Geoffrey Trethick had truly expressed his character when he said that he
had Cornish blood in his veins, and could be as obstinate as any in the
county. Whether he was descended from the same race as peopled the
opposite coast of France, it is impossible to say, but he was as
stubborn as any Breton ever born.
The days glided on, and he found that he was disbelieved and doubted;
that Mr Penwynn had lost faith in him, and that Rhoda had set herself
aloof; and one way and another he was so exasperated that he set his
teeth firmly, and swore he would never say another word in his own
defence.
"Let them think what they may, say what they like, I'll never protest or
deny again; and as for Rhoda, fickle, cold-hearted, cruel girl, I hate
her with all my heart--and I am a liar for saying so," he cried. "But
that's all over, and some day or another she shall beg my pardon--and
I'll tell her so."
Acting on the impulse of the moment he sat down and hastily penned a
note to her, without internal address or signature, placed it in his
pocket, and kept it there ready for posting when he passed the office.
It was very brief.
"I gave you my love in full trust and hope. I believed you gave me
yours in return. Trouble came--accident--mishap--and appearances
blackened me. You heard much, saw less, and you judged me from hearsay,
giving me no opportunity for defence. In other words, you believed me
to be as great a scoundrel as ever walked this earth. I accept your
washes conveyed in your father's note; but some day you will beg my
pardon--ask my forgiveness. I shall wait till that day comes."
Not a very gentle letter to send to a lady, but he sent it just at a
time, to use his own words, when his soul was raw within him.
He had seen Mr Penwynn, who ridiculed the idea of the flooding being
the work of an enemy, and bade him, imperiously, free the mine from
water.
He was too proud to say much, but accepted at once the position of
servant, and went his way to examine the mine once more, set the
pumping-engine working at its highest pressure, and found at the end of
twenty-four hours that he had not sunk the water the eighth of an inch.
Then he had found himself deliberately "cut" by the better-class people
in the place, and that his efforts to obtain even the humblest lodgings
were in vain. The hotel people excused themselves on the plea of want
of room, and for several nights he slept in the office by the mine.
There was one man, though, who seemed to be hunting Geoffrey about from
place to place, but he avoided him in his anger.
"I know what he wants to say to me," he cried, "and, by George! I won't
have it. I never did strike any one wearing the cloth, but I'm in that
aggravated state of mind just now that if he did speak to me, and begin
to preach, I should hit him."
It is needless to say that the man he avoided was the vicar.
"Reverend Master Lee has been here again, sir," said Amos Pengelly to
him one morning, "and I said you'd be here soon, and he's coming again."
"Then I won't see him," cried Geoffrey, angrily. "Look here, Pengelly,
I'm not going to be driven out of Carnac. People are sending me to
Coventry, and are trying to aggravate me into going, but I sha'n't go."
"No, sir, I wouldn't go," said Pengelly, quietly. "I'd stay here and
put the mine right, and then make amends."
Trethick turned upon him fiercely, but Pengelly did not shrink, and the
young man uttered an impatient "pish!"
"Look here, Pengelly, I must have lodgings somewhere. What am I to do?
I'm not a dog to live in this kennel of an office."
"You can share my place if you like."
"No, no; I told you I would not."
"I was talking to Mrs Prawle about it last even, sir."
"What! you were over at the Cove?" said Geoffrey, eagerly. "How was
poor Madge?"
"Very sadly, sir, they say. You haven't been over for some days."
"I? No, of course not," said Geoffrey, sharply. "What should I do
there?"
"Mrs Prawle said that if you could not get a better place, they had
their little parlour and the one room out of it to spare; and Bessie
said she would tend you if you liked."
"But, hang it, man! I couldn't go there," cried Geoffrey.
"I don't see why, sir," said Pengelly, simply. "I couldn't go there
now, or I'd give up my place to you, but you could."
"Oh, no--impossible!"
"They're wonderfully clean people, sir," continued Pengelly, "and,
though the furnishing's humble, they'd make you very comfortable, for
old Master Prawle's seldom in the house, and it's little you'd want it
for except for your breakfast and to sleep."
"But that poor girl's there," cried Geoffrey.
"I don't see why that should make any difference, sir," said Pengelly.
"I was talking to Bessie about it after Mrs Prawle had spoken, and I
went against it; but she said it would be quite right, and hoped you
would go."
"Indeed!" said Geoffrey. "I say, Pengelly, how many times have you been
there lately?"
"Every night, sir. It come of my taking a message, and money, and a
parcel, from Mistress Mullion up at the cottage; for, though she can't
have her child back, because of old Mr Paul, her heart's very sore
about her, and she sends there every day."
"And so you and Miss Bessie have been talking matters over, eh?"
"Yes, sir. I'm a poor fellow to go to a woman's eye, but I'd try very
hard to go to her heart," said the miner, simply.
"I did not mean that, Pengelly," said Geoffrey, smiling. "I meant about
my matters."
"Oh yes, sir, a deal; and if you can't get elsewhere, I'd go there."
The miner went off about his work, and Geoffrey began to think over what
had been proposed.
"Oh, no; it would be madness to go there. It would be giving colour to
the report;" and he dismissed the idea from his mind. But that evening,
as he sat at the office-door upon the bleak, wind-swept promontory, with
the remnants of a cheerless meal, brought him by one of the miners'
wives, upon the desk behind him, and the prospect of a night upon the
bench beside the door, with a rolled-up coat for a pillow, his thoughts
went back to the cottage at Gwennas, and he had to light a pipe to try
and soothe himself, so bitter were his feelings.
"It's too bad--a thousand times too bad for any thing," he cried, as he
gazed out to sea at the ever-darkening waves, now beginning to glitter
with the reflections from the stars above.
"'Pon my soul, I'm the most unlucky fellow that ever breathed, and it's
miserable living like this. Suppose I go to old Prawle's? I could sit
with him down in his cave, and smoke, and drink smuggled liquor. I'm a
drunkard by reputation, so why not indulge?
"I like poor old Mrs Prawle--and Bessie. Good lass."
He had a long, quiet think, and then burst out into a cynical laugh.
"What would Carnac say if I went there?"