The Vicar's People

Bessie’s knowledge came to her aid, and, laying the baby tenderly down, she brought both hands to bear, feeling cautiously about to determine the width of the winze.

If it were across the adit it would be narrow, and she hoped to be able to step over; if it were cut in the other direction there might be a rocky shelf at the side giving sufficient room for her to pass.

It was cut across the adit, for she could feel the square edge of the rock from wall to wall; and rising and feeling about over it for a prominence in the wall by which she could hold on, she grasped it tightly, placed her right foot close to the edge, and leaned forward, trying with her left to reach the other side.

Yes, she was successful. They are economical of labour in digging through solid rock, and she found that the winze was but a yard across, so, drawing herself back, she caught up her burthen, hesitating for a moment, as she felt that a false step would plunge them both into the well-like opening. Then, bending low, she made as bold a stride as she could, crossed in safety, and once more resumed her cautious progress, till the sea-breeze fanned her cheek as she crept out amongst the rocks, and, falling upon her knees, she once more sobbed and prayed aloud.

Rousing herself, though, to a sense of her responsibility, she rose and hurried along the rugged shore beneath the cliff to the sloping path down which Madge had come some time before; and, climbing to the cliff path, she gave one frightened, unnerved look in the direction of the opening leading to the old shaft, and then ran painfully towards the cottage.

But Bessie’s strength was gone. Her run soon became a walk, her walk a tottering crawl, and it was with blanched face she at last staggered into the cottage, where her father was now seated, keeping up a blazing fire with wreck-wood to save the candle.

“Why, Bess, my lass!” he said.

“Oh, father, help!” she cried, in a hoarse, piteous voice, as she threw herself upon her knees by the fire to try and restore life to the little clay-clad form she held.

“Wet – drenched!” he cried. “In the sea?”

“No, father,” she moaned. “Quick – the doctor. Mr Trethick. He threw me down the old pit-shaft.”

“Trethick did?” roared the old man.

“No, John Tregenna; and he has killed his child.”

“As I will him,” roared the old wrecker, raising his fists to heaven. “So help me God?”

Chapter Fifty Eight

A Strong Man’s Weakness

“Here, speak out,” cried Geoffrey excitedly, as he hurried with old Prawle down towards the cliff. “What is it? What do you mean?” and as the old man hurriedly recited all he knew, Geoffrey felt his breath come thick and fast.

As they reached the cliff they came upon Dr Rumsey, who had been summoned by old Prawle before he had gone up to Mrs Mullion’s to find Geoffrey; and, after a distant salutation, the doctor began to question Geoffrey, but without avail. Then they went on in silence to find Bessie, with her wet dishevelled hair and clinging garments, still kneeling before the fire with Madge’s baby in her arms.

She looked up in a pitiful way towards Dr Rumsey as he entered, and rose stiffly and laid her little burthen upon the couch.

“A candle, quick!” cried the doctor; and Geoffrey lit one and placed it in the eager hands, to look on afterwards, in company with old Prawle, who stood there, with his hands deep in his pockets, scowling heavily at the scene.

Dr Rumsey’s examination was short and decisive.

“I can do nothing,” he said quietly. “Poor little thing, it has been dead some time.”

Bessie burst into a low sobbing wail, and crouched, there upon the floor; but she raised her face again with a wild stare as she heard Geoffrey speak.

“But try, doctor; for heaven’s sake try,” he cried.

“I know my business, Mr Trethick,” said the doctor coldly. “The child was not drowned. Place your hand here. Its head must have struck the rock. It was dead before it reached the water.”

Geoffrey Trethick – strong, stern, trouble-hardened man – bent down as he heard these words, and placed his firm white hand upon the dead child’s head, realising fully the doctor’s words. Then, raising the little corpse tenderly in his arms, he stood looking down in the white, placid face, the doctor and old Prawle watching him with curious eyes.

“My poor little man,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “My poor little man! Oh, baby, baby, I couldn’t have loved you better if you had been my own!”

As he spoke he raised the little thing higher and higher, and kissed its little lips and then its cold, white forehead, and the two men heard a sob start from his breast, and saw the great tears rolling softly down.

“Oh, Rumsey!” he groaned, “I’m afraid I’m a poor weak fool.”

He laid the little thing reverently upon the couch, and the doctor looked at him curiously, till he was recalled to himself by old Prawle’s hand laid upon his shoulder.

