The Vicar's People Part 60

But he had no sooner made up his mind to speak to them on the poor girl's behalf than he began to realise the delicacy of his position.

Suppose they took the same view of the case as Dr Rumsey?

"Confound it all!" he cried. "How absurd, to be sure."

He finished dressing, opened door and window, and went down, meeting the servant girl looking red-eyed and dishevelled, as if she had not been to bed all night.

He had seen that Uncle Paul's bedroom door was wide open, but did not note that the bed had been unoccupied; and he was, therefore, not surprised to hear the old man's cough as he entered his own room.

"Trethick! Trethick!" he called, and Geoffrey crossed the pa.s.sage, meeting Mrs Mullion, who ran out with her handkerchief to her eyes, and her face averted.

"Ashamed of being so hard on her child," thought Geoffrey; and then he started, shocked at the old man's aspect, as, with his hat on, he sat there, looking yellow, wrinkled, sunken of eye and cheek, with all his quick, sharp ways gone, and with generally the aspect of one just recovering from some terrible shock.

"Good heavens, Mr Paul, how ill you look!" cried Geoffrey, anxiously, as the thought struck him that he had not been to bed all night.

"Yes," said the old man, "I feel ill."

"Let me run down and fetch Rumsey. Stop, I'll get you a little, brandy first."

"No, no. I don't want brandy," said the old man, gazing at him wildly, and with his face now cadaverous in the extreme. "Rumsey can't help me.

Help me yourself."

"Yes. What shall I do for you?"

"Sit down, Trethick."

He took a chair, looking intently at the speaker.

"Trethick, will you smoke a cheroot?"

"No, not now."

"Not now? Well, another time, then," said the old man, whose voice seemed quite changed. "I'm afraid, Trethick, I have got a dreadful temper."

"Horrible--sometimes," said Geoffrey, smiling.

"But my bark is worse than my bite. I'm not so bad as I seem."

"I know that, old fellow. I always have known it."

"You went out about nine last night, and didn't come back till four this morning."

"You heard me come in then?"

"Yes. We have not been to bed all night. I have been out looking for Madge."

"Indeed!" said Geoffrey, quietly, as he bit his lips to keep back a little longer that which he knew.

"I'm not speaking angrily, am I, my boy?"

"No. I never saw you so calm before."

"It is a calm after the storm, Trethick. I was in a terrible fit last night. Mrs Mullion, my sister-in-law, confessed it all to me, and I was mad with the disgrace. I--I struck her. Yes," he continued, pitifully, "I was a brute, I know. I--I struck her--that poor, weak, foolish girl, and drove her from the house."

"You--struck her, Mr Paul?" said Geoffrey.

"Yes, my boy. I was mad, for she did not deny her shame, only begged me to kill her, and then--then, she uttered a wild cry, and ran out of the house. I seem to hear it now," he continued, with a shudder. "I've been out searching for her, but--but I have not told a soul. We must keep it quiet, Trethick, for all our sakes. But tell me, did she--did she come to you?"

"No," said Geoffrey, sternly.

"But you have seen her? Don't tell me, boy, that you have not seen her.

We felt that as you did not come back she had come to you."

Geoffrey was silent for a few moments, thinking of his position; for here, in spite of his quiet way, was a fresh accuser, and poor Mrs Mullion's silent avoidance had only been another charge.

"The poor girl did not come to me," said Geoffrey, at last. "Your cruelty, Mr Paul, drove her away, and but for the fact that I happened to be on the cliff and saw her go by, she would be floating away somewhere on the tide--dead."

"Did--did she try to jump in?" cried the old man, hoa.r.s.ely.

"She was nearly dead when I fetched her out. A few seconds more would have ended her miserable life."

The old man shrank back in his chair, trembling now like a leaf, his jaw dropped, and his eyes staring.

"And I should have murdered her," he gasped. "But you jumped in and saved her?"

Geoffrey nodded.

"Thank G.o.d!" cried the old man, fervently. "Thank G.o.d!"

"Poor girl! it was a narrow escape," continued Geoffrey. "She has suffered cruelly, and you must forgive her, Mr Paul, and take her back."

"Yes, yes," said the old man, "we'll talk about that. But shake hands, Trethick. You're a brave fellow, after all. That wipes off a great deal. Poor Madge: poor child!"

The old man held out his hand, but Geoffrey did not offer to take it.

"You saved the poor girl then, Trethick. We felt that you must be with her. Where is she now? Why didn't you bring her back?"

"She would sooner have gone back into the sea," said Geoffrey, sternly.

"I took her on to Prawle's cottage, at Gwennas."

"And she is there now?"

"Yes, sir, with her helpless infant."

The old man sank back again with a harsh catching of the breath, and they sat in silence gazing one at the other, as if trying to get breath for the encounter to come.

Uncle Paul was the first to speak.