried on before him for a few yards, as if to be out of hearing at the cottage, and then held out her hand.

“What? Good-by!” said Geoffrey, smiling, and he held out his own.

“No, no, nonsense,” said the girl, flushing. “Give me the sweeties, and take your money back.”

“Then you carry that on to please the old lady, eh?” said Geoffrey.

“Yes, of course,” replied the girl, sharply. “Didn’t you know?”

“Not I; but I guessed as much.”

“Mother’s been ill these twenty years, and has to be carried to her bed. She thinks she’s a burthen, so we do it to humour her.”

“I thought as much.”

“Then why don’t you take your money?” said a hoarse, rough voice, that chased away all the sentiment of the affair, and Geoffrey started round to see that the fierce-looking old man was leaning over a block of granite, his arms crossed, and his chin resting upon them. “Take your money and go.”

“No,” said Geoffrey, in his off-hand way. “No: thanks. I want the sweets for the children.”

“Yours?” said the old fellow, roughly.

“Mine? Hang it, man; no.”

Geoffrey turned to the girl, and looked at her, laughing merrily; but this seemed to irritate the old man, who came fiercely from behind the granite block, thrusting his hands far down into his pockets, and scowling angrily.

“Look here, young man,” he said, hoarsely, “you’re a stranger here, and don’t know us.”

“Not yet,” said Geoffrey, “but I dare say I soon shall.”

“Take your money, and don’t come again,” said the old man, hoarsely.

“You are a nice, pleasant-spoken old gentleman,” said Geoffrey, nonchalantly, as he coolly opened the paper bag, and took out one of the sticks of candy. “Have a sweet?”

The man uttered a fierce growl that sounded like an oath, and took a step forward in a menacing way, but the girl sprang forward, and threw her arm across his chest.

“D’yer want me to hurl you off the rocks?” he said savagely.

“Be quiet, father,” cried the girl. “The gentleman means no harm.”

“Go in, Bess,” he shouted, and, shaking her off, he went close up to Geoffrey, who did not give way an inch, but looked full in the fierce, repulsive face thrust close to his, till the old man lowered his eyes, and stepped on one side, muttering angrily.

“Do you always treat strangers like this, Master Prawle?” said Geoffrey, smiling.

“Go away, I tell ye,” said the old man, fiercely. “We want no dealings with the people.”

“Don’t anger father, sir,” said the girl, who, however, seemed to be in no wise put out by the old man’s savage resentment.

“Not I, my girl,” replied Geoffrey; “but what is the matter with your mother?”

“She fell off the cliff one night,” said the girl, quickly.

“Tell him to go, Bess,” growled her father. “We don’t want him here.”

“I asked the gentleman to come, father,” said the girl. Then, turning to Geoffrey, “Thank you kindly, sir. It pleases mother.”

“Don’t name it, my lass,” replied Geoffrey, smiling, and the girl looked at him very fixedly, as she watched every turn in his frank, open face. “Good-day,” he continued. “Good-day, Master Prawle.”

The old man scowled at him by way of reply, and then stood watching him till he had climbed back to the edge of the ravine, where, turning to glance down, Geoffrey saw father and daughter below, the latter returning his salute, as he waved his hand before passing out of their sight.

“Old boy thought I was a hawk after his pigeon,” said Geoffrey, lightly. “What an ill-conditioned old ogre! But there must be some good under his rough bark. Prawle, eh? Elizabeth, otherwise Bess. And the old woman! What a piteous face! Twenty years an invalid! Ah, well! I don’t think Mr Prawle, of the hoarse voice and fierce tone, need be afraid; but I’d rather not offend him, say about the fair Elizabeth, and then meet him—angry—say beside the shaft of one of those old mines.”

He glanced then at his watch, and hastened his steps, for the time of his engagement at An Morlock was drawing near.

Chapter Ten.

Geoffrey Makes a Discovery.

“You are an extremely handsome young woman, and I like the bright, intelligent look in your eyes,” said Geoffrey Trethick to himself; “but I’ll swear you have got a temper.”

“You are a nice, frank, manly fellow,” said Rhoda Penwynn to herself; “and I wonder whether you are as sensible and not so stubborn as you look.”

Introductions were just over in Mr Penwynn’s drawing-room, and Geoffrey, who was in no wise taken aback by the splendour of his host’s surroundings, walked across to where, cold and stiff and quiet, his travelling-companion stood, with one arm upon the mantelpiece, looking uneasily on.

“It seems as if we are to be thrown together,” said Geoffrey, offering the young clergyman his hand, which the latter took as if under protest, and then glanced from Mr Penwynn to his daughter, as if in apology for allowing himself to be claimed as an acquaintance by his bluff travelling-companion.

“You have met Mr Lee, then?” said the host stiffly.

“Yes—yes,” said the new vicar; “Mr Trethick is an old Oxford man.”

“And you don’t like him,” said Rhoda to herself, as she observed every thing; “and I don’t like you.”

“We were fellow-passengers by the coach this morning,” said Geoffrey, and as he spoke he glanced by Mr Penwynn at where Rhoda was re-arranging some flowers, and found that the Reverend Edward Lee had brought his spectacles to bear in the same direction. Then, looking back at his host, he fancied that this gentleman had not been unobservant of the glances of his guests.

Mr Penwynn smiled to himself directly after as Geoffrey moved towards Rhoda, and began talking to her about the view from the drawing-room window and his walk along the coast; but the young clergyman looked at his host as if in remonstrance at his allowing this stranger to make so free, when the door opened, and the servant announced,—

“Mr Tregenna!”

“Ah, Tregenna! You are late. Glad to see you.”

“Business, my dear sir. The old story—business. My dear Miss Penwynn, you must forgive me,” he continued, speaking in a low voice full of deference, but with lips that did not seem to move as he spoke, as Rhoda turned from Geoffrey, and took a couple of steps towards the fresh comer—a tall, handsome man of distingué appearance, but with a rather sallow complexion, made deeper by his jet black hair and whiskers.

Geoffrey started slightly, and then gazed keenly at this man, who bent down over Rhoda Penwynn’s hand as he took it, and retained it just a moment longer than custom dictates, and smiled in her face directly after as, in a quiet, self-possessed way, she said that they had not been waiting.

“Waiting? No!” said Mr Penwynn smiling; “but I should have thought you would have been first.”

“I hurried all I could,” said Tregenna, as a slight flush came over Rhoda’s cheek; “but one cannot always command one’s time, even to devote it to one’s aims.”

Geoffrey Trethick half-closed his eyes, as he looked on trying to think out something which had puzzled him, but without avail, and for the moment he gave it up, and began to turn over the leaves of an album, but taking ample notice the while of what was going on.

“If I were interested in mine host’s daughter,” mused Geoffrey, “I should feel uncomfortable about that dark, smoothly-shaven gentleman. I don’t like the look of his mouth, and I don’t like his eyes, and—Most happy!”

This last in answer to his host’s introduction to the last comer, who smiled upon him in the most friendly of ways, asked him what he thought of Carnac, seemed to be particularly refined, and then turned to go through a little preliminary chat with the new clergyman, who was more bland and agreeable than he had been to his travelling-companion.

“Ah! the parson gets on better with you, my fine fellow,” said Geoffrey. “You haven’t so many corners as I have. Humph! I don’t like you, though. You seem to be the man in possession, though, here, and certainly she is a very charming girl.”

He met Rhoda’s eyes as these thoughts passed through his mind, and she encountered his gaze with a frank, open look, though he fancied that she seemed a shade paler than when he was talking to her a few minutes before.

Just then dinner was announced, and Mr Penwynn turned to speak to Geoffrey, but bit his lip and glanced at Tregenna, who, however, only smiled back and nodded, as if amused; for Rhoda, acting the part of mistress of the house, extended her gloved hand so unmistakably that Geoffrey stepped forward, the hand was laid upon his arm, and, passing the others, he led her across the hall to the handsome dining-room, thinking to himself that by rights the Reverend Edward Lee ought to have occupied his place.

The dinner was good and well served, every thing making it evident that Mr Penwynn was a wealthy man, and one who liked to show it; but the ostentation was a good deal toned down by his child’s refined taste, and was not obtrusive. The conversation kept up was such as would be heard at any gentleman’s table, and it soon became evident that the West-country banker and his daughter were well-informed, and loved and cultivated refinement.

Geoffrey particularly noted how clever and gentlemanly Mr Tregenna could be. By degrees it dawned upon him that he was the principal solicitor of the place, and without its troubling him in the slightest degree, he made out that Tregenna was evidently a suitor for Rhoda Penwynn’s hand. Both father and lover showed this, the former being plainly in favour of the match; while, in spite of her efforts to the contrary, Rhoda Penwynn displayed her consciousness of Tregenna’s expressive looks by redoubling her attention to Geoffrey and the new vicar—Geoffrey chatting freely, and in the most unembarrassed way, so different to any young man she had met before, and questioning her largely about the place and people.

