Geoffrey did not speak, but sat with his eyes fixed upon a white-sailed fishing-boat far out upon the blue waters of the bay.
“She would have sacrificed herself for the old man, and I dare say have married Tregenna to save him, if she had not found out all that about poor Madge. I say, Trethick, if you really care for the girl, I think I should see her and make it up.”
“But I don’t care for her,” cried Geoffrey, hotly. “I detest—I hate her.”
“Humph!” said Uncle Paul, taking a fresh cheroot, and passing over the case to Geoffrey; “and this is the fellow who boasted that he had never told a lie?”
Just then there was a step on the gravel path, and Geoffrey shrank back in his place, the old man looking at him mockingly.
“There she is,” he said.
“You knew she was coming,” cried Geoffrey, in a low voice.
“Not I, boy. I knew that, like the good angel she is, she comes to see poor Madge; and if you won’t have her, I think I shall propose for her myself.”
As he spoke the old man got up and went to meet the visitor, taking her hand, drawing it through his arm, and leading her into the summer-house, where she stood, pale as ashes, on seeing it occupied by Geoffrey Trethick.
“This is no doing of mine, Miss Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, sternly, making a movement towards the door.