Chapter Twenty Four.
Hunting a Witch.
Geoffrey strode right across the heather and stones to Horton mine, bent upon, if possible, securing the services of Pengelly if they were to be had. If not, he felt bound to take counsel with him, and let him know his every step.
The manager was at his office, and welcomed Geoffrey in a very friendly way.
“Want Pengelly, eh!” he said, looking at the speaker, inquiringly. “He won’t be here to-day. But look here, Mr Trethick, I like you. You’re a man with some stuff in you. Let me give you a word of advice.”
“Thank you,” said Geoffrey. “What is it?”
“Don’t let Amos Pengelly lead you into any scrape. He’s mad, that’s what he is; and if you don’t look out he’ll persuade you to take up some mining spec, such as that old fly-blown Wheal Carnac, and ruin you. The fact is, Mr Trethick, between you and me, Cornwall’s about pumped out. You understand.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Geoffrey, who felt much amused.
“You take care of yourself, and wait till something turns up. Don’t you be in too great a hurry. As for Amos Pengelly, he’s religious crazy, and half his time don’t know what he’s about.”
“Where do you suppose he is to-day?”
“Dressed up in his black satin waistcoat and long togs, gone preaching. There’s a revival meeting somewhere.”
“All right; thanks,” said Geoffrey, and, with a bluff “good-morning,” he strode off back again; but before he had gone many yards he determined to try and make a short cut across to the cliff, west of Carnac.
“I can have a good look at the old mine, and call in at Pengelly’s cottage and leave word that I want to see him,” thought Geoffrey.
“That chap’ll get himself into a scrape with Amos Pengelly, if he don’t look out,” muttered the manager, as he watched his visitor out of sight. “He’s one of your jolly, honest sort, he is, and Amos Pengelly’s one of your religious kind. If them two put their heads together there’ll be a nice mess made of it.”
After delivering himself of this prophecy, the manager went back into his office to begin a laborious process of making up accounts; while Geoffrey, with the brisk sea-breeze making his pulses throb, crossed rough scraps of pasture, leaped the quaint Cornish stiles of parallel blocks of stone, heavily-laden slopes of granite, stony track, and rugged ravine, with a tiny stream at the bottom, overhung with ferns.
He had meant to make a bee-line for the cliff, but the country was more rugged than he anticipated. Then, too, he had to follow a path here and there formed on the top of the low granite walls that separated various plots; and the result was, that instead of striking the cliff just west of the town, he found himself beyond the older ruined mine, and nearly as far as Gwennas Cove.
“Might as well go and see the old lady,” he said to himself, as he scrambled down the steep face of the cliff, and reached the shelf-like path. “No, I’ll get on with my work now,” he continued; and, turning at once for the town, he had not gone a hundred yards before he became aware of a loud shouting and yelling, as if something was being hunted along the cliff.
“Why, what could they hunt here?” he said to himself. “Foxes? seals? Nonsense, they couldn’t get up the cliff. It must be—why, by George! it’s a woman.”
He ran along the cliff towards where a woman, in a bright-coloured petticoat, seemed to be coming towards him, half surrounded by at least fifty people—men and women, and great fisher lads, some of whom seemed to have headed the fugitive, who, as Geoffrey came up, had taken refuge in a narrow cleft that ran up from the track, where there was one of the quaint old Cornish crosses, and now stood at bay.
In less time than it takes to describe it, Geoffrey Trethick had seen that the fugitive was Bessie Prawle, with her hair dishevelled, wild-eyed, her clothes torn, and fouled with mud and fish refuse, some of which had bespattered her face, now bleeding quite profusely; but she uttered no sound, only turned her fierce defiant eyes on the crowd, who yelled, hissed, and pelted her with any thing that came to hand, some of the rough mining women, in their excitement, tearing up scraps of heath and grass for an impotent fling.
“Yah! witch! witch!” reached Geoffrey’s ears as he dashed up, just as a great lout of a fisher lad, in a blue jersey, had picked up a lump of granite, and was about to fling it at the wretched girl.
“Heave hard, my son,” cried several. “Don’t look at her eyes, or she’ll ill-wish you.”
The lout raised the piece of stone, took good aim, and then struck heavily against a companion, who cannoned against another, and all three staggered over the cliff edge from the shelf on which they stood, to fall half-a-dozen feet, scrambling, on the granite slope below.
For the impetus with which Geoffrey Trethick had thrown out one of his fists, driven by the full weight of his body, would have upset a giant, and coming as he did like a thunderbolt amongst them, the people divided right and left, some staggering, some falling, as he made his way up to where Bessie Prawle stood, in time to receive a dirty, half-rotten dog-fish right across his chest.
