Then came rumours from time to time of talk of selling the mine, but no buyer could be found; and Geoffrey writhed as he thought of the treasures buried there, and of the impossibility of reaching them unless another shaft were sunk, and even then the prospects were so bad that the capital was not likely to be subscribed.
Old Prawle was generally the bearer of this news, and he took a wonderful interest in the place, though in a secretive, curious way; and after many chats with the old fellow, Geoffrey came to the conclusion that what he knew was of little worth, and the conversation ceased.
Sometimes he thought he would go, but the bitter spirit of obstinacy was in him more strongly than ever, and he stayed on, waiting, he said, for the apology he expected to get. When that came he meant to say good-by to the place forever. As it was he very rarely saw Rhoda, and when he did she refused to meet his eye.
One day there was a bit of excitement down on the cliff.
“Here you, Amos Pengelly, what have you got to say to it?” cried Tom Jennen. “You don’t carry on none o’ them games at chapel. Why don’t you set to and have thanksgiving, and turn chapel into green-grocer’s shop like up town in Penzaunce?”
Amos shook his head, but said nothing.
“Why,” said Tom Jennen, “you never see any thing like it, lads. I went up churchtown, and see something going on, when there was Penwynn’s gardener with a barrow full o’ gashly old stuff—carrots, and turnips, and ’tatoes, and apples, and pears, and a basket o’ grapes; an’ parson, and young Miss Rhoda, and Miss Pavey, all busy there inside turning the church into a reg’lar shop. Why, it’ll look a wonderful sight to-morrow.”
“They calls it harvest thanksgiving,” said another fisherman, “and I see pretty nigh a cartload o’ flowers, and wheat, and barley, and oats, go in. Won’t be no room for the people.”
“I thought the church looked very nicely,” interposed Amos Pengelly; “and if I wasn’t down on the plan to preach to-morrow at Saint Milicent, I’d go myself.”
“Lor’ a marcy, Amos Pengelly, don’t talk in that way,” said Tom Jennen. “I never go to church, and I never did go, but I never knew old parson carry on such games. Harvest thanksgiving indeed! I never see such a gashly sight in my life. Turnips in a church!”