Chapter Twenty Nine.
Details, among other Things, a Deed of Heroism
To work went Maggot and Trevarrow and Zackey on their new pitch next day like true Britons. Indeed, we question whether true Britons of the ancient time ever did go to work with half the energy or perseverance of the men of the present day. Those men of old were mere grubbers on the surface. They knew nothing of deep levels under the ocean. However, to do them justice, they made wonderfully extensive tunnels in mother earth, with implements much inferior to those now in use.
But, be that as it may, our trio went to work “with a will.” Maggot was keen to get up as much of the rich mineral as possible during the month—knowing that he would not get the place next month on such good terms. Trevarrow, besides having no objections to make money when he could for its own sake, was anxious to have a little to spare to James Penrose, whose large family found it pinching work to subsist on the poor fellow’s allowance from the club. As to Zackey, he was ready for anything where Uncle Davy was leader. So these three resolved to work night and day. Maggot took his turn in the daytime and slept at night; Trevarrow slept in the daytime and worked at night; while the boy worked as long as he could at whatever time suited him best.
As they advanced on the lode it became larger and richer, and in a day or two it assumed such proportions as to throw the fortunate workers into a state of great excitement, and they tore out and blasted away the precious mineral like Titans.
One day, about kroust-time, having fired two holes, they came out of the “end” in which they wrought and sat down to lunch while the smoke was clearing away.
“’Tes a brave lode,” said Maggot.
“It is,” responded Trevarrow, taking a long draught of water from the canteen.
“What shall us do?” said Maggot; “go to grass to slaip, or slaip in the bal?”
“In the bal, if you do like it,” said Trevarrow.
So it was agreed that the men should sleep in the mine on boards, or on any dry part of the level, in order to save the time and energy lost in ascending and descending the long ladders, and thus make the most of their opportunity. It was further resolved that Zackey should be sent up for dry clothes, and bring them their meals regularly. Trevarrow did not forget to have his Bible brought to him, for he was too serious a man to shut his eyes to the danger of a sudden run of good fortune, and thought that the best way to guard against evil would be to devote nearly all his short periods of leisure time to the reading of “the Word.”
You may be sure that Maggot afterwards laughed at him for this, but he did not concern himself much about it at the time, because he was usually too hungry to talk at meal-times, and too sleepy to do so after work was over.
They were still busily discussing the matter of remaining in the mine all night, when they heard the kibble descending the shaft, near the bottom of which they sat, and next moment a man came to the ground with considerable violence.
“Why, Frankey, is that thee, booy?” said Maggot, starting up to assist him.
“Aw dear, iss; I’m gone dead a’most! aw dear! aw dear!”
“Why, whatever brought ’ee here?” said Trevarrow.
“The kibble, sure,” replied the man, exhibiting his knuckles, which were cut and bleeding a good deal. “I did come by the chain, anyhow.”
This was indeed true. Frankey, as his mates called him, was at that time the “lander” in charge of the kibbles at the surface. It was his duty to receive each kibble as it was drawn up to the mouth of the shaft full of ore, empty it, and send it down again. Several coils of chain passing round the large drum of a great horse-windlass, called by the miners a “whim,” was the means by which the kibbles were hoisted and lowered. The chain was so arranged that one kibble was lowered by it while the other was being drawn up. Frankey had emptied one of the kibbles, and had given the signal to the boy attending the horse to “lower away,” when he inadvertently stepped into the shaft. With ready presence of mind the man caught the chain and clung to it, but the boy, being prevented by a pile of rubbish from seeing what had occurred, eased him down, supposing him to be the kibble!
This “easing down” a great number of fathoms was by no means an easy process, as those know well who have seen a pair of kibbles go banging up and down a shaft. It was all that poor Frankey could do to keep his head from being smashed against rocks and beams; but, by energetic use of arms and legs, he did so, and reached the bottom of the shaft without further damage than a little skin rubbed off his knees and elbows, and a few cuts on his hands. The man thought so little of it, indeed, that he at once returned to grass by the ladder-way, to the unutterable surprise and no little consternation of the boy who had “eased him down.”
The air at the “end” of the level in which Maggot and Trevarrow worked was very bad, and, for some time past, men had been engaged in sinking a winze from the level above to connect the two, and send in a supply of fresh air by creating a new channel of circulation. This winze was almost completed, but one of the men employed at it had suddenly become unwell that day, and no other had been appointed to the work. As it was a matter of great importance to have fresh air, now that they had resolved to remain day and night in the mine for some time, Maggot and Trevarrow determined to complete the work, believing that one or two shots would do it. Accordingly, they mounted to the level above, and were lowered one at a time to the bottom of the unfinished winze by a windlass, which was turned by the man whose comrade had become unwell.