“See to her, doctor, she wants you badly;” and it was true, for Bessie had sunk back with her head against the couch.

“Where is Miss Mullion?” said the doctor. “I want some help.”

“At home, doctor, as bad as your patient there. You must be nurse and doctor too.”

Without a word old Prawle took a couple of strides across the room, and, lifting Bessie as if she had been a babe, he carried her into Madge’s chamber and laid her upon the bed. The motion revived her, though, and, after a few words of advice, the doctor went off homeward, and Geoffrey and old Prawle walked up and down the cliff, the father going in at intervals to see that Bess was sleeping comfortably, and listening at her door.

“Not to-night,” the old man muttered; “not to-night. I can’t go and leave my poor lass there, perhaps to die. It’ll keep a bit – it’ll keep a bit;” and he rejoined Geoffrey.

The next morning at daybreak they took a lantern and explored the adit, the old man pointing out the traces of Bessie’s trailing garments, and here and there a spot or two of blood upon the rock.

They crossed the winze, and Geoffrey wondered how a woman could have attempted it in the dark; and at last they stood in a stooping position at the end, looking at the black surface of the water in the old shaft, upon which was floating Bessie’s hat and the child’s hood.

They could not reach them, so they returned, old Prawle saying, in a curiously harsh voice, —

“She didn’t tell a lie, Master Trethick, eh?”

“A lie?” exclaimed Geoffrey. “It is too horrible almost to believe.”

“Horrible? Yes. Now let’s go and look at the pit mouth.”

Geoffrey followed him, feeling as if it were all part of some terrible dream, and wondering what effect it would have upon Madge.

“Why, Prawle,” he exclaimed, stopping short, “that villain must have thought he was throwing in mother and child.”

“Ay, I dessay,” said the old man. “No doubt, but it makes no difference to me. He threw down my Bess, and that’s enough for me. Come on.”

There was little to see on the turf by the old shaft after they had climbed the cliff; but, as Geoffrey went close to the mouth and looked down into the black void, he turned away with a shudder, wondering how any one could have been hurled down there in the darkness of the night, and yet have lived to see another day.

“Come away, Prawle,” he said hoarsely. “What have you got there?”

“Button off a man’s coat,” he said shortly. “Less than that’s been enough to send any one to the gallows. But I don’t want to send him.”

“No,” said Geoffrey; “the horror of what what he has done – the murder of his own child – will stay with him to his grave.”

“If he ever has one,” muttered Prawle.

Geoffrey looked at him searchingly, but the old man’s face was as inscrutable as that of a sphinx; and, leading the way back, he went down into his favourite place by the boat below the face of the cliff, and as soon as Geoffrey had made a hasty breakfast, which he found Bessie had prepared, he went off to the cottage to see Mrs Mullion, and tell her of the events of the past night.

Chapter Fifty Nine

Jonah

The threatening storm was giving abundant promise that it would soon visit Carnac; and warned by its harbingers, the various red-sailed luggers were making fast for the little port. Several had made the shelter behind the arm of masonry which curved out from the shore, and one of the last to run in was the boat owned by Tom Jennen and three more.

They had just lowered the last sail, and, empty and disappointed, they were about to make a line fast to one of the posts, when John Tregenna ran quickly down to where Tom Jennen stood upon the stone pier, rope in hand.

“Stop,” he cried.

“What’s the matter?” growled Jennen.

“I want you to take me across to – ”

He whispered the rest.

“Storm coming. There’ll be a gashly sea on directly, master. Pay out more o’ that line, will you?” he bellowed. “Don’t you see she’s foul o’ the anchor?”

“Ten pounds if you’ll put off directly, and take me,” said Tregenna, glancing uneasily back.

“Wouldn’t go for twenty,” growled Jennen.

“Thirty, then, if you’ll put off at once.”

“Hear this, mates?” growled Jennen.

“No – er.”

“Here’s Master Tregenna says he’ll give us thirty poun’ if we’ll take him across to – ”

“Hush!” cried Tregenna. “Yes, I’ll give you thirty pounds, my men.”

“There’ll be quite a big storm directly,” said another of the men. “Thirty poun’s a lot o’ money, but life’s more.”

“Fifty, then. Here, fifty!” cried Tregenna, desperately. “Fifty pounds, if you start at once.”

