George Manville Fenn (continued 5)

“Thanks,” said Geoffrey. “The fact is, I suppose,” he continued to his host, “there are not enough inhabitants to give you a good practice.”

“That’s it, so I fill up with catching trout, and making a few shillings at whist.”

“Yes, dear, you always would play whist,” sighed Mrs Rumsey; and, to Geoffrey’s horror, her nose this time went right up, as if to visit her forehead.

“Capital game too,” said the doctor. “That and fishing often keep me from having the blues.”

“Why don’t you try and invest in some good mining speculation?” said Geoffrey.

“First, because I’ve got very little to invest; secondly, because where there is a good spec, there’s no chance of getting on.”

“Try Wheal Carnac,” said Geoffrey.

“Do you mean to tell me, as man to man, that that is going to turn up trumps?” said the doctor, with a little more animation.

“I do indeed,” said Geoffrey; “and if I had any money, I’d invest the lot.”

“What, after so many people had been ruined in it?”

“Look here, doctor,” said Geoffrey. “Suppose you go and take a house in, say Grosvenor Street, and start as physician.”

“That’s just what he ought to do,” cried Mrs Rumsey, who began to think Geoffrey full of sound common-sense.

“Well, you would be sure to get some connection.”

“Of course, but it wouldn’t be enough to keep me.”

“Exactly. Then another man, still retaining your plate on the door, comes, because you give it up in despair—fail, so to speak.”

“Oh, dear no!” sighed Mrs Rumsey; but her attention was taken off by her children, two of whom were having a silent quarrel, and indulging in furtive kicks and pinches beneath the table.

“Go on,” said the doctor.

“Well, he next fails, after increasing the connection, and another takes the place, and another after him.”

“Yes.”

“Well, the last one has some connection to start with, adds his own efforts, and goes on and prospers, like a son succeeding his father.”

“You mean to say then that you succeed to something in Wheal Carnac.”

“I say that we succeed to all the work the others have done. There is the shaft sunk and the buildings ready, and with our machinery fixed, all that was needed was that we should go to work with plenty of enterprise.”

“But suppose it don’t succeed—suppose you can’t bring your patient back to life?”

“My papa brought a man back—”

“Be quiet, Bobby, when your papa’s talking,” cried Mrs Rumsey, who had to go out then to use the family handkerchief upon the noses of the hookah-smoking twins.

“But I shall bring it back to life,” said Geoffrey, firmly. “As you would say, the organs are all sound, and all it wanted was a stimulus to send the life-blood throbbing through the patient’s veins.”

“Veins of tin, eh?” said the doctor.

“Perhaps of copper too,” said Geoffrey. “If you have a hundred or two to spare—”

“I’ve got four or five hundred of my wife’s money, but not to spare,” said the doctor. “Brings us in three and a half per cent.”

“I wouldn’t promise,” said Geoffrey, enthusiastically; “but I sha’n’t be satisfied if I don’t make that mine return its company thirty, forty, perhaps fifty, per cent.”

“Dr Rumsey,” said the lady, whose nose had been travelling in quite a circle round the centre of her face, “it is your duty to invest that money in this mine.”

“But it isn’t a regular company, is it?”

“No,” said Geoffrey, “but it is in my power to get a little interest in the affair for a friend.”

“If I could feel sure,” said the doctor, dubiously.

“I would not advise you against your good,” said Geoffrey, earnestly. “I am certain the mine will pay.”

“Thirty, forty, or fifty per cent?”

“No,” said Geoffrey. “I only hope that; but I’ll warrant six or seven, perhaps fourteen.”

“It would about ruin us,” said the doctor, “if it was like most mines—a failure.”

“My dear, I’m ashamed of you,” cried Mrs Rumsey. “You always would fight against every chance of advancement. It is my money, and I say it shall be invested. There?”

The way in which Mrs Rumsey’s nose twitched at this juncture was something surprising, and made Geoffrey quite uncomfortable.

“Well,” he said, rising, “I must go. Mrs Rumsey, thank you for a charming breakfast. Rumsey, you think over that, and, look here, if you do think of it seriously, come up to me—soon.”

“He shall, Mr Trethick,” said the lady, decidedly.

“I will—think over it,” said the doctor. “But, look here, if I do play and lose the rubber, don’t you come to me when you are ill, or I’ll give you such a dosing.”

“My papa keeps it in a bottle,” said Bobby, in a whisper.

“Does he? Well, we’ll hope the stopper is never removed on my behalf,” said Geoffrey. “But, look here,” he cried, as he remembered something. “I’ve got two paper bags in my pocket;” and he dragged out the effects of his two last visits to Mrs Prawle, leaving the children in a high state of delight, and Mrs Rumsey telling her husband that if he had had the energy of Geoffrey Trethick he would be keeping his brougham, and she sitting in silk and satin, instead of having to wash up the breakfast things, while their one servant made the beds.

Chapter Thirty One.

Geoffrey Makes Love.

A long morning in the mine, now thoroughly cleared of water, and where, under the leadership of Dicky Pengelly, the picks were ringing merrily. Geoffrey had little good news to report, for the lode of tin was excessively poor; but all the same he felt that he could work on at a profit, and at any time they might strike a good rich vein. There was nothing, then, to mind.

He had reported every thing to Mr Penwynn exactly as it occurred, and that gentleman seemed not only perfectly satisfied, but encouraged him to go on.

“I have made the venture, Trethick,” he said, “and I will not play with it. I look to you to pull me up if it is going to be a losing affair; but it seems to me that to withhold capital would be a miserable policy: so go on. Do you think it can become worse?”

“No,” said Geoffrey, firmly, “that I do not. The fact is, Mr Penwynn, I am disappointed in the mine.”

“Disappointed? You don’t mean—”

“No, no, sir, I’m not beaten,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “I mean I am disappointed in the mine, and I have found out two or three things about it.”

“What sort of things?” said Mr Penwynn, uneasily.

“Trickeries—sharpings,” said Geoffrey. “It is very evident that to sell that mine, or may be to impress shareholders with its value, the place has been more than once salted, as miners call it.”

Mr Penwynn nodded.

“Tin ore from other mines has been thrown down, and, of course, I saw through that directly; but in several places right at the end of drifts, Pengelly and I have found great pieces of ore fitted into the solid rock in the most artful manner, so that it needed no little care to find out that it was a trick.”

“But are you sure that it is a trick?” said Mr Penwynn.

“Certain, sir. It would have deceived an ordinary miner or owner.”

“But did not deceive you?”

“Well, sir, I take no credit to myself for that. I went through a course of mining study, and it is as simple as A B C.”

“How so?”

“Why, look here, sir. Only yesterday Pengelly called me to show me a rich place he had found.”

“Yes. Well?”

“I had to crush the poor fellow’s hopes at once. The thing was most artistically done, a quantity of tin-bearing quartz, evidently in situ.”

“Yes.”

“But I always carry this with me, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, pulling out a pocket-lens; “and that showed me at once that the quartz was veined with a different mineral from that all around, and also that the granulations of the stone were such as are found in the strata on the other side of the county, and not here.”

Mr Penwynn said nothing, but looked hard at his manager.

“They’ve spent a good deal of time and money to successfully swindle people, and cleverly too, where the same energy and outlay would have made a poor mine pay.”

“Then you consider it a poor mine, Mr Trethick?”

“Very, sir.”

“But the report I had said that it was rich.”

“Then the reporter was either a fool or a knave,” replied Geoffrey.

“Humph!” ejaculated Mr Penwynn, “and you think then that we had better stop.”

“Certainly not,” said Geoffrey, flushing. “It cannot give a poorer yield, for there are thousands of tons of such ore as we are now sending to grass, and which I can make yield at least five per cent dividend, while at any time we may ‘strike ile,’ as our friends the Yankees call it.”

“Thank you, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, quietly; and he drew a long breath. “Go on, I leave myself in your hands.”

Geoffrey did go on working most earnestly, and on this particular day he had come up out of the mine, weary in body and mind, gone to the cottage and changed, and then started off along the cliff for what he called a blow.

“I’ll go and see poor old Mrs Prawle,” he said to himself; and in that disposition he went on till he came to the nook where he had interposed in Bess Prawle’s defence; when, seeing an inviting place, he sat down, and as he did so the whole scene came back.

He did not know how it was, but there was a curiously uneasy sensation at his heart, and he found himself recalling Bess Prawle’s looks, her way of expressing her gratitude, and ended by taking himself to task.

“I can go there often enough and chat with the poor old woman—poor soul, there’s a very pathetic side to her patient, uncomplaining life; but why should I go when it may cause uneasiness to others? Poor Bess! she’s a fine, handsome lass. I shall have her father making suggestions like Uncle Paul about poor Madge. ’Pon my soul, I must be a very fine-looking fellow,” he cried merrily.

Then he laughed, took out a cigar, lit it, and sat smoking.

“The people here have too much time on their hands,” he thought, “and it makes them scandalous. I wonder they don’t have the impudence to couple my name with that of—”

“Bah! nonsense! what an idiot I am,” he said, sharply; and the next moment he was self-communing, and asking why he should be so uneasy at such an idea.

For answer Rhoda’s face seemed to rise before him, quiet, earnest, and trustful. He seemed to hear her sweet, pleasant voice, not thrilling him as whispering of love; but it seemed to him now that she had given him encouragement, that her suggestions had been of endless value to him, and that she was always so kind and sisterly to him, that—that—was it sisterly this? Was his feeling brotherly?

His brow grew rugged, and then as he thought on he began to feel startled at the new sensations that seemed to be springing up within his breast. He looked inward, and he obtained a glimpse of that which he had before ignored.

“Oh, it’s absurd,” he said, half aloud; “I should be mad. I should be a scoundrel.”

