“No. I never saw you so calm before.”
“It is a calm after the storm, Trethick. I was in a terrible fit last night. Mrs Mullion, my sister-in-law, confessed it all to me, and I was mad with the disgrace. I—I struck her. Yes,” he continued, pitifully, “I was a brute, I know. I—I struck her—that poor, weak, foolish girl, and drove her from the house.”
“You—struck her, Mr Paul?” said Geoffrey.
“Yes, my boy. I was mad, for she did not deny her shame, only begged me to kill her, and then—then, she uttered a wild cry, and ran out of the house. I seem to hear it now,” he continued, with a shudder. “I’ve been out searching for her, but—but I have not told a soul. We must keep it quiet, Trethick, for all our sakes. But tell me, did she—did she come to you?”
“No,” said Geoffrey, sternly.
“But you have seen her? Don’t tell me, boy, that you have not seen her. We felt that as you did not come back she had come to you.”
Geoffrey was silent for a few moments, thinking of his position; for here, in spite of his quiet way, was a fresh accuser, and poor Mrs Mullion’s silent avoidance had only been another charge.
“The poor girl did not come to me,” said Geoffrey, at last. “Your cruelty, Mr Paul, drove her away, and but for the fact that I happened to be on the cliff and saw her go by, she would be floating away somewhere on the tide—dead.”
“Did—did she try to jump in?” cried the old man, hoarsely.
“She was nearly dead when I fetched her out. A few seconds more would have ended her miserable life.”