"How much farther is it, coachman?"
"Carnac, sir? Just four miles. There it lies! Yonder white houses, by
the cove, with the high rocks o' both sides."
"Four miles? Why, it does not seem two."
"It's all four, sir," said the driver, giving his long whip a _whish_
through the air, making the leaders of the four-horse coach shake their
heads and increase their speed, as he deftly caught the end of the lash,
and twisted the thong around the whip-shaft by a turn of his wrist.
"Ah!" said the first speaker, a young man of about thirty, "the air is
so fine and clear. I presume that you are going on to Felsport?"
"No, no," said the gentleman addressed, in a hesitating tone of voice;
"I am going to stop at Carnac."
His long black coat, broad-brimmed round-topped hat and tassel,
suggested that he was a clergyman of advanced--or retrogressive--views,
and he paused wearily, as if annoyed at being interrupted, as he spoke--
"How strange! Do you know the place?"
"N-no; I have never seen it."
The clergyman lowered his eyes, and began once more reading a little
book, with very small type, while the first speaker raised his eyes in
wonder that a stranger could read while passing through the wild
beauties of the grand Cornish region spread around. He then leaned
forward once more to speak to the coachman, who was ready enough to
answer questions about that mine, in full work, where a tall granite
building, like a clumsily-formed church tower, stood up on the bleakest
point of wind-swept barren hill, with what seemed like a long arm thrust
out on one side, the said arm being apparently engaged in telegraphing
to them mysterious signs as it slowly rose up and stopped, then went
half-way down and stopped before descending to the earth, and finally
rose, but all in the most peculiar and deliberate manner.
"That's Wheal Porley, sir. Bringing a good bit of copper to grass there
just now."
"And what mine's that on the next hill?"
"Oh! that's tin, sir. Old Friendship they call it; but there's little
doing now. Tin's very low. I hear they bring over such a lot from
Peru, and 'Stralia, and Banky, and them other gashly outlandish places."
"Peru, eh? I did not know that was a tin country."
"Perhaps it wasn't Peru, sir. I arn't sure. That's a rare old place
yonder," the driver continued, pointing with his whip to a large granite
engine-house, with towering chimney, standing on a point running out
into the sea.
"But it isn't working. It seems to be in ruins."
"Ruins, sir? Ah! and it's put lots o' people in ruins too. There's a
heap o' money gone down that mine."
"Yes, there are failures, I suppose; but is it a tin-mine?"
"Yes, sir,--tin. That's what it is, or what it was meant to be by the
adventurers; but they never got any thing out that would pay. They're a
bad lot, those adventurers."
"Are they?" said the young man dryly, and he smiled as he let his eyes
wander over the country, with its deeply-scored ravines, into which the
whole of the fertile soil of the high ground seemed to have been washed,
for they were as rich in ferns and lush foliage as the granite heights
were bare.
To his left swept away the soft blue sea, dotted with the warm brown
sails of the fishing-luggers, and with here and there the white canvas
of a yacht or passing ship.
The young man drew back, and seemed to inflate his chest with the fresh,
pure air. His dark eyes brightened, and a pleasant smile began to play
about his lips, but it was half hidden by his crisp, short beard. As
they went on he glanced sharply from place to place, eager to take in
the surroundings of a land that was to be his future home; and the
result seemed to be satisfactory, for he took off his hat, let the
sea-breeze blow through his short curly hair, and once more turned to
his reading companion.
They formed a striking contrast, the one sitting hatless, dark, eager,
and apparently full of repressed vitality, his muscles standing out from
arm and leg, and his whole aspect bespeaking the informal and natural;
while the other was a pale, delicate, handsomely-featured, fair man,
apparently of the same age, with his face smoothly shaven, his hair very
closely cut, the hand that held the book tightly gloved in black, the
other that turned down a leaf that seemed disposed to dally with the
wind, delicate, long-fingered, white, and with nails most carefully
trimmed. Formality, culture, and refinement were visible at every turn,
and as he became aware that his travelling-companion was watching him,
he looked up with a half-haughty, half-annoyed air, and met the sharp,
keen glance.