Then he stopped, for the face of Rhoda, with the large, searching eyes, was gazing full into his, and this time it was no fancy. She was returning from Gwennas Cove, and she had turned into the nook to see once more the spot that had aroused such envious feelings in her breast.

“You here, Mr Trethick?” she said, quietly. “I did not expect to see you.”

“I did not expect to see you here,” he said, as quietly; but his voice sounded different, and Rhoda looked up at him for a moment, and then let her eyelids fall.

She had not held out her hand to him, neither had he offered his, and they stood there in that nook amidst the granite, surrounded by a solemn silence which neither seemed disposed to break.

Nothing could have been more simple. They had met as they might have met at any time, and they might have walked back quietly to the town. It was the most everyday of occurrences, and yet it was the most important moment of their lives.

They had both been blind, and now they were awakened, Rhoda to the fact that her heart was at length stirred to its deepest depths, Geoffrey to the knowledge that with all his strength of mind, his determination, his will, he was a man with all a man’s weaknesses, and, if weakness it could be called, he loved the woman who stood with him, face to face.

He was dazzled, blinded at the revelation that had come like a lightning’s flash, and then a feeling of horror came upon him, for he felt that he had been treacherous.

Then that horror seemed to be swept away by the stronger passion, and he looked earnestly in her face till the blue-veined lids were raised, and her eyes looked deeply and trustingly in his.

How long was it? Neither of them knew, before Geoffrey said quietly the one word,—

“Rhoda!”

She looked up at him again, and then stood hesitating, for the thoughts of the petty scandal she had heard flashed before her; but she shook them off as if they had been venomous, and, looking him full in the face, she placed her hand in his with an air of such implicit faith as stirred him into speech.

“I did not know this—I did not think this,” he said hoarsely; “and I feel as if I were acting the part of a treacherous villain to the man who has given me his confidence and trust.”

“And why?” she said.

“Because I know that I love you,” he said; “love you with all my heart. Rhoda, I must leave here. I ought not to have spoken as I did.”

She looked up at him timidly, with a half-flinching fear in her face as she met his eyes, but it turned to a look of pride, and she laid another hand upon his arm.

“No,” she said, “you must stay. Geoffrey, I could not bear it if you were to go.”

He must have been more than man if he had not clasped her to his breast at that, and in that embrace he felt her head rest upon his shoulder, and knew that fate had been very kind to him, and that he had won the love of a woman who would be part and parcel of his future life.

“And I had laughed at love,” he said, little thinking that there were witnesses of what was passing; “but now I know. Rhoda! Oh, my love!”

He clasped her in his arms again, and for a moment her lips met his. Then with one consent they stood there hand in hand.

“I will tell him at once,” said Geoffrey. “I know it will seem to him like madness; but I dare not meet him if I could not look him in the face. It is unfortunate, Rhoda, but yet I could not go back a moment of my life now.”

“Unfortunate?” she said gently.

“Yes. Have you thought what it may mean?”

She shook her head.

“The end of a dream of success. Mr Penwynn will say, what right have I to think of you? He will call me adventurer, ask me how I dared to presume, and bid me never enter his house again. I am his servant, and it will be just.”

“My father will be just,” said Rhoda, gazing in his face; “and if he is surprised and angry at first, he loves me too well to cause me pain. Geoffrey: I am not ashamed of my choice.”

He held her hands, looking down at her proudly, wondering that he had not loved her from the first.

“You will succeed, Geoffrey,” she continued, “and we can wait, for we are young yet. My father, I know, already likes you for the same reason that you first won my esteem.”

“And why was that?” he said, smiling.

“You are so different to any one we ever knew before.”

“Yes,” he said at last, “we can wait.”

And so they were pledged one to the other. Geoffrey never seemed to know how it had happened; Rhoda could not have told when it was she began to love; but they both knew, as by a sudden inspiration, that they loved the deeper and stronger for the calmness upon the surface of their lives.

There was no passionate wooing, there were no vows of constancy, all was simplicity itself; but the foundation upon which their love had been reared seemed firm as the granite around promised to be lasting; as the sea whose ripples were now golden in the setting sun, whose warm glow seemed to glorify the face of Rhoda, and intensify the love-light that glanced from her eyes. It was a time of calm, and peace, and rest, and as in the midst of this new joy, the quaint idea suggested itself that their love seemed somehow associated with the scent of the wild thyme they crushed beneath their feet, they stood there in silence, drinking in deep mental draughts of the new sensation, and wondering at their happiness the while.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Within Touch of Wealth.

“Thank you, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, the next morning, and he looked very calm and stern as he spoke, “I expected this, for my daughter told me all last night. I might have known this would happen, though I confess to having been very blind. Now go on, what have you further to say? But, first of all, you are a man of sense and some experience in the world. You do not, you cannot, expect me to sanction your addresses?”

“No, sir, not now. I only ask you to put no pressure upon either of us, but to let us be free.”

“In other words, give you the run of my house, and ample time for follies. You don’t want to come and live upon me?”

“No, sir,” said Geoffrey, sternly. “I am somewhat of a man of the world. I tell you that my declaration to Miss Penwynn took me by surprise; but there are times when we cannot command ourselves. All I ask now is your indulgence towards me, knowing what I do, and time. I shall come very rarely to your house, and our business relations I hope will continue the same. I mean to succeed, sir,” he cried, striding up and down the banker’s room—“here if you will let me stay, elsewhere if you say to me go.”

“If I say to you go?” said the banker, thoughtfully.

“Yes, I give you my word of honour, Mr Penwynn, that I will not attempt to see Miss Penwynn again, and I will leave every thing at the mine so that my successor can carry on without a hitch.”

“And if I say stay,” said the banker, coldly, “what then?”

“I am your manager, Mr Penwynn, and I shall remember that I am your servant until you bid me come to your house as a friend. You may trust me, sir,” he said, gazing frankly in the banker’s eyes. “I had ambition to spur me on before; I have a far greater incentive now.”

Mr Penwynn sat thinking for a few minutes, and then said quietly,—

“Mr Trethick, I ask you, as my manager, to stay.”

“And if I succeed, sir, what then?”

“Succeed first, and then we’ll talk.”

There was considerable emphasis upon a portion of the banker’s speech, and Geoffrey rose, and, without another word, left the room.

“I am to stay,” he thought exultingly, and his first idea was that he should go and tell Rhoda; but he recollected that he must henceforth look at her from a distance. It was only reasonable, he felt. What right had he, a penniless adventurer, to aspire to Rhoda’s hand? It was madness, he owned; but time was before him, and he had her love.

He had the indorsement of her love when he returned from the mine that evening, for Madge Mullion brought him a note that he saw at a glance was in Rhoda’s handwriting, and a throb of joy ran through him as he caught the envelope.

Then, looking up, he saw the bearer’s eyes gazing wistfully at him, and he noted, more and more, how pale and wan she looked.

“Why, Madge,” he said, “are you unwell?”

She shook her head, and hurried away.

“Poor girl,” he muttered, “I cannot have made her look like this. She must be ill, and fretting about some one else.”

He was opening the letter as he spoke, and his eyes flashed as they ran over the few simple lines the note contained.

They were very short. They only told of the interview between father and daughter, and bade Geoffrey remember that though they would seldom meet now, the future was before them, and Rhoda added, “My daily prayer will be for your success.”

“For my success,” said Geoffrey, firmly, as he placed the letter in one particular fold of his pocket-book. “Then now I am going to work.”

Rather a curious declaration for one whose labours had for months been almost herculean, but it did not seem to occur to Geoffrey that it was strange; and, after partaking of his tea, he was about to go in and see Uncle Paul, when there was a step outside, and directly after the girl came in to say that Amos Pengelly wanted to see him.

“Show him in, girl,” said Geoffrey; and directly after there was a heavy limping step; the miner entered, and, without a word, banged down a great lump of granite quartz upon the table.

“There,” he cried excitedly, “that’s not salt.”

Geoffrey looked at him wonderingly, took up the piece of granite, which sparkled with black grains in a band of ruddy mineral running through the piece, and turned it over and over by the light.

“That didn’t come from nowhere else, master,” said Pengelly.

Still Geoffrey did not reply, but continued to examine the piece of rock, the miner’s excitement being so great that he could hardly contain himself.

“Where did you get this?” said Geoffrey, at last.

“In the four-east drive.”

“Under the sea?” said Geoffrey, sharply.

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“Not an hour ago.”

“You staid down then, Pengelly?”

“Yes. Iss, my son. I knew there was good stuff down there somewhere, and I’ve hit it now.”

“Have you been searching much, Pengelly?”

“Every night, master, since the mine was opened,” said Pengelly, proudly, “I felt that my character was at stake. I would find it. I prayed and wrastled that I might find it, master,” he cried, with flashing eyes, “and my prayer is heard.”

“Pengelly,” cried Trethick, “there’s thirty per cent of metal in that rock—thirty? Perhaps more,” he cried excitedly.

He caught up his hat, and together they hurried down to the mine, where, in spite of the lateness of the hour, the engine was going, and a stream of water pouring forth, for it needed some effort to keep the galleries dry.

Mining garments were soon donned, lamps taken, and, to the surprise of the man in charge of the engine, the manager announced his intention of descending; and, stepping into the cage, Pengelly and he were soon rushing down into the bowels of the earth, to step out at last six hundred feet from the surface, and then thread their way along the dark stone passages of the silent place.

For the mine was deserted now for the night, and there was nothing for company but their own shadows thrown grotesquely on the sparkling walls and floor.

Pengelly led the way with no little agility, making light of lumps of refuse remaining from the old working of the mine, and even yet not removed, for Geoffrey’s venture had been in quite another direction.

As they went on, Pengelly pointed here and there to freshly chipped places where he had been, pursuing his investigations without success, and at last he stopped short at the end of the gallery, facing the rock.

