Geoffrey Trethick's slumbers were very short and disturbed, and, after
tossing about for some time, he got up to think out his position. The
events of the past night seemed dream-like now, and there were times
when he was ready to treat them as hallucinations; but the sea-soaked
suit of clothes thrown over a chair were proof positive of the reality
of poor Madge Mullion's attempted suicide, and his brow contracted as he
thought of the wretched girl's state.
"Poor lass!" he muttered; and by the light of the doctor's charge he
read a score of trifles which had been sealed to him before.
"I'll go straight down to him, and have it out as soon as he's up. An
idiot! What the deuce does he mean? However, I'll soon put that
right."
He looked at his watch and found it was only seven, so that it would be
of no use to go down yet to Rumsey's. He could not sleep, and he did
not feel disposed to read, so he determined to go for a walk till
breakfast-time, and then he would have a talk to Mrs Mullion and Uncle
Paul.
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 passage,
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, hoarsely.
"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 God!" cried the old man, fervently. "Thank God!"
"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.
"I'm--I'm not angry now, Trethick. I'm going to be very humble, and
appeal to you."
"Indeed!" said Geoffrey, over whose countenance a very stern, stubborn
look began to make its way.
"Yes, yes. I'm going to appeal to you. I beg your pardon, Trethick, if
I have said or done any thing to hurt your feelings. I'm very, very
sorry I was so cruel to the poor child last night, but it came upon me
like a shock, and the disgrace seemed to madden me. I have a hot, bad
temper, I know; but, poor child, I'll forgive her--forgive you both."
"Thanks," said Geoffrey, mockingly; and he was about to speak, but
refrained, as the old man made an effort and rose from his chair to go
behind Trethick, and stand there silently for a few moments as if to
master his voice before laying a hand upon the young man's shoulder.
"I did wrong, Trethick, when I brought you up here--very wrong. I ought
to have known better, but I did it in a mean, selfish spirit to save my
own money, when I had plenty for all."
"Indeed!" said Geoffrey, coldly, and a set frown came upon his brow.
"Yes, it was an ill-advised step, and I am punished for it. But,
Trethick, my lad, in my rough way I do love my poor, dead brother's wife
and child, and, God knows, I would sooner have been a beggar than have
seen this disgrace come upon them."
"Mr--"
"No, no, hear me out, Trethick," cried the old man, imploringly. "I
don't blame you so much as I do poor Madge. She was always a foolish,
light, thoughtless girl, fond of admiration; and I know she has always
thrown herself in your way; but I said to myself he is too sterling and
stanch a fellow to act otherwise than as we could wish."
"Look here, Mr Paul," said Geoffrey, sternly. "Once for all, let me
tell you that you are labouring under a mistake. Do you accuse me of
this crime?"
"No, no, we won't call it a crime," said the old man. "But hear me out,
Trethick. I am not angry now. I want to do what is for the best. I
don't ask you to humble yourself or confess."
"Confess!" cried Geoffrey, scornfully. "Mr Paul, you insult me by your
suspicions."
"But the poor girl, Trethick. Her poor mother is heart-broken. Oh,
man, man! why did you come like a curse beneath this, roof?"
"Look here, Mr Paul," cried Geoffrey, whom the night's adventures and
loss of sleep had made irritable, "when you can talk to me in a calm,
sensible way, perhaps I can convince you that you are wronging me by
your suspicions."
A spasm of rage shot across the old man's face, but he seemed to make an
effort, and mastered himself.
"Don't be heartless," he said, "I implore you. There, you see how
humble I am. There, there--let bygones be bygones. I know you will act
like a man by her. Never mind the shame and disgrace, Trethick. She
loves you, poor child, and amongst us we have made her suffer cruelly.
I have been brutal to her for being as true to you as steel."
"True to me, eh?" said Geoffrey.
"Yes, poor child, she kept your secret, though she could not keep her
own. She felt that she might injure you in your prospects."
"You are arranging it all very nicely in your own mind, Uncle Paul,"
said Geoffrey, quietly, for he was touched by the old man's battle with
self.
"Don't ridicule me, Trethick," he said, piteously. "I want to make
amends for a great wrong. I feel I have been to blame. But be a man,
Trethick, and you sha'n't suffer for it. Look here, I am very old now,
and I can't take my money with me. Come, be reasonable, Trethick, for
the poor child's sake. We'll forget the past and look at the future."
"At my expense," said Geoffrey.
"No, no, my boy. We are both men of the world, and can afford to laugh
at what people say. Let's make both those poor souls happy. There,
I'll sink all differences, and I'll give her away; I will indeed. I
haven't been in a church these fifteen years, but I'll come and give her
away; and look here, my lad," he cried, pulling out a slip of paper,
"there's a cheque on the Old Bank for a thousand pounds, payable to
you--that's Madge's dowry to start with. Now, what do you say?"
"Humph! a thousand, eh?" said Geoffrey, looking admiringly at the
speaker.
"Yes, a thousand pounds," cried the old man.
"Will you make it two?" said Geoffrey.
An angry flush came in the old man's face, but he looked across
Geoffrey, and saw that poor broken Mrs Mullion was peering in at the
doorway, and his rage went with his hesitation.
