The Vicar's People Part 56

For answer Pengelly began to ply his pick vigorously on the floor of the gallery, marking out the portion to be sunk so as to be deeper down in the rock, and where there would be no risk of the sea breaking in.

Geoffrey had well made his plans by night, and was the last, as he thought, to leave the pit, and he then went straight to his rooms to refresh himself before writing to several engineers for various necessaries that would be required for the greatly increased output from the mine.

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 la.s.s, 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 d.i.c.kens 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 s.h.i.+mmering 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 la.s.sie, 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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.body 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "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 phosph.o.r.escent 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 phosph.o.r.escence adding to the wildness of the scene.

"Madge--Madge Mullion--Madge!" he shouted hoa.r.s.ely, 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 la.s.s!" 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 phosph.o.r.escent 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 ma.s.s 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 antic.i.p.ated, 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 st.u.r.dy 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 sh.o.r.e.

It was a harder task than he antic.i.p.ated, 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 pa.s.sion of sobbing.

"Let me go--let me die," she cried pa.s.sionately. "Why did you get me out?"