He took the crisp, rustling bank-notes from his pocket-book, and held them out, and it was too much for the men. They glanced at one another, and then their decision was made.

“Here, hand it over, and jump in,” cried Tom Jennen; and, thrusting the notes into his pocket, he pointed to the boat, and no sooner had Tregenna leaped in than, shortening his hold of the line, he began to pull, while his mates handled their hitchers to set the lugger free.

Another minute, and Tom Jennen had leaped aboard, and they were hauling up one of the sails, which began to flap and fill. Then one of them ran to the tiller, the lugger gathered way, and rode round to the end of the pier, rising to the summit of a good-sized wave, and gliding down the other side, as a little mob of people came running down the pier, shouting to them to stop.

“Take no notice. Go on,” cried Tregenna, excitedly.

“Why, what’s the matter?” said Tom Jennen, who, like his companions, was in profound ignorance of the events that had taken place while they were away.

“Keep on, and get out to sea,” cried Tregenna, fiercely. “I have paid you to take me, and you have the money.”

“Stop that boat,” roared old Prawle, who was now shouting and raving at the end of the pier. “Come back – come back.”

“Don’t listen to the old madman,” cried Tregenna. “Haul up the other sail.”

“We know how to manage our boat,” said Jennen, sulkily; but he seized the rope, one of the others followed his example, and the second sail rose, caught the wind, and the lugger lay over and began to surge through the wares.

“Stop that boat! Murder!” shouted old Prawle, gesticulating furiously, while those who were with him waved their hands and shouted as well.

“Why, there’s old Master Vorlea, the constable,” said one of the men; “and he seems to have gone off his head, too. What’s the matter ashore, Master Tregenna?”

“Matter? I don’t know,” cried Tregenna, hoarsely. “Keep on, and get me to Plymouth as quickly as you can.”

“We’ll try,” said Tom Jennen; “but with this gashly storm a-coming on we’ll never get out of the bay to-day.”

“But you must,” cried Tregenna, excitedly. “A man does not pay fifty pounds unless his business is urgent.”

“Or he wants to get away,” said Tom Jennen, surlily, as he looked back at the pier, now getting indistinct in the haze formed by the spray.

For the sea was rising fast, and as the fishers, who had made fast their boats within the harbour, joined the crowd staring after the lugger that had just put off, they shook their heads, and wondered what could have tempted Tom Jennen and his mates to go.

They were not long in learning that old Prawle had been after John Tregenna, charging him with the murder of the child, and the attempt to kill her he supposed to be its mother; but Tregenna seemed to have been seized by a horror of encountering Prawle, and he had fled as if for his life, while, with all the pertinacity of a bloodhound, the old man had tried to hunt him down, following him from place to place, where he sought for refuge, till, with the dread increasing in force, the guilty man had fled to the harbour, and, as the coach would not leave again till the next day, he had bribed the crew of the lugger to take him within reach of the railway.

As Prawle saw the boat get beyond his reach, he looked round for one to go in pursuit; and he turned to hurry back home, with the intent of putting off in his own, but as he did so his eyes swept the horizon, his life of experience told him what would follow, and he sat down upon one of the mooring posts with a low, hoarse laugh.

“Does Tom Jennen think he’s going to get out of the bay to-day?” he said.

“He’ll have hard work,” shouted the man nearest to him.

“Hard work? He’ll be running for home ere two hours are gone, if his boat don’t sink, for they’ve got Jonah on board yonder, and the sea’s a-rising fast.”

Chapter Sixty

The Lugger Ashore

By this time half the town was out to watch the lugger in which John Tregenna was trying to make his escape, and, the story of his wrong-doing having passed from lip to lip, the crowd upon the harbour wall and the cliff began rapidly to increase.

Geoffrey heard of what had taken place, and hurried down to the cliff, and old Prawle was pointed out to him seated upon the pier, where the sea was already beginning to beat furiously as the wind rapidly gathered force.

“Why, Prawle,” he cried, when he had hurried down to his side, “what have you been doing?”

“Doing, lad? Trying to do to him as he did to me and mine. He’s got away,” cried the old man, hoarsely; “but I’ll have him yet.”

“Yes, but you must leave him to the law,” cried Geoffrey. “Come: walk home with me. You must not take this into your own hands.”

“Come home!” said the old man, with a fierce look in his eye. “Yes, when I have seen him drown, for it will come to that before many hours are past.”

