The Vicar's People

“And what of me?” she said at last.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What of your child?” she said, in the same harsh ringing voice.

“Really, Miss Mullion, my poor girl,” he said, rising, “I fear you are ill.”

“Ill!” she said sharply; “very ill, but not so ill but that I can come to you now and ask for reparation for my wrongs.”

“Ask me, Miss Mullion? Poor soul!” he muttered; “she takes me for Trethick.”

Madge heard his words, and if any spark of love or passion remained for him in her breast, those words crushed it out. The weak girl had indeed become a woman now – a woman and a mother; and if John Tregenna, in a fit of remorse, had asked her then to be his wife, she would have refused, and gone on bearing the burthen of her shame.

“You pitiful, contemptible snake!” she said, speaking now in a low voice that thrilled him through and through. “I am mad, am I, John Tregenna? No, not now. I was mad to listen to and trust you – mad to believe that you would keep your word – mad, if you will, to take upon my poor weak shoulders the sin that was yours more than mine.”

“Miss Mullion!” exclaimed Tregenna, rising. “I must put an end to this painful interview;” and he laid his hand upon the bell.

“Do you wish Mr Chynoweth to hear what I am saying to you – what I intend to say to Rhoda Penwynn to-night when she returns from Truro – what I should have said to her to-day, after I had left you, had she been at home? If so, ring.”

Tregenna showed the first sign of weakness; his hand dropped from the bell, and he started as he heard poor Madge’s bitter laugh, realising more fully now than ever that the enemy in his path, instead of being a weak, helpless girl, had grown into a dangerous woman.

He had made a false step in his defence; but it was too late to retreat, and he kept boldly on.

“My poor girl,” he said kindly, “it would be affectation to pretend that I did not know your troubles, but pray be calm. Let me send some one with you home.”

“You pitiful coward!” she said again, and there was an intensity of scorn in her words that thrilled him through; “do you think if I had known you as I know you now that I would have kept your wretched secret?”

“Miss Mullion – ”

“Have let insult, misery, and injury fall upon others’ heads, till I have been heart-broken over their sorrows, and yet in faith to you I would not speak. But it is over now. Mr Trethick knows the truth. To-night Rhoda Penwynn will know the truth. I came to you now more in sorrow than anger, believing that when you saw me, even if the report was true, that the sight of my poor thin face, and what you could read there of my sufferings, would move you to some show of pity for your miserable victim; but instead – Oh, God of heaven!” she exclaimed passionately, “how could I ever love this man?”

“Is any thing the matter, sir?” said Mr Chynoweth, opening the door. “Did you call?”

“No. Yes, Mr Chynoweth,” exclaimed Tregenna, excitedly. “This poor girl. She ought not to be away from home alone. I don’t think,” – (he touched his forehead).

“That I am in my senses, Mr Chynoweth,” said Madge sharply, as she drew down her veil; “but I am. John Tregenna, I shall keep my word.”

She went slowly out of the inner room and across the office, Chynoweth hastening after her to open the door, John Tregenna coming close behind, as if to see that Madge did not speak again; but she went away without a word.

“Poor creature!” exclaimed Tregenna. “I suppose I must not heed a word she said. Of course you did not hear, Mr Chynoweth?”

“No, sir, not a word hardly; only when she spoke very loud.”

“Ah, poor thing, her brain is touched, no doubt,” he said, as he returned to the inner room, where his countenance seemed to change in a way that, had she seen it, would have made Madge Mullion shrink from him in dread, and, perhaps, hesitate in her intention to go up and see Rhoda Penwynn some time that night.

Chapter Fifty Three

By the Solemn Shore

Geoffrey started off along the cliff with a strange feeling of dread in his breast, and as he hurried along it was with his eyes gazing down upon the shore, so that he passed without seeing that some one was seated on one of the blocks of stone by the old mine shaft, enjoying the sunshine and gazing apparently sadly out to sea.

He noted the two descending paths that were connected in his mind with poor Madge’s attempt to commit self-destruction, and hesitated as to whether he should descend; but he decided upon going on straight, first, to the town, and as he strode on he could not help sighing as he glanced at the buildings about Wheal Carnac.

“I wonder who bought it,” he said; and for a moment or two he mused upon old Prawle’s sulky indifference now that his coup had failed, and wondered whether it would be of any use to try for a post with the new proprietors.

