The Vicar's People Part 46

His voice brought out Bess, looking handsomer than ever, Rhoda thought, in her picturesque dress and carelessly-knotted hair.

For a moment the two girls stood gazing in each other's eyes, and a cold, chilling feeling ran through Rhoda as, in spite of herself, she felt that it would be no wonder if Geoffrey Trethick did love this bold, handsome girl.

The next moment the thought was gone, and Rhoda had held out her hand.

"I hope there is a good stock of sweeties, Bessie," she said, with a frank smile. "How is Mrs Prawle?"

Bess's breath came with a catch, as she returned the smile; and, leading the way into the cottage, the pleasant little fiction was gone through, and the invalid made happy in the thought that she had added the profits of a shilling's-worth of sweets to the general store.

But there was no conversation this time about Geoffrey Trethick, for Bess stayed in the room, and then followed Rhoda out on to the cliff path when she left.

"Why, Bessie," said the visitor, smiling, "I have hardly seen you since that day when those mad people behaved so ill."

"I very seldom go into the town now, miss," said Bess, whose colour came as she recalled the conclusion of that scene.

"It's very sad," continued Rhoda, "that the people should be so ignorant. Well, good-by, Bessie," she continued, holding out her hand, "you will not ill-wish me?"

"No," said Bessie, softly, as she watched the tall, well-dressed, graceful figure slowly receding. "No, I will not ill-wish you; but there are times when I feel as if I must hate you for being what you are."

She let Rhoda go on till the fluttering of her dress in the sea-breeze was seen no more, and then, moved by some strange impulse, she followed, avoiding the track; and, active and quick as one of the half-wild sheep of the district, she climbed up on to the rugged down above the cliff path, and kept on gazing below at Rhoda from time to time.

She went on nearly parallel with her for a quarter of a mile or so, and then stood motionless for a time, gazing down, before, with a weary wail of misery, she threw herself amidst the heather, her face upon one outstretched arm, whose fingers clutched and tore at the tough plants and gra.s.s, while her whole frame quivered with her pa.s.sionate sobs.

"Bess!"

At the sound of that hoa.r.s.e voice she started up into a sitting position, but shrank away as she gazed up into her father's fierce, rugged face. The old man was down on one knee beside her, and his gnarled and knotted hand was pointing in the direction of the cliff path a hundred feet below.

"Is--is it come to this, Bess?" he said.

"What--what, father?" she cried, catching at his hand; but she missed it, and he gripped her arm.

"Is that smooth, good-looking villain thy lover, too?" he said, in a vindictive whisper.

"Oh! no, no, no, father," she gasped.

"I knew it would come to it," he cried. "Curse him! I'll crush his false head again the rocks."

"Are you mad, father?" she whispered, throwing her arms round him.

"Mad? No," he cried; "but do you think I'm blind as well as old?

Bess," he continued, "I wish before his gashly face had darkened our door--"

"Oh father, father, dear father," she moaned--and she crept closer and closer, till her arms were round his neck, and her head in his breast; "kill me, but don't hurt him."

"Then he has been trifling with thee, girl? I knowed it; I was sure it would come."

"No, no, no," moaned Bess; "he never said word to me but what you might hear."

"Is--is this gawspel, Bess?" cried the old man, dragging up her convulsed and tearful face, and gazing in her wistful dark eyes.

"Can't you see, father?" she said, with a low, despairing sigh. "I'm not good enough to be his wife, and he's not the man to trifle and say soft things to me. You see down yonder," she added, pitifully, as she waved one brown hand in the direction of the path.

"Nay, it's along of Madge Mullion," said the old man, wrathfully.

"Yon's nothing, and will come to naught. They say old Paul's niece--"

"It's a lie, father, a cruel lie," cried Bess, starting from him. "I heard it, and it's a lie. Mr Trethick's a gentleman, and he's as n.o.ble as he's good."

"Curse him for coming here," cried the old man fiercely.