“They had got to success,” said the miner, hoarsely. “Only another foot, and they would have reached the lode. Look here, master.”

“Give me the pick,” cried Geoffrey, excitedly; and, snatching the tool, as Pengelly held the lamp, he made the gallery echo and send long, loud reverberations along its course. The rock spat forth a shower of sparks, while Geoffrey proceeded to cut out a goodly-sized fragment of the stone from the bottom of the new fracture where Pengelly had been at work.

It was a strange scene, and the shadow of the young man, as it was cast here and there upon the rock, looked like some hideous spirit of the mine waving its arms, and menacing him with a monstrous pick. There was something awful too, in the harsh, clanging noises repeated from the stony walls; and every stroke of the implement he wielded seemed to draw forth threatening flashes of light, as the toiler smote on at the hard rock that had lain there virgin from far back in those distant ages whose dim vistas are so full of awe to the inquiring mind.

But neither Pengelly nor Trethick thought of aught but the value of the ore that the latter was hewing, till he had detached a far larger lump than that brought to him by his follower.

“Take hold, Pengelly,” said Geoffrey, excitedly, as he picked up the dislodged fragment, and, thrusting it into the miner’s hands, he took the lamp, which made the dew upon his forehead glisten; and then, with trembling hands, he held the light close to the wall, examining it carefully here and there, right in where the pieces had been cut and at the side. Then, not satisfied, he took the pick, and cut here and there at the dripping, slimy sides that had been coated with a curious growth while under water for years, and against which the newly-cut portions flashed out bright and clean.

A cut here, a few chips there, ceiling, floor a few yards back, in all directions, and the result was the same, namely, that the quartz rock was similar to that where the grand rich vein of tin was running; and, after full five hours’ hard toil, patiently lighted the while by Pengelly, it was literally forced upon Geoffrey that trickery had no existence here; that the rock had never been tampered with by speculators, but was virgin and pure as it had been from the beginning of time, and he knew that the old proprietory had ceased their efforts in this direction when riches were within their grasp.

Then, and then only, did Geoffrey draw out a pocket-lens for his final look, close it, throw down the piece of ore, and catching Pengelly’s hands in his, shake them with a hearty grip.

“Right!” he cried, “there is no salt here, Pengelly. Wheal Carnac is a great success.”

He stopped short, listening to a sound that had at first been but a faint murmur, but had increased by slow degrees to a heavy roar, and he realised that which he had for the time forgotten—that they were beneath the sea, and that the crust of rock between them and the mighty waters must be very thin.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Too Fast.

It was too late to go up to An Morlock on the night of the discovery; but Geoffrey Trethick was there by breakfast-time, to find Rhoda in the morning-room, and Mr Penwynn not yet down.

Rhoda read his face as he entered and threw a heavy bag on the table to catch her hands in his.

“Half the distance got over!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “Wheal Carnac is a success.”

“Is this keeping your word, Mr Trethick?” said a stern voice; but Geoffrey and Rhoda did not start apart.

“I could not keep back my news, Mr Penwynn,” cried Geoffrey, going to the table and seizing the bag.

“News! What news?”

“That you own one of the richest mines in Cornwall, Mr Penwynn,” cried Geoffrey. “Look here.”

The banker looked at him to see if he was sane; then at the piece of ore that had been brought, which he inspected again and again through his glasses.

“Very, very rich stuff,” he said at last. “But is this from Wheal Carnac?”

“Yes, sir, as I had hoped. We have struck an enormously rich lode. The poor fellows must have been within inches of it years ago when they left off; and, yes, of course,” he said, as he recalled the noise of the water heard on the previous night, “they must have been afraid to go any farther on account of the sea.”

“And,” said Mr Penwynn, whose customary calmness was swept away by the news, “do you mean to tell me, Trethick, that Wheal Carnac is going to turn out a very valuable property?”

“I tell you, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, proudly, “that unless some strange, unforeseen accident occurs to spoil the project, Wheal Carnac has turned out an enormously valuable property.”

The banker glanced at the rich ore and then at Geoffrey, who had no hesitation in sitting down to breakfast, and drinking in with the mundane coffee the proud and joyous glances of his love.

Over the meal he told them of Pengelly’s researches, and of his announcement on the previous night; then of his visit and careful examination of the gallery.

“There’s nothing to fear,” he said, “but the water; and I dare say I can guard against that.”

The banker became very silent, and sat after Geoffrey had ended, glancing from one to the other, reading as plainly as if it were writ in plain English of his daughter’s love for the enterprising, manly young fellow at his table.

Mr Penwynn was weighing matters of the heart in his own mind, just as he would have weighed any business speculation; and when from time to time his matter-of-fact worldliness bade him treat Geoffrey in a plain business-like manner, a look from Rhoda seemed to master him, and he felt as yielding as so much modelling-clay.

“It seems a great folly,” he thought. “He is a stranger, an adventurer, and yet his first venture brings me wealth. There,” he said to himself, at last, “I’m rich enough, and I’m getting old very fast; let me see her happy if I can.”

There was something so frank and friendly in his way of speaking to Geoffrey afterwards that, without a word, Rhoda came to him, laid her hands upon his shoulders and her cheek upon his breast.

She let it lie there for a minute or two, and then, with a glance at him full of affection, she left his side, and, half-timidly, in a way so very different to her usual self, she crossed to Geoffrey and placed her hands in his.

“This is going on fast, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling, and looking half-perplexed; “but we have only a hint of success yet. I am a man of the world, recollect, and I want to see a big banking balance to the credit of the mine.”

“Never fear, sir, that shall follow. Only give me time.”

“Well, Trethick,” said Mr Penwynn, after a struggle with self, in which, after sordidness and avarice had nearly won the victory, a look from Rhoda’s transformed, happy face turned the scale, “what am I to say to you about a share in the prosperity?”

“Let’s get the big balance in the bank first, sir,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “We will not divide a castle in the air.”

“But it would be more business-like and careful if you made your bargain now.”

“So I should have thought a month ago, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, holding out his hand. “Our interests ran together then. Now—I think—I hope—they are one, and I cannot strike bargains with the father of the woman!—”

He stopped and looked at Rhoda, who slowly raised her eyes to his, and then her hands, which he took softly, reverently, and kissed. Then he turned to Mr Penwynn and finished his sentence—“most dearly love.”

The banker watched them very thoughtfully, for it seemed hardly real to him. In fact, at times he asked himself if it were not a dream.

He was roused from recollections of his own career, some five-and-twenty years before, by Geoffrey turning to him abruptly.

“Mr Penwynn,” he said, “I leave myself in your hands. I am working in our mutual interests.”

“And suppose I play false?” said Mr Penwynn.

“You can’t, sir,” cried Geoffrey, “with Rhoda here. If you treated me hard, you would be behaving ill to your daughter, and that you will not do. Now, good-morning. When will you come down and see the lode?”

“I’m not fond of going down mines,” said Mr Penwynn.

“But in this case you will, I think,” said Geoffrey.—“I’ll answer for your safety. Miss Penwynn—Rhoda?”

“Yes,” she cried, answering his unspoken question, “I will come down too. I shall not be afraid, and I want to christen the Rhoda vein.”

“To be sure,” cried Geoffrey, “the vein that is to bring us all wealth and happiness.”

He hurried away, and Rhoda ran to the window to see him pass; while Mr Penwynn picked up the piece of tin ore, balanced it in his hands, and, recalling certain rumours of tricks that had been played upon mine-owners, he said to himself,—

“Suppose he should play me false?”

And directly after, when he saw Rhoda’s hand waved to Trethick, as he glanced back,—

“Suppose he should play her false?” for certain other rumours came to his mind. “Poor girl, it would break her heart.”

Just then, bright, flushed, and animated, Rhoda turned to him.

“No,” he said to himself, “she has too much pride.”

Chapter Thirty Four.

A Bargain.

“What?” roared Tregenna, furiously.

“It’ll turn out the richest mine in Cornwall, sir.”

“You’re a fool! Absurd! Ridiculous!” cried Tregenna, biting his nails, and then making his teeth grit together as he glared at the rough miner before him.

“Dessay I be,” said the man, surlily; “but I’ve been at work in the gallery all day, and I never see such tin ore before.”

“And I’ve let this go for a paltry few hundreds—a thousand or two at most,” muttered Tregenna. “But it can’t be true. Are you sure?” he said aloud.

“Sure enough, sir, and I thought you’d like to know. I didn’t expect to be called a fool for my pains.”

“No, no, of course not, Lannoe,” said Tregenna, hurriedly. “I was put out. I’ve heard the gossip all day, but I thought it exaggerated. I’m glad you’ve come.”

“Oh, there’s no ’zaggeration ’bout it,” said the man. “I’ve kept an eye on it all ever since the mine was dried, just as you wished, and they was getting nothing but rubbish, till Amos Pengelly, who was always picking about, hit upon this vein.”

“Damn Amos Pengelly!” cried Tregenna, savagely.

“To which I says ‘Amen,’” said the miner.

“Then the place will turn out immensely rich, and that fellow Trethick will make quite a fortune.”

“Iss, sir, that’s so,” said the miner. “Master Penwynn and young miss come down in the cage to-night to see it, and young miss took hold of a pick that Master Trethick held for her, and chipped off a bit or two, and there was a lot of smiling atween ’em.”

Tregenna’s face turned ghastly white, and he changed his position so that the man should not see it; but the miner was keen enough to read him, and he went on, evidently glorying in the torture he was inflicting.

“Master Trethick took ’em back to the cage, and helped young miss in again, and went up with them, and him and Master Penwynn seemed wonderful thick together.”

Tregenna’s face was ashy now, and he made a motion with one hand for the man to desist, but he went on.

“It do seem hard, sir,” he said, “when, after planting the mine on to Master Penwynn, believing it would half ruin him and do for that there Trethick, it should turn out all t’other way.”