“A nice character mine to go with,” he muttered. “Poor Madge! Where can she be? Has she gone up to Tregenna?”

The more he thought of this the stronger the idea became, and with a curious feeling of hope, that he vainly tried to crush down, rising in his breast, he went quickly on, to utter an ejaculation the next moment, for there was Madge walking towards him along the cliff.

“Why, Madge!” he exclaimed. “You quite frightened me. Where have you been?”

“Don’t touch me – don’t speak to me, Mr Trethick,” she said, in a sharp, harsh voice.

“But I shall speak to you, and I shall touch you,” said Geoffrey, with a quiet firmness. “There, let your arm rest there. Hang on to me as much as you like: you are weak and excited, and ready to faint. There, let’s walk steadily back. Don’t hurry. Take off your veil, and let the sea-breeze blow upon your face; it will revive you.”

“Oh – oh – oh!” came softly as a whisper from beneath that veil, as Geoffrey’s words seemed to change the spirit that was burning in the poor girl’s breast; and, weakly and helplessly enough now, she hung upon his arm, and suffered him to lead her onward towards the Cove.

At the end of a few hundred yards they drew near the opening in the huge cliff where the ruined engine-house and mining shaft were, and here they came suddenly upon old Mr Paul, sitting upon a block of stone, with his hands resting upon the head of his great cane.

The old man looked more himself, and there was a grim air of satisfaction in his face as he saw the couple approaching.

Geoffrey felt his companion give a spasmodic start, and she stopped short as if her legs had failed her, uttering at the same moment a low moan, as she saw her uncle rise from his seat and come towards them, looking first at one and then at the other. Then he just nodded his head at them gravely, and walked on in the opposite direction.

Geoffrey gave an impatient stamp with his foot as he turned and saw the old man disappear.

“Poor old boy!” he said. “There’s something about him I like, Madge, and I’m bursting with eloquence now – full of things I want to say to him, but hang me if I could speak when he was here.”

“Take me home,” said Madge, softly; “I mean to the Cove.”

Geoffrey saw she was weak and half fainting, so he hurried her along as fast as she could bear the effort until he had reached the descent to the cottage, where he had to lift her in his arms and carry her down the rest of the way.

In the afternoon, though, she revived rapidly, and Geoffrey noticed that she seemed none the worse for her unwonted effort, but rather, on the contrary, better and more energetic than she had been for months. He, however, bade Bessie to watch over her, and above all things not to let her go out again.

But Geoffrey’s thoughts were sent into a new channel in the course of the afternoon by a visit from Amos Pengelly, who came to him as he was walking up and down upon the cliff, thinking now of Rhoda, and whether the time had not come for him to leave Carnac; now of the mine, and whether, as a man, it was not his duty to try and find the new purchaser, and make known his knowledge.

“I might get a good post upon the strength of what I know,” he said to himself; “and that would be just like me – to climb up and succeed upon another man’s misfortunes. No: I’ll keep to my old way. The ship may drift: she cannot come to worse wreck than she is in now. Hallo, Pengelly.”

“How do, Master Trethick, sir?” said Amos; “I’ve brought you this.”

“This?” said Geoffrey, taking a letter from the miner’s hand, and turning it over to find that it was on old-fashioned paper, doubled in the old style, and sealed with a great patch of wax and a crest.

“Why, it’s from old Mr Paul,” he said, as he glanced at the crabbed characters.

“Yes, sir; he asked me to bring it down and wait.”

Geoffrey opened the missive, and found it very short, but he read in it the effect that that day’s meeting had had upon the old man. It was as follows: —

Dear Sir, – Will you come up and see me this evening? I want to ask a favour of you once more. What I have seen to-day makes me hope that you can now meet me in a better spirit. Yours faithfully, Thomas Paul.

PS. If you are in the spirit that I hope you feel, bring poor Madge.

Geoffrey Trethick, Esq.

“Geoffrey Trethick, Esquire! Ha, ha, ha! Poor old fellow! Esquire! A broken-down mining adventurer in a smuggler’s cottage. No, Master Paul, I am not in the spirit you mean, and it is of no use for us to meet and quarrel again.”

“Will you write an answer, sir?” said Pengelly, after watching Trethick for some minutes, as he read and re-read the letter, and then walked up and down talking to himself.

