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.