George Manville Fenn (continued 6)

“If I don’t go they will say that it is clearer, for I stop away because I am a coward, and that my conduct is cruel.

“Well, I won’t be brutal, at all events; so here goes to see Father Prawle, and to know how the poor girl is.”

He started off walking fast, but just then who should come round the corner but a thin figure in black, half-way between a sister of mercy and a lady in deep mourning.

“Miss Pavey, by all that’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “What a transformation. What has become of the rainbow?”

“Ah, Miss Pavey,” he said. “Good-morning.”

To his astonishment and disgust, the lady darted a look of horror at him and crossed the road.

“This is pleasant,” he cried, angrily. “Why, that woman must know of it, and—”

He felt a chill of horror run through him, for he knew that she would go, if she had not already been, straight up to An Morlock and acquaint Rhoda with the events of the night, no doubt pleasantly dressed up.

“She must have seen the Rumseys this morning!”

He hesitated for a moment, and then turned to go straight up to An Morlock.

“I’ll go and tell Penwynn all about it.”

“Pooh! Absurd,” he cried. “What’s come to me? Am I to go and deny a scandal before I have been accused by my friends? Ridiculous.”

Laughing at himself for what he called his folly, he went right off along the cliff, looking with pride at the smoking of the Wheal Carnac chimney shaft, and pausing for a moment or two, with a smile of gratification upon his lips, to watch the busy figures about the buildings and to listen to the rattle and noise of the machinery.

Going on, he came to the slope down from the cliff path to the beach, and he could not help a shudder as he saw how dangerous it was even by daylight.

“I wonder we did not break our necks,” he thought, as he went cautiously down, and then amongst the granite boulders and weed-hung masses to where he had leaped in and swum to poor Madge’s help, for there it all was plainly enough—the long spit of rocks running out like a pier, the swirling water, and the waving masses of slimy weed.

“It’s a good job it was night,” he thought. “Hang me, if I shouldn’t have hesitated to dive in now.”

All the same he would not have hesitated a moment; but it was a wild, awesome place, and the chances of a swimmer getting easily ashore, after a dive from the rocks, were not many.

He went on picking his way as nearly as he could to follow the steps taken on the previous night towards the farther sloping path, pausing again as he came opposite to the adit of the old mine up on the cliff.

It was an ugly, low archway, fringed with ferns, and whose interior was glossy with what looked like green metallic tinsel, but proved to be a dark, glistening, wet lichen or moss.

The place, like all others of its kind, had an attraction for Geoffrey, and he went in a short distance to peer forward into the gloom of the narrow passage through the rock, and to listen to the dripping, echoing sounds of the falling water.

It was a part of the working of the old mine, and, doubtless, had been driven in first by the adventurers in search of a vein of tin or copper, after striking which they had sunk the perpendicular shaft on the cliff—the one by the path where he had had his encounter with Pengelly; and, by a little calculation, he reckoned that this adit or passage would be about a hundred yards long.

“I’ll have lights some day, and Pengelly and I will explore it.”

He went no farther, for there was always the danger of coming upon one of the minor shafts, or “winzes” as they were called, which are made for ventilating the mine, and joining the upper and lower galleries together. In this case the winzes would have been full of water, like the great shaft, up to the level of the adit, which would run off the surplus to the beach.

More by force of habit than for any particular reason, he threw a great stone in, to make a crashing noise, which went echoing and reverberating along the dripping passage, and then he went on.

“Poor lass, she would have had a poor chance,” he said, “if she had thrown herself down the old shaft up yonder. I don’t think I dare have dived down there. Nay,” he added, laughing, “I am sure I dare not.”

He went on fast now, noting the difficulties of the pathway up which he had helped Madge in the dark; and then, pausing half-way up to take breath, he uttered an exclamation.

“I shouldn’t have thought it possible,” he said. “Why, it seems almost madness now. Well, I got her there safely, and I have been thanked for my trouble.”

Old Prawle was hanging about, busy, as usual, with a fishing-line, as Geoffrey went down into the Cove, nodded, and tapped gently at the door.

“Well, Bessie,” he said, in his light, cheery way, “how is she?”

“Better, Mr Trethick,” said Bessie coldly; and the bright look passed from his face as he saw the girl’s distant manner.

“Has the doctor been?”

“Yes, Mr Trethick.”

“What does he say?”

“That she is to have perfect rest and quiet.”

“And your mother?”

“Better, sir. Will you speak to her?”

Geoffrey hesitated a moment, and then seeing that Bessie was misinterpreting his looks, he said sharply,—

“Yes, I will;” and following Bessie in, he found the invalid in her old place, airing and burning more things than usual, but there was such a reproachful, piteous look in her eyes, that he was quite taken aback.

“It’s of no use. I can’t argue with them,” thought Geoffrey.

“Here, Mrs Prawle,” he said aloud, “will you kindly see that every thing possible is done for that poor girl. You will be at some expense, of course, till Mrs Mullion and her uncle fetch them home. Take that.”

He laid a five-pound note on the table, and walked straight out, Bessie drawing on one side to let him pass, her face looking cold and thin, and her eyes resting on the floor.

“Pleasant,” muttered Geoffrey, and with an abrupt “Good-morning” he went out to where old Prawle was at work.

“Here, walk part of the way along the cliff with me,” he said. “Come away from the cottage.”

The old man looked up at him from under his shaggy eyebrows, and then followed him for a couple of hundred yards, and stopped.

“Won’t that do?” he said. “Are you going to give me some money for them two?”

“I’ve left five pounds with your wife,” said Geoffrey, sharply.

“Oh, come, that’s handsome,” said the old man. “But you couldn’t have done less.”

“Look here,” said Geoffrey, sharply, “you know what I told you last night.”

“Yes, I know,” said the old man, grimly.

“You tell them the same. I couldn’t talk to them. Undeceive them about it, and be kind to the poor lass. I’ll do all I can for you, Prawle, about the shares.”

The old man nodded and uttered a growl that might have been “All right,” or “Thanks,” or any thing else, and then Geoffrey went on towards Carnac.

“Tell them the same,” said the rugged old fellow, with a grim chuckle. “Why, I might preach to ’em for a month, and then they wouldn’t believe it any more than I could myself.”

Pengelly was anxiously awaiting his principal at the mine, ready to lay certain reports before him about the drive that was being made, and he did it all in so stern and distant a way that Geoffrey could not help seeing that his right-hand man had heard the report, and, what was more, believed it. The result was that it raised up a spirit of resentment in the young man’s breast that made him retire within himself snail fashion; but with this difference, that he left his horns pointing menacingly outside; and for the rest of that day he was not a pleasant person to consult upon any matter.

For in spite of the contempt with which he treated the whole affair, and his determination to completely ignore the matter, it was always torturing him, and there was the constant thought in his mind that Rhoda must sooner or later hear of it, if she had not already been apprised by Miss Pavey or some other tattling friend.

“Let them. If she’s the woman I believe her, she’ll write to me in a quiet indirect way, not referring to it, of course, but to let me see her confidence in me is not shaken.”

The amount of work he got through on that day was tremendous, and as he worked his spirits rose. He strengthened his plans for guarding against the breaking in of the sea; and at last, completely fagged out, he ascended from the mine, changed, and washed in the office, and, without speaking to Pengelly, went straight to Dr Rumsey’s.

The doctor saw him coming, and came to the door.

“Find you apartments, Mr Trethick?” he said, coldly. “In an ordinary way it would be impossible. Under the present circumstances it is doubly so.”

“Very good,” said Geoffrey, sharply. “You persist, then, in believing that?”

“I would rather not discuss the matter, Mr Trethick,” said the doctor. “Good evening.”

“I must go to the hotel, then, that’s all,” said Geoffrey to himself. “Confound them all! They will find that I’ve Cornish blood in my veins, and can be as pig-headed in obstinacy as the best.”

Chapter Forty.

Something Wrong.

They were civil enough to him at the hotel, but Geoffrey could not help noticing that there was a peculiar something in his reception.

Of course it was strange his going there, and it led to talking about him; of this he could not help feeling sure.

“Let them talk,” he muttered, “if it pleases them;” and, after a late dinner, and spending an hour or two in writing, he made up his mind to go to bed and have a good night’s rest, to make up for the losses of the previous night.

He felt that he would like to know how old Mr Paul was, but he could not send or ask with any degree of comfort, so he went to bed at ten.

But it was not to rest. His nerves had been so unduly excited by the events of the past twenty-four hours that, try how he would, he could not get to sleep.

As a rule, strong, healthy, and hearty, no sooner was his head upon his pillow than he dropped off into a deep slumber. But this night his mind was in a continuous whirl. He tossed, he turned, got up and bathed his beating temples and burning forehead, scrubbed himself with a towel, and lay down again, but there was no sleep.

Now he was following poor Madge along the cliff, and plunging into the sea to save her. Then he was facing Bessie Prawle, whose eyes looked reproachfully at him. Again, he would be back at the cottage going through that pitiful scene with poor old Mr Paul; and when at last he succeeded in dismissing that from his mind, he was haunted by the face of Rhoda gazing at him with such a look of scorn and contempt that he was obliged to sit up in bed to make sure it was not real.

“Upsets a man’s nerves, no matter how strong he may be,” argued Geoffrey; and he once more threw himself down, wishing that he was back at the cottage, for, as it was comparatively early, there were noises in the hotel that helped to keep him awake.

At last, about midnight, he seemed to have successfully laid the whole of the unrestful spirits that had been haunting him, and, feeling calmer, he uttered a sigh of satisfaction, and felt that he was going now to enjoy his well-earned rest, when a fresh thought leaped to his brain, and that was about Wheal Carnac.