Finding him immovable, Geoffrey stayed by the old man’s side till they were driven back to the head of the harbour by the waves that now dashed right over the wall where they had been standing but a few minutes before; and from thence Prawle, after some three hours’ watching, climbed to the cliff, where he leaned over the iron rail and gazed out to sea through his hands, held telescope fashion.

“She’s labouring hard,” he said, with a grim chuckle, “and they’ve taken in all sail they can. Look yonder, Trethick: see. There, I told you so. Tom Jennen’s give it up, and he’ll run for the harbour now.”

Geoffrey strained his eyes to try and make out what the old man had described; but he could only dimly see the two-masted vessel far out in the hazy spray, and that she was tossing up and down, for the sea was rising still, and the wind rapidly increasing to almost hurricane force.

Old Prawle was right, as the excitement upon the cliff showed, for, after hours of brave effort, the crew of the lugger had proved the hopelessness of their task, and were now running for home.

What had been a long and weary fight in the teeth of the wind resolved itself into quite a short run, with scarcely any sail hoisted, and the great white-topped waves seeming to chase the buoyant lugger as she raced for shelter from the storm.

The fishermen stood watching her through the haze, and shook their heads as they glanced down at the harbour, where the rocks were now bare, now covered by the huge waves that thundered amidst them, tossing the great boulders over and over as if they had been pebbles, and leaving them to rumble back with a noise like thunder, but only to be cast up again. All the eastern side of the bay was now a sheet of white foam, which the wind caught up and sent flying inland like yeast; and so fierce was the wind now in its more furious gusts, that posts, corners, rocks, and the lee of boats were sought by the watchers as shelter from the cutting blast.

Old Prawle seemed to mind the furious gale no more than the softest breeze, and at length he descended the cliff slope towards where the waves came tumbling in a hundred yards or so beyond the end of the huge wall of masonry that formed the harbour; and as he saw the sturdy fishermen taking the same direction, with coils of rope over their shoulders, Geoffrey needed no telling that the lugger would come ashore there, for, if expected to make the harbour, the men would have made no such preparations as these.

As they went down along the rugged slope Geoffrey touched the old man on the shoulder, and pointed to the harbour.

“No,” shouted old Prawle, in his ear; “she can’t do it, nor yet with three times her crew.”

The crowd had rapidly increased, for it was known now that Tom Jennen’s “boot” must be wrecked, and quite a hundred men had gathered on the shore ready to lend a hand to save. No vessel could have lived in the chaos of foam between them and the lugger unless it were the lifeboat, and that was seven miles away, while the lugger was now not as many hundred yards.

Through the dim haze Geoffrey could make out the figures of the men on board when the lugger rose to the top of some wave, but for the most part they were hidden from his sight; and as he stood there, drenched with the spray, he shuddered as he thought of the fate of these, now so full of vigour, if their seamanship should really prove unavailing to guide them into a place of safety.

“Is there danger, Trethick?” said a voice at his ear; and, turning, there stood the Reverend Edward Lee, his white face bedewed with the spray, and his glasses in his hand, as he wiped off the thick film of salt water.

“I fear so. Poor fellows!” was the reply.

“Is it true that that unhappy man is on board?”

Geoffrey nodded, and their eyes met for a few moments.

“God forgive him!” said the vicar, softly. “Trethick, can we do any thing to save his life?”

As he spoke, Geoffrey for answer pointed to one of the huge green rollers that now came sweeping in, curled over, and broke with a roar like thunder upon the rocky beach.

“Nothing but stand ready with a rope,” was the reply; and then the two young men stood watching the lugger till one of the fishermen came up with a great oilskin coat.

“Put it on, sir,” he roared to the vicar. “It’ll keep some of it off.”

The vicar was about to refuse, but his good feeling prompted him to accept the offer, and a few minutes later another came up and offered one to Geoffrey, who shook his head, and, in place of taking it, stripped off his coat and moved farther down to meet the waves.

The vicar followed him quickly, for the crucial time had come. As far as those ashore could make out, the crew of the lugger had hoisted their fore-sail a few feet higher, and, as they raced in, there was just a chance that she might obey her rudder and swing round into shelter; but it was the faintest of chances, and so it proved.

On she came, light as a duck; and, as she neared the shore, she seemed almost to leap from wave to wave, till at last, when she came in, riding as it were upon one huge green wall of water, nearer and nearer, with the speed almost of a race-horse.