“Who threw that?” he roared furiously.
“I did,” cried a great stupid-looking young fisherman, “but it warn’t meant for you. Come away; she’s a witch. She’ll ill-wish you.”
“I’ll ill-wish you and break every bone in your cowardly thick hide,” roared Geoffrey. “Call yourself a man,” he cried, “and throw at a woman!”
“She’s a witch—a witch! We’re going to douse her,” shrieked a wild-looking woman, a regular bare-armed virago. “Now gals, have her out. Lay hold of the man, lads; have him away.”
Urged by the woman’s words the big fisherman uttered a shout to his companions, and made at Bessie Prawle’s defender; but somehow, they did not know how, the little crowd saw the young fisherman go down, crash, and Geoffrey stamp one foot upon his chest and hold him there.
This checked them, and the three lads who had gone over the cliff edge now scrambled back, furious, and ready to pick up stones or any thing that came within their reach.
But they did not throw them, for Geoffrey’s angry eyes, and the prostrate man beneath his foot, had a wonderfully calming effect upon their angry passions.
“Get back home—all of you,” he cried. “Shame upon your ignorance!”
“She ill-wished Nance Allion’s gal, and she’s pining away,” cried one woman, angrily.
“She ill-wished Mrs Roby’s gal, too, and she’s in a ’sumption,” cried another.
“And she’s ill-wished my mother, so as she hasn’t any inside,” cried a great lubberly lad.
“Ill-wished!” cried Geoffrey, in tones of contempt. “Get back, I say, all of you who call yourselves women; and as for you,” he raged, “you, you cowardly louts that stand here, I’ll hurl the first man or boy over the cliff who flings another stone.”
There was a loud murmur here, but the émeute was over, and the women and lads began to shrink away; while Bess Prawle, her defiant aspect gone, had sunk down now, panting and overcome, looking piteously up at Geoffrey, as he went upon one knee beside her, after letting the prostrate man shuffle away, and applied his handkerchief to her bleeding face.
Poor Bess could not speak, but she caught the hand that helped in both of hers, and with a hysterical sob pressed it firmly to her lips.
“Come, come,” he said, gently; “there’s nothing to mind now. Try and get up, and lean on my arm.”
“Let me come, Mr Trethick,” said a voice that made Geoffrey start; “she is fainting.”
Rhoda Penwynn, who had been walking on the cliff with Miss Pavey, had come up in time to hear Geoffrey’s furious words, and see the brave way in which he had defended poor Bessie. She had seen, too, the passionate kiss the poor girl had bestowed upon her defender’s hand, and, she knew not why, a feeling of sorrow seemed for the moment to master her alarm.
Geoffrey made way for her on the instant, as she knelt down and loosened Bess’s throat and held a little vinaigrette to her nostrils, just in the middle of which acts Geoffrey’s services were again called into requisition, for Miss Pavey looked at him piteously, uttered a cry, and would have fallen but for the ready arm extended to help her gently down upon the heathery bank.
The crowd had stood back, muttering menacingly; but the coming of the banker’s daughter had the effect of sending half the men shuffling farther off in an uneasy fashion, the others following, and soon after the little group was left alone.
“Poor lass!” said Geoffrey, whose interest in Bessie was far greater than in fainting Miss Pavey, who lay back for the moment untended. “Do you know how this occurred, Miss Penwynn? Your people here seem to be half savages.”
“I saw it all, Mr Trethick,” said Rhoda. “She is coming to now. Poor Miss Pavey has fainted, too. Pray hold the vinaigrette to her nostrils.”
Geoffrey caught the little silver case, and held it so vigorously to the poor woman’s nose that her face, in spite of her efforts, became convulsed; and she uttered a loud sneeze, after which she faintly struggled up, wished that they had been alone, when she would have essayed to kiss Geoffrey’s hand out of gratitude, as she had seen Bess Prawle. As it was, she had to be content to look her thanks.
“Thank you, miss—thank you,” said Bess, rising. “I felt sick and giddy. I’m better now. Thank you, too, sir. The cowards would have killed me if you had not come.”
“Oh, don’t talk about the savages,” cried Geoffrey, who was full of sympathy for the poor ill-used girl. “But you are very weak still: here, take my arm, and I’ll see you home.”
“I will go home with her, Mr Trethick,” said Rhoda, coldly.
“Better still,” he said.
“I—I think I can manage by myself,” said Bess, hoarsely.
But the difficulty as to who should see her home was solved by the appearance of old Prawle himself, approaching at a trot, armed with a short steel-armed boat-hook, which looked a formidable weapon in the hands of the fierce-looking old man, who came up half-mad with rage, a boy having carried him the news that they were “going to douse Bess Prawle for a witch.”
