The Vicar's People

“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 her eyes.

At last he was silent, and waiting her reply.

It was a hard task, but she was now well strung up, and turning to him quietly, she said, —

“Don’t you think, Mr 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?”