He had been down the mine that evening, and every thing was progressing admirably. The machinery was in perfect order, the men settling down more and more to their work, and they were in a high state of delight at the success that had attended Pengelly’s investigations. Why then should he trouble himself about Wheal Carnac?

He argued with himself that it was imagination, due to the excited state of his nerves and the worries of the day. He felt that it was that; but, in spite of his reasoning, he could not rest. Sleep seemed to be out of the question, and yet he would be terribly unfit for the next day’s work.

At last he could bear it no longer, and, feeling that rest would not come unless he could satisfy himself that the place was safe, he got up and dressed.

“I’m growing a wise man,” he said, mockingly. “I wonder whether any one has run away with the mine? Perhaps there is a burglary on, and they are breaking into the boiler.”

At the same time he felt that a walk in the cool night air would calm his nerves, and he prepared to descend, when a new difficulty assailed him.

It was past midnight now, every one in the place had retired, and no doubt he would have some difficulty in getting out.

“I say the people here are mad,” he thought; “they will think me mad. Well, let them.”

He went down as cautiously as he could, and found that his difficulty about getting out was only imaginary, for the door was easily opened, and, as he closed it behind him, and felt the cool night air upon his forehead, he uttered a sigh of relief.

His plans were soon made; he would go first to Pengelly, and knock him up and hear his report: for the manager was going to stay there a couple or three hours after his superior had left the mine.

He felt some compunction in this; but he knew Pengelly’s interest in the works, and how willing he would be to answer questions; so he walked on, thinking over two or three plans which he had been revolving in his mind to propose to Mr Penwynn for Pengelly’s benefit, and as a reward for his discovery.

Every thing was very still under the brilliant starlit sky, and as Geoffrey reached the narrow lane where Pengelly lived, he again felt some little compunction at arousing him; but, as he had gone so far, he determined to proceed.

The slight tap he gave on the door was quite sufficient to waken the miner, and Geoffrey plainly heard him leap out of bed. The next moment the casement just above his head was opened.

“What’s the matter?” he said quickly.

“Nothing, I hope, Pengelly.”

“Oh, it’s you, sir!”

“Yes, it is I, Pengelly. Tell me, did you leave all right?”

“Yes, sir; quite right.”

“At what time?”

“I was there till nine, sir. Have you been since?”

“No, Pengelly; but I have got an uneasy feeling upon me that something might be wrong. I couldn’t sleep, so I came on to you.”

“Guilty conscience,” thought Pengelly.

“I think,” continued Geoffrey, “I’ll walk on down there to see if every thing is right. Good-night.”

“No, sir, stop a minute, and I’ll come too.”

Geoffrey protested, but as he protested Pengelly jumped into his flannel trousers and frock, and in the time that a modern gentleman would have taken to unbutton his eyelids and think about his bath, the miner was dressed and coming down.

“It’s a shame to rouse you up, Pengelly, about such a fancy as mine,” said Geoffrey. “I was restless, and that made me fidget about the mine.”

“Well, sir, she’s worth fidgetting about,” said Pengelly. “Let’s go down. It won’t do any harm. There’s the two engine-men on, and it will show them that we may we expected at any time, and teach them their duty.”

Geoffrey longed to say something in his own defence to the miner, as they went along under the starlit sky, but his pride kept him silent; and, gradually growing calmer and at his ease as the fresh breeze from the sea blew upon his face, they went on and on till they began climbing the rugged path to where the engine-house stood up dim and gaunt against the sky, with its lit-up windows and door having a grotesque resemblance to the face of some fiery monster, who was uttering a low, panting roar.

They found the engine steadily working, raising and lowering the enormous rod of the series of pumps, and a steady, rushing noise told that the water was running fast.

“They’re both fast asleep,” said Pengelly. “Hallo! who’s that?”

“Where?” said Geoffrey. “I don’t see any one.”

“I’d be sworn I saw some one go away,” exclaimed Pengelly, leaping forward, but only to return to where Geoffrey stood.

“I expect it was fancy, sir; but let’s go and rouse them up. They’ve no business to be asleep.”

He led the way into the engine-house, where, by the glow from the stoke-hole fire, the two men on duty could be seen lying back on the stone bench that formed their seat, fast asleep; and, though Pengelly shook them again and again, he could only evoke a deep stertorous snore from each in turn.

“I don’t like this, sir,” said Pengelly. “Let’s take a look round.”

Geoffrey took a lantern from a rough shelf, and together they visited office, stables, and the various buildings, ending by going towards the shaft, when Pengelly suddenly uttered a cry.

“What’s wrong?” cried Geoffrey, excitedly, though the knowledge had come to him at the same moment as to his man.

“She’s burst in, sir. Oh, listen! She’s burst in!”

And as Geoffrey bent over the shaft, the fearful sound of the rushing water flooding the mine rose from the echoing depths upon his ear.

Stunned by the nature of the catastrophe, Geoffrey Trethick stood clutching the framework of the shaft, and leaned over listening to the surging roar of the water as it seemed to him to come bursting up through the winzes in fountains and rushing in triumph through each gallery and drive.

As for Pengelly, he had thrown himself upon the ground, and for a time neither spoke.

“Is this treachery or accident, Pengelly?” cried Trethick at last in a hoarse, changed voice.

“Call it judgment, sir—call it judgment,” groaned the miner. “If we sin, the punishment must find us out.”

“Pengelly?” cried Geoffrey, as he turned upon him in his rage. “There, I cannot argue with you now. What can we do?”

“Do!” cried Pengelly, piteously. “Do nothing. What can we do but pray and ask for mercy and help, sir, from above.”

“Help!” cried Geoffrey. “God helps those who help themselves. Let us be up and doing, man alive.”

“It’s no time to be up and doing now, sir,” replied Pengelly solemnly. “Listen, sir; do you hear? Hark at the water, as if the fountains of the great deep were broken up. Mr Trethick, sir,” he continued, incongruously, “we may stop the engine, for a dozen such could not master the water gathering there.”

“The wall was too thin to stand the pressure,” groaned Geoffrey, “and yet it seemed so safe. Is it possible that any tricks can have been played with the mine? Yes; I see it now,” he cried passionately. “That man you saw—those two fellows drunk—yes, of course. Look! the cage is down. Some one must have gone below to-night.”

Pengelly, roused by his companion’s words, seemed now to grasp their meaning, and, gazing from Geoffrey to the space where the cage should have been, he ran into the engine-house, and, turning the bars, threw the wheels in gear, when, after what seemed to be an interminable space of time, the dripping cage came up empty to the mouth.

“Some one has, been down,” said Pengelly, hoarsely; “but whoever it was has not come up;” and without another word, the miner walked slowly back into the engine-house, sat down, and buried his face in his hands.

For a time Geoffrey stood there, holding by the iron rail that protected the shaft, listening to the rushing water, for even yet he could hardly realise the appalling nature of the affair. A short time back it would have been a very serious loss! but now, just as prosperity in fullest tide had come upon them, sweeping away all doubts and fears, the calamity seemed greater than he could bear.

And Rhoda? Mr Penwynn? What was he to say to them?

Well, the former would pity and sympathise, and he must begin again.

The latter would help him no more.

It was horrible, and if he could only bring it home—

He shuddered, for he recalled Pengelly’s words.

Perhaps the cause of that mischief was below.

Then, like an icy blast, came the recollection of that other trouble—the suspicion that had been laid at his door; but he laughed that off with contempt, and turning at last, he followed Pengelly into the engine-house, where the fire burned ruddily, the two men slept, and, as if in mockery, the vast engine kept up its solemn, heavy thump, bent, apparently now, so Geoffrey thought, upon the task of pumping the Atlantic Ocean dry.

“Blow off the steam, man; throw open the furnace bars,” cried Geoffrey, suddenly, “and stop that cursed engine clank. The game’s up for the present. I’m going home to bed.”

Even as he spoke the words he recalled that he had no home, and Pengelly laid his hand upon his arm.

“I’ll do your orders, master,” he said sadly, “and then I’m going back to pray, for it’s a judgment on us, master, a judgment for our sins.”

He was about to say you, for in his simple breast the poor fellow believed the tale that was the talk of the little place.

“But he’s my master,” he had said; “and I’ll serve him true, for who knows but what I may some day make him sorrow for his sin, and see the light.”

Geoffrey turned upon him angrily, but Pengelly’s face disarmed him; and as the miner obeyed his orders and the clank of the great pump ceased, he threw himself upon the stone bench, and, staring in at the flaming furnace-fire, asked himself how he was to face the coming day.

Chapter Forty One.

How Lannoe Earned his Hundred Pounds.

Miner Lannoe had well made his plans, and, after abiding his time, he had arranged with a confederate to be at the shaft mouth ready to lower down the cage, when he should give the signal, and draw him up.

On second thoughts he told his confederate to lower down the cage first, and then to be ready to touch the handles of the engine in due form, and draw him up.

They had both worked at mines long enough to be quite conversant with the lowering and raising of a cage, and a promise of half a sovereign and unlimited beer was quite enough to enlist a man he knew in his service—a convenient kind of man, who was stupid enough to do what he was told without asking questions.

But this would necessitate the agreement of the two men who would be on duty keeping the engine pumping all night, for the mine was still very wet.

But Lannoe knew how to manage them. A bottle of smuggled brandy, which he knew how to get, was quite sufficient for the purpose, especially when drugged with tobacco, and thoroughly fulfilled his wishes, doing more too than he anticipated for his employer’s service.

He was obliged to trust to his confederate, for he had made up his mind to stay down, but his orders were simple in the extreme. The man had only to stroll into the engine-house, when he had seen every one off the premises, with the bottle of brandy under his arm, propose a drink, and not drink himself.