“Yes – no – yes – no. Wait a few moments, Pengelly. I have not yet made up my mind. Tell him – tell Mr Paul – yes, tell him that I will come up and see him this evening. I will not write.”

Pengelly nodded, and moved towards the cottage to get a sight of Bessie.

“Have you heard, sir, who has bought the mine?” he asked.

“No, Pengelly. I have been trying, but they keep it very quiet. You have heard nothing, I suppose?”

“Not a word, sir,” said Pengelly, with a sigh; and he went on into the cottage.

“Papa-in-law elect does not seem to give him so much of his confidence as he does me. However, just as he likes. Now what am I to say to the old man?”

He walked up and down thinking for a few minutes, and then decided that the time had come for him to speak out frankly all that he knew, and to refer them to Madge for the rest.

“Poor lass! I’ll speak up well for her sufferings. She has done wrong, but look at her. Poor lass! How a man can be such a scoundrel, and leave a poor weak girl to fight out her difficulties alone, is more than I can understand; and what Nature is about to allow it. Here’s poor Madge dying of consumption, and scouted as an outcast for her wrong, and the scoundrel who shared her sin – bah, no! who made her sin – is in high feather, and about to be rewarded for his goodness with a beautiful and loving wife —

“Oh!” he ejaculated, grinding his teeth; “if I think about it, I shall go mad;” and he set off down to the rough shore, where, in a reckless way, he set about wrenching over great blocks of the granite, telling himself he was looking for curious sea-anemones and star-fish, when it was to weary himself out by his tremendous exertion, and dull the aching misery of his thoughts.

It was quite evening when he returned to the cottage, and sat and chatted with poor Mrs Prawle for a time, before following the old wrecker down to his den below the cliff, and stopping with him to smoke a pipe.

The old fellow was more sociable than usual, and chatted about the mine and the chance they had lost, but in quite a friendly spirit.

“It wur a bad job, my lad, but I’m not so sore now. I’ve got enough for me, I dare say, but I’d liked to have seen ye doing a bit better.”

“Oh, I dare say my time will come, Master Prawle,” said Geoffrey, lightly. “But I must go now.”

“Go? Where are you going? It’s a gashly dark night.”

“Only as far as old Mr Paul’s. Madge’s uncle wants to see me.”

“Oh, ay,” said the old fellow, nodding. “Well, my lad, I hope good will come of it. Don’t keep too stiff an upper lip.”

Geoffrey looked at him sharply, and was about to speak, but he checked himself and started off.

“Why, where are you going?” said the old man.

“Down along by the shore,” replied Geoffrey.

“You’ll find it rough work.”

“So much the better. Tame me down, so that I sha’n’t fly out if I have such things said to me as you have just indulged in.”

As he said this he went on down to the rough granite-strewn shore, and began to thread his way amongst the blocks towards Carnac; but at the end of half an hour, it had grown so much darker, the effort was so great, and the difficulty of getting along had become so much more apparent, that he gave up, and made his way towards the cliff, so as to reach the road at last by the pathway on the Carnac side of the old adit, faint and completely overcome by his exertions by the time he reached the familiar path down which he had run to save poor Madge.

If Geoffrey had stopped at the cottage he would have seen that instead of quietly taking to her work, Madge was dressing herself to go out. This she seemed to be doing secretly, listening from time to time to make out whether Bessie was noting her actions, which plainly indicated an attempt to steal away unseen.

She was deadly pale, and evidently greatly agitated, but she dressed herself with much care, bestowing unwonted pains upon her hair; and at last, quite ready, she stood there listening and waiting for her opportunity.

This did not come for some little time, but at last Bessie was busy helping her mother to bed, and the baby was lying there fast asleep in its cradle.

There was no one to see her now, and, gliding out, Madge softly raised the latch of the door, and left it ajar, before returning to the cradle, throwing herself upon her knees, and clasping her little one to her throbbing heart.

“My darling!” she moaned.

But Geoffrey saw nothing of this, or he might have compelled her to stay, and not tempt the danger of a walk along the cliff path on such a night. He was, however, playing no watcher’s part, and there was no one to see the hurried figure that almost ran out of the cottage at Gwennas Cove, with a long cloak huddled round it, so as to cover the sleeping babe as well.

The night had grown darker, but the pathway was perfectly familiar to her, as it had been from childhood; and, thinking more of her mission than of the child she held so carefully wrapped, she hurried on, gazing straight before her, so as to avoid slip or fall over some awkward mass of rock.

