The Vicar's People Part 61

"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, G.o.d 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, hoa.r.s.e 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, "G.o.d 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."

"G.o.d bless you, Uncle Paul," cried Geoffrey, wringing the old man's hand. "You're a n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed away as if by magic, as Uncle Paul tore his fingers from Geoffrey's grasp; and, in place of his mingled appeal and disgust, pa.s.sion 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."