"Yes," he said, "for her sake I'll make it two."
"Not enough," said Geoffrey. "Will you make it five thousand down, and
all your money bequeathed to us by will?"
The old man's breath seemed to be taken away, and he stood gasping
angrily; but once more the piteous aspect of the poor woman at the door
disarmed him, and he said, in a low, hoarse voice,--
"I haven't long to stop here. You shall have what you say, Trethick,
only remove this cloud from the poor girl's life."
"Uncle Paul," cried Geoffrey, turning upon him eagerly, "I always liked
you, for I knew that you were a stanch old fellow under that rough bark,
but I never thought you were so true a man as this. Five thousand
pounds, eh? and you make me your heir? Give me your hand."
The old man's hand was slowly stretched out, and Geoffrey seized it.
"Yes," said Uncle Paul, "and the past shall all be forgotten;" but a
look of disgust, in spite of his efforts, came across his face at the
mercenary spirit displayed.
"Five thousand pounds down?" said Geoffrey, "eh?"
"Five thousand pounds down."
"As you say, Uncle Paul," said Geoffrey, probing the old man to the
quick, "you cannot live much longer. You have had your spell of life,
and you will give that by deed of gift at once to save poor Madge's
fame, and the rest when you die?"
The old man nodded.
"Suppose I say make it ten thousand down?"
"Take--take it all," said the old man, piteously; and then, in a low
voice, "God help me to do one good act before I die."
As he spoke he tried to withdraw his hand from Geoffrey's.
"Take what I have," he said again, "but wipe away the stain from that
poor girl's life."
"God bless you, Uncle Paul," cried Geoffrey, wringing the old man's
hand. "You're a noble old fellow, but if your money was millions,
instead of thousands, not a penny could I touch. Go and see the poor
girl, and then you must see another, and come back and tell me that you
ask my pardon for what you have said."
The piteous look, the air of weakness, and the trembling of the hands
passed away as if by magic, as Uncle Paul tore his fingers from
Geoffrey's grasp; and, in place of his mingled appeal and disgust,
passion flashed from the old man's eyes.
"Dog--coward--scoundrel!" he cried, shaking his cane threateningly.
"Your success at the mine, and your hopes of wedding Rhoda Penwynn, have
blinded you to all that is honourable and true, but you shall repent
it."
"Oh, hush, hush!" cried Geoffrey. "Mr Paul!"
"Silence, scoundrel!" he roared. "You shall live to see your mine a
wreck; and as to that Rhoda Penwynn--"
"Silence, yourself, old man," cried Geoffrey, in a rage. "How dare you
mention her name?"
"How dare I, dog?" he cried; "because she is too good, and pure, and
virtuous for such a libertine as you. Out upon you for your
worthlessness! I tell you, that girl will turn her back upon you in
shame and disgust. You don't know of what stuff our Cornish women are.
I meant to keep this silent if I could. Now the town shall know you for
what you are; and as for my poor niece--Heaven forgive her!--I would
sooner see her in her coffin than the wife of such a heartless,
cold-blooded, mercenary wretch."
"You will repent all this when you are cool," cried Geoffrey, whose own
rage was driven away in dread lest the old man should fall before him in
some fit.
"Out of my sight, dog! Leave this house."
"Uncle Paul, you are mad. Will you listen to reason?"
"Go!" cried the old man panting, as he threatened the tall, sturdy young
fellow with his stick; "go, and present yourself at Penwynn's, and be
shown the door. Out! Go! I cannot breathe the same air with so
heartless a villain."
"If I leave this house," said Geoffrey, "it is for good. No apologies
will bring me back."
"Apologies," cried the old man. "Oh, if Heaven would give me back my
strength but for one short hour! Scoundrel!" he cried, sinking back in
his chair, "if I were but a man instead of such a poor old wreck--"
"Mrs Mullion! quick!" cried Geoffrey, for the old man's appearance
alarmed him; but the poor woman had heard all, and was already at her
brother-in-law's side. "What shall we do?"
"Let him leave the place," panted the old man. "Don't let him touch
me--don't let him come near me--let him leave the place. He tortures
me. Why did I bring him here?"
"Fate, I suppose," said Geoffrey, coldly. "I thought she had been too
kind. Shall I fetch Rumsey, Mrs Mullion?"
"No, no, no. Pray go--pray go," sobbed the poor woman. "Oh, Mr
Trethick! Mr Trethick! what have I done that you should treat me so?"
"There, for heaven's sake, don't you begin," cried Geoffrey. "I can
bear no more. You people here are mad. There, I'll rid you of my
presence, Mrs Mullion. I'll go and put up some where else till you
have come to your senses, and then perhaps--no, I cannot come back here.
I'm going down to Rumsey's, and I'll send him up. Poor old fellow?" he
said; and he came a step towards where, with half-closed eyes, Uncle
Paul sat back, panting heavily; but at the first step forward he shrank
away with such a look of loathing that Geoffrey strode into the passage,
seized his hat, and went off across the garden, and down the cliff path
to send up Dr Rumsey to the stricken old man.