“If he don’t keep all square it will be awkward,” thought Lannoe, as he hung back when the other men left the pit; and, pulling out some bread and cheese, sat down in the dark and made a hearty meal.

“That’ll give a fellow strength,” he muttered, when he had done. “Now let’s see what’s what? Ugh! it’s a gashly job; but a hundred pound’s a big lump, and it may be a hundred and fifty.”

He took out a box of matches, lit a lantern, and walked cautiously towards the foot of the shaft, to find that the cage had been lowered down since the men went up—Pengelly with the last batch; and from that he argued that his confederate was on the watch.

To make sure he uttered a low whistle, which went up, seeming to increase as it rose, and an answer came back.

“That’s right,” he muttered. “I should stand awkward if he wasn’t there.”

He felt a strange sense of hesitation come over him, and a tremor of dread that made him flinch from his task, till he thought of Pengelly, and the money that was to be his reward.

“There’s nothing to be scared about,” he muttered. “If he wasn’t there I could get up the winze, and then up to the next gallery by the ladders, so I’m all right.”

Satisfying himself that he had nothing to fear on his own account, he turned and went on along the dark galleries, all of which were pretty familiar to him, till he reached the place where the new workings were going on, and stopped by the end of the passage where Geoffrey had marked out the portion that was not to be touched.

The man’s face looked very stern and grim as he took out of his pocket along cartridge, ready for blasting purposes, one which he had filched from the receptacle, and three fuses, which he tied together, end to end, so as to make one of extraordinary length.

Laying these upon a ledge ready, he went off to a niche in the rock some distance off and returned with a miner’s tamping-iron, and slipping off his frock, and turning up the sleeves of his tight jersey shirt, he paused for a few moments to consider.

As he stood listening, the stillness of the mine was awful, and the sweat stood out upon his forehead as he glanced timorously round; but, nerving himself with the thoughts of revenge and reward, he poised the bar, and the next minute the galleries were echoing to the strokes of the tamping-iron, while the sparks flew thick and fast from the stone.

He was an old and practised hand, knowing full well how to wield the implement so as to bore a hole big enough to hold the cartridge, and he toiled steadily on, forgetting his fear in his work, determined to go in a certain distance, and then insert the cartridge, light the fuse, and escape.

He calculated pretty well what the consequences would be. The thin wall at the end of the gallery would have a goodly piece blown out, and the water would rush in, flooding the mine beyond possibility of redemption.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, with the sparks flying fast, and once more the light from his lantern, as in the case of Geoffrey, cast that strange, weird shadow, as of the evil genius of the mine waving its arms, and threatening the intruder upon his realms.

Now the man paused and examined the edge of the tool he used, and wiped his forehead that was bedewed with sweat. Then he worked on again, till the sparks flew faster and faster, and he grimly laughed as he thought of what would be the consequences should one reach the cartridge.

“No fear of that,” he said, half aloud; and he worked on again for quite an hour before he stopped to rest.

“It’s gashly work all alone here,” he muttered, and he stood listening, but the only sound he heard was the regular thumping beat of the great pump, and the rushing noise of water, which came to him softened by the distance through which it travelled.

Another long attack upon the rock, with the tamping-iron going in deeper and deeper, till, with a grim look of satisfaction, he finished his work, and wiped and stood the tool aside.

“That’s long habit,” he said, half aloud. “That tool won’t be wanted any more; and, perhaps, a lad named Lannoe, with a hundred pound in his pocket, and a place where he can get more if he wants it, may stand better with old Prawle than a lame, preaching hound as ain’t so rich after all.”

“I wonder what time it is,” he muttered, with a shiver; and, having now completed one stage of his work, he hesitated, thinking of his means of escape; and, taking up his lantern, he went rapidly along to the foot of the shaft, listened for a few minutes, and then uttered a low whistle, which went reverberating up the long shaft to the still night air, and another whistle came back in answer.

“One whistle, make ready; two, draw up,” muttered Lannoe; and once more he threaded his way along the galleries, till he reached the spot where he had been at work.

Here a shrinking sensation seemed to come over him again, for he took the cartridge and fingered it about, held the lantern up to the hole he had made, and asked himself whether he had not better go on and drive it through to the water, so as to let it run in, though he knew all the while that a small pump would easily master as much water as forced its way in through such a hole.

Then he tried the fuse.

Yes, there was plenty of that to burn till he reached the foot of the shaft. Perhaps he might be up before the charge exploded. There was nothing to fear, then.

But still he hesitated, and a word or two would have made him give up his task and escape for his life.

It was not to be: for the thought of the money mastered him. He could easily force more from his employer, who dare not refuse; and, to make matters better, he would be having a rich revenge upon Pengelly.

Was it safe to trust his mate about the drawing up?

Bah! What matter! He could escape without his help if he failed; and, rousing his courage to the sticking-point, he vowed he would wait no longer.

The rest was done in desperate haste and with his hands trembling. The tamping was bold, manly work, but he had to deal now with a great cartridge of gunpowder, he told himself, and he must be careful.

He was careful as he thought, but he would have exercised more care if he had known that the stolen cartridge was not gunpowder, but formed of one of the newly-discovered explosives, made by Geoffrey’s own hands.

He laid his fuse ready for attachment, and placed the lantern a little farther back.

But no: that would not do; his shadow was thrown right across the hole, and he had to change the position of the lantern.

That would do well, and there was no danger; but still he hesitated, and he drew his arm across his wet forehead.

Of course—yes—he must not forget that. He must not leave his jacket behind; and, laying down the cartridge once more, he leisurely put on his frock and cap, hesitated a few minutes longer, and then, with the thoughts of the yellow gold blinding his eyes, he seemed to nerve himself to desperation, picking up the cartridge, and trying to fit it into the hole he had bored.

It went in easily enough for a part of the distance; but the action of the tool had made the hole slightly funnel-shaped, and the cartridge would not go in so far as he wished.

True, he might have fired it where it was, but then he would not have been sure of the result. The wall of rock was comparatively thin, he knew, but unless the cartridge was well in, a sufficiency might not be brought down, and his wish was to make so terrible a gap that no pump ever made, or likely to be made, could keep down the water in the deluged mine.

How it would rush in, carrying all before it, as soon as the shot was fired. He had seen dozens of such blastings, and he knew what great chasms were blown out of the solid rock. Here, where the wall was thin, the whole side would be blown back into the sea, and then where would rich Wheal Carnac be?

John Tregenna would say, at all events, that he had well done his work, he thought; but how was this cartridge to be forced farther in?

He laid it down for a moment, and took up the iron, thinking to enlarge the hole, but he knew it would be an hour’s work, and now he was strung up he wanted it done.

He tried the cartridge again. It nearly fitted; a good drive with the back of the tamping-iron would force it in. So, twisting it round and round, he screwed the paper-covered roll in for so goodly a distance that it was well placed in the wall, and needed, he thought, but a slight thrust or two to send it home.

He was ignorant, and blinded by his desire to finish the task he had undertaken; desperate, too, with the fear that was beginning to master him; and catching up the iron once more, he hesitated for a moment as he turned it round, and then, placing the butt end in the hole, he gave the cartridge a sharp blow.

In the act of striking he moderated the blow, so as not to strike fire from the rock; but no fire was needed there, the percussion was sufficient to explode the mighty imprisoned force, and, as that blow fell, there was one deafening crash, a pause, and then an awful rush of water that swept off the shattered fragments of the dead miner from the floor, and wall, and ceiling, and churned them up and bore them along through the galleries of the ruined mine.

For Lannoe’s blast had been a success. He had blown out so great a mass of the thin wall that the pump had not been invented that could master such a rush of water as that which poured in to flood the mine.

The explosion was sharp, and it roared through the galleries, but the rush of water seemed to drown it, so that the noise which reached dead Lannoe’s mate did not startle his drink-confused brain. He only wondered why Lannoe was so long; and at last, when quite wearied out, he saw Geoffrey Trethick and Pengelly come, he thought it was a good excuse for going, and he ran away.

Chapter Forty Two.

An Unkindly Stroke.

Rhoda Penwynn felt suspicious of Miss Pavey as she entered her room, blowing her nose very loudly, and then holding her handkerchief to her face, where one of her teeth was supposed to ache.

There was a great change in Miss Pavey’s personal appearance, and her bright colours had given place to quite a sister-of-mercy style of garb, including a black crape veil, through which, on entering, she had given Rhoda quite a funereal kiss, as if to prepare her for her adverse news—news which she dreaded to communicate, for she felt afraid of how Rhoda might compose herself under such a trial.

“Why, Martha,” said Rhoda, smiling, “surely there is nothing wrong—you are not in mourning?”

“Oh dear, no, love. It is the festival of Saint Minima, virgin and martyr.”

Here Miss Pavey sighed.

“Oh!” ejaculated Rhoda, quietly. “How is Mr Lee?” she added, after an awkward pause.

“Not well, dear—not well. He works too hard, and troubles himself too much about the wicked people here. Poor fellow! how saintly are his efforts for their good. But what do you think, Rhoda, dear?”

“I don’t know.”

“He has taken to calling me Sister Martha!”

“Well,” said Rhoda, smiling, “as you are working so hard with him now in the parish, it is very kindly and nice, even if it does sound formal or ceremonial—Sister Martha.”

“I must confess,” said Miss Pavey, “that I don’t like it. Of course we work together—like brother and sister. But I don’t think it was necessary.”

“Neither do I,” said Rhoda, smiling.

“I do not agree with Mr Lee, of course, in all things,” continued Miss Pavey, “but he is very good.”

