“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.