George Manville Fenn (continued 7)

“I wanted—not to reproach you for your sin, Trethick—”

“That’s right,” said Geoffrey, smiling bitterly.

“Don’t treat it with levity, for heaven’s sake, Trethick,” cried the vicar. “Think of the poor girl—of her life blasted—of the wrecked fame, and of the expiation that might be made by way of atonement.”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “I have thought of all that.”

“But an hour ago I was with the broken-hearted mother, who was sobbing at my feet.”

“And she asked you to see me?”

“Yes. Begged me to see you and appeal to you, and I said I would. Mr Trethick, in our great Master’s name, think of all this—think of the poor girl’s fall, and try to make amends. No, no, don’t interrupt me till I have done. I tell you I have knelt and prayed, night after night, that your heart might be softened, and that your reckless spirit might be tutored into seeing what was right, and into ceasing from this rebellion against the laws of God and man.”

“Laws of God and man, eh?” said Geoffrey, mockingly.

“Yes; is it not written that the adulterer and adulteress shall be stoned?”

“Yes,” cried Geoffrey, fiercely; “and is it not written—‘He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone’? Damn it all, Lee, I’m sick of this. I’ve been stoned to death ever since this cursed affair got wind. My mistress—the woman I was to marry—casts the first stone at my devoted head; every one follows suit, and I am battered so that I don’t know myself.”

“You are mocking,” cried the vicar.

“I am not mocking,” cried Geoffrey; “but I am half-mad. And you,” he cried, passionately, “even you, who call yourself my friend, are like the rest. But what have you done for this wretched girl, abased and heart-broken in her sin—what have you done?—you and the better-class people? Treated her worse than the beasts that perish. One and all. And this is Christianity! Shame upon you! shame!”

The vicar looked at him appealingly as Geoffrey went on.

“Have you been to her and spoken words of comfort?”

“No,” said the vicar, humbly.

“Have you taken her by the hand, and bidden her go and sin no more?”

“No.”

“Have you tried to lead her to a better way—helped her, and guided others to help her in her sore distress?”

The vicar shook his head.

“And yet you say, How am I to win the hearts of these people?”

The vicar wiped the perspiration from his brow as Geoffrey went on.

“Not one soul of all who knew her came to the poor wretch’s help. Cast off by the man who robbed her of her fame, I found her maddened with despair. Rejected by her own people, I found her ready to die. Ready to die? I found her dying, for she had said to herself—‘My people—my love—the whole world turn their backs upon me. What is there for me to do but die?’ What should you say to the man who, finding the poor girl drowning, leaps into the sea, drags her out, and, like some poor beggarly imitation of a Samaritan, takes her to a home, and gives her help and shelter, in defiance of the world? What would you say to such a man as that?” cried Geoffrey.

“That he was a hero,” cried the vicar.

“You lie,” cried Geoffrey, leaping up in his excitement. “You lie to my face, for you come and tell me I am a villain; that I wrecked the poor girl’s happiness; that the world scorns me; and you bid me, for what I have done, to marry the girl and give her the shelter of my name.”

“But, Trethick—Geoffrey, did you do this?”

“Did I do this? Yes, but—damnation! there was a devil of pride rose up within me, when, on top of my reverses with the mine, I found every one turn against me, and my accusers would not let me speak. Even she who should have been the first to take my part, turned from me and made me more bitter still.”

“But, Trethick,” cried the vicar, excitedly, “is this true?”

“True,” cried Geoffrey, throwing up his arms towards heaven, as he stood there now with the veins starting in his brow, and the passion working within him bringing him to such a pitch of excitement, that his companion could see his temples throb. “I scarcely spoke word about it before; but I swear by the God above us I never felt love, thought love, or dreamed of love but for one woman, and, Heaven help me, she has cast me off.”

He turned away and rushed headlong down the hill, but the paroxysm of rage was over, the excitement gone; and he returned directly to throw himself upon the turf.

“Did you ever see such a madman?” he cried, bitterly. “There, go on with your lecture; I’ll hear you to the end.”

“Trethick,” said the vicar, quietly; and Geoffrey turned slowly towards him, to find that his companion was kneeling there with outstretched hands.

“Well?” was the harsh response.

“I asked you to let me be your friend. I ask you again, Geoffrey, as I ask you now, to forgive my doubts.”

Geoffrey caught his outstretched hands.

“You believe me?”

“Believe you? Yes, every word. Forgive me for wronging you so cruelly. I’ll try and make amends.”

“Not by taking my part—not by speaking about this?”

“Why not?”

“As the cloud came so let it go,” cried Geoffrey. “The poor girl is silent about her lover, but the truth will come out of itself. Till then I am content to wait, and let the world have its say.”

“But he must marry her—poor girl!”

“No!” said Geoffrey, sternly. “No! Better let her bear her lot, hard as it may be. The man who could forsake her in her greatest need would never make her a husband worthy of her love. She must accept her fate.”

“But you, Geoffrey Trethick. It is unmanly not to clear your fame.”

“Maybe,” he said, bitterly; “but I don’t think I am like other men. I shall wait until Time shall bleach it once more white.”

“But why not leave your lodgings?” said the vicar. “Take apartments elsewhere.”

“What, make a cowardly retreat?” cried Geoffrey.

“But the world. It was an unfortunate thing for you to do. Why did you go there?”

“Out of defiance,” cried Geoffrey.

“But that is past now. Try and make an effort to crush this wretched scandal upon your name. It is a duty, Geoffrey.”

“That I will not do,” he said, stubbornly.

“And Rhoda?” said the vicar, softly.

Geoffrey started as if stung.

“Let her wait too,” he said, angrily. “When she humbles herself and asks my pardon she shall have it, and with it my farewell words. Lee, I loved that woman as strongly as man could love, but that love is dead.”

They stood together now in silence for a few moments. Then Geoffrey turned to go.

“I’ll drop in on you some day, Lee,” he said, in his usual light tone. “Good-by, old fellow. I think we understand each other now.”

“I’ll come with you,” said the vicar, quietly.

“Come with me, where?”

“To see poor Madge.”

And they went together down the hill, oak and willow; but the oak growing gnarled and bowed with a canker in its breast, and the willow growing stronger every hour.

Chapter Forty Six.

A Thank-Offering.

Six months had passed since the night Geoffrey Trethick saved Madge Mullion’s life, and his character and his ways had become, like the failure of Wheal Carnac, matters of the past.

There had been scores of interesting topics since then. People had talked about Miss Pavey’s change, and how she followed the vicar like his shadow. There was that affair which had shaken Mr Penwynn’s little local bank, and the forced sales he had had to make to meet his engagements. The carriage had been put down at An Morlock, and there were people who said that no good would come of the banker’s great intimacy with John Tregenna, who was up at the house more frequently than he had been for some time past.

Geoffrey was as much at Coventry with the better-class people of Carnac as ever. Dr Rumsey nodded coldly when they met; old Mr Paul looked at him fiercely, and waited; and other people followed suit. There were no pleasant invitations to high tea, with rubbers of whist, and supper after. A man who had settled down as the companion of old Prawle, the wrecker, and made the cottage at Gwennas Cove his home, was not one to be received.

He used to laugh mockingly as he saw it all, and coolly accepted his fate. At the end of three months he had received a curt letter from Mr Penwynn, enclosing a cheque, and saying that his services were no more needed at Wheal Carnac; but Pengelly was kept on as care-taker of the valuable plant.

Then came rumours from time to time of talk of selling the mine, but no buyer could be found; and Geoffrey writhed as he thought of the treasures buried there, and of the impossibility of reaching them unless another shaft were sunk, and even then the prospects were so bad that the capital was not likely to be subscribed.

Old Prawle was generally the bearer of this news, and he took a wonderful interest in the place, though in a secretive, curious way; and after many chats with the old fellow, Geoffrey came to the conclusion that what he knew was of little worth, and the conversation ceased.

Sometimes he thought he would go, but the bitter spirit of obstinacy was in him more strongly than ever, and he stayed on, waiting, he said, for the apology he expected to get. When that came he meant to say good-by to the place forever. As it was he very rarely saw Rhoda, and when he did she refused to meet his eye.

One day there was a bit of excitement down on the cliff.

“Here you, Amos Pengelly, what have you got to say to it?” cried Tom Jennen. “You don’t carry on none o’ them games at chapel. Why don’t you set to and have thanksgiving, and turn chapel into green-grocer’s shop like up town in Penzaunce?”

Amos shook his head, but said nothing.

“Why,” said Tom Jennen, “you never see any thing like it, lads. I went up churchtown, and see something going on, when there was Penwynn’s gardener with a barrow full o’ gashly old stuff—carrots, and turnips, and ’tatoes, and apples, and pears, and a basket o’ grapes; an’ parson, and young Miss Rhoda, and Miss Pavey, all busy there inside turning the church into a reg’lar shop. Why, it’ll look a wonderful sight to-morrow.”

“They calls it harvest thanksgiving,” said another fisherman, “and I see pretty nigh a cartload o’ flowers, and wheat, and barley, and oats, go in. Won’t be no room for the people.”

“I thought the church looked very nicely,” interposed Amos Pengelly; “and if I wasn’t down on the plan to preach to-morrow at Saint Milicent, I’d go myself.”

“Lor’ a marcy, Amos Pengelly, don’t talk in that way,” said Tom Jennen. “I never go to church, and I never did go, but I never knew old parson carry on such games. Harvest thanksgiving indeed! I never see such a gashly sight in my life. Turnips in a church!”

“Well, but don’t you see,” said Amos, in an expounding tone of voice, “these here are all offerings for the harvest; and turnips and carrots may be as precious as offerings as your fine fruits, and grapes, and flowers.”