“What’s this? What’s all this?” he cried, savagely; and he looked from one to the other, as if in search of some one to assault.
“Take me home, father—take me home,” said Bess, faintly. “Thank you, miss,” she continued, turning to Rhoda. “Mr Trethick, sir: I shall never forget this.”
The fierce-looking old man glared at all in turn; but in spite of his savage aspect, Geoffrey noted that there was something inexpressibly tender in the way in which he drew his child’s arm through his, and directly after parsed his arm round her to give her more support, walking gently by her as the others watched them till they turned a corner of the cliff.
“Miss Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, excitedly, breaking an awkward silence, “I could not have believed that such superstition existed in these later days.”
“Superstition dies hard, Mr Trethick,” said Rhoda, rather coldly. “Shall we say good-morning here? Miss Pavey and I are going across the fields.”
Geoffrey raised his hat, and took the very plain hint that he was to go, by passing on along the cliff, while Rhoda and her companion took to the upland path, which Geoffrey had so lately left.
“Oh, my dearest child!” cried Miss Pavey, as soon as they were alone, and she could burst into a fit of ecstasies, “isn’t he noble—isn’t he grand—isn’t he heroic? Ah! Rhoda, Rhoda, if my heart were free it would fly from my bosom to such a chivalrous knight as he. It quite puts me in mind of the olden times.”
Rhoda did not reply, for the scene she had witnessed had agitated her.
“I declare I never saw any one behave so gallantly and well,” continued Miss Pavey. “He is quite a hero!”
Still Rhoda did not reply, for there was an uneasy feeling in her breast, and, in spite of herself, she could not help recalling Bess’s act as she raised and passionately kissed Geoffrey Trethick’s hand.
It was nothing to her, of course, and she hated to think of the things in which her companion would have gloried; but still old Mrs Prawle’s words and Geoffrey’s frequent visits to the Cove floated back, and a feeling of irritation and anger against him they had just left kept growing stronger and stronger.
“I declare,” exclaimed Miss Pavey, suddenly, with quite a girlish giggle, “neglectful as he was to me, I feel smitten—absolutely smitten.”
“What?” exclaimed Rhoda, harshly.
“Oh! my dear child,” cried Miss Pavey, “don’t for goodness’ sake snap a poor creature up like that. But oh, you naughty, naughty girl! Have I touched the tender chord at last? Oh, Rhoda, my darling child, don’t be jealous; you have no cause!”
“I—jealous?” cried Rhoda, frowning.
“Not the slightest cause, dearest,” said Miss Pavey, simpering. “I would not confess such a thing to any one but you, dearest; but if Mr Trethick went down on his knees to me at this moment, much as I admire him, I should have to say no!”
“My dear Martha, what do you mean?” exclaimed Rhoda, half angrily.
“I can’t help it, dearest,” sighed Miss Pavey. “That scene has made me feel hysterical and low; and I cannot help confessing to you, dearest Rhoda, that I love him.”
“Love Mr Trethick?” cried Rhoda, whose eyes contracted.
“No, no, dear! what a naughty, foolish girl you are, and how you do betray yourself.”
“Betray myself?”
“Yes, dear, your head is always running on this Mr Trethick. I was talking about Mr Lee—he is so pure, and saint-like, and sweet.”
“Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten,” said Rhoda, dreamily; “I had almost forgotten that he lodges with you.”
“Boards with me, dear; and I try to help him in his efforts with these dreadful people here. But tell me, dear, don’t you think it was very imprudent of Mr Trethick to go and lodge at Mrs Mullion’s?”
“No,” said Rhoda; “why?”
“Because of Madge, dear.”
“I do not see why it is more imprudent than for Mr Lee to go and lodge with a lady I know.”
“Board, my dear,” said Miss Pavey, with dignity. “But Mr Lee is a guest.”
“But guests are men,” said Rhoda.
Miss Pavey shook her head as if she did not agree; and as Rhoda had turned very silent since Mr Lee’s name had been mentioned, Miss Pavey came to the conclusion that her companion’s thoughts were of the young vicar, and felt a pang of pain.
“Ah! Rhoda,” she said, with a sigh, “love is a strange thing, is it not?”
Rhoda uttered an ejaculation that evidently meant disgust; but poor Miss Pavey did not understand it, and went prattling on by her companion’s side till they reached the town, where they separated, Rhoda gladly seeking her own room, to be alone and think, telling herself that the scenes she had witnessed—the words she had heard, had unstrung her more than she cared to own.