Chapter Forty.
Something Wrong.
They were civil enough to him at the hotel, but Geoffrey could not help noticing that there was a peculiar something in his reception.
Of course it was strange his going there, and it led to talking about him; of this he could not help feeling sure.
“Let them talk,” he muttered, “if it pleases them;” and, after a late dinner, and spending an hour or two in writing, he made up his mind to go to bed and have a good night’s rest, to make up for the losses of the previous night.
He felt that he would like to know how old Mr Paul was, but he could not send or ask with any degree of comfort, so he went to bed at ten.
But it was not to rest. His nerves had been so unduly excited by the events of the past twenty-four hours that, try how he would, he could not get to sleep.
As a rule, strong, healthy, and hearty, no sooner was his head upon his pillow than he dropped off into a deep slumber. But this night his mind was in a continuous whirl. He tossed, he turned, got up and bathed his beating temples and burning forehead, scrubbed himself with a towel, and lay down again, but there was no sleep.
Now he was following poor Madge along the cliff, and plunging into the sea to save her. Then he was facing Bessie Prawle, whose eyes looked reproachfully at him. Again, he would be back at the cottage going through that pitiful scene with poor old Mr Paul; and when at last he succeeded in dismissing that from his mind, he was haunted by the face of Rhoda gazing at him with such a look of scorn and contempt that he was obliged to sit up in bed to make sure it was not real.
“Upsets a man’s nerves, no matter how strong he may be,” argued Geoffrey; and he once more threw himself down, wishing that he was back at the cottage, for, as it was comparatively early, there were noises in the hotel that helped to keep him awake.
At last, about midnight, he seemed to have successfully laid the whole of the unrestful spirits that had been haunting him, and, feeling calmer, he uttered a sigh of satisfaction, and felt that he was going now to enjoy his well-earned rest, when a fresh thought leaped to his brain, and that was about Wheal Carnac.
He had been down the mine that evening, and every thing was progressing admirably. The machinery was in perfect order, the men settling down more and more to their work, and they were in a high state of delight at the success that had attended Pengelly’s investigations. Why then should he trouble himself about Wheal Carnac?
He argued with himself that it was imagination, due to the excited state of his nerves and the worries of the day. He felt that it was that; but, in spite of his reasoning, he could not rest. Sleep seemed to be out of the question, and yet he would be terribly unfit for the next day’s work.
At last he could bear it no longer, and, feeling that rest would not come unless he could satisfy himself that the place was safe, he got up and dressed.
“I’m growing a wise man,” he said, mockingly. “I wonder whether any one has run away with the mine? Perhaps there is a burglary on, and they are breaking into the boiler.”
At the same time he felt that a walk in the cool night air would calm his nerves, and he prepared to descend, when a new difficulty assailed him.
It was past midnight now, every one in the place had retired, and no doubt he would have some difficulty in getting out.
“I say the people here are mad,” he thought; “they will think me mad. Well, let them.”
He went down as cautiously as he could, and found that his difficulty about getting out was only imaginary, for the door was easily opened, and, as he closed it behind him, and felt the cool night air upon his forehead, he uttered a sigh of relief.
His plans were soon made; he would go first to Pengelly, and knock him up and hear his report: for the manager was going to stay there a couple or three hours after his superior had left the mine.
He felt some compunction in this; but he knew Pengelly’s interest in the works, and how willing he would be to answer questions; so he walked on, thinking over two or three plans which he had been revolving in his mind to propose to Mr Penwynn for Pengelly’s benefit, and as a reward for his discovery.
Every thing was very still under the brilliant starlit sky, and as Geoffrey reached the narrow lane where Pengelly lived, he again felt some little compunction at arousing him; but, as he had gone so far, he determined to proceed.
The slight tap he gave on the door was quite sufficient to waken the miner, and Geoffrey plainly heard him leap out of bed. The next moment the casement just above his head was opened.
“What’s the matter?” he said quickly.
“Nothing, I hope, Pengelly.”
“Oh, it’s you, sir!”
“Yes, it is I, Pengelly. Tell me, did you leave all right?”
“Yes, sir; quite right.”
“At what time?”
“I was there till nine, sir. Have you been since?”
“No, Pengelly; but I have got an uneasy feeling upon me that something might be wrong. I couldn’t sleep, so I came on to you.”
“Guilty conscience,” thought Pengelly.
“I think,” continued Geoffrey, “I’ll walk on down there to see if every thing is right. Good-night.”
“No, sir, stop a minute, and I’ll come too.”
Geoffrey protested, but as he protested Pengelly jumped into his flannel trousers and frock, and in the time that a modern gentleman would have taken to unbutton his eyelids and think about his bath, the miner was dressed and coming down.
“It’s a shame to rouse you up, Pengelly, about such a fancy as mine,” said Geoffrey. “I was restless, and that made me fidget about the mine.”
“Well, sir, she’s worth fidgetting about,” said Pengelly. “Let’s go down. It won’t do any harm. There’s the two engine-men on, and it will show them that we may we expected at any time, and teach them their duty.”
Geoffrey longed to say something in his own defence to the miner, as they went along under the starlit sky, but his pride kept him silent; and, gradually growing calmer and at his ease as the fresh breeze from the sea blew upon his face, they went on and on till they began climbing the rugged path to where the engine-house stood up dim and gaunt against the sky, with its lit-up windows and door having a grotesque resemblance to the face of some fiery monster, who was uttering a low, panting roar.