“Well said, lad,” exclaimed one of the fishermen; “and, like ’tatoes, a deal more useful.”

“Didn’t Cain an’ Abel bring their offerings to the altar?” said Amos, who gathered strength at these words of encouragement.

“Yes,” cried Tom Jennen, grinning, “and Cain’s ’tatoes, and turnips, and things weren’t much thought on, and all sorts o’ gashly trouble come out of it. Garden stuff ain’t the right thing for offerings. Tell ’ee what, lads, here’s our boat with the finest haul o’ mack’ral we’ve had this year, and Curnow’s boat half full o’ big hake. We arn’t got no lambs, but what d’yer say, Amos Pengelly, to our taking parson up a couple o’ pad o’ the finest mack’ral, and half a score o’ big hake?”

Tom Jennen winked at his companions as he said this, and his looks seemed to say,—“There’s a poser for him.”

Amos Pengelly rubbed one ear, and then he rubbed the other, as he stood there, apparently searching for precedent for such an act. He wanted to work in something from the New Testament about the Apostles and their fishing, and the miraculous draught, but poor Amos did not feel inspired just then, and at last, unable to find an appropriate quotation, he said,—

“I think it would be quite right, lads. It would be an offering from the harvest of the sea. Parson said he wanted all to give according to their means, and you, lads, have had a fine haul. Take up some of your best.”

“What, up to church?” cried Tom Jennen. “It’ll make a reg’lar gashly old smell.”

“Nay,” said Amos, “they’d be fresh enough to-morrow.”

“You daren’t take ’em up to parson, Tom Jennen,” said one of the men, grinning.

Tom took a fresh bit of tobacco, spat several times down on to the boulders, and narrowly missed a mate, who responded with a lump of stone from the beach below, and then, frowning hugely, he exclaimed,—

“I lay a gallon o’ ale I dare take up a hundred o’ mack’ral and half a score o’ hake, come now.”

“Ye daren’t,” chorused several. “Parson’ll gie ye such a setting down.”

“I dare,” cried Tom Jennen, grinning. “I arn’t feard o’ all the parsons in Cornwall. I’ll take it up.”

“Bet you a gallon o’ ale you won’t,” said one.

“Done,” cried Tom Jennen, clapping his hand into that of his mate.

“And I’ll lay you a gallon,” said another.

“And I,”—“and I,”—“and I,” cried several.

“Done! done! done!” cried Tom Jennen, grinning. “Get the fish, lads. I arn’t afraid o’ the gashly parson. I’ll take ’em.”

Amos Pengelly looked disturbed, but he said nothing.

“What’s he going to do with all the stuff afterwards?” said Tom Jennen.

“Give it to the poor folk, I hear,” said Amos.

“Then he shall have the fish,” cried Tom Jennen. “Anyhow, I’ll take ’em up.”

There was a regular roar of laughter here, and a proposal was made to go and drink one of the gallons of ale at once, a proposal received with acclamation, for now that the bet had been decided upon, the want of a little Dutch courage was felt: for, in spite of a show of bravado, there was not a man amongst the group of fishermen who did not, in his religiously-superstitious nature, feel a kind of shrinking, and begin to wonder whether “parson” might not curse them for their profanity in taking up in so mocking a spirit such an offering as fish.

“Thou’lt come and have a drop o’ ale, Amos Pengelly,” said Tom Jennen.

“No,” said Amos, “I’m going on.”

“Nay, nay, come and have a drop;” and almost by force Amos was restrained, and to a man the group joined in keeping him amongst them, feeling as if his presence, being a holy kind of man, might mitigate any pains that might befall them.

If one only had hinted at the danger, the rest would have followed, and the plan would have come to an end; but no one would show the white feather, and, with plenty of laughing and bravado, first one and then a second gallon of ale was drunk by the group, now increased to sixteen or seventeen men; after which they went down to the boats, the fish were selected, and four baskets full of the best were carried in procession up to the church, with Tom Jennen chewing away at his quid, his hands in his pockets, and swaggering at the head of the party.

It was a novel but a goodly offering of the silvery harvest of the sea, and by degrees the noisy talking and joking of the men subsided, till they spoke in whispers of what “parson” would say, and how they would draw off and leave Tom Jennen to bear the brunt as soon as they had set the baskets down by the porch; and at last they moved on in silence.

There was not one there who could have analysed his own feelings, but long before they reached the church they were stealing furtive glances one at the other, and wishing they had not come, wondering too, whether any misfortune would happen to boat or net in their next trip.

But for very shame, they would have set down the baskets on the rough stones and hurried away; but the wager had been made, and there was Tom Jennen in front rolling along, his hands deeper than ever in his pockets, first one shoulder forward and then the other. He drew a hand out once to give a tug at the rings in his brown ears, but it went back and down, and somehow, in spite of his bravado, a curious look came over Tom Jennen’s swarthy face, and he owned to himself that he didn’t like “the gashly job.”

“But I arn’t ’fraid o’ no parsons,” he said to himself, “and he may say what he will. I’ll win them six gallons o’ ale whether he ill-wishes or curses me, or what he likes.”

The dash and go of the party of great swarthy, black-haired fellows, in their blue jerseys and great boots, was completely evaporated as they reached the church, Tom Jennen being the only one who spoke, after screwing himself up.

“Stand ’em down here, lads,” he said; and the baskets, with their beautiful iridescent freight of mackerel, were placed in the porch, the men being glad to get rid of their loads; and their next idea was to hurry away, but they only huddled together in a group, feeling very uncomfortable, and Tom Jennen was left standing quite alone.

“I arn’t afeard,” he said to himself; but he felt very uncomfortable all the same. “He’ll whack me with big words, that’s what he’ll do, but they’ll all run off me like the sea-water off a shag’s back. I arn’t feard o’ he, no more’n I am o’ Amos Pengelly;” and, glancing back at his mates, he gave a sharp rap on the church door with a penny piece that he dragged out of his right-hand pocket, just as if it had been a counter, and he was going to call for the ale he meant to win.

There was a bit of a tremor ran through the group of brave-hearted, stalwart fishermen at this, just as if they had had an electric shock; and the men who would risk their lives in the fiercest storms felt the desire to run off stronger than ever, like a pack of mischievous boys; but not one stirred.

The door was opened by Miss Pavey, who was hot and flushed, and who had a great sheaf of oats in one hand and a big pair of scissors in the other, while the opening door gave the fishermen a view of the interior of the little church, bright with flowers in pot and bunch, while sheaves of corn, wreaths of evergreens, and artistically-piled-up masses of fruits and vegetables produced an effect very different to that imagined by the rough, seafaring men, who took a step forward to stare at the unusual sight.

Miss Pavey dropped her big scissors, which hung from her waist by a stout white cotton cord, something like a friar’s girdle; and as her eyes fell from the rough fishermen to the great baskets of fish, she uttered the one word,—

“My!”

“Here, I want parson, miss,” growled Tom Jennen, setting his teeth, and screwing his mahogany-brown face into a state of rigid determination.

“Hallo, my lads, what have you got here?” cried a cheery voice, as Geoffrey Trethick strode up.

“Fish! Can’t yer see?” growled Tom Jennen, defiantly.

“Here—here are the fishermen, Mr Lee,” faltered Miss Pavey; and, looking flushed with exertion, and bearing a great golden orange pumpkin in his arms, the Reverend Edward Lee came to the door, laid the pumpkin where it was to form the base of a pile of vegetables, and then, with his glasses glimmering and shining, he stood framed in the Gothic doorway, with Miss Pavey and Geoffrey on either side, both looking puzzled, Tom Jennen and the fish in the porch, and the group of swarthy, blue-jerseyed fishers grouped behind.

Now was the time for the tongue-thrashing to come in, and the roar of laughter from the fishermen, who had given up all hopes of winning the ale, but who were willing enough to pay for the fun of seeing “parson’s” looks and Tom Jennen’s thrashing, especially as they would afterwards all join in a carouse and help to drink the rest of the ale.

“Brought you some fish for your deckyrations, parson,” roared Tom Jennen, who had screwed his courage up, and, as he told himself, won the bet.

There was no answer, no expostulation, no air of offence, no look of injured pride, and, above all, no roar of laughter from his assembled mates.

For a moment or two the vicar looked at the offering, and the idea of incongruity struck him, but no thought of the men perpetrating a joke against his harvest festival. The next moment a rapt look seemed to cross his face, and he took off his glasses, gazing straight before him as visions of the past floated to his mind’s eye. To him, then, the bright bay behind the group suggested blue Galilee, and he thought of the humble fisher-folk who followed his great Master’s steps, and the first-fruits of the harvest of the sea became holy in his eyes.

Geoffrey Trethick looked at him wonderingly, and Miss Pavey felt a something akin to awe as she watched the young hero of her thoughts, with tears in her eyes; while he, with a slight huskiness in his voice, as he believed that at last he was moving the hearts of these rough, stubborn people, said simply,—

“I thank you, my men, for your generous offering,” and he stretched his hands involuntarily over the fish, “God’s blessing in the future be upon you when you cast your nets, and may he preserve you from the perils of the sea.”

“Amen!” exclaimed a loud voice from behind.

It was the voice of Amos Pengelly, who had stood there unobserved: and then there was utter silence, as the vicar replaced his glasses, little thinking that his few simple words and demeanour had done more towards winning over the rough fishermen before him than all his previous efforts or a year of preaching would have done.

“I am very glad,” he said, smiling, and holding out his hand to Tom Jennen, who hesitated for a moment, and then gave his great, horny paw a rub on both sides against his flannel trousers before giving the delicate, womanly fingers a tremendous squeeze.

