"H'm! ah! yes! of course! `Clever young engineer--thoroughly
scientific--may be worth your while.' Geoffrey Trethick! Cornishman by
descent, of course."
"It sounds like a Cornishman, papa."
"Yes, my dear, Rundell and Sharp say they have sent me a paragon. Only
another adventurer."
"Poor fellow?" said Rhoda Penwynn, in a low whisper.
"What's that?" said the first speaker, looking up sharply from
his letters to where his daughter sat at the head of his
handsomely-furnished breakfast-table.
"I only said, `Poor fellow!' papa," and the girl flushed slightly as she
met the quick, stern look directed at her.
"And why, pray?"
"Because it seems so sad for a young man to come down here from London,
full of hopefulness and ambition, eager to succeed, and then to find his
hopes wrecked in these wretched mining speculations--just as our unhappy
fishing-boats, and the great ships, are dashed to pieces on our rocky
shored."
Mr Lionel Penwynn, banker of Carnac, took the gold-rimmed double
eye-glass off the bridge of his handsome aquiline nose, leaned back in
his chair, drew himself up, and stared at his daughter.
She was worth it, for it would have been hard to find a brighter or more
animated face in West Cornwall. Her father's handsome features, high
forehead, dark eyes, and well-cut mouth and chin were all there, but
softened, so that where there was eagerness and vigour in the one, the
other was all delicacy and grace, and as Rhoda gazed at the gathering
cloud in her father's face the colour in her cheeks deepened.
"Wretched mining speculations--unhappy boats! They find you this
handsomely-furnished house, carriages and servants, and horses," said
Mr Penwynn, sharply.
"Oh, yes, papa," said the girl; "but sometimes when I know the troubles
of the people here I feel as if I would rather--"
"Live in a cottage, and be poor, and play the fool," exclaimed Mr
Penwynn, angrily. "Yes, of course. Very sweet, and sentimental, and
nice, to talk about, but it won't do in practice. There, don't look
like that," he continued, forcing a smile to hide his annoyance. "Give
me another cup of coffee, my dear."
Rhoda took and filled his cup, and then carried it to him herself,
passing her hand over his forehead, and bending down to kiss it
afterwards, when he caught her in his arms, and kissed her very
affectionately.
"That's better," he said, as his child resumed her seat, "but you make
me angry when you are so foolish, my dear. You don't know the value of
money and position. Position is a great thing, Rhoda, though you don't
appreciate it. You don't understand what it is for a man to have been
twice mayor of the borough, even if it is small."
"Oh, yes, I do, papa; and it is very nice to be able to help others,"
said Rhoda, sadly.
"Yes, yes, of course, my dear; but you give away too much. I would
rather see you fonder of dress and jewellery. People should help
themselves."
"But some are so unfortunate, papa, and--"
"They blame me for it, of course. Now, once for all, Rhoda, you must
not listen to this idle chatter. They come to me and borrow money on
their boats, or nets, or fish, or their expectations. I tell them, and
Mr Tregenna, who draws up the agreements, fully explains to them, the
terms upon which they have the money, which they need not take unless
they like, and then when they fail to pay, the boat or fish, or whatever
it may be, has to be sold. I never took advantage of any of them in my
life. On the contrary," he continued, assuming an ill-used, martyred
air, "I have been a great benefactor to the place, and the good opinion
of the people is really important to a man in my position."
Rhoda looked across at him with rather a piteous face as he went on.
"They would often be unable to make a start if it were not for me; and I
always charge them a very moderate rate of interest. You must not do
it; Rhoda; you must not indeed. I thought you a girl of too strong
sense to listen to all this wretched calumny. You mix too much with the
people, and are too ready to believe ill of me."
"Oh, no, no, papa!" cried the girl, with tears in her eyes, and she rose
once more to go to his side, but he motioned her away.
"There, there: that will do, my dear," he said, forcing a laugh. "You
spoil my breakfast. Give me one of those fried soles. There, of
course, half cold with our talking. Dear me, dear me, what a lot of
grit and sand we foolish people do throw into our daily life."
He smiled across the table, and poor Rhoda smiled back; then her eyes
dropped, and she saw her face so grotesquely reproduced in the
highly-polished silver coffee-pot that she felt ready to burst into a
hysterical fit of laughing; which she checked, however, as her father
chatted on, and read scraps from his other letters, talking pleasantly
and well, as his handsome face brightened, and the sun that shone in
upon the silver and china upon the fine white damask gave a sparkle to
his short, crisp grey hair, though, at the same time, it made plain the
powder upon his cleanly-shaven face.