“Most energetic,” assented Rhoda.

“You know, I suppose, that we are to have a new harmonium?”

“I did not know it,” said Rhoda, looking curiously at her visitor, who kept down her veil, and whose conscious manner indicated that she had something particular to say—something unpleasant, Rhoda was sure.

“Oh, yes; a new and expensive one; and I am to play it,” continued Miss Pavey. “We disputed rather as to where it should stand. Mr Lee wished it to be in the north-east end, but I told him that it would be so much out of sight there that I was sure it would not be heard, so it is to be on the south side of the little chancel.”

“Yes,” said Rhoda, who was waiting for the object of Miss Pavey’s visit; “that seems to be a good place.”

“Yes, dear, he willingly gave way; but he would not about the babies.”

“About the babies?” exclaimed Rhoda.

“Yes, dear. It was only this morning. We were discussing baptism and infant-baptism, and I don’t know what possessed me, but it was in the heat of argument. Babies are so soft and nice, Rhoda, dear. I’m not ashamed to say so to you, because we are alone—but they really are—and I do like them; and it horrifies me, dear, to think of what the Church says about them if they’ve not been baptised. Poor little things! And really, I’m afraid I spoke very plainly. But, oh, Rhoda! my love, how shocking this is about Madge Mullion.”

“About Madge Mullion?” cried Rhoda, excitedly, for she knew now from her visitor’s manner that her disagreeable communication had come. “What do you mean?”

“It’s too shocking to talk about, dear—about her and Mr Trethick, and—”

Here she got up, raised her veil above her lips, and whispered for some moments in Rhoda’s ear.

“I’ll not believe it,” cried Rhoda, starting up with flaming face and flashing eyes. “How dare you utter such a cruel calumny, Miss Pavey?”

“My dearest Rhoda,” cried her visitor, whose red eyes and pale face as she raised her veil, bore out the truth of her assertion, “I have been crying half the night about it for your sake, for I knew it would nearly break your heart.”

“Break my heart!” cried Rhoda, scornfully. “I tell you it is impossible. For shame, Martha Pavey. I know you to be fond of a little gossip and news, but how dare you come and insult me with such a tale as this?”

“My dearest Rhoda, my darling Rhoda,” cried the poor woman, throwing herself at her friend’s feet, and sobbing violently, “you don’t know how I love you—how much I think of your happiness. It is because I would not have you deceived and ill-treated by a wicked man that I come to you and risk your anger.”

“You should treat all such scandal with scorn,” cried Rhoda. “Whoever has put it about deserves—deserves—oh, I don’t know what to say bad enough! You know it is impossible.”

“I—I wish I could think it was,” sobbed Miss Pavey. “That Madge was always a wicked girl, and I’m afraid she tempted him to evil.”

Rhoda’s eyes flashed upon her again; and, without another word, she left her visitor, and went straight to her own room.

Martha Pavey stood with clasped hands for a few moments gazing after her, and then, with a weary sigh, she lowered her veil and was about to leave the house, when she encountered Mr Penwynn.

“Have the goodness to step back into the drawing-room, Miss Pavey,” said the banker, whose face wore a very troubled look; and, in obedience to his wish, she went back trembling, and took the seat he pointed out, while he placed one on the other side of the table, and began tapping it with his fingers, according to his custom.

Miss Pavey looked at him timidly, and her breath came fast, for she was exceedingly nervous, and she dreaded that which she felt the banker was about to say.

He hesitated for some few moments, glancing at her and then out of the window, but at last he seemed to have made up his mind.

“Miss Pavey,” he said, “you are a very old friend of my daughter.”

“Oh, yes, Mr Penwynn; you know I am!” she cried.

“You take great interest in her welfare and happiness?”

“More I may say than in my own, Mr Penwynn.”

“You are a great deal about in the town too, now?”

“Yes, a great deal, Mr Penwynn.”

“In fact, you assist Mr Lee a good deal—in visiting—and the like.”

“A great deal, Mr Penwynn.”

“And therefore you are very likely to know the truth of matters that are going on in the place?”

“Oh, yes, Mr Penwynn; but what do you mean?”

“Simply this, Miss Pavey. I am a father, and you are a woman of the world—a middle-aged lady to whom I may speak plainly.”

“Mr Penwynn?” cried the lady, rising.

“No, no, don’t rise, Miss Pavey, pray. This is a matter almost of life and death. It is a question of Rhoda’s happiness. I believe you love my child, and, therefore, at such a time, as I have no lady-friends to whom I could speak of such a thing, I speak to you, our old friend, and Rhoda’s confidante.”

“But, Mr Penwynn!” cried the lady, with flaming cheeks.

“This is no time, madam, for false sentiment. We are both middle-aged people, and I speak plainly.”

“Oh, Mr Penwynn!” cried the lady, indignantly.

“Tell me,” he said, sharply, “have you been making some communication to Rhoda?”

“Yes,” she said, in a whisper, and she turned away her face.

“Is that communication true?”

She looked at him for a few moments, and then said,—

“Yes.”

“That will do, ma’am,” he said, drawing in his breath with a low hiss; and, rising and walking to the window, he took no further notice of his visitor, who gladly escaped from the room.

A few minutes later he rang the bell.

“Send down and see if Dr Rumsey is at home,” he said.

The servant glanced at him to see if he was ill, left the room, and in half an hour the doctor was closeted with the banker in his study.

“I’m a little feverish, Rumsey,” said Mr Penwynn, quietly; “write me out a prescription for a saline draught.”

Dr Rumsey asked him a question or two, and wrote out the prescription. The banker took it, and passed over a guinea, which the doctor hesitated to take.

“Put it in your pocket, Rumsey,” said his patient, dryly. “Never refuse money. That’s right. Now I have a question or two to ask you.”

“About the mine, Mr Penwynn?” cried the doctor, piteously. “Yes, every shilling of my poor wife’s money! Five hundred pounds. But I ought to have known better, and shall never forget it. Is there any hope?”

“I don’t know,” said the banker, coldly. “But it was not that I wanted to ask you. It was about Geoffrey Trethick.”

“Curse Geoffrey Trethick for a smooth-tongued, heartless, brazen scoundrel!” cried the doctor, rising from his general calm state to a furious burst of passion. “The money’s bad enough. He swore to me, on his word of honour, that the mine would be a success, and I let myself be deceived, for I thought him honest. Now he has come out in his true colours.”

“That report about him then is true?”

“True,” cried the doctor, bitterly, “as true as truth; and a more heartless scoundrel I never met.”

“He denies it, I suppose?”

“Denies it? Of course: as plausibly as if he were as innocent as the little babe itself. That poor woman, Mrs Mullion, is broken-hearted, and old Paul will hardly get over it. He has had a fit since.”

“Is—is there any doubt, Rumsey?” said Mr Penwynn, sadly.

“Not an atom,” replied the doctor. “He has been my friend, and I’ve trusted and believed in him. I’d forgive him the affair over the shares, but his heartless cruelty here is disgusting—hush!—Miss Penwynn!”

Rhoda had opened the door to join her father, when, seeing the doctor there, she drew back, but she heard his last words.

“I won’t keep you, Rumsey. That will do,” said Mr Penwynn, and, as the doctor rose to go, he turned to the banker,—

“Is—is there any hope about those shares, Mr Penwynn? Will the mine finally pay?” he said, piteously.

“If it takes every penny I’ve got to make it pay, Rumsey.—Yes,” said the banker, sternly. “I am not a scoundrel.”

“No, no, of course not,” cried the doctor, excitedly, as he snatched a grain of hope from the other’s words. “But would you sell if you were me?”

“If you can find any one to buy—at any price—yes,” said the banker, quietly; and the grain of hope seemed to be snatched away.

As the doctor was leaving, Rhoda lay in wait to go to her father’s room, but the vicar came up, and she hastily retired.

“Mr Lee? What does he want?” said the banker, peevishly. “Where is he?”

“In the drawing-room, sir.”

Mr Penwynn rose, and followed the man to where the vicar was standing by the drawing-room table.

“You’ll excuse me, Mr Penwynn,” he said, anxiously; “but is Mr Trethick here?”

“No. I have been expecting him all the morning, Mr Lee. May I ask why?”

The vicar hesitated, and the colour came into his pale cheeks.

“I want to see him particularly, Mr Penwynn.”

“May I ask why?”

“I think you know why, Mr Penwynn. There’s a terrible report about the mine. Is it true?”

“Too true,” said the banker, coldly. “And you have come to try and rise upon his fall,” he added to himself.

“Poor Trethick!” exclaimed the vicar; “and he was so elate and proud of his success. He is a brave fellow, Mr Penwynn.”

“Indeed,” said the banker, sarcastically. “Come, Mr Lee, suppose you are frank with me. What of that other report?”

“It is a scandal—a cruel invention,” exclaimed the vicar. “I cannot, I will not believe it. For heaven’s sake keep it from Miss Penwynn’s ears.”

The banker turned upon him sharply.

“Why?” he said, abruptly.

“Why?” exclaimed the young vicar, flushing. “Mr Penwynn, can you ask me that?”

“Mr Lee,” said the banker, “I’d give a thousand pounds down to believe as you do. I have been waiting here all the morning for Mr Trethick to come to me—to bring me, as he should, the bad news of the flooding of the mine, and, if it is necessary, to defend himself against this charge that is brought against him; and he does not come. What am I to think?”

“Think him innocent, Mr Penwynn. I for one cannot believe such a charge to be true. But here is Mr Trethick,” he cried, as a hasty step was heard upon the gravel, and, without waiting to be announced, Geoffrey walked straight in.