“I am very glad to see you,” continued the vicar, passing Jennen, and holding out his hand to each of the fishermen in turn, hesitating for a moment as he came to Amos Pengelly, the unhallowed usurper of the holy office of the priest; but he shook hands with him warmly, beaming upon him through his glasses, while the men stood as solemn as if about to be ordered for execution, and so taken aback at the way in which their offering had been received that not one dared gaze at the other.

“Mr Trethick, would you mind?” said the vicar, apologetically, as he stooped to one handle of the finest basket of mackerel. “How beautiful they look.”

“Certainly not,” said Geoffrey, who took the other handle, and they, between them, bore the overflowing basket up to the foot of the lectern.

“We’ll make a pile of them here,” exclaimed the vicar, whose face was flushed with pleasure; and, setting the basket down, they returned for another, Miss Pavey, scissors in hand, once more keeping guard at the door.

“I am so glad,” he continued. “I wanted something by the reading-desk, and these fish are so appropriate to our town.”

“Let’s go and get parson ten times as many, lads,” cried Tom Jennen, excitedly.

“No, no,” said the vicar, laying his hand upon the rough fellow’s sleeve; “there are plenty here. It is not the quantity, my lads, but the way in which the offering is made.”

There was an abashed silence once more amongst the guilty group, which was broken by the vicar saying,—

“Will you come in and see what we have done?”

There was a moment’s hesitation and a very sheepish look, but as the head sheep, in the person of Tom Jennen, took off his rough cap, stooped, and lifted a basket and went in on tip-toe, the rest followed, their heavy boots, in spite of their efforts, clattering loudly on the red and black tiled floor, while the vicar took from them with his own hands the remainder of the fish, and placed them round the desk.

“I wish we could have had some pieces of ore, Mr Trethick,” said the vicar. “I should have liked to have represented some offerings of our other great industry here.”

“I’ll bring you some tin and copper, sir,” cried Amos Pengelly, who had been staring about, cap in hand, and wishing he might get up in that little stone pulpit and preach.

“And I will send you the first winnings from Wheal Carnac, Mr Lee,” said Geoffrey, quietly; and as he spoke he saw that Rhoda Penwynn, who had been grouping ferns by the communion rails, and hearing all, was present, and had heard his words, but she turned away.

“Will you?” cried the vicar, eagerly. “I thank you both, and I pray, Geoffrey Trethick, that your venture may prosper yet.”

“Thank you,” said Geoffrey, quietly, and he looked smilingly in the young vicar’s face till his scrutiny seemed to evoke a womanly blush.

In the mean time the fishermen, hanging close together in a group, stood cap in hand, staring round at the decorations of the church, and, lastly, at the wondrous tints upon the fish, that seemed to be intensified and made dazzling as the sun streamed through a stained glass window and fell upon the glistening heaps. One pointed to this heap of fruits, another to that, but no one spoke, and Tom Jennen furtively removed his tobacco quid, and stuffed the dirty-brown, wet morsel into the secrecy of his trousers pocket, giving his hand a polish after upon the top of one of his high fisher-boots.

“I’ll ask them all to come to church to-morrow,” whispered the vicar eagerly to Geoffrey, as Rhoda now came up, and a chilly greeting passed between her and the miner.

“No,” he said quickly; “don’t undo your work. You have moved them more than you imagine. Let well alone.”

A slight frown crossed Rhoda’s brow—forced there to keep herself from marking her approval of his words; and just then a diversion occurred, for Tom Jennen gave a pull at the crisp hair upon his forehead, muttered something about not hindering the stowage, and went off on tip-toe, his mates saluting the vicar in turn, and going gently out. Miss Pavey smiled as she closed the door behind them, and bowed in answer to their “Good-day, ma’am.”

Not a word was spoken as they made their way in a cluster down to the rails by the steep causeway leading to the boats, where they all grouped together, and stared from one to the other, waiting for some one to speak.

That some one proved to be Tom Jennen, who, after hunting out his quid from where it lay, in company with some half-pence, a stray button, and a lucky sixpence that acted as a charm against the evil eye, picked off some pieces of flue, tucked the quid in his cheek, and said gruffly,—

“It’s a gashly old job, lads, and we’ve been sold.”

“Ay, we have that,” was chorused; and the men nodded and shook their heads.

“I wouldn’t ha’ done it if I’d knowed he was such a good sort,” growled Tom, rather excitedly, “for he is a good sort, arn’t he?”

“Ay, lad, that he is,” was the ready answer.

“And what I say is this,” cried Tom. “I won the bet fair and square, and let him as says I didn’t, say so right out like a man.”

“Ay, lad, you won it fair enough,” was the reply.

“Well then,” said Tom Jennen, “let’s go and drink parson’s health in that there ale;” and he gave his lips, which were very dry with excitement, a hearty smack.

“Ay, lad,” was chorused, “we will.”

They did; and Amos Pengelly thought it was no harm to join.

Chapter Forty Seven.

A Meeting.

“How’s Madge?” said Geoffrey one morning, as he encountered Bess Prawle coming out of the bedroom with the baby in her arms.

“Very poorly,” said Bess sadly. “She’s wearing away, I think.”

“Had I better get Dr Rumsey to call?”

“No,” said Bess quietly; “no doctor will do her any good. Poor mother’s very ill too this morning. I hardly know what to do first.”

“Well, it is precious hard on you, Bessie,” said Geoffrey. “We make a regular slave of you amongst us. Why not have a woman to come in and help? Money isn’t flush: but I can pay her.”

“Oh, no, Mr Trethick, I can manage,” cried Bess. “No woman would come here to help.”

Geoffrey frowned.

“We’re such a bad lot, eh?”

“They don’t like me,” said Bess, smiling; “and father would not care to have a strange woman here.”

“And so you get worked to death,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t like it, Bess, my lassie,” he continued, while the girl flushed slightly with pleasure, as she noted the interest he took in her. “Something must be done, or I shall be obliged to take Madge away and get her lodgings elsewhere.”

“You’ll—you’ll take Miss Mullion away?” cried Bess excitedly, as she laid her hand upon his arm. “No, no: don’t do that, Mr Trethick.”

“Why not? Would you rather she stayed here?”

“Yes,” said Bess softly, “I would rather she stayed here. I’ll do the best I can for her.”

“God bless you, Bessie!” cried Geoffrey warmly. “You’re a good, true-hearted lass, and I shall never forget your kindness. Well, I must see if some help can’t be managed for you.”

Bess flushed a little more deeply, for his words and interest were very sweet to her. Then, looking up cheerfully, she said that it was only a matter of a day or two.

“Father is quite taking to baby too,” she said. “He nursed it for over an hour last night.”

“Did he?” cried Geoffrey, laughing. “I wish I had been here. I say, Bessie, does tobacco-smoke make it sneeze?”

“No: not much,” said Bessie wonderingly.

“Then look here,” cried Geoffrey, “I’m not going to let the old man beat me. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to nurse as well as he. Give us hold. I’m going out to loaf on the cliff, and look at the sea, and smoke a pipe and think, and I’ll take the baby.”

“Mr Trethick!” cried Bess.

“I mean it,” he said, laughing. “Here, come on, young one. Which way up do you hold it, Bessie?”

“Oh, Mr Trethick,” cried Bessie. “Don’t—please don’t take it.”

“Shall!” said Geoffrey; and to Bessie’s amusement and annoyance, for a something in the act seemed to give her pain, he laughingly took the baby and held it in his arms.

“But you won’t take it out, Mr Trethick,” protested Bess.

“Indeed, but I shall,” he said. “I always say what I mean.”

“But you can’t, sir. It must be dressed, and have on its hood.”

“Bother!” cried Geoffrey; “it has got on too much already, and the sea-breeze will do it good. Come along, young top-heavy,” he continued, laughing. “I shall be in the corner where I smoke my pipe, Bessie. Come and fetch the little soft dab when you’ve done.”

He went laughing off, not seeing Bessie’s countenance contract with pain, and, talking to the round-eyed, staring infant, he made his way up out of the Cove and along the cliff path, towards Carnac, to where the rock retired in one spot, forming a sunny little nook, full of soft, dry turf, stunted ferns and pink stonecrop, and scented with wild thyme. It was a place much affected by Geoffrey, where he could sit and watch the changing sea, and try to scheme his future. Here he seated himself on the turf, with his shoulders against the rock.

“Well, you are a rum little joker,” he cried, as he packed the baby up between his knees, nipping its loose garments so as to hold its little form up steady, all but the head, which kept nodding at him, the tiny intelligence therein seeming to find something vastly amusing in the dark, robust man’s face, and laughing merrily every now and then, after a staring, open-eyed inspection. “Keep your mouth shut, you drivelling little morsel, will you?” cried Geoffrey, using his pocket-handkerchief to the fount-like lips. “I enjoy you, young ’un, ’pon my word I do.”

Here there were three or four nods and another laugh.

“Hold still, will you?” cried Geoffrey, “or you’ll wobble that head off. There now, you’re square. Good heavens! what a lot of toggery you have got on. Why don’t she give you one good thick flannel sack, instead of all these stringed, and pinned, and buttoned wonders! That’s right; go it. I’m comic, arn’t I? Why, you jolly young jester, you are always on the grin.”

The baby relapsed into a state of solemnity, gently bowing its head forwards and backwards, and making a few awkward clutches at Geoffrey’s nose, which was nearly a yard away.

