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.