Time goes by rapidly with the busy. To Geoffrey it went like lightning;
to Madge Mullion it hung heavy as lead. When they met, which was seldom
now, and he spoke a few kindly, cheery words to her, she looked at him
rather piteously, but said little in return.
Once or twice there was a twinge of pain in Geoffrey Trethick's
conscience, but he said nothing, only went on with his work busily and
well. The water was all out of the mine, and he had carefully examined
and reported upon it--a carefully worded report, promising nothing more
than a moderate return upon a small capital; and, not satisfied, he
persuaded Mr Penwynn to have down an experienced mineralogist to give
his opinion.
"Whom would you recommend?" said Mr Penwynn, and Rhoda watched Geoffrey
anxiously for his reply.
"No one, Mr Penwynn," said the young man. "Get somebody I don't know--
a reliable man whom you can trust, and don't let me see him."
He happened to turn his eyes upon Rhoda as he spoke, and there was such
a bright, eager look in the glance that met his that it made him
thoughtful.
"Quite right," said Mr Penwynn, "it would be better;" and the next day
Mr Chynoweth was set to write to a mining engineer in town.
That night there was a game of whist at Dr Rumsey's, and Chynoweth and
Tregenna were there. Tregenna lost heavily for such play as they had.
Chynoweth was in high delight, and Tregenna and he walked home together.
The next day Mr Tregenna had business in London, and the day following
the mining engineer and mineralogist came down, inspected Wheal Carnac,
and made his report afterwards to Mr Penwynn, with the result that the
banker said nothing to Geoffrey Trethick, only bade him go on, feeling
satisfied that his venture was to be a great financial success.
A month later it was known that a new company had bought the mine, and
that shares were to be had.
The matter was chatted over at An Morlock, and, as sometimes happened,
Geoffrey and Rhoda were left together for a time; their talk being
generally of the mine; and when he was gone, Rhoda got into the habit of
sitting silent and thoughtful, in judgment upon Geoffrey Trethick's
character.
Her line of argument took somewhat this form--she did not know why she
should argue out his cause--but somehow she felt compelled to do so.
Scandal had made pretty free with his name, and, in spite of her
efforts, Rhoda seemed obliged to hear, through Miss Pavey, all that was
said.
And the sayings were these--that Geoffrey Trethick was young and gay;
that he had gone so much to Gwennas Cove that old Prawle had threatened
his life if he went there again, and that upon one occasion the old man
had lain in wait for him with a hammer at Wheal Carnac, only Pengelly
was with Trethick and had saved him; then Trethick had promised that he
would go to Gwennas no more, and the matter at once ended.
"False on the face of it!" said Rhoda, with spirit. "Geoffrey--Mr
Trethick," she said quickly, "told me that he had been twice to see old
Mrs Prawle this week, and begged me to go soon."
The next indictment was that Geoffrey had become so intimate with Madge
Mullion that old Mr Paul had ordered him to leave the house, and that
he was going at once.
This was Miss Pavey's news, and she added that Mr Trethick would have
to leave the town unless Mr Penwynn took compassion upon him.
"Of course, my dear," she had said, maliciously, as she blew her nose in
a gentlemanly way as if it were a triumphant note of defiance, "after
what we are hearing you have quite cast him off?"
Rhoda looked at the speaker steadily, but made no reply.
But of this charge?
"Well," Rhoda argued, "Madge Mullion is pretty and attractive, and she
would probably throw herself open to the attentions of such a man as
Geoffrey Trethick. But, if this were true, would Geoffrey behave as he
had behaved at An Morlock of late? He seemed to be the soul of honour,
and his words always had the ring of truth in them. No: it was one of
the Carnac petty scandals; Geoffrey Trethick was no trifler."
There was another long, dreamy time after this, and there were moments
when Rhoda felt angry with herself for thinking so much about the man
who now came to lay bare his plans, to consult her, so it seemed, when
he was asking counsel of her father. And all at once she seemed to
awaken to the fact that, by some means, the life of Geoffrey Trethick
had become interwoven strangely with her own--that his success was her
success, his failures hers; and yet he had spoken no word, given her no
look. He was different to any man that she had ever met, and he even
annoyed her sometimes by his quiet assumption of authority as the
stronger in thought. For he would ask her advice, and often enough show
the fallacy of what she had said.
