George Manville Fenn (continued 4)

“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 the émeute was 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 say no!”

“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.

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 the débris, 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.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Two Visitors at An Morlock.

They were busy days which followed for Geoffrey Trethick, and his interviews with Mr Penwynn, in consequence of the latter’s desire to keep his name out of the project, were of an evening at An Morlock, where he more than once encountered Rhoda, who pleased him by the way in which she entered into the spirit of his plans.

The first time he met her was when, after a couple of visits to the mine where the Wheal Carnac machinery had been taken, and some long discussions with Pengelly, he had gone up to An Morlock to ask Mr Penwynn whether he would buy it back from the trustees of the bankrupt estate.

“But that will take quite a heavy sum, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn. “What I want to do is to have the mine emptied and thoroughly tested without further expense.”

“Exactly so, sir,” replied Geoffrey; “but, working in your interests, I felt it my duty to lay this before you. Here, to pump out, a certain amount of money must be spent in fixing hired machinery. If the mine proves good all that money is wasted. On the other hand, if you are willing to buy back this original machinery, which is, I guarantee, to be had for a fourth of its value, it will do the work better, and you have it ready to carry on future proceedings, when a vast amount would be saved.”

“And suppose the venture—I mean the testing—proves a failure?”

“You have a valuable lot of modern machinery to sell, and cannot lose.”

Mr Penwynn sat thinking, and Rhoda raised her head from her work.

“Well, my dear,” said her father, smiling, “what should you do?”

“I think I should take Mr Trethick’s advice, papa,” she said quietly; and she had hardly spoken when the servant announced Mr Tregenna, who came in smiling, and shook hands warmly all round.

“I thought I’d just drop in for a chat,” he said, looking meaningly at Mr Penwynn. “Why, the place is ringing with the news that you are going in for mining.”

“Confound them, how did they know that I was at the back of the affair?” said Mr Penwynn, irritably; and he looked sharply at Geoffrey.

“Not from me, sir,” he said, smiling. “I’ve been as silent as an oyster.”

“Oh, from your clerks, I’ll be bound,” said Tregenna. “You sent for Mr Trethick here, didn’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” said Mr Penwynn.

“Well,” said Tregenna, laughing, “that was quite enough. I’ll be bound to say the ladies of Carnac know to a penny how much that charming costume of Miss Penwynn’s cost—the one she wore last Sunday.”

Rhoda looked up, and nodded, and smiled, feeling set at her ease by the quiet, matter-of-fact way in which Tregenna had put aside the past.

“Well, they’d have been sure to know it sooner or later,” said Mr Penwynn. “You’ve just come opportunely, Tregenna. I want a bit of advice.”

“Viva!” said Tregenna, laughing, and taking out his memorandum-book. “I came in for half an hour’s relaxation, and I shall earn a guinea in consultation. I am all attention.”

“You charge for your advice, and you see how I’ll charge in the way of discount for the next bill you present,” said Mr Penwynn, laughing. “Well, look here, Tregenna, Cropper and Grey want to sell the old Wheal Carnac machinery.”

“New machinery, you mean,” said Tregenna.

“Well, yes, it is nearly new,” said Mr Penwynn. “Mr Trethick here advises its purchase and refixing to pump out the mine.”

“But that would run into a lot of money,” said Tregenna.

“Yes,” replied Geoffrey; “but it all fits the place, and it is to be got for a fourth of its value. Even if the whole venture proved a failure, the machinery would be worth the money. It seems to me a chance.”

Tregenna sat back in his chair, tapping his teeth with the end of his pencil.

“That machinery costs a tremendous deal of money,” he said, thoughtfully.

“Yes, and is in admirable order,” said Geoffrey, “or I would not suggest such a thing.”

“What do the trustees ask for the lot?” said Tregenna, at last.

Geoffrey mentioned the sum.

“Well, that must be very moderate,” said Tregenna, “as far as I understand such things. But business is business,” he continued, laughing. “I am growing very sordid. Look here, Mr Penwynn, I know Cropper and Grey, the trustees, of course. If you decide to purchase that machinery, which certainly, on the face of it, seems a wise stroke, especially as you want it, and it would always be worth its money, I’ll undertake to get it for you two hundred and fifty pounds below the sum named on condition of received a cheque for fifty pounds commission.”

“Certainly. Agreed,” said Mr Penwynn; “but I have not yet made up my mind.”

“Oh, of course not!” said Tregenna, making a note in his book.

“Advising you on the purchase of machinery. Long consultation—thirteen and four,” said Geoffrey, dryly.

“Oh, no, Mr Trethick,” said Tregenna, closing the book with a snap, “I shall be satisfied with my fifty pounds cheque.”

“When you get it, Tregenna,” said Mr Penwynn, laughing.

“When I get it—cashed,” replied Tregenna.

“By the way, Tregenna, would you mind coming into the study a minute or two? There’s one little point I should like to discuss with you,” said Mr Penwynn, rising. “Rhoda, my dear, Mr Trethick would, perhaps, like a little music.”

“I think I’ll be going,” said Geoffrey, rising.

“No, no, don’t go yet,” said the banker.

“I’m going your way presently,” said Tregenna; and Geoffrey sat down again as the banker and the solicitor left the room.

“I hope you are beginning to like Carnac better, Mr Trethick,” said Rhoda quietly.

“I always did like it,” said Geoffrey. “It is one long study of character; and, now that I have something to do, I quite love the place.”

“It is very beautiful and wild,” replied Rhoda, thoughtfully. “By the way, Mr Trethick, do you think there is a good prospect of this mining affair succeeding?”

“It is impossible to say,” replied Geoffrey, looking full in the large, earnest eyes before him. “Every step for some time to come must be tentative. I really think, though, that there is a good hope of success.”

“Hope? Mr Trethick.”

“Well, I might say certainty of clearing expenses—hope of making a large profit.”

