"But he must marry her--poor girl!"

"No!" said Geoffrey, sternly. "No! Better let her bear her lot, hard as it may be. The man who could forsake her in her greatest need would never make her a husband worthy of her love. She must accept her fate."

"But you, Geoffrey Trethick. It is unmanly not to clear your fame."

"Maybe," he said, bitterly; "but I don't think I am like other men. I shall wait until Time shall bleach it once more white."

"But why not leave your lodgings?" said the vicar. "Take apartments elsewhere."

"What, make a cowardly retreat?" cried Geoffrey.

"But the world. It was an unfortunate thing for you to do. Why did you go there?"

"Out of defiance," cried Geoffrey.

"But that is past now. Try and make an effort to crush this wretched scandal upon your name. It is a duty, Geoffrey."

"That I will not do," he said, stubbornly.

"And Rhoda?" said the vicar, softly.

Geoffrey started as if stung.

"Let her wait too," he said, angrily. "When she humbles herself and asks my pardon she shall have it, and with it my farewell words. Lee, I loved that woman as strongly as man could love, but that love is dead."

They stood together now in silence for a few moments. Then Geoffrey turned to go.

"I'll drop in on you some day, Lee," he said, in his usual light tone.

"Good-by, old fellow. I think we understand each other now."

"I'll come with you," said the vicar, quietly.

"Come with me, where?"

"To see poor Madge."

And they went together down the hill, oak and willow; but the oak growing gnarled and bowed with a canker in its breast, and the willow growing stronger every hour.

CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

A THANK-OFFERING.

Six months had pa.s.sed since the night Geoffrey Trethick saved Madge Mullion's life, and his character and his ways had become, like the failure of Wheal Carnac, matters of the past.

There had been scores of interesting topics since then. People had talked about Miss Pavey's change, and how she followed the vicar like his shadow. There was that affair which had shaken Mr Penwynn's little local bank, and the forced sales he had had to make to meet his engagements. The carriage had been put down at An Morlock, and there were people who said that no good would come of the banker's great intimacy with John Tregenna, who was up at the house more frequently than he had been for some time past.

Geoffrey was as much at Coventry with the better-cla.s.s people of Carnac as ever. Dr Rumsey nodded coldly when they met; old Mr Paul looked at him fiercely, and waited; and other people followed suit. There were no pleasant invitations to high tea, with rubbers of whist, and supper after. A man who had settled down as the companion of old Prawle, the wrecker, and made the cottage at Gwennas Cove his home, was not one to be received.

He used to laugh mockingly as he saw it all, and coolly accepted his fate. At the end of three months he had received a curt letter from Mr Penwynn, enclosing a cheque, and saying that his services were no more needed at Wheal Carnac; but Pengelly was kept on as care-taker of the valuable plant.

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!"

"Well, but don't you see," said Amos, in an expounding tone of voice, "these here are all offerings for the harvest; and turnips and carrots may be as precious as offerings as your fine fruits, and grapes, and flowers."

"Well said, lad," exclaimed one of the fishermen; "and, like 'tatoes, a deal more useful."

"Didn't Cain an' Abel bring their offerings to the altar?" said Amos, who gathered strength at these words of encouragement.

"Yes," cried Tom Jennen, grinning, "and Cain's 'tatoes, and turnips, and things weren't much thought on, and all sorts o' gashly trouble come out of it. Garden stuff ain't the right thing for offerings. Tell 'ee what, lads, here's our boat with the finest haul o' mack'ral we've had this year, and Curnow's boat half full o' big hake. We arn't got no lambs, but what d'yer say, Amos Pengelly, to our taking parson up a couple o' pad o' the finest mack'ral, and half a score o' big hake?"

Tom Jennen winked at his companions as he said this, and his looks seemed to say,--"There's a poser for him."

Amos Pengelly rubbed one ear, and then he rubbed the other, as he stood there, apparently searching for precedent for such an act. He wanted to work in something from the New Testament about the Apostles and their fishing, and the miraculous draught, but poor Amos did not feel inspired just then, and at last, unable to find an appropriate quotation, he said,--

"I think it would be quite right, lads. It would be an offering from the harvest of the sea. Parson said he wanted all to give according to their means, and you, lads, have had a fine haul. Take up some of your best."

"What, up to church?" cried Tom Jennen. "It'll make a reg'lar gashly old smell."

"Nay," said Amos, "they'd be fresh enough to-morrow."

"You daren't take 'em up to parson, Tom Jennen," said one of the men, grinning.

Tom took a fresh bit of tobacco, spat several times down on to the boulders, and narrowly missed a mate, who responded with a lump of stone from the beach below, and then, frowning hugely, he exclaimed,--

"I lay a gallon o' ale I dare take up a hundred o' mack'ral and half a score o' hake, come now."

"Ye daren't," chorused several. "Parson'll gie ye such a setting down."