“Here, speak out,” cried Geoffrey excitedly, as he hurried with old Prawle down towards the cliff. “What is it? What do you mean?” and as the old man hurriedly recited all he knew, Geoffrey felt his breath come thick and fast.
As they reached the cliff they came upon Dr Rumsey, who had been summoned by old Prawle before he had gone up to Mrs Mullion’s to find Geoffrey; and, after a distant salutation, the doctor began to question Geoffrey, but without avail. Then they went on in silence to find Bessie, with her wet dishevelled hair and clinging garments, still kneeling before the fire with Madge’s baby in her arms.
She looked up in a pitiful way towards Dr Rumsey as he entered, and rose stiffly and laid her little burthen upon the couch.
“A candle, quick!” cried the doctor; and Geoffrey lit one and placed it in the eager hands, to look on afterwards, in company with old Prawle, who stood there, with his hands deep in his pockets, scowling heavily at the scene.
Dr Rumsey’s examination was short and decisive.
“I can do nothing,” he said quietly. “Poor little thing, it has been dead some time.”
Bessie burst into a low sobbing wail, and crouched, there upon the floor; but she raised her face again with a wild stare as she heard Geoffrey speak.
“But try, doctor; for heaven’s sake try,” he cried.
“I know my business, Mr Trethick,” said the doctor coldly. “The child was not drowned. Place your hand here. Its head must have struck the rock. It was dead before it reached the water.”
Geoffrey Trethick—strong, stern, trouble-hardened man—bent down as he heard these words, and placed his firm white hand upon the dead child’s head, realising fully the doctor’s words. Then, raising the little corpse tenderly in his arms, he stood looking down in the white, placid face, the doctor and old Prawle watching him with curious eyes.