“Is she to stay, Uncle Paul?” he said, softly.
“God forgive her as I do, my boy,” the old man replied, in a broken voice. “I need ask for pardon as well as she.”
Geoffrey hesitated about leaving, but, on looking into the room again, he saw mother and child clasped in each other’s arms, and he stole softly away to where Uncle Paul stood in the doorway.
“Come,” said Geoffrey. “I must have another cheroot, Uncle Paul, and then for home.”
“Home?” said the old man, gently; “will you not come here once more?”
“Yes—no—yes—no; I cannot say to-night, but whether I do or no, old fellow, the good old days shall come again for us. Why, Uncle Paul,” he cried, puffing away at his fresh cheroot which he had lit from that in the old man’s lips, and laying his hands upon his shoulders, “if it were not too late we’d go into the summer-house and have another row. Hallo! who’s this?”
For hasty steps were heard coming up towards the gate, and a hoarse voice cried,—
“Trethick—Master Trethick! Pengelly said Master Trethick had come up here.”
“Prawle,” cried Geoffrey. “You here! Why, what’s wrong?”
“Murder’s what’s wrong,” cried the old man, hoarsely. “Quick, man, quick! You come along o’ me.”