The Vicar's People. George Manville Fenn
at the other end of the room, Mr. Penwynn’s face was so fully in the light, that Geoffrey could not help noticing that he changed countenance.
“Master Tregenna’s saying something unpleasant about business,” thought Geoffrey. “The glorious uncertainty of the law is, perhaps, having mine host upon the hip.”
“Do you like music, Mr. Trethick?” said a voice at his side, and he found that Rhoda Penwynn had left the vicar and approached unobserved.
“You wicked young puss,” he said to himself. “You’ve come to make a buffer of me. That’s it, is it? Papa is turning angry about you, eh? and you fear a collision? Well, you shall find me full of spring.” Then, smiling—“Yes, I love music,” he said aloud. “I am a worshipper at a distance—rather a mild one, I should say. You will sing something, I hope?”
Rhoda crossed readily to the piano, and sang a couple of ballads very sweetly, her voice being rich and resonant, and then it seemed to Geoffrey, who was turning over the music for her, that, in spite of a very brave effort to appear unconcerned, she was growing extremely nervous, for, instead of leaving the piano, she began to pick up piece after piece of music, glancing sharply from her father to Tregenna, and then at the vicar, who was placidly examining an album of scraps.
“I wish you sang, Mr. Trethick,” she said at last.
“Do you?” he said, looking down at her troubled face.
“Yes. Do you? Will you?”
“Nature has not been very generous to me in the matter of voice. At least she has given me plenty, but the quality is coarse. I’ll try something though—with you.”
“A duet? Oh, yes!” she said eagerly. “What have we? Could you—do you like Italian?”
“Yes,” he said quietly, as he noticed how agitated she was growing, and how bravely she fought to keep it down, and preserve her composure towards her father’s guests. “Shall we try that Trovatore piece that you just turned over—Ai nostri monti.”
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, and there was a silence in the room as the rich harmony of the well-blended voices floated out upon the night air. For, in spite of his modest declaration, Geoffrey Trethick possessed a full deep voice, and, being a good musician, he thoroughly enjoyed his task.
“Rather hard on a baritone to set him to sing tenor, Miss Penwynn,” he said, laughing. “But I say, what a delicious voice you have!”
Rhoda glanced at him sharply, but the expression of admiration she could see was perfectly sincere, and she knew at once that he was not a man likely to flatter.
That duet gave Rhoda Penwynn time to recover herself, and she was perfectly calm by the end—a calm she managed to maintain until the guests were about to depart.
“By the way, Mr. Lee,” said the banker, “have you obtained apartments? It is a disgrace to our place that the vicarage is not rebuilt.”
“Oh, yes!” said the vicar, mildly, “I have obtained rooms.”
“At Mrs. Mullion’s, I presume?”
“No,” said the vicar, turning his glasses for a moment on Geoffrey. “Mr. Trethick has taken those.”
“Indeed! Then you are at the hotel?”
“No; I have made arrangements to board with a Miss Pavey, at a very pleasant cottage—Dinas Vale. Good-night!”
“I’ll walk as far as your rooms with you, Mr. Trethick,” said Tregenna, as they stepped out into the road. “Have a cigar?”
They lit up, and strolled along the up-and-down ill-paved way, Tregenna evidently laying himself out to make friends with the new arrival, who made himself frank and pleasant, but, somehow, not cordial.
“Drop in and have a chat with me, Mr. Trethick,” said Tregenna, at parting. “I may be able to further your views. Any one will show you my place.”
“Know it,” said Geoffrey. “Saw the brass plate on the gate.”
“Yes,” laughed Tregenna, “one has to put out a sign. But come and see me; perhaps I can help you.”
“I don’t like after-dinner promises,” laughed Geoffrey. “They are rash. I may put you to the test.”
“Rash? Oh, no! We are not like that in the west. I shall be only too glad to help you to the best of my power. Good-night!”
“Good-night!”
Geoffrey remained at the garden gate thinking that his companion had spoken a great deal more loudly than was necessary. Then, as he had not finished his cigar, he resolved to smoke it out, and enjoy for a few minutes the cool night air.
“I don’t like to be hasty,” he thought, “but I scarcely think that I shall trust you, Mr. Tregenna, beyond the reach of my hand. If I am not very much mistaken your civility has a meaning, and you are a confounded scoundrel. If not, I beg your pardon.”
“Yes,” he said, half aloud, after smoking on for a few minutes and thinking deeply, “it was your voice that I heard down in that old building. Now I wonder who was the girl?”
As the thought crossed his mind, the faint sound of a closing casement smote his ear, when, like a flash, the light came.
“By George! of course,” he said. “The other voice was familiar, too. It was our pretty little maiden here. Hang it all! I’ve tumbled into the thick of a mystery, and if I don’t take care I shall be in the middle of the mess.”
“Hah?” he exclaimed, as he tapped at the door, “As I said before, it’s no business of mine, and her father knows best; but this love-making is the greatest nuisance under the sun, or I ought to say the moon.”
Chapter Twelve.
Cold Water.
Mr. John Tregenna had lost no time upon leaving the dining-room, but joined Rhoda, who sat looking rather pale, but prepared for the attack.
She knew that it must come, and, in spite of a feeling of dread, she felt almost glad, when, seating himself beside her, he began, with plenty of calm, quiet assurance, to plead his cause, she listening patiently the while to all he had to say.
Every word he uttered was to Rhoda as so much trouble over, and she would not look nor speak until he had finished, being determined to hear all he had to say, and to let him say it without hinderance, so that the matter should be ended once and for all.
He was too cunning a man—too well versed in human nature—to attempt heroics with such a girl as Rhoda, and there was no enraptured catching of hands, no falling upon one knee, no passionate adjuration. Tregenna began by telling her that he had her father’s consent, and that he only wanted hers. That for years past he had loved her with a patient, growing love, which now permeated—he said permeated—his very being, and that it was his only desire that she should become his wife.
As he spoke he held ready in one hand a very handsome diamond hoop ring, which was to be the token of their betrothal, for he felt no doubt upon the subject. Rhoda might make a little demur, and be a bit distant and coquettish, but he felt sure that she had been well schooled by her father, and she was just the woman to become his wife. She attracted him with her handsome face and fine svelte figure; she would look well at the head of his table; she would give him position; and, what was more, her father was very wealthy, and that wealth must finally come to him.
Rhoda caught a glimpse of the ring in his hand, for as he fidgeted it about a ray flashed from it betraying its presence, and she knew what it was, for her lips tightened, and a hard look came into