“Papa has always said that he would never enter into a mining speculation, and now he seems to have been drawn into this. I should not like it to cause him trouble.”

“Honestly, I do not believe it will, Miss Penwynn,” replied Geoffrey. “It shall go very bad with me if it does.”

“I trust that you will do your best for him, Mr Trethick,” said Rhoda, earnestly.

“You may take it for granted, Miss Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, “that if only out of selfish considerations I shall leave no stone unturned—that is likely to contain tin,” he added, laughingly. “No, my dear young lady, I have had to wait too long for this opportunity to be careless. I shall, and I will, make Wheal Carnac pay.”

He got up as he spoke, and Rhoda watched him as he walked up and down the room.

“Many an earnest man has been damped over these wretched mining speculations, Mr Trethick,” said Rhoda sadly, her eyes following him the while.

“Oh, yes,” he said cheerily, “there are plenty of failures in every thing. Fellows read for honours and plenty of them fail, but the men who stick to the work the best generally get somewhere on the list. I’m going to stick to Wheal Carnac, Miss Penwynn, and if one is only last on the list it will be something.”

“To be sure,” said Rhoda, smiling. “Well, Mr Trethick, I wish you every success.”

Geoffrey stopped short to look at her in a bold, straightforward manner that made Rhoda lower her eyes.

“Thank you,” he said frankly. “I’m sure you do. And look here, Miss Penwynn, the first rich vein we strike shall bear your name.”

Rhoda smiled.

“Find it first, eh?” he said. “Well, I will if it is to be found, and I am supplied with the sinews of war. I say, Miss Penwynn, has that Mr Tregenna any thing to do with this affair?”

“Oh, no, I think not!” replied Rhoda, looking at him wonderingly.

“I’m glad of it,” said Geoffrey bluntly.

“May I ask why, Mr Trethick?” she said, watching his earnest face.

“Because I don’t like him for any thing more than an acquaintance—that’s all,” he said; and then suddenly recollecting his suspicions that Tregenna had proposed to Rhoda on the night of the dinner, he flushed slightly, and exclaimed, “Really I beg your pardon. My antipathies ought to be kept private.”

Rhoda bowed and walked to the piano, where her voice was rising and falling in a well-known ballad, when Tregenna and the banker re-entered the room, the former darting a quick, suspicious look from one to the other, but without finding any thing upon which his suspicions could feed.

Whatever the business had been, Mr Penwynn seemed perfectly satisfied, and the conversation became general till Trethick rose to go, Tregenna following his example; but Mr Penwynn laid his hand upon the solicitor’s arm, and asked him to stay for a few minutes longer.

“Good-night, Mr Trethick,” he said. “I will sleep on that affair, and give you an answer in the morning.”

“Going to consult Tregenna a little more,” said Geoffrey, as he walked homeward. “Well, he is not a man whom I should trust, and I’m very glad I have no dealings with him whatever.”

He stopped at a corner to fill and light his meerschaum.

“There’s some pleasure in having a pipe now one has got to work,” he said, as he puffed the bowl into a glow, and then, as he went on—“that’s a very nice, quiet, sensible girl, that Miss Penwynn;” and then he began to think of Tregenna.

Just at the same time Rhoda had said to herself,—

“Mr Trethick is very frank, and manly, and natural,” and then she began thinking about Madge Mullion and Bess Prawle, and then—she could not tell why—she sighed.

There was a long talk that night in Mr Penwynn’s study, and when at last Tregenna left he was thinking to himself about mines and mining.

“That’s a splendid fellow, that Trethick,” he said. “I did think of trying to mould him, but he wants no touching, only leaving alone. Once set a man on the mining slide, there is no stopping till he gets to the bottom; and I think friend Penwynn will find the bottom of Wheal Carnac very deep.”

Chapter Twenty Eight.

A Chat with Uncle Paul.

They were busy days for Geoffrey Trethick and his factotum Pengelly, who hardly gave himself time to rest. The visit to Mr Penwynn that next morning had resulted in the information that he had commissioned Mr Tregenna to offer a certain sum for the machinery.

“And mind this, Trethick,” the banker said, “you have led me into this affair, and you will have to make it pay me well.”

“Never fear, sir,” said Geoffrey, “I’ll do my best.”

Visits to Gwennas were rare, and Geoffrey went to and from the cottage with an abstracted air, too busy to notice that Madge looked pale and careworn, and that Uncle Paul seemed a little changed.

The old man would waylay him though sometimes, poke at him with his cane, and get him into the summer-house to smoke one of the long black cheroots.

“Well,” he said one morning, “how are you getting along, boy? Swimmingly I suppose? I saw the water coming out at a fine rate.”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “we’ve got all the machinery fixed as far as was necessary, and the pumping has begun.”

“And you are going to make my hundred pounds come back to me, eh?”

“Well, not very likely,” said Geoffrey, “unless you buy fresh shares of the new proprietors. What do you say?”

“Bah!” exclaimed the old man; and they smoked on in silence for a time.

“Might do worse,” said Geoffrey.

“Rubbish! I tell you it will all end in a smash-up. You get your money regularly, and don’t let them have any arrears.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Geoffrey. “So you think there will, be another failure?”

“Sure of it I shall buy that piece of ground yet for a house. Sure to fail.”

“So old Prawle says.”

“Oh, old Prawle says so, does he?” continued Uncle Paul.

“Yes; and I told him the Indian file thought the same.”

“The what?” said Uncle Paul.

“The Indian file—you,” said Geoffrey, coolly.

Uncle Paul thumped his stick on the floor, and looked daggers.

“Look here, young fellow,” he said, sharply, “you go a deal too much to Gwennas Cove, and it don’t look well.”

“Haven’t been half so often lately,” said Geoffrey, coolly.

“You go ten times too much. Look here, boy, have you seen how pale and ill that jade, Madge, looks?”

