Chapter Thirty Six.
Despair.
There was the sound of angry words in the back part of Mrs Mullion’s house that night, and more than once Geoffrey fancied he heard Uncle Paul’s voice raised high, but he had so often heard the old man storming about some trifle that he paid little heed to it, but finished the work he had on hand, thought how he would have liked to go up to An Morlock for an hour or two, and ended by bidding himself be patient, and all that would follow.
It was not yet nine, he found, and the house being very silent, he concluded that the old man had gone off somewhere for a rubber of whist.
“I wouldn’t half mind a rubber myself,” he thought. “I wonder where he has gone?”
“No. It won’t do. No rubbers. I’ll go and have a stroll on the cliff side and stretch my legs, or else I sha’n’t sleep, for my brain is all in a buzz.”
In this intent he put on his hat, lit his pipe, and went out, fancying he heard a sob in the farther room, but, not being sure, he attached little importance thereto.
“What a lovely night,” he mentally exclaimed, as, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he descended the rugged lane, turned to the right, and went off along the cliff.
He had come out for repose, but his brain refused to be at rest, for now came back the sounds that he had heard in the cottage that evening.
“The old man’s been rowing that poor girl,” he thought, “finding out something concerning her carryings-on with somebody or another. Well, poor lass, I suppose she likes him; and, heigho! I feel very lenient now with people who go in for the commodity called love.
“I suppose it is Tregenna,” he continued. “If it is, he is a thorough-paced scoundrel, or he would acknowledge her openly. He’s playing fast and loose with her, and that’s what makes her look so pale and ill.”
He walked on, trying to enjoy the beauty of the starlit night, and the glittering of the smooth, heaving sea, but in vain, for the thought of the sobbing and angry words kept coming back and haunting him, as it were, no matter how fast he walked.
“Now, why the dickens should I make it my business? And yet it seems to be, through knowing the girl and living in the house. I can’t interfere, of course, and tell what I know; but, really, if the fellow is trifling with her it ought to be stopped. Why don’t the old man know and settle it? He don’t, of course, or he would not behave to me as he does, and it would be too mean to put him on the scent. If it’s as I think, and the old man does get to know of it, he’ll half kill Tregenna. Hang the fellow! he’s enough to make one believe in metempsychosis, and think he was once a serpent. I suppose he’s the sort of fellow some women would like, though. But not all.”
He went on more slowly, for his thoughts now were pleasant, and as he glanced down at the sea, which was one dark sheet of spangled star-drops, playing and shimmering in the ebon blackness, he began to plan how he would carry on the mine, and to think of how suddenly a great change had come over his life.
“What a turn of fortune’s wheel!” he exclaimed; and then back went his thoughts to Mrs Mullion’s cottage and poor Madge.
“Poor little lassie, if he’s behaving badly to her—whoever the he may be, for, after all, it was fancy. She is not fretting about me. It is very hard upon her to be bullied at home as well. There’s something about her I like. Ought I to tell old Paul what I know?
“Then there would be a row. Tregenna would turn upon me and say it was a lie, and a cowardly attack. He’d, of course, ask for proof, and I have none.
“Oh, confound it all! it’s no business of mine. They must settle it amongst themselves. Hallo! what’s that?”
A figure passed by him so rapidly that he was half-startled. Then, seeing that it was a woman, and hearing the rustling of the dress on ahead, he took a step or two forward as if in chase.
“What on earth am I doing?” he muttered petulantly. “Who in the world could that be? It couldn’t be Bessie Prawle going home. No; I’m sure it was not her walk, and yet nobody else would be likely to be going along here at this time of night. Who could it be?”
He stopped short, took off his hat, and began to fan his forehead.
“I’m as hot and excited to-night as can be,” he said, half laughing. “Well, no wonder. It’s enough to turn a stronger brain than mine. Such good fortune does not fall to every man’s lot in so short a time. Now suppose I behave like a rational being?”
Just then there was the rattle of stones on one of the rough paths that led from the cliff to the beach.