“Shouldn’t have thought there was so much fun in a bit of a thing like this,” continued Geoffrey, putting his hands behind his head, and resting them on the rock. “My ideas of a baby were that it was a sort of bagpipe that was always playing a discordant tune. Oh, I say, baby! for shame! I’m afraid your digestion is not perfect. In good society we always put our hand before our mouth when we make a noise like that. Here, this is the way. Hold still, you soft little atom. Why, I don’t believe you’ve a bone in your body.”

Geoffrey’s hands had come from behind his head once more, and he laughingly placed one tiny, clutched fist before the wet mouth, for by no amount of persuasion could the hand be made to keep open.

“There, you fat little pudge, now hold still, and don’t keep on laughing like a clown.”

Geoffrey resumed his former position, and stared at the baby, and the baby stared at him.

“I suppose this is Geoffrey Trethick?” he said at last; “but if I had been coming along the cliff and saw myself I shouldn’t have known him. Well, it is a chance to study human life and its helplessness. I begin to see now why women like babies. They’re so soft, and helpless, and appealing. A baby is a something with which a woman can do just as she likes, for I suppose there is nothing a woman likes so much as having her own way.”

Here a spasm of mirth seemed to convulse the baby, which threw back its head and laughed, and babbled, and crowed.

“Oh, you agree with that opinion, do you, youngster? Well, that’s right. Hold still now. Do you hear? I don’t want to take you home to your mother in two pieces. I wonder whether a baby ever did wobble off its head?”

Here there was a pause, during which Geoffrey lay back with half-closed eyes, lazily watching his charge.

“Now of course you don’t know it, youngster, and it does not trouble you a bit, but you are one too many in this rolling world of ours. People talk about purity and innocence, and little things fresh from their Maker’s hands; but, as my friend Lee says, you’re a child of sin and shame: that’s what you are.”

“Do you hear?” he continued. “Why, you’re laughing at it, as hard as ever you can laugh. Oh, it’s funny, is it? Well, I suppose you are right, but it’s no joke for poor Madge.”

The baby laughed and crowed loudly here, ending by coughing till it was nearly black in the face.

“Serve you right too, you unnatural little wretch, laughing like that at your mother’s troubles. You’re a chip of the old block, and no mistake. I’ve a good mind to pitch you off the cliff into the sea. Oh, you’re not afraid, arn’t you?” he continued, with his face close to the baby, who wanted re-arranging after the coughquake from which it had suffered, with the result that the two little hands that had opened during the coughing clutched and tightened themselves in Geoffrey’s crisp beard, from which they refused to be torn.

“Well, look here, young one,” continued Geoffrey, after freeing his beard with a good deal of trouble, and leaving two or three curling hairs in the little fists. “You seem to have made up your mind to back up public opinion, you do, and evidently intend to adopt me as your father. Well, I don’t mind. I feel just in the humour to do mad things, so why not adopt you? I dare say I could manage to keep you as well as myself; but you won’t get fat. I don’t care. But look here, youngster, can you sit it out if I have a pipe, and not set to and sneeze off your miserable little head?

“Ah, you smile acquiescence, do you?” said Geoffrey. “Well, then, here goes.”

As he spoke, he began fumbling in his pocket for his pipe-case, tobacco-pouch, and match-box, all of which, in his laughing humour, he placed before the child, then stuck the match-box in one fist, the pipe in the other, and balanced the soft India-rubber pouch on the nodding head.

“Now then, stupid! Do you want to commit self-infanticide with phosphorus? Don’t suck those matches. It’s my belief, baby, that if you were thrown down in a provision warehouse you’d prolong your existence to an indefinite extent. Will you be quiet?” he exclaimed, laughing aloud. “Well, of all the funny little beggars that ever existed you are the most droll. There, now you’ve got your mouth all over the dye from that leather case. Wait a moment. There, if you must smoke you shall smoke, but don’t be so hungry after it that you must suck the case.”

He took the pipe-case from the little hand, opened and took out the pipe, wiped it, and then playfully closed the tiny fingers round the blackened stem of the old meerschaum, and guided the amber mouth-piece into the wet mouth.

The baby began to suck and rub the mouth-piece eagerly against its little gums, till it had a suspicion of the intense bitter of the pipe, when the look of content upon the soft, round little features gradually changed into such a droll grimace of disgust that Geoffrey lay back and laughed till the tears came into his eyes, and he wiped them away, and laughed heartily again and again.

“Oh, you rum little customer!” he exclaimed; “you’ve done me no end of good. I have not laughed like that since I came down to Carnac. Why, you’ve made my ribs ache, that you have—the devil!”

For at that moment, briskly walking along the cliff path, Rhoda turned the corner, and came right upon the pair.

Rhoda stopped as if petrified, and a fierce look of indignation flashed from her eyes.

Geoffrey was as much surprised, but he had more self-control, and, returning the indignant glance with one full of defiance, he kept his place in the sunny nook, lying right back, and went on tossing the baby to and fro, balancing it on his knees, and then pretending to make it walk up his broad chest, which, however, seemed to heave up into a mountain beneath the tiny feet.

The silence in that sheltered nook was painful, and the low moan of the restless sea even seemed to be hushed, as the child threw back its little head, and kicked and laughed and crowed with delight.

“Pitiful, contemptible coward!” thought Rhoda, biting her lip to keep down her anger. “And I once cared about this degraded wretch!”

“I wouldn’t move to save my life!” thought Geoffrey. “You doubting, incredulous, proud, faithless woman! You shall beg my pardon yet.”

He had a wonderful mastery over himself as far as his face was concerned, and he returned Rhoda’s angry look with one as bitter, if not worse; but though he could keep smooth his face, he was not wholly master of his emotions, as it proved.

For just as Rhoda was trying to summon up force enough to make her tear herself away with a look of intensified scorn and contempt, Geoffrey’s hands, which held the baby, instead of lightly tossing it up and down, involuntarily gripped its little tender ribs so fiercely that the merry crow was changed into a loud wail of pain, and, with a hysterical laugh that jarred through every nerve of Geoffrey’s frame, Rhoda rushed away, to burst, as soon as she was out of sight, into a passion of tears.

“You little wretch!” roared Geoffrey, springing up and shaking the baby. “What do you mean by making me look such a fool? Be quiet, or I’ll throw you into the sea. Hang me, what an idiot I must have looked,” he cried, stamping up and down with the baby in his hands, and then stuffing it roughly in a niche in the rock. “Be quiet, will you,” he roared, shaking his fist in the poor little thing’s face; “be quiet, or I’ll smash you!”

The cessation of the shaking, and the appearance of the fist close to its snub nose had the desired effect. The storm passed, and sunshine burst forth over the little face, followed by a laugh and a futile effort to catch at the hand.

“Poor little beggar?” cried Geoffrey, carefully taking up the helpless thing once more. “There, I don’t care, do I, baby?” he cried, laughing and grinding his teeth together as the tiny fists grasped and held on to his beard, while the little eyes laughed in his. “Let her see me, and think what she likes. Come along, young ’un. I’m not cross with you. You couldn’t help it. Here, hold your little wet button-hole still, and I’ll give you a kiss. No, no—kiss: don’t suck, stupid?” he said, laughing; and then the anger passed away, as a convulsion swept over the tiny face, and consequent upon a hair from Geoffrey’s beard touching the apology for a nose, the baby sneezed three times.

“Well done, young one,” he cried. “Feel better? No? Give us another.”

He raised the little thing once more and kissed it, and as he lowered it again something prompted him to look back, and as he did he saw that Rhoda was in full view upon the cliff, that she had turned, and that she must have seen that kiss.

Rage took possession of his soul again, and he nearly made the child shriek in his fierce grip.

“Spying, eh?” he cried. “Well, if you will be a petty child, ma’am, so will I;” and, hugging the baby in his arms, he walked on, kissing it over and over again, till meeting Bessie Prawle, he cried out, “Here; catch!” and tossed the little thing into her arms.

Chapter Forty Eight.

Visitors at Gwennas.

Rhoda Penwynn had no idea of going to Gwennas Cove one morning when she went off, in a dreamy, forgetful way, for a walk. She was low-spirited and wretched. Her father’s troubles and heavy losses were an endless anxiety, and, to her sorrow, she saw that he had of late grown reckless. How he was situated, or what he had lost, she could not tell, but there was a grey, wrinkled look about his face that went to her very heart. One thing was very evident, and that was that the banker had become entangled in some venture—John Tregenna had hinted as much one evening when at their house, but he had merely hinted, and she could not ask him more.

One thing was very evident, and that was that people had lost confidence in Penwynn, the banker. Other people might dabble in mines, lose, and begin again; but the man to whom the savings of others were intrusted, must be above reproach—above suspicion of speculation; and the Wheal Carnac affair had been a heavy blow in more ways than one.

Mr Penwynn was not long in finding this out, for it resulted in a quarrel with the principals of the great Cornish bank, of which his was but a branch. Somehow—he never knew by what means—they had become prejudiced against him, and a rapid depreciation of his value in Carnac resulted when it was known that he was no longer over the bank.

Then came demands upon him for amounts trusted to him to invest—a regular continuous drain; and Rhoda awoke to the fact that a change in their position, for the worse, was rapidly coming on.

She bore the knowledge as cheerfully as she could, working hard to comfort her father, bidding him not trouble about her, but to pay to the uttermost farthing every demand.

“I shall not mind being poor,” she said to him, but she felt that she did not know all, and after long thought and trouble the feeling would always come upon her that she must leave all to fate, for she could not make her future even if she tried.

There was something very suggestive in John Tregenna’s manner to her now. He was never, in the slightest degree, effusive. If any thing, he was rather cold, but at times there was a look in his eye that told her he was waiting his time; and more than once, in the bitterness of her spirit, she had thought of the possibility of his some day asking her again to be his wife.