For nearly two hours they laboured diligently, scarce taking time to wipe the perspiration from their heated brows. At the end of that time the hole was sufficiently deep to blast, so Maggot called out,—“Zackey, my son, fetch the fuse and powder.” The boy was quickly lowered with these materials, and then drawn up.
Meanwhile Maggot proceeded to charge the hole, and his comrade sat down to rest. He put in the powder and tamping, and asked the other to hand him the tamping-bar.
“Zackey has forgot it,” said Trevarrow, looking round.
“It don’t matter; hand me the borer.”
“No, I won’t,” said Trevarrow decidedly, as he grasped the iron tool in question. “Ho! Zackey booy, throw down the tampin’-bar.”
This was done, and the operation of filling the hole continued, while Trevarrow commented somewhat severely on his companion’s recklessness.
“That’s just how the most o’ the reckless men in the bal do get blaw’d up,” he said; “they’re always picking away at the holes, and tamping with iron tools; why, thee might as well put a lighted match down the muzzle of a loaded gun as tamp with an iron borer.”
“Come, now,” said Maggot, looking up from his work with a leer, “it warn’t that as made old Kimber nearly blow hisself up last week.”
“No, but it was carelessness, anyhow,” retorted Trevarrow; “and lucky for him that he was a smart man, else he’d bin gone dead by this time.”
Maggot soon completed the filling of the hole, and then perpetrated as reckless a deed as any of his mining comrades had ever been guilty of. Trevarrow was preparing to ascend by the windlass, intending to leave his comrade to light the fuse and come up after him. Meanwhile Maggot found that the fuse was too long. He discovered this after it was fixed in the hole, and, unobserved by his companion, proceeded to cut it by means of an iron tool and a flat stone. Fire was struck at the last blow by the meeting of the iron and the stone, and the fuse ignited. To extinguish it was impossible; to cut it in the same way, without striking fire, was equally so. Of course there was plenty of time to ascend by the windlass, but only one at a time could do so. The men knew this, and looked at each other with terrible meaning in their eyes as they rushed at the bucket, and shouted to the man above to haul them up. He attempted to do so, but in vain. He had not strength to haul up two at once. One could escape, both could not, and to delay would be death to both. In this extremity David Trevarrow looked at his comrade, and said calmly,—“Escape, my brother; a minute more and I shall be in heaven.”
He stepped back while he spoke—the bucket went rapidly upwards, and Trevarrow, sitting down in the bottom of the shaft, covered his eyes with a piece of rock and awaited the issue.
The rumbling explosion immediately followed, and the shaft was filled with smoke and flame and hurling stones. One of these latter, shooting upwards, struck and cut the ascending miner on his forehead as he looked down to observe the fate of his self-sacrificing comrade!
Maggot was saved, but he was of too bold and kindly a nature to remain for a moment inactive after the explosion was over. At once he descended, and, groping about among the débris, soon found his friend—alive, and almost unhurt! A mass of rock had arched him over—or, rather, the hand of God, as if by miracle, had delivered the Christian miner.
After he was got up in safety to the level above they asked him why he had been so ready to give up his life to save his friend.
“Why,” said David quietly, “I did think upon his wife and the child’n, and little Grace seemed to say to me, ‘Take care o’ faither’—besides, there are none to weep if I was taken away, so the Lord gave me grace to do it.”
That night there were glad and grateful hearts in Maggot’s cottage—and never in this world was a more flat and emphatic contradiction given to any statement, than that which was given to David Trevarrow’s assertion—“There are none to weep if I was taken away.”
(A short but beautiful account of the above incident will be found in a little volume of poems, entitled Lays from the Mine, the Moor, and the Mountain, written by John Harris, a Cornish miner.)
Chapter Thirty.
Reveals some Astonishing Facts and their Consequences
Sorrow and trouble now began to descend upon Mr Thomas Donnithorne like a thick cloud.
Reduced from a state of affluence to one bordering on absolute poverty, the old man’s naturally buoyant spirit almost gave way, and it needed all the attentions and the cheering influence of his good wife and sweet Rose Ellis to keep him from going (as he often half-jestingly threatened) to the end of Cape Cornwall and jumping into the sea.
“It’s all over with me, Oliver,” said he one morning, after the return of his nephew from London. “A young fellow like you may face up against such difficulties, but what is an old man to do? I can’t begin the world over again; and as for the shares I have in the various mines, they’re not worth the paper they’re writ upon.”
