She was ghastly pale, and she gazed from father to lover, hesitating whether she ought not to take Geoffrey’s part against the whole world.
Heart triumphed, and snatching away her hand as she was being led from the room,—
“I’ll never believe it, father,” she cried. “Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey, speak to me. Tell me what is wrong?”
She had sunk upon her knees and caught the prostrate man’s hand in hers, with the effect that he roused himself a little, and slightly turned his head.
“Mine’s drowned,” he muttered. “Don’t worry—that brandy.”
“Yes, yes; but you will soon put that right.”
“Put it right,” he said, thickly. “No—sha’n’t marry her—poor little Madge—I like little Madge—I’m sleepy, now.”
Geoffrey’s hand fell from Rhoda’s heavily upon the thick carpet, and she shrank away from him as if stung. Then her head drooped, her face went down into her hands, and as Mr Penwynn stood watching her, she uttered a moan, rocking herself to and fro.
This lasted but a few minutes, and then a curiously-hard, stern look came over her pale face, as she slowly rose from her knees, and went and placed her hands in those of her father, looking him full in the eyes; and then, with the air of outraged womanhood lending a stern beauty to her face, she let him lead her to his study, where she sat with him, hardly speaking, till she heard it whispered that Mr Trethick had got up, and gone staggering out of the house.
“Where did he go?” said Mr Penwynn, quietly.