What should she say if he did?

No! The answer came readily enough, for a pang shot through her as she thought of Geoffrey Trethick, and wondered whether she could forgive him for the wrong he had done. She loved him still. She knew that, and in time—perhaps even now, if he came to her in humbleness and confessed his fault—she could have said forgiving words. Her pride would have forbidden her to listen to him. There was forgiveness.

But that was all. He had been set up in the innermost niche of her heart—an idol whom she had worshipped. From thence he had fallen, and as the idol lay broken she had seen that what she thought sterling gold was but miserable potter’s clay.

Still there was her love for him—the love once roused never to be completely crushed out. It burned still upon the altar before the empty niche. The idol was gone, and a soft vapour rose concealing the emptiness of the place—a place made often more dim and indistinct by her moistened eyes.

If he had only come to beg forgiveness she would not have cared, but he had taken up his stubborn stand, and to the very last time they had met his eyes looked at her with an angry defiance that made her heart beat fast with rage.

It was from no curiosity—there was not even a faint hope of meeting Geoffrey—that she took that path, but a trick of fate, and she started and turned pale, on suddenly raising her eyes, to see that she was only some fifty yards from Prawle’s cottage.

Bessie was standing by the door knitting, and the blood flushed into Rhoda’s cheeks as she saw what was by her side.

She saw that Bessie had seen her, and to have gone back would have looked cowardly; so she kept on, feeling pretty sure that at that time of day Geoffrey Trethick would not be there.

“I have not been to see you for a long time now, Bessie,” said Rhoda, making an effort to master her emotion and look calm.

“No, miss. My mother has often said she wished you would come. Will you go in and see her?”

Rhoda hesitated.

“Father’s out, miss. He has gone off in the boat with Mr Trethick, to try for pollack. We’re quite alone.”

At the name of Trethick, Rhoda shrank away, but setting her teeth, she determined not to give up like some weak girl. Geoffrey Trethick was nothing to her now, and, as she thought that, a passionate, angry desire to stand face to face with the woman who had robbed her of his love made her take a step towards the door.

Bessie bent down and picked up the baby, which laughed and kicked as she held it in her arms, but Rhoda snatched away her eyes. She hated it, she told herself; and, following Bessie into the gloomy room, she looked towards where Mrs Prawle was wont to sit, but the chair was empty.

“Mother is lying down in the bedroom,” said Bessie. “I’ll tell her you are here, miss.”

As she spoke, Bessie turned aside to place the baby in a pair of extended hands before leaving the place.

Rhoda had not seen who was seated in the darkened portion of the room, but Bessie’s act told her who it was, and turning sharply, her veins tingling, and her head giddy with her anger, she stood face to face with Madge Mullion, the girl she hated in a way that she could not have thought possible.

As she stood there, her fingers clenched together, the spirit was in her to strike the girl—to curse her; but, when she saw the pale, weary-looking face, and the great, staring eyes of the young mother, as she clasped her little one to her breast, all Rhoda’s anger seemed to pass away as rapidly as it had come, and in its place there was a feeling of profound pity.

They stood there gazing in each other’s eyes for some minutes without speaking, Rhoda proud and erect, Madge weak and piteous in the extreme; and, as if in dread of her visitor, she held her little one between them as a shield.

“Are you not ashamed to look me in the face?” said Rhoda, sternly.

“Am I not weak and suffering enough,” retorted Madge, “that you say these cruel words? Oh, Miss Penwynn, let me try and explain—let me tell you how I have suffered for the pain I have caused you.”

“Hold your tongue,” said Rhoda, coldly. “Don’t speak to me. I did not come to see you. Do not speak to me again.”

As Rhoda spoke she saw the poor girl’s eyelids droop, and a ghastly pallor came over her face. She was fainting, and had not the visitor involuntarily caught the little one from its mother’s hands, as she fell back in the corner of the sofa, it would have dropped upon the brick floor.

The child uttered a piteous cry, and seemed to stare with astonishment at her who held it from her, stunned almost at her position. But as the babe looked up in her handsome face, the wrinkles in its little countenance departed, and it began to laugh and coo, trying to catch at one of the long curls pendent above its face.

The little one seemed to disarm her resentment. She held it closer to her, forgetful of its mother, and one of its little pinky hands went up now and clutched at her face.

She could not help it. There was no one to see, and Rhoda seemed forced to obey an uncontrollable impulse. One moment her face was hard and stern; then there was a quiver, a softening of the muscles, the tears gathered in her eyes, and began to fall upon the little upturned face.

“It at least is innocent,” she muttered, as she held the little thing in her bosom, and kissed it tenderly again and again.

There was a curious, yearning look in Rhoda Penwynn’s countenance during these fleeting moments. Then, recalling her position, she hastily laid the child upon the rug, looking cold, hard, and stern once more, as she took out her vinaigrette, and held it to the fainting girl’s face.

“Oh, miss, is she ill?” cried Bessie, entering the room.

“Yes,” said Rhoda, coldly; “she has fainted.”

“Oh, miss,” cried Bessie, reproachfully, “you have not been saying cruel things to her?”

“And if I have, what then?” said Rhoda sternly.

“Why, it’s a shame—a cruel shame,” cried Bessie, angrily. “Why did you come here to reproach her for what she has done? Don’t you see how ill she is, perhaps not long for this world? Oh, Miss Penwynn, it’s a shame!”

Rhoda flushed with anger, but she would not speak. She told herself that she deserved what she had encountered by her foolish visit, and, stung by the girl’s reproaches, and angry with herself, she hurried out of the cottage and hastened towards home.

She was bitterly angry with herself, more angry against Geoffrey, whom, in her heart, she somewhat inconsistently accused of having caused her the degradation which she told herself she had suffered but now.

She bit her lips as she thought of her folly in going there, for she told herself that every one in Carnac would know where she had been; and hardly had she writhed beneath the sting of this thought than she encountered old Mr Paul walking slowly along the cliff.

She would have passed him with a bow, but he stopped short and held out his hand, in which she placed her own, feeling shocked to see how the old man had changed.

“The old painters were right,” he said abruptly, as he retained her hand.

“Old painters? Right?” faltered Rhoda.

“Yes, yes,” said the old man, “when they painted their angels in the form of a beautiful woman. God bless you, my dear, you are a good, forgiving girl! I know where you have been.”

“Oh, this is horrible!” ejaculated Rhoda, as she hurried away. “I cannot bear it. What am I to suffer next?”

She would have turned out of the path, but unless she descended to the rugged beach there was no other way back home; and, as if to make her miseries culminate, she had not gone another quarter of a mile before she met Miss Pavey, with a thick veil shrouding her countenance, and a basket in her hand.

They stopped and looked at each other curiously, and as Miss Pavey raised her veil there was a red spot burning in each of her cheeks.

“Have you been for a walk, dear?” she faltered.

“Yes,” said Rhoda, abruptly. “And you—are you going for a walk?”

Miss Pavey trembled, and it was evident that she was having a battle with her feelings. She was afraid to speak, and she looked supplicatingly in Rhoda’s eyes, which were fixed upon her in the most uncompromising way.

For a moment a subterfuge was trembling upon her lips, but honesty conquered, and, looking more bravely in Rhoda’s face, she said,—

“Yes, dear. Mr Lee wishes it!—I didn’t like it at first; but he says it is a duty, and I will do it, whatever anybody else may say.”

She said these last words almost passionately, as she looked defiantly at Rhoda.

“And what are you going to do, Miss Pavey?”

“No, no, dear Rhoda, let it be Martha still,” pleaded the little woman.

“Well then—Martha,” said Rhoda, with a smile.

“I am going to see, and take a few comforts to poor Madge Mullion,” said the little woman, with an apologetic look; and then, after another effort, “I have been twice before. Where have you been, dear?”

Rhoda looked at her half scornfully, and the change that had come over her weak little friend struck her as being almost absurd, as, in a defiant way, she said sharply,—

“I? Where have I been? Where you are going now. I have been to see Madge Mullion and that man’s child.”

She hurried away with her hand pressed upon her heart, as the words seemed to have leaped from her lips, while she felt that if she stayed there a moment longer she would burst out into a hysterical fit of laughter; and this feeling was still upon her as she passed through the rugged streets of the little town and hastened home.

Chapter Forty Nine.

Old Prawle Wishes to Invest.

The rugged pile of rocks along by the ruins of the old mine was a favourite spot with Geoffrey in these troubled days. From hence, when he had clambered into a sheltered nook, where there was a little natural platform, he could see the track towards the town, and think of that evening when, glorified by the wonderful sunset, he had enjoyed that strange dream of love and hope. Every grey-lichened stone seemed to light up once more as he took his seat there, and reflected those wondrous tints that had for the moment coloured his life before all had turned grey and gloomy once again.

He could see, too, Wheal Carnac from where he used to sit with his back against the natural wall, looking as hard and grim as the rock itself.

There lay the unlucky mine and the stony promontory, with the surges breaking fiercely at its base, as if the tide resented its presence and was always striving to tear down a pile that had served to crush the young man’s fortunes.

Time stole on, but his position remained the same; for though the vicar had urged him again and again to make some effort to clear himself, he had sternly refused.

“No,” he said, “I shall wait; and if you value my acquaintance, or friendship, if you like to call it so, I beg that you will say nothing to a soul upon my behalf.”

The vicar sighed, but he allowed himself to be swayed by Geoffrey, whom he feared to tell of his suspicions concerning the state of affairs at An Morlock, for he could not help seeing how rapidly John Tregenna was becoming Mr Penwynn’s master, and how helplessly the banker was drifting to a bitter end.

