Mr Chynoweth was in very good spirits one morning, for he had composed
a letter, offering his hand and fortune to Miss Pavey, entirely to his
satisfaction. It was written in a large engrossing hand upon superfine
brief paper, and had the legal look that a document of so much
importance ought to wear.
"I think that will do it," said Mr Chynoweth. "Her little income and
my little income will make a big income; and with rubbers regularly
three times a week, we ought to add something to the common fund."
So rubbing his hands with satisfaction, he proceeded to play a quiet
game in his desk, which he had just finished as Mr Penwynn came in,
when Mr Chynoweth referred to his slate, and told him where Geoffrey
had gone to lodge.
"It is nothing to me," said the banker, "so long as he does his work.
Any thing fresh?"
"No, sir, nothing. He has been here this morning, and said there was
little to report. He says all his efforts to relieve the mine are
useless; that hardly any thing can be done."
"Tell him when he comes again that he must do something. I must call in
fresh help if he is too ignorant to free the mine from water."
He might have called in the help of half the engineers in England, but
they could not have shown him a satisfactory means of battling with the
huge rush of water that entered the gap blown out by the wretched man.
For beneath the sea there was always a torrent ready to take the place
of any that might be pumped out, and, after endless investigations,
Geoffrey Trethick and Pengelly gazed at each other in despair.
It was bitterly tantalising. Here was the rich tin ore waiting for them
in abundance, but no means of reaching and sending it up.
They examined the shore. Went out in boats and sounded. Took into
consideration the possibility of throwing in sand bags over the chasm,
but on such a coast they would have been tossed aside by the first
storm; and the despair at Geoffrey Trethick's heart grew blacker.
They were bitter times too, for Mr Penwynn. On the strength of the
success, John Tregenna had presented himself, made a claim, and been
handsomely paid off by the banker, who, wishing to be on good terms with
the man he had formerly disappointed and being then in the full flush of
triumph, had paid Tregenna double the amount agreed upon, and now he was
too proud to demand it back, though it would have been a useless
proceeding if he had.
Large as was the sum he drew, Tregenna had been terribly wroth, but when
the news came to him of the flooding of the mine he sat and gloated over
his success, and laughed to himself till he began to think of the man
Lannoe, his tool, and of the possibility of getting rid of him in some
plausible way, so as to be sure of being free from demands for black
mail.
Then the days passed with more good news. It was certain, he knew, that
Geoffrey had been dismissed from visiting at An Morlock, news that was
delightful in its way. Then Lannoe did not come, though he was
expecting him day after day, till a strange feeling of hope began to
grow into a certainty, and at last he felt sure that the man had lost
his life in his nefarious attempt.
Lastly came to him the information that Geoffrey Trethick had gone to
lodge with the Prawles; and John Tregenna laughed aloud as he thought
once more of Rhoda, and of the time when he could renew his pretensions,
and this time, perhaps, with better success.
The days wore on, and finding that nothing could be done in the way of
pumping out the mine, Geoffrey and Pengelly spent their time in the top
galleries, to which the water had not reached, searching in vain for
something in the way of reward.
The former found his bad character seemed to have but little effect upon
the poorer people of Carnac, even though Miss Pavey in her visiting said
that he was a terrible wretch, and ought to be excommunicated by the
church. His worst failing in the eyes of the people was his going to
lodge at Prawle's, and unwittingly in this he had done poor Madge an ill
turn, for the news reached the cottage just at a time when old Paul had
settled that Mrs Mullion should fetch her daughter home. When this
news came he bade her wait.
So time went on, and from the poorer folk there was always a shake or a
nod as Geoffrey passed, and now and then an offering of fish from Tom
Jennen or some other rough fellow with whom he had spent a night out in
the bay.
He was passing along the road one day, in a very morose humour, when he
came full upon the Reverend Edward Lee, and was about to pass him with a
short nod, but the vicar stopped.
"How are you?" said Geoffrey, shortly.
"Not well, Trethick," said the vicar, holding out his hand, to the
other's great surprise.
"Sorry for it," said Geoffrey, grimly, shaking hands. "What is it--
bile?"
The vicar looked at him with a pained expression of countenance.
"No," he said, "I am sick at heart. We don't see one another often,
Trethick. May I walk with you?"
"Oh, if you like," said Geoffrey, as the vicar turned and walked by his
side. "I was going over the hill yonder by Horton mine, to let the wind
blow some of my bad temper out of me."
"I should like to go with you, Trethick," said the vicar, eagerly.
"Look here, Lee," exclaimed Geoffrey, "I'm a man of the world, and rough
usage has made me rough. If you want to talk pious platitudes to me by
rote, please don't, for we should be sure to quarrel. I am horribly
unholy this morning."
"But I do not," exclaimed the vicar, earnestly. "I want to talk to you
as a man of the world."
"Come on, then," said Geoffrey; "it's a treat to talk to a civilised
being now."
He thrust his arm through that of the young vicar, and hurried him on
and on up-hill till the latter was breathless. Then he stopped.
"Now then!" said Geoffrey, "here we are, right out on the top, with
heaven above and the free air around; now talk to me like a man of the
world."
The vicar followed Geoffrey's example, and threw himself on the short,
crisp turf, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and gazing at his
companion with a curiously troubled air.
"Now then," said Geoffrey, "man of the world, make a beginning."
The vicar hesitated, and Geoffrey smiled.
"Well, I'll help you," he said. "You want to know why I have not been
at church lately?"