"G.o.d bless him!" said Bess, simply, as, kneeling there, she let her joined hands drop into her lap. "G.o.d bless him for a good man, and-- and--may he be very--very happy in the time to come."

Bess Prawle's face dropped into her hands, and she sank lower and lower, with the tears of agony growing less scalding, and falling by degrees, as it were, like balm upon her burning love--a love which she had held unveiled before her father's gaze, while the old man bent over her, the savage roughness of his face growing less repulsive, and a look of love and pride transforming him for the time.

He knelt down and kissed her bright black hair; then he put his arms round her, and drew her to him, and at last held her to his heart, rocking to and fro as he had nursed her a dozen or fifteen years before.

"My pretty flower," he cried hoa.r.s.ely, "my Bess! He don't know--he don't know. You not good enough for he? Harkye, my girl. He shall marry you--he shall be proud to marry you--for I know that as will bring him to you, and put him on his knees and ask you to be his wife."

"Father?" said the girl, looking at him wonderingly.

"Yes," he said, nodding his head exultantly, and kissing her broad forehead. "I can make you as fine a lady as any in Cornwall, my la.s.s, and I can bring him to you when I will."

"No, no, no," moaned Bessie, with a piteous smile.

"But I say yes," cried the old man. "I haven't had my eyes open all these years for nothing. Let's go home, Bess; I'll talk to thee there.

Get up, my girl, and I'll bring him to thy feet whene'er thou wilt."

Bess rose sadly, and put her hand in her father's, but, as they took a step forward, the nook in the cliff where she had stood at bay opened out beneath them, and they both saw that which made Bessie Prawle feel as if her heart would break.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

MAKING A VICTIM.

Breakfast-time at Dr Rumsey's, and Mrs Rumsey, in a very henny state, clucking over her brood, for whom she was cutting bread and b.u.t.ter.

Her name too was Charlotte, but no Werther fell in love with her when she was ingeniously trying how many square inches of bread two ounces of b.u.t.ter that had been warmed into oil by the fire would cover. For Mrs Rumsey was not handsome, being a soft, fair, nebulous-looking lady, who had been in the habit of presenting her husband with one or two nebulous theories of her own regularly once a year; and the "worrit" of children had not improved her personal appearance.

Her face was, as a rule, white, and soft, and heavy, dotted with dull branny freckles, while the possession of a soft _retrousse_ nose that seemed loosely attached to her skin, and travelled a good deal out of place whenever she twitched her countenance, as she often did spasmodically, did not add to her attractions.

Unfortunately for Dr Rumsey, his wife's notable care of her children did not extend to herself, for as she grew older she also grew more and more unkempt. While he, as he saw it, would sigh and thrust his hands into his pockets all but his thumbs, which stood out and worked as she unfolded to him her family cares, giving them the aspect of two handles in the mechanism by which he was moved.

"Any thing will do for me," was her favourite expression; and, in the belief that she was lessening the burthen on her husband's shoulders, she made herself less attractive in his eyes year by year, and grew more dowdy. How the fact that his wife's hair was not parted exactly in the middle, and left unbrushed, could affect his income, Dr Rumsey never knew; neither could he see that it was any saving for a hook on a dress front to be inserted in the wrong eye, or for his wife's boots to be down at the heel and unlaced. Such, however, was the state in which Mrs Rumsey was often seen, though, to do her justice, the children were her constant care, in both senses of the word.

He saw all this and sighed, giving his ears a pull now and then, telling himself that they tightened his skin and drew the wrinkles out of his face; while, when his lady was extra sensitive and nervous--in other words, disposed to blame--he would shrug his shoulders, b.u.t.ton up his coat, turn up his collar; and upon one occasion he even sent the good lady into a pa.s.sionate fit of hysterics, by putting up an old umbrella to shelter him till the storm had done.

"Ah, Rumsey!" she would say, "I don't know what you would do without me.

If you had not me to take care of you and yours, you would be lost indeed."