Chapter Forty Two.
An Unkindly Stroke.
Rhoda Penwynn felt suspicious of Miss Pavey as she entered her room, blowing her nose very loudly, and then holding her handkerchief to her face, where one of her teeth was supposed to ache.
There was a great change in Miss Pavey’s personal appearance, and her bright colours had given place to quite a sister-of-mercy style of garb, including a black crape veil, through which, on entering, she had given Rhoda quite a funereal kiss, as if to prepare her for her adverse news—news which she dreaded to communicate, for she felt afraid of how Rhoda might compose herself under such a trial.
“Why, Martha,” said Rhoda, smiling, “surely there is nothing wrong—you are not in mourning?”
“Oh dear, no, love. It is the festival of Saint Minima, virgin and martyr.”
Here Miss Pavey sighed.
“Oh!” ejaculated Rhoda, quietly. “How is Mr Lee?” she added, after an awkward pause.
“Not well, dear—not well. He works too hard, and troubles himself too much about the wicked people here. Poor fellow! how saintly are his efforts for their good. But what do you think, Rhoda, dear?”
“I don’t know.”
“He has taken to calling me Sister Martha!”
“Well,” said Rhoda, smiling, “as you are working so hard with him now in the parish, it is very kindly and nice, even if it does sound formal or ceremonial—Sister Martha.”
“I must confess,” said Miss Pavey, “that I don’t like it. Of course we work together—like brother and sister. But I don’t think it was necessary.”
“Neither do I,” said Rhoda, smiling.
“I do not agree with Mr Lee, of course, in all things,” continued Miss Pavey, “but he is very good.”
“Most energetic,” assented Rhoda.
“You know, I suppose, that we are to have a new harmonium?”
“I did not know it,” said Rhoda, looking curiously at her visitor, who kept down her veil, and whose conscious manner indicated that she had something particular to say—something unpleasant, Rhoda was sure.
“Oh, yes; a new and expensive one; and I am to play it,” continued Miss Pavey. “We disputed rather as to where it should stand. Mr Lee wished it to be in the north-east end, but I told him that it would be so much out of sight there that I was sure it would not be heard, so it is to be on the south side of the little chancel.”
“Yes,” said Rhoda, who was waiting for the object of Miss Pavey’s visit; “that seems to be a good place.”
“Yes, dear, he willingly gave way; but he would not about the babies.”
“About the babies?” exclaimed Rhoda.
“Yes, dear. It was only this morning. We were discussing baptism and infant-baptism, and I don’t know what possessed me, but it was in the heat of argument. Babies are so soft and nice, Rhoda, dear. I’m not ashamed to say so to you, because we are alone—but they really are—and I do like them; and it horrifies me, dear, to think of what the Church says about them if they’ve not been baptised. Poor little things! And really, I’m afraid I spoke very plainly. But, oh, Rhoda! my love, how shocking this is about Madge Mullion.”
“About Madge Mullion?” cried Rhoda, excitedly, for she knew now from her visitor’s manner that her disagreeable communication had come. “What do you mean?”
“It’s too shocking to talk about, dear—about her and Mr Trethick, and—”
Here she got up, raised her veil above her lips, and whispered for some moments in Rhoda’s ear.
“I’ll not believe it,” cried Rhoda, starting up with flaming face and flashing eyes. “How dare you utter such a cruel calumny, Miss Pavey?”
“My dearest Rhoda,” cried her visitor, whose red eyes and pale face as she raised her veil, bore out the truth of her assertion, “I have been crying half the night about it for your sake, for I knew it would nearly break your heart.”
“Break my heart!” cried Rhoda, scornfully. “I tell you it is impossible. For shame, Martha Pavey. I know you to be fond of a little gossip and news, but how dare you come and insult me with such a tale as this?”
“My dearest Rhoda, my darling Rhoda,” cried the poor woman, throwing herself at her friend’s feet, and sobbing violently, “you don’t know how I love you—how much I think of your happiness. It is because I would not have you deceived and ill-treated by a wicked man that I come to you and risk your anger.”
“You should treat all such scandal with scorn,” cried Rhoda. “Whoever has put it about deserves—deserves—oh, I don’t know what to say bad enough! You know it is impossible.”
