Kitabı oku: «The Vicar's People», sayfa 17
Chapter Thirty Six
Despair
There was the sound of angry words in the back part of Mrs Mullion’s house that night, and more than once Geoffrey fancied he heard Uncle Paul’s voice raised high, but he had so often heard the old man storming about some trifle that he paid little heed to it, but finished the work he had on hand, thought how he would have liked to go up to An Morlock for an hour or two, and ended by bidding himself be patient, and all that would follow.
It was not yet nine, he found, and the house being very silent, he concluded that the old man had gone off somewhere for a rubber of whist.
“I wouldn’t half mind a rubber myself,” he thought. “I wonder where he has gone?”
“No. It won’t do. No rubbers. I’ll go and have a stroll on the cliff side and stretch my legs, or else I sha’n’t sleep, for my brain is all in a buzz.”
In this intent he put on his hat, lit his pipe, and went out, fancying he heard a sob in the farther room, but, not being sure, he attached little importance thereto.
“What a lovely night,” he mentally exclaimed, as, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he descended the rugged lane, turned to the right, and went off along the cliff.
He had come out for repose, but his brain refused to be at rest, for now came back the sounds that he had heard in the cottage that evening.
“The old man’s been rowing that poor girl,” he thought, “finding out something concerning her carryings-on with somebody or another. Well, poor lass, I suppose she likes him; and, heigho! I feel very lenient now with people who go in for the commodity called love.
“I suppose it is Tregenna,” he continued. “If it is, he is a thorough-paced scoundrel, or he would acknowledge her openly. He’s playing fast and loose with her, and that’s what makes her look so pale and ill.”
He walked on, trying to enjoy the beauty of the starlit night, and the glittering of the smooth, heaving sea, but in vain, for the thought of the sobbing and angry words kept coming back and haunting him, as it were, no matter how fast he walked.
“Now, why the dickens should I make it my business? And yet it seems to be, through knowing the girl and living in the house. I can’t interfere, of course, and tell what I know; but, really, if the fellow is trifling with her it ought to be stopped. Why don’t the old man know and settle it? He don’t, of course, or he would not behave to me as he does, and it would be too mean to put him on the scent. If it’s as I think, and the old man does get to know of it, he’ll half kill Tregenna. Hang the fellow! he’s enough to make one believe in metempsychosis, and think he was once a serpent. I suppose he’s the sort of fellow some women would like, though. But not all.”
He went on more slowly, for his thoughts now were pleasant, and as he glanced down at the sea, which was one dark sheet of spangled star-drops, playing and shimmering in the ebon blackness, he began to plan how he would carry on the mine, and to think of how suddenly a great change had come over his life.
“What a turn of fortune’s wheel!” he exclaimed; and then back went his thoughts to Mrs Mullion’s cottage and poor Madge.
“Poor little lassie, if he’s behaving badly to her – whoever the he may be, for, after all, it was fancy. She is not fretting about me. It is very hard upon her to be bullied at home as well. There’s something about her I like. Ought I to tell old Paul what I know?
“Then there would be a row. Tregenna would turn upon me and say it was a lie, and a cowardly attack. He’d, of course, ask for proof, and I have none.
“Oh, confound it all! it’s no business of mine. They must settle it amongst themselves. Hallo! what’s that?”
A figure passed by him so rapidly that he was half-startled. Then, seeing that it was a woman, and hearing the rustling of the dress on ahead, he took a step or two forward as if in chase.
“What on earth am I doing?” he muttered petulantly. “Who in the world could that be? It couldn’t be Bessie Prawle going home. No; I’m sure it was not her walk, and yet nobody else would be likely to be going along here at this time of night. Who could it be?”
He stopped short, took off his hat, and began to fan his forehead.
“I’m as hot and excited to-night as can be,” he said, half laughing. “Well, no wonder. It’s enough to turn a stronger brain than mine. Such good fortune does not fall to every man’s lot in so short a time. Now suppose I behave like a rational being?”
Just then there was the rattle of stones on one of the rough paths that led from the cliff to the beach.
“Whoever it was has fallen,” he cried. “Why, what madness to attempt to go down there in the dark! I shall break my own neck going after her.”
Risk or none, he began to descend the steep path, but only to find that whoever had fallen had risen, and was making for the beach.
“Why, what folly,” thought Geoffrey, as he stopped in the semi-darkness. “It must be some one who knows her way pretty well.”
For a moment he thought of calling to her, but there seemed no reason for such a proceeding, and he felt that he might frighten whoever it was; and at last, concluding that there was no occasion for him to follow, he was about to turn back, when a thought flashed across him which made him tremble.