“No. Yes, to be sure, I did think she looked white.”

“Fretting, sir, fretting. Now look here, boy, it isn’t square.”

“What isn’t?” said Geoffrey, coolly.

“So much of that going to Gwennas Cove, and rescuing young women from infuriated mobs, and that sort of thing. Lady very grateful?”

“Very.”

“Humph! Bewitched you?”

“Not yet.”

“Humph! Going to?”

“Don’t know.”

“Damn you, Geoffrey Trethick,” cried the old man, “you’d provoke a saint.”

“Which you are not.”

“Who the devil ever said I was, sir? Now, look here, you dog, I warned you when you came that I’d have no courting.”

“You can’t stop courting,” laughed Geoffrey. “It would take a giant.”

“None of your confounded banter, sir. I told you I’d have no courting—no taking notice of that jade—and you’ve disobeyed me.”

“Not I,” said Geoffrey.

“Don’t contradict, puppy. I say you have.”

“All right.”

“The jade’s going about the house red-eyed, and pale, and love-sick—confound her!—about you, and now you make her miserable by playing off that brown-skinned fish-wench with the dark eyes.”

Geoffrey’s conscience smote him as he thought of that day when he playfully kissed Madge, and asked himself whether she really cared for him now, but only to feel sure that she did not.

“Does this sort of thing please you?” he said.

“Confound you! No, sir, it does not. Act like a man if you can, and be honest, or—confound you, sir!—old as I am, and old-fashioned as I am—damme, sir—laws or no laws, I’ll call you out and shoot you. You sha’n’t trifle with the girl’s feelings while I’m here.”

Geoffrey’s first impulse was to say something banteringly; but he saw that the old man was so much in earnest that he took a quiet tone.

“Uncle Paul,” he said, “why will you go on running your head against a brick wall?”

“What do you mean, boy?”

“Only that you have got a notion in your head, and it seems useless for me to try and get it out. I’m busy and bothered, and have a deal to think about, so, once for all, let me tell you that I have hardly ever paid Miss Mullion the slightest attention, and, what is more, I am not so conceited as to believe she is making herself uncomfortable about me.”

The old man glared hard at him and uttered a grunt, for the eyes that met his were as frank and calm as could be.

“Then all I can say is that if what you say is true—”

“Which it is—perfectly true,” replied Geoffrey.

“Then it’s very strange,” grumbled the old man. “She never went on like this before. Have another cheroot, Trethick?”

“Now that’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard you say to-day,” said Geoffrey, smiling, as he took one of the great black cheroots. “I say, old fellow, these are very good. What do they cost you a-box?”

“Five pounds a hundred,” said the old man, quietly.

“What?” cried Geoffrey.

“Shilling apiece, boy.”

“Why I—’pon my word, sir, really I’m ashamed to take them.”

“Bah! stuff!” cried the old man. “Do you suppose, because I live here in this quiet way, that I’m a pauper? Smoke the cigar, boy. Here’s a light.”

Geoffrey lit up, and inwardly determined that in future he would keep to his pipe, while the old man sat watching him.

“So you mean to make the mine pay, eh, Trethick?” he said.

“Yes, I believe I shall, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, quietly. “I’m not starting with the idea of a fortune, but on the principles of which I have often told you of getting a profit out of a mine by economy, new means of reducing the ore, and living where others would fail.”

“Humph!” said the old man, looking at him thoughtfully, and they smoked on in silence.

“I was a bit bilious this morning,” said Uncle Paul at last, in an apologetic tone.

“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “I saw that.”

“Parson called and upset me. Wanted me to go and take the chair at a missionary meeting for the Hindoos, and I told him that the Hindoos and Buddhists ought to send missionaries to us. But don’t take any notice.”

“Not I, old gentleman,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “I rather like it.”

“Humph! I rather like you too, boy. You seem to do my biliousness good. You can stand a bullying without flying out. I haven’t found a fellow stand it so well since I left the coolies.”

“Mutual admiration,” laughed Geoffrey. “I like you, old gentleman, because you do fly out. It’s quite refreshing after a lot of disappointments to have some one to quarrel with.”

There was another pause.

“I say, Trethick,” said the old man, “then Penwynn and Tregenna are hand-and-glove in this job, eh?”

Geoffrey looked at the old man wonderingly, for he was evidently beating about the bush.

“I don’t know. There, don’t ask me questions, old gentleman,” was the reply. “I’m not at liberty to chatter.”

There was another silence.

“Madge isn’t a bad sort of girl, Trethick,” said the old man at last.

“No,” said Geoffrey; “she’s pretty and amiable, and I believe, poor lassie, she is very good-hearted. I often think you are too hard upon her.”

“Hard be hanged, sir! I’ve been her’s and her mother’s support these ten years.”

“Very likely,” said Geoffrey, dryly; “but a dog doesn’t like his crusts and bones any the better for having them thrown at him.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the old man, thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps I am a little hard upon her sometimes; but she aggravates me. Trethick, you are quite conceited puppy enough, I know, but that girl is fretting about you.”

“Ignorance is bliss, sir. I was not aware of it.”

“Ignorance is a blister, sir,” cried the old man, sharply. “But,” he added, more gently, “she is, I tell you. Trethick, she is a nice girl, and you might do worse.”

“Stuff, stuff, my dear sir!” cried Geoffrey, laughing. “You are mistaken, and I am not a marrying man. There, I must be off;” and, starting up, he swung off along the path, and away down towards the mine buildings, where steam was now puffing, water falling, and several busy hands were at work.

Uncle Paul watched him thoughtfully as he strode away, and then sat back thinking, as he gazed out to sea.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Bess Prawle’s Secret.

Time goes by rapidly with the busy. To Geoffrey it went like lightning; to Madge Mullion it hung heavy as lead. When they met, which was seldom now, and he spoke a few kindly, cheery words to her, she looked at him rather piteously, but said little in return.