“Whoever it was has fallen,” he cried. “Why, what madness to attempt to go down there in the dark! I shall break my own neck going after her.”
Risk or none, he began to descend the steep path, but only to find that whoever had fallen had risen, and was making for the beach.
“Why, what folly,” thought Geoffrey, as he stopped in the semi-darkness. “It must be some one who knows her way pretty well.”
For a moment he thought of calling to her, but there seemed no reason for such a proceeding, and he felt that he might frighten whoever it was; and at last, concluding that there was no occasion for him to follow, he was about to turn back, when a thought flashed across him which made him tremble.
“Good heavens!” he ejaculated, “it’s Madge!” and full of the horrible thought that in her trouble she could have come there but for one purpose, he began rapidly to descend the rest of the way, falling heavily twice in his haste to reach the beach, and running no little risk of serious injury.
There was about a hundred yards of wave-worn granite between the cliff foot and where the calm sea heaved gently, and fringed the rocks with a soft phosphorescent light; and here, in the shadow, he paused to try and make out in which direction the figure had gone. His heart was beating wildly, as much from excitement as his exertion, and his sole thought now was to over take and prison the hand of the poor girl he believed it to be.
It was a horrible sensation that of standing helplessly there, eager to stay the wretched girl, but ignorant of the way she had taken. The faint wash of the sea drowned her footsteps, and as he gazed in every direction the dark, rocky beach looked weird and strange, the faint gleam of the phosphorescence adding to the wildness of the scene.
“Madge—Madge Mullion—Madge!” he shouted hoarsely, troubling himself little now who might hear; but there was no reply, and, cautiously making his way amongst the rocks and over the slippery patches of bladder-wrack and broad slimy-fronded weed, he narrowly escaped a fall.
Was it fancy after all, or had he really seen some one come down?
It could not be fancy, he felt sure, and as the minutes glided by he was the more convinced that he was right in his conjecture, and that it was Madge.
“Poor lass!” he exclaimed. “Heaven help her! has it come to this?”
Feeling sure that if his surmise was right, she would be down by some rocks that ran out like a rugged pier into the sea, he crept cautiously on, and strained his eyes to try and make out the figure of her he sought, but in vain; and he was about giving up in despair, mingled with a hope that he was mistaken, when his heart seemed for the moment to stand still, for there was a wild cry from a spot some fifty yards away, followed by a splash; and as he dashed on, regardless of rock and slippery weed, he saw the phosphorescent sea ripple and play about where the poor girl had plunged into the deep water, from quite at the end of the natural pier.
Geoffrey did not hesitate for a moment, but as he reached the brink he plunged in, striking himself against a mass of rock, but fortunately without injury; and, in spite of being dressed, he swam strongly and well in the direction where he had seen the luminous water in agitation.
The distance was farther than he anticipated, and the tide was against him; still this was something in his favour, for it swept the figure of the drowning girl towards him, and as he rose he caught sight of a faint splash or two, making the water flash as she feebly beat the surface with her hands.
But for the unusually luminous state of the sea that night, Geoffrey Trethick’s effort must have been in vain. As it was, his sturdy strokes took him to the side of the drowning girl, and catching her dress, he transferred a stout fold to his teeth, and swan; for the shore.
It was a harder task than he anticipated, and when at last he reached the rocks, rough here with limpets, slimy there with anemones, like clots of blood, and long strangling weeds, it required no little effort to climb to a place of safety.
At last, though, he staggered amongst the rocks and stones with his dripping burthen, and then paused with her, resting on one knee to press the streaming hair from her face, and try to bring her back to life.
Dark as it was he could see that it was Madge, and he paused, wondering what he had better do.
To leave her while he went for help meant, perhaps, leaving her to her death; while to carry her up the rugged cliff path was almost impossible in the dark.
While he was hesitating, a low moan from his burthen’s lips told of returning consciousness, and he roused her a little more.
“Why, Madge, my poor child,” he said, “has it come to this?”