“A glass of wine with you, Mr Trethick,” said the host, who, in spite of advances, adhered somewhat to old customs. “Tregenna, will you join us?”

“With pleasure,” said the latter, looking up and smiling, and as he did so the thought that had been puzzling Geoffrey all through the dinner met with a solution.

He had been wondering—his wonder running like a vein through the whole of the conversation—where he had met Tregenna before; but now it came to him that for certain they had never met, but that it was that smooth, deep, mellow voice that he had heard, but where?

“I have it,” he mentally exclaimed, as, raising his glass, he looked full in John Tregenna’s eyes. “You were the fellow I heard talking to that girl by the ruined mine?”

Chapter Eleven.

An Opinion of Tregenna.

“You’re a nice, smooth scoundrel,” said Geoffrey to himself, as he set down his glass, “and I have been drinking with you when I ought to have thrown the wine in your face, and told you that you were a blackguard.—But we don’t do this sort of thing in society. As long as there is a good thick coat of whitewash over the sepulchre, society does not mind, but smiles on ladies with no reputation if they are rich, and never opens its ears to the acts, deeds, and exploits of our nice young men. I wonder whether mine host knows your character, and what my fair young hostess feels? Don’t seem very sentimental about him, anyhow; and here’s my reverend friend quite cottoning to black whiskers, and enjoying his small talk. Ah! it’s a strange world.”

A brisk little conversation was just now going off between Rhoda Penwynn and the new vicar, Tregenna throwing in a word here and there, Mr Penwynn smiling approval as he listened, while Geoffrey went on eating heartily, and following his thought.

“I may be wrong,” he went on, “but I feel pretty sure I could say something that would make you change colour, my smooth, cleanly-shaven gentleman, and if I did I should make you my enemy for life. Well, perhaps I could bear that, but I don’t want enemies, I want friends. If I’m right, though, I don’t think you ought to win ma’mselle unless you reform, probationise, and she condones. There, what a string! As the old women say—’tain’t no business of mine.”

He glanced across at Tregenna just then, and that gentleman met his eye, smiled, and the discussion being over, asked him how long he meant to stay in the west.

“Stay?” said Geoffrey sharply. “Altogether.”

Tregenna raised his eyebrows a little, and just then the young vicar, in reply to a question from Mr Penwynn, began speaking, in slow measured accents, about the vicarage to be built, and the alterations he meant to make at the church. A bright colour suffused his smooth pale face, as he found that Rhoda was listening to him, and that he was now monopolising the attention of the rest. However, he seemed to master his nervousness, and spoke out firmly and well to the end.

“You may try,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling, “but I am afraid, my dear sir, that your ideas are as Utopian as those of Mr Trethick there. However, experience teaches, as the Latin proverb goes; but, as an old inhabitant, I venture to say that before many weeks are over, both of you gentlemen will confess that you have undertaken a Herculean task. Religiously, the people of the lower orders are as wedded to Wesleyanism as in their mining tactics they are to their old-fashioned ways. Our rough Cornish folk, gentlemen, are as hard to move as our own granite.”

“Perhaps so, papa,” said Rhoda; “but we have not had many efforts made here to move them.”

“Thank you, Miss Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, flushing, and speaking with animation. “Those are the first encouraging words I have heard. Your daughter has touched the very point, Mr Penwynn. I don’t want to talk like an egotist, but, speaking as an engineer, if you will show me one of your biggest pieces of Cornish granite, I’ll find a means of giving it a start; and I’ll be bound to say that if Mr Lee here is as determined as I, he will find a way of moving the hardest of your Cornish hearts. Sir, I believe in that little word ‘Try!’”

The Reverend Edward Lee coloured slightly, and turned his glasses with more of interest upon the speaker, but he did not interpose.

“I wish you both every success,” said Tregenna, smiling first on one and then on the other, and Mr Penwynn nodded his head, and laughed, saying,—

“Youth is sanguine, Mr Trethick. Try!”

“I will, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, in a voice that, though quiet, was so full of the spirit expressed by those two determined words that Tregenna glanced sharply at him, and then at Rhoda, to see what effect they had had upon her.

She was bending a little forward, her lips parted, and a curious look in her face, as she gazed in the guest’s countenance, till, instinctively becoming aware that Tregenna’s eyes were fixed upon her, she let her own fall, but only to raise them directly after with a half-offended look of inquiry, as if asking why she was watched, and soon after she left the table.

The gentlemen stayed but a short time over their wine, for Tregenna, after exchanging glances with Mr Penwynn, rose and made for the drawing-room, while Mr Penwynn suggested a cigar in the garden.

“Yes, I should enjoy a smoke,” said Geoffrey, who suspected that this was a manoeuvre to give Tregenna an opportunity for a tête-à-tête, but the vicar declined.

“I have not smoked now for many years,” he said, and he glanced to the door as if to escape to the drawing-room in Tregenna’s wake, but Mr Penwynn proceeded to endorse Geoffrey’s suspicions.

“Then I will not smoke either,” he said, passing his arm through that of his guest. “We’ll have a look round at the ferns and flowers till Mr Trethick has finished his cigar. They’ll bring us coffee directly, and then we will join them in the drawing-room.”

There was no escape, so the young clergyman was marched off to inspect the peculiarities of his host’s choice ferns, with the beauties of the various sub-tropical plants that the banker had collected in his well-kept, rock-sheltered terrace. These being ended, the various points of interest in the distance about the bay were pointed put, evidently to gain time.

Meanwhile Geoffrey, who felt somewhat amused, sat upon a rock, smoked an excellent cigar, and thought a good deal as he gazed out to sea.

“Parson’s bored,” he said to himself. “He wants to get off to the drawing-room, and beam through his glasses on Miss Penwynn, who is unmistakably being courted by the smooth, dark gentleman. Most likely he is just now, with papa’s consent, popping the question. If she accepts him I should think it’s a pity, for somehow Mr Tregenna is not my beau-ideal of a gentleman, while she is a bright, clever girl. However, it is no business of mine.”

He paused to knock the very long, carefully-preserved ash off the end of his cigar, which process seemed to be looked upon as one of very great importance, the cigar being petted and carefully smoothed down at the moist end where a little of the leaf was loose, lest this opening should at all interfere with the drawing; after which he tenderly replaced the roll of weed in his lips, uttered a sigh of satisfaction, such as might be given by any young man whose digestion was in perfect order, and exhaled a soft blue cloud of smoke.

“Curious thing this love,” he continued to himself. “Every one seems to go in for it, to the ruffling of a calm, smooth life, and gets into trouble. What a blessing it is that I have no inclinations in that direction! Humph! I wonder what the lady has said? Bah! stuff! nonsense! what is it to me? I’m not going to set up as head moralist, and meddle with these affairs. Her father must know best.”

He rose, and strolled down to the end of the terrace, to lean over a rugged mass of granite, and he was still there, enjoying the delicious calm of the evening, and marvelling at the beauty of the shadowy, phosphorescent sea, when he heard his host’s voice, and throwing aside the fragment of the cigar whose aroma was beginning to be marred by touches of burnt moustache, he turned to meet him.

“Tea is ready, Mr Trethick,” he said. “Really I ought to apologise for my neglect.”

“Neglect, eh?” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Why, I could bear to be neglected like this every night. You gave me one of the best cigars I ever lit, and let me lounge here and smoke it in peace. Don’t apologise, Mr Penwynn; I am quite satisfied.”

In spite of his indifference, however, Geoffrey could not refrain from looking curiously at Rhoda and Tregenna as he entered the drawing-room, but their unruffled features told no tales.

Rhoda was seated near the window, and Tregenna on the opposite side, looking more gentlemanly and polished than ever; while Rhoda at once rose, and began talking to the new vicar, leaving Geoffrey to chat over the handed-round tea to Tregenna about mines, their few successes, and their many failures.

“Parson’s happy now, I hope,” thought Geoffrey, as Mr Penwynn came and carried off Tregenna, after a word of apology about business; and then, as they stood talking at the other end of the room, Mr Penwynn’s face was so fully in the light, that Geoffrey could not help noticing that he changed countenance.

“Master Tregenna’s saying something unpleasant about business,” thought Geoffrey. “The glorious uncertainty of the law is, perhaps, having mine host upon the hip.”

“Do you like music, Mr Trethick?” said a voice at his side, and he found that Rhoda Penwynn had left the vicar and approached unobserved.

“You wicked young puss,” he said to himself. “You’ve come to make a buffer of me. That’s it, is it? Papa is turning angry about you, eh? and you fear a collision? Well, you shall find me full of spring.” Then, smiling—“Yes, I love music,” he said aloud. “I am a worshipper at a distance—rather a mild one, I should say. You will sing something, I hope?”