Once or twice there was a twinge of pain in Geoffrey Trethick’s conscience, but he said nothing, only went on with his work busily and well. The water was all out of the mine, and he had carefully examined and reported upon it—a carefully worded report, promising nothing more than a moderate return upon a small capital; and, not satisfied, he persuaded Mr Penwynn to have down an experienced mineralogist to give his opinion.

“Whom would you recommend?” said Mr Penwynn, and Rhoda watched Geoffrey anxiously for his reply.

“No one, Mr Penwynn,” said the young man. “Get somebody I don’t know—a reliable man whom you can trust, and don’t let me see him.”

He happened to turn his eyes upon Rhoda as he spoke, and there was such a bright, eager look in the glance that met his that it made him thoughtful.

“Quite right,” said Mr Penwynn, “it would be better;” and the next day Mr Chynoweth was set to write to a mining engineer in town.

That night there was a game of whist at Dr Rumsey’s, and Chynoweth and Tregenna were there. Tregenna lost heavily for such play as they had. Chynoweth was in high delight, and Tregenna and he walked home together.

The next day Mr Tregenna had business in London, and the day following the mining engineer and mineralogist came down, inspected Wheal Carnac, and made his report afterwards to Mr Penwynn, with the result that the banker said nothing to Geoffrey Trethick, only bade him go on, feeling satisfied that his venture was to be a great financial success.

A month later it was known that a new company had bought the mine, and that shares were to be had.

The matter was chatted over at An Morlock, and, as sometimes happened, Geoffrey and Rhoda were left together for a time; their talk being generally of the mine; and when he was gone, Rhoda got into the habit of sitting silent and thoughtful, in judgment upon Geoffrey Trethick’s character.

Her line of argument took somewhat this form—she did not know why she should argue out his cause—but somehow she felt compelled to do so. Scandal had made pretty free with his name, and, in spite of her efforts, Rhoda seemed obliged to hear, through Miss Pavey, all that was said.

And the sayings were these—that Geoffrey Trethick was young and gay; that he had gone so much to Gwennas Cove that old Prawle had threatened his life if he went there again, and that upon one occasion the old man had lain in wait for him with a hammer at Wheal Carnac, only Pengelly was with Trethick and had saved him; then Trethick had promised that he would go to Gwennas no more, and the matter at once ended.

“False on the face of it!” said Rhoda, with spirit. “Geoffrey—Mr Trethick,” she said quickly, “told me that he had been twice to see old Mrs Prawle this week, and begged me to go soon.”

The next indictment was that Geoffrey had become so intimate with Madge Mullion that old Mr Paul had ordered him to leave the house, and that he was going at once.

This was Miss Pavey’s news, and she added that Mr Trethick would have to leave the town unless Mr Penwynn took compassion upon him.

“Of course, my dear,” she had said, maliciously, as she blew her nose in a gentlemanly way as if it were a triumphant note of defiance, “after what we are hearing you have quite cast him off?”

Rhoda looked at the speaker steadily, but made no reply.

But of this charge?

“Well,” Rhoda argued, “Madge Mullion is pretty and attractive, and she would probably throw herself open to the attentions of such a man as Geoffrey Trethick. But, if this were true, would Geoffrey behave as he had behaved at An Morlock of late? He seemed to be the soul of honour, and his words always had the ring of truth in them. No: it was one of the Carnac petty scandals; Geoffrey Trethick was no trifler.”

There was another long, dreamy time after this, and there were moments when Rhoda felt angry with herself for thinking so much about the man who now came to lay bare his plans, to consult her, so it seemed, when he was asking counsel of her father. And all at once she seemed to awaken to the fact that, by some means, the life of Geoffrey Trethick had become interwoven strangely with her own—that his success was her success, his failures hers; and yet he had spoken no word, given her no look. He was different to any man that she had ever met, and he even annoyed her sometimes by his quiet assumption of authority as the stronger in thought. For he would ask her advice, and often enough show the fallacy of what she had said.

Then she would think that they were becoming too intimate, and blame her father for encouraging the presence of this stranger; but Mr Penwynn seemed, after a life of immunity, to have taken the mine fever badly, and the thought of Geoffrey Trethick pretending to his daughter’s hand never occurred to him.

“No,” thought Rhoda, “papa thinks of nothing now but this speculation; and why should he? Geoffrey Trethick has never behaved otherwise than as a visitor working in my father’s interest;” and as she said this to herself, a curious feeling of pique arose, but only to be crushed at once.

Finally, Rhoda Penwynn’s verdict on Geoffrey Trethick was that he was a gentleman—a man of unstained honour, whom fate had placed in a town full of petty scandal.

The next day Rhoda endorsed her verdict, and it was in this wise.

She granted, as she started, that it was due to Geoffrey’s request, for otherwise she might not have gone. As it was, she started in the afternoon to walk over to Gwennas Cove, passing along the cliff, and looking somewhat eagerly down towards Wheal Carnac, where figures were moving and shaft smoking, while the great beam of the pumping-engine went steadily on with its toil.

She was half-startled to see how the wreck had been transformed into a busy scene of industry, and, in spite of herself, she felt a glow of pride as she recalled whose hand had brought about the change.

Her face turned hard directly after, as she thought of her father, and of how he had seemed to become inoculated with Geoffrey Trethick’s enthusiasm. He did not want for money, and yet he had entered upon this mining speculation—he of all men, who had laughed at the follies of those who embarked upon such ventures. What was to be the end?

She walked on, and soon after reached the spot where Bess Prawle had been driven to bay by the superstitious crowd; and, as the whole scene came back, with Geoffrey’s gallant behaviour, and the girl’s display of gratitude, Rhoda stopped short, with her eyes contracting, her brow ruffled with emotion, and her lips half parted. For she was startled at the pang of misery that shot through her. The contemptible scandal she had heard forced itself upon her, and she seemed obliged to couple with it the weak wanderings of poor old Mrs Prawle about Geoffrey and her child.

