“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.