Rhoda crossed readily to the piano, and sang a couple of ballads very sweetly, her voice being rich and resonant, and then it seemed to Geoffrey, who was turning over the music for her, that, in spite of a very brave effort to appear unconcerned, she was growing extremely nervous, for, instead of leaving the piano, she began to pick up piece after piece of music, glancing sharply from her father to Tregenna, and then at the vicar, who was placidly examining an album of scraps.

“I wish you sang, Mr Trethick,” she said at last.

“Do you?” he said, looking down at her troubled face.

“Yes. Do you? Will you?”

“Nature has not been very generous to me in the matter of voice. At least she has given me plenty, but the quality is coarse. I’ll try something though—with you.”

“A duet? Oh, yes!” she said eagerly. “What have we? Could you—do you like Italian?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, as he noticed how agitated she was growing, and how bravely she fought to keep it down, and preserve her composure towards her father’s guests. “Shall we try that Trovatore piece that you just turned over—Ai nostri monti.”

“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, and there was a silence in the room as the rich harmony of the well-blended voices floated out upon the night air. For, in spite of his modest declaration, Geoffrey Trethick possessed a full deep voice, and, being a good musician, he thoroughly enjoyed his task.

“Rather hard on a baritone to set him to sing tenor, Miss Penwynn,” he said, laughing. “But I say, what a delicious voice you have!”

Rhoda glanced at him sharply, but the expression of admiration she could see was perfectly sincere, and she knew at once that he was not a man likely to flatter.

That duet gave Rhoda Penwynn time to recover herself, and she was perfectly calm by the end—a calm she managed to maintain until the guests were about to depart.

“By the way, Mr Lee,” said the banker, “have you obtained apartments? It is a disgrace to our place that the vicarage is not rebuilt.”

“Oh, yes!” said the vicar, mildly, “I have obtained rooms.”

“At Mrs Mullion’s, I presume?”

“No,” said the vicar, turning his glasses for a moment on Geoffrey. “Mr Trethick has taken those.”

“Indeed! Then you are at the hotel?”

“No; I have made arrangements to board with a Miss Pavey, at a very pleasant cottage—Dinas Vale. Good-night!”

“I’ll walk as far as your rooms with you, Mr Trethick,” said Tregenna, as they stepped out into the road. “Have a cigar?”

They lit up, and strolled along the up-and-down ill-paved way, Tregenna evidently laying himself out to make friends with the new arrival, who made himself frank and pleasant, but, somehow, not cordial.

“Drop in and have a chat with me, Mr Trethick,” said Tregenna, at parting. “I may be able to further your views. Any one will show you my place.”

“Know it,” said Geoffrey. “Saw the brass plate on the gate.”

“Yes,” laughed Tregenna, “one has to put out a sign. But come and see me; perhaps I can help you.”

“I don’t like after-dinner promises,” laughed Geoffrey. “They are rash. I may put you to the test.”

“Rash? Oh, no! We are not like that in the west. I shall be only too glad to help you to the best of my power. Good-night!”

“Good-night!”

Geoffrey remained at the garden gate thinking that his companion had spoken a great deal more loudly than was necessary. Then, as he had not finished his cigar, he resolved to smoke it out, and enjoy for a few minutes the cool night air.

“I don’t like to be hasty,” he thought, “but I scarcely think that I shall trust you, Mr Tregenna, beyond the reach of my hand. If I am not very much mistaken your civility has a meaning, and you are a confounded scoundrel. If not, I beg your pardon.”

“Yes,” he said, half aloud, after smoking on for a few minutes and thinking deeply, “it was your voice that I heard down in that old building. Now I wonder who was the girl?”

As the thought crossed his mind, the faint sound of a closing casement smote his ear, when, like a flash, the light came.

“By George! of course,” he said. “The other voice was familiar, too. It was our pretty little maiden here. Hang it all! I’ve tumbled into the thick of a mystery, and if I don’t take care I shall be in the middle of the mess.”

“Hah?” he exclaimed, as he tapped at the door, “As I said before, it’s no business of mine, and her father knows best; but this love-making is the greatest nuisance under the sun, or I ought to say the moon.”

Chapter Twelve.

Cold Water.

Mr John Tregenna had lost no time upon leaving the dining-room, but joined Rhoda, who sat looking rather pale, but prepared for the attack.

She knew that it must come, and, in spite of a feeling of dread, she felt almost glad, when, seating himself beside her, he began, with plenty of calm, quiet assurance, to plead his cause, she listening patiently the while to all he had to say.

Every word he uttered was to Rhoda as so much trouble over, and she would not look nor speak until he had finished, being determined to hear all he had to say, and to let him say it without hinderance, so that the matter should be ended once and for all.

He was too cunning a man—too well versed in human nature—to attempt heroics with such a girl as Rhoda, and there was no enraptured catching of hands, no falling upon one knee, no passionate adjuration. Tregenna began by telling her that he had her father’s consent, and that he only wanted hers. That for years past he had loved her with a patient, growing love, which now permeated—he said permeated—his very being, and that it was his only desire that she should become his wife.

As he spoke he held ready in one hand a very handsome diamond hoop ring, which was to be the token of their betrothal, for he felt no doubt upon the subject. Rhoda might make a little demur, and be a bit distant and coquettish, but he felt sure that she had been well schooled by her father, and she was just the woman to become his wife. She attracted him with her handsome face and fine svelte figure; she would look well at the head of his table; she would give him position; and, what was more, her father was very wealthy, and that wealth must finally come to him.

Rhoda caught a glimpse of the ring in his hand, for as he fidgeted it about a ray flashed from it betraying its presence, and she knew what it was, for her lips tightened, and a hard look came into her eyes.

At last he was silent, and waiting her reply.

It was a hard task, but she was now well strung up, and turning to him quietly, she said,—

“Don’t you think, Mr Tregenna, that it is necessary in such a case for there to exist a mutual feeling of attachment?”

There was something so terribly cold and matter-of-fact in this—something, so to speak, so ungirlish—that it came upon Tregenna like a thunder-clap; but he was equal to the emergency.

“No,” he said eagerly; “certainly not, if the lady has no prior attachment, which you, dear Rhoda, I am sure, have not.”

“No, Mr Tregenna, I certainly have not,” she replied, quietly.

“It is only necessary,” he exclaimed, “that the man should love. The love of the woman will grow.”

“I do not agree with you, Mr Tregenna,” she replied, quietly.

“But, my dearest Rhoda—”

“Mr Tregenna,” she said firmly, “let us understand one another at once. From a feeling of respect for my father’s friend I have heard you to the end, and my respect for you has grown as I have noticed the gentlemanly manner in which you have made known to me your unfortunate attachment.”

“Unfortunate?” he exclaimed, looking at her almost stunned.

“Yes, unfortunate; because I must tell you frankly, Mr Tregenna, that I cannot give you the slightest hope.”

“My dear Rhoda,” he exclaimed, “you mistake me. I do not ask you to be my wife now, but by-and-by. I only ask for time.”

“Time can make no difference, Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, firmly; “and I have to ask you now, as a gentleman, to accept my refusal of your suit. Once, Mr Tregenna, for all, I can never become your wife.”

“Then you do love some one else,” he cried, his rage for the moment mastering him.

“Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, coldly, “this is a matter I am not bound to confess to you, but you will please recollect that I told you I had no prior attachment.”

“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed hastily. “I had forgotten. I was mad. Pray forgive me, Rhoda. But listen, pray listen. You cannot think how cruelly this cuts me to the heart.”

“I grieve to cause you pain, Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, “but you must give me credit for the fact that this has been none of my seeking. I must ask you now to let me bring what has been a most painful interview to an end.”

“Painful?” he cried passionately. “It is death to all my hopes. But I cannot accept this as final. Time will work a change.”

“Time will work no change, Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, firmly. “As my father’s friend I have heard you out, and I have tried to reply as kindly as I could.”

Tregenna saw that he would be only injuring his cause by pressing his suit, and he desisted; but there was a curious look in his eye, which made Rhoda shiver, as he exclaimed,—

“But the future, Rhoda—Miss Penwynn—dear Miss Penwynn? I am not to take this as a complete dismissal from your presence.”

“Mr Tregenna,” replied Rhoda, “I have told you plainly that I can never become your wife. If I have been too blunt, or seemed unmaidenly, you must forgive it, and recollect that I have never known a mother’s care, but from a child had to assume a woman’s duties as the mistress of this house. As to the future—you are my father’s friend.”

“And yours,” he cried eagerly.

“My father’s friends are my friends,” said Rhoda, rather coldly. “We will then henceforth consider the words which you have addressed to me to-night as having never been spoken.”

“As you will,” he said hoarsely; “but so long as this heart continues to beat I shall—”

“Mr Tregenna,” exclaimed Rhoda, rising, and speaking with dignity, “you are hurt and grieved, but I must ask your forbearance in this.”

“Forgive me,” he said humbly, as he bent down his head, and hid the strange look that crossed his face, “it shall be as you wish. We are friends, then. What shall we talk about now,” he added, with an almost imperceptible sneer, “books or flowers?”