“I—I wish I could think it was,” sobbed Miss Pavey. “That Madge was always a wicked girl, and I’m afraid she tempted him to evil.”
Rhoda’s eyes flashed upon her again; and, without another word, she left her visitor, and went straight to her own room.
Martha Pavey stood with clasped hands for a few moments gazing after her, and then, with a weary sigh, she lowered her veil and was about to leave the house, when she encountered Mr Penwynn.
“Have the goodness to step back into the drawing-room, Miss Pavey,” said the banker, whose face wore a very troubled look; and, in obedience to his wish, she went back trembling, and took the seat he pointed out, while he placed one on the other side of the table, and began tapping it with his fingers, according to his custom.
Miss Pavey looked at him timidly, and her breath came fast, for she was exceedingly nervous, and she dreaded that which she felt the banker was about to say.
He hesitated for some few moments, glancing at her and then out of the window, but at last he seemed to have made up his mind.
“Miss Pavey,” he said, “you are a very old friend of my daughter.”
“Oh, yes, Mr Penwynn; you know I am!” she cried.
“You take great interest in her welfare and happiness?”
“More I may say than in my own, Mr Penwynn.”
“You are a great deal about in the town too, now?”
“Yes, a great deal, Mr Penwynn.”
“In fact, you assist Mr Lee a good deal—in visiting—and the like.”
“A great deal, Mr Penwynn.”
“And therefore you are very likely to know the truth of matters that are going on in the place?”
“Oh, yes, Mr Penwynn; but what do you mean?”
“Simply this, Miss Pavey. I am a father, and you are a woman of the world—a middle-aged lady to whom I may speak plainly.”
“Mr Penwynn?” cried the lady, rising.
“No, no, don’t rise, Miss Pavey, pray. This is a matter almost of life and death. It is a question of Rhoda’s happiness. I believe you love my child, and, therefore, at such a time, as I have no lady-friends to whom I could speak of such a thing, I speak to you, our old friend, and Rhoda’s confidante.”
“But, Mr Penwynn!” cried the lady, with flaming cheeks.
“This is no time, madam, for false sentiment. We are both middle-aged people, and I speak plainly.”
“Oh, Mr Penwynn!” cried the lady, indignantly.
“Tell me,” he said, sharply, “have you been making some communication to Rhoda?”
“Yes,” she said, in a whisper, and she turned away her face.
“Is that communication true?”
She looked at him for a few moments, and then said,—
“Yes.”
“That will do, ma’am,” he said, drawing in his breath with a low hiss; and, rising and walking to the window, he took no further notice of his visitor, who gladly escaped from the room.
A few minutes later he rang the bell.
“Send down and see if Dr Rumsey is at home,” he said.
The servant glanced at him to see if he was ill, left the room, and in half an hour the doctor was closeted with the banker in his study.
“I’m a little feverish, Rumsey,” said Mr Penwynn, quietly; “write me out a prescription for a saline draught.”
Dr Rumsey asked him a question or two, and wrote out the prescription. The banker took it, and passed over a guinea, which the doctor hesitated to take.
“Put it in your pocket, Rumsey,” said his patient, dryly. “Never refuse money. That’s right. Now I have a question or two to ask you.”
“About the mine, Mr Penwynn?” cried the doctor, piteously. “Yes, every shilling of my poor wife’s money! Five hundred pounds. But I ought to have known better, and shall never forget it. Is there any hope?”
“I don’t know,” said the banker, coldly. “But it was not that I wanted to ask you. It was about Geoffrey Trethick.”
“Curse Geoffrey Trethick for a smooth-tongued, heartless, brazen scoundrel!” cried the doctor, rising from his general calm state to a furious burst of passion. “The money’s bad enough. He swore to me, on his word of honour, that the mine would be a success, and I let myself be deceived, for I thought him honest. Now he has come out in his true colours.”
“That report about him then is true?”
“True,” cried the doctor, bitterly, “as true as truth; and a more heartless scoundrel I never met.”
“He denies it, I suppose?”