“Good heavens!” he ejaculated, “it’s Madge!” and full of the horrible thought that in her trouble she could have come there but for one purpose, he began rapidly to descend the rest of the way, falling heavily twice in his haste to reach the beach, and running no little risk of serious injury.
There was about a hundred yards of wave-worn granite between the cliff foot and where the calm sea heaved gently, and fringed the rocks with a soft phosphorescent light; and here, in the shadow, he paused to try and make out in which direction the figure had gone. His heart was beating wildly, as much from excitement as his exertion, and his sole thought now was to over take and prison the hand of the poor girl he believed it to be.
It was a horrible sensation that of standing helplessly there, eager to stay the wretched girl, but ignorant of the way she had taken. The faint wash of the sea drowned her footsteps, and as he gazed in every direction the dark, rocky beach looked weird and strange, the faint gleam of the phosphorescence adding to the wildness of the scene.
“Madge – Madge Mullion – Madge!” he shouted hoarsely, troubling himself little now who might hear; but there was no reply, and, cautiously making his way amongst the rocks and over the slippery patches of bladder-wrack and broad slimy-fronded weed, he narrowly escaped a fall.
Was it fancy after all, or had he really seen some one come down?
It could not be fancy, he felt sure, and as the minutes glided by he was the more convinced that he was right in his conjecture, and that it was Madge.
“Poor lass!” he exclaimed. “Heaven help her! has it come to this?”
Feeling sure that if his surmise was right, she would be down by some rocks that ran out like a rugged pier into the sea, he crept cautiously on, and strained his eyes to try and make out the figure of her he sought, but in vain; and he was about giving up in despair, mingled with a hope that he was mistaken, when his heart seemed for the moment to stand still, for there was a wild cry from a spot some fifty yards away, followed by a splash; and as he dashed on, regardless of rock and slippery weed, he saw the phosphorescent sea ripple and play about where the poor girl had plunged into the deep water, from quite at the end of the natural pier.
Geoffrey did not hesitate for a moment, but as he reached the brink he plunged in, striking himself against a mass of rock, but fortunately without injury; and, in spite of being dressed, he swam strongly and well in the direction where he had seen the luminous water in agitation.
The distance was farther than he anticipated, and the tide was against him; still this was something in his favour, for it swept the figure of the drowning girl towards him, and as he rose he caught sight of a faint splash or two, making the water flash as she feebly beat the surface with her hands.
But for the unusually luminous state of the sea that night, Geoffrey Trethick’s effort must have been in vain. As it was, his sturdy strokes took him to the side of the drowning girl, and catching her dress, he transferred a stout fold to his teeth, and swan; for the shore.
It was a harder task than he anticipated, and when at last he reached the rocks, rough here with limpets, slimy there with anemones, like clots of blood, and long strangling weeds, it required no little effort to climb to a place of safety.
At last, though, he staggered amongst the rocks and stones with his dripping burthen, and then paused with her, resting on one knee to press the streaming hair from her face, and try to bring her back to life.
Dark as it was he could see that it was Madge, and he paused, wondering what he had better do.
To leave her while he went for help meant, perhaps, leaving her to her death; while to carry her up the rugged cliff path was almost impossible in the dark.
While he was hesitating, a low moan from his burthen’s lips told of returning consciousness, and he roused her a little more.
“Why, Madge, my poor child,” he said, “has it come to this?”
She uttered a wild cry, and burst into a passion of sobbing.
“Let me go – let me die,” she cried passionately. “Why did you get me out?”
“Hush, Madge! Hush, girl!” he cried. “Are you mad?”
“Yes, yes,” she wailed, “and there is nothing for me but to die.”
“Nonsense, girl?” he cried, half angrily, for her unreason annoyed him. “Here, can you walk? Take hold of my arm, and let me help you home.”
“Home!” she wailed. “I have no home. My uncle has driven me away.”
“Then I’ll take you back,” cried Geoffrey, angrily. “The old man is mad.”
“No, no, no,” she cried passionately; and she struggled from his grasp, and made a desperate effort to get back to the sea, but he caught her and held her fast.
“Be quiet,” he cried angrily. “You foolish girl Madge, you’ll come home at once.”
“No, no, Mr Trethick; no,” she sobbed hoarsely; and her strength astonished him. “I cannot – dare not go back. You don’t know. Oh, God, forgive me! Let me die!”
“Not know?” cried Geoffrey. “I know quite enough. Look here, you silly girl, I don’t want to hurt you, but you make me angry. You shall come home.”
“No, no, no,” she cried; and she struggled with him till he lifted her from the rocks, threw her down and held her, he panting almost as heavily as she.