“I was about to ask you what you think of our guests,” said Rhoda, trying to be calm and unconcerned, for Tregenna made no effort to leave her.

“Indeed!” he said listlessly, sinking back in his seat as Rhoda took a chair at a short distance. “Do you wish to know?”

“Yes, I should be glad to hear.”

“Well,” he said cynically, “my honest conviction about our new vicar is that he is a conceited, self-sufficient University prig, stuffed full of classics, and no more suited to manage the people of these parts than that rather obtrusive, stubborn-looking gentleman, Trethick, is to make his way amongst our miners. They will both come to grief.”

“Do you think so?”

“Undoubtedly. One will stay three months, and then exchange; the other three weeks, and then probably go abroad.”

“Am I to take that as a prophecy?” said Rhoda, smiling.

“Yes; and mark its fulfilment,” he replied, trying to speak lightly.

“I think differently,” said Rhoda. “As to Mr Lee, I will hazard no conjecture; but Mr Trethick seems to me the kind of man who will force his way by sheer energy.”

Tregenna’s eyes glistened as he watched the face before him with jealous suspicion, but it was as placid and emotionless as could be.

“Do you think so?”

“I do indeed,” replied Rhoda.

“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “He is an interesting-looking youth.”

He felt ready to bite off his own tongue as he uttered this sneer, which escaped him in the bitterness of his spirit, and he awoke to the falseness of the step he had taken by the look of surprise and resentment that appeared in Rhoda’s face.

“Then we are to be friends,” he hastened to say eagerly; “always to be the best of friends?”

“Yes, Mr Tregenna,” replied Rhoda, coldly; and their tête-à-tête was ended by the entry of the party from the garden.

Chapter Thirteen.

A Visit Underground.

“Well, boy!”

“Well, old gentleman!”

The old gentleman, to wit, Uncle Paul, very yellow, very clean-shaven, and carefully got up, seemed disposed to resent this bluff manner of address; but he swallowed his annoyance with a gulp, thumped his cane on the gravel, and went on,—

“Up early, then. The early bird gets the first pick of the worms.”

“Yes, and stands the best chance of being caught by a prowling cat,” said Geoffrey.

“Never mind; get up early and work. Be industrious, and save your money. That’s the way to get on. Take care of the pennies; the pounds will take care of themselves.”

“Nonsense!” replied Geoffrey. “While you are scraping for pennies, you are missing your pounds.”

“Rubbish!” said the old man, sharply. “Get up early, sir, and work. Early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise.”

“Which is duly proved, as Punch says,” laughed Geoffrey, “by the enormous fortunes accumulated, the health enjoyed, and the wisdom displayed by chimney-sweeps, and other people who rise before the lark.”

“Why, you’re a sceptic, sir,” said the old man, showing his yellow teeth. “Do you know that’s a time-honoured proverb?”

“Yes; but I don’t believe in time-honoured proverbs,” replied Geoffrey. “Early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise, indeed!”

“And you are neither of the two last,” chuckled Uncle Paul, “even if you are the first.”

“Quite right, old gentleman,” said Geoffrey, good-humouredly; “but I get up early on principle.”

“Well, then, you didn’t have too much wine last night?”

“No.”

“Dine with Penwynn?”

“I did.”

“Any one else there?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“A Mr Tregenna. Like to know what we had for dinner?”

“No?” roared Uncle Paul. “Hang the dinner, sir. Any one else there?”

“The new vicar.”

“Hang the new vicar. The other fellow had some sense. He never asked me why I didn’t go to church.”

“Don’t you go?”

“I? no. It’s very odd,” said the old man, grimly; “but I always have a fit of bile coming on about Saturday night, and it lasts all Sunday. So you saw Tregenna?”

“Yes, I saw Mr Tregenna.”

“Slimy serpent. Hang him.”

“By all means, if you like,” said Geoffrey, laughing, for the choleric ways and speeches of the old man amused him.

“What did you think of the daughter, eh?” said the old fellow, with a croak that was evidently intended to do duty for a chuckle.

“Very nice, sensible girl.”

“Oh! you think so, do you?”

“I do certainly.”

“Marry her,” said Uncle Paul, giving him a poke with his cane. “Plenty of money. Couldn’t do better.”

“But she could,” replied Geoffrey, laughing. “No, old gentleman, I’m not a marrying man.”

“Or look here,” chuckled the old man, “I can find you a wife. No need though, she’ll fall in love with you herself without asking. Lovely woman, sir. Martha—Martha Pavey. Patty you know, but she’s not plump. He! he! he! Well matured and has a little income of her own. She isn’t above forty-four. Good-looking once. Nice shaped mouth till she set up in it a couple of rows of enamelled tombstones to the memory of so many departed teeth. Looks hard and unkissable now. I laughed at ’em when I saw ’em first. Never forgiven me since, and she always looks at me as if she would bite. Poor thing! Thinks I didn’t detect ’em, and goes about complaining of toothache.”

“Poor woman,” said Geoffrey.

“Poor fool!” snarled the other. “She thinks of nothing else but men.”

“Woman’s nature,” said Geoffrey, “but I suppose it is the privilege of the old to be severe. You are old, you know.”

“Devilish,” said the other. “Ah, boy, when you lean your face on your hand, and can feel your skull easily through your skin, you may take it for granted that you are pretty old.”

“Suppose so,” said Geoffrey. “Going my way? No, I suppose not.”

“How the devil d’you know where I’m going?” cried the old fellow, fiercely. “I am going your way, sir; I am.”

“Come along, then,” said Geoffrey, coolly.

“Where?” said Uncle Paul, who was thrown off his guard.

“I’m going underground.”

“Bah! That’s very clever, I suppose you think. That’s modern sharp, fast wit, is it? I’m going underground when my time comes, sir, like a man, and perhaps that won’t be till after you, sir.”

The old man wiped his face upon his orange bandanna here, and looked fiercer than ever.

“Why, what a jolly old pepperbox you are!” cried Geoffrey, laughing outright. “You are all cayenne and gunpowder. Wit be hanged! I said I was going underground, and so I am. I’m going down Horton Friendship mine. Mr Tregenna gave me his card for the manager.”

“Ho!” ejaculated the old gentleman, calming down. “Nice man, Tregenna. Smooth and polished. Make a great friend of him; I would if I were you. He’ll show you how to go to the devil faster than any man I know.”

“I’m afraid I want no teaching, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, gravely. “I say, by the way, whose cottage is that down in the cove about a couple of miles along the cliff?”

“Oh! you’ve been there, have you,” said the old man, chuckling. “You are making some nice acquaintances, boy! Did you see pretty Bess?”

“I saw a fine, handsome-looking lass.”

“That’s she. Did she ill-wish you?”

“Not that I know of. Does she do that sort of thing?” said Geoffrey, smiling.

“Oh, yes!” sneered the old gentleman. “They say she’s a witch, and her father’s as scoundrelly an old wrecker and smuggler as ever breathed. He’s one of your kidney, too. Been a miner.”

“A nice character to give a neighbour,” said Geoffrey.

“Confound him! He’s no neighbour of mine, sir. You’d better get your new friend to go down Horton mine with you.”

“What—Tregenna?”

“No, no; Smuggler Prawle. He knows more about the mines than any one here.”

“Does he?” said Geoffrey, eagerly. “Well, perhaps I may ask him some day.”

They were standing just in front of the cottage, and as he spoke Geoffrey glanced upward, to see that Madge Mullion was at the upper window, standing back, but evidently gazing intently down upon him, ready to dart back, though, the moment he raised his eyes; and he went away thinking of his little adventure at Wheal Carnac the previous day, and of how strangely he had become possessed of a secret that might, if it were known, raise him up one, two, if not three, bitter enemies during his stay.

It was a great nuisance, he thought, this bit of knowledge, for his conscience pricked him, and he asked himself whether he ought not to make some communication to Uncle Paul or Mrs Mullion.

“And be called a meddlesome fool for my pains!” he exclaimed angrily. “No; I will not interfere with other people’s business. I have my hands full enough as it is.”

His way out of the little town was over a rough granite-strewn hill, where the wind blew briskly, and the grass and heather seemed to be kept cut down close by the sharp Atlantic gales. His goal was a gaunt-looking building, perched on the highest point of the eminence, and of the customary Cornish mining type—a square, granite engine-house, with tall chimney, and a great beam projecting from the side, rising and falling at slow intervals as it pumped the water from the depths below, to send it flowing in a dirty stream towards the sea.

Geoffrey went swinging along as if he had all the work in the world upon his shoulders, till he became aware of a figure coming in his direction by another track—one which evidently joined his a little on ahead—and he noted that the figure carried a fly-rod over his shoulder.

“Why, it’s the doctor off fishing!” said Geoffrey to himself, as he recognised the fresh-coloured face surmounting the light tweeds. “What a horribly healthy place this must be. Morning, doctor!”