The vicar started at his appearance, for he was haggard and his eyes red. He had evidently not been to bed all night, and his clothes were dusty and covered with red earth. There was a curious excited look, too, about his face, as he stared from one to the other, and then said, hoarsely,—

“Ruin, Mr Penwynn; the mine is drowned.”

“So I heard, Mr Trethick, before I was up,” said the banker, coldly.

“I sat by the furnace-fire all night,” said Geoffrey, in the same low, hoarse voice, “trying to think it out, for I know—I’ll swear this is the work of some scoundrel; and if I can prove it—”

He did not finish, but stood with his fists clenched looking from one to the other.

“I’ve been asleep,” he said, “and I’m not half awake yet. I felt half-mad this morning. I drank some brandy to try and calm me, but it has made me worse.”

“There is no doubt about that. We will talk about the mine some other time, Mr Trethick,” said the banker. “Will you leave my house now? You are not in a fit state to discuss matters.”

“Fit state?” said Geoffrey. “Yes, I am in a fit state; but the accident has been almost maddening. No; it was no accident. I’ll swear it has been done.”

“Perhaps so,” said the banker, calmly; “but will you return to your apartments now. I will send for you to-morrow.”

“My apartments?” exclaimed Geoffrey, with a harsh laugh. “Where are they? I have none now. Mr Lee, will you give me your arm; my head swims. Take me down to Rumsey’s place. I’m going wrong I think—or something—there was—little brandy in the—in the—what was I saying—the men—bottle—furnace-house—I was—faint—Pengelly gave me—I—I—can’t see—is—is it night? Fetch—Rhoda. I—”

He sank heavily upon the floor, for it was as he said. He had remained watching by the dying furnace-fire the whole night, and then, heart-sick and faint, he had taken the little cup of brandy and water Pengelly handed to him, the remains of the bottle from which the two watchers had been drugged, and, little as he had taken, it had been enough to send him into a deep sleep, from which he had at last risen to hurry up to An Morlock—drunk, so the servants said.

“Disgracefully intoxicated!” Mr Penwynn declared.

The Reverend Edward Lee said nothing, but sighed deeply and went his way, and Rhoda Penwynn was fetched down by her father, who took her to the drawing-room door, and pointed to where Geoffrey lay upon the carpet.

“Your idol is broken, Rhoda,” he said, in a low, stern voice. “We were both deceived.”

“Oh, papa! is he ill?” cried Rhoda; and with all a woman’s sympathy for one in distress, she forgot the report she had heard, and was about to make for Geoffrey’s side.

“Ill as men are who make brute beasts of themselves, my child. Come away, my girl, and let him sleep it off. Rhoda, you can be brave, I know: so show your courage now.”

She was ghastly pale, and she gazed from father to lover, hesitating whether she ought not to take Geoffrey’s part against the whole world.

Heart triumphed, and snatching away her hand as she was being led from the room,—

“I’ll never believe it, father,” she cried. “Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey, speak to me. Tell me what is wrong?”

She had sunk upon her knees and caught the prostrate man’s hand in hers, with the effect that he roused himself a little, and slightly turned his head.

“Mine’s drowned,” he muttered. “Don’t worry—that brandy.”

“Yes, yes; but you will soon put that right.”

“Put it right,” he said, thickly. “No—sha’n’t marry her—poor little Madge—I like little Madge—I’m sleepy, now.”

Geoffrey’s hand fell from Rhoda’s heavily upon the thick carpet, and she shrank away from him as if stung. Then her head drooped, her face went down into her hands, and as Mr Penwynn stood watching her, she uttered a moan, rocking herself to and fro.

This lasted but a few minutes, and then a curiously-hard, stern look came over her pale face, as she slowly rose from her knees, and went and placed her hands in those of her father, looking him full in the eyes; and then, with the air of outraged womanhood lending a stern beauty to her face, she let him lead her to his study, where she sat with him, hardly speaking, till she heard it whispered that Mr Trethick had got up, and gone staggering out of the house.

“Where did he go?” said Mr Penwynn, quietly.

“Down to the hotel, sir.”

“That will do.”

Father glanced at daughter as soon as they were alone, when Rhoda left her seat and laid her hands upon his shoulder.

“I don’t feel well, dear,” she said. “I shall go up to my room. Don’t expect to see me again to-day, father, and don’t be uneasy. You are right, dear,” she said, with her voice trembling for a moment; then, flinging her arms round his neck, she kissed him passionately.

Mr Penwynn held her to his breast, and returned her kisses.

“It is very, very hard to bear, father. Oh, don’t—don’t you think we may be mistaken?”

“No,” he said sternly; “I do not.”

Rhoda heaved a bitter sigh, and then drew herself up, but bent down and kissed him once more.

“I’m your daughter, dear,” she said, with a piteous smile; “but I’m going to be very brave. I shall be too proud to show every thing I feel.”

She left the study and went up to her chamber, where she stood gazing from the window at the sunlit sea and glorious view of many-tinted rocks around the bay; but she could only see one thing now, and that was her broken idol as he had lain upon the floor below, and uttered the words, still burning in her ears, full of pity for “poor little Madge.”

Chapter Forty Three.

Awakening to the Worst.

Geoffrey Trethick, as the servants had said, rose from the place where he was lying, and stood trying to think; but his brain seemed out of gear, and all he could master was the idea that he was not in a fit state to be at An Morlock. Consequently he groped his way out, staggered along the drive, and began to make for the hotel in a vague, erratic fashion, greatly to the amusement of such people as he met.

Fortunately for him about the sixth person he encountered was Amos Pengelly, who limped up, looking at him with a curious expression of disgust upon his countenance.

“‘Wine is a mocker,’” he muttered; “‘strong drink is raging.’ He’s been trying to forget it all.”

The stout miner hesitated for a moment, and then took and drew Geoffrey’s arm through his own, supporting his uncertain steps, and leading him straight to the hotel, where they were refused entrance.

“No,” said Mrs Polwinno, the landlady; “Mr Trethick had better take his favours somewhere else;” and Mr Polwinno, her little plump, mild husband, nodded his head, and said, “Exactly so, my dear.”

Amos Pengelly frowned, and the disgust he felt grew so strong that he was ready to loosen his hold upon Geoffrey, and leave him to his fate.

“He is false,” he said to himself, “and bad, and now he has taken to the gashly drink, and I’ve done with him.”

But as he spoke he looked in Geoffrey’s flushed face and wild, staring eyes, and something of his old feeling of respect and veneration for his leader came back, and with it a disposition to find some scriptural quotation to suit his case.

“‘A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves,’” he muttered. “Yes, he’s fell among thieves, who’ve robbed him of his reason, and I can’t leave him now.”

Taking hold of the helpless man a little more tightly, and knitting his brows, Amos Pengelly, in complete forgetfulness now of his scriptural quotation, proceeded unconsciously to act the part of the Good Samaritan, but under far more trying circumstances.

He had not gone far before he met Tom Jennen, slouching along with his hands deep down in the pockets of a pair of coarse flannel trousers, which came well under the arm-pits, and covered his chest, and the sight of those he met made Tom Jennen grin most portentously.

“Why, Amos,” he said, “they told me the gashly old mine was drowned, when it was engineer and head miner. Why, Amos, I thought you’d took the pledge.”

Pengelly tightened his lips and went on without answering, finding no little difficulty in keeping his companion upright.

“Ah,” said old Mrs Trevoil, standing knitting a jersey at her door, and smiling maliciously, “some folk gets up and preaches o’ Sundays among the Methodies, and teaches what other folk should do, and can’t keep theirselves straight.”

“Yes,” said a sister gossip, in a loud voice, “that’s a nice companion for a preacher. Shame on you, Amos Pengelly! You ought to be took off the plan.”

Pengelly’s face grew tighter, and he strode manfully on without deigning to say a word, or to make a reply, as he ran the gauntlet of the fisher-folk standing at the low granite doors, though the remarks he heard thrown at his own religious leanings, and at Geoffrey’s double fall from the path of virtue, stung him as sharply as if he had been passing through a nest of hornets.

“I’d take him ’bout with me to chapel o’ Sundays till you’ve converted him if I was thee, Amos Pengelly,” said one sharp-tongued woman at last, as he turned the corner of the steep lane where he lived; and then his own door was reached. He dragged Trethick inside, and passed his hand across his dripping brow before taking the young man, now terribly helpless, upon his back, after the fashion of a sack, and carrying him up the short flight of steps and laying him upon his own bed, where Geoffrey seemed to go off at once into a deep sleep.

For the drug had had a most potent effect upon him, from the fact that he had partaken of a terribly strong dose in the dregs of the bottle, where it had settled down; the two watchers at the furnace, though they had drunk deeply, neither of them having swallowed one-half so much.

As soon as Pengelly had relieved himself of his load, he sank down in the one chair in his bare bedroom, and sat watching Geoffrey hour after hour, waiting for him to awaken.

“When he’s sober, and in his right mind, I’ll talk to him,” said Pengelly, to himself; and there he sat, hour after hour, comforting himself by singing hymns in a low voice, giving them out first two lines at a time, after announcing number and tune, to an imaginary congregation gathered round; and this he kept up till the afternoon.

Then he went down to the mine, leaving Geoffrey locked in; but, on reaching the cliff, it was only to see so many people hanging about the buildings discussing the accident that he had not the heart to go there and be questioned; so he turned aside, and walked on past the old mine shaft to Gwennas Cove, hoping to find old Prawle outside, for he felt that he could not go to the cottage.

He had his wish, for the old man was there, sitting upon a stone and smoking his pipe.

“Well, Amos,” he said, as the miner came up, “so you’ve flooded the mine, I hear.”