“But things may take a turn,” suggested Oliver; “this is not the first time the mines have been in a poor condition, and the price of tin low. When things get very bad they are likely to get better, you know. Even now there seems to be some talk among the miners of an improved state of things. I met Maggot yesterday, and he was boasting of having found a monstrous bunch, which, according to him, is to be the making of all our fortunes.”
Mr Donnithorne shook his head.
“Maggot’s geese are always swans,” he said; “no, no, Oliver, I have lost all hope of improvement. There are so many of these deceptive mines around us just now—some already gone down, and some going—that the public are losing confidence in us, and, somewhat unfairly, judging that, because a few among us are scoundrels, we are altogether a bad lot.”
“What do you think of Mr Clearemout’s new mine?” asked Oliver.
“I believe it to be a genuine one,” said the old gentleman, turning a somewhat sharp glance on his nephew. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I doubt it,” replied Oliver.
“You are too sceptical,” said Mr Donnithorne almost testily; “too much given to judging things at first sight.”
“Nay, uncle; you are unfair. Had I judged of you at first sight, I should have thought you a—”
“Well, what? a smuggling old brandy-loving rascal—eh? and not far wrong after all.”
“At all events,” said Oliver, laughing, “I have lived to form a better opinion of you than that. But, in reference to Clearemout, I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that the work doing at the new mine is very like a sham, for they have only two men and a boy working her, with a captain to superintend; and it is said, for I made inquiries while in London, that thirty thousand pounds have been called up from the shareholders, and there are several highly paid directors, with an office-staff in the City drawing large salaries.”
“Nonsense, Oliver,” said Mr Donnithorne more testily than before; “you know very well that things must have a beginning, and that caution is necessary at first in all speculations. Besides, I feel convinced that Mr Clearemout is a most respectable man, and an uncommonly clever fellow to boot. It is quite plain that you don’t like him—that’s what prejudices you, Oliver. You’re jealous of the impression he has made on the people here.”
This last remark was made jestingly, but it caused the young doctor to wince, having hit nearer the truth than the old gentleman had any idea of, for although Oliver envied not the handsome stranger’s popularity, he was, almost unknown to himself, very jealous of the impression he seemed to have made on Rose Ellis.
A feeling of shame induced him to change the subject of conversation, with a laughing observation that he hoped such an unworthy motive did not influence him.
Now, while this conversation was going on in the parlour of Mr Donnithorne’s cottage, another dialogue was taking place in a small wooden erection at the end of the garden, which bore the dignified name of “Rose’s Bower.” The parties concerned in it were George Augustus Clearemout and Rose Ellis.
A day or two previous to the conversation to which we are about to draw attention, the managing director had undergone a change in his sentiments and intentions. When he first saw Rose he thought her an uncommonly sweet and pretty girl. A short acquaintance with her convinced him that she was even sweeter and prettier than at first he had thought her. This, coupled with the discovery that her uncle was very rich, and that he meant to leave a large portion of his wealth, if not all of it, to Rose, decided Clearemout, and he resolved to marry her. Afterwards he became aware of the fact that old Mr Donnithorne had met with losses, but he was ignorant of their extent, and still deemed it worth while to carry out his intentions.
George Augustus had been a “managing director” in various ways from his earliest infancy, and had never experienced much opposition to his will, so that he had acquired a habit of settling in his own mind whatever he meant to do, and forthwith doing it. On this occasion he resolved to sacrifice himself to Rose, in consideration of her prospective fortune—cash being, of course, Mr Clearemout’s god.
Great, then, was the managing director’s surprise, and astonishing the condition of his feelings, when, on venturing to express his wishes to Rose, he was kindly, but firmly, rejected! Mr Clearemout was so thunderstruck—having construed the unsophisticated girl’s candour and simplicity of manner into direct encouragement—that he could make no reply, but, with a profound bow, retired hastily from her presence, went to his lodgings, and sat down with his elbows on the table, and his face buried in his large hands, the fingers of which appeared to be crushing in his forehead, as if to stifle the thoughts that burned there. After sitting thus for half an hour he suddenly rose, with his face somewhat paler, and his lips a little more firmly compressed than usual.
It was an epoch in his existence. The man who had so often and so successfully deceived others had made the wonderful discovery that he had deceived himself. He had imagined that money was his sole object in wishing to marry Rose. He now discovered that love, or something like it, had so much to do with his wishes that he resolved to have her without money, and also without her consent.