“You’ll repent all this to-morrow,” he said. “If I let you have your way there’ll be no repentance. Do you know what you are doing?”
“Yes,” she moaned. “I cannot live; I want to die.”
“Then, my good girl,” cried Geoffrey, “you’ll find that you can live, and that it’s of no use to want to die. There, there, Madge, my poor lass, I’m speaking like a brute to you, but you have made me angry with your struggles. Come, come, my poor child, let me help you home, and you’ll find your mother ready to forgive you and take you to her heart.”
“Me? me?” cried the wretched girl. “No, no, never again. Let me – pray let me, dear, dear Mr Trethick, pray let me go.”
“Yes,” he said sternly, “home.”
“No, no; I have no home now. You are cruel to me,” she cried, with a fresh struggle.
“Madge,” said Geoffrey, after easily mastering her this time, “I want to help you in your trouble, my poor girl. Come, let me help you up. Will you let me take you to Prawle’s? It is nearer than the cottage, and, if I ask her, Bessie Prawle will give you shelter at least for the night.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” moaned the poor girl.
“Yes, my child, yes. There, come, get up. That’s well. I tell you, I want to help you. There, you will go with me there.”
Poor Madge! she had let him help her to her senses, and as she heard his kindly voice she sank down, clasped his knees, and laid her face against them, sobbing wildly.
“There, come, come,” he said, “or we shall be having you ill. There, that’s well. There’s a path up here farther on, and we shall soon be at the cove.”
She made no further resistance, but, leaning heavily upon his arm and moaning piteously the while, she let him half lead, half carry, her up a cliff slope farther from the town than that which they had come down, and the road to which lay by the dark arch of the adit running to the shaft of the old mine on the way to Gwennas.
It was almost a riddle to Geoffrey afterwards how he led the poor girl up to the path and along to Gwennas Cove; but at last, nearly tired out, he descended the steep slope, saw with joy that there was a light in the cottage, and, on knocking, Bessie came to the door with a candle, to stand staring in wonder at the sight which met her eyes.
“Quick, Bessie! for heaven’s sake?” cried Geoffrey, “or she will be dead.”
“Miss Mullion!” cried Bess, flushing; “and here!”
“Bess Prawle, if you have a woman’s heart, take this poor creature in,” cried Geoffrey, sharply; and, giving him one quick, half-upbraiding look, Bess took his helpless burthen in her arms, and helped to carry her to the old sofa beneath the window-sill.
“What can I do?” cried Geoffrey, as he gazed in the stony face. “Good heavens! Is she dead?”
“Nigh to it, sir,” said Bess, in a low, sad voice; but ere she had well finished Geoffrey was running up the path on his way to Carnac.
Chapter Thirty Seven
An Eventful Night
It was four o’clock the next morning before Geoffrey went softly up the gravel path to the cottage, and, weary and sick at heart, let himself in.
His clothes had partly dried upon him during his walk, for he had fetched Dr Rumsey from his house to attend poor Madge, the doctor being very quiet and saying little, Geoffrey thought, after hearing a few explanations.
“She seems to have been very unhappy at home,” said Geoffrey, “and they quarrelled with her, I think. She must have been half-mad.”
“And did she really try to drown herself?” said the doctor.
“I wouldn’t answer the question,” replied Geoffrey; “but you, being a doctor, ought to know all – so I tell you, yes. She really did, and – pray hurry, old fellow: we may be too late.”
“I am hurrying all I can, Trethick,” said the doctor; “but I must get in with some breath left in my body.”
“Yes, of course; but could I do any good if I ran on first?”
“No, not a bit. Bessie Prawle, you say, is with her. Poor lass – poor lass!”
“So I say, with all my soul, doctor. But I would not put it abroad what has happened.”
“These affairs tell their own tale, Trethick,” said the doctor.
“Yes, yes, of course; but I’d keep it as quiet as I could.”
“I am no scandal-monger, Trethick,” said the doctor, dryly; and they hurried on, Geoffrey waiting outside, and walking up and down with old Prawle while Mr Rumsey went in.
At the end of a quarter of an hour he came to the door with a paper.
“Prawle,” he said, “will you go to my house and give that to my wife?”
“I’ll take it,” said Geoffrey, eagerly. “I’m going home.”
“You will have to bring something back,” said the doctor.
“All right: I’ll lose no time,” he said, cheerily; and he started off, and had to wait while Mrs Rumsey obtained the bottles from the surgery, sending them and a graduated glass for the doctor to mix himself.
This done, there was the walk back to Gwennas, and then Geoffrey waited for the doctor, who kept coming out for a stroll in the cool starlight, and then returning.
