The Vicar's People. George Manville Fenn
Tregenna, that it is necessary in such a case for there to exist a mutual feeling of attachment?”
There was something so terribly cold and matter-of-fact in this—something, so to speak, so ungirlish—that it came upon Tregenna like a thunder-clap; but he was equal to the emergency.
“No,” he said eagerly; “certainly not, if the lady has no prior attachment, which you, dear Rhoda, I am sure, have not.”
“No, Mr. Tregenna, I certainly have not,” she replied, quietly.
“It is only necessary,” he exclaimed, “that the man should love. The love of the woman will grow.”
“I do not agree with you, Mr. Tregenna,” she replied, quietly.
“But, my dearest Rhoda—”
“Mr. Tregenna,” she said firmly, “let us understand one another at once. From a feeling of respect for my father’s friend I have heard you to the end, and my respect for you has grown as I have noticed the gentlemanly manner in which you have made known to me your unfortunate attachment.”
“Unfortunate?” he exclaimed, looking at her almost stunned.
“Yes, unfortunate; because I must tell you frankly, Mr. Tregenna, that I cannot give you the slightest hope.”
“My dear Rhoda,” he exclaimed, “you mistake me. I do not ask you to be my wife now, but by-and-by. I only ask for time.”
“Time can make no difference, Mr. Tregenna,” said Rhoda, firmly; “and I have to ask you now, as a gentleman, to accept my refusal of your suit. Once, Mr. Tregenna, for all, I can never become your wife.”
“Then you do love some one else,” he cried, his rage for the moment mastering him.
“Mr. Tregenna,” said Rhoda, coldly, “this is a matter I am not bound to confess to you, but you will please recollect that I told you I had no prior attachment.”
“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed hastily. “I had forgotten. I was mad. Pray forgive me, Rhoda. But listen, pray listen. You cannot think how cruelly this cuts me to the heart.”
“I grieve to cause you pain, Mr. Tregenna,” said Rhoda, “but you must give me credit for the fact that this has been none of my seeking. I must ask you now to let me bring what has been a most painful interview to an end.”
“Painful?” he cried passionately. “It is death to all my hopes. But I cannot accept this as final. Time will work a change.”
“Time will work no change, Mr. Tregenna,” said Rhoda, firmly. “As my father’s friend I have heard you out, and I have tried to reply as kindly as I could.”
Tregenna saw that he would be only injuring his cause by pressing his suit, and he desisted; but there was a curious look in his eye, which made Rhoda shiver, as he exclaimed—
“But the future, Rhoda—Miss Penwynn—dear Miss Penwynn? I am not to take this as a complete dismissal from your presence.”
“Mr. Tregenna,” replied Rhoda, “I have told you plainly that I can never become your wife. If I have been too blunt, or seemed unmaidenly, you must forgive it, and recollect that I have never known a mother’s care, but from a child had to assume a woman’s duties as the mistress of this house. As to the future—you are my father’s friend.”
“And yours,” he cried eagerly.
“My father’s friends are my friends,” said Rhoda, rather coldly. “We will then henceforth consider the words which you have addressed to me to-night as having never been spoken.”
“As you will,” he said hoarsely; “but so long as this heart continues to beat I shall—”
“Mr. Tregenna,” exclaimed Rhoda, rising, and speaking with dignity, “you are hurt and grieved, but I must ask your forbearance in this.”
“Forgive me,” he said humbly, as he bent down his head, and hid the strange look that crossed his face, “it shall be as you wish. We are friends, then. What shall we talk about now,” he added, with an almost imperceptible sneer, “books or flowers?”
“I was about to ask you what you think of our guests,” said Rhoda, trying to be calm and unconcerned, for Tregenna made no effort to leave her.
“Indeed!” he said listlessly, sinking back in his seat as Rhoda took a chair at a short distance. “Do you wish to know?”
“Yes, I should be glad to hear.”
“Well,” he said cynically, “my honest conviction about our new vicar is that he is a conceited, self-sufficient University prig, stuffed full of classics, and no more suited to manage the people of these parts than that rather obtrusive, stubborn-looking gentleman, Trethick, is to make his way amongst our miners. They will both come to grief.”
“Do you think so?”
“Undoubtedly. One will stay three months, and then exchange; the other three weeks, and then probably go abroad.”
“Am I to take that as a prophecy?” said Rhoda, smiling.
“Yes; and mark its fulfilment,” he replied, trying to speak lightly.
“I think differently,” said Rhoda. “As to Mr. Lee, I will hazard no conjecture; but Mr. Trethick seems to me the kind of man who will force his way by sheer energy.”
Tregenna’s eyes glistened as he watched the face before him with jealous suspicion, but it was as placid and emotionless as could be.
“Do you think so?”
“I do indeed,” replied Rhoda.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “He is an interesting-looking youth.”
He felt ready to bite off his own tongue as he uttered this sneer, which escaped him in the bitterness of his spirit, and he awoke to the falseness of the step he had taken by the look of surprise and resentment that appeared in Rhoda’s face.
“Then we are to be friends,” he hastened to say eagerly; “always to be the best of friends?”
“Yes, Mr. Tregenna,” replied Rhoda, coldly; and their tête-à-tête was ended by the entry of the party from the garden.
Chapter Thirteen.
A Visit Underground.
“Well, boy!”
“Well, old gentleman!”
The old gentleman, to wit, Uncle Paul, very yellow, very clean-shaven, and carefully got up, seemed disposed to resent this bluff manner of address; but he swallowed his annoyance with a gulp, thumped his cane on the gravel, and went on—
“Up early, then. The early bird gets the first pick of the worms.”
“Yes, and stands the best chance of being caught by a prowling cat,” said Geoffrey.
“Never mind; get up early and work. Be industrious, and save your money. That’s the way to get on. Take care of the pennies; the pounds will take care of themselves.”
“Nonsense!” replied Geoffrey. “While you are scraping for pennies, you are missing your pounds.”
“Rubbish!” said the old man, sharply. “Get up early, sir, and work. Early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise.”
“Which is duly proved, as Punch says,” laughed Geoffrey, “by the enormous fortunes accumulated, the health enjoyed, and the wisdom displayed by chimney-sweeps, and other people