“Ay, she’s full o’ water,” said Pengelly, sadly.

“Ah, that’s a bad job; but what fools ye must have been.”

“Fools, perhaps, not to keep a better look-out; but it’s done, Master Prawle, and we must get the water out. How’s Bessie?”

“Busy,” said the old man, shortly.

Pengelly stood looking down at him for some few minutes, wanting to speak, but flinching from his task.

“Well,” said the old man at last, “what is it? Ye’re a strange chap, Amos Pengelly. Ye won’t drink nor smoke a pipe, only stand and stare and glower, as if you was too good to mix with the like o’ me. Now speak out, or else go.”

“I want to know if it’s all true, Master Prawle?”

“If what’s all true?”

“What I’ve heard up churchtown.”

“How do I know what you’ve heard up churchtown? I was there this morning, and I heard that Wheal Carnac was flooded. Is that what you mean?”

“No, Master Prawle. I mean—I mean about Mullion’s lass. Is she here?”

The old man took his pipe from his mouth, and nodded.

“Did Master Trethick bring her here last night?”

The old man nodded again.

“And it is all true about—about the little one?”

“Ay, it’s all true enough,” said the old man. “But never mind about that. He’ll marry her by-and-by, and it will be all right next time. Look here, Amos, what are you going to do about Wheal Carnac?”

“I don’t know,” said the miner.

“Then get to know,” said old Prawle, eagerly. “Look here, Amos, you’re fond of coming and hanging about, and I know what you mean, of course. So look here, I say, if you want to be friends with me, Amos Pengelly, you’ve got to come and tell me what goes on there, and what you are going to do, my lad, about that mine, d’ye hear?”

“Yes, Master Prawle,” said the miner, heavily. “I must go back now.”

“Yes, you’d better,” the old man said, with a leer. “They don’t want men folk about here now. My Bessie has turned me out, and I don’t seem to belong to the place. I’ll walk part of the way back with you, Amos, and talk about the mine;” and, to Pengelly’s astonishment, the old man did so, talking eagerly the while about the water, and the best way to clear it off.

“P’r’aps they’ll give her up now, Amos,” he said, at last. “P’r’aps they won’t spend no more over her.”

“Very likely,” said Pengelly, wearily.

“Then mind this—if you want me to be on your side, Amos, you come over now and then and tell me all.”

Pengelly nodded, and they parted, the miner making haste back to his cottage, where he found that Geoffrey had not stirred, neither did he move all that night, while Pengelly dozed beside him in a chair.

It seemed as if he would never wake, and the probabilities are that a man with a less vigorous constitution would never have woke again, so powerful was the drug thrown with reckless hand into the brandy by the ignorant man.

In fact it was ten o’clock the next morning before Geoffrey started up and gazed wonderingly at Pengelly.

“You’ve woke up at last, sir,” said the miner, with a reproachful look.

“At last? What do you mean? Good heavens! How my head throbs.”

“It was a sorry trick to do, Master Trethick, and not a man’s part, to go and drown your brain like the pit.”

“Look here, Pengelly, my head’s all in a whirl. I’m ill. I hardly know what I am saying. How came I here?”

“I carried you here mostly, Master Trethick, sir, after you come away from An Morlock.”

“Did I go to An Morlock?”

“Yes, sir, I s’pose so—to say the mine was flooded.”

“Yes, of course, the mine was flooded; but did I go to Mr Penwynn’s?”

“Yes, sir, in a state such as I had never believed I could see you, sir—full of drink.”

“What?”

“I suppose you had been taking it to make you forget the trouble, sir. That drop I gave you at the furnace—”

“Ah, to be sure,” cried Geoffrey, who saw more clearly now—“that brandy.”

“Wouldn’t have hurt a child, sir,” said the miner, bitterly.

“But it sent my two men to sleep. What time is it now—three—four?” he cried, gazing at the window.

“It’s ten o’clock, sir, and you’ve been since two yesterday sleeping it off.”

“Then that stuff was drugged,” cried Geoffrey. “Here, Pengelly, may I wash here? I must go up to An Morlock directly.”

There was a knocking on the door below, and Pengelly descended, while Trethick tried to clear his head by drinking copiously of the cold water, and then bathing his face and head.

“Good heavens! If I went up to An Morlock in such a state what would they think? How unfortunate. Every thing goes wrong.”

The cold water did clear his dull brain somewhat, but his lips and throat were parched, and he felt terribly ill. So confused was he still, that for the time he had forgotten all about Madge Mullion, while the proceedings of the previous day seemed to him to be seen through a mist, and the more he tried, the worse confusion he was in. One thing, however, was certain, and that was that he must go up to An Morlock at once, and see Mr Penwynn about the mine.

“Humph! here is a comb,” he said. “I’ll straighten a little, and then run up home, and—”

He dropped the comb and caught at the window-sill, where a little glass was standing, for as he mentioned that word home, he felt giddy, and back, like a flash, came the recollection of all that had passed.

He had no home to go to. Rhoda must have heard of that awkward incident, and he had been up to An Morlock while under the influence of a drug.

“Feel giddy, sir?” said a voice. “I’ll give you a cup of tea before you go away; but here’s Mr Penwynn’s man been with a letter for you.”

Geoffrey caught the letter from the bearer’s hands, and, with a terrible feeling of dread oppressing him, tore it open, and read it through twice before he fully realised its meaning.

It was very short but to the point, and Geoffrey seemed to see the stern-looking writer as the words gradually took shape and meaning.

For Mr Penwynn said, in cold, plain terms, that, after what had taken place, of course Mr Trethick saw that he could not call at An Morlock again, and that he was commissioned by Miss Penwynn to say that she fully endorsed her father’s words. As to the mine, for the present Mr Trethick must continue his duties there, and in the conduct of their business relations Mr Penwynn called upon him to use his most strenuous exertions to reduce the loss, and to place the mine in its former state.

“Curse the mine!” cried Geoffrey aloud. “What is that compared to my character there? Pengelly,” he cried fiercely, “do people believe this scandal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And yesterday? What about me? How did I seem?”

“Like one, sir,” said the miner sternly, “who had forgotten that he was a man, and drunk till he was a helpless beast.”

“And I went there like that,” thought Geoffrey. “Perhaps she saw me. And she believes all this.”

He stood there with his head feeling as if a flood had burst in upon his throbbing brain.

Chapter Forty Four.

Geoffrey’s New Lodgings.

Geoffrey Trethick had truly expressed his character when he said that he had Cornish blood in his veins, and could be as obstinate as any in the county. Whether he was descended from the same race as peopled the opposite coast of France, it is impossible to say, but he was as stubborn as any Breton ever born.

The days glided on, and he found that he was disbelieved and doubted; that Mr Penwynn had lost faith in him, and that Rhoda had set herself aloof; and one way and another he was so exasperated that he set his teeth firmly, and swore he would never say another word in his own defence.

“Let them think what they may, say what they like, I’ll never protest or deny again; and as for Rhoda, fickle, cold-hearted, cruel girl, I hate her with all my heart—and I am a liar for saying so,” he cried. “But that’s all over, and some day or another she shall beg my pardon—and I’ll tell her so.”

Acting on the impulse of the moment he sat down and hastily penned a note to her, without internal address or signature, placed it in his pocket, and kept it there ready for posting when he passed the office. It was very brief.

“I gave you my love in full trust and hope. I believed you gave me yours in return. Trouble came—accident—mishap—and appearances blackened me. You heard much, saw less, and you judged me from hearsay, giving me no opportunity for defence. In other words, you believed me to be as great a scoundrel as ever walked this earth. I accept your washes conveyed in your father’s note; but some day you will beg my pardon—ask my forgiveness. I shall wait till that day comes.”

Not a very gentle letter to send to a lady, but he sent it just at a time, to use his own words, when his soul was raw within him.

He had seen Mr Penwynn, who ridiculed the idea of the flooding being the work of an enemy, and bade him, imperiously, free the mine from water.

He was too proud to say much, but accepted at once the position of servant, and went his way to examine the mine once more, set the pumping-engine working at its highest pressure, and found at the end of twenty-four hours that he had not sunk the water the eighth of an inch.

Then he had found himself deliberately “cut” by the better-class people in the place, and that his efforts to obtain even the humblest lodgings were in vain. The hotel people excused themselves on the plea of want of room, and for several nights he slept in the office by the mine.

There was one man, though, who seemed to be hunting Geoffrey about from place to place, but he avoided him in his anger.

“I know what he wants to say to me,” he cried, “and, by George! I won’t have it. I never did strike any one wearing the cloth, but I’m in that aggravated state of mind just now that if he did speak to me, and begin to preach, I should hit him.”

It is needless to say that the man he avoided was the vicar.

“Reverend Master Lee has been here again, sir,” said Amos Pengelly to him one morning, “and I said you’d be here soon, and he’s coming again.”

“Then I won’t see him,” cried Geoffrey, angrily. “Look here, Pengelly, I’m not going to be driven out of Carnac. People are sending me to Coventry, and are trying to aggravate me into going, but I sha’n’t go.”

“No, sir, I wouldn’t go,” said Pengelly, quietly. “I’d stay here and put the mine right, and then make amends.”

Trethick turned upon him fiercely, but Pengelly did not shrink, and the young man uttered an impatient “pish!”

“Look here, Pengelly, I must have lodgings somewhere. What am I to do? I’m not a dog to live in this kennel of an office.”

“You can share my place if you like.”

“No, no; I told you I would not.”

“I was talking to Mrs Prawle about it last even, sir.”

“What! you were over at the Cove?” said Geoffrey, eagerly. “How was poor Madge?”

“Very sadly, sir, they say. You haven’t been over for some days.”

