They crossed the winze, and Geoffrey wondered how a woman could have attempted it in the dark; and at last they stood in a stooping position at the end, looking at the black surface of the water in the old shaft, upon which was floating Bessie’s hat and the child’s hood.
They could not reach them, so they returned, old Prawle saying, in a curiously harsh voice,—
“She didn’t tell a lie, Master Trethick, eh?”
“A lie?” exclaimed Geoffrey. “It is too horrible almost to believe.”
“Horrible? Yes. Now let’s go and look at the pit mouth.”
Geoffrey followed him, feeling as if it were all part of some terrible dream, and wondering what effect it would have upon Madge.
“Why, Prawle,” he exclaimed, stopping short, “that villain must have thought he was throwing in mother and child.”
“Ay, I dessay,” said the old man. “No doubt, but it makes no difference to me. He threw down my Bess, and that’s enough for me. Come on.”
There was little to see on the turf by the old shaft after they had climbed the cliff; but, as Geoffrey went close to the mouth and looked down into the black void, he turned away with a shudder, wondering how any one could have been hurled down there in the darkness of the night, and yet have lived to see another day.
“Come away, Prawle,” he said hoarsely. “What have you got there?”