“Denies it? Of course: as plausibly as if he were as innocent as the little babe itself. That poor woman, Mrs Mullion, is broken-hearted, and old Paul will hardly get over it. He has had a fit since.”
“Is—is there any doubt, Rumsey?” said Mr Penwynn, sadly.
“Not an atom,” replied the doctor. “He has been my friend, and I’ve trusted and believed in him. I’d forgive him the affair over the shares, but his heartless cruelty here is disgusting—hush!—Miss Penwynn!”
Rhoda had opened the door to join her father, when, seeing the doctor there, she drew back, but she heard his last words.
“I won’t keep you, Rumsey. That will do,” said Mr Penwynn, and, as the doctor rose to go, he turned to the banker,—
“Is—is there any hope about those shares, Mr Penwynn? Will the mine finally pay?” he said, piteously.
“If it takes every penny I’ve got to make it pay, Rumsey.—Yes,” said the banker, sternly. “I am not a scoundrel.”
“No, no, of course not,” cried the doctor, excitedly, as he snatched a grain of hope from the other’s words. “But would you sell if you were me?”
“If you can find any one to buy—at any price—yes,” said the banker, quietly; and the grain of hope seemed to be snatched away.
As the doctor was leaving, Rhoda lay in wait to go to her father’s room, but the vicar came up, and she hastily retired.
“Mr Lee? What does he want?” said the banker, peevishly. “Where is he?”
“In the drawing-room, sir.”
Mr Penwynn rose, and followed the man to where the vicar was standing by the drawing-room table.
“You’ll excuse me, Mr Penwynn,” he said, anxiously; “but is Mr Trethick here?”
“No. I have been expecting him all the morning, Mr Lee. May I ask why?”
The vicar hesitated, and the colour came into his pale cheeks.
“I want to see him particularly, Mr Penwynn.”
“May I ask why?”
“I think you know why, Mr Penwynn. There’s a terrible report about the mine. Is it true?”
“Too true,” said the banker, coldly. “And you have come to try and rise upon his fall,” he added to himself.
“Poor Trethick!” exclaimed the vicar; “and he was so elate and proud of his success. He is a brave fellow, Mr Penwynn.”
“Indeed,” said the banker, sarcastically. “Come, Mr Lee, suppose you are frank with me. What of that other report?”
“It is a scandal—a cruel invention,” exclaimed the vicar. “I cannot, I will not believe it. For heaven’s sake keep it from Miss Penwynn’s ears.”
The banker turned upon him sharply.
“Why?” he said, abruptly.
“Why?” exclaimed the young vicar, flushing. “Mr Penwynn, can you ask me that?”
“Mr Lee,” said the banker, “I’d give a thousand pounds down to believe as you do. I have been waiting here all the morning for Mr Trethick to come to me—to bring me, as he should, the bad news of the flooding of the mine, and, if it is necessary, to defend himself against this charge that is brought against him; and he does not come. What am I to think?”
“Think him innocent, Mr Penwynn. I for one cannot believe such a charge to be true. But here is Mr Trethick,” he cried, as a hasty step was heard upon the gravel, and, without waiting to be announced, Geoffrey walked straight in.
The vicar started at his appearance, for he was haggard and his eyes red. He had evidently not been to bed all night, and his clothes were dusty and covered with red earth. There was a curious excited look, too, about his face, as he stared from one to the other, and then said, hoarsely,—
“Ruin, Mr Penwynn; the mine is drowned.”
“So I heard, Mr Trethick, before I was up,” said the banker, coldly.
“I sat by the furnace-fire all night,” said Geoffrey, in the same low, hoarse voice, “trying to think it out, for I know—I’ll swear this is the work of some scoundrel; and if I can prove it—”
He did not finish, but stood with his fists clenched looking from one to the other.
“I’ve been asleep,” he said, “and I’m not half awake yet. I felt half-mad this morning. I drank some brandy to try and calm me, but it has made me worse.”
“There is no doubt about that. We will talk about the mine some other time, Mr Trethick,” said the banker. “Will you leave my house now? You are not in a fit state to discuss matters.”
“Fit state?” said Geoffrey. “Yes, I am in a fit state; but the accident has been almost maddening. No; it was no accident. I’ll swear it has been done.”