It was horrible! What had she been doing? How had her fancies been straying, she asked herself, as she awakened to the fact that imperceptibly her interest in Geoffrey had grown so warm that the thought of his caring for another caused her misery of the most acute kind.

She shook off the feeling, calling herself weak and childish, and, gathering mental strength with the walk, she at last reached Gwennas Cove.

Old Prawle was busy overhauling a long line, and binding on fresh hooks, a task from which he condescended to raise his eyes, and give the visitor a surly nod as she spoke.

His voice brought out Bess, looking handsomer than ever, Rhoda thought, in her picturesque dress and carelessly-knotted hair.

For a moment the two girls stood gazing in each other’s eyes, and a cold, chilling feeling ran through Rhoda as, in spite of herself, she felt that it would be no wonder if Geoffrey Trethick did love this bold, handsome girl.

The next moment the thought was gone, and Rhoda had held out her hand.

“I hope there is a good stock of sweeties, Bessie,” she said, with a frank smile. “How is Mrs Prawle?”

Bess’s breath came with a catch, as she returned the smile; and, leading the way into the cottage, the pleasant little fiction was gone through, and the invalid made happy in the thought that she had added the profits of a shilling’s-worth of sweets to the general store.

But there was no conversation this time about Geoffrey Trethick, for Bess stayed in the room, and then followed Rhoda out on to the cliff path when she left.

“Why, Bessie,” said the visitor, smiling, “I have hardly seen you since that day when those mad people behaved so ill.”

“I very seldom go into the town now, miss,” said Bess, whose colour came as she recalled the conclusion of that scene.

“It’s very sad,” continued Rhoda, “that the people should be so ignorant. Well, good-by, Bessie,” she continued, holding out her hand, “you will not ill-wish me?”

“No,” said Bessie, softly, as she watched the tall, well-dressed, graceful figure slowly receding. “No, I will not ill-wish you; but there are times when I feel as if I must hate you for being what you are.”

She let Rhoda go on till the fluttering of her dress in the sea-breeze was seen no more, and then, moved by some strange impulse, she followed, avoiding the track; and, active and quick as one of the half-wild sheep of the district, she climbed up on to the rugged down above the cliff path, and kept on gazing below at Rhoda from time to time.

She went on nearly parallel with her for a quarter of a mile or so, and then stood motionless for a time, gazing down, before, with a weary wail of misery, she threw herself amidst the heather, her face upon one outstretched arm, whose fingers clutched and tore at the tough plants and grass, while her whole frame quivered with her passionate sobs.

“Bess!”

At the sound of that hoarse voice she started up into a sitting position, but shrank away as she gazed up into her father’s fierce, rugged face. The old man was down on one knee beside her, and his gnarled and knotted hand was pointing in the direction of the cliff path a hundred feet below.

“Is—is it come to this, Bess?” he said.

“What—what, father?” she cried, catching at his hand; but she missed it, and he gripped her arm.

“Is that smooth, good-looking villain thy lover, too?” he said, in a vindictive whisper.

“Oh! no, no, no, father,” she gasped.

“I knew it would come to it,” he cried. “Curse him! I’ll crush his false head again the rocks.”

“Are you mad, father?” she whispered, throwing her arms round him.

“Mad? No,” he cried; “but do you think I’m blind as well as old? Bess,” he continued, “I wish before his gashly face had darkened our door—”

“Oh father, father, dear father,” she moaned—and she crept closer and closer, till her arms were round his neck, and her head in his breast; “kill me, but don’t hurt him.”

“Then he has been trifling with thee, girl? I knowed it; I was sure it would come.”

“No, no, no,” moaned Bess; “he never said word to me but what you might hear.”

“Is—is this gawspel, Bess?” cried the old man, dragging up her convulsed and tearful face, and gazing in her wistful dark eyes.

“Can’t you see, father?” she said, with a low, despairing sigh. “I’m not good enough to be his wife, and he’s not the man to trifle and say soft things to me. You see down yonder,” she added, pitifully, as she waved one brown hand in the direction of the path.

“Nay, it’s along of Madge Mullion,” said the old man, wrathfully. “Yon’s nothing, and will come to naught. They say old Paul’s niece—”

“It’s a lie, father, a cruel lie,” cried Bess, starting from him. “I heard it, and it’s a lie. Mr Trethick’s a gentleman, and he’s as noble as he’s good.”

“Curse him for coming here,” cried the old man fiercely.

“God bless him!” said Bess, simply, as, kneeling there, she let her joined hands drop into her lap. “God bless him for a good man, and—and—may he be very—very happy in the time to come.”

Bess Prawle’s face dropped into her hands, and she sank lower and lower, with the tears of agony growing less scalding, and falling by degrees, as it were, like balm upon her burning love—a love which she had held unveiled before her father’s gaze, while the old man bent over her, the savage roughness of his face growing less repulsive, and a look of love and pride transforming him for the time.

He knelt down and kissed her bright black hair; then he put his arms round her, and drew her to him, and at last held her to his heart, rocking to and fro as he had nursed her a dozen or fifteen years before.

“My pretty flower,” he cried hoarsely, “my Bess! He don’t know—he don’t know. You not good enough for he? Harkye, my girl. He shall marry you—he shall be proud to marry you—for I know that as will bring him to you, and put him on his knees and ask you to be his wife.”

“Father?” said the girl, looking at him wonderingly.

“Yes,” he said, nodding his head exultantly, and kissing her broad forehead. “I can make you as fine a lady as any in Cornwall, my lass, and I can bring him to you when I will.”

“No, no, no,” moaned Bessie, with a piteous smile.

