“How dare I, dog?” he cried; “because she is too good, and pure, and virtuous for such a libertine as you. Out upon you for your worthlessness! I tell you, that girl will turn her back upon you in shame and disgust. You don’t know of what stuff our Cornish women are. I meant to keep this silent if I could. Now the town shall know you for what you are; and as for my poor niece—Heaven forgive her!—I would sooner see her in her coffin than the wife of such a heartless, cold-blooded, mercenary wretch.”
“You will repent all this when you are cool,” cried Geoffrey, whose own rage was driven away in dread lest the old man should fall before him in some fit.
“Out of my sight, dog! Leave this house.”
“Uncle Paul, you are mad. Will you listen to reason?”
“Go!” cried the old man panting, as he threatened the tall, sturdy young fellow with his stick; “go, and present yourself at Penwynn’s, and be shown the door. Out! Go! I cannot breathe the same air with so heartless a villain.”
“If I leave this house,” said Geoffrey, “it is for good. No apologies will bring me back.”
“Apologies,” cried the old man. “Oh, if Heaven would give me back my strength but for one short hour! Scoundrel!” he cried, sinking back in his chair, “if I were but a man instead of such a poor old wreck—”
“Mrs Mullion! quick!” cried Geoffrey, for the old man’s appearance alarmed him; but the poor woman had heard all, and was already at her brother-in-law’s side. “What shall we do?”
“Let him leave the place,” panted the old man. “Don’t let him touch me—don’t let him come near me—let him leave the place. He tortures me. Why did I bring him here?”
“Fate, I suppose,” said Geoffrey, coldly. “I thought she had been too kind. Shall I fetch Rumsey, Mrs Mullion?”