“How did you know I had any such thoughts?” cried Tregenna, fiercely.

“How did I know?” said the man, chuckling. “You know I arn’t a fool, Mas’r Tregenna, or you wouldn’t have set me to get work in that there mine, and report every thing to you.”

For answer Tregenna unlocked a drawer in his table, and took out a packet of papers, neatly endorsed, and tied up with red tape.

“Look here, Lannoe,” he said, shaking the papers at the man, “your tongue runs too fast, and you forget your position. You are a man of bad character whom I got off at the assize for a crime that would have given you penal servitude. You can be a useful man; and when you came to me begging I gave you money and I got you work. Suppose, on further consideration of your case, I should find out that there was a little evidence left out that would convict you, and feel it my duty to make it known, so that the prosecution could have a new trial?”

“You wouldn’t do that, Mas’r Tregenna, sir,” growled the man. “I’m too useful to you. There, I’ll hold my tongue.”

“You had better,” said Tregenna, who had now somewhat recovered himself. “And so this mine’s going to be enormously rich?”

“Not a doubt of it, sir, unless the water breaks in.”

“Water breaks in? What, is the vein near the sea?”

“Goes right under it, sir,” said the man, watching intently where the packet of papers was placed, Tregenna seeing it, and resolving to place them elsewhere. “You see, the people who failed seem to have driven right in there, till, finding nothing, they were afraid to go farther for fear of the sea breaking through.”

“And might it not break through now?”

“Well, it might, sir; but Master Trethick’s one of your clever, careful sort, and he’ll take care that nothing goes wrong. He had the men busy with props, and struts, and planking all day long. There’ll be no water break in there.”

“Curse it, it’s most unfortunate!” cried Tregenna, biting his nails. “I’d have given any thing sooner than it should have turned out as it has.”

“Hundred pound, p’r’aps,” said Lannoe, looking at him sidewise.

“Yes, I’d have given a hundred pounds if the mine had turned out a failure.”

“Hand it over,” said the miner, abruptly.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you’d give a hundred pounds if that there mine turned out a complete failure, and I say hand it over.”

“Look here, Lannoe,” cried Tregenna, unable to contain his excitement, “can you—do you know—curse it, man, speak out!”

“What for? What’s the good?” said the man, hoarsely. “Hundred pounds—hundred pounds. Give me the hundred pounds and you’ll see.”

Tregenna looked at him strangely.

“I don’t pay for work until it’s done,” he said.

“And I don’t work unless I’m paid,” said the man, roughly.

“And suppose you break faith?”

“And suppose you get me tried all over again?” said Lannoe. “Look here, Master Tregenna, you’re a gentleman, and I’m only a rough miner, but we are both on the same road. I arn’t blind, so you may just as well speak plain. I know, you know, and speak plain, and don’t hide it from you about Bess Prawle, and my being kicked off and threatened. You don’t suppose I let Amos Pengelly half kill me when he threw me on the rocks without owing him for it and wanting to pay it back, even if I do work with him now all smooth? Why can’t you speak plain too? I know, you know, about your wanting young miss, and the old man saying you shouldn’t, and your Amos Pengelly—this here bullying, ordering Londoner—coming and throwing you. There, master, you’d better hand over that hundred pounds.”

“And if I do?” said Tregenna, leaning forward, placing his elbows on the table as he faced Lannoe, and joined his hands carefully as if he were going to say his prayers.

“Wait and see,” said the man. “You don’t want to know, sir. You want to hear that Wheal Carnac’s a failure, and I’m the man as can make it one. Now what do you say?”

Tregenna remained thinking for a time, with hate and revenge against cautiousness fighting for the mastery.

It was two to one, and cautiousness was beaten.

“I’ll give you the hundred pounds, Lannoe,” he said; “but I warn you that if you play me false I’ll have the police on your track at once. You may think think you could get away, or throw it back in my face that I set you to do something; but you could not get away, and my character would be set against yours if you brought any charge against me.”

“Who’s going to?” cried the man.

“And if it cost me a couple of thousand pounds, man, I’d have you in the dock.”

“Don’t I tell you I’d do any thing to pay Amos Pengelly, master. Hand over that money.”

“I have not got it here,” said Tregenna.

“What?”

“You don’t suppose a gentleman keeps a hundred pounds always in his pocket, do you?”

“I should,” said the man, grimly, “if I’d got it. Give us a bit o’ paper then to take to the bank to-morrow.”

“Shall I tell the crier to go round and shout that I have given you a hundred pounds for some reason or another? Don’t be a fool, man!”

“Give me notes, then,” said Lannoe.

“Every one of which, if I had them, would be numbered as having been paid to me. No, Lannoe, I have given you my word that I will pay you; and, what is more,” he cried, excitedly, “if—if, I say—you understand? I’ll give you another fifty.”

“Shake hands,” said the man; and Tregenna unwillingly placed his white beringed fingers in the miner’s horny paw, to take them out afterwards red and crushed.

“I’ll trust you, Lannoe, and you must trust me.”

“Right, master,” said the miner. “Then look here. Where—”

“That will do,” said Tregenna. “I want to know nothing. I’ll hear nothing. Come to me some day when you think it wise, and there is the money for you.”

He pointed to the door, and the man nodded and went away.

Chapter Thirty Five.

Under the Sea.

Busy times in Wheal Carnac. There had been plenty of visitors in the shape of managers of different mines, to whom the news had come; and all went away astounded at the wealth of the new vein. The demand for shares was enormous, but there were none to be had. Tregenna had had the last, taken to blind Mr Penwynn, and he had sold them to Dr Rumsey, who had invested the whole of his wife’s little fortune in the mine, and the next morning after the news had spread, the doctor had hurried up to the cottage, where Geoffrey was seated at breakfast with Uncle Paul, an unusually fine sole from the trawler having brought them together.

Madge opened the door to the doctor, who shook hands with her in a friendly way; and then, as their eyes met, Madge’s friendly smile changed into a look of fear, under the doctor’s searching gaze. She flushed, then turned deadly pale, and ended by shrinking back with a piteous look, and holding up her hands in a pleading way.

Dr Rumsey’s lips tightened, and he said quietly,—

“Tell Mr Trethick I am here.”

“Come in, Rumsey,” cried Geoffrey’s hearty voice. “You’re in time for breakfast, man. You are just right. Uncle Paul’s as bilious as—as himself.”

Madge was forgotten for the moment, and the doctor shook hands warmly with the young man and with Uncle Paul, as a chair was placed for him, and the bell rung for a cup and saucer and plate, for, truth to say, though the doctor had partaken of the morning meal, he sometimes rose from it with a better appetite than was quite necessary for a proper fulfilment of the digestive functions.

“My dear Trethick,” he cried, with the tears in his eyes, “God bless you for the hint! The news about the mine is glorious.”

“That’s right,” said Geoffrey. “Eat your sole, man, before it gets cold,” for a hot plate had been brought in by Madge herself, who seemed very eager to attend upon the visitor.

“You—you don’t mean to say that you have been investing in mining shares, Rumsey?” cried Uncle Paul.

“Indeed, but I hope he has,” said Geoffrey, heartily.

“I have: every penny we had,” cried the doctor.

“More fool you!” cried Uncle Paul. “Why, Rumsey, how can you expect a man to trust you with his internal management if you go and do such insane things?”

“Uncle Paul don’t believe in the mine even yet,” said Geoffrey, laughing. “That will do, Miss Madge,” he said; “I’ll ring for more hot water if we want it.”

The doctor saw Madge’s appealing look at him, and a half-frightened glance at Geoffrey, and he saw too, as the girl left the room, that Uncle Paul was watching him very narrowly.

When he spoke again his manner was changed, and there was quite a coldness about it, which Geoffrey noticed.

“You hold on,” he said, attributing it to nervousness caused by Uncle. Paul’s attitude—“you hold on, Rumsey, and don’t you be tempted at any price to sell. I warrant, my dear fellow, that you’ve made by that one stroke a handsome provision for your wife, more than you could have made by doctoring the whole county.”

“Then why don’t you invest?” snarled Uncle Paul.

“Because I’ve got no money,” said Geoffrey, coolly. “Why don’t you, who have?”

“Because I’m not quite such an old fool as you think.”

The doctor warmed up again under the sunshine of Geoffrey’s cheery ways, and soon after they were walking down towards the cliff, the doctor thanking Geoffrey again heartily as they parted, the one to make his rounds, the other to go to the busy mine.

Geoffrey had not gone half-way before he met old Prawle, coming direct from Wheal Carnac.

“Hallo, old man!” he cried. “How’s poor mother? By Jove, I must come and see the dear old lady again.”

“Better—better,” said Prawle, hastily.

“That’s well; and Miss Bessie?”

“Yes, yes, quite well,” said the old man, hastily. “I want to see you.”

“Come along down to my office. Been to the mine?”

“Yes, yes. I’ve been down.”

“Ah, you old fox!” cried Geoffrey. “You wouldn’t tell me, but you see we found it out.”

“Yes, yes,” said Prawle, still speaking in a hasty way, contrary to his wont. “I’ll buy some shares.”

“No, you won’t,” said Geoffrey, laughing.

“Why not, eh? You’ll let me?”

“There isn’t a share to be had, old man. No, sir, you are too late. You, knowing what you did, Prawle, should have made friends, and taken your share of the good things.”

The old man looked at him with a curiously sly expression of countenance.

“None to be had?” he said, dubiously.

“Not a share, Father Prawle: for those who hold them know their value now, and will not part.”

The old fellow hesitated as if he half meant to say something, but he did not say it, and went his way; while Geoffrey went on to the mine, busied himself a little about some fresh arrangements for stampers and improved crushing apparatus, and then descended the mine to seek out Pengelly.