He had so many pleasant things to say on that sunny, spring morning that
the breakfast-table was soon as bright as the dappled opalescent sea
that sparkled and flashed as it played round the rocky promontory upon
which stood the ruins of Wheal Carnac Mine, or lifted the dark hulls of
the fishing-luggers moored to the buoys, some of which had their dark
cinnamon-hued sails hung out to dry, forming, through the
heavily-curtained window, with its boxes of ferns, a charming bit of
sea, like some carefully-selected specimen of the painter's art.
Rhoda had forgotten the little cloud in the present sunshine, when,
after a preparation of pleasant words, Mr Penwynn suddenly said,--
"Oh! by the way, I did not tell you about Tregenna."
"About Tregenna, papa?" said Rhoda, whose face suddenly lowered.
"Yes, my dear," said Mr Penwynn, putting on his glasses and taking up
the paper, as he shifted his chair sidewise to the table, "he's coming
here this morning. By the way, Rhoda, you are twenty-one, are you not?"
"Yes, papa, of course, but--"
"I told Tregenna you were," he said, quietly, and with an averted face.
"He's thirty-three."
"I don't understand you, papa," said Rhoda, quietly.
"Has Tregenna been attentive to you lately?"
"Oh, yes, papa," said Rhoda, impatiently; "but what do you mean?"
"Of course he would be," said Mr Penwynn, as if to himself. "What's
this alarming earthquake in Peru? Ah! they're always having earthquakes
in Peru; but it's a fine mining country."
"Papa, you are not paying any attention to what I say," cried Rhoda.
"What do you mean about Mr Tregenna?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing, my dear," said Mr Penwynn, re-adjusting the
gold-rimmed glasses upon his nose. "Some nonsense of his. He declares
that he is terribly smitten with you."
"Papa!"
"And that he can never be happy without you."
"Papa!"
"And I told him he had better come and talk to you himself."
"You told him that, papa?" said Rhoda, pushing back her chair.
"To be sure, my dear," said Mr Penwynn, rustling the newspaper in the
most unruffled way. "Of course it is all nonsense."
"Nonsense, papa? You know Mr Tregenna is not a man who talks
nonsense."
"Well, perhaps not, my dear. He certainly is a very clever, sensible
fellow."
"Oh!" ejaculated Rhoda, beneath her breath, as she gazed at the handsome
profile before her.
"You might do worse, my dear," continued Mr Penwynn, skimming the
paper.
"Do I understand you, papa, that you sanction Mr Tregenna's proposal?"
"Sanction?" he said, looking up from the paper for a moment to glance
over his glasses at his child. "Oh, yes, my dear: of course."
"I can not--I will not, see Mr Tregenna," said Rhoda, firmly, and one
of her little feet began to beat the thick Turkey carpet.
"Don't be foolish, my dear. He is desperately taken with you, and will
make you a capital husband."
"Husband?" cried the girl, passionately. "Oh, papa, you cannot mean
this. Mr Tregenna is--"
"A gentleman, my dear, a great friend of mine--of ours, I should say--of
great assistance to me in my business arrangements, and I think the
match most suitable--that is, if he is in earnest."
"In earnest? Oh, papa?" cried Rhoda, piteously, "have you thought--have
you considered Mr Tregenna's character?"
"Character?" said Mr Penwynn, turning his head in astonishment.
"Yes, papa. People--Miss Pavey, Mr Paul, Dr Rumsey--all say--"
"Bah! rubbish! stuff! you silly goose! All sorts of things, of course,
as they do about every handsome, well-to-do young bachelor. They are a
set of whist-playing, gossiping, mischief-making old women, the lot of
them, and if Rumsey don't mind what he's about he'll lose what little
practice he has. He don't come here again."
"No, papa, you will not visit my hasty words on poor Dr Rumsey," said
Rhoda, with spirit.
"And as for old Paul," continued Mr Penwynn, from behind the paper,
"he's a bilious, chronic, ill-tempered, liverless old capsicum, who
would rob his own mother of her good name--if she had one."
"I believe he is a true gentleman at heart," said Rhoda, quickly.
"Then I'd rather not be a gentleman," said Mr Penwynn, laughing, "or a
lady either like Miss Pavey. Poor little red-nosed thing. Pity she
wasn't married twenty years ago. I see: I see: that's it," he said,
laughing heartily, and taking off and wiping his glasses. "Poor little
Martha Pavey, of course! She fell desperately in love with Tregenna,
and--and--ha! ha! ha! ha!--he--he did not return the passion. Heavens!
what a wicked wretch."
Rhoda had risen, and stood with her hand upon the back of her chair,
looking very much agitated, but cold and stern, as she watched her
father, and waited till his assumed gaiety was at an end.
"Papa," she said, at length, in a tone that taught him that he was on
the wrong tack, and that he must speak to his daughter upon this
important point as if she were a woman, and not as a silly, weak girl,
"I do not base my objections to Mr Tregenna upon what people say
alone."