“But I say yes,” cried the old man. “I haven’t had my eyes open all these years for nothing. Let’s go home, Bess; I’ll talk to thee there. Get up, my girl, and I’ll bring him to thy feet whene’er thou wilt.”

Bess rose sadly, and put her hand in her father’s, but, as they took a step forward, the nook in the cliff where she had stood at bay opened out beneath them, and they both saw that which made Bessie Prawle feel as if her heart would break.

Chapter Thirty.

Making a Victim.

Breakfast-time at Dr Rumsey’s, and Mrs Rumsey, in a very henny state, clucking over her brood, for whom she was cutting bread and butter.

Her name too was Charlotte, but no Werther fell in love with her when she was ingeniously trying how many square inches of bread two ounces of butter that had been warmed into oil by the fire would cover. For Mrs Rumsey was not handsome, being a soft, fair, nebulous-looking lady, who had been in the habit of presenting her husband with one or two nebulous theories of her own regularly once a year; and the “worrit” of children had not improved her personal appearance.

Her face was, as a rule, white, and soft, and heavy, dotted with dull branny freckles, while the possession of a soft retroussé nose that seemed loosely attached to her skin, and travelled a good deal out of place whenever she twitched her countenance, as she often did spasmodically, did not add to her attractions.

Unfortunately for Dr Rumsey, his wife’s notable care of her children did not extend to herself, for as she grew older she also grew more and more unkempt. While he, as he saw it, would sigh and thrust his hands into his pockets all but his thumbs, which stood out and worked as she unfolded to him her family cares, giving them the aspect of two handles in the mechanism by which he was moved.

“Any thing will do for me,” was her favourite expression; and, in the belief that she was lessening the burthen on her husband’s shoulders, she made herself less attractive in his eyes year by year, and grew more dowdy. How the fact that his wife’s hair was not parted exactly in the middle, and left unbrushed, could affect his income, Dr Rumsey never knew; neither could he see that it was any saving for a hook on a dress front to be inserted in the wrong eye, or for his wife’s boots to be down at the heel and unlaced. Such, however, was the state in which Mrs Rumsey was often seen, though, to do her justice, the children were her constant care, in both senses of the word.

He saw all this and sighed, giving his ears a pull now and then, telling himself that they tightened his skin and drew the wrinkles out of his face; while, when his lady was extra sensitive and nervous—in other words, disposed to blame—he would shrug his shoulders, button up his coat, turn up his collar; and upon one occasion he even sent the good lady into a passionate fit of hysterics, by putting up an old umbrella to shelter him till the storm had done.

“Ah, Rumsey!” she would say, “I don’t know what you would do without me. If you had not me to take care of you and yours, you would be lost indeed.”

The lady did not seem to consider it a case of his and hers, but went on behaving as if she were a kind of upper servant or nursery governess, while he wanted a companion and help. Certainly she opened his clean pocket-handkerchiefs for him, for fear he should look dandified; and she taught his children well according to her lights, though her teachings certainly had the appearance of what Mrs Mullion called drilling, for she was very strict.

But somehow the doctor was not happy, and spent as little of his time as possible at home. When a wet day compelled him to stop in, as the streams were flooded, he amused himself by going over his fishing-tackle, or making weather-cocks to place out in his garden to scare away the birds, which were supposed to be tempted by the fruit.

On this particular morning, with her cap awry, and looking more unkempt than usual, Mrs Rumsey was very lachrymose and very busy, carving away at the bread and butter, and rocking the cradle with one foot, while at times she cast an occasional eye out of the open door at her twins, Billy and Dilly, two sturdy little boys a couple of years old, fair, fat, and so much alike that it required study to avoid mistakes. They were toddling up and down the pebble garden-path, each with a feeding bottle tied to his waist, the long india-rubber pipe reaching upwards, and the mouth-piece between his lips, the pair looking like a couple of young Turks enjoying a morning hookah in the open air.

The other children were already in their places, sniffing occasionally and looking longingly at the pile of bread-and-butter mounting high, what time mamma gave them torture lessons during the preparation for the meal.

“Why don’t your father come?” she said, dolefully, as she looked impatiently at the door. “He always will stay with his patients so much longer than he need. Who’s that coming?”

“Madge Mullion, ma,” cried the eldest-born, a long, thin girl, whose face lit up as there was a bang of the garden gate and a rustling of skirts; and, after bending down to kiss the children, Madge, looking very pale and pretty, came in without ceremony.

“How are you?” she cried, kissing Mrs Rumsey.

“Very poorly, my dear,” whined the doctor’s wife. “These children will worrit me into my grave.”

“No, no,” cried Madge, as she faced round. “Have you any news?”

“No, my dear, there’s never any news down in this lost out-of-the-way place. Dr Rumsey always would persist in leaving London, or he might have been having his guinea fee from every patient, and keeping his carriage by now.”

“Then it isn’t true!” said Madge, with a sigh of relief.

“What, my dear?—Priscilla, if you will persist in sniffing so, I certainly will slap you.”

The young lady addressed immediately began tugging at a pocket-handkerchief, secured by one end to the waistband of some under-garment, and bent her young body like an arc to get a good blow.

“I have been to the shop, and heard that Mr Tregenna was taken ill in the night.”

“Oh, yes, my dear, he was. Papa was called up at two o’clock, and he hasn’t come back yet.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Madge, turning paler.

“That he has, ma,” cried the eldest boy. “I got up at five to see what time it was, and pa was just going out with his fishing-rod; and he told me to go back quietly to bed and not wake anybody.”

“Then you’re a naughty, wicked boy, Bobby, for not saying so sooner,” cried Mrs Rumsey, angrily. “Don’t make that noise, or you shall have no breakfast.”

Bobby was drawing a long breath for a furious howl, but he glanced hungrily at the bread and butter, smoothed his countenance, and put off the performance for the present.

