Chapter Forty Four.
Geoffrey’s New Lodgings.
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?”
And directly after, in a hard fit of stubborn opposition,—
“What does Carnac say now? Damn Carnac. I will go, and they may say and think what they will.”
He had worked himself up into such a fit of passion, that for fear he should cool down, and let himself back out of what he looked upon as a bit of revenge upon the scandal-loving place, he started off at once, reached the cliff, and walked swiftly along to the Cove, where, as he came to the rapid descent, he stopped short to gaze at the place below.
On a stone outside the door, which was open, and from which came forth a soft flood of light, sat old Prawle, smoking away, with the bowl of his short black pipe glowing in the twilight like a star, while leaning against the door-post, with something in her arms, was Bessie Prawle, rocking herself to and fro, and singing an old Cornish ditty in a sweet, wild voice.
“By George!” said Geoffrey, softly, “I’d forgotten the bairn.”
He stood there watching that scene and listening to Bessie’s song for some time, and it set him thinking of women and children, and of what strength there is in their weakness to alter the journey of life. Then he thought of the suffering girl inside, lying there helpless and forsaken in her sorest time of need; and lastly he thought he would go back and try and furnish up the office and make it habitable, but just then a gruff voice hailed him with a rough—
“Hallo!”
“Hallo, Father Prawle!” he cried, and he went down, Bessie retiring into the cottage as he came into sight, “What’s the news about the mine?” said the old man.
“Bad,” was the reply. “Don’t go away, Miss Bessie. How is your patient?”
“Not well, Mr Trethick,” she said, coming back and standing before him with the baby in her arms, and gazing firmly and unshrinkingly in his face.
“I’m sorry. Poor lass!” he said. “May I come in?”
Bessie drew back, and he stooped and entered the room, where poor invalid Mrs Prawle was seated; and half an hour after the affair was so far decided that he had been referred to old Prawle himself to settle terms.
The old man had descended the rock-hewn steps to his bit of a cavern, from which came up the loud crackling of wood, while a ruddy glow shone out on the darkened rocks.
“Ahoy, there!” shouted Geoffrey.
“Ahoy!” echoed the old man. “Come down.”
Geoffrey descended, to find a ruddy fire burning, and a quaint old copper kettle singing in the hottest place.
“I thought you’d come down and have a pipe and a drop o’ brandy before you went back, my lad,” said the old man, in his grim, gruff way. “Sit down on yon tub. There’s some good tobacco there.”
“Ah, that looks sociable,” said Geoffrey, who was at heart a very gregarious animal. “I want to talk to you about terms.”
“What, for the mine?” said the old man, sharply.
“No: for lodgings, if you’ll have such a bad character in the house as I.”
“Been talking to them?” said the old fellow.
“Yes; and they are quite willing. Are you?”
“Oh, ay, I’m willing enough,” said Prawle, roughly. “I like bad characters,” he chuckled. “We’re all bad characters here—so they say.”
“Then I shall be in the right place,” said Geoffrey, cynically. “But come, what shall I pay you?”
“Whatever the old woman thinks right, my lad,” said the old man, who, in spite of his grim ways, seemed to glance with favouring eyes at his visitor. “Sattle it with that poor soul up yonder, and pay her the bit of money regular. Let her think—hold that glass upright while I pour in the hot water—now help yourself to the brandy. Never paid duty in its life,” he whispered, grinning.
Geoffrey poured in the spirit, and helped himself to the sugar. The old man mixed for himself, tasted, nodded, and went on—
“Let her think, poor soul, that she’s saving and helping to pay for her keep, and it will make her happy. Better than selling sweets.”
“That’s settled then, Father Prawle?”
“Sattled,” said the old man, holding out a great, gnarled hand, and giving Geoffrey’s a tremendous grip. “We don’t want the brass, but it pleases her.”
“And I may come down here and smoke a pipe when I like?”
“Ay, ay, my lad, and welcome,” said old Prawle. “You’ll find the brandy in the locker here, and the key’s always up on that ledge of rock yonder in the niche, and the matches are over t’other side there in that one. There’s always plenty of wreck-wood for a bit of fire, and I keep the breaker there full of fresh water.”
“Good,” said Geoffrey, smiling. “Then I shall come to-morrow, Father Prawle, and the world may say what it likes.”
“That for the world!” cried the old man, contemptuously exhaling a great puff of smoke. “The world’s called me wrecker, smuggler, and thief. The world has called my bonnie lass there witch. Let it. I’m a rough old fellow, Master Trethick, and I’d ha’ knocked you down at one time—I’d ha’ throwed you over the cliff at one time, ’fore I knowed you; but you stood up like a man for my bonnie lass there, and you’ve said a many kind word to my poor creetur up yonder, and there’s my hand.”
He held out the great gnarled fist again, and Geoffrey took it and had his own tightly gripped.
“I don’t care for what people say,” growled the old fellow. “This place is mine, and I could buy a dozen such if I liked. You’re welcome, my lad, as long as you like, and when you care to go I can give you as good a bit o’ fishing as a man could have, and as good a drop of brandy and bit of tobacco. As to Mullion’s lass, that’s no affair o’ mine, and I sha’n’t make it any affair o’ mine; but it’s as fine a little youngster as I ever see.”
Geoffrey’s countenance, that had been glowing from the joint effects of the warmth of the fire and old Prawle’s hospitable words, grew dark once more; but he sat chatting to the old man for another hour, and then returned to the office by the mine.
The next day Carnac society had another shock right to the centre, and Miss Pavey was outraged in her tenderest feelings by the news which she heard, and which she hastened to take to An Morlock, namely, that that wicked young man had now joined poor lost Madge Mullion at the Cove.
At night old Mr Paul heard the news as well, as he tottered through the place by the help of his stick, and he went back home, and smoked the first cheroot he had smoked for days, to tell Mrs Mullion; and the news had somewhat the colour of hope in the poor, sad mother’s eyes.