She uttered a wild cry, and burst into a passion of sobbing.
“Let me go—let me die,” she cried passionately. “Why did you get me out?”
“Hush, Madge! Hush, girl!” he cried. “Are you mad?”
“Yes, yes,” she wailed, “and there is nothing for me but to die.”
“Nonsense, girl?” he cried, half angrily, for her unreason annoyed him. “Here, can you walk? Take hold of my arm, and let me help you home.”
“Home!” she wailed. “I have no home. My uncle has driven me away.”
“Then I’ll take you back,” cried Geoffrey, angrily. “The old man is mad.”
“No, no, no,” she cried passionately; and she struggled from his grasp, and made a desperate effort to get back to the sea, but he caught her and held her fast.
“Be quiet,” he cried angrily. “You foolish girl Madge, you’ll come home at once.”
“No, no, Mr Trethick; no,” she sobbed hoarsely; and her strength astonished him. “I cannot—dare not go back. You don’t know. Oh, God, forgive me! Let me die!”
“Not know?” cried Geoffrey. “I know quite enough. Look here, you silly girl, I don’t want to hurt you, but you make me angry. You shall come home.”
“No, no, no,” she cried; and she struggled with him till he lifted her from the rocks, threw her down and held her, he panting almost as heavily as she.
“You’ll repent all this to-morrow,” he said. “If I let you have your way there’ll be no repentance. Do you know what you are doing?”
“Yes,” she moaned. “I cannot live; I want to die.”
“Then, my good girl,” cried Geoffrey, “you’ll find that you can live, and that it’s of no use to want to die. There, there, Madge, my poor lass, I’m speaking like a brute to you, but you have made me angry with your struggles. Come, come, my poor child, let me help you home, and you’ll find your mother ready to forgive you and take you to her heart.”
“Me? me?” cried the wretched girl. “No, no, never again. Let me—pray let me, dear, dear Mr Trethick, pray let me go.”
“Yes,” he said sternly, “home.”
“No, no; I have no home now. You are cruel to me,” she cried, with a fresh struggle.
“Madge,” said Geoffrey, after easily mastering her this time, “I want to help you in your trouble, my poor girl. Come, let me help you up. Will you let me take you to Prawle’s? It is nearer than the cottage, and, if I ask her, Bessie Prawle will give you shelter at least for the night.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” moaned the poor girl.
“Yes, my child, yes. There, come, get up. That’s well. I tell you, I want to help you. There, you will go with me there.”
Poor Madge! she had let him help her to her senses, and as she heard his kindly voice she sank down, clasped his knees, and laid her face against them, sobbing wildly.
“There, come, come,” he said, “or we shall be having you ill. There, that’s well. There’s a path up here farther on, and we shall soon be at the cove.”
She made no further resistance, but, leaning heavily upon his arm and moaning piteously the while, she let him half lead, half carry, her up a cliff slope farther from the town than that which they had come down, and the road to which lay by the dark arch of the adit running to the shaft of the old mine on the way to Gwennas.
It was almost a riddle to Geoffrey afterwards how he led the poor girl up to the path and along to Gwennas Cove; but at last, nearly tired out, he descended the steep slope, saw with joy that there was a light in the cottage, and, on knocking, Bessie came to the door with a candle, to stand staring in wonder at the sight which met her eyes.
“Quick, Bessie! for heaven’s sake?” cried Geoffrey, “or she will be dead.”
“Miss Mullion!” cried Bess, flushing; “and here!”
“Bess Prawle, if you have a woman’s heart, take this poor creature in,” cried Geoffrey, sharply; and, giving him one quick, half-upbraiding look, Bess took his helpless burthen in her arms, and helped to carry her to the old sofa beneath the window-sill.
“What can I do?” cried Geoffrey, as he gazed in the stony face. “Good heavens! Is she dead?”
“Nigh to it, sir,” said Bess, in a low, sad voice; but ere she had well finished Geoffrey was running up the path on his way to Carnac.