"Book interesting?" said the other, in a quick, imperative way.
"I always find my studies interesting," said the young clergyman coldly,
and speaking as if compelled to answer in spite of himself. He then
lowered his eyes, and was about to continue his reading.
"What is it?" said the other. "Ah! I see, `Early Fathers,' and the
rest of it. My word! what a lot of time I did waste over that sort of
thing!"
"Waste?" said the clergyman, indignantly.
"Yes: I call it waste. You don't."
"I never knew that study could be considered a waste of time, sir."
"No, of course not, when it is to do yourself or somebody else good."
A hot, indignant retort was on the young cleric's lips, but he checked
it, and was taking refuge in reserve, when the other went on,--
"Don't think me rude: it's my way. I saw you were an Oxford man; that's
why I spoke. Is old Rexton still at Maudlin?"
"The Dean, if you mean him, is still at Magdalen College, sir," said the
clergyman, frigidly.
"Rum old fellow. How he used to sit upon me. Not a Maudlin man, I
suppose?"
"I had the honour of being at that college, sir, when at Oxford."
"Indeed! then it couldn't have been very far from the time when I was
there."
"You--were you an Oxford man?" said the clergyman, staring blankly at
his companion, who smiled at his astonishment.
"To be sure I was. You'll find my name there--Geoffrey Trethick."
"I--I have heard the name."
"And I am addressing--"
For answer, after a little hesitation, the clergyman drew out a small
pocket-book, with red edges to the diary, and carefully extracted a
card, on which the other read aloud,--
"`Reverend Edward Lee, Carnac.' Humph! that's odd," he said. "I'm
going to live at Carnac. Do you know a Mr Penwynn there?"
"Penwynn, the banker, sir?" said the coachman, turning his head sharply,
and pointing to a grey house just above the town, sheltered amongst some
trees at the head of the little bay. "That's his house, sir--An
Morlock."
"Thanks, coachman. Did you say you knew him, Mr Lee?"
"Not at present," said the clergyman, still keeping up his reserve, but
all the time feeling, in spite of himself, drawn towards his
travelling-companion. "I am a stranger here."
"I hope we shall be strangers no longer. Beautiful country, is it not?"
"Ye-es. Very picturesque," said the clergyman, gazing vacantly around,
the other watching him in an amused way, as, after letting his eyes rest
for a few moments on the beautiful expanse of rocky hill, shady ravine,
and glistening sea, he once more raised his book and went on reading.
"Books always, and not men's minds," muttered Geoffrey Trethick. Then,
bending forwards, he once more engaged the coachman in conversation, to
the clergyman's great relief; and, putting a set of leading questions,
he drew from the driver all the information he could about the
neighbourhood and its people, the man finishing with,--
"Ah, sir, it's as fine and good a country as any in England, if it
wasn't for the adventurers, and they about ruin it."
"Indeed!" said the young man, with the air of being once more very much
amused; and then the coach drew up at the door of the principal inn.
There was a little bustle, and the occupants of the various seats
climbed down, luggage was handed out of the boots, and the two
travellers stood together on the rough paving-stones.
"Take my portmanteau in, boots," said Trethick, sharply. "Do you
breakfast here at the hotel, Mr Lee?"
"Sir," said the clergyman, distantly, "I have not yet made my plans."
"Oh! all right; no offence. I was going to say, let us breakfast
together for company. I'm off to present my letters of introduction.
Good-day; I dare say we shall meet again."
"I hope not," thought the Reverend Edward Lee, upon whom his
travelling-companion seemed to act like a strong blast, bending him
bodily and mentally as well, and he turned into the hotel, hearing, as
he did so, the voice of one of the hangers-on exclaiming, in a sing-song
tone,--
"Mr Penwynn's, An Morlock, sir? Right up street, and out by the hill
I'll show you the way."
"Thanks; no, my lad, I shall find it. Catch!" There was the ring of a
small piece of silver falling upon the pavement, and the young clergyman
sighed with relief to think his travelling-companion had gone.