Then she would think that they were becoming too intimate, and blame her
father for encouraging the presence of this stranger; but Mr Penwynn
seemed, after a life of immunity, to have taken the mine fever badly,
and the thought of Geoffrey Trethick pretending to his daughter's hand
never occurred to him.
"No," thought Rhoda, "papa thinks of nothing now but this speculation;
and why should he? Geoffrey Trethick has never behaved otherwise than
as a visitor working in my father's interest;" and as she said this to
herself, a curious feeling of pique arose, but only to be crushed at
once.
Finally, Rhoda Penwynn's verdict on Geoffrey Trethick was that he was a
gentleman--a man of unstained honour, whom fate had placed in a town
full of petty scandal.
The next day Rhoda endorsed her verdict, and it was in this wise.
She granted, as she started, that it was due to Geoffrey's request, for
otherwise she might not have gone. As it was, she started in the
afternoon to walk over to Gwennas Cove, passing along the cliff, and
looking somewhat eagerly down towards Wheal Carnac, where figures were
moving and shaft smoking, while the great beam of the pumping-engine
went steadily on with its toil.
She was half-startled to see how the wreck had been transformed into a
busy scene of industry, and, in spite of herself, she felt a glow of
pride as she recalled whose hand had brought about the change.
Her face turned hard directly after, as she thought of her father, and
of how he had seemed to become inoculated with Geoffrey Trethick's
enthusiasm. He did not want for money, and yet he had entered upon this
mining speculation--he of all men, who had laughed at the follies of
those who embarked upon such ventures. What was to be the end?
She walked on, and soon after reached the spot where Bess Prawle had
been driven to bay by the superstitious crowd; and, as the whole scene
came back, with Geoffrey's gallant behaviour, and the girl's display of
gratitude, Rhoda stopped short, with her eyes contracting, her brow
ruffled with emotion, and her lips half parted. For she was startled at
the pang of misery that shot through her. The contemptible scandal she
had heard forced itself upon her, and she seemed obliged to couple with
it the weak wanderings of poor old Mrs Prawle about Geoffrey and her
child.
It was horrible! What had she been doing? How had her fancies been
straying, she asked herself, as she awakened to the fact that
imperceptibly her interest in Geoffrey had grown so warm that the
thought of his caring for another caused her misery of the most acute
kind.
She shook off the feeling, calling herself weak and childish, and,
gathering mental strength with the walk, she at last reached Gwennas
Cove.
Old Prawle was busy overhauling a long line, and binding on fresh hooks,
a task from which he condescended to raise his eyes, and give the
visitor a surly nod as she spoke.
His voice brought out Bess, looking handsomer than ever, Rhoda thought,
in her picturesque dress and carelessly-knotted hair.
For a moment the two girls stood gazing in each other's eyes, and a
cold, chilling feeling ran through Rhoda as, in spite of herself, she
felt that it would be no wonder if Geoffrey Trethick did love this bold,
handsome girl.
The next moment the thought was gone, and Rhoda had held out her hand.
"I hope there is a good stock of sweeties, Bessie," she said, with a
frank smile. "How is Mrs Prawle?"
Bess's breath came with a catch, as she returned the smile; and, leading
the way into the cottage, the pleasant little fiction was gone through,
and the invalid made happy in the thought that she had added the profits
of a shilling's-worth of sweets to the general store.
But there was no conversation this time about Geoffrey Trethick, for
Bess stayed in the room, and then followed Rhoda out on to the cliff
path when she left.
"Why, Bessie," said the visitor, smiling, "I have hardly seen you since
that day when those mad people behaved so ill."
"I very seldom go into the town now, miss," said Bess, whose colour came
as she recalled the conclusion of that scene.
"It's very sad," continued Rhoda, "that the people should be so
ignorant. Well, good-by, Bessie," she continued, holding out her hand,
"you will not ill-wish me?"
"No," said Bessie, softly, as she watched the tall, well-dressed,
graceful figure slowly receding. "No, I will not ill-wish you; but
there are times when I feel as if I must hate you for being what you
are."