So deeply intent was the girl upon her mission that she did not see the figure of a man standing against the cliff face, just by the opening by the ruined mine; and, as she reached the spot, she was so taken by surprise that the cry that rose to her lips was checked on the instant by a fold of her own cloak.

It was a matter of moments. There was a feeble struggle, a hoarse, smothered cry, a violent thrust, and in the darkness the cloaked figure was seen to stagger back – totter – and then her assailant seemed to throw himself upon his knees, and rest there, panting and listening, till from far below there came up a hollow, reverberating plash as of some heavy body falling into the depths of the deserted mine. Then twice over there was a hoarse cry, and then a curious sound of splashing which rose in a horribly distinct fashion upon the black night air.

Then all was still.

Chapter Fifty Four

John Tregenna’s Triumph

The man rose softly then from his hands and knees, rubbing the former to get rid of the dirt that might be clinging there, and then taking out a white handkerchief to brush his knees – a needless operation, for the turf was short and dry, and left no marks.

Then, panting heavily, though his exertions had been slight, he stood listening again, not daring to go nearer to the edge of the shaft.

All was perfectly quiet, and, with a sigh of relief, he crept back to the pathway and listened.

All was still here too, but he could not flee yet without going back and searching about to see if there was any thing dropped – handkerchief, cloak, or the like.

But no; all was apparently as it should be, and he could find no trace; so once more going cautiously to the footpath, he listened, and, all being still, he walked swiftly in the direction of Carnac, till, reaching the path down to the shore, he turned down it quickly, and came in contact with Geoffrey Trethick.

“Hallo!” exclaimed the latter, sharply, “do you want to knock a man off the cliff? Oh, it’s you, Mr Tregenna!”

Tregenna did not answer, but, trembling in every limb, pressed on to reach the shore; but before he had gone many yards a malicious spirit seemed to tempt Geoffrey, and he called after the retreating figure, —

“If you are going to see Miss Mullion, Mr Tregenna, you will find the upper path the better.”

“Damn!” muttered Tregenna, as he almost staggered now down the cliff; “what cursed fate sent him here to-night?”

He was so completely unnerved by the encounter, that he paused for a few minutes to try and recover himself.

“If I could – if I could,” he muttered; “but he is too strong. My God! what shall I do?”

The horror of discovery was so great that for a time he could not proceed, and in imagination he saw the body of his victim brought to the surface, and Geoffrey Trethick bearing witness of having seen him near the spot.

By degrees, though, he grew calmer, as he felt there was very little chance of poor Madge’s body ever being found, the old shaft being many hundred feet deep. Besides, there was nothing to make people think she had been thrown down there. Even if she were found, was it not far more probable that she had committed suicide, especially as she had attempted it once before?

“I’ll not go,” he muttered. “Better to face it out. Bah! there is nothing to face.”

He stopped and lit a cigar, the necessity for concealment having gone. Geoffrey had spoiled that portion of his plan, namely, to reach the other side of the town unseen. On the contrary, he felt now disposed to court observation, and walked on smoking along the rugged shore to the slope by the harbour, up which he passed, exchanging greetings with Tom Jennen and one or two men who were leaning over the rail that protected the edge of the cliff.

“It’s gashly dark night, sir. Bad walking down there, bain’t it?”

“Well, yes, it is rough,” said Tregenna, “but it does for a change.”

“Hah!” he ejaculated, taking a long breath, as he walked slowly up towards An Morlock; “it is hard work, but I dare say I can manage to keep cool.”

But he could not, for once more a sensation as of panic seized upon him, and something seemed to urge him to fly for his life before it was too late. For he recalled Madge’s visit to him, and Chynoweth’s knowledge of that visit, and what she had said.

On all sides black threatening shadows of impending danger seemed to rise about him, and it was only by a savage wrench that he tore himself from the spot, and went on to his own house, where he washed, and carefully brushed his clothes, after taking a goodly glass of brandy.

This last gave him the nerve he had lost, and, feeling calmer, he went out once more into the cool night air.

Here he lit a fresh cigar, and at last, perfectly calm and unruffled, he went up the drive to the great house, gazing about him with a satisfied air, as if he claimed the place now as his own, and, nodding to the servant who admitted him, he took off hat and gloves, crossed the handsome hall, and stepped into the well-lit drawing-room.

