“Humph! we shall have the house full of miners now, I suppose. Ah, well, thank goodness, it isn’t my money that’s going to be sunk.”
Pengelly was admitted, and his first act, on being left alone with Geoffrey, was to catch his hand, and hold it tightly between both of his.
“Why, Pengelly man, what’s the matter?” cried Geoffrey, wondering at his strange manner.
“I’ve heard all, Mr Trethick, every word. I’ve heard all.”
“All? All what?” cried Geoffrey.
“About those wretches—those blind, weak wretches—and my poor injured Bess.”
“Oh!” cried Geoffrey, “I’d forgotten all about it, man. Bah! that’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” cried Pengelly, with the tears standing in his eyes, “nothing? Mr Trethick, sir, if you’d let me be your dog, I’d follow you to the world’s end.”
“Oh, come, come, Pengelly! don’t think any more of that. How is she, though?”
“Better now, sir, and she told me all about it, and how brave you had been. God bless her! she spoke kinder to me than she had ever spoke before.”