He found him hard at work superintending a gang of wielders of the pick, eager to make a goodly show of ore to send up to grass, and Geoffrey stopped about till the men went off to their dinners, when he and Pengelly had a long conversation about the state of the mine at this place.

“I’ve been measuring and calculating, Pengelly, and I find that you are so near the water here that not an inch must be cut on the face of the drive, rich as it is. We must go down, and trust to finding the lode right away.”

“What, and leave this?” said Pengelly. “Why, it’s madness.”

“Madness or no, I shall not have it touched, Pengelly,” said Trethick, firmly. “Lay your ear against the rock. You can almost feel the beat of the water. I make it that we are right out four hundred feet under the sea at high water. We must run no risks.”

For answer Pengelly began to ply his pick vigorously on the floor of the gallery, marking out the portion to be sunk so as to be deeper down in the rock, and where there would be no risk of the sea breaking in.

Geoffrey had well made his plans by night, and was the last, as he thought, to leave the pit, and he then went straight to his rooms to refresh himself before writing to several engineers for various necessaries that would be required for the greatly increased output from the mine.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Despair.

There was the sound of angry words in the back part of Mrs Mullion’s house that night, and more than once Geoffrey fancied he heard Uncle Paul’s voice raised high, but he had so often heard the old man storming about some trifle that he paid little heed to it, but finished the work he had on hand, thought how he would have liked to go up to An Morlock for an hour or two, and ended by bidding himself be patient, and all that would follow.

It was not yet nine, he found, and the house being very silent, he concluded that the old man had gone off somewhere for a rubber of whist.

“I wouldn’t half mind a rubber myself,” he thought. “I wonder where he has gone?”

“No. It won’t do. No rubbers. I’ll go and have a stroll on the cliff side and stretch my legs, or else I sha’n’t sleep, for my brain is all in a buzz.”

In this intent he put on his hat, lit his pipe, and went out, fancying he heard a sob in the farther room, but, not being sure, he attached little importance thereto.

“What a lovely night,” he mentally exclaimed, as, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he descended the rugged lane, turned to the right, and went off along the cliff.

He had come out for repose, but his brain refused to be at rest, for now came back the sounds that he had heard in the cottage that evening.

“The old man’s been rowing that poor girl,” he thought, “finding out something concerning her carryings-on with somebody or another. Well, poor lass, I suppose she likes him; and, heigho! I feel very lenient now with people who go in for the commodity called love.

“I suppose it is Tregenna,” he continued. “If it is, he is a thorough-paced scoundrel, or he would acknowledge her openly. He’s playing fast and loose with her, and that’s what makes her look so pale and ill.”

He walked on, trying to enjoy the beauty of the starlit night, and the glittering of the smooth, heaving sea, but in vain, for the thought of the sobbing and angry words kept coming back and haunting him, as it were, no matter how fast he walked.

“Now, why the dickens should I make it my business? And yet it seems to be, through knowing the girl and living in the house. I can’t interfere, of course, and tell what I know; but, really, if the fellow is trifling with her it ought to be stopped. Why don’t the old man know and settle it? He don’t, of course, or he would not behave to me as he does, and it would be too mean to put him on the scent. If it’s as I think, and the old man does get to know of it, he’ll half kill Tregenna. Hang the fellow! he’s enough to make one believe in metempsychosis, and think he was once a serpent. I suppose he’s the sort of fellow some women would like, though. But not all.”

He went on more slowly, for his thoughts now were pleasant, and as he glanced down at the sea, which was one dark sheet of spangled star-drops, playing and shimmering in the ebon blackness, he began to plan how he would carry on the mine, and to think of how suddenly a great change had come over his life.

“What a turn of fortune’s wheel!” he exclaimed; and then back went his thoughts to Mrs Mullion’s cottage and poor Madge.

“Poor little lassie, if he’s behaving badly to her—whoever the he may be, for, after all, it was fancy. She is not fretting about me. It is very hard upon her to be bullied at home as well. There’s something about her I like. Ought I to tell old Paul what I know?

“Then there would be a row. Tregenna would turn upon me and say it was a lie, and a cowardly attack. He’d, of course, ask for proof, and I have none.

“Oh, confound it all! it’s no business of mine. They must settle it amongst themselves. Hallo! what’s that?”

A figure passed by him so rapidly that he was half-startled. Then, seeing that it was a woman, and hearing the rustling of the dress on ahead, he took a step or two forward as if in chase.

“What on earth am I doing?” he muttered petulantly. “Who in the world could that be? It couldn’t be Bessie Prawle going home. No; I’m sure it was not her walk, and yet nobody else would be likely to be going along here at this time of night. Who could it be?”

He stopped short, took off his hat, and began to fan his forehead.

“I’m as hot and excited to-night as can be,” he said, half laughing. “Well, no wonder. It’s enough to turn a stronger brain than mine. Such good fortune does not fall to every man’s lot in so short a time. Now suppose I behave like a rational being?”

Just then there was the rattle of stones on one of the rough paths that led from the cliff to the beach.

“Whoever it was has fallen,” he cried. “Why, what madness to attempt to go down there in the dark! I shall break my own neck going after her.”

Risk or none, he began to descend the steep path, but only to find that whoever had fallen had risen, and was making for the beach.

“Why, what folly,” thought Geoffrey, as he stopped in the semi-darkness. “It must be some one who knows her way pretty well.”

For a moment he thought of calling to her, but there seemed no reason for such a proceeding, and he felt that he might frighten whoever it was; and at last, concluding that there was no occasion for him to follow, he was about to turn back, when a thought flashed across him which made him tremble.

“Good heavens!” he ejaculated, “it’s Madge!” and full of the horrible thought that in her trouble she could have come there but for one purpose, he began rapidly to descend the rest of the way, falling heavily twice in his haste to reach the beach, and running no little risk of serious injury.

There was about a hundred yards of wave-worn granite between the cliff foot and where the calm sea heaved gently, and fringed the rocks with a soft phosphorescent light; and here, in the shadow, he paused to try and make out in which direction the figure had gone. His heart was beating wildly, as much from excitement as his exertion, and his sole thought now was to over take and prison the hand of the poor girl he believed it to be.

It was a horrible sensation that of standing helplessly there, eager to stay the wretched girl, but ignorant of the way she had taken. The faint wash of the sea drowned her footsteps, and as he gazed in every direction the dark, rocky beach looked weird and strange, the faint gleam of the phosphorescence adding to the wildness of the scene.

“Madge—Madge Mullion—Madge!” he shouted hoarsely, troubling himself little now who might hear; but there was no reply, and, cautiously making his way amongst the rocks and over the slippery patches of bladder-wrack and broad slimy-fronded weed, he narrowly escaped a fall.

Was it fancy after all, or had he really seen some one come down?

It could not be fancy, he felt sure, and as the minutes glided by he was the more convinced that he was right in his conjecture, and that it was Madge.

“Poor lass!” he exclaimed. “Heaven help her! has it come to this?”

Feeling sure that if his surmise was right, she would be down by some rocks that ran out like a rugged pier into the sea, he crept cautiously on, and strained his eyes to try and make out the figure of her he sought, but in vain; and he was about giving up in despair, mingled with a hope that he was mistaken, when his heart seemed for the moment to stand still, for there was a wild cry from a spot some fifty yards away, followed by a splash; and as he dashed on, regardless of rock and slippery weed, he saw the phosphorescent sea ripple and play about where the poor girl had plunged into the deep water, from quite at the end of the natural pier.

Geoffrey did not hesitate for a moment, but as he reached the brink he plunged in, striking himself against a mass of rock, but fortunately without injury; and, in spite of being dressed, he swam strongly and well in the direction where he had seen the luminous water in agitation.

The distance was farther than he anticipated, and the tide was against him; still this was something in his favour, for it swept the figure of the drowning girl towards him, and as he rose he caught sight of a faint splash or two, making the water flash as she feebly beat the surface with her hands.

But for the unusually luminous state of the sea that night, Geoffrey Trethick’s effort must have been in vain. As it was, his sturdy strokes took him to the side of the drowning girl, and catching her dress, he transferred a stout fold to his teeth, and swan; for the shore.

It was a harder task than he anticipated, and when at last he reached the rocks, rough here with limpets, slimy there with anemones, like clots of blood, and long strangling weeds, it required no little effort to climb to a place of safety.

At last, though, he staggered amongst the rocks and stones with his dripping burthen, and then paused with her, resting on one knee to press the streaming hair from her face, and try to bring her back to life.

Dark as it was he could see that it was Madge, and he paused, wondering what he had better do.

To leave her while he went for help meant, perhaps, leaving her to her death; while to carry her up the rugged cliff path was almost impossible in the dark.

While he was hesitating, a low moan from his burthen’s lips told of returning consciousness, and he roused her a little more.

“Why, Madge, my poor child,” he said, “has it come to this?”

She uttered a wild cry, and burst into a passion of sobbing.

“Let me go—let me die,” she cried passionately. “Why did you get me out?”

“Hush, Madge! Hush, girl!” he cried. “Are you mad?”

“Yes, yes,” she wailed, “and there is nothing for me but to die.”

“Nonsense, girl?” he cried, half angrily, for her unreason annoyed him. “Here, can you walk? Take hold of my arm, and let me help you home.”

“Home!” she wailed. “I have no home. My uncle has driven me away.”

“Then I’ll take you back,” cried Geoffrey, angrily. “The old man is mad.”

“No, no, no,” she cried passionately; and she struggled from his grasp, and made a desperate effort to get back to the sea, but he caught her and held her fast.

“Be quiet,” he cried angrily. “You foolish girl Madge, you’ll come home at once.”

“No, no, Mr Trethick; no,” she sobbed hoarsely; and her strength astonished him. “I cannot—dare not go back. You don’t know. Oh, God, forgive me! Let me die!”