Geoffrey’s old blackened meerschaum used to be brought out, and as he leisurely smoked he used to think of all that had taken place since his first arrival in Carnac, and wonder whether he had been wanting in any way in his duties to those who had intrusted him with so important a task.

He was seated there one morning when, in the midst of the reverie in which he was indulging, he was interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and, looking up, he saw old Prawle approaching and beckoning to him in a mysterious fashion.

“What’s the matter?” said Geoffrey, starting up.

“I want you,” whispered the old man, though probably there was not a soul within half a mile.

“Well, what do you want?”

“Business—particular business. Come down to my place and talk.”

“Why, can’t you talk here?” said Geoffrey, gruffly.

“No, no. Come to my place.”

Soured, disappointed, and out of humour, Geoffrey was on the point of declining; but the old man had manifested so kindly a disposition towards him of late that he followed him without another word along the cliff to the Cove, where they descended the rough stairs to the bit of a cave; where the old man, instead of producing brandy and tobacco as Geoffrey expected, took down an old ship’s lantern, saw that it was well trimmed, placed some matches inside, and then placed it inside his rough jacket.

“Wait a bit,” he said, “and I’ll show you;” and he laughed audibly. “Look here. You carry this compass,” he continued, taking one from a shelf.

“But what do you want? What are you going to do?” said Geoffrey.

“I’ll tell you soon,” said the old man. “I’ve been talking it over with my Bessie, and she says I may trust you, and that I am to do it. I haven’t lived to my time for nothing.”

“I’m much obliged to Miss Bessie for her trust,” said Geoffrey bitterly; “but what is it? Are you going to dig up some of your old hoards of money?”

“No, no; no, no,” chuckled the old fellow, grimly. “I don’t bury my money. I know what I’m about. Come along.”

Geoffrey followed him down the rest of the rough way to the rocky shore, where the old man’s boat was lying, and between them they ran her out into the tiny harbour, formed by a few jutting pieces of rock, got in, and, after arranging some great boulders as ballast, old Prawle was about to take both sculls, when Geoffrey took one.

“Here, I’ll pull as well,” he said. “I want work.”

“Pull then,” said the old man. As soon as he had placed the lantern and compass in the stern of the boat, the oars fell with a splash, and, timing the effort exactly, they rode out on a gently-heaving wave, and then old Prawle kept the boat about fifty yards from where the waves beat on the time-worn rocks.

“Tide’s just right,” said the old man. “Easy. Pull steadily, my lad. There’s no hurry. Hear about old Master Penwynn?”

“No. What?” said Geoffrey, sharply.

“They say things are going very bad with him, and that he’ll soon be as poor as you.”

“No,” said Geoffrey. “I did hear that he had losses some months ago. But is this true?”

“P’r’aps not,” said old Prawle, gruffly. “Tom Jennen and some of ’em were talking about it. Amos Pengelly heard it, too.”

Geoffrey was silent, and his heart began to throb as he thought of Rhoda, and of how it must bitterly affect her. Only a few months ago, and it seemed as if he had secured for her the fortune of a princess; now she was to be as poor as he, and they were still estranged.

“You oughtn’t to mind,” said old Prawle, laughing. “Penwynn did not behave so well to you.”

“Would you mind changing the conversation, Mr Prawle?” said Geoffrey, sharply, when the old man uttered a low chuckle and went on steadily rowing.

“Are we going to fish?” said Geoffrey, after they had been rowing along in the shadow of the rocks for some time.

“Yes: to fish for money, my lad,” said the old fellow. “Pull steady.”

Geoffrey obeyed, and after his long days of enforced idleness, during which his thoughts had seemed to eat into his mind like cankers, there was something quite refreshing in the rowing over the heaving sea, and joined to it there was a spice of excitement to know what the old man really meant.

They rowed on and on with the bright waters of the bay on one side, and the weed-hung, weather-worn granite on the other, where every wave that ran beneath them seemed to playfully dash at the rocks, to lift the long, tangled brown and olive-green weeds, toss them, and deck them with gems as if they were the tresses of some uncouth sea-monster, before dashing up the wall that checked their way, and falling back in spray.

After a time, as Geoffrey glanced over his shoulder, he caught sight of the towering chimney above Wheal Carnac, and as he snatched his gaze, as it were, away, he found that old Prawle was watching him, and he uttered a low, chuckling laugh.

“Yon’s the mine,” he said, looking at Geoffrey curiously, as the young man took so tremendous a tug at his oar that the boat was pulled slightly round.

“Easy, my lad; easy,” said old Prawle. “Don’t you like the look of the mine?”

Geoffrey did not answer, but pulled away, though with less violence; and so they rowed on till suddenly old Prawle exclaimed, as they were lying now well under the promontory,—

“You’d best give me the other oar.”

Without a word Geoffrey obeyed, and watched him curiously as, after taking both sculls now, he turned the boat’s head towards the rocks, and waiting his time, as he pulled gently on, he paused till a good wave came in, and then, balancing the little boat on the top, allowed it to be carried right in between a couple of masses of rock, barely wide enough apart to admit of its passing. Then, pulling one oar sharply, he turned round by another mass of rock, and Geoffrey found that they were in smooth water, floating in under a rough arch, so low that they had to bend right down in the boat for a minute; after which the ceiling rose, and he found that they were in a rugged cavern, whose light only came from the low opening through which they had passed. It was a gloomy, weird-looking place, in which the waves plashed, and sucked, and sounded hollow, echoing, and strange, each wave that came softly rolling in, carrying them forward as it passed under them, and then seemed to continue its journey into the darkness ahead.

“Mouth’s covered at high water,” said old Prawle, as he laid the oars in the boat.

“Then how shall we get out?” said Geoffrey, to whom the idea of being caught by the tide and drowned in such a place as this had, in spite of his troubles, no attraction.

“Same as we got in,” growled old Prawle. “’Fraid?”

“No,” said Geoffrey, sturdily. “I don’t want to be caught though.”

“I’ve been several times,” said the old man, with a hoarse chuckle. “It scared me the first time, but I soon found there was plenty of room.”

“Bit of smuggling?” said Geoffrey.

“Iss, my son,” said the old man, with a laugh. “I don’t believe there’s a soul ever been in this zorn besides me.”

“But you don’t smuggle now?” said Geoffrey.

“No, not unless I want a drop of brandy or Hollands gin.”

“Then why have you come here?”

“Ha, ha, ha! I’ll show you,” said the old man, laughing. “I haven’t lived here for nothing. Wait till I’ve lit the lantern, and we’ll see.”

He took the matches, and as he struck one the roof and sides of the cave seemed to flash with metallic green, but Geoffrey saw that it was only the bright, wet moss that he had found in the adit of the old mine, and he sat there watching the old man, as he lit and closed the lantern, set it down on the thwart, and then proceeded to guide the boat forward along the narrow channel of water, over which the granite roof spread in a low arch, sometimes rising ten or twenty feet, but more often coming down as if to crush them.

They must have gone several hundred yards, and still they went on, though it grew much more narrow, till there was little more than room enough for the boat to go along, but the water seemed deep beneath her keel, and the cavern or rift still wound on.

“What have you got in here, Father Prawle?” said Geoffrey, at length, after sitting for some time watching the strange effects of light and shadow, as the old man forced the boat along by thrusting the boat-hook against the roof or sides.

“Nothing,” said the old man, laconically.

“Then why have we come?”

“Wait and see.”

“All right,” said Geoffrey, and, leaning back, he began to think of Rhoda, and of the news he had heard, wondering the while whether she would ever be brave enough to do him justice, and frankly own that she was wrong.

Then he thought of her being poor, and, looking at it in one light, he did not feel very sorry, though he felt a kind of pang to think that she would miss so many of the old refinements of life.

“Which—vide self—any one can very well do without,” he said, half aloud.

“What?” growled his guide.

“I was only muttering, Father Prawle. How much farther are we going?”

“Not far.”

The old man forced the boat along for quite another hundred yards, and then, taking hold of the painter, he leaped upon a rock and secured the rope.

“Jump out, and bring the lamp and the compass, my lad,” said the old fellow, in his rough, grim way; and on Geoffrey landing he said to the old man, sharply,—

“Is there ore in here?”

“Nothing but some poor tin,” was the reply. “But look there, my lad. The boat won’t go up that narrow bit, but that runs on at least a hundred fathom, for I’ve waded as far as that.”

“What, up that narrow hole?” said Geoffrey, as he peered along a place that looked a mere crack in the rock floored with water.

“Yes, up that narrow place. Now what do you say?”

“I don’t say any thing,” replied Geoffrey. “Why have we come here?”

“Bah! Take your compass, lad. Which way does that bit of a cut run?”

“Nor-east by east,” said Geoffrey, holding the compass flat.

“Well, suppose you drive right through that nat’ral adit, as you may call it, for thirty or forty, or p’r’aps fifty fathom, what would you hit?”

“I see your meaning now,” cried Geoffrey, excitedly. “Of course, yes, we must strike one of the galleries in Wheal Carnac which run under the promontory from the other side.”

“And if you do drive through, what then?” chuckled the old man.

“Why, you’ll have an adit that will clear the water off as fast as it comes in.”

“To be sure you will,” said Prawle.

“But only to a certain level,” said Geoffrey, despondently. “It is of no use, Prawle; the tin would be fathoms below.”

“Damn the tin, boy,” cried the old man, excitedly; and, as they stood on a narrow shelf of rock there, he gripped Geoffrey fiercely by the arm. “Look here, you, Master Trethick, no man ever did me an ill turn but what I paid him off, and no man ever did me a good turn but I paid him off.”

“I never did you an ill turn,” said Geoffrey.