“I declare it’s too bad,” continued mamma; “he knows how anxious I am when he’s away, and yet he comes creeping back at daybreak, like a burglar, to steal his own fishing-tackle, and goes, no one knows where, after a few nasty trout.”

“Then Mr Tregenna must be better,” said Madge.

“Oh, yes, my dear, he’s better,” said Mrs Rumsey, petulantly. “What a silly girl you are to think of such things. I’m sure I ought to be a framing to you. Look at me!”

Certainly, as an example against entering into the marriage state Mrs Rumsey was a warning; but, like most other such warnings, ineffectual.

“I couldn’t help calling just to try and hear a few words,” said Madge; “but you won’t betray me, dear?”

“Oh, no, I won’t tell, Madge,” said Mrs Rumsey, a little less grimly, and evidently greatly delighted at being made the repository of the young girl’s love affair. “But I do wonder at you, Madge,” she said, in a whisper, with a slice of bread and butter half cut. “John Tregenna’s all very well, and certainly he has a noble nose, but you’ve got somebody far nicer at home.”

“Yes, isn’t he nice?” whispered back Madge.

“I’ve only seen him once, dear, but I thought him far before John Tregenna.”

“Yes,” said Madge, sighing.

“Yes, I know, my dear. John Tregenna has such a way with him.”

“He has indeed,” said Madge, sighing again.

“Ah, well, my dear,” said Mrs Rumsey, finishing the slice, and laying it in its place upon the pile, “I ought not to say any thing against it, if you are set upon such a wilful course, for John Tregenna is papa’s patient, and of course you would be; and what with measles, and chicken-pox, and scarlatina, your family would be a help.”

“Oh, Charlotte dear!” exclaimed Madge.

“Ah, you may say, ‘Oh, Charlotte dear!’ but it must come to that; and a good thing too, for I’m sure our income’s limited enough, and—Oh, here he is at last, and his boots wet through. There, now: if there ever was an unreasonable man, it’s my husband. He’s bringing that Mr Trethick in to breakfast.”

“Oh, what shall I do?” cried Madge, to her companion. “Let me go without his seeing me.”

“You can slip out at the back,” said Mrs Rumsey, “and he won’t see you.”

But Madge thought it would look so cowardly, and, after a glance at the glass, determined to face Geoffrey, who was half pushed into the room by the doctor.

“Ma, dear, here’s Mr Trethick. We’ve had a couple of hours up the stream.”

“And there’s nothing but bread and butter, papa,” said Mrs Rumsey, in an injured tone. “I didn’t know you were going to bring company.”

“Company? I am not company,” said Geoffrey, merrily. “I’m a patient in prospective, and the doctor prescribes bread and butter. I was brought up on that happy animal and vegetable combination. Ah, Miss Mullion, good-morning! Who’d have thought of seeing you here? I say, I want to have a good laugh at those two little Turks out in the front.”

“Yes, Mr Trethick,” said Mrs Rumsey, pitifully, “indeed they are young Turks; but won’t you sit down?”

“Don’t let me disturb you, Miss Mullion,” he cried.

“Oh, I’m going, Mr Trethick,” said Madge, giving Mrs Rumsey a wistful look, which she interpreted aright, and acted accordingly.

“How is Mr Tregenna?” she said to her husband.

“Tregenna? Oh, ah, yes, to be sure! I had forgotten him. He’s all right again. Called me up in the middle of the night; said he was dying. Fit of indigestion; lives too well. I am always telling him so. He’s getting a liver as bad as old Paul. He works it too hard, and then it strikes, and telegraphs messages all over the body even to the toes, and then there’s a riot, for all the other organs strike too.”

“Then he was not seriously ill, papa?” said Mrs Rumsey, after another glance from Madge.

“Not he. Guilty conscience, perhaps. Sent for me for nothing. I told him he’d cry ‘Wolf!’ once too often, and I shouldn’t go.”

As Madge heard this she glided out of the room, and made her way unperceived to the front, and out into the street, in sublime unconsciousness that Miss Pavey was at her window, with a a very shabby little tortoise-shell-covered opera-glass, by means of which she had been intently watching the doctor’s house.

“Ah, me! Poor Rhoda!” she said to herself; “but it’s not for me to say any thing, only to pity the poor deluded girl. Oh, these men, these men!”

Meanwhile, after a few words to his guest, Dr Rumsey turned an eye to business.

“Ah, Tregenna!” he said; “must not forget him. Prissy fetch me the day-book. I’ll enter that while I remember it.”

“No, papa,” said Mrs Rumsey in an ill-used tone, as she frowned the little girl back in her place, “leave that till Mr Trethick has gone. If you will expose our poverty by bringing visitors to breakfast, don’t forget all the past, and let Mr Trethick go away thinking we have quite degenerated into Cornish fishermen and miners.”

“Oh, Trethick won’t think that,” said the doctor heartily.

“Indeed I should not,” said Geoffrey merrily. “How about the trout, doctor?”

“To be sure,” cried the doctor, “we must have them.”

“Don’t, pray, say you have brought home any nasty trout to be cooked for breakfast, my dear,” cried Mrs Rumsey imploringly. “I really could not get them cooked.”

“Oh, never mind, my dear,” said the doctor, rubbing his ear in rather a vexed way. “You won’t mind, Trethick; you shall take them home with you.”

“Mind? Not I,” said Geoffrey.

“Of course if Mr Trethick particularly wishes trout for breakfast, I’ll go and broil a brace myself,” said Mrs Rumsey in an ill-used whine.

“I protest against any such proceeding,” cried Geoffrey, who had been brought home by the doctor on purpose to partake of their spoil. “In fact, I rather dislike fish for breakfast,” he added mendaciously. “There, that’s capital. I’ll sit here between these two young rosy-cheeked rogues,” he cried, “and we’ll have a race and see who’ll eat most slices of bread and butter.”

