The Vicar's People Part 63

"Has the doctor been?"

"Yes, Mr Trethick."

"What does he say?"

"That she is to have perfect rest and quiet."

"And your mother?"

"Better, sir. Will you speak to her?"

Geoffrey hesitated a moment, and then seeing that Bessie was misinterpreting his looks, he said sharply,--

"Yes, I will;" and following Bessie in, he found the invalid in her old place, airing and burning more things than usual, but there was such a reproachful, piteous look in her eyes, that he was quite taken aback.

"It's of no use. I can't argue with them," thought Geoffrey.

"Here, Mrs Prawle," he said aloud, "will you kindly see that every thing possible is done for that poor girl. You will be at some expense, of course, till Mrs Mullion and her uncle fetch them home. Take that."

He laid a five-pound note on the table, and walked straight out, Bessie drawing on one side to let him pa.s.s, her face looking cold and thin, and her eyes resting on the floor.

"Pleasant," muttered Geoffrey, and with an abrupt "Good-morning" he went out to where old Prawle was at work.

"Here, walk part of the way along the cliff with me," he said. "Come away from the cottage."

The old man looked up at him from under his s.h.a.ggy eyebrows, and then followed him for a couple of hundred yards, and stopped.

"Won't that do?" he said. "Are you going to give me some money for them two?"

"I've left five pounds with your wife," said Geoffrey, sharply.

"Oh, come, that's handsome," said the old man. "But you couldn't have done less."

"Look here," said Geoffrey, sharply, "you know what I told you last night."

"Yes, I know," said the old man, grimly.

"You tell them the same. I couldn't talk to them. Undeceive them about it, and be kind to the poor la.s.s. I'll do all I can for you, Prawle, about the shares."

The old man nodded and uttered a growl that might have been "All right,"

or "Thanks," or any thing else, and then Geoffrey went on towards Carnac.

"Tell them the same," said the rugged old fellow, with a grim chuckle.

"Why, I might preach to 'em for a month, and then they wouldn't believe it any more than I could myself."

Pengelly was anxiously awaiting his princ.i.p.al at the mine, ready to lay certain reports before him about the drive that was being made, and he did it all in so stern and distant a way that Geoffrey could not help seeing that his right-hand man had heard the report, and, what was more, believed it. The result was that it raised up a spirit of resentment in the young man's breast that made him retire within himself snail fas.h.i.+on; but with this difference, that he left his horns pointing menacingly outside; and for the rest of that day he was not a pleasant person to consult upon any matter.

For in spite of the contempt with which he treated the whole affair, and his determination to completely ignore the matter, it was always torturing him, and there was the constant thought in his mind that Rhoda must sooner or later hear of it, if she had not already been apprised by Miss Pavey or some other tattling friend.

"Let them. If she's the woman I believe her, she'll write to me in a quiet indirect way, not referring to it, of course, but to let me see her confidence in me is not shaken."

The amount of work he got through on that day was tremendous, and as he worked his spirits rose. He strengthened his plans for guarding against the breaking in of the sea; and at last, completely f.a.gged out, he ascended from the mine, changed, and washed in the office, and, without speaking to Pengelly, went straight to Dr Rumsey's.

The doctor saw him coming, and came to the door.

"Find you apartments, Mr Trethick?" he said, coldly. "In an ordinary way it would be impossible. Under the present circ.u.mstances it is doubly so."

"Very good," said Geoffrey, sharply. "You persist, then, in believing that?"

"I would rather not discuss the matter, Mr Trethick," said the doctor.

"Good evening."

"I must go to the hotel, then, that's all," said Geoffrey to himself.

"Confound them all! They will find that I've Cornish blood in my veins, and can be as pig-headed in obstinacy as the best."

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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sailed him.