“Good-morning. Did you get your lodgings all right?” said the new-comer, scanning Geoffrey’s face as if in search of the seeds of disease, and looking disappointed.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Well, don’t fall in love with Madge Mullion, or old Mr Paul will be setting me to work to poison you.”

“Confound it all!” cried Geoffrey, facing round as he stopped short. “Do you people here think of nothing else but falling in love?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said the doctor, dreamily, as he pushed his soft hat on one side, and gave his head a rub. “Fortunately for me they do think a great deal of that sort of thing.”

“So it seems. I’ve heard enough of it during the past four-and-twenty hours to make it seem as if your people thought young women were gunpowder, and I was a match.”

“Ah, yes!” said the doctor, sadly. “It’s the old story, you know—marrying and giving in marriage. What should we do for our population without?”

“Population don’t seem to keep you very busy, doctor.”

“Pretty well,” he said quietly: “pretty well; people have very large families about here, but they emigrate.”

“Do they?” said Geoffrey.

“Yes, the mining trade has been bad. But people have very large families about here,” said the doctor, with a sigh. “I’ve got ten of them.”

“Fruitful vine and olive branches round the table, eh?” said Geoffrey.

“Ye-es,” said the doctor, making an imaginary cast with his fly-rod over the heather; “but when the vine is too fruitful it rather shades the table, you know.”

“So I should suppose,” replied Geoffrey, with a slight grimace. “Have you good fishing here?”

“No—oh no! Nothing but small trout in the little streams, and they are getting poisoned by the mining refuse.”

“I’ll try them some day,” said Geoffrey.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said the doctor, nervously. “It isn’t worth your while, and it’s very hard work to get a dish now-a-days,” and he glanced with anxious eyes at his companion. For, on non-busy mornings, Mr James Rumsey, MRCSE—the “doctor” being a local degree—found it useful to take his rod and capture a dish of trout for the home dinner, if he did not go out in the bay, in a borrowed boat, in search of something more substantial.

“Ah well, we’ll see,” said Geoffrey. “Yonder’s Horton Friendship, is it not?”

“Yes, that’s it,” said the doctor, who seemed relieved. “That’s the manager’s office close by. They’ve got a manager there.”

“Oh! have they?” said Geoffrey, who was amused by the doctor’s subdued, weary way. “All right; I’m going to see it, though. Good-morning.”

“Good-morning,” said the doctor, and making dreamy casts with his rod, he went on over the heather.

“Looks dull, and as if he had lived too much in the shade—of the vine and olive branches,” said Geoffrey, as he strode along. “Well, ten branches would keep off a good deal of the sun of a man’s life. What a row those stamps make!”

The rattling noise was caused by a row of iron-faced piles, which were being raised and let fall by a great cogged barrel upon a quantity of pieces of tin ore, with which they were fed, and as he drew nearer to watch them, the noise was almost deafening; but all the same he stopped to watch them curiously, and evidently dissatisfied with the primitive nature of the machine.

Farther on he paused to watch where a dozen women and boys were busy directing the flow of a stream of muddy water over a series of sloping boards, so as to wash the crushed ore free from earthy particles and powdered stone, till it fell of its own gravity into a trough prepared for its reception, where it looked like so much coffee-grounds waiting to be taken out and dried.

“Very, very primitive, and full of waste,” muttered Geoffrey then, as he noted the ruddy, healthy look of the people who ceased working to stare at the stranger, an example followed by a couple of men whose clothes seemed reddened by some mineral.

The manager welcomed the visitor in the most civil manner, and furnished him with a rough suit of flannel for the descent, as well as a stiff, solid kind of hat, which did duty for helmet, to protect his head from falling stones, and also for holder of a large tallow candle, which was stuck in front, so as to leave his hands at liberty.

The necessity for this was shown as soon as they reached the great square shaft, which was divided by a stout wooden partition into two. Up one of these came and went, by means of a rusty iron chain running over a wheel, a couple of long iron skeps or buckets, one of which, full of tin ore mingled with quartz rock and the ruddy mineral which Geoffrey had noted, came to the surface as they reached the pit.

“We go down here,” said Geoffrey’s companion, as a man lifted a heavy trap-door in a framework of planks, worn by many feet, and disclosing a dark hole up which came a hot, steaming vapour, which floated away in a thin cloud.

Geoffrey was as brave as most men, but he could not avoid a feeling of shrinking, as he saw what he had undertaken to do. He had expected to step into a cage such as was in use at coalpits, or perhaps have had to make use of the peculiar machine which lowered the miners from platform to platform ten or a dozen feet at a time; but here, as he gazed down into the dark, misty heat, he found that he would have to trust entirely to his own nerve and strength, for the descent was by a series of wet, greasy, nearly perpendicular ladders, placed zigzag from platform to platform, and with very little to save him from a fall too awful to contemplate.

The manager watched him narrowly before asking if he was ready, and on receiving an answer in the affirmative, he went down to the first wet, rotten-looking platform, where he stopped, and on being joined by Geoffrey he struck a match, and lit the candles in their caps.

“How deep is the mine?” asked Geoffrey.

“Two hundred fathom,” was the reply.

“Twelve hundred feet!” said Geoffrey. “A good long descent by ladders. How is it you have no chain and cage?”

“Money!” was the abrupt reply, and after a warning to him to hold tight, the manager, a rough-spoken Cornishman, continued the descent, Geoffrey following, and finding every thing of the most primitive character. The ladders were clumsily made, splashed with candle grease, and terribly worn; the platforms so old and rotten that they seemed unsafe; and yet down for twelve hundred feet stretched these ladders, one after the other, in apparently interminable length.

Geoffrey Trethick’s nerves were strong, but they were well put to the test, for every now and then a step of the ladder gave, or rattled beneath his weight. Now he would find a round so greasy that his foot would slip, while his candle sputtered, and several times nearly became extinguished, as they passed some shower of water that forced itself out of a vein in the rock.

“Rather rough work,” said the manager, and his voice sounded echoing and strange in the gloomy shaft, seeming to whisper past him, and die away amidst the maze of ladders overhead.

“Rather!” replied Geoffrey, who was beginning to be drenched with perspiration. “How much farther?” he continued.

“Farther! Oh, we are not half-way down yet, sir—nothing like it,” was the reply. “Like to rest?”

“No. Go on.”

Down—down—down—lower and lower, in one apparently endless descent, with the noise of the trickling water growing louder and louder, and ever and again a hoarse, rattling, clanging noise as the chain bore buckets up and buckets down, and the great pump worked its mighty piston to free the mine from the water collected in the sump.

At times it was impossible not to feel that the bucket coming rushing through the darkness was descending upon the heads of those who laboriously climbed down, or that the enormous piston-rod would crush them to death at its next movement, instead of working steadily on the other side of the stout dividing boards. But the rod worked on, and the chain rattled as the buckets rose and fell, and with the trickling and plashing of the water growing louder, the ladders more wet and coated with grease, the platforms more slippery and rotten, Geoffrey sturdily kept on descending, but with the thought always forcing itself upon his brain that every ladder would have to be climbed before he could see the light of day.

But Geoffrey possessed all the stubborn determination of a true Englishman. He was truly one of those who did not know when he was beaten, and he was ready to go on with a task he had begun until brain and muscle completely gave way, and then only would he have paused and waited for strength before beginning again.

They had stopped on one of the platforms to snuff the flaring candles, a supply of which the manager carried in a tin box slung from his shoulder, when once more from the other part of the shaft came the rushing noise of the ascending and descending buckets, and so close did they sound that Geoffrey involuntarily shrank, feeling that they must strike against him and crush him on the narrow platform where he stood. But after this his ears grew more accustomed to the sound, and he began again plodding steadily downward, the frantic desire to cling tightly to the ladder and ask for help growing weaker as he became more used to the task.

At last the manager stopped, and pointed to a black opening before him like a little arch in the side of the shaft.

“Here’s one of the old galleries,” he said. “Would you like to see it?”

“Are the men at work here?”

“Work? No! Nor haven’t been these fifty years. But there’s enough to see there to give you an idea of the mine, and it would save you from going down farther if you are sick of it.”

“I’m not sick of it,” said Geoffrey, stoutly. “I’m only warm. Go on down to the bottom, and let’s see the workings.”

“All right!” said the manager, smiling, as he gave Geoffrey a peculiar look; and a fresh start was made.

“That fellow Tregenna has done this to try me,” thought Geoffrey. “He could have given me an introduction to some mine where there was a regular cage. Never mind: I’m not chicken enough to give it up!” and, regardless of the rotten, wet ladders, he steadily went on, his spirits rising and his confidence increasing—for as he kept on noting the primitive way in which every thing was done, he felt more and more satisfied that if science were brought to bear in such a mine as this the profits must be largely increased.

For instance, he reasoned, here were the miners forced to undergo a long and arduous piece of toil before they could reach their work, and when their spell was over they had a fresh task to climb patiently up at a time when they were exhausted with toil, thus spending fruitlessly many hours every week.