“Not know?” cried Geoffrey. “I know quite enough. Look here, you silly girl, I don’t want to hurt you, but you make me angry. You shall come home.”

“No, no, no,” she cried; and she struggled with him till he lifted her from the rocks, threw her down and held her, he panting almost as heavily as she.

“You’ll repent all this to-morrow,” he said. “If I let you have your way there’ll be no repentance. Do you know what you are doing?”

“Yes,” she moaned. “I cannot live; I want to die.”

“Then, my good girl,” cried Geoffrey, “you’ll find that you can live, and that it’s of no use to want to die. There, there, Madge, my poor lass, I’m speaking like a brute to you, but you have made me angry with your struggles. Come, come, my poor child, let me help you home, and you’ll find your mother ready to forgive you and take you to her heart.”

“Me? me?” cried the wretched girl. “No, no, never again. Let me—pray let me, dear, dear Mr Trethick, pray let me go.”

“Yes,” he said sternly, “home.”

“No, no; I have no home now. You are cruel to me,” she cried, with a fresh struggle.

“Madge,” said Geoffrey, after easily mastering her this time, “I want to help you in your trouble, my poor girl. Come, let me help you up. Will you let me take you to Prawle’s? It is nearer than the cottage, and, if I ask her, Bessie Prawle will give you shelter at least for the night.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” moaned the poor girl.

“Yes, my child, yes. There, come, get up. That’s well. I tell you, I want to help you. There, you will go with me there.”

Poor Madge! she had let him help her to her senses, and as she heard his kindly voice she sank down, clasped his knees, and laid her face against them, sobbing wildly.

“There, come, come,” he said, “or we shall be having you ill. There, that’s well. There’s a path up here farther on, and we shall soon be at the cove.”

She made no further resistance, but, leaning heavily upon his arm and moaning piteously the while, she let him half lead, half carry, her up a cliff slope farther from the town than that which they had come down, and the road to which lay by the dark arch of the adit running to the shaft of the old mine on the way to Gwennas.

It was almost a riddle to Geoffrey afterwards how he led the poor girl up to the path and along to Gwennas Cove; but at last, nearly tired out, he descended the steep slope, saw with joy that there was a light in the cottage, and, on knocking, Bessie came to the door with a candle, to stand staring in wonder at the sight which met her eyes.

“Quick, Bessie! for heaven’s sake?” cried Geoffrey, “or she will be dead.”

“Miss Mullion!” cried Bess, flushing; “and here!”

“Bess Prawle, if you have a woman’s heart, take this poor creature in,” cried Geoffrey, sharply; and, giving him one quick, half-upbraiding look, Bess took his helpless burthen in her arms, and helped to carry her to the old sofa beneath the window-sill.

“What can I do?” cried Geoffrey, as he gazed in the stony face. “Good heavens! Is she dead?”

“Nigh to it, sir,” said Bess, in a low, sad voice; but ere she had well finished Geoffrey was running up the path on his way to Carnac.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

An Eventful Night.

It was four o’clock the next morning before Geoffrey went softly up the gravel path to the cottage, and, weary and sick at heart, let himself in.

His clothes had partly dried upon him during his walk, for he had fetched Dr Rumsey from his house to attend poor Madge, the doctor being very quiet and saying little, Geoffrey thought, after hearing a few explanations.

“She seems to have been very unhappy at home,” said Geoffrey, “and they quarrelled with her, I think. She must have been half-mad.”

“And did she really try to drown herself?” said the doctor.

“I wouldn’t answer the question,” replied Geoffrey; “but you, being a doctor, ought to know all—so I tell you, yes. She really did, and—pray hurry, old fellow: we may be too late.”

“I am hurrying all I can, Trethick,” said the doctor; “but I must get in with some breath left in my body.”

“Yes, of course; but could I do any good if I ran on first?”

“No, not a bit. Bessie Prawle, you say, is with her. Poor lass—poor lass!”

“So I say, with all my soul, doctor. But I would not put it abroad what has happened.”

“These affairs tell their own tale, Trethick,” said the doctor.

“Yes, yes, of course; but I’d keep it as quiet as I could.”

“I am no scandal-monger, Trethick,” said the doctor, dryly; and they hurried on, Geoffrey waiting outside, and walking up and down with old Prawle while Mr Rumsey went in.

At the end of a quarter of an hour he came to the door with a paper.

“Prawle,” he said, “will you go to my house and give that to my wife?”

“I’ll take it,” said Geoffrey, eagerly. “I’m going home.”

“You will have to bring something back,” said the doctor.

“All right: I’ll lose no time,” he said, cheerily; and he started off, and had to wait while Mrs Rumsey obtained the bottles from the surgery, sending them and a graduated glass for the doctor to mix himself.

This done, there was the walk back to Gwennas, and then Geoffrey waited for the doctor, who kept coming out for a stroll in the cool starlight, and then returning.

“I’ve been thinking that I ought to send you for Mrs Mullion, Trethick.”

“What! Is she in danger?”

“No; oh, no, poor lass; she’ll be better soon. You are going to wait about, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes,” said Geoffrey; “you may want me to fetch something more, and I’ll wait to walk back with you.”

The doctor went in, and old Prawle came up from below and touched him on the arm.

“Come and sit down here,” he said, gruffly. “I’ve lit a fire below.”

“Well, I am cold,” said Geoffrey; and he followed the old man down into a rough cave in the rock, where he kept old nets, a boat, and various pieces of fishing gear. A bright fire of wreck-wood was burning, and to this, with a shiver, Geoffrey walked up, whereupon the old man took a bottle out of a battered sea-chest, whose outside was splintered by the rocks in coming ashore, and poured him out a little spirit in a chipped and footless glass, frosted by the attrition of the sand in which it had been found.

“Smuggled?” said Geoffrey, with a smile.

“Drink it, and don’t ask questions, my lad.”

“Your health, Father Prawle,” said Geoffrey, tossing it down. “It was rude. By George! what nectar. It puts life in a fellow. Shall we hear the doctor when he comes out?”

“Yes, don’t be afeard, man, sit down,” said the old fellow. “I’m going to smoke.”

“I’ll join you,” said Geoffrey, “if you have any tobacco. Mine’s soaked.”

“Oh, yes,” said the old man. “I’ve passed many a night in sea-soaked clothes, but it won’t hurt you, my lad. Here’s some tobacco.”

“I hope not,” said Geoffrey, taking the tobacco, filling, and lighting his pipe.

“You got her out of the water then, eh?”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey, shortly.

“Poor lass!”

Geoffrey nodded acquiescence, and they smoked for some time in silence.

“It is very kind of Miss Prawle to take her in and attend her,” said Geoffrey at last; “but I’m sure poor Madge Mullion will be very grateful.”

“My Bess arn’t made of stone,” said the old man, gruffly, as he sat staring hard across the ruddy fire, whose smoke went up through a rift. Then, re-filling the glass, he handed it to Geoffrey, who drank gladly of the spirit at the time; after which the old man refreshed himself, put on some more driftwood, and stared at his visitor.

“I should have liked to hold some shares in that mine,” he said.

“Yes, you ought to have had some, Father Prawle. Hush! was that the doctor?”

“No, only the washing of the sea in the rock holes. Maybe you’ll get me some of those shares. I can pay for them.”

“There is not one to be had, Father Prawle,” replied Geoffrey.

“Maybe you’ll sell me some of yours, Master Trethick. I’ll pay you well.”

“Mine!” cried Geoffrey, laughing. “I don’t hold one.”

The old man looked at him very keenly, and then let his eyes fall.

“If you would really like to have some,” said Geoffrey, “and I see a chance, I’ll secure them for you.”

“Do, my lad. I’m doing you a good turn here without asking questions.”

“And I’m very grateful to you,” said Geoffrey; “very grateful.”

“Then do me a good turn.”

“Because you were so free in telling me all about the mine?”

“Let that bide, Master Trethick,” said the old man. “But, look here, I will tell you now, if you’ll get me a lot of shares.”

“It’s too late, man—too late.”

“Nay, but it isn’t. You get me shares, and you’ll see. I worked in yon mine.”

“And did not make the proprietors’ fortune,” said Geoffrey, with a smile.

“Nobody tried to make mine,” growled the old fellow, “and they treated me like a dog. I had to think of self. Look here, Mas’r Trethick, I hated you when you come here, for I thought you meant my Bess.”

“I know you did,” said Geoffrey.

“But I don’t think so now, and I tell you this. You get me shares, and it’ll be worth thousands to you. Get shares yourself too; and mind this, you’ve got to take care of your enemy.”

“And who’s that?”

The old man chuckled, and pointed with his pipe-stem out of the mouth of the cave, looking curiously weird and picturesque in the glow of the fire, with the black, uncouth shadows of the pieces of wreck-wood and boat-gear behind.

“I don’t understand you,” said Geoffrey.

“The sea, boy—the water’s your enemy, so look out.”

“I will,” said Geoffrey; and then they smoked and chatted on, the old man going up three or four times to see if the doctor was ready to go; and at last, soon after three, he came back, looking more grim than ever, and not to trim the fire this time.

“Doctor will come in five minutes,” he said, gruffly. “Will you have any more brandy?”

“No, thanks, no,” said his visitor.

“There, mind this, boy, get me shares, and get some yourself, but keep it secret from every one.”

“I’ll help you if I can,” said Geoffrey, “for old acquaintance’ sake; but your promise of news comes too late.”

“Nay, nay, we’ll see, we’ll see,” said the old man. “But look here, Master Trethick, are you going to marry that gal?”

“What, Miss Mullion? No.”

“Ho!” said the old man, gruffly.

“Now, Trethick,” came from above; and Geoffrey hastily made his way up the rugged steps to where the doctor was waking.

