"Ah! it was an unlucky affair, Geoffrey, my boy, and we all owe you an apology. But look here: go and see her, and make it up."

"I? Go to see Miss Penwynn, and beg her to take me on again--to be her lover, _vice_ that scoun--Tchah! how hot-brained I am. _De mortuis_!

Let him rest. But no, Uncle Paul. That's all over now."

"Don't see it, my boy. She never cared a snap of the fingers for Tregenna."

"But she accepted, and would have married him."

"After she believed you to be a scoundrel, Trethick."

"What right had she to consider me a scoundrel?" cried Geoffrey, hotly.

"My character ought to have been her faith."

"Yes," said the old man, dryly; "but then she had the misfortune to be a woman of sense and not of sentiment. I think she did quite right."

"Then I don't," said Geoffrey, hotly.

"Ah, that's better," said the old man; "it's quite a treat to have a bit of a row, Trethick. It's like going back to old times. I like Rhoda Penwynn better every day; and the way in which she helps the old man is something to be admired, sir. But how he--a clever, sharp fellow-- allowed that Tregenna to involve him as he did, I don't know."

"I suppose he is very poor now," said Geoffrey, who could not conceal his interest.

"Poor? I don't believe he has a penny. The girl's as good or as bad as dest.i.tute."

Geoffrey did not speak, but sat with his eyes fixed upon a white-sailed fishing-boat far out upon the blue waters of the bay.

"She would have sacrificed herself for the old man, and I dare say have married Tregenna to save him, if she had not found out all that about poor Madge. I say, Trethick, if you really care for the girl, I think I should see her and make it up."

"But I don't care for her," cried Geoffrey, hotly. "I detest--I hate her."

"Humph!" said Uncle Paul, taking a fresh cheroot, and pa.s.sing over the case to Geoffrey; "and this is the fellow who boasted that he had never told a lie?"

Just then there was a step on the gravel path, and Geoffrey shrank back in his place, the old man looking at him mockingly.

"There she is," he said.

"You knew she was coming," cried Geoffrey, in a low voice.

"Not I, boy. I knew that, like the good angel she is, she comes to see poor Madge; and if you won't have her, I think I shall propose for her myself."

As he spoke the old man got up and went to meet the visitor, taking her hand, drawing it through his arm, and leading her into the summer-house, where she stood, pale as ashes, on seeing it occupied by Geoffrey Trethick.

"This is no doing of mine, Miss Penwynn," said Geoffrey, sternly, making a movement towards the door.

"Stop a minute, Trethick," said the old man. "I must go in first and find whether Madge can see Miss Penwynn."

They heard his step upon the gravel, and the stones flying; as he stamped down his cane, and then they stood in silence looking in each other's eyes.

Geoffrey was the first to speak, and it was in a bitter, angry voice that he exclaimed,--

"I never thought to have stood face to face with you again; but as we have met, Rhoda Penwynn, ask my pardon."

Rhoda's eyes flashed angrily, but the look was subdued on the instant by one that was full of emotion, and, with half-closed eyes, she joined her hands together, and was about to sink upon her knees, but Geoffrey caught her arms and stopped her.

"No," he said, sharply; "I do not ask you to degrade yourself. Ask my pardon."

"Forgive me, Geoffrey; my love for you had made me mad."

Anger, bitterness, determination, promises never to speak, all were gone like a flash of light as Geoffrey Trethick heard those words; and Rhoda Penwynn was clasped tightly to his breast.

The next moment--minute--hour--it might have been either for aught the occupants of the little look-out knew--they became aware of the presence of Mr Paul, who stood in the open doorway, leaning upon his cane.

"Well, Trethick," he said, mockingly, "when are you going away?"

"Heaven knows," cried Geoffrey. "When I have turned Cornwall upside down, I think."

"Hah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the old man, quietly, as he looked from one to the other. "It's a wonderful thing this love. It's all right, then, now?"

As he spoke he took Rhoda's hand, and patted it. "I'm very glad, my dear," he said, tenderly, "very glad, for he's a good, true fellow, though he has got a devil of a temper of his own. Now go in and see poor Madge, and I wish you could put some of the happiness I can read in those eyes into her poor dark breast."

He kissed her hand as he led her to the house with all the courtly delicacy of a gentleman of the old school; while, unable to believe in the change, Geoffrey walked up and down the little summer-house like a wild beast in a cage:

He was interrupted by the return of Uncle Paul, who took his seat and looked at the young man in a half-smiling, half-contemptuous fashion.

"Laugh away," cried Geoffrey. "I don't mind it a bit."

"I'm not laughing at you, boy. But there, light your cigar again, or take a fresh one. I want to talk to you."

Geoffrey obeyed. He would have done any thing the old man told him then, and they sat smoking in silence, Geoffrey's ears being strained to catch the murmurs of a voice he knew, as it came from an open window, for Rhoda was reading by the invalid's couch.

"There, never mind her now," said the old man. "Look here, do you know that she won't have a penny?"

"I sincerely hope not," said Geoffrey.

"And you've got none," said the old man. "How are you going to manage?"

"Set to work again now that I have something to work for," cried Geoffrey, jumping up and again beginning to pace the summer-house.

"Sit down, stupid, and do husband some of that vitality of yours.

You'll drive me mad if you go on in that wild-beast way."

Geoffrey laughed.

"Ah, that's better," said the old man. "I haven't seen that grin upon your face for months. But now look here, boy, what are you thinking of doing?"

"I don't know," said Geoffrey. "A hundred things. First of all I shall try once more to hunt out the people who bought Wheal Carnac, and see if they will take me on."

"What, to lose their money?"