On looking over what I have just written, it has struck me that I have told this part of my story hastily, scarcely relating enough to tell how matters stood. I ought to have said that it took us fifteen hours to sail from St. Agnes Island to Hayle. Thus having left the island at daybreak—that is, about eight o'clock in the morning—we did not arrive at Hayle till the following midnight, and such was our difficulty in getting horses at Hayle, that we did not leave there until morning, thus arriving at Mullion just before noon. We were there, I should imagine, something over an hour, and as Porth Mullion is only some seven or eight miles from Kynance, I had hopes of getting to Captain Jack's house an hour or two before dark. I discovered, too, that Tamsin had ridden from Kynance to Mullion on horseback. She had, in a fit of jealousy, betrayed our secret to Israel Barnicoat, and this had led to Naomi being taken away; and anxious, so she said, to atone, she had come to Mullion to tell her story.
It may seem foolish in me to have trusted her again after she had once betrayed me, but I have always been one who yielded to the promptings of the heart rather than to the conclusions of reason, so I rode toward Kynance without demur, and even Mr. Penryn made no objection. Eli, however, grumbled greatly, and said we were going to a nest of adders; but indeed our horses were useless, and I knew not how we could get fresh ones, except through Tamsin's offer of money.
There was no sign of life at Captain Jack's house when we came to it, so I concluded that he had not yet returned from the Scilly Isles. I was very thankful for this, because I knew his presence would mean great danger to me. He fancied that I was dead, and but for the mercy of God I should have been—murdered, as it were, by his hand, and by that of Israel Barnicoat. I knew he was as cunning as Satan himself, and when he found out that I was alive would, I believed, stop at no means to end my life. And thus nothing but sore necessity would have taken me to Kynance at that time. But as Mr. Penryn had said, the horses we rode, which were but little better than farm beasts, were sore spent with a ride of twenty miles or so, and as it was fully fifty to Padstow—nay, nearer sixty, taking into consideration the nature of the road—it was useless to think of trying to ride them thither.
"This way, Jasper," cried Tamsin; "this way to father's chest. No one knows where it is but him and me. Oh, you do forgive me, don't you? I did it because I wanted you so! You believe me, don't you, Jasper?" and the poor girl sobbed piteously.
I did not speak, for my heart felt very bitter, even though I thought she was trying to atone for what she had done.
She had led me to a little outhouse, cunningly hidden among the rocks, and which could not be reached save by going through the kitchen, owing to a precipice behind. Arrived here she opened a box, and took from it a bag heavy with gold.
"Here's money enough, Jasper," she said eagerly. "Oh, Jasper, if you only knew!"
"Knew what, Tamsin?" I said, for the girl's sorrow made me gentle toward her, even although my heart was torn with anxiety about Naomi.
"Knew how hard it is," she cried. "Oh, Jasper, are you sure you love that maid so? She does not care for you as I do. Could you not think of me and forget her?" and the girl held my hand tightly in hers.