“How is she?” he cried eagerly.

“Better: going on well,” said the doctor, shortly.

“And in no danger?”

“None whatever, if she is kept quiet, and her mind set at ease.”

“Poor lass, I’ll do all I can,” said Geoffrey, earnestly. “I’ll have a long talk to Mrs Mullion and Paul in the morning—well, it is morning now—after breakfast. I’ll soon set it right. I think I can.”

“That’s well,” said the doctor, as they walked on along the dark path.

“You seem tired,” said Geoffrey, for the doctor was singularly reserved.

“Very.”

“So am I.”

There was another silence for some time.

“What are you thinking about, doctor?” said Geoffrey, at last.

“About Madge Mullion. Look here, Trethick, I like you—”

“Thanky, doctor, I like you, and I’m glad you’ve taken my hint about those shares.”

“Hang the shares!” said the doctor. “Let me finish what I was going to say.”

“Go ahead.”

“Damn it, man, don’t be so cool and unconcerned.”

“All right,” said Geoffrey.

“I say I like you for some things, Trethick, and I’m by profession tolerably hard and callous; but it frets me, sir, to have seen that poor girl lying there, after trying in her despair to throw away her life, and you as cool and cavalier as can be.”

“Well,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “I may be calm, but I was not, though, when I fetched you. As to my coolness, I haven’t changed my wet things after getting nearly drowned to save her, and I’m cheery because you told me there was no danger.”

“No, but she’s very ill. And as to your saving the poor lass, it was no more than your duty. You needn’t brag about that.”

“I don’t brag, doctor, so you need not be so peppery. I say, calling you up in the night don’t improve your temper.”

“Hang it, Trethick, don’t be a brute,” cried the doctor. “I’ve known you nearly nine months, and I never liked you less than now.”

“Thankye, doctor, but you’ll be better when you’ve had your breakfast. Come, don’t let’s part huffily. I am sorry I had to call you up, but you must charge extra.”

“Look here, Trethick,” said the doctor, who was now regularly roused by the other’s coolness, “we don’t set ourselves up out here for a particularly moral people, but, hang it all, we have got hearts, and when a wrong is done to any one we try to repair it.”

“Yes, and a very good plan, too,” said Geoffrey. “Why, doctor, you’re as huffy as can be.”

“Trethick! There, I can’t keep it back,” cried the doctor, the last words having let loose the flood of his wrath. “How a man who is not a callous scoundrel can treat this affair so coolly, I don’t know.”

“I don’t treat it coolly,” cried Geoffrey, surprised at the other’s warmth.

“You do, sir; your conduct is blackguardly—cruel in the extreme. Have you no heart at all?”

“Plenty, I hope,” cried Geoffrey, now growing warm in turn. “Look here, doctor, I don’t allow any man to call me a scoundrel and blackguard, without saying a word in reply. Please explain what you mean.”

“What do I mean, sir; why, that poor girl.”

“Well, what about her?”

The doctor stopped short in the dark upon that shelf of cliff, and faced Geoffrey.

“Look here! are you a fool, or a knave, or a scoundrel, Trethick, or all three?” he cried, angrily.

“If you dare to say—Bah?” cried Geoffrey, “I won’t quarrel. You’re hipped, doctor—tired—upset—but don’t call a man names. It stirs up a fellow’s bile, as old Paul says.”

The doctor panted in his anger, for calm, peaceable Dr Rumsey seemed quite transformed.

“And you can talk like this?” he cried, “with that poor girl, the mother of your new-born child, lying an outcast from her home!”

“What?” roared Geoffrey, catching at the doctor’s arm.

“He is a fool!” exclaimed Dr Rumsey; and, wrenching away his arm, he strode off towards the town, leaving Geoffrey staring as if he were stunned.

He was stunned mentally, and for a few minutes he felt as if he could not collect his thoughts. Then his first impulse was to run after the doctor.

“Oh, it’s too absurd,” he cried; and at last, sick at heart, uneasy, and disgusted with his late companion, and not even yet fully realising his position in the tragedy of the night, he walked stiffly up to the cottage, hesitated for a few moments as to whether he should enter, and ended by letting himself in, and going to his room, to try and secure a few hours’ rest.

Chapter Thirty Eight.

A Stormy Interview.

Geoffrey Trethick’s slumbers were very short and disturbed, and, after tossing about for some time, he got up to think out his position. The events of the past night seemed dream-like now, and there were times when he was ready to treat them as hallucinations; but the sea-soaked suit of clothes thrown over a chair were proof positive of the reality of poor Madge Mullion’s attempted suicide, and his brow contracted as he thought of the wretched girl’s state.

“Poor lass!” he muttered; and by the light of the doctor’s charge he read a score of trifles which had been sealed to him before.

“I’ll go straight down to him, and have it out as soon as he’s up. An idiot! What the deuce does he mean? However, I’ll soon put that right.”

He looked at his watch and found it was only seven, so that it would be of no use to go down yet to Rumsey’s. He could not sleep, and he did not feel disposed to read, so he determined to go for a walk till breakfast-time, and then he would have a talk to Mrs Mullion and Uncle Paul.

But he had no sooner made up his mind to speak to them on the poor girl’s behalf than he began to realise the delicacy of his position.

Suppose they took the same view of the case as Dr Rumsey?

“Confound it all!” he cried. “How absurd, to be sure.”

He finished dressing, opened door and window, and went down, meeting the servant girl looking red-eyed and dishevelled, as if she had not been to bed all night.

He had seen that Uncle Paul’s bedroom door was wide open, but did not note that the bed had been unoccupied; and he was, therefore, not surprised to hear the old man’s cough as he entered his own room.

“Trethick! Trethick!” he called, and Geoffrey crossed the passage, meeting Mrs Mullion, who ran out with her handkerchief to her eyes, and her face averted.

“Ashamed of being so hard on her child,” thought Geoffrey; and then he started, shocked at the old man’s aspect, as, with his hat on, he sat there, looking yellow, wrinkled, sunken of eye and cheek, with all his quick, sharp ways gone, and with generally the aspect of one just recovering from some terrible shock.

“Good heavens, Mr Paul, how ill you look!” cried Geoffrey, anxiously, as the thought struck him that he had not been to bed all night.

“Yes,” said the old man, “I feel ill.”

“Let me run down and fetch Rumsey. Stop, I’ll get you a little, brandy first.”

“No, no. I don’t want brandy,” said the old man, gazing at him wildly, and with his face now cadaverous in the extreme. “Rumsey can’t help me. Help me yourself.”

“Yes. What shall I do for you?”

“Sit down, Trethick.”

He took a chair, looking intently at the speaker.

“Trethick, will you smoke a cheroot?”

“No, not now.”

“Not now? Well, another time, then,” said the old man, whose voice seemed quite changed. “I’m afraid, Trethick, I have got a dreadful temper.”

“Horrible—sometimes,” said Geoffrey, smiling.

“But my bark is worse than my bite. I’m not so bad as I seem.”

“I know that, old fellow. I always have known it.”

“You went out about nine last night, and didn’t come back till four this morning.”

“You heard me come in then?”

“Yes. We have not been to bed all night. I have been out looking for Madge.”

“Indeed!” said Geoffrey, quietly, as he bit his lips to keep back a little longer that which he knew.

“I’m not speaking angrily, am I, my boy?”

“No. I never saw you so calm before.”

“It is a calm after the storm, Trethick. I was in a terrible fit last night. Mrs Mullion, my sister-in-law, confessed it all to me, and I was mad with the disgrace. I—I struck her. Yes,” he continued, pitifully, “I was a brute, I know. I—I struck her—that poor, weak, foolish girl, and drove her from the house.”

“You—struck her, Mr Paul?” said Geoffrey.

“Yes, my boy. I was mad, for she did not deny her shame, only begged me to kill her, and then—then, she uttered a wild cry, and ran out of the house. I seem to hear it now,” he continued, with a shudder. “I’ve been out searching for her, but—but I have not told a soul. We must keep it quiet, Trethick, for all our sakes. But tell me, did she—did she come to you?”

“No,” said Geoffrey, sternly.

“But you have seen her? Don’t tell me, boy, that you have not seen her. We felt that as you did not come back she had come to you.”

Geoffrey was silent for a few moments, thinking of his position; for here, in spite of his quiet way, was a fresh accuser, and poor Mrs Mullion’s silent avoidance had only been another charge.

“The poor girl did not come to me,” said Geoffrey, at last. “Your cruelty, Mr Paul, drove her away, and but for the fact that I happened to be on the cliff and saw her go by, she would be floating away somewhere on the tide—dead.”

“Did—did she try to jump in?” cried the old man, hoarsely.

“She was nearly dead when I fetched her out. A few seconds more would have ended her miserable life.”

The old man shrank back in his chair, trembling now like a leaf, his jaw dropped, and his eyes staring.

“And I should have murdered her,” he gasped. “But you jumped in and saved her?”

Geoffrey nodded.

“Thank God!” cried the old man, fervently. “Thank God!”

“Poor girl! it was a narrow escape,” continued Geoffrey. “She has suffered cruelly, and you must forgive her, Mr Paul, and take her back.”

“Yes, yes,” said the old man, “we’ll talk about that. But shake hands, Trethick. You’re a brave fellow, after all. That wipes off a great deal. Poor Madge: poor child!”

The old man held out his hand, but Geoffrey did not offer to take it.

“You saved the poor girl then, Trethick. We felt that you must be with her. Where is she now? Why didn’t you bring her back?”

“She would sooner have gone back into the sea,” said Geoffrey, sternly. “I took her on to Prawle’s cottage, at Gwennas.”

“And she is there now?”

“Yes, sir, with her helpless infant.”

The old man sank back again with a harsh catching of the breath, and they sat in silence gazing one at the other, as if trying to get breath for the encounter to come.