Something within the man told him that Rose’s refusal was an unalterable one. He did not think it worth while to waste time in a second attempt. His plans, though hastily formed, required a good deal of preliminary arrangement, so he commenced to carry them out with the single exclamation, “I’ll do it!” accompanied with a blow from his heavy fist on the table, which, being a weak lodging-house one, was split from end to end. But the managing director had a soul above furniture at that moment. He hastily put on his hat and strode out of the house.
Making good use of a good horse, he paid sundry mysterious visits to various smuggling characters, to all of whom he was particularly agreeable and liberal in the bestowal of portions of the thirty thousand pounds with which a too confiding public had intrusted him. Among other places, he went to a cottage on a moor between St. Just and Penzance, and had a confidential interview with a man named Hicks, who was noted for his capacity to adapt himself to circumstances (when well paid) without being troubled by conscientious scruples. This man had a son who had once suffered from a broken collar-bone, and whose ears were particularly sharp. He chanced to overhear the conversation at the interview referred to, and dutifully reported the same to his mother, who happened to be a great gossip, and knew much about the private affairs of nearly everybody living within six miles of her. The good woman resolved to make some use of her information, but Mr Clearemout left the cottage in ignorance, of course, of her resolution.
Having transacted these little pieces of business, the managing director returned home, and, on the day following, sought and obtained an interview with Rose Ellis in her bower.
Recollecting the subject of their last conversation, Rose blushed, as much with indignation as confusion, at being intruded upon, but Mr Clearemout at once dispersed her angry feelings by assuring her in tones of deferential urbanity that he would not have presumed to intrude upon her but for the fact that he was about to quit Cornwall without delay, and he wished to talk with her for only a few minutes on business connected with Mr Donnithorne.
There was something so manly and straightforward in his tone and manner that she could not choose but allow him to sit down beside her, although she did falter out something about the propriety of talking on her uncle’s business affairs with Mr Donnithorne himself.
“Your observation is most just,” said Mr Clearemout earnestly; “but you are aware that your uncle’s nature is a delicate, sensitive one, and I feel that he would shrink from proposals coming from me, that he might listen to if made to him through you. I need not conceal from you, Miss Ellis, that I am acquainted with the losses which your uncle has recently sustained, and no one can appreciate more keenly than I do the harshness with which the world, in its ignorance of details, is apt to judge of the circumstances which brought about this sad state of things. I cannot help feeling deeply the kindness which has been shown me by Mr Donnithorne during my residence here, and I would, if I could, show him some kindness in return.”
Mr Clearemout paused here a few moments as if to reflect. He resolved to assume that Mr Donnithorne’s losses were ruinous, little imagining that in this assumption he was so very near the truth! Rose felt grateful to him for the kind and delicate way in which he referred to her uncle’s altered circumstances.
“Of course,” continued the managing director, “I need not say to you, that his independent spirit would never permit him to accept of assistance in the form which would be most immediately beneficial to him. Indeed, I could not bring myself to offer money even as a loan. But it happens that I have the power, just now, of disposing of the shares which he has taken in Wheal Dooem Mine at a very large profit; and as my hope of the success of that enterprise is very small, I—”
“Very small!” echoed Rose in surprise. “You astonish me, Mr Clearemout. Did I not hear you, only a few nights ago, say that you had the utmost confidence in the success of your undertaking?”
“Most true,” replied the managing director with a smile; “but in the world of business a few hours work wonderful changes, sometimes, in one’s opinion of things—witness the vacillations and variations ‘on ’Change’—if I may venture to allude before a lady to such an incomprehensible subject.”
Rose felt her vigorous little spirit rise, and she was about to return a smart reply in defence of woman’s intelligence even in business matters, but the recollection of the altered relative position in which they now stood restrained her.
“Yes,” continued Mr Clearemout, with a sigh, “the confidence which I felt in Wheal Dooem has been much shaken of late, and the sooner your uncle sells out the better.”
“But would it be right,” said Rose earnestly, “to sell our shares at a high profit if things be as you say?”
“Quite right,” replied Clearemout, with a bland smile of honesty; “I believe the mine to be a bad speculation; my friend, we shall suppose, believes it to be a good one. Believing as I do, I choose to sell out; believing as he does, he chooses to buy in. The simplest thing in the world, Miss Ellis. Done every day with eyes open, I assure you; but it is not every day that a chance occurs so opportunely as the present, and I felt it to be a duty to give my friend the benefit of my knowledge before quitting this place—for ever!”
There was something so kind and touching in the tone of the managing director that Rose was quite drawn towards him, and felt as if she had actually done him an unkindness in refusing him.
