“My poor little man,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “My poor little man! Oh, baby, baby, I couldn’t have loved you better if you had been my own!”
As he spoke he raised the little thing higher and higher, and kissed its little lips and then its cold, white forehead, and the two men heard a sob start from his breast, and saw the great tears rolling softly down.
“Oh, Rumsey!” he groaned, “I’m afraid I’m a poor weak fool.”
He laid the little thing reverently upon the couch, and the doctor looked at him curiously, till he was recalled to himself by old Prawle’s hand laid upon his shoulder.
“See to her, doctor, she wants you badly;” and it was true, for Bessie had sunk back with her head against the couch.
“Where is Miss Mullion?” said the doctor. “I want some help.”
“At home, doctor, as bad as your patient there. You must be nurse and doctor too.”
Without a word old Prawle took a couple of strides across the room, and, lifting Bessie as if she had been a babe, he carried her into Madge’s chamber and laid her upon the bed. The motion revived her, though, and, after a few words of advice, the doctor went off homeward, and Geoffrey and old Prawle walked up and down the cliff, the father going in at intervals to see that Bess was sleeping comfortably, and listening at her door.
“Not to-night,” the old man muttered; “not to-night. I can’t go and leave my poor lass there, perhaps to die. It’ll keep a bit—it’ll keep a bit;” and he rejoined Geoffrey.
The next morning at daybreak they took a lantern and explored the adit, the old man pointing out the traces of Bessie’s trailing garments, and here and there a spot or two of blood upon the rock.