“I? No, of course not,” said Geoffrey, sharply. “What should I do there?”

“Mrs Prawle said that if you could not get a better place, they had their little parlour and the one room out of it to spare; and Bessie said she would tend you if you liked.”

“But, hang it, man! I couldn’t go there,” cried Geoffrey.

“I don’t see why, sir,” said Pengelly, simply. “I couldn’t go there now, or I’d give up my place to you, but you could.”

“Oh, no—impossible!”

“They’re wonderfully clean people, sir,” continued Pengelly, “and, though the furnishing’s humble, they’d make you very comfortable, for old Master Prawle’s seldom in the house, and it’s little you’d want it for except for your breakfast and to sleep.”

“But that poor girl’s there,” cried Geoffrey.

“I don’t see why that should make any difference, sir,” said Pengelly. “I was talking to Bessie about it after Mrs Prawle had spoken, and I went against it; but she said it would be quite right, and hoped you would go.”

“Indeed!” said Geoffrey. “I say, Pengelly, how many times have you been there lately?”

“Every night, sir. It come of my taking a message, and money, and a parcel, from Mistress Mullion up at the cottage; for, though she can’t have her child back, because of old Mr Paul, her heart’s very sore about her, and she sends there every day.”

“And so you and Miss Bessie have been talking matters over, eh?”

“Yes, sir. I’m a poor fellow to go to a woman’s eye, but I’d try very hard to go to her heart,” said the miner, simply.

“I did not mean that, Pengelly,” said Geoffrey, smiling. “I meant about my matters.”

“Oh yes, sir, a deal; and if you can’t get elsewhere, I’d go there.”

The miner went off about his work, and Geoffrey began to think over what had been proposed.

“Oh, no; it would be madness to go there. It would be giving colour to the report;” and he dismissed the idea from his mind. But that evening, as he sat at the office-door upon the bleak, wind-swept promontory, with the remnants of a cheerless meal, brought him by one of the miners’ wives, upon the desk behind him, and the prospect of a night upon the bench beside the door, with a rolled-up coat for a pillow, his thoughts went back to the cottage at Gwennas, and he had to light a pipe to try and soothe himself, so bitter were his feelings.

“It’s too bad—a thousand times too bad for any thing,” he cried, as he gazed out to sea at the ever-darkening waves, now beginning to glitter with the reflections from the stars above.

“’Pon my soul, I’m the most unlucky fellow that ever breathed, and it’s miserable living like this. Suppose I go to old Prawle’s? I could sit with him down in his cave, and smoke, and drink smuggled liquor. I’m a drunkard by reputation, so why not indulge?

“I like poor old Mrs Prawle—and Bessie. Good lass.”

He had a long, quiet think, and then burst out into a cynical laugh.

“What would Carnac say if I went there?”

And directly after, in a hard fit of stubborn opposition,—

“What does Carnac say now? Damn Carnac. I will go, and they may say and think what they will.”

He had worked himself up into such a fit of passion, that for fear he should cool down, and let himself back out of what he looked upon as a bit of revenge upon the scandal-loving place, he started off at once, reached the cliff, and walked swiftly along to the Cove, where, as he came to the rapid descent, he stopped short to gaze at the place below.

On a stone outside the door, which was open, and from which came forth a soft flood of light, sat old Prawle, smoking away, with the bowl of his short black pipe glowing in the twilight like a star, while leaning against the door-post, with something in her arms, was Bessie Prawle, rocking herself to and fro, and singing an old Cornish ditty in a sweet, wild voice.

“By George!” said Geoffrey, softly, “I’d forgotten the bairn.”

He stood there watching that scene and listening to Bessie’s song for some time, and it set him thinking of women and children, and of what strength there is in their weakness to alter the journey of life. Then he thought of the suffering girl inside, lying there helpless and forsaken in her sorest time of need; and lastly he thought he would go back and try and furnish up the office and make it habitable, but just then a gruff voice hailed him with a rough—

“Hallo!”

“Hallo, Father Prawle!” he cried, and he went down, Bessie retiring into the cottage as he came into sight, “What’s the news about the mine?” said the old man.

“Bad,” was the reply. “Don’t go away, Miss Bessie. How is your patient?”

“Not well, Mr Trethick,” she said, coming back and standing before him with the baby in her arms, and gazing firmly and unshrinkingly in his face.

“I’m sorry. Poor lass!” he said. “May I come in?”

Bessie drew back, and he stooped and entered the room, where poor invalid Mrs Prawle was seated; and half an hour after the affair was so far decided that he had been referred to old Prawle himself to settle terms.

The old man had descended the rock-hewn steps to his bit of a cavern, from which came up the loud crackling of wood, while a ruddy glow shone out on the darkened rocks.

“Ahoy, there!” shouted Geoffrey.

“Ahoy!” echoed the old man. “Come down.”

Geoffrey descended, to find a ruddy fire burning, and a quaint old copper kettle singing in the hottest place.

“I thought you’d come down and have a pipe and a drop o’ brandy before you went back, my lad,” said the old man, in his grim, gruff way. “Sit down on yon tub. There’s some good tobacco there.”

“Ah, that looks sociable,” said Geoffrey, who was at heart a very gregarious animal. “I want to talk to you about terms.”

“What, for the mine?” said the old man, sharply.

“No: for lodgings, if you’ll have such a bad character in the house as I.”

“Been talking to them?” said the old fellow.

“Yes; and they are quite willing. Are you?”

“Oh, ay, I’m willing enough,” said Prawle, roughly. “I like bad characters,” he chuckled. “We’re all bad characters here—so they say.”

“Then I shall be in the right place,” said Geoffrey, cynically. “But come, what shall I pay you?”

“Whatever the old woman thinks right, my lad,” said the old man, who, in spite of his grim ways, seemed to glance with favouring eyes at his visitor. “Sattle it with that poor soul up yonder, and pay her the bit of money regular. Let her think—hold that glass upright while I pour in the hot water—now help yourself to the brandy. Never paid duty in its life,” he whispered, grinning.

Geoffrey poured in the spirit, and helped himself to the sugar. The old man mixed for himself, tasted, nodded, and went on—

“Let her think, poor soul, that she’s saving and helping to pay for her keep, and it will make her happy. Better than selling sweets.”

“That’s settled then, Father Prawle?”

“Sattled,” said the old man, holding out a great, gnarled hand, and giving Geoffrey’s a tremendous grip. “We don’t want the brass, but it pleases her.”

“And I may come down here and smoke a pipe when I like?”

“Ay, ay, my lad, and welcome,” said old Prawle. “You’ll find the brandy in the locker here, and the key’s always up on that ledge of rock yonder in the niche, and the matches are over t’other side there in that one. There’s always plenty of wreck-wood for a bit of fire, and I keep the breaker there full of fresh water.”

“Good,” said Geoffrey, smiling. “Then I shall come to-morrow, Father Prawle, and the world may say what it likes.”

“That for the world!” cried the old man, contemptuously exhaling a great puff of smoke. “The world’s called me wrecker, smuggler, and thief. The world has called my bonnie lass there witch. Let it. I’m a rough old fellow, Master Trethick, and I’d ha’ knocked you down at one time—I’d ha’ throwed you over the cliff at one time, ’fore I knowed you; but you stood up like a man for my bonnie lass there, and you’ve said a many kind word to my poor creetur up yonder, and there’s my hand.”

He held out the great gnarled fist again, and Geoffrey took it and had his own tightly gripped.

“I don’t care for what people say,” growled the old fellow. “This place is mine, and I could buy a dozen such if I liked. You’re welcome, my lad, as long as you like, and when you care to go I can give you as good a bit o’ fishing as a man could have, and as good a drop of brandy and bit of tobacco. As to Mullion’s lass, that’s no affair o’ mine, and I sha’n’t make it any affair o’ mine; but it’s as fine a little youngster as I ever see.”

Geoffrey’s countenance, that had been glowing from the joint effects of the warmth of the fire and old Prawle’s hospitable words, grew dark once more; but he sat chatting to the old man for another hour, and then returned to the office by the mine.

The next day Carnac society had another shock right to the centre, and Miss Pavey was outraged in her tenderest feelings by the news which she heard, and which she hastened to take to An Morlock, namely, that that wicked young man had now joined poor lost Madge Mullion at the Cove.

At night old Mr Paul heard the news as well, as he tottered through the place by the help of his stick, and he went back home, and smoked the first cheroot he had smoked for days, to tell Mrs Mullion; and the news had somewhat the colour of hope in the poor, sad mother’s eyes.

Chapter Forty Five.

Oak and Willow.

Mr Chynoweth was in very good spirits one morning, for he had composed a letter, offering his hand and fortune to Miss Pavey, entirely to his satisfaction. It was written in a large engrossing hand upon superfine brief paper, and had the legal look that a document of so much importance ought to wear.

“I think that will do it,” said Mr Chynoweth. “Her little income and my little income will make a big income; and with rubbers regularly three times a week, we ought to add something to the common fund.”

So rubbing his hands with satisfaction, he proceeded to play a quiet game in his desk, which he had just finished as Mr Penwynn came in, when Mr Chynoweth referred to his slate, and told him where Geoffrey had gone to lodge.

“It is nothing to me,” said the banker, “so long as he does his work. Any thing fresh?”

“No, sir, nothing. He has been here this morning, and said there was little to report. He says all his efforts to relieve the mine are useless; that hardly any thing can be done.”

“Tell him when he comes again that he must do something. I must call in fresh help if he is too ignorant to free the mine from water.”