Mrs Rumsey stood with the coffee-pot in one hand, looking at him aghast.

“And we’ll cut for ourselves,” said Geoffrey, smiling.

Mrs Rumsey was thawed, especially as papa fetched the loaf and butter, and placed them on the table.

“There, Trethick, make yourself at home,” he said; “we can’t afford ceremony here.”

“Glad of it,” said Geoffrey, making one of his little neighbours laugh. “Why, Mrs Rumsey, you ought to be proud of your children. What a jolly, healthy little lot they are.”

“Little?” cried Rumsey, pausing with his cup half-way to his lips.

“I mean in size, not number. Miss Prissy, if you look at me so hard with those blue eyes I shall think you are counting how many bites I take.”

“Oh, I’m very proud of them,” said Mrs Rumsey in a tone of voice that sounded like a preface to a flood of tears, “but it is a large family to care for and educate.”

“Yes, it is,” replied Geoffrey. “Mr Rumsey tells me that you educate them entirely yourself.”

“Yes, quite,” cried Mrs Rumsey, brightening a little. “Priscilla, say your bones.”

To Geoffrey’s astonishment Miss Priscilla put her hands behind, and began, with her mouth full of bread and butter—

“Flanges and metacarpals, hands and feet; tibia, fibula, femur, scapular, clavicle, ulna, radius, costa—vertebra—maxillary—minimum—Please, ma, I don’t know any more;” and Miss Priscilla sat down suddenly and took another bite of her bread and butter.

“Bravo!” laughed Geoffrey. “Well, young lady, I don’t think I could have remembered so many.”

“She knows her muscles too,” said Mrs Rumsey.

“Yes, but we won’t have them now,” said the doctor, quietly.

“Ah,” sighed Mrs Rumsey, who felt injured, “but it is a very large family.”

“Yes, but they look so healthy,” continued Geoffrey. “Eh, coffee not strong enough, Mrs Rumsey? It’s delicious. What beautiful butter?”

Mrs Rumsey seemed softened by her guest’s homeliness.

“I wish I was as healthy,” she sighed.

“So do I,” said Geoffrey. “I’ll be bound to say papa does not waste much medicine on them.”

Dr Rumsey screwed up his face a little at this, and laughed.

“Dr Rumsey is very clever,” said Mrs Rumsey, who—in her efforts to supply wants, cast an eye at the cradle, and see that the children behaved well before company—got into such a tangle that she besugared some cups twice, and some not at all. “I always say to him that he is throwing himself away down here.”

“You do, my dear, always,” said the doctor uneasily.

“There is so little to do,” continued Mrs Rumsey, who got nothing to eat herself. “Priscilla, take your spoon in your right hand.”

“Please, ma, my coffee’s got no sugar,” observed Bobby.

“There is no sugar in my coffee,” said mamma correctively, as she gave her nose a twitch which sent it half an inch on one side. “Tom, sit up, sir. Yes, Mr Trethick, if my husband had his dues as a medical man, he would be in Harley Street, or in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square.”

“As a specialist, eh?” said Geoffrey.

“Yes, Mr Trethick. Esther, my dear, why will you fill your mouth so full?”

“Still, life down here is very jolly, Mrs Rumsey,” said Geoffrey, handing bread and butter to two or three hungry souls. “See how the little rascals eat.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, “that’s just what they do do.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Rumsey, endorsing her husband’s words, “their appetites are dreadful; and the doctor has so little business.”

“Yes, there isn’t much, only a mining accident now and then, or a half-drowned man or two to attend,” said Rumsey.

“My pa brought a man to life again,” said Bobby, gazing round-eyed at the visitor.

“Did he though?” said Geoffrey.

“Bobby, hold your tongue.”

“Tom Jennen said he did,” whispered the boy; “and my pa’s very clever.”

“Yes,” sighed Mrs Rumsey, “he is clever.”

“Hero worship,” said the doctor to Geoffrey, with his eyes twinkling.

“That’s your great fault, dear,” said Mrs Rumsey, giving her nose a twitch in the other direction. “It was that which kept you so back in London. You know you are very clever.”

“I’m setting a good example to my neighbours in having my house well garrisoned,” said the doctor dryly. “I’m not at all ashamed to speak to my enemies in the gate—except when they come with their bills,” he added softly.

“For shame, dear,” cried Mrs Rumsey, “what will Mr Trethick think?”

“Think, ma’am,” cried Geoffrey, “that he ought to be proud of his children. I never saw any better-behaved at table.”

“He is proud of them, I must say,” said Mrs Rumsey, who was beginning to forgive her visitor for coming to breakfast; “and if he had justice done to him people would own how clever he is.”

“Clever at throwing a fly, Trethick, that’s all.”

“Well, I shall have to tumble down a shaft, or get blown up, or catch a fever, or something, to try him some day, Mrs Rumsey.”

“Ah, a few more patients would be a godsend,” said the doctor.

“My papa cut a man’s leg right off once,” said Bobby, sententiously.

“Then your papa must be a clever man,” said Geoffrey, looking amusedly at the stolid little face.

“Bobby, you must not say such things,” cried Mrs Rumsey. “Little boys should be seen and not heard. Prissy, my dear, you are swinging your legs about again.”

“And he’s got a wooden leg now—like an armchair,” whispered Bobby, very softly, as soon as he saw his mother’s attention taken up.

“There was no chance in London, Trethick,” said the doctor. “I’d no capital, except children, and the rents were ruinous. Besides, you have to keep up appearances to such an extent.”

“But the people there were not barbarians, my dear,” sighed Mrs Rumsey.

“Well, my dear, and they are not here. We live, and manage to pay our way—nearly; and when they come to know you, the people are very sociable. We do have capital whist parties.”

“But you know I detest whist, dear,” sighed Mrs Rumsey. “Let me send you another cup of coffee, Mr Trethick.”