“Now – now – now, Tom!” rose in chorus, heard for a moment above the wind; and, as if in obedience to the call, the head of the lugger was seen to curve round, and in another minute she would have been in shelter, when, as if fearful of missing their prey, the waves leaped at her, deluging her with water; she was swept on and on towards where the crowd had gathered; and then there was a shriek as the lugger was seen to be lifted and dashed down upon the rocks – once, twice – and there was something dark, like broken timbers, churning about among the yeasty foam. The boat was in a hundred pieces tossing here and there.

For a few moments the fishermen ashore stood motionless, and then a man was seen to run out, rope in hand, into the white foam towards something dark, catch at it, and those ashore gave a steady haul, and one of the crew was brought in, amidst a roar of cheers, to where Geoffrey and the vicar stood.

Again there was a dark speck seen amongst the floating planks, and another man dashed in with a rope, and a second member of the little crew was dragged ashore.

Again another, who was stoutly swimming for his life, was fetched in; and almost at the same moment Geoffrey saw something that made his blood course fiercely through his veins.

“I can’t help it,” he muttered; “villain as he is, I cannot stand and see him drown.”

There was no momentary hesitation; but, drawing a long breath, he dashed into the foam that seethed and rushed up the shore, for his quick eye had detected a hand thrust out from the surf for a moment, and his brave effort was successful, for he caught the sleeve of one of the drowning men. Then they were swept in for a time but sucked back; and but for the aid lent by one of the fishermen with a rope, it would have gone hard with them, though, in the excitement, Geoffrey hardly realised the fact till he found himself standing in the midst of a knot of fishermen and the vicar clinging to his hand, but only for the clergyman to be roughly thrust aside by Tom Jennen, for it was he whom Geoffrey had saved; and the rough fellow got hold of his hand and squeezed it as in a vice.

“Where’s Mr Tregenna?” cried Geoffrey, hoarsely, as soon as he could get breath, for he had caught sight of the rough, dark figure of old Prawle running to and fro in the shallow white water where the waves broke up.

“Hasn’t he come ashore?” said Tom Jennen, with his face close to Geoffrey’s.

The latter shook his head and looked inquiringly at the rough fisherman; but Tom Jennen staggered away to sit down, utterly exhausted by his struggle.

Planks, a mast with the dark cinnamon sail twisted round it, the lugger’s rudder, a cask or two, a heap of tangled net, a sweep broken in half, and some rope – bit by bit the fragments of the brave little fisher-vessel came ashore, or were dragged out by one or other of the men; but though a dozen stood ready, rope in hand, to dash in amongst the foam and try to rescue a struggling swimmer, John Tregenna’s hand was never seen stretched out for help, nor his ghastly face looking wildly towards the shore. And at last, as the fragments of the lugger were gathered together in a heap, the crowd melted away, to follow where the half-drowned fishermen had been half-carried to their homes, and Geoffrey gladly accepted the hospitality offered to him by Edward Lee.

Tom Jennen had fared the worst, for he had been dashed once against a part of the lugger, and his ribs were crushed; but he seemed patient and ready to answer the questions of a visitor who came to him after he had seen the doctor leave.

“Were he aboard, Tom Jennen, when you tried to make the harbour?”

“Aboard? Who? Tregenna?”

“Ay.”

“Of course.”

“And he was with you when you struck?”

“Holding on by the side, and screeching for help like a frightened woman,” said Jennen.

“And where do you think he’d be now?” said the other.

“Drowned and dead, for he hadn’t the spirit to fight for his life,” said Jennen, “and I wish I’d never seen his face.”

“I’d like to have seen it once more,” said Tom Jennen’s visitor, grimly. “Just once more;” and he nodded and left the cottage.

“I don’t feel as if I ought to face my Bess till I’ve seen him once again,” he muttered, as he went on along the cliff path; “but I don’t know – I don’t know. He was too slippery for me at the last;” and old Prawle went slowly and thoughtfully homeward to the Cove.

Chapter Sixty One

After Many Days

“She’s better, Trethick, much better,” said Uncle Paul. “Poor child! I thought it was going to be a case of madness. But sit down, man, I’ve just got a fresh batch of the old cheroots.”

Geoffrey seated himself in the summer-house opposite to the old gentleman, with the soft sea-breeze blowing in at the open window; and for a time they smoked in silence.