Chapter Sixty Two.

Last Chronicles.

“I always did believe in her,” cried Amos Pengelly proudly, as he saw, some six months later, the rich copper ore being brought up in a mighty yield from out of Wheal Carnac.

For old Prawle was right. There were rich veins of copper in the mine, which were easily obtained after an adit had been opened through the zorn to relieve it of the water.

The old man felt sore about it at the time, but on seeing what a lucrative position his son-in-law elect had taken in the mine, he soon got over his soreness, and was one of the first to congratulate Geoffrey upon his success, reaping, too, something for himself, while, by a private arrangement, Geoffrey was able to place Dr Rumsey’s shares in a very different position, making that worthy, as he whipped the little streams, exclaim,—

“And only to think of it! I might have almost given those shares away.”

Mrs Mullion and her daughter left Carnac, but not to go far—the old man objected, for he did not care for long journeys to visit them, and he did not seem happy unless he had paid a visit once a month, showing as he did a very genuine attachment to his niece.

The last chronicle to be recorded of the little Cornish town is that upon a certain morning Miss Pavey came blushing and simpering to Rhoda, while her father was down at his office, where, to Mr Chynoweth’s great delight, there were business-matters to record once more upon the slate, and something of the old good times were beginning to return.

Miss Pavey kissed Rhoda affectionately, congratulated her upon the near approach of her marriage, and ended by simpering a good deal, and saying that she had a boon that she wanted her to grant.

“Do you mean a favour?” said Rhoda, smiling.

“Yes, dearest Rhoda; but you are so dreadfully matter-of-fact,” simpered Miss Pavey; and then she laughed, and covered her face with her hands.

“I think I can tell you what you want to ask,” said Rhoda, smiling.

“Oh, no, no, no! Don’t say it. It seems so shocking,” cried Miss Pavey from behind her hands.

“You want to be my bridesmaid,” said Rhoda, “and I’m sure you shall, if it will make you happy.”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Pavey blankly, as she dropped her hands into her lap. “It wasn’t that, dear.”

“What was it, then?” said Rhoda wonderingly.

“I thought—I hoped—I fancied,” faltered Miss Pavey, “that you would not mind my—oh dear! I can hardly tell you.”

The hands went up over her face again.

“Why surely, Martha, you are not going to be married?” said Rhoda.

“Yes, dear. Isn’t it shocking?” exclaimed Miss Pavey, more volubly now the murder was out. “I used to think that Mr Lee would have proposed to me, for no one knows what I have done for that man; and you know, dear, how much interest I have taken in the parish for his sake.”

“Yes, you have taken a great deal of interest in the parish, I know,” replied Rhoda.

“But I have long come to the conclusion, dear, that he is a man who will never marry. Oh dear no! I can read it in his countenance. Seriously though, to deal with the matter plainly, I do not think he would have done wrong; but, as I have said, dear, he is not a marrying man.”

“But you have not told me the name of the gentleman to whom you are going to be married.”

“Oh, my dear Rhoda, how droll you are. You are so wrapped up in your own affairs that you forget. Why, Mr Chynoweth, of course. Poor man, he has been so pressing of late, that I don’t like to refuse him any longer, dear. It would be unkind; and I must own that we are very fond of each other, and I thought I should like for us to be married with you.”

“I’m sure I congratulate you, Martha,” said Rhoda, smiling; “and if it will afford you any gratification, by all means be married at the same time; but I must warn you that our wedding will be a very quiet, tame affair.”

“Oh, yes, dear, and so will ours, for Mr Chynoweth says that we cannot afford to spend money upon ourselves. Oh, Rhoda, I am sure you envy me!”

“No,” said Rhoda, smiling, as a strange sense of the happiness in her own possession thrilled her veins. “I only congratulate you.”

“So strange, is it not?” said Miss Pavey. “You remember, my dear, my remark when I told you about the coming of the two gentlemen by the coach. Ah, Rhoda, dearest, that has not all come to pass, but what giddy things we were in those happy days.”

Rhoda felt disposed to rescind her promise, but she did not, and Miss Pavey had her wish.

The last we have to record of Geoffrey Trethick is that, as a prosperous mine owner, his favourite practice is to get back to An Morlock and seat himself with his back to the rocks, and his knees up, the said knees nipping between them a portion of the garments of a sturdy baby, who nods and laughs at him, and makes catches at his face in the most absurd way; and somehow all this nonsense does not seem in any way to cause annoyance to the tall, handsome woman at his side. They both, perhaps, recall a similar scene that took place long back near Gwennas Cove; but there is never any allusion to that past; for whenever Geoffrey evinces any desire to speak of past troubles, somehow or another he finds that his lips are sealed.