“I’ve come to the right place,” he thought, with a feeling of exultation coming over him, “and if I don’t make my way it is my own fault.”

“Tired?” said the manager, from below.

“No,” was the sturdy answer. “Are you?”

A low, chuckling laugh came up to Geoffrey as he glanced down at the descending-light in the manager’s hat.

“Well, if you put it in that way, sir, I am; and we’ll get a little wind here by this old lode.”

He stopped on the next platform, and, Geoffrey joining him, he once more snuffed the candles. There was another opening going horizontally into the bowels of the earth, where a lode of tin had been followed until it had become worthless. The roof glistened with huge crystals, which flashed in the light of the candles as they were held inside what looked like a subterranean passage into a castle, the abode of some giant of the nether world.

“I suppose the workings below are just like this?” said Geoffrey.

“Just the same, sir,” was the eager reply; “and if you’d like to give up now, we could inspect this drive for a few hundred yards, and then go back. It’s rather dangerous, though, for there have been some falls from the roof, and the galleries are like a net.”

“But I don’t want to give up,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “and am ready as soon as ever you like.”

“I never got any one to get down farther than this,” said the manager, who started again, descending in silence, broken only by the occasional echoing whirr of the ascending and descending buckets, and the hiss and splash of the falling water. The heat seemed to increase, and the depth might have been miles, so endless seemed the ladders, and so tedious the descent.

“Give me a word if you feel likely to let go,” said Geoffrey’s guide just when they were on one of the wettest, weakest, and most slippery ladders of the descent. “There was a man once fell off this very ladder, and knocked off the man below him as well.”

“Were they hurt?” said Geoffrey.

“Don’t suppose as they were,” was the cool reply. “They broke through platform after platform, for the woodwork was very rotten just then. They couldn’t have known any thing after they fell, for they were quite dead when they got them up. It was a gashly job.”

“Pleasant incident to relate now,” thought Geoffrey. Then aloud—“You don’t often have accidents?”

“Well, not very. We get a fall of rock sometimes, or a ladder breaks, or a man falls down the shaft. Now and then, too, there’s a bit of an accident with the powder when they are blasting. But we do pretty well. We’re not like your coal-mining folks, with their safety-lamps and gas.”

“The mines are, of course, free from foul air?”

“Oh, yes; sweet as a nut.”

“But how much farther is it?” said Geoffrey. “Surely we’ve come down a thousand feet.”

“Well, yes; I suppose we have,” said the man, coolly. “I don’t think there’s more than a half-dozen more ladders. Yes, seven,” he said.

These were steadily climbed down, but seemed the longest of them all. At last, however, they stood beside the great sump or water-cistern, which received the end of the vast pumping apparatus, all of which Geoffrey carefully examined with a look of disgust at its primitive character and clumsiness.

Chapter Fourteen.

Pengelly—Miner.

“I should just like to shake hands with you, sir,” said Geoffrey’s guide, wiping his hand carefully upon his flannel trousers after using his fingers to snuff both candles. “I never thought you’d come down half-way—that I didn’t. You’re a plucked un, sir. That’s about what you are, if you’ll excuse me.”

Geoffrey laughed, and shook hands with his guide, finding that he had risen wonderfully in the man’s estimation, the manager looking at him quite admiringly.

“My name’s Curnow,” he said, “Richard Curnow, and I’d like to see you again, sir. Now what can I show you?”

“Every thing!” exclaimed Geoffrey. “Let me see all the workings, and what sort of stuff you are sending up.”

“Why, you’ve been down a mine before, sir?” said the manager, curiously, and he gazed inquiringly in Geoffrey’s face with a look of suspicion, gradually growing plainer; but he remained very civil, and led the way through the maze of passages through which for many a generation the ore had been picked out—laboriously hewn out of the solid rock as the veins of tin were patiently followed. Every now and then some dark, echoing gallery struck off at right angles, till Geoffrey felt, as he stumbled on, that a stranger would soon lose his way in such a terrible labyrinth, if not his life through falling down one of the well-like pits yawning here and there at his feet.

Sometimes the way had a lofty roof, and the floor was clear; sometimes they had to stoop and wade through mud and water, and crawl round buttresses of rock to avoid a fall, or to step from sleeper to sleeper of a very primitive tramway.

“Let me see,” said the manager. “Amos Pengelly ought to be somewhere about here. Wait a minute, and let’s try if we can hear him.”

There were only a few distant echoing noises to be heard, as they stood in the midst of that black darkness, their candles just shedding a halo of light round them, and casting grotesque shadows of their forms upon the glistening walls, and they once more groped more than walked along, Geoffrey pausing now and again, though, to examine with his light the various tokens of minerals that could be seen cropping out on wall and roof, to all of which actions the guide gave an impatient shrug.

“They don’t mean any thing,” he said. “We’ve pretty well worked the old place out. There’s Amos!”

Geoffrey turned from the place he was examining, and could hear a confused sound; but after journeying on for about a hundred yards the manager stopped and touched his arm.

They had just reached a low side passage, at the end of which there was a faint glow, and there, keeping time to the clicking sharp strokes of a pick, came the sounds of a rich tenor voice, whose owner seemed to be throwing his whole soul into what he was singing.

“Hal—le—hal—le—lu—i—jah. Hal—le—hal—le—lu—i—jah.”

And so on slowly, every other syllable being accompanied by a stroke of the pick. Then, as the verse of the old-fashioned anthem being sung came to an end, there was a pause, the light seemed to be shifted, and the singer began again, but this time choosing Luther’s hymn as an accompaniment to the strokes of his pick.

“Here’s a gentleman come to see you, Amos! Creep out, my lad; we can’t get in to you.”

They had approached the singer till the ceiling was so low that it would have necessitated crawling to where Geoffrey could see by the light of a candle, stuck with a lump of clay against the rocky wall, a dark figure, half lying upon one side, vigorously working a sharp-pointed steel pickaxe, and chipping down fragments of glistening tin-grained quartz.

On hearing the summons, the figure gave itself a roll over and crawled slowly out, when in the short, lame, thick-set miner Geoffrey recognised the man with the piece of conger eel who had explained the fishing to him on the cliff.

“This is our Amos Pengelly,” said the manager, as if he were showing one of the curiosities of the mine; “works all week-days and sings psalms; goes out preaching on Sundays.”

“Well,” said Geoffrey, bluntly, “he might do worse.”

Amos nodded and looked curiously at the speaker, who went down on hands and knees to creep to where the miner had been at work; took down the candle from the wall, and examined the vein of glistening tin and the fragments that had been chipped off.

“Very poor stuff,” said Geoffrey, as he returned.

“Ah, we work out poorer stuff than that,” said the manager, “don’t we, Amos?”

“Ay,” said the miner, looking eagerly at the visitor. “Was you thinking of buying this mine, sir?”

“No!” said Geoffrey, shortly.

“Surveying it for some one else, perhaps?”

“What’s the good of talking like that, Amos,” said the manager, “when it is not for sale?”

“I heered as it was,” said Amos, still gazing searchingly at the well-built young man before him. “But whether it be or not, sir, if you wants to buy a good working and paying mine, you buy Wheal Carnac.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” laughed the manager, a man who had evidently been himself a working miner. “Oh, come, Amos! I wonder at you who call yourself a Christian man trying to persuade a stranger to buy that old swindle.”

“I don’t care!” cried Amos, excitedly, “Christian or no Christian,” and he gave his pick a blow on the rock which made the sparks fly, “I know there’s good stuff down that shaft, and if it arn’t been found yet it’s because they haven’t looked in the right place. You go and look at it, sir, and see what you think.”

“Don’t you do nothing of the sort, sir,” said the manager. “It’s a gashly old hole, down which thousands of pounds have been thrown, and machinery wasted over. Don’t you take any notice of what Amos says.”

“All right,” said the miner, making the sparks fly again as he smote the rock angrily. “I haven’t worked underground man and boy for five and twenty year without knowing something about it, and as I’m a honest man, why Wheal Carnac’s a fortune to them as know’d how to work it.”

“I’ll have another look at the place,” said Geoffrey, who was struck by the man’s earnestness.

“You just do, sir, you just do, and if that place don’t turn out right, I’ll—I’ll—”

“Swallow your pick heft, eh, Amos?” said the manager, tauntingly.

“Nay, I won’t; but I’ll never believe in any thing again. But you can’t look at the stuff they got up, sir, she’s full of water.”

“And it would take hundreds of pounds to get her dry, eh, Amos? Don’t you worry your head about Wheal Carnac, sir, unless you want a place to work a company, and draw a salary until they are sick of it.”

“As some rogues down in these parts do,” said Amos, making the sparks fly again.

“I don’t know about rogues,” said the manager, laughing. “There’s always plenty of fools with heaps of money, which they want to invest in mines, and I don’t see why the adventurers shouldn’t have it as well as any one else.”