“Perhaps so,” said the banker, calmly; “but will you return to your apartments now. I will send for you to-morrow.”
“My apartments?” exclaimed Geoffrey, with a harsh laugh. “Where are they? I have none now. Mr Lee, will you give me your arm; my head swims. Take me down to Rumsey’s place. I’m going wrong I think—or something—there was—little brandy in the—in the—what was I saying—the men—bottle—furnace-house—I was—faint—Pengelly gave me—I—I—can’t see—is—is it night? Fetch—Rhoda. I—”
He sank heavily upon the floor, for it was as he said. He had remained watching by the dying furnace-fire the whole night, and then, heart-sick and faint, he had taken the little cup of brandy and water Pengelly handed to him, the remains of the bottle from which the two watchers had been drugged, and, little as he had taken, it had been enough to send him into a deep sleep, from which he had at last risen to hurry up to An Morlock—drunk, so the servants said.
“Disgracefully intoxicated!” Mr Penwynn declared.
The Reverend Edward Lee said nothing, but sighed deeply and went his way, and Rhoda Penwynn was fetched down by her father, who took her to the drawing-room door, and pointed to where Geoffrey lay upon the carpet.
“Your idol is broken, Rhoda,” he said, in a low, stern voice. “We were both deceived.”
“Oh, papa! is he ill?” cried Rhoda; and with all a woman’s sympathy for one in distress, she forgot the report she had heard, and was about to make for Geoffrey’s side.
“Ill as men are who make brute beasts of themselves, my child. Come away, my girl, and let him sleep it off. Rhoda, you can be brave, I know: so show your courage now.”
She was ghastly pale, and she gazed from father to lover, hesitating whether she ought not to take Geoffrey’s part against the whole world.
Heart triumphed, and snatching away her hand as she was being led from the room,—
“I’ll never believe it, father,” she cried. “Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey, speak to me. Tell me what is wrong?”
She had sunk upon her knees and caught the prostrate man’s hand in hers, with the effect that he roused himself a little, and slightly turned his head.
“Mine’s drowned,” he muttered. “Don’t worry—that brandy.”
“Yes, yes; but you will soon put that right.”
“Put it right,” he said, thickly. “No—sha’n’t marry her—poor little Madge—I like little Madge—I’m sleepy, now.”
Geoffrey’s hand fell from Rhoda’s heavily upon the thick carpet, and she shrank away from him as if stung. Then her head drooped, her face went down into her hands, and as Mr Penwynn stood watching her, she uttered a moan, rocking herself to and fro.
This lasted but a few minutes, and then a curiously-hard, stern look came over her pale face, as she slowly rose from her knees, and went and placed her hands in those of her father, looking him full in the eyes; and then, with the air of outraged womanhood lending a stern beauty to her face, she let him lead her to his study, where she sat with him, hardly speaking, till she heard it whispered that Mr Trethick had got up, and gone staggering out of the house.
“Where did he go?” said Mr Penwynn, quietly.
“Down to the hotel, sir.”
“That will do.”
Father glanced at daughter as soon as they were alone, when Rhoda left her seat and laid her hands upon his shoulder.
“I don’t feel well, dear,” she said. “I shall go up to my room. Don’t expect to see me again to-day, father, and don’t be uneasy. You are right, dear,” she said, with her voice trembling for a moment; then, flinging her arms round his neck, she kissed him passionately.
Mr Penwynn held her to his breast, and returned her kisses.
“It is very, very hard to bear, father. Oh, don’t—don’t you think we may be mistaken?”
“No,” he said sternly; “I do not.”
Rhoda heaved a bitter sigh, and then drew herself up, but bent down and kissed him once more.
“I’m your daughter, dear,” she said, with a piteous smile; “but I’m going to be very brave. I shall be too proud to show every thing I feel.”
She left the study and went up to her chamber, where she stood gazing from the window at the sunlit sea and glorious view of many-tinted rocks around the bay; but she could only see one thing now, and that was her broken idol as he had lain upon the floor below, and uttered the words, still burning in her ears, full of pity for “poor little Madge.”