“I’ve been thinking that I ought to send you for Mrs Mullion, Trethick.”
“What! Is she in danger?”
“No; oh, no, poor lass; she’ll be better soon. You are going to wait about, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes,” said Geoffrey; “you may want me to fetch something more, and I’ll wait to walk back with you.”
The doctor went in, and old Prawle came up from below and touched him on the arm.
“Come and sit down here,” he said, gruffly. “I’ve lit a fire below.”
“Well, I am cold,” said Geoffrey; and he followed the old man down into a rough cave in the rock, where he kept old nets, a boat, and various pieces of fishing gear. A bright fire of wreck-wood was burning, and to this, with a shiver, Geoffrey walked up, whereupon the old man took a bottle out of a battered sea-chest, whose outside was splintered by the rocks in coming ashore, and poured him out a little spirit in a chipped and footless glass, frosted by the attrition of the sand in which it had been found.
“Smuggled?” said Geoffrey, with a smile.
“Drink it, and don’t ask questions, my lad.”
“Your health, Father Prawle,” said Geoffrey, tossing it down. “It was rude. By George! what nectar. It puts life in a fellow. Shall we hear the doctor when he comes out?”
“Yes, don’t be afeard, man, sit down,” said the old fellow. “I’m going to smoke.”
“I’ll join you,” said Geoffrey, “if you have any tobacco. Mine’s soaked.”
“Oh, yes,” said the old man. “I’ve passed many a night in sea-soaked clothes, but it won’t hurt you, my lad. Here’s some tobacco.”
“I hope not,” said Geoffrey, taking the tobacco, filling, and lighting his pipe.
“You got her out of the water then, eh?”
“Yes,” said Geoffrey, shortly.
“Poor lass!”
Geoffrey nodded acquiescence, and they smoked for some time in silence.
“It is very kind of Miss Prawle to take her in and attend her,” said Geoffrey at last; “but I’m sure poor Madge Mullion will be very grateful.”
“My Bess arn’t made of stone,” said the old man, gruffly, as he sat staring hard across the ruddy fire, whose smoke went up through a rift. Then, re-filling the glass, he handed it to Geoffrey, who drank gladly of the spirit at the time; after which the old man refreshed himself, put on some more driftwood, and stared at his visitor.
“I should have liked to hold some shares in that mine,” he said.
“Yes, you ought to have had some, Father Prawle. Hush! was that the doctor?”
“No, only the washing of the sea in the rock holes. Maybe you’ll get me some of those shares. I can pay for them.”
“There is not one to be had, Father Prawle,” replied Geoffrey.
“Maybe you’ll sell me some of yours, Master Trethick. I’ll pay you well.”
“Mine!” cried Geoffrey, laughing. “I don’t hold one.”
The old man looked at him very keenly, and then let his eyes fall.
“If you would really like to have some,” said Geoffrey, “and I see a chance, I’ll secure them for you.”
“Do, my lad. I’m doing you a good turn here without asking questions.”
“And I’m very grateful to you,” said Geoffrey; “very grateful.”
“Then do me a good turn.”
“Because you were so free in telling me all about the mine?”
“Let that bide, Master Trethick,” said the old man. “But, look here, I will tell you now, if you’ll get me a lot of shares.”
“It’s too late, man – too late.”
“Nay, but it isn’t. You get me shares, and you’ll see. I worked in yon mine.”
“And did not make the proprietors’ fortune,” said Geoffrey, with a smile.
“Nobody tried to make mine,” growled the old fellow, “and they treated me like a dog. I had to think of self. Look here, Mas’r Trethick, I hated you when you come here, for I thought you meant my Bess.”
“I know you did,” said Geoffrey.
“But I don’t think so now, and I tell you this. You get me shares, and it’ll be worth thousands to you. Get shares yourself too; and mind this, you’ve got to take care of your enemy.”
“And who’s that?”
The old man chuckled, and pointed with his pipe-stem out of the mouth of the cave, looking curiously weird and picturesque in the glow of the fire, with the black, uncouth shadows of the pieces of wreck-wood and boat-gear behind.
“I don’t understand you,” said Geoffrey.
“The sea, boy – the water’s your enemy, so look out.”
“I will,” said Geoffrey; and then they smoked and chatted on, the old man going up three or four times to see if the doctor was ready to go; and at last, soon after three, he came back, looking more grim than ever, and not to trim the fire this time.
“Doctor will come in five minutes,” he said, gruffly. “Will you have any more brandy?”
“No, thanks, no,” said his visitor.
“There, mind this, boy, get me shares, and get some yourself, but keep it secret from every one.”