Geoffrey turned in disgust from the manager, and held his candle so that its light should fall upon the frank, honest face of the miner, whose ways rather won upon him.

“Look here, Pengelly,” he said, “you and I will have a chat about Wheal Carnac and a look at the ore together.”

“Will you, sir? will you?” cried the miner, excitedly. “I can show you some of the ore. When will you look?”

“Any time you like,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t suppose any thing will come of it, but I came to see all I can.”

“I’ve—I’ve waited years upon years to see that mine fairly tried,” cried Pengelly, “but every one laughs at me.”

“Of course they do, Amos,” said the manager, banteringly. “Why, you did trick one party into fooling away thousands.”

“Trick? trick? I tricked any one?” cried the miner, who had for the last few minutes been writhing under the lash of the other’s tongue. “It’s a lie—a cruel he!” he exclaimed, and in a furious burst of passion he whirled up his steel pick as though it had been a straw, to strike at the cause of his annoyance.

Amos Pengelly’s furious burst of passion was but of momentary duration. As Geoffrey made a step forward to seize his arm, the pick dropped from the man’s hand, his face became convulsed, and all token of menace had gone. One moment he had been ready to strike down the manager for hinting that he was dishonest; the next his arms fell to his sides, his head drooped, his shoulders heaved, and he turned away into the darkness of the mine, uttering a low, piteous moaning as if torn by some great agony that he wished to hide from the sight of man.

“Come away, sir,” said the manager, quietly, “he won’t like to face us again to-day,” and as Geoffrey rather unwillingly followed him, the manager went on towards the foot of the shaft. “Poor old Amos! I believe he’s a bit touched in the head. I haven’t seen him in one of his fits of passion like that for months. He’s off now into one of the darkest corners he can find, and he’ll be down on his knees praying as hard as ever he can. His temper gets the better of him sometimes, and he’s such a religious chap that he won’t forgive himself for getting in a rage; but when he comes up to grass to-night he’ll walk straight to my office, as humble as a child, and beg my pardon.”

“And you’ll forgive him?” said Geoffrey.

“Forgive him? Oh, yes! poor chap. Why not? He can’t help it.”

“He seems an honest fellow,” said Geoffrey, musingly.

“Honest? Oh, yes! he’s honest as the day’s long, sir. I’d trust him with all our sales’ money without counting it. His failing is that he’s gone off religious crazy; and what’s as bad, he’s in love with a handsome girl who don’t care for him. Bess Prawle, down at the Cove, is as straight as an arrow, and poor Amos is quite a cripple, and not the sort of fellow to take the fancy of a dashing girl like she.”

“Poor fellow,” said Geoffrey, softly, as he followed his guide, who kept on conversing.

“Then, too, sir, poor old Amos got that craze on about Wheal Carnac, and wanting people to believe in it, so that altogether it’s no wonder he turns queer. People say that Bess Prawle, who’s a bit of a witch, has ill-wished him, but I don’t know. One thing I do know, though—poor old Amos is about as good a workman as ever handled a pick.”

“Then,” said Geoffrey, thoughtfully, “you think Wheal Carnac is worthless?”

“Worthless? Worthless? Ha-ha-ha!” roared the manager. “If you had lived down here you’d have laughed as I do to see what money’s been wasted there. No end of people have been took in with that mine. Just you go and have a look at it yourself, sir. You seem to know a bit about mining. Of course you can’t do much, but you can turn over a few of the stones and see what was dug out last. Now, sir, what do you say—would you like to see any more of the place?”

“No,” replied Geoffrey, who had been in several parts of the mine, and spoken to different men at work, “no, I have seen all I wish to see for one day,” and, following his guide to the foot of the shaft, the terrible array of ladders was attacked; and at last, with wearied and strained muscles, Geoffrey reached the mouth in safety, feeling as if he had never seen the sky look so pure and blue, or felt the breath of heaven so sweet.

He was drenched with perspiration, and only too glad to accept the manager’s hospitality, and have a wash and rest. But he was well satisfied with his visit, in which he had learned no little, but above all, he could not help dwelling upon the words of the miner, and feeling deeply impressed about the deserted mine—so deeply indeed that what had been merely a visit of curiosity proved to be the turning-point in his future career.

An hour afterwards he was striding back towards Carnac, while Amos Pengelly was still upon his knees in the darkest part of Horton Friendship, the great tears streaming from his eyes as he prayed, in all the sincerity of his great soul, for forgiveness of his burst of anger, and for strength to control the temper that mastered him from time to time, lest the day should come when he should go forth into the world with the curse of Cain upon his brow—for that was the black shadow that haunted the poor fellow’s life.

Chapter Fifteen.

Mr Penwynn Makes a Friend.

“I cannot help it, papa. You know how obedient I have always been to you; but in this case I really cannot give way.”

“Yes, yes, yes, Rhoda! you obey me in a thousand unimportant things, but now there is something upon which a great deal of our future turns you refuse.”

“I cannot—I never could love Mr Tregenna, papa.”

“He is a thorough gentleman, is he not?”

“Yes—oh, yes!”

“And handsome, and well-informed, and clever. A thoroughly polished—there, quite a ladies’ man.”

“Ladies’ man!” exclaimed Rhoda, in tones of disgust. “Handsome and well-informed, of course, papa.”

“Well then, my dear,” said Mr Penwynn, ignoring Rhoda’s peculiar look. “What more do you want?”

“Papa! do you think I want to marry a ladies’ man?” said Rhoda, scornfully.

Mr Penwynn looked at the bright flushed face, and felt as proud as he did vexed. He was seated at a writing-table, and the blotting-paper before him bore testimony to his annoyance, for it was covered with the initials of unpleasant words, which he kept dotting down to relieve his feelings—a habit in which he indulged sometimes at the office, as Mr Chynoweth was well aware. He nearly spoiled a new quill pen in dashing down another letter, and then went on,—

“No, no, of course not, Rhody; but Tregenna is not a silly dandy. Besides, as I have before told you, he is very useful to me, and an alliance with him would be most valuable. There, there—you must think the matter over.”

“I cannot, papa. I have told Mr Tregenna plainly that he must not hope.”

“Nonsense, my dear; take time. Let the matter rest awhile. Be friends with him, and in a few months you will be ready to regret this hasty decision.”

“No, papa,” said Rhoda, decidedly. “Mr Tregenna can never be more to me than an acquaintance.”

“You have not heard any thing—any serious—there, any scandal?”

“I, papa? I have heard that he is too attentive—there, it is not that.”

“Then try not to be so foolish, my dear. I am going down to the office, and I shall see Tregenna again to-day. Let me tell him that he is not to look upon the matter as finally closed. Poor fellow! I never saw a man look so dejected. I could not have believed that he would take it so to heart.”

“Papa,” said Rhoda, impetuously, “I have promised Mr Tregenna that we should continue friends. If you lead him to believe that he is to persevere with his suit, I shall absolutely hate him.”

Mr Penwynn turned upon her angrily, but as she stood before him, with heightened colour and flashing eyes, gazing full in his face, he felt that she was no weak girl to be subdued by a burst of parental anger, and forced into a course against which her spirit rebelled. For some reason or other she evidently felt an intense repugnance to Tregenna, and, though he would gladly have gained the day, and made the solicitor his ally, he felt that at present there was not the slightest chance for such a consummation of his plans. He knew his child’s character only too well, and seeing how hopeless it was at present to persevere, he made a virtue of necessity and gave way.

“Well, well, my dear,” he said, quietly, “God knows that I would not force on this affair against your prospects of happiness. There, there,” he continued, taking her in his arms, “we must not fall out, Rhody. I can’t afford to have clouds come between us. Wicked tyrant,” he said, laughing, “and oppressor of the poor as you think me, Rhody, I want your love, my child, and I must have it.”

“Papa, papa!” she cried, clinging to him, “pray forgive me. I could not love Mr Tregenna. And why should you wish to rob yourself? I have only enough love for you, dear,” she continued, taking his face between her hands, and kissing him passionately. “If I reproach you sometimes about the poor people, it is because I am so jealous of my father’s good name, and it cuts me to the heart to think that the people should not look up to, and venerate him as I do myself.”

“Tut-tut-tut! my darling. If I were a saint they would still talk. Am I not working for you? I want you to be rich, and to stand as high in the world as I can contrive.”

“Yes, yes, I know, dear,” she said, with her hand playing about his face and caressing his grey hair; “but I would rather be poor than lose the people’s respect.”

“Well, well, Rhody, my darling,” he said, smiling, “we’ll be rich and respectable as well. There, there, I must go. John Tregenna must get some one else to cure his broken heart. Good-by, my dear, good-by.”

“And you are not angry with me, papa?”

“Not a bit, Rhody,” he said, kissing her affectionately, and looking at her with eyes suffused, but full of pride. “Angry? no! God bless you, my dear! I’m disappointed, but I don’t know but what I like you all the better for your spirit.”