“No,” said the old man, “but you did me a good one, and I wouldn’t have minded now if you’d have had my Bessie; but that’s nayther here nor there. If she likes lame Amos Pengelly better o’ the two, why she must have him; but you helped her when she was hard put to it, and now look here, I’m going to do you a good turn, and myself too.”

“How? I tell you that your adit would be good for nothing,” cried Geoffrey.

“Tchah! Look here,” cried the old man, pulling a sale bill out of his pocket. “Here it all is—Wheal Carnac.”

“Put the thing away; it makes me feel half-mad to see it. I tore one down,” cried Geoffrey.

“You be quiet,” continued the old man, holding the bill against the mossy rock, so that the light from the lantern fell upon the big letters.

“Here you are, you see—To be sold by auction, at the M, A, R, T, Mart, Token-house-yard, unless pre—vi—ously disposed of by private contract.”

“Don’t I tell you it half drives me mad to think of the mine being sold?”

“With all the pumping and other gear, nearly new engines, and modern machinery,” read on old Prawle.

“Are you doing this to tantalise me, Prawle?” cried Geoffrey. “The whole affair will go for a song.”

“To be sure,” chuckled the old man. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for, my lad—for a song, a mere song, eh?”

“It’s horrible!” cried Geoffrey, despairingly, “when there’s tin enough there—”

“Hang the tin, I tell you! It’s grand, boy, grand. Look, Mr Trethick, go up to London and buy it.”

“Buy it?” said Geoffrey.

“Yes; buy it for as little as you can get it for.”

“What, to sell the machinery out of it? No, that I won’t.”

“Nay, nay, to work it, lad. Buy it, and you and me will make fortunes, eh?”

“I tell you that your plan’s worse than useless. The ore is far below the level to which we should get the water.”

“Give’s your hand, Trethick,” said the old man, sharply. “Will you swear that you’ll play fair with me?”

“If you like,” said Geoffrey.

“I’ll take your word without a swear,” said the old man. “Shake hands, lad.”

Geoffrey carelessly gave him his hand, which the old man gripped.

“Now look here,” he said, “I’ll trust you, and I’ll find you the money to go and buy that mine.”

“But it will be throwing your money away,” said Geoffrey.

“Then I’ll throw it away,” cried old Prawle. “I want Wheal Carnac, and I’ve always meant to have her. Now then, will you go and buy her for me, and work her for me afterwards on shares?”

“Yes, if you like,” said Geoffrey, sadly. “We might, perhaps, hit upon something; and anyhow I don’t think you will have to pay so much that you would lose.”

“Go and buy her for me, then. As soon as we get back you shall go up to London and buy her for me as cheap as you can. You can go to the old lawyer I’ll tell you of for the money to pay down, as much as is wanted, and then just you come back to me and I’ll talk to you about what I mean to do.”

“Very good,” said Geoffrey, “I will; but it means a good bit of money.”

“You buy it,” said old Prawle; “and whatever you do, don’t let it go; but buy it as cheaply as you can.”

Geoffrey stood looking at the old man for a few minutes, and in those few minutes his whole connection with the mine seemed to pass in review before him; and as it did, he asked himself whether he should be doing right in letting the old man invest his money like this.

“Well,” said Prawle, “what are you thinking about?”

“You,” he said sharply. “Suppose, when you have spent your savings on this mine, it should turn out a dead failure?”

“Well, what then?”

“You would lose something.”

“Well, I know that, don’t I? Do you suppose I’m a babby? There, I’ve bided my time, my lad, and I know what I’m doing. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Geoffrey.

“And you’ll stick to me, my lad, when the mine’s my property?”

“I will, Prawle,” said Geoffrey, earnestly, as he shook off his forebodings; “and, somehow or another, I’ll make it pay.”

“That’ll do, my lad; we understand one another, and you won’t repent it. Just give one more look at your compass.”

Geoffrey did so.

“Now then, you feel pretty sure you can hit the workings from here?”

“Yes, I feel certain,” said Geoffrey; “and it will relieve the mine without pumping, but not so that we can get the tin.”

“That’ll do,” said the old man, nodding. “Come along.”

He led the way to the boat, and once more kneeling in her bows, he directed their way along the subterranean passage, while Geoffrey leaned back in the stern watching him, and thinking that if he had been an artist he would have desired no better suggestion for a picture of Charon ferrying some unfortunate soul across the Styx, so weird and darksome was their way, so strange and gloomy the shadows cast, till once more in the distance appeared a faint gleam of light playing upon the surface of the water. Then the low arch came into view, and soon after they were out in broad daylight once again, and rowing steadily towards the Cove.

Chapter Fifty.

Too Late.

There was no time to lose if he intended to be present at the sale, so hastily putting a few things in a bag, Geoffrey bade Madge good-by, and brought a smile in her thin, worn face as he took up the little one and kissed it, giving it a toss, and setting it off crowing and laughing before replacing it in Bessie’s arms.

“Any commission for town, ladies?” he said; “ribbons, laces, or what do you say to a new hood for the squire here?”

Just then the dark face of old Prawle appeared at the door, and, reminding him of his commission, he started off at once to catch the coach.

“It’s a rum world,” he said, as he gazed at the smokeless chimneys of the great mine as he went on, and then, leaning more to his task, he began to picture the place busy once more, with its panting engines, and the click and rattle of the ore-reducing machinery.

“I’ll show old Penwynn yet,” he said to himself, “that there’s money to be made out of the place. Poor old fellow, though, it will be a grievous disappointment to him, and he will feel it deeply.”

He walked on with his eyes still fixed on the promontory upon which the mine was standing, and so immersed was he in thought that he almost ran up against two people before he saw them.

“I beg—”

He would have said “your pardon,” but the words froze upon his lips, and he went by feeling half stunned; for the couple he had passed were Rhoda Penwynn and Tregenna, the former looking deadly pale as his eyes encountered hers for a moment, the latter calm, self-possessed, and supercilious.

Geoffrey could not trust himself to look back, but tore along the cliff path at a tremendous rate, feeling ready at any moment to break into a run, but refraining by an effort.

His journey was for the time being forgotten, and he saw nothing but the finale of a life-drama, whose last scene was a wedding, with Rhoda the wife of the man she had formerly rejected, and his heart beat heavily and fast.

He was moved more than he thought it possible under the circumstances; and in the hot rage that took possession of him he could find no palliation of Rhoda’s conduct. It was evident, he said to himself, that she was engaged to John Tregenna now, and that the last faint hope that, like some tiny spark, he had kept alive was now extinct.

“Ah, Trethick! Where are you going?”

“Eh? Oh, Lee, is that you?”

“Yes; I’m glad to see you. Why don’t you come down to me?”

“What, for Miss Pavey to look horrors, and want to fumigate the house, after the advent of such a social leper?” he said laughingly.

“My dear Trethick, why will you talk like this—and to me?” said the vicar, smiling. “But I am stopping you. Were you going somewhere?”

“I? No. Not I. Yes I was, though,” he exclaimed. “I am going up to London. I forgot.”

The vicar looked at him wonderingly, his manner was so strange.

“Oh, I’m not going out of my mind, man. It’s all right,” exclaimed Geoffrey, laughing. The next moment his face became ashy white, and his eyes seemed to dilate as, in the distance, he caught sight of Rhoda and Tregenna coming back into the town.

The vicar saw the direction of his gaze, followed it, and sighed, for he had seen the couple together half an hour before.

Geoffrey coloured as he saw that the vicar was evidently reading his thoughts, and he said lightly,—

“Yes, I’m off to town for a day or two, but you need not say I’m going. Good-by.”

He did not pause to shake hands, but strode hastily away, secured his seat upon the coach, and that night was well on his way to Plymouth.

Try how he would, he could not shake off the recollection of his meeting with Rhoda.

It was nothing to him, he kept on assuring himself, but there was her pale face ever confronting him; and the more he strove to call her heartless, cold, and cruel, the more the recollection of their short, happy engagement came back.

He was bound now on a fresh expedition, whose aim was to secure the mine and to make money, and, with a half-laugh, he exclaimed, “What for?”

He frowned heavily the next moment, as he saw that his quick utterance had drawn the attention of a couple of his fellow-passengers; and, determining to master what he called his childish emotion, he thought of Rhoda all the more.

This went on for hours, till he felt so exasperated with what he called his weakness that he would gladly have got out of the carriage at the next station, and walked a few miles to calm himself; but this was, of course, impossible, and he sat there listening to the rattle of the train, as it seemed to make up words and sentences, which kept on repeating themselves with a most irritating effect.

Station after station was passed, and the time glided on till he found it was now half-past ten.

They were due at Bristol half an hour past midnight, and a train left there soon after, reaching London about half-past four in the morning, when, after a few hours’ rest, he would be in ample time for the sale.

At the best of times a railway journey by night is trying to the nerves of the strongest; to a man in Geoffrey Trethick’s state of excitement it was irritating in the extreme. He tried every position he could scheme to make himself comfortable, and have a few hours’ rest, but in vain. Every attitude was wearisome and produced irksomeness, till, in utter despair, he let down the window to gaze at the murky night they were rushing through.

This produced a remonstrance from a fellow-passenger, and he drew the window up again, and tried once more to think only of the mine and of old Prawle’s venture; but, as a matter of course, the thoughts of the old wrecker brought up others of his daughter and his invalid wife, when, naturally enough, the other invalid—poor Madge—followed; and then came the whole history of his connection with her family and his dismissal by Rhoda, and then—crash!

It was instantaneous—one moment they were going along at a rapid rate, the next there was a sharp, deafening crash; the glass flew in shivers, the strong carriage seemed to collapse like a bandbox, and they were at a standstill.

