"Well, Mr Paul," said Geoffrey, speaking in his bluff, frank way; "I
said I would never come back to this house till you sent for me, and I
have kept my word."
"Yes, yes," cried the old man, shaking his hand warmly. "I have sent
few you--God bless you, boy. I am glad to see you here again."
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Geoffrey, for poor Mrs Mullion had thrown
her arms round his neck, kissed him, and laid her head upon his
shoulder, sobbing as if her heart would break. "Mrs Mullion," he
continued, putting his arm round her and patting her shoulder, "come,
come, come, be a woman, and let's talk and see if we can't put this
unhappy affair all right."
"Yes, yes," she sobbed, raising her face and clinging to him still; "I
always liked you, Geoffrey Trethick, and you will--you will try. You
have been so good to my poor darling in other ways. We have known every
thing, though we have kept away. Mr Paul here said it would be a
lesson for you both, but I've gone down on my knees every night,
Geoffrey, and prayed for you both, and that your heart might be
softened; and now, my boy, have pity on her poor mother, who prays to
you for justice to her weak, erring child--who prays to you on her
bended knees."
"No, no, no, my poor soul," said Geoffrey, kindly, as he held her up.
"There, there, don't kneel to me. Come, sit down," he cried, kissing
her pleasant, motherly face; and the tears stood in his eyes as he
spoke. "Come, Uncle Paul, let us try if we cannot see daylight out
through this miserable fog."
"Yes, yes," said the old man, who was standing with his head bent.
"Yes, yes," he continued, heartily; "sit down--sit down, my boy. We
will have no more passion. It shall all be calm and quiet. Come,
Geoffrey, you'll smoke one of the old cheroots with me again?"
He smiled in the young man's face as he took out his case.
"Indeed, I will," cried Geoffrey, catching the old man's hand and
retaining it. "Why, Uncle Paul--old fellow, this is like the good old
times."
They sat there hand clasped in hand for some moments, and then the elder
shook Geoffrey's softly and let it go.
"Come," he said, "light up. I want to talk to you."
"Yes, let us light up," said Geoffrey. "Mrs Mullion, may we smoke
before you? I don't want you to go away."
"Oh, no, I will not go," said the poor woman, tenderly, as she hastened
to hand them each a light.
Then they smoked for a few minutes in silence, Mrs Mullion at a sign
from the old man bringing out his handsome silver spirit-stand and
glasses, with hot water and sugar.
"Come, Geoffrey, my boy," cried Uncle Paul; "mix for yourself, and let's
drink to the happy future."
"Yes," said Geoffrey, "we will; but, Uncle Paul, Mrs Mullion, let me
say a few words first. I had a father who gave me all my early
education--all that was not given by my tender, gentle mother. My
father in his lessons to me taught me what his true, sterling character
had been through life. `Jeff, my boy,' he has said to me a thousand
times, `when once you have put your hand to a task, keep to it till you
have mastered it.'"
"Yes, yes, you learned your lesson well," said the old man, nodding his
head approvingly, for Geoffrey had laid his cigar on the edge of the
table, where it burned slowly beneath its pearly ash, and had paused, as
if waiting for him to speak.
"Another thing my father said, too, as many times perhaps, Mr Paul, was
this: `Come rich, Jeff, come poor, strive to be a gentleman through
life, and never let it be said of you that you told a lie.'"
"Good, yes--good advice, Geoffrey Trethick," said the old man, smiling.
"If I had had a son, I would have said the same."
"Then, look here, Mr Paul," cried Geoffrey, excitedly, as he rose up
and towered in his manly strength above the little old yellow nabob. "I
tell you this: I never knowingly yet told a lie, and, God helping me, I
never will!"
There was a strange silence in that room as the young man's distinct,
loud voice ceased for a few moments, and mother and uncle sat eagerly
waiting for his next utterances.
"Now that I have said that," continued Geoffrey, "let me look you both
in the face, and tell you that you have done me a cruel wrong."
"A cruel wrong?" began the old man, hotly.
"Yes," continued Geoffrey, "a cruel wrong. Poor Madge has spoken out at
last; and so will I."
"This is a cruel--"
"Wrong, Mr Paul," said Geoffrey, smiling, and laying his hand upon the
old man's shoulder. "Uncle Paul, I like you,--I always have liked you;
but you were unjust to me when you asked me to bear John Tregenna's
sin."
The old man started back from him, his neck over the back of his chair,
his withered throat stretched, and his lips parted, as he stared up in
Geoffrey's face. Then, as the whole truth seemed to come home to him,
he caught at Geoffrey's hand, and, trembling, and in broken accents,
began to plead for pardon.
"My poor boy--my brave boy--my poor boy!" was all, though, that he could
stammer; and, in his abject misery, he tried to struggle from his chair
upon his knees: but, as soon as Geoffrey realised the truth, he
smilingly held the old man in his place.
"No, no, Uncle Paul," he said. "Stand up, old fellow, and give me your
hand, like the true, chivalrous old gentleman you are, and let us
understand each other once and for all. Come, you forgive me now?"
"Forgive you?" faltered the old man. "My boy, can you forgive me?"
"Your hand too, Mrs Mullion. Do you doubt my word?"
"Oh, no, no!" sobbed the poor woman, sadly, for matters had not turned
out as she wished, and her tears were falling fast, when Geoffrey
exclaimed sharply, and held out his hand,--
"There is some one listening! Quick; there is something wrong."
He ran to the door, and as he flung it open there was a hasty step upon
the gravel, and then a heavy fall.
The next moment he was raising the insensible form of poor Madge from
the path, for she had been unable to resist the temptation to steal up
and have one more glance at the old home before returning to Gwennas,
but her strength was exhausted now; and when, after being carried into
the house and laid upon the sofa, Mrs Mullion threw herself sobbing
upon her knees beside her child, Geoffrey placed his hand upon the old
man's shoulder, and pointed to the pair.
"Is she to stay, Uncle Paul?" he said, softly.
"God forgive her as I do, my boy," the old man replied, in a broken
voice. "I need ask for pardon as well as she."
Geoffrey hesitated about leaving, but, on looking into the room again,
he saw mother and child clasped in each other's arms, and he stole
softly away to where Uncle Paul stood in the doorway.
"Come," said Geoffrey. "I must have another cheroot, Uncle Paul, and
then for home."
"Home?" said the old man, gently; "will you not come here once more?"
"Yes--no--yes--no; I cannot say to-night, but whether I do or no, old
fellow, the good old days shall come again for us. Why, Uncle Paul," he
cried, puffing away at his fresh cheroot which he had lit from that in
the old man's lips, and laying his hands upon his shoulders, "if it were
not too late we'd go into the summer-house and have another row. Hallo!
who's this?"
For hasty steps were heard coming up towards the gate, and a hoarse
voice cried,--
"Trethick--Master Trethick! Pengelly said Master Trethick had come up
here."
"Prawle," cried Geoffrey. "You here! Why, what's wrong?"
"Murder's what's wrong," cried the old man, hoarsely. "Quick, man,
quick! You come along o' me."