"Hush, Madge! Hush, girl!" he cried. "Are you mad?"

"Yes, yes," she wailed, "and there is nothing for me but to die."

"Nonsense, girl?" he cried, half angrily, for her unreason annoyed him.

"Here, can you walk? Take hold of my arm, and let me help you home."

"Home!" she wailed. "I have no home. My uncle has driven me away."

"Then I'll take you back," cried Geoffrey, angrily. "The old man is mad."

"No, no, no," she cried pa.s.sionately; and she struggled from his grasp, and made a desperate effort to get back to the sea, but he caught her and held her fast.

"Be quiet," he cried angrily. "You foolish girl Madge, you'll come home at once."

"No, no, Mr Trethick; no," she sobbed hoa.r.s.ely; and her strength astonished him. "I cannot--dare not go back. You don't know. Oh, G.o.d, forgive me! Let me die!"

"Not know?" cried Geoffrey. "I know quite enough. Look here, you silly girl, I don't want to hurt you, but you make me angry. You shall come home."

"No, no, no," she cried; and she struggled with him till he lifted her from the rocks, threw her down and held her, he panting almost as heavily as she.

"You'll repent all this to-morrow," he said. "If I let you have your way there'll be no repentance. Do you know what you are doing?"

"Yes," she moaned. "I cannot live; I want to die."

"Then, my good girl," cried Geoffrey, "you'll find that you can live, and that it's of no use to want to die. There, there, Madge, my poor la.s.s, I'm speaking like a brute to you, but you have made me angry with your struggles. Come, come, my poor child, let me help you home, and you'll find your mother ready to forgive you and take you to her heart."

"Me? me?" cried the wretched girl. "No, no, never again. Let me--pray let me, dear, dear Mr Trethick, pray let me go."

"Yes," he said sternly, "home."

"No, no; I have no home now. You are cruel to me," she cried, with a fresh struggle.

"Madge," said Geoffrey, after easily mastering her this time, "I want to help you in your trouble, my poor girl. Come, let me help you up. Will you let me take you to Prawle's? It is nearer than the cottage, and, if I ask her, Bessie Prawle will give you shelter at least for the night."

"Oh, no, no, no," moaned the poor girl.

"Yes, my child, yes. There, come, get up. That's well. I tell you, I want to help you. There, you will go with me there."

Poor Madge! she had let him help her to her senses, and as she heard his kindly voice she sank down, clasped his knees, and laid her face against them, sobbing wildly.

"There, come, come," he said, "or we shall be having you ill. There, that's well. There's a path up here farther on, and we shall soon be at the cove."

She made no further resistance, but, leaning heavily upon his arm and moaning piteously the while, she let him half lead, half carry, her up a cliff slope farther from the town than that which they had come down, and the road to which lay by the dark arch of the adit running to the shaft of the old mine on the way to Gwennas.

It was almost a riddle to Geoffrey afterwards how he led the poor girl up to the path and along to Gwennas Cove; but at last, nearly tired out, he descended the steep slope, saw with joy that there was a light in the cottage, and, on knocking, Bessie came to the door with a candle, to stand staring in wonder at the sight which met her eyes.

"Quick, Bessie! for heaven's sake?" cried Geoffrey, "or she will be dead."

"Miss Mullion!" cried Bess, flushing; "and here!"

"Bess Prawle, if you have a woman's heart, take this poor creature in,"

cried Geoffrey, sharply; and, giving him one quick, half-upbraiding look, Bess took his helpless burthen in her arms, and helped to carry her to the old sofa beneath the window-sill.

"What can I do?" cried Geoffrey, as he gazed in the stony face. "Good heavens! Is she dead?"

"Nigh to it, sir," said Bess, in a low, sad voice; but ere she had well finished Geoffrey was running up the path on his way to Carnac.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

AN EVENTFUL NIGHT.

It was four o'clock the next morning before Geoffrey went softly up the gravel path to the cottage, and, weary and sick at heart, let himself in.

His clothes had partly dried upon him during his walk, for he had fetched Dr Rumsey from his house to attend poor Madge, the doctor being very quiet and saying little, Geoffrey thought, after hearing a few explanations.

"She seems to have been very unhappy at home," said Geoffrey, "and they quarrelled with her, I think. She must have been half-mad."

"And did she really try to drown herself?" said the doctor.

"I wouldn't answer the question," replied Geoffrey; "but you, being a doctor, ought to know all--so I tell you, yes. She really did, and-- pray hurry, old fellow: we may be too late."

"I am hurrying all I can, Trethick," said the doctor; "but I must get in with some breath left in my body."

"Yes, of course; but could I do any good if I ran on first?"

"No, not a bit. Bessie Prawle, you say, is with her. Poor la.s.s--poor la.s.s!"

"So I say, with all my soul, doctor. But I would not put it abroad what has happened."

"These affairs tell their own tale, Trethick," said the doctor.

"Yes, yes, of course; but I'd keep it as quiet as I could."

"I am no scandal-monger, Trethick," said the doctor, dryly; and they hurried on, Geoffrey waiting outside, and walking up and down with old Prawle while Mr Rumsey went in.

At the end of a quarter of an hour he came to the door with a paper.

"Prawle," he said, "will you go to my house and give that to my wife?"

"I'll take it," said Geoffrey, eagerly. "I'm going home."

"You will have to bring something back," said the doctor.

"All right: I'll lose no time," he said, cheerily; and he started off, and had to wait while Mrs Rumsey obtained the bottles from the surgery, sending them and a graduated gla.s.s for the doctor to mix himself.

This done, there was the walk back to Gwennas, and then Geoffrey waited for the doctor, who kept coming out for a stroll in the cool starlight, and then returning.