"Then on what, pray?" he exclaimed, with his glass now falling inside
his open vest. "What has he done? Did he once upon a time kiss some
pretty fisher-girl, with bare legs? or a nice-looking miner's daughter?
If so, it was very bad taste, but very natural."
"Mr Tregenna is a gentleman I could never like," retorted Rhoda,
without condescending to answer this banter, "and I believe he is
already engaged to Margaret Mullion."
"Engaged? Madge Mullion? Now, my dear Rhoda, what nonsense. Is it
likely that if Tregenna were engaged to Madge he would talk as he has
several times talked to me? How can you be so absurd?"
"But he must be, papa," said Rhoda, quickly.
"Nonsense! Absurd!"
"I have myself met them on the cliffs and up An Lowan."
"Well, and if you did, it was only a bit of silly flirtation with a very
handsome girl. Tregenna could not care for her. Besides, she is a
notorious flirt."
"I have nothing to say to that, papa," replied Rhoda, quietly.
"But I have," he said, now angrily, "and I really am surprised at you--a
girl of so much sense--bringing up some silly flirtation against a man
who proposes for your hand. What do you want to marry--an archangel?"
"No, papa," said Rhoda, coldly.
"Now look here, Rhoda," exclaimed Mr Penwynn, growing angry at the
opposition he was encountering, "you have some reason for this."
"I have given you my reasons, papa. I do not, and never like Mr
Tregenna."
"Then," he cried, passionately striking the table with his fist, "there
is some one in the way. Who is it?"
"Who is it, papa?"
"Yes; I insist upon knowing who it is. And look here, if you have been
entering into an engagement with some beggarly up start, who--"
"Papa," said Rhoda, looking him full in the face, "why do you speak to
me like that? You would not if you were not in a passion. You know
perfectly well that I keep nothing from you."
This was a heavy blow for Mr Penwynn, and it made him wince. It cooled
him, and he shook his head, muttered, and ended by exclaiming,--
"Sit down, Rhoda. What is the use of your being so obstinate and
putting me out? You make me say these things. Come, be reasonable.
See Mr Tregenna, and let him speak to you."
"I would far rather not, papa," said Rhoda, firmly.
"But you must. I insist; I beg of you. It is not courteous to him.
Come; see him, and hear what he has to say. There, there, I knew you
would. Look here, Rhoda, tell me this. I ask it of you as your father.
Had your sweet mother been alive, it would have come from her; I would
not intrude upon the secrets of your heart. Have you cared, do you
care, for any one else?"
Rhoda smiled sadly.
"I have no secrets in my heart, papa," she said, quietly, "and I feel
urged to say that I will not answer your question; but I will answer
it," she continued with her dark, clear eyes fixed on his. "No, papa, I
never have cared for any one else, neither do I. I might almost say
that I never thought of such a thing as marriage."
Mr Penwynn uttered a sigh of relief.
"And you will see Tregenna when he calls. I beg, I implore you to,
Rhoda."
"I will see him then, papa; but--"
"No, no. Let me have no hasty declarations, my dear," he said, rising,
and taking her hand. "Marriages are a mystery. See Mr Tregenna, and
take time. Hear what he has to say; give him time too, as well--months,
years if you like--and, meanwhile, shut your ears against all paltry
scandal."
"I will, papa."
"And, my darling, if it should come off, you will have won a good
husband for yourself, and a valuable friend and counsellor for me."
"But--"
"No more new, my dear; no more now. We have said enough. Take time,
and get cool. Then we shall see."
Evidently with the idea of himself getting cool he began to walk slowly
and thoughtfully up and down the room, his hands behind him, his feet
carefully placed one before the other, heel to toe, as if he were
measuring off the carpet,--rather a ridiculous proceeding to a stranger,
but his daughter was accustomed to the eccentricity, and now saw nothing
absurd in his struggles to retain his balance.
"Yes," he said suddenly, after pacing up and down the carpet a few
times, "take time, and get cool."
As he spoke he left the room, and Rhoda Penwynn seated herself in the
window, with her eyes apparently fixed upon the dancing boats at sea,
though they saw nothing but the dark, handsome face of John Tregenna,
with the slight puckering beneath his eyes, and the thin, close red line
of his lips, as he appeared to her last when he took her hand to raise
it respectfully to the said thin lips; and, as she, seemed to meet his
eyes, she shuddered, and wished that she could change places with the
poorest girl upon the cliff.
"Miss Pavey, ma'am," said a footman, and she started, for she had not
heard him enter; "in the drawing-room, ma'am."
Rhoda rose hastily, and tried to smooth away the lines of care, as she
hurried into the room to meet her visitor.