Uncle Paul was the first to speak.

“I’m—I’m not angry now, Trethick. I’m going to be very humble, and appeal to you.”

“Indeed!” said Geoffrey, over whose countenance a very stern, stubborn look began to make its way.

“Yes, yes. I’m going to appeal to you. I beg your pardon, Trethick, if I have said or done any thing to hurt your feelings. I’m very, very sorry I was so cruel to the poor child last night, but it came upon me like a shock, and the disgrace seemed to madden me. I have a hot, bad temper, I know; but, poor child, I’ll forgive her—forgive you both.”

“Thanks,” said Geoffrey, mockingly; and he was about to speak, but refrained, as the old man made an effort and rose from his chair to go behind Trethick, and stand there silently for a few moments as if to master his voice before laying a hand upon the young man’s shoulder.

“I did wrong, Trethick, when I brought you up here—very wrong. I ought to have known better, but I did it in a mean, selfish spirit to save my own money, when I had plenty for all.”

“Indeed!” said Geoffrey, coldly, and a set frown came upon his brow.

“Yes, it was an ill-advised step, and I am punished for it. But, Trethick, my lad, in my rough way I do love my poor, dead brother’s wife and child, and, God knows, I would sooner have been a beggar than have seen this disgrace come upon them.”

“Mr—”

“No, no, hear me out, Trethick,” cried the old man, imploringly. “I don’t blame you so much as I do poor Madge. She was always a foolish, light, thoughtless girl, fond of admiration; and I know she has always thrown herself in your way; but I said to myself he is too sterling and stanch a fellow to act otherwise than as we could wish.”

“Look here, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, sternly. “Once for all, let me tell you that you are labouring under a mistake. Do you accuse me of this crime?”

“No, no, we won’t call it a crime,” said the old man. “But hear me out, Trethick. I am not angry now. I want to do what is for the best. I don’t ask you to humble yourself or confess.”

“Confess!” cried Geoffrey, scornfully. “Mr Paul, you insult me by your suspicions.”

“But the poor girl, Trethick. Her poor mother is heart-broken. Oh, man, man! why did you come like a curse beneath this, roof?”

“Look here, Mr Paul,” cried Geoffrey, whom the night’s adventures and loss of sleep had made irritable, “when you can talk to me in a calm, sensible way, perhaps I can convince you that you are wronging me by your suspicions.”

A spasm of rage shot across the old man’s face, but he seemed to make an effort, and mastered himself.

“Don’t be heartless,” he said, “I implore you. There, you see how humble I am. There, there—let bygones be bygones. I know you will act like a man by her. Never mind the shame and disgrace, Trethick. She loves you, poor child, and amongst us we have made her suffer cruelly. I have been brutal to her for being as true to you as steel.”

“True to me, eh?” said Geoffrey.

“Yes, poor child, she kept your secret, though she could not keep her own. She felt that she might injure you in your prospects.”

“You are arranging it all very nicely in your own mind, Uncle Paul,” said Geoffrey, quietly, for he was touched by the old man’s battle with self.

“Don’t ridicule me, Trethick,” he said, piteously. “I want to make amends for a great wrong. I feel I have been to blame. But be a man, Trethick, and you sha’n’t suffer for it. Look here, I am very old now, and I can’t take my money with me. Come, be reasonable, Trethick, for the poor child’s sake. We’ll forget the past and look at the future.”

“At my expense,” said Geoffrey.

“No, no, my boy. We are both men of the world, and can afford to laugh at what people say. Let’s make both those poor souls happy. There, I’ll sink all differences, and I’ll give her away; I will indeed. I haven’t been in a church these fifteen years, but I’ll come and give her away; and look here, my lad,” he cried, pulling out a slip of paper, “there’s a cheque on the Old Bank for a thousand pounds, payable to you—that’s Madge’s dowry to start with. Now, what do you say?”

“Humph! a thousand, eh?” said Geoffrey, looking admiringly at the speaker.

“Yes, a thousand pounds,” cried the old man.

“Will you make it two?” said Geoffrey.

An angry flush came in the old man’s face, but he looked across Geoffrey, and saw that poor broken Mrs Mullion was peering in at the doorway, and his rage went with his hesitation.

“Yes,” he said, “for her sake I’ll make it two.”

“Not enough,” said Geoffrey. “Will you make it five thousand down, and all your money bequeathed to us by will?”

The old man’s breath seemed to be taken away, and he stood gasping angrily; but once more the piteous aspect of the poor woman at the door disarmed him, and he said, in a low, hoarse voice,—

“I haven’t long to stop here. You shall have what you say, Trethick, only remove this cloud from the poor girl’s life.”

“Uncle Paul,” cried Geoffrey, turning upon him eagerly, “I always liked you, for I knew that you were a stanch old fellow under that rough bark, but I never thought you were so true a man as this. Five thousand pounds, eh? and you make me your heir? Give me your hand.”

The old man’s hand was slowly stretched out, and Geoffrey seized it.

“Yes,” said Uncle Paul, “and the past shall all be forgotten;” but a look of disgust, in spite of his efforts, came across his face at the mercenary spirit displayed.

“Five thousand pounds down?” said Geoffrey, “eh?”

“Five thousand pounds down.”

“As you say, Uncle Paul,” said Geoffrey, probing the old man to the quick, “you cannot live much longer. You have had your spell of life, and you will give that by deed of gift at once to save poor Madge’s fame, and the rest when you die?”

The old man nodded.

“Suppose I say make it ten thousand down?”

“Take—take it all,” said the old man, piteously; and then, in a low voice, “God help me to do one good act before I die.”

As he spoke he tried to withdraw his hand from Geoffrey’s.

“Take what I have,” he said again, “but wipe away the stain from that poor girl’s life.”

“God bless you, Uncle Paul,” cried Geoffrey, wringing the old man’s hand. “You’re a noble old fellow, but if your money was millions, instead of thousands, not a penny could I touch. Go and see the poor girl, and then you must see another, and come back and tell me that you ask my pardon for what you have said.”

The piteous look, the air of weakness, and the trembling of the hands passed away as if by magic, as Uncle Paul tore his fingers from Geoffrey’s grasp; and, in place of his mingled appeal and disgust, passion flashed from the old man’s eyes.

“Dog—coward—scoundrel!” he cried, shaking his cane threateningly. “Your success at the mine, and your hopes of wedding Rhoda Penwynn, have blinded you to all that is honourable and true, but you shall repent it.”

“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Geoffrey. “Mr Paul!”

“Silence, scoundrel!” he roared. “You shall live to see your mine a wreck; and as to that Rhoda Penwynn—”

“Silence, yourself, old man,” cried Geoffrey, in a rage. “How dare you mention her name?”

“How dare I, dog?” he cried; “because she is too good, and pure, and virtuous for such a libertine as you. Out upon you for your worthlessness! I tell you, that girl will turn her back upon you in shame and disgust. You don’t know of what stuff our Cornish women are. I meant to keep this silent if I could. Now the town shall know you for what you are; and as for my poor niece—Heaven forgive her!—I would sooner see her in her coffin than the wife of such a heartless, cold-blooded, mercenary wretch.”

“You will repent all this when you are cool,” cried Geoffrey, whose own rage was driven away in dread lest the old man should fall before him in some fit.

“Out of my sight, dog! Leave this house.”

“Uncle Paul, you are mad. Will you listen to reason?”

“Go!” cried the old man panting, as he threatened the tall, sturdy young fellow with his stick; “go, and present yourself at Penwynn’s, and be shown the door. Out! Go! I cannot breathe the same air with so heartless a villain.”

“If I leave this house,” said Geoffrey, “it is for good. No apologies will bring me back.”

“Apologies,” cried the old man. “Oh, if Heaven would give me back my strength but for one short hour! Scoundrel!” he cried, sinking back in his chair, “if I were but a man instead of such a poor old wreck—”

“Mrs Mullion! quick!” cried Geoffrey, for the old man’s appearance alarmed him; but the poor woman had heard all, and was already at her brother-in-law’s side. “What shall we do?”

“Let him leave the place,” panted the old man. “Don’t let him touch me—don’t let him come near me—let him leave the place. He tortures me. Why did I bring him here?”

“Fate, I suppose,” said Geoffrey, coldly. “I thought she had been too kind. Shall I fetch Rumsey, Mrs Mullion?”

“No, no, no. Pray go—pray go,” sobbed the poor woman. “Oh, Mr Trethick! Mr Trethick! what have I done that you should treat me so?”

“There, for heaven’s sake, don’t you begin,” cried Geoffrey. “I can bear no more. You people here are mad. There, I’ll rid you of my presence, Mrs Mullion. I’ll go and put up some where else till you have come to your senses, and then perhaps—no, I cannot come back here. I’m going down to Rumsey’s, and I’ll send him up. Poor old fellow?” he said; and he came a step towards where, with half-closed eyes, Uncle Paul sat back, panting heavily; but at the first step forward he shrank away with such a look of loathing that Geoffrey strode into the passage, seized his hat, and went off across the garden, and down the cliff path to send up Dr Rumsey to the stricken old man.

Chapter Thirty Nine.

More Unpleasantries.

Dr Rumsey was in, Mrs Rumsey said, but he was engaged. She would give Mr Trethick’s message, and she turned sharply round and shut the door.

“Confound the woman,” exclaimed Geoffrey, frowning, and he went off towards the mine.

His way lay through the principal street, and as he was passing the hotel it suddenly struck him that he had had a terrible night, and that he was half-starved.

“The engine won’t work without coal,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “I must have breakfast,” and, going in, he ordered the meal, ate heartily, and then, feeling refreshed and brighter, he hesitated as to what he should do—go down to the mine or walk across to Gwennas.

He stopped, thinking,—

“If I go to Gwennas, people will say that the case is clear against me.