He hurried away to hide his weakness, for his love for his child was the one soft spot in his nature.

“I’m glad, and yet I’m sorry,” he said. “Tregenna would have been a powerful friend, and now what I have to hope is that he will not prove to be a bitter enemy. I must fight it out, I suppose, just as I have fought out far worse troubles.”

“Any one been, Chynoweth?” he said to his confidential clerk, as he entered his office.

“Mr Tregenna’s waiting to see you, sir.”

“Humph! so soon,” muttered Mr Penwynn, who was somewhat taken aback; but he put a good face upon it, entered his private room, and shook hands with the solicitor, whose eyes were fixed upon him inquiringly.

“Well,” he said, “what news?”

“Bad,” replied Mr Penwynn, quietly.

“You have had a long talk with her?”

“Yes—a very long talk.”

“What does she say?”

“She is immovable.” John Tregenna’s face grew very dark, and he rose from his chair to walk excitedly up and down the office.

“Did you—did you ask for time?” he said hoarsely.

“I did indeed, Tregenna.”

“Did you tell her that I was your best friend?”

“I did, Tregenna. I pleaded your cause as hard as if it had been my own; but she is as firm as so much granite. My dear fellow, I am very sorry, but I am afraid you must give it up.”

“It’s a lie—a cursed lie!” roared Tregenna, who could not control his rage and disappointment. “You have been fighting against me all along, and it is by your orders that she throws me over. I see it all now. You have been playing a cursed, double-faced, traitorous part, and I was a fool to trust to your smooth tongue. But mark my words, Penwynn—”

“John Tregenna,” said Mr Penwynn, rising and speaking with dignity, “you are now in a passion, produced by what is, of course, a bitter disappointment; but pray in what manner have I failed towards you that you should make such an unfair charge?”

“What have you done?” cried Tregenna, grinding his white teeth. “Did you not lead me on for your own ends to believe that she would accept me, and submit me to the humiliation of this second refusal, which I feel sure now was at your instigation.”

“Mr Tregenna,” said the banker, quietly, but with anger striving for the mastery, “will you have the goodness to go now. Some other time when you are cool I shall be willing to talk to you. We cannot discuss the matter now, for it would be better that we two should not come to an open quarrel.”

Tregenna snatched up his hat, darted a fierce look at the speaker, and strode towards the door, passed out, but in the act of banging it after him he recovered the mastery over his maddened brain.

He came back, closed the door after him softly, threw himself into a chair, and sat down with his forehead resting upon his hands.

Mr Penwynn stood by the table, with one hand in his breast, watching him, and for a time there was an impressive silence in the room.

At the end of a few minutes Tregenna drew a long, deep breath, and rose with his face calm, and a saddened look softening his eyes. He let fall his hands, rose, and advanced towards Rhoda’s father.

“Forgive me, Penwynn,” he said, humbly. “Let me apologise for what I said just now. Forgive me. You cannot tell the agony I suffered, nor conceive the utter feeling of despair and disappointment, nor the rage which seemed to force me to speak as I did. It is over,” he said, as if to himself, “over now. But you will forgive me, Penwynn?”

“Yes,” said the banker, quietly, “I forgive you, Tregenna.”

“My words,” continued the latter, “were as false and cruel as they were undeserved, and I cannot reproach myself enough for my mad folly. Can I apologise more humbly, Penwynn?” he added, with a sad smile.

“You acknowledge, then, that I did my best for you?” said Mr Penwynn.

“I do,” cried Tregenna, eagerly; “and I believe that you acted in all sincerity. Penwynn, you and I must not quarrel. As to Rhoda—Miss Penwynn—if I am not to have her love, let me enjoy her friendship and esteem.”

Mr Penwynn looked at the speaker coldly and searchingly for a few moments, but he could see nothing to indicate that the man before him was not perfectly sincere, and ready to say and do any thing in reparation of the past outbreak.

“You don’t believe me, Penwynn,” cried Tregenna, bitterly. “For heaven’s sake, have a little feeling for a man. Here am I thrown in an instant from a state of hope that I might realise my fondest wishes into a state of utter, abject despair. I am not an angel, man, that I can bear such a disappointment unmoved.”

Mr Penwynn still continued his scrutiny.

“It is a bitter—a cruel overthrow,” continued Tregenna, “and a few moments back I feel as if I must have been mad—I was mad. I could have said and done any thing. Even how I can hardly keep calm. Have some pity on me.”

“My dear Tregenna,” said the banker, laying his hand upon the other’s shoulder, “I do indeed sympathise with you in your disappointment, but I want you to believe that I have been perfectly straightforward and honourable.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Tregenna, excitedly, “I do believe it.”

“You know what Rhoda—Miss Penwynn—is. I ask you, is she like an ordinary weak girl?”

“No, you are right. She is not,” said Tregenna, mournfully. “If she were, I should not worship her as I do.”

“She has a will of her own,” continued the banker, “and she can be very firm. At your request I tried to soften her determination—asked her for time, asked her to let you continue your visits as a friend, and renew your proposal six months hence; but it was in vain, and I know her too well not to see that if you continue to press your suit you will not only lose all chance of her intimacy, but excite her dislike.”

“Did she say that?” asked Tregenna, with glittering eyes.

“Well, well, not exactly.”

“But she said that if I pressed my suit she should dislike me.”

“Oh, no!—not so explicit as that. I think not. I—”

“Speak out plainly, Penwynn,” said Tregenna, sharply. “Don’t play with me.”

“Well, it was something of that sort; but she was greatly excited, for I had pressed her home.”

Tregenna was silent, and turned away his face, which was slightly convulsed. But he soon mastered his emotion, and at the end of a minute turned back to face Mr Penwynn.

“It is over now,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice. “Forgive me my anger, Penwynn. It was very hard to bear, but you see now that I was sincere. You are right—she is very different to other girls. But it would have been the pride of my life to have won her, and whoever does win her I shall hate from the very bottom of my heart.”

“Upon my word, Tregenna, I believe that your hatred will die in the bottom of your heart,” said the banker, wringing his visitor’s hand, “for it will never be called forth. I don’t believe that there is a man living who can rouse any love in Rhoda’s heart save one.”

“And who’s that?” cried Tregenna, with flashing eyes.

“Your humble servant,” said the other, smiling. “She loves me devotedly—God bless her! And I think that I, too, shall be ready to hate any one who robs me of the slightest smile or look.”

“I shall not be jealous of you, Penwynn,” said Tregenna, with a strange gleam in his eyes. “There, I’ll go now and have a walk on the cliff, so as to get my nerves back in tone. We are friends still?”

“Of course—of course!” said Mr Penwynn, warmly.

“I may call just as usual?”

“Call? My dear Tregenna, if you will take my advice, you will drop in just as of old, after drawing a line between the events of the past few days’ proceedings and those which are to come. Bury it all, and forget it as soon as ever you can.”

“I will—I will!” cried Tregenna, holding tightly by the banker’s hand. “It will be best. If I am a little strange at first, you must both look over it.”

“Of course! To be sure. Come soon, and let her see that it is all over.”

“I will!” exclaimed Tregenna; and, after shaking hands once more, he left the room.

“Thank goodness,” said Mr Penwynn, with a sigh of relief, “that’s over. I should not have cared to make an enemy of Tregenna.”

“Damn him!” cried Tregenna, as soon as he was alone, and he ground his teeth savagely. “Give her up? Yes, some day, perhaps: a proud, cold-blooded jilt. Wait a little, my proud beauty, for if I do not some day have you in the dust at my feet, my name’s not John Tregenna.”

He strode on rapidly by the track on the cliff side, leaving Wheal Carnac and the promontory to the left, and making straight for the unused mine on the path to Gwennas Cove.

He was alone now, as he thought, and, in spite of his self-command, he began gesticulating fiercely and talking to himself, without noticing that there was already some one on the track, who drew aside and walked into the unused engine-house to let him pass, and then stood uneasily watching him as he went towards Prawle’s cottage.

“Forget it, and give her up. Let it all be as a something of the past—eh, Master Penwynn? Yes, when Rhoda has been mine for some months—wife or mistress, we’ll see which. Not till then.”

He went on muttering more and more angrily to himself, and the figure that watched limped out to follow; but on seeing Tregenna encounter the rugged old man, Bessie’s father, and enter into conversation, he calmly limped away along the path.

“The old man will take care of her,” he muttered; “and I don’t believe that Bess would listen to him even if she won’t listen to me. But he’s a bad one—one as wouldn’t stop at any thing to have his will, and I don’t know as I’d feel very comfortable if I was him as stood in his way.”

Chapter Sixteen.

Amongst the Rocks.

Geoffrey Trethick found that his were very pleasant quarters at the cottage, for Mrs Mullion seemed to take quite a motherly interest in his welfare, while her daughter Madge formed an excellent lieutenant, having evidently been won over by the young man’s frank, pleasant ways as much as by his looks.