They found the engine steadily working, raising and lowering the enormous rod of the series of pumps, and a steady, rushing noise told that the water was running fast.
“They’re both fast asleep,” said Pengelly. “Hallo! who’s that?”
“Where?” said Geoffrey. “I don’t see any one.”
“I’d be sworn I saw some one go away,” exclaimed Pengelly, leaping forward, but only to return to where Geoffrey stood.
“I expect it was fancy, sir; but let’s go and rouse them up. They’ve no business to be asleep.”
He led the way into the engine-house, where, by the glow from the stoke-hole fire, the two men on duty could be seen lying back on the stone bench that formed their seat, fast asleep; and, though Pengelly shook them again and again, he could only evoke a deep stertorous snore from each in turn.
“I don’t like this, sir,” said Pengelly. “Let’s take a look round.”
Geoffrey took a lantern from a rough shelf, and together they visited office, stables, and the various buildings, ending by going towards the shaft, when Pengelly suddenly uttered a cry.
“What’s wrong?” cried Geoffrey, excitedly, though the knowledge had come to him at the same moment as to his man.
“She’s burst in, sir. Oh, listen! She’s burst in!”
And as Geoffrey bent over the shaft, the fearful sound of the rushing water flooding the mine rose from the echoing depths upon his ear.
Stunned by the nature of the catastrophe, Geoffrey Trethick stood clutching the framework of the shaft, and leaned over listening to the surging roar of the water as it seemed to him to come bursting up through the winzes in fountains and rushing in triumph through each gallery and drive.
As for Pengelly, he had thrown himself upon the ground, and for a time neither spoke.
“Is this treachery or accident, Pengelly?” cried Trethick at last in a hoarse, changed voice.
“Call it judgment, sir—call it judgment,” groaned the miner. “If we sin, the punishment must find us out.”
“Pengelly?” cried Geoffrey, as he turned upon him in his rage. “There, I cannot argue with you now. What can we do?”
“Do!” cried Pengelly, piteously. “Do nothing. What can we do but pray and ask for mercy and help, sir, from above.”
“Help!” cried Geoffrey. “God helps those who help themselves. Let us be up and doing, man alive.”
“It’s no time to be up and doing now, sir,” replied Pengelly solemnly. “Listen, sir; do you hear? Hark at the water, as if the fountains of the great deep were broken up. Mr Trethick, sir,” he continued, incongruously, “we may stop the engine, for a dozen such could not master the water gathering there.”
“The wall was too thin to stand the pressure,” groaned Geoffrey, “and yet it seemed so safe. Is it possible that any tricks can have been played with the mine? Yes; I see it now,” he cried passionately. “That man you saw—those two fellows drunk—yes, of course. Look! the cage is down. Some one must have gone below to-night.”
Pengelly, roused by his companion’s words, seemed now to grasp their meaning, and, gazing from Geoffrey to the space where the cage should have been, he ran into the engine-house, and, turning the bars, threw the wheels in gear, when, after what seemed to be an interminable space of time, the dripping cage came up empty to the mouth.
“Some one has, been down,” said Pengelly, hoarsely; “but whoever it was has not come up;” and without another word, the miner walked slowly back into the engine-house, sat down, and buried his face in his hands.
For a time Geoffrey stood there, holding by the iron rail that protected the shaft, listening to the rushing water, for even yet he could hardly realise the appalling nature of the affair. A short time back it would have been a very serious loss! but now, just as prosperity in fullest tide had come upon them, sweeping away all doubts and fears, the calamity seemed greater than he could bear.
And Rhoda? Mr Penwynn? What was he to say to them?
Well, the former would pity and sympathise, and he must begin again.
The latter would help him no more.
It was horrible, and if he could only bring it home—
He shuddered, for he recalled Pengelly’s words.
Perhaps the cause of that mischief was below.
Then, like an icy blast, came the recollection of that other trouble—the suspicion that had been laid at his door; but he laughed that off with contempt, and turning at last, he followed Pengelly into the engine-house, where the fire burned ruddily, the two men slept, and, as if in mockery, the vast engine kept up its solemn, heavy thump, bent, apparently now, so Geoffrey thought, upon the task of pumping the Atlantic Ocean dry.
“Blow off the steam, man; throw open the furnace bars,” cried Geoffrey, suddenly, “and stop that cursed engine clank. The game’s up for the present. I’m going home to bed.”
Even as he spoke the words he recalled that he had no home, and Pengelly laid his hand upon his arm.
“I’ll do your orders, master,” he said sadly, “and then I’m going back to pray, for it’s a judgment on us, master, a judgment for our sins.”
He was about to say you, for in his simple breast the poor fellow believed the tale that was the talk of the little place.
“But he’s my master,” he had said; “and I’ll serve him true, for who knows but what I may some day make him sorrow for his sin, and see the light.”
Geoffrey turned upon him angrily, but Pengelly’s face disarmed him; and as the miner obeyed his orders and the clank of the great pump ceased, he threw himself upon the stone bench, and, staring in at the flaming furnace-fire, asked himself how he was to face the coming day.