The Vicar's People Part 91

"Yes, yes," she sobbed, raising her face and clinging to him still; "I always liked you, Geoffrey Trethick, and you will--you will try. You have been so good to my poor darling in other ways. We have known every thing, though we have kept away. Mr Paul here said it would be a lesson for you both, but I've gone down on my knees every night, Geoffrey, and prayed for you both, and that your heart might be softened; and now, my boy, have pity on her poor mother, who prays to you for justice to her weak, erring child--who prays to you on her bended knees."

"No, no, no, my poor soul," said Geoffrey, kindly, as he held her up.

"There, there, don't kneel to me. Come, sit down," he cried, kissing her pleasant, motherly face; and the tears stood in his eyes as he spoke. "Come, Uncle Paul, let us try if we cannot see daylight out through this miserable fog."

"Yes, yes," said the old man, who was standing with his head bent.

"Yes, yes," he continued, heartily; "sit down--sit down, my boy. We will have no more pa.s.sion. It shall all be calm and quiet. Come, Geoffrey, you'll smoke one of the old cheroots with me again?"

He smiled in the young man's face as he took out his case.

"Indeed, I will," cried Geoffrey, catching the old man's hand and retaining it. "Why, Uncle Paul--old fellow, this is like the good old times."

They sat there hand clasped in hand for some moments, and then the elder shook Geoffrey's softly and let it go.

"Come," he said, "light up. I want to talk to you."

"Yes, let us light up," said Geoffrey. "Mrs Mullion, may we smoke before you? I don't want you to go away."

"Oh, no, I will not go," said the poor woman, tenderly, as she hastened to hand them each a light.

Then they smoked for a few minutes in silence, Mrs Mullion at a sign from the old man bringing out his handsome silver spirit-stand and gla.s.ses, with hot water and sugar.

"Come, Geoffrey, my boy," cried Uncle Paul; "mix for yourself, and let's drink to the happy future."

"Yes," said Geoffrey, "we will; but, Uncle Paul, Mrs Mullion, let me say a few words first. I had a father who gave me all my early education--all that was not given by my tender, gentle mother. My father in his lessons to me taught me what his true, sterling character had been through life. `Jeff, my boy,' he has said to me a thousand times, `when once you have put your hand to a task, keep to it till you have mastered it.'"

"Yes, yes, you learned your lesson well," said the old man, nodding his head approvingly, for Geoffrey had laid his cigar on the edge of the table, where it burned slowly beneath its pearly ash, and had paused, as if waiting for him to speak.

"Another thing my father said, too, as many times perhaps, Mr Paul, was this: `Come rich, Jeff, come poor, strive to be a gentleman through life, and never let it be said of you that you told a lie.'"

"Good, yes--good advice, Geoffrey Trethick," said the old man, smiling.

"If I had had a son, I would have said the same."

"Then, look here, Mr Paul," cried Geoffrey, excitedly, as he rose up and towered in his manly strength above the little old yellow nabob. "I tell you this: I never knowingly yet told a lie, and, G.o.d helping me, I never will!"

There was a strange silence in that room as the young man's distinct, loud voice ceased for a few moments, and mother and uncle sat eagerly waiting for his next utterances.

"Now that I have said that," continued Geoffrey, "let me look you both in the face, and tell you that you have done me a cruel wrong."

"A cruel wrong?" began the old man, hotly.

"Yes," continued Geoffrey, "a cruel wrong. Poor Madge has spoken out at last; and so will I."

"This is a cruel--"

"Wrong, Mr Paul," said Geoffrey, smiling, and laying his hand upon the old man's shoulder. "Uncle Paul, I like you,--I always have liked you; but you were unjust to me when you asked me to bear John Tregenna's sin."

The old man started back from him, his neck over the back of his chair, his withered throat stretched, and his lips parted, as he stared up in Geoffrey's face. Then, as the whole truth seemed to come home to him, he caught at Geoffrey's hand, and, trembling, and in broken accents, began to plead for pardon.

"My poor boy--my brave boy--my poor boy!" was all, though, that he could stammer; and, in his abject misery, he tried to struggle from his chair upon his knees: but, as soon as Geoffrey realised the truth, he smilingly held the old man in his place.

"No, no, Uncle Paul," he said. "Stand up, old fellow, and give me your hand, like the true, chivalrous old gentleman you are, and let us understand each other once and for all. Come, you forgive me now?"

"Forgive you?" faltered the old man. "My boy, can you forgive me?"

"Your hand too, Mrs Mullion. Do you doubt my word?"

"Oh, no, no!" sobbed the poor woman, sadly, for matters had not turned out as she wished, and her tears were falling fast, when Geoffrey exclaimed sharply, and held out his hand,--

"There is some one listening! Quick; there is something wrong."

He ran to the door, and as he flung it open there was a hasty step upon the gravel, and then a heavy fall.

The next moment he was raising the insensible form of poor Madge from the path, for she had been unable to resist the temptation to steal up and have one more glance at the old home before returning to Gwennas, but her strength was exhausted now; and when, after being carried into the house and laid upon the sofa, Mrs Mullion threw herself sobbing upon her knees beside her child, Geoffrey placed his hand upon the old man's shoulder, and pointed to the pair.

"Is she to stay, Uncle Paul?" he said, softly.

"G.o.d forgive her as I do, my boy," the old man replied, in a broken voice. "I need ask for pardon as well as she."

Geoffrey hesitated about leaving, but, on looking into the room again, he saw mother and child clasped in each other's arms, and he stole softly away to where Uncle Paul stood in the doorway.

"Come," said Geoffrey. "I must have another cheroot, Uncle Paul, and then for home."

"Home?" said the old man, gently; "will you not come here once more?"

"Yes--no--yes--no; I cannot say to-night, but whether I do or no, old fellow, the good old days shall come again for us. Why, Uncle Paul," he cried, puffing away at his fresh cheroot which he had lit from that in the old man's lips, and laying his hands upon his shoulders, "if it were not too late we'd go into the summer-house and have another row. Hallo!

who's this?"

For hasty steps were heard coming up towards the gate, and a hoa.r.s.e voice cried,--

"Trethick--Master Trethick! Pengelly said Master Trethick had come up here."

"Prawle," cried Geoffrey. "You here! Why, what's wrong?"

"Murder's what's wrong," cried the old man, hoa.r.s.ely. "Quick, man, quick! You come along o' me."

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.

A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE AND DEATH.

Bessie was rather longer than usual with her mother that night, but at last the invalid was comfortably settled, and when she went back into the sitting-room the child was just beginning to be restless.

"Will you come and stay with him a minute, Madge?" she said. "I'll be back directly;" but there was no answer.

"Madge! Madge!"

Bessie felt frightened. She could not tell why, but, with a feeling that something was wrong, she ran to Madge's room, but only to find it empty, and her hat and cloak gone.