She let Rhoda go on till the fluttering of her dress in the sea-breeze
was seen no more, and then, moved by some strange impulse, she followed,
avoiding the track; and, active and quick as one of the half-wild sheep
of the district, she climbed up on to the rugged down above the cliff
path, and kept on gazing below at Rhoda from time to time.
She went on nearly parallel with her for a quarter of a mile or so, and
then stood motionless for a time, gazing down, before, with a weary wail
of misery, she threw herself amidst the heather, her face upon one
outstretched arm, whose fingers clutched and tore at the tough plants
and grass, while her whole frame quivered with her passionate sobs.
"Bess!"
At the sound of that hoarse voice she started up into a sitting
position, but shrank away as she gazed up into her father's fierce,
rugged face. The old man was down on one knee beside her, and his
gnarled and knotted hand was pointing in the direction of the cliff path
a hundred feet below.
"Is--is it come to this, Bess?" he said.
"What--what, father?" she cried, catching at his hand; but she missed
it, and he gripped her arm.
"Is that smooth, good-looking villain thy lover, too?" he said, in a
vindictive whisper.
"Oh! no, no, no, father," she gasped.
"I knew it would come to it," he cried. "Curse him! I'll crush his
false head again the rocks."
"Are you mad, father?" she whispered, throwing her arms round him.
"Mad? No," he cried; "but do you think I'm blind as well as old?
Bess," he continued, "I wish before his gashly face had darkened our
door--"
"Oh father, father, dear father," she moaned--and she crept closer and
closer, till her arms were round his neck, and her head in his breast;
"kill me, but don't hurt him."
"Then he has been trifling with thee, girl? I knowed it; I was sure it
would come."
"No, no, no," moaned Bess; "he never said word to me but what you might
hear."
"Is--is this gawspel, Bess?" cried the old man, dragging up her
convulsed and tearful face, and gazing in her wistful dark eyes.
"Can't you see, father?" she said, with a low, despairing sigh. "I'm
not good enough to be his wife, and he's not the man to trifle and say
soft things to me. You see down yonder," she added, pitifully, as she
waved one brown hand in the direction of the path.
"Nay, it's along of Madge Mullion," said the old man, wrathfully.
"Yon's nothing, and will come to naught. They say old Paul's niece--"
"It's a lie, father, a cruel lie," cried Bess, starting from him. "I
heard it, and it's a lie. Mr Trethick's a gentleman, and he's as noble
as he's good."
"Curse him for coming here," cried the old man fiercely.
"God bless him!" said Bess, simply, as, kneeling there, she let her
joined hands drop into her lap. "God bless him for a good man, and--
and--may he be very--very happy in the time to come."
Bess Prawle's face dropped into her hands, and she sank lower and lower,
with the tears of agony growing less scalding, and falling by degrees,
as it were, like balm upon her burning love--a love which she had held
unveiled before her father's gaze, while the old man bent over her, the
savage roughness of his face growing less repulsive, and a look of love
and pride transforming him for the time.
He knelt down and kissed her bright black hair; then he put his arms
round her, and drew her to him, and at last held her to his heart,
rocking to and fro as he had nursed her a dozen or fifteen years before.
"My pretty flower," he cried hoarsely, "my Bess! He don't know--he
don't know. You not good enough for he? Harkye, my girl. He shall
marry you--he shall be proud to marry you--for I know that as will bring
him to you, and put him on his knees and ask you to be his wife."
"Father?" said the girl, looking at him wonderingly.
"Yes," he said, nodding his head exultantly, and kissing her broad
forehead. "I can make you as fine a lady as any in Cornwall, my lass,
and I can bring him to you when I will."
"No, no, no," moaned Bessie, with a piteous smile.
"But I say yes," cried the old man. "I haven't had my eyes open all
these years for nothing. Let's go home, Bess; I'll talk to thee there.
Get up, my girl, and I'll bring him to thy feet whene'er thou wilt."
Bess rose sadly, and put her hand in her father's, but, as they took a
step forward, the nook in the cliff where she had stood at bay opened
out beneath them, and they both saw that which made Bessie Prawle feel
as if her heart would break.