“But,” continued her companion, “I can do nothing, Miss Ellis, without your assistance.”
“You shall have it,” said Rose earnestly; “for I would do anything that a woman might venture, to benefit my dear, dear uncle, and I feel assured that you would not ask me to do anything wrong or unwomanly.”
“I would not indeed,” answered Clearemout with emotion; “but the world is apt to misjudge in matters of delicacy. To ask you to meet me on the cliffs near Priest’s Cove, close to Cape Cornwall, to-night, would appear wrong in the eyes of the world.”
“And with justice,” said Rose quickly, with a look of mingled dignity and surprise.
“Nevertheless, this is absolutely needful, if we would accomplish the object in view. A friend, whom I know to be desirous of purchasing shares in the mine is to pass round the cape in his yacht this evening. The idea of offering these shares to him had not occurred to me when I wrote to say that I would meet him there. He cannot come up here, I know, but the stroke of a pen, with one of the family to witness it, will be sufficient.”
It was a bold stroke of fancy in the managing director to put the matter in such a ridiculously unbusinesslike light, but he counted much on Rose’s ignorance. As for poor Rose herself, she, knew not what to say or do at first, but when Clearemout heaved a sigh, and, with an expression of deep sadness on his countenance, rose to take leave, she allowed a generous impulse to sway her.
“Your answer, then, is—No,” said Clearemout, with deep pathos in his tone.
Now, it chanced that at this critical point in the conversation, Oliver Trembath, having left the cottage, walked over the grass towards a small gate, near which the bower stood. He unavoidably heard the question, and also the quick, earnest reply,—“My answer, Mr Clearemout, is—Yes. I will meet you this evening on the cliff.”
She frankly gave him her hand as she spoke, and he gallantly pressed it to his lips, an act which took Rose by surprise, and caused her to pull it away suddenly. She then turned and ran out at the side of the bower to seek the solitude of her own apartment, while Clearemout left it by the other side, and stood face to face with the spellbound Oliver.
To say that both gentlemen turned pale as their eyes met would not give an adequate idea of their appearance. Oliver’s heart, as well as his body, when he heard the question and reply, stood still as if he had been paralysed. This, then, he thought, was the end of all his hopes—hopes hardly admitted to himself, and never revealed to Rose, except in unstudied looks and tones. For a few moments his face grew absolutely livid, while he glared at his rival.
On the other hand, Mr Clearemout, believing that the whole of his conversation had been overheard, supposed that he had discovered all his villainy to one who was thoroughly able, as well as willing, to thwart him. For a moment he felt an almost irresistible impulse to spring on and slay his enemy; his face became dark with suppressed emotion; and it is quite possible that in the fury of his disappointed malice he might have attempted violence,—had not Oliver spoken. His voice was husky as he said,—“Chance, sir—unfortunate, miserable chance—led me to overhear the last few words that passed between you and—”
He paused, unable to say more. Instantly the truth flashed across Clearemout’s quick mind. He drew himself up boldly, and the blood returned to his face as he replied,—“If so, sir, you cannot but be aware that the lady’s choice is free, and that your aspect and attitude towards me are unworthy of a gentleman.”
A wonderful influence for weal or woe oft-times results from the selection of a phrase or a word. Had Clearemout charged Oliver with insolence or presumption, he would certainly have struck him to the ground; but the words “unworthy of a gentleman” created a revulsion in his feelings. Thought is swifter than light. He saw himself in the position of a disappointed man scowling on a successful rival who had done him no injury.
“Thank you, Clearemout. Your rebuke is merited,” he said bitterly; and, turning on his heel, he bounded over the low stone wall of the garden, and hastened away.
Whither he went he knew not. A fierce fire seemed to rage in his breast and burn in his brain. At first he walked at full speed, but as he cleared the town he ran—ran as he had never run before. For the time being he was absolutely mad. Over marsh and moor he sped, clearing all obstacles with a bound, and making straight for the Land’s End, with no definite purpose in view, for, after a time, he appeared to change his intention, if he had any. He turned sharp to the left, and ran straight to Penzance, never pausing in his mad career until he neared the town. The few labourers he chanced to pass on the way gazed after him in surprise, but he heeded not. At the cottage on the moor where he had bandaged the shoulder of the little boy a woman’s voice called loudly, anxiously after him, but he paid no attention. At last he came to a full stop, and, pressing both hands tightly over his forehead, made a terrible effort to collect his thoughts. He was partially successful, and, with somewhat of his wonted composure, walked rapidly into the town.