“Heaven knows,” cried Geoffrey. “When I have turned Cornwall upside down, I think.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the old man, quietly, as he looked from one to the other. “It’s a wonderful thing this love. It’s all right, then, now?”
As he spoke he took Rhoda’s hand, and patted it. “I’m very glad, my dear,” he said, tenderly, “very glad, for he’s a good, true fellow, though he has got a devil of a temper of his own. Now go in and see poor Madge, and I wish you could put some of the happiness I can read in those eyes into her poor dark breast.”
He kissed her hand as he led her to the house with all the courtly delicacy of a gentleman of the old school; while, unable to believe in the change, Geoffrey walked up and down the little summer-house like a wild beast in a cage:
He was interrupted by the return of Uncle Paul, who took his seat and looked at the young man in a half-smiling, half-contemptuous fashion.
“Laugh away,” cried Geoffrey. “I don’t mind it a bit.”
“I’m not laughing at you, boy. But there, light your cigar again, or take a fresh one. I want to talk to you.”
Geoffrey obeyed. He would have done any thing the old man told him then, and they sat smoking in silence, Geoffrey’s ears being strained to catch the murmurs of a voice he knew, as it came from an open window, for Rhoda was reading by the invalid’s couch.
“There, never mind her now,” said the old man. “Look here, do you know that she won’t have a penny?”
“I sincerely hope not,” said Geoffrey.