“Suppose I say make it ten thousand down?”
“Take—take it all,” said the old man, piteously; and then, in a low voice, “God help me to do one good act before I die.”
As he spoke he tried to withdraw his hand from Geoffrey’s.
“Take what I have,” he said again, “but wipe away the stain from that poor girl’s life.”
“God bless you, Uncle Paul,” cried Geoffrey, wringing the old man’s hand. “You’re a noble old fellow, but if your money was millions, instead of thousands, not a penny could I touch. Go and see the poor girl, and then you must see another, and come back and tell me that you ask my pardon for what you have said.”
The piteous look, the air of weakness, and the trembling of the hands passed away as if by magic, as Uncle Paul tore his fingers from Geoffrey’s grasp; and, in place of his mingled appeal and disgust, passion flashed from the old man’s eyes.
“Dog—coward—scoundrel!” he cried, shaking his cane threateningly. “Your success at the mine, and your hopes of wedding Rhoda Penwynn, have blinded you to all that is honourable and true, but you shall repent it.”
“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Geoffrey. “Mr Paul!”
“Silence, scoundrel!” he roared. “You shall live to see your mine a wreck; and as to that Rhoda Penwynn—”
“Silence, yourself, old man,” cried Geoffrey, in a rage. “How dare you mention her name?”