"Yes," said the vicar, eagerly catching at the ball thrown to him, "I
did want to speak to you about that for one thing."
"Too wicked!" said Geoffrey. "Mind too much taken up with other
things."
"Too much bent upon laying up treasure upon earth, Trethick, thinking
too little of the treasure in heaven."
"I thought you said that you were going to talk to me like a man of the
world," said Geoffrey, sharply.
"Yes, yes--I am," was the hasty reply, for the vicar saw that a few more
words in the same strain would send his companion away.
"Go on then. You said you were heart-sick," said Geoffrey. "What's the
matter?"
"I am in a great deal of trouble, Trethick," said the vicar, heavily.
"I'm not a man of the world, but you are, and--and--I like you,
Trethick, I don't know why, but I wish we were better friends."
"You like me?" said Geoffrey, laughing. "Why, my good sir, you and I
are like positive and negative poles; we repel one another."
"But why should we, Trethick? You seem always to exercise a strange
power over me. I did not like you at first."
"No," said Geoffrey. "I was too rough and outspoken; too irreligious.
I shocked you."
"Yes, yes. That is true," said the vicar.
"Then you found that I was a rival, and you hated me?"
"No: not hated you," said the vicar, sadly. "I felt that we could never
be friends. That was all."
"Look here, Lee," said Trethick; "are you a saint, or a humbug?"
"Certainly not the first," said the vicar, smiling. "I sincerely hope
not the second."
"No: I don't believe you are," said Geoffrey, shortly. "Well, sir, the
game's up. I've failed in my projects, and I've failed in my love. The
way is open. I am no rival now."
"Trethick," said the vicar, earnestly, "can't we be friends?" and he
held out his hand.
"Oh, yes, if you like," said Geoffrey, bitterly. "But why should you
want to be friends with such a blackguard? There, man, go and have your
way. I'm out of the race."
"You are speaking very bitterly, Trethick," said the vicar, sadly.
"You are bitterly disappointed with your failures. So am I. It is as
Mr Penwynn said that evening: we have not been able to make our way."
"But you are making your way," said Geoffrey.
"No," replied the vicar, shaking his head, "not at all. I cannot move
these people. I try all I can; I have done every thing possible, but
they prefer to go to that wretched chapel, and to hear such men as
Pengelly. Trethick, I speak to you as a man of the world," he
continued, growing each moment more earnest, and his face flushing. "I
am in despair; that is why I came to you, whom I know to be
disappointed, as I am myself. I cannot get at these people's hearts. I
yearn to do good amongst them, but I cannot stir them, while you seem to
touch them to the core. If I announced that you would preach to them
next week, the place would be thronged; as it is, it is nearly empty.
Why is this?"
"Because I am the sinner, you the saint," said Geoffrey, bitterly.
"There, don't look shocked, man; it is because you are too clever--too
scholarly with them; you put on the priest's garment, and with it the
priest's mask, and completely hide your nature. Let them know your
profession by your ways, sir, and not by your cassock. I believe you
are a good fellow at heart. Your words now prove it; but you have grown
so full of belief in form and ceremony that you think them all in all.
Why, Lee," he cried, lighting up, "I could get these people to follow me
like dogs."
"Yes," said the vicar, sadly; "but they shun me."
"No," said Geoffrey; "I am boasting. But still I believe I could move
them. Look here, Lee, you are in earnest over this?"
"Earnest?" cried the other. "I'd give any thing to win them to my
side."
"Then be more of a man, less of a priest. Don't draw such a line of
distinction between you. Mix with them more. Never mind the long
cassock and ritualistic hat. Take more interest in their pursuits, and
let them feel how much your nature, however polished, is like theirs."
"I will, Trethick. Yes, you are right. I am sure you are right."
"I believe--I hope I am," said Geoffrey.
"I am sure of it," cried the vicar; "and I see now how unsuited much of
my teaching has been. But now about yourself, Trethick, let me begin by
being more human, and helping you."
"How can you help me?" said Geoffrey, bitterly. "I am a hopeless
bankrupt in pocket and morals, so the world says; and I am cut off from
all that I looked forward to with happiness. Why don't you be up and
doing, man, as I told you?" he cried, with a mocking devil in his eyes;
"the way is open--go and win the race."
"I do not understand you," said the vicar, sadly.
"Don't understand? You know you loved Rhoda Penwynn."
"I did love her--very dearly," said the vicar, simply.
"And not now?"
He shook his head.
"Miss Penwynn would never have cared for me," he said, quietly; "I soon
learned that. These things are a mystery, Trethick. Don't speak of
that any more. It hurts me."
Geoffrey nodded.
"Here, sit down," he cried, "I'm tired, bodily and mentally. I feel as
if I want my mother-earth--to nurse me. There," he cried, settling
himself upon the turf with a grim smile, "sometimes, lately, I've felt
as if I should like her to take me in her cold, clayey arms, to sleep
never to wake again."
"Don't talk like that, Trethick," said the vicar, appealingly; "life is
too real and good to be carelessly thrown away."
"Right, Lee; you are right--quite right. Well, then," he said, "I
won't; but look here, man, you want to win the people to your side--here
is your opportunity. That poor girl--Margaret Mullion."
"Yes," said the vicar, eagerly. "I wanted to talk to you about her."
"Go on then."
"I dared not commence," he said, "I shrank from beginning; but that was
one reason why I longed to talk to you, Trethick."
"Well," said the other, smiling. "I am all attention."
"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.