“Yes, poor child, she kept your secret, though she could not keep her own. She felt that she might injure you in your prospects.”
“You are arranging it all very nicely in your own mind, Uncle Paul,” said Geoffrey, quietly, for he was touched by the old man’s battle with self.
“Don’t ridicule me, Trethick,” he said, piteously. “I want to make amends for a great wrong. I feel I have been to blame. But be a man, Trethick, and you sha’n’t suffer for it. Look here, I am very old now, and I can’t take my money with me. Come, be reasonable, Trethick, for the poor child’s sake. We’ll forget the past and look at the future.”
“At my expense,” said Geoffrey.
“No, no, my boy. We are both men of the world, and can afford to laugh at what people say. Let’s make both those poor souls happy. There, I’ll sink all differences, and I’ll give her away; I will indeed. I haven’t been in a church these fifteen years, but I’ll come and give her away; and look here, my lad,” he cried, pulling out a slip of paper, “there’s a cheque on the Old Bank for a thousand pounds, payable to you—that’s Madge’s dowry to start with. Now, what do you say?”
“Humph! a thousand, eh?” said Geoffrey, looking admiringly at the speaker.
“Yes, a thousand pounds,” cried the old man.
“Will you make it two?” said Geoffrey.
An angry flush came in the old man’s face, but he looked across Geoffrey, and saw that poor broken Mrs Mullion was peering in at the doorway, and his rage went with his hesitation.
“Yes,” he said, “for her sake I’ll make it two.”