There were four passengers in the same compartment, and as soon as Geoffrey recovered from the stunning violence with which he was hurled against his opposite neighbour he roused himself to afford help. Fortunately, however, beyond a shaking, they had all escaped, and, after a struggle, they managed to get out through one of the windows on to the line.

Here all was confusion—lights were flashing, steam was hissing, and the shouts of the guards and engine-drivers were mingled with the cries and shrieks of the passengers, many of whom were imprisoned in the broken carriages, and some time elapsed before they could be set free.

It was the old story—a luggage train was being shunted and not sufficient time allowed, with the result that the fast night train had dashed at full speed into the goods trucks, and they and the brake-van formed a pile upon which the engine of the fast train seemed to have made an effort to climb; and then, defeated, the monster had fallen right over upon its side, setting fire to the trucks upon which it had dashed.

Fortunately the speed at which they had been going seemed to have saved the passengers. There were bruises and cuts without number, but no serious injury to person. The train, though, was in a state of chaos; both lines were badly blocked, and when Geoffrey could get an answer to a question, the reply was not encouraging, for he was told that at least six hours must elapse before he could go on.

The six expanded themselves into eight, and the consequence was that all Geoffrey’s plans were overset. The probability now was that he would not reach town until the sale was over, and, by a strange reversal, what he had looked upon as worthless the day before, now grew into a thing of such value that he was ready to make any sacrifice to carry out his commission in its entirety.

He was in a peculiar position, for he could not telegraph to the auctioneer to appoint an agent to bid for him, for he was not able to say to what price he would go. Old Prawle had left it to him, but even then he could not say “Bid so much.” Every thing must depend on what took place, and, under the circumstances, he felt that there was nothing for it but to make the best of his way there on the chance of being in time; London at last, and, without waiting a moment, he jumped into a cab, and bade the man drive to the city.

It is a long drive from Paddington to the Mart, and when he reached the place and had seen in which room the sale was to take place, he ran up to find another sale going on. Wheal Carnac had been up nearly an hour before.

After a little searching he found the auctioneer.

“Wheal Carnac was bought in, I suppose?” said Geoffrey, carelessly.

“No, sir, not this time,” said the auctioneer. “That mine’s an old friend here, but it has found a purchaser once more.”

“Did it make much?” said Geoffrey, hoarsely.

“Went for a song. Not half the value of the machinery.”

Geoffrey bit his lip.

“Who bought it?”

“Can’t say, sir. Or, stop a moment. Yes, of course,” he said, referring to his books. “It is a firm of solicitors. Agents for the real purchaser, I suppose.”

Geoffrey obtained the name of the firm of solicitors, found it was in Serjeant’s Inn, and went straight there, asked for the principal, and was shown in.

“Wheal Carnac? Oh, yes,” said a little, sharp-looking grey man. “We—that is—an agent from this house purchased it;” and he looked curiously at Geoffrey.

“For a client of yours, I presume?” said Geoffrey.

“Certainly you may presume so if you like, sir,” said the little lawyer.

“And possibly he would be ready to part with his purchase for a small profit over what he gave?”

“Possibly he might, my dear sir,” said the lawyer; “but I don’t think it is very probable.”

“May I ask why?” said Geoffrey.

“No, sir,” said the solicitor, smiling. “Well, there, I will admit that. Because our client—another admission you see, sir—I say because our client is a gentleman, who would not be tempted by a small profit. If you wish to buy, sir, you will have to give a handsome bonus for the purchase.”

“How much?” said Geoffrey, bluntly.

“Impossible to say, my dear sir,” said the solicitor. “I do not even know that our client would sell. In fact I do not believe he would. His name? Oh, no, I cannot give you his name.”

Geoffrey had the name of the firm down in his pocket-book, and as he stepped out into noisy Fleet Street he felt that he could do no more. There was nothing left for him but to go back to Carnac and tell old Prawle of his ill success. Then, perhaps, the old man would say to what extent he would go, and the place might, probably, be obtained by private contract.

Geoffrey went to an hotel, had a few hours’ rest and refreshment, and once more he was being hurried to the little mining town, where he arrived this time without adventure, bitter with disappointment, and seeing endless advantages in the possession of the mine now that it was gone from him forever. So enraged was he at the result of his journey that he could not bear to look at the mine as he walked towards Gwennas, but rigorously turned his eyes aside.

He had walked as far as the ruined pit when he started, for he heard his name pronounced, and, turning, there stood old Prawle, waiting to intercept him on his return.

“Now then,” he said, excitedly. “How much did you have to give, my lad? Quick! How much?”

“I have not bought the mine,” said Geoffrey.

“What?” cried the old man, furiously; and his weather-beaten countenance turned of a curious hue. “I told you to buy her, no matter what price.”

“There was an accident to the train. The mine was sold before I got there.”

“Sold!” cried the old man, with an oath. “Why didn’t you walk on?”

“Two hundred miles in eight hours,” said Geoffrey, grimly.

“Why didn’t you write or—or send?”

“I tried all; I thought of all; I spared no pains, Father Prawle,” said Geoffrey, commiserating, the old man’s disappointment. “You could not have saved it had you gone yourself.”

“But it was a fortune; it was a great fortune,” cried the old man, stamping with rage.

“No, no,” cried Geoffrey. “You might perhaps have made a little by it, or we might perhaps have hit upon some plan to get at the tin; but it was doubtful.”

“You’re a fool,” cried the old man, furiously.

“A terrible fool,” said Geoffrey, coolly.

“You don’t know,” stuttered old Prawle, who was beside himself with rage; “you don’t know, I tell you. Not half-way down that pit I could show you veins of copper so rich that your tin you found was not worth half.”

“What?” cried Geoffrey, staring at the old man to see if he were sane.

“She’s full of copper, Trethick. Do you think I would have spent money unless I was sure? She’s worth no end of money, and you’ve thrown away what would have been a great fortune for you as well as me.”

“But the copper? Are you sure?” cried Geoffrey, hoarsely.

“Am I sure?” cried the old man. “Didn’t I work in her for years? Of course I know.”

“Then why did you not say so before?” cried Geoffrey, angrily.

“Why should I say so?” replied the old man, fiercely. “I have myself to look after. People don’t come and give me money, and tell me to live out of that. They hate me, and call me ill names. No. I found the copper, and I said to myself, ‘If no one else finds it, that’s mine. I’ll buy that mine some day;’ and now, when the time has come, and we could have been rich, you let the mine go, and it is all for nothing.”

“You ought to have told me about that copper, Prawle. It would have been the saving of Mr Penwynn. I could have redeemed that mine from loss, and the water might have been removed sufficient for that.”

“Nay,” cried the old man; “you couldn’t have rid her of water without my plan, and I tell you I found the copper, and it was mine, and you have thrown it away.”

Geoffrey felt too much enraged to say much, but the old man went on.

“Helped Mr Penwynn! I suppose you would: the man who threw you over. Helped his girl, who threw you over, too, and who is going to marry John Tregenna some day.”

A fierce utterance was on Geoffrey’s lips, but this last remark of the old man seemed to silence him; and, prostrated by weariness and misery, he went on to the cottage, threw himself on his bed, and slept for twelve hours right away.

Chapter Fifty One.

Madge Hears News.

Madge Mullion was very ill, and she seemed to Geoffrey to be going back, as he sat looking at her a few days after his return from town.

There was something about the poor girl he liked, for she was simple-hearted and loving to a degree, and he would often sit in the next room apparently busy writing, but watching her intensity of affection for her child.

“Come, Madge,” he said to her, “why don’t you grow strong again, and be a woman and fight the world?”

Her eyes filled with tears, and he cried out impatiently,—

“Now, look here, Madge, you are going to cry, and tell me how sorry you are for the pain you have caused me, and beg me to forgive you for what you have done; and if ever you say such a thing to me again, I shall run out of the house.”

“No,” she faltered, “I was not, Mr Trethick. I was going to say, why should I grow well and strong again?”

“For that!” he said abruptly, and he pointed to the sleeping child.

She glided from the sofa to the side of the cradle, and laid her face against the little cheek.

“And, look here,” he said, “you are fretting yourself into the grave, Madge!”

“Yes, Mr Trethick.”

“You must be a woman, and get well. That little thing must be your reason; so make a brave fight for it.”

Madge shook her head, and looked at him piteously.

“No,” she said, “I feel that I have not strength now, and as if the greatest kindness I could do to you, Mr Trethick, is to die.”

“Nonsense?” he said, kindly. “You have done me no harm—only brought me to my senses, and saved me from an ugly fate.”

“Ah! Mr Trethick,” she cried, “what bitter words! You do not mean them.”

“Oh, but I do, Madge,” he said, laughing cynically. “Look here, my lass, I rather like you, and we are a pair of miserable unfortunates. I shall have, to marry you, Madge, and force you to like and take care of your little one. Then we shall be able to go back to the cottage, and Mamma Mullion will bless us, and Uncle Paul will make us rich, and we shall all live happily afterwards, like the good people in the story-books.”

“Ah! Mr Trethick,” she said, softly, “do you think I cannot read your heart better than that? My trouble seems to have made me wiser than I was in my old silly, girlish days. Why do you say such foolish, bitter things? They only give me pain, and I know you do not mean them.”

“Oh,” he said, laughing, “but I do.”

“No, no, no,” she said, sadly. “You love Rhoda Penwynn with all your heart, and always will, and I have come upon your love like some cruel blight.”

“Curse Rhoda Penwynn!” he cried, savagely. “I love the woman who is to be John Tregenna’s wife?”

Madge started from her knees, and took two steps across the room to catch him by the arm.