“I’ll help you if I can,” said Geoffrey, “for old acquaintance’ sake; but your promise of news comes too late.”
“Nay, nay, we’ll see, we’ll see,” said the old man. “But look here, Master Trethick, are you going to marry that gal?”
“What, Miss Mullion? No.”
“Ho!” said the old man, gruffly.
“Now, Trethick,” came from above; and Geoffrey hastily made his way up the rugged steps to where the doctor was waking.
“How is she?” he cried eagerly.
“Better: going on well,” said the doctor, shortly.
“And in no danger?”
“None whatever, if she is kept quiet, and her mind set at ease.”
“Poor lass, I’ll do all I can,” said Geoffrey, earnestly. “I’ll have a long talk to Mrs Mullion and Paul in the morning – well, it is morning now – after breakfast. I’ll soon set it right. I think I can.”
“That’s well,” said the doctor, as they walked on along the dark path.
“You seem tired,” said Geoffrey, for the doctor was singularly reserved.
“Very.”
“So am I.”
There was another silence for some time.
“What are you thinking about, doctor?” said Geoffrey, at last.
“About Madge Mullion. Look here, Trethick, I like you – ”
“Thanky, doctor, I like you, and I’m glad you’ve taken my hint about those shares.”
“Hang the shares!” said the doctor. “Let me finish what I was going to say.”
“Go ahead.”
“Damn it, man, don’t be so cool and unconcerned.”
“All right,” said Geoffrey.
“I say I like you for some things, Trethick, and I’m by profession tolerably hard and callous; but it frets me, sir, to have seen that poor girl lying there, after trying in her despair to throw away her life, and you as cool and cavalier as can be.”
“Well,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “I may be calm, but I was not, though, when I fetched you. As to my coolness, I haven’t changed my wet things after getting nearly drowned to save her, and I’m cheery because you told me there was no danger.”
“No, but she’s very ill. And as to your saving the poor lass, it was no more than your duty. You needn’t brag about that.”
“I don’t brag, doctor, so you need not be so peppery. I say, calling you up in the night don’t improve your temper.”
“Hang it, Trethick, don’t be a brute,” cried the doctor. “I’ve known you nearly nine months, and I never liked you less than now.”
“Thankye, doctor, but you’ll be better when you’ve had your breakfast. Come, don’t let’s part huffily. I am sorry I had to call you up, but you must charge extra.”
“Look here, Trethick,” said the doctor, who was now regularly roused by the other’s coolness, “we don’t set ourselves up out here for a particularly moral people, but, hang it all, we have got hearts, and when a wrong is done to any one we try to repair it.”
“Yes, and a very good plan, too,” said Geoffrey. “Why, doctor, you’re as huffy as can be.”
“Trethick! There, I can’t keep it back,” cried the doctor, the last words having let loose the flood of his wrath. “How a man who is not a callous scoundrel can treat this affair so coolly, I don’t know.”
“I don’t treat it coolly,” cried Geoffrey, surprised at the other’s warmth.
“You do, sir; your conduct is blackguardly – cruel in the extreme. Have you no heart at all?”
“Plenty, I hope,” cried Geoffrey, now growing warm in turn. “Look here, doctor, I don’t allow any man to call me a scoundrel and blackguard, without saying a word in reply. Please explain what you mean.”
“What do I mean, sir; why, that poor girl.”
“Well, what about her?”
The doctor stopped short in the dark upon that shelf of cliff, and faced Geoffrey.
“Look here! are you a fool, or a knave, or a scoundrel, Trethick, or all three?” he cried, angrily.
“If you dare to say – Bah?” cried Geoffrey, “I won’t quarrel. You’re hipped, doctor – tired – upset – but don’t call a man names. It stirs up a fellow’s bile, as old Paul says.”
The doctor panted in his anger, for calm, peaceable Dr Rumsey seemed quite transformed.
“And you can talk like this?” he cried, “with that poor girl, the mother of your new-born child, lying an outcast from her home!”
“What?” roared Geoffrey, catching at the doctor’s arm.
“He is a fool!” exclaimed Dr Rumsey; and, wrenching away his arm, he strode off towards the town, leaving Geoffrey staring as if he were stunned.
He was stunned mentally, and for a few minutes he felt as if he could not collect his thoughts. Then his first impulse was to run after the doctor.
“Oh, it’s too absurd,” he cried; and at last, sick at heart, uneasy, and disgusted with his late companion, and not even yet fully realising his position in the tragedy of the night, he walked stiffly up to the cottage, hesitated for a few moments as to whether he should enter, and ended by letting himself in, and going to his room, to try and secure a few hours’ rest.