He might have called in the help of half the engineers in England, but they could not have shown him a satisfactory means of battling with the huge rush of water that entered the gap blown out by the wretched man. For beneath the sea there was always a torrent ready to take the place of any that might be pumped out, and, after endless investigations, Geoffrey Trethick and Pengelly gazed at each other in despair.

It was bitterly tantalising. Here was the rich tin ore waiting for them in abundance, but no means of reaching and sending it up.

They examined the shore. Went out in boats and sounded. Took into consideration the possibility of throwing in sand bags over the chasm, but on such a coast they would have been tossed aside by the first storm; and the despair at Geoffrey Trethick’s heart grew blacker.

They were bitter times too, for Mr Penwynn. On the strength of the success, John Tregenna had presented himself, made a claim, and been handsomely paid off by the banker, who, wishing to be on good terms with the man he had formerly disappointed and being then in the full flush of triumph, had paid Tregenna double the amount agreed upon, and now he was too proud to demand it back, though it would have been a useless proceeding if he had.

Large as was the sum he drew, Tregenna had been terribly wroth, but when the news came to him of the flooding of the mine he sat and gloated over his success, and laughed to himself till he began to think of the man Lannoe, his tool, and of the possibility of getting rid of him in some plausible way, so as to be sure of being free from demands for black mail.

Then the days passed with more good news. It was certain, he knew, that Geoffrey had been dismissed from visiting at An Morlock, news that was delightful in its way. Then Lannoe did not come, though he was expecting him day after day, till a strange feeling of hope began to grow into a certainty, and at last he felt sure that the man had lost his life in his nefarious attempt.

Lastly came to him the information that Geoffrey Trethick had gone to lodge with the Prawles; and John Tregenna laughed aloud as he thought once more of Rhoda, and of the time when he could renew his pretensions, and this time, perhaps, with better success.

The days wore on, and finding that nothing could be done in the way of pumping out the mine, Geoffrey and Pengelly spent their time in the top galleries, to which the water had not reached, searching in vain for something in the way of reward.

The former found his bad character seemed to have but little effect upon the poorer people of Carnac, even though Miss Pavey in her visiting said that he was a terrible wretch, and ought to be excommunicated by the church. His worst failing in the eyes of the people was his going to lodge at Prawle’s, and unwittingly in this he had done poor Madge an ill turn, for the news reached the cottage just at a time when old Paul had settled that Mrs Mullion should fetch her daughter home. When this news came he bade her wait.

So time went on, and from the poorer folk there was always a shake or a nod as Geoffrey passed, and now and then an offering of fish from Tom Jennen or some other rough fellow with whom he had spent a night out in the bay.

He was passing along the road one day, in a very morose humour, when he came full upon the Reverend Edward Lee, and was about to pass him with a short nod, but the vicar stopped.

“How are you?” said Geoffrey, shortly.

“Not well, Trethick,” said the vicar, holding out his hand, to the other’s great surprise.

“Sorry for it,” said Geoffrey, grimly, shaking hands. “What is it—bile?”

The vicar looked at him with a pained expression of countenance.

“No,” he said, “I am sick at heart. We don’t see one another often, Trethick. May I walk with you?”

“Oh, if you like,” said Geoffrey, as the vicar turned and walked by his side. “I was going over the hill yonder by Horton mine, to let the wind blow some of my bad temper out of me.”

“I should like to go with you, Trethick,” said the vicar, eagerly.

“Look here, Lee,” exclaimed Geoffrey, “I’m a man of the world, and rough usage has made me rough. If you want to talk pious platitudes to me by rote, please don’t, for we should be sure to quarrel. I am horribly unholy this morning.”

“But I do not,” exclaimed the vicar, earnestly. “I want to talk to you as a man of the world.”

“Come on, then,” said Geoffrey; “it’s a treat to talk to a civilised being now.”

He thrust his arm through that of the young vicar, and hurried him on and on up-hill till the latter was breathless. Then he stopped.

“Now then!” said Geoffrey, “here we are, right out on the top, with heaven above and the free air around; now talk to me like a man of the world.”

The vicar followed Geoffrey’s example, and threw himself on the short, crisp turf, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and gazing at his companion with a curiously troubled air.

“Now then,” said Geoffrey, “man of the world, make a beginning.”

The vicar hesitated, and Geoffrey smiled.

“Well, I’ll help you,” he said. “You want to know why I have not been at church lately?”

“Yes,” said the vicar, eagerly catching at the ball thrown to him, “I did want to speak to you about that for one thing.”

“Too wicked!” said Geoffrey. “Mind too much taken up with other things.”

“Too much bent upon laying up treasure upon earth, Trethick, thinking too little of the treasure in heaven.”

“I thought you said that you were going to talk to me like a man of the world,” said Geoffrey, sharply.

“Yes, yes—I am,” was the hasty reply, for the vicar saw that a few more words in the same strain would send his companion away.

“Go on then. You said you were heart-sick,” said Geoffrey. “What’s the matter?”

“I am in a great deal of trouble, Trethick,” said the vicar, heavily. “I’m not a man of the world, but you are, and—and—I like you, Trethick, I don’t know why, but I wish we were better friends.”

“You like me?” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Why, my good sir, you and I are like positive and negative poles; we repel one another.”

“But why should we, Trethick? You seem always to exercise a strange power over me. I did not like you at first.”

“No,” said Geoffrey. “I was too rough and outspoken; too irreligious. I shocked you.”

“Yes, yes. That is true,” said the vicar.

“Then you found that I was a rival, and you hated me?”

“No: not hated you,” said the vicar, sadly. “I felt that we could never be friends. That was all.”

“Look here, Lee,” said Trethick; “are you a saint, or a humbug?”

“Certainly not the first,” said the vicar, smiling. “I sincerely hope not the second.”

“No: I don’t believe you are,” said Geoffrey, shortly. “Well, sir, the game’s up. I’ve failed in my projects, and I’ve failed in my love. The way is open. I am no rival now.”

“Trethick,” said the vicar, earnestly, “can’t we be friends?” and he held out his hand.

“Oh, yes, if you like,” said Geoffrey, bitterly. “But why should you want to be friends with such a blackguard? There, man, go and have your way. I’m out of the race.”

“You are speaking very bitterly, Trethick,” said the vicar, sadly.

“You are bitterly disappointed with your failures. So am I. It is as Mr Penwynn said that evening: we have not been able to make our way.”

“But you are making your way,” said Geoffrey.

“No,” replied the vicar, shaking his head, “not at all. I cannot move these people. I try all I can; I have done every thing possible, but they prefer to go to that wretched chapel, and to hear such men as Pengelly. Trethick, I speak to you as a man of the world,” he continued, growing each moment more earnest, and his face flushing. “I am in despair; that is why I came to you, whom I know to be disappointed, as I am myself. I cannot get at these people’s hearts. I yearn to do good amongst them, but I cannot stir them, while you seem to touch them to the core. If I announced that you would preach to them next week, the place would be thronged; as it is, it is nearly empty. Why is this?”

“Because I am the sinner, you the saint,” said Geoffrey, bitterly. “There, don’t look shocked, man; it is because you are too clever—too scholarly with them; you put on the priest’s garment, and with it the priest’s mask, and completely hide your nature. Let them know your profession by your ways, sir, and not by your cassock. I believe you are a good fellow at heart. Your words now prove it; but you have grown so full of belief in form and ceremony that you think them all in all. Why, Lee,” he cried, lighting up, “I could get these people to follow me like dogs.”

“Yes,” said the vicar, sadly; “but they shun me.”

“No,” said Geoffrey; “I am boasting. But still I believe I could move them. Look here, Lee, you are in earnest over this?”

“Earnest?” cried the other. “I’d give any thing to win them to my side.”

“Then be more of a man, less of a priest. Don’t draw such a line of distinction between you. Mix with them more. Never mind the long cassock and ritualistic hat. Take more interest in their pursuits, and let them feel how much your nature, however polished, is like theirs.”

“I will, Trethick. Yes, you are right. I am sure you are right.”

“I believe—I hope I am,” said Geoffrey.

“I am sure of it,” cried the vicar; “and I see now how unsuited much of my teaching has been. But now about yourself, Trethick, let me begin by being more human, and helping you.”

“How can you help me?” said Geoffrey, bitterly. “I am a hopeless bankrupt in pocket and morals, so the world says; and I am cut off from all that I looked forward to with happiness. Why don’t you be up and doing, man, as I told you?” he cried, with a mocking devil in his eyes; “the way is open—go and win the race.”

“I do not understand you,” said the vicar, sadly.

“Don’t understand? You know you loved Rhoda Penwynn.”

“I did love her—very dearly,” said the vicar, simply.

“And not now?”

He shook his head.

“Miss Penwynn would never have cared for me,” he said, quietly; “I soon learned that. These things are a mystery, Trethick. Don’t speak of that any more. It hurts me.”

Geoffrey nodded.

“Here, sit down,” he cried, “I’m tired, bodily and mentally. I feel as if I want my mother-earth—to nurse me. There,” he cried, settling himself upon the turf with a grim smile, “sometimes, lately, I’ve felt as if I should like her to take me in her cold, clayey arms, to sleep never to wake again.”

“Don’t talk like that, Trethick,” said the vicar, appealingly; “life is too real and good to be carelessly thrown away.”

“Right, Lee; you are right—quite right. Well, then,” he said, “I won’t; but look here, man, you want to win the people to your side—here is your opportunity. That poor girl—Margaret Mullion.”

“Yes,” said the vicar, eagerly. “I wanted to talk to you about her.”

“Go on then.”

“I dared not commence,” he said, “I shrank from beginning; but that was one reason why I longed to talk to you, Trethick.”

“Well,” said the other, smiling. “I am all attention.”