‘If you went out into the world, and had business dealings with other men, I could perhaps understand that you, being so simple and good-minded, might be drawn into the power of bad men, father,’ cried Bertha. ‘But you see none but me; you get no letters; you never go even into Saint Quinians, and yet you are in the power of a stranger!’
The old man shook his head, and continued: ‘It is kind of you, Bertha, to say that I am good-minded; but I am a rogue.’
‘You a rogue—my own, good, dear father!’ exclaimed the girl. ‘No, no! Were a hundred Rodleys to swear on their knees that you were a rogue, I would tell them they lied!’
‘Yet, it is true, lass,’ said the old man sadly; ‘and it is to save me from the consequences of being a rogue, that I ask you to accept Jasper Rodley’s offer of marriage. You have a week in which to decide.’
‘A week! Seven short days!’ cried his daughter, springing from her seat. ‘But there is time. I must go, father, now; don’t keep me, for every minute is of value.’
The old man would have said something; but she hurried from the room, and in a few minutes had started.
Never before had the four miles between home and Saint Quinians seemed so long to Bertha; never before had she trod the familiar road unmindful of the beauties of nature around her, and on this April morning nature was very beautiful; but she had no eyes for the majestic green waves splintering into clouds of spray on the shining rocks, for the white-winged birds riding on the swell, for the sweet-scented herbage, or the blue sky glimmering between the dark branches of the pines. Simply she gazed on the gray-walled, red-roofed old town ahead of her, at the entrance of which some one would be waiting to greet her with open arms and glad smile. And her heart felt a little sinking as she gained the sandy eminence whence she generally got a first sight of his figure coming to meet her, and saw no one! She was later than usual, certainly; but he would have waited for her, she felt assured. He was not under the archway, nor coming up the street from the market-place; nor, when she arrived at the market-place, could she descry him anywhere.
‘Ah, Miss Bertha!’ said one of her market-friends. ‘And how’s the poor young gentleman gettin’ on?’
‘The poor young gentleman!’ repeated Bertha. ‘Why, Mrs Hardingson, who do you mean?’
‘Why, who should I mean but Mr Symonds! Sure-ly you’ve heard of his a-bein’ picked out of the South Fossy, half-dead and’——