Rhoda was speaking angrily as the door closed behind him, and she did not hear his entry. It was evidently her final remark after much that had gone before, and John Tregenna stood there paralysed, as the words fell from her lips.

“I’ll not believe it,” she cried. “Mr Trethick must have sent you here. What proof have you that Mr Tregenna is the wicked man you say?”

“His own looks,” said Madge, as she stood there with flashing eyes and ashy face, seeming to the wretched man like some avenging spirit pointing at him with white and quivering hand. “Ask him, if you will, though you can read the truth there. Now, Miss Penwynn, can you marry such a man as this?”

Rhoda made no answer, for John Tregenna’s brain had reeled. He had made two or three attempts to master, his craven dread, but in vain. Not an hour ago he had cast, as he believed, Madge Mullion down that hideous chasm in the earth, had heard her dying shrieks; and then, gloating over his release from one who would have blasted all his plans, he had come straight on to An Morlock, to find her standing pointing at him with denouncing finger, and telling Rhoda Penwynn of his guilt.

He had striven, fought like a drowning man, but in vain; and, after clutching at a table to save himself, he fell with a heavy crash upon the floor.

Chapter Fifty Five

Sisters in the Flesh

Madge kissed her child passionately again and again before replacing it in the cradle. Then she rose to steal to the door, but she could not go without running back to her helpless infant, which seemed somehow that night to draw her to its side.

It was as if she felt a presentiment that she was bidding it good-by forever, and, taking it to her breast once more, she rocked herself to and fro, sobbing over it silently, as she listened to the voices in the next room.

“He told Bessie not to let me go out again, I’m sure,” she thought to herself; and, feeling that if she meant to go she must go at once, she unwillingly laid down the child after a passionate embrace, and went softly out into the dark night.

She was very weak, and panted with the exertion as she reached the top of the ascent, but here she felt the sea-breeze, and, glancing round for a few moments as she tried to regain her breath, she noted one or two things that pointed to the coming of a storm before many hours had passed. The lights on the point across the bay loomed up so that they were plainly to be seen, and her sea-side life made her read tokens of the tempest in the direction and sound of the wind.

She set off with the intention of going straight along the cliff path to the town, and then up to An Morlock, where she would see and tell Rhoda Penwynn all; but she had not gone far before a horrible feeling of dread began to oppress her. She recalled Tregenna’s looks when he had heard her threat, and she felt now as certain as if she saw him before her that he would try and stop her.

“And if he does meet me?”

She stopped, shivering. Her blood seemed to run cold, and a nameless horror crept over her as she thought of what might be the consequences.

The chill of horror increased, for she dreaded that he would kill her, and now she felt that she would like to live.

Geoffrey Trethick had told her that she should live for the sake of her little one, and for its sake she would forget the world and its bitter ways. She had something indeed to live for now, and she blessed Geoffrey in her heart for awakening her to that fact.

Inspired by this idea, then, she went on cautiously, and with a step as light as that of some bird; but she saw nothing to cause her fear, and began to think that the darkness would befriend her, and hide her from the sight of any watcher who would stop her on her way.

She had already passed the rough path down to the shore, the one up which Geoffrey Trethick had carried her on that terrible night, at the recollection of which she shuddered, and still there was no sign of danger; when suddenly she stopped short, for ahead of her in the darkness there came, plainly heard, the impatient hiss that one might make by a hasty drawing-in of the breath.

She knew the sound. She had heard it more than once, when he had been waiting for her down by Wheal Carnac when it was in ruins, and now he was waiting for her again by this ruined pit – for what?

For a moment her heart beat wildly, and her imagination told her that, perhaps, after all, he had come in love to ask her forgiveness, and to take her once more to his breast.

Then the tumultuous beating gradually grew calmer and then nearly stopped, as a chill of horror seized upon her. It was not in love that he had come, but in hate; and trembling, and with her brow wet with terror, she crept softly back, reached the path, and descended its dangerous steep to the shore, crept cautiously along and by the mouth of the old adit, hardly daring to pass it, lest the sound of her step should go up to where Tregenna was watching for her a couple of hundred yards away, and ended by reaching the other path down which she had frantically run to cast herself into the sea, glided softly up it, reaching the regular cliff way again; and then, but always with the dread upon her that Tregenna was in pursuit, she hurried onwards towards Carnac churchtown.