“Indeed, I was not!” exclaimed Rhoda, half amused, half indignant at her visitor’s folly.
“Oh, don’t tell me, dear,” said Miss Pavey, shaking her head. “It’s very shocking of you, but I don’t wonder. See how few marriageable gentlemen there are about here.”
“Miss Pavey, pray don’t be so absurd,” exclaimed Rhoda.
“Oh, no, my dear, I will not,” said the visitor, blushing, and then indulging in a peculiar giggle; “but after all, there is a something in wedlock, my dear Rhoda.”
“A something in wedlock?”
“Yes, dear, there is, you know, speaking to one another as confidantes – there is a something in wedlock after all, as you must own.”
“I never think of such a thing,” said Rhoda, laughing, for Miss Pavey’s evident leanings towards the subject under discussion were very droll.
“Of course not, my dear,” said Miss Pavey, seriously. “We none of us ever do; but still there are times when the matter is forced upon us, as in this case; and who knows, my dear, what may happen? You did not see them, I suppose?”
“See? whom?”
“My dear child, how dense you are this morning! The two new-comers, of course. And don’t you think that something ought to be done to warn them about where they are to take apartments?”
“Certainly not,” said Rhoda. “It would be the height of impertinence.”
“Oh, really, I cannot agree with you there, my dear Rhoda. I think it would be grievous to let this young clergyman go to Mullion’s, and really there is not another place in Carnac where a gentleman could lodge. In fact, I would sooner make the offer that he should board at my little home.”
“Board – take apartments at Dinas Vale?”
“Certainly, my dear. He is a clergyman, and we ought to extend some kind of hospitality to him. I regret that my limited income does not permit me to say to him, ‘Take up your home here for the present as a guest.’ Of course I would not open my doors to any one but a clergyman.”
“Of course not,” said Rhoda, absently; and soon after Miss Pavey took her leave, Rhoda going with her to the door, and on re-crossing the hall noticing a card lying upon the serpentine marble table, against whose dark, ruddy surface it stood out clear and white.
At another time it would not have attracted her attention, but now, as if moved by some impulse beyond her control, she went up close and read upon it the name, —
“Geoffrey Trethick.”
Nothing more – no “Mr” and no address.
Chapter Four
The Wrong Place for the Right Man
“Well, Chynoweth,” said Mr Penwynn, entering his office which was used as a branch of the Felsport bank, “any thing fresh?”
Mr Chynoweth, the banker’s manager, generally known as “The Jack of Clubs,” was a little man, dark, and spare, and dry. He was probably fifty, but well preserved, having apparently been bound by nature in vellum, which gave him quite, a legal look, while it made him thick-skinned enough to bear a good many unpleasantries in his daily life. He was rather bald, but very shiny on the crown. His face was cleanly shaved, and he had a habit of bending down his head, and gazing through his shaggy eyebrows at whosoever spoke, and also when he took up his parable himself.
Mr Chynoweth had been busy inside his desk when he heard his principal’s step, and there was plenty of room beneath the broad mahogany flap for him to do what he pleased unseen.
What Mr Chynoweth pleased that morning was to play over again a hand of whist, as near as he could remember – one that had been played at Dr Rumsey’s house the night before, when one of the guests, Mr Paul, had, to use his own words, “picked the game out of the fire,” Mr Chynoweth being, in consequence, five shillings out of pocket.
He kept a pack of cards and a whist guide in this desk, and it was frequently his habit to shuffle, cut, and deal four hands, spread them below the flap, and play them out by himself for practice, the consequence being that he was an adversary to be feared, a partner to be desired, at the snug little parties held at two or three houses in Carnac.
On this particular morning he had just arrived at the point where he felt that he had gone astray, when Mr Penwynn’s step was heard, the mahogany flap was closed, and “The Jack of Clubs” was ready for business.
“Fresh? Well, no. Permewan’s time’s up, and he wants more. Will you give it?”
“No: he has made no effort to pay his interest. Tell Tregenna to foreclose and sell.”
Mr Chynoweth rapidly made an entry upon an ordinary school slate on one side, and then crossed off an entry upon the other, refreshing his memory from it at the same time.
“Dr Rumsey wants an advance of a hundred pounds,” he said next, gazing through his shaggy eyebrows.
“Hang Dr Rumsey! He’s always wanting an advance. What does he say?”
“Pilchard fishery such a failure. Tin so low that he can’t get in his accounts.”
“Humph! What security does he offer?”
“Note of hand.”
“Stuff! What’s the use of his note of hand? Has he nothing else?”
“No,” said Mr Chynoweth. “He says you hold every thing he has.”
“Humph! Yes, suppose I do.”
“Without you’d consider half-a-dozen children good security?”
“Chynoweth, I hate joking over business-matters.”
“Not joking,” said Mr Chynoweth, stolidly. “That’s what he said.”
“Rubbish! Can’t he get some one else to lend his name?”
“Said he had asked every one he could, and it was no use.”
“Confound the fellow! Tut-tut-tut! What’s to be done, Chynoweth?”
“Lend him the money.”
“No, no. There, I’ll let him have fifty.”
“Not half enough. Better let him have it. You’ll be ill, or I shall, one of these days, and if you don’t let him have the money, he might give it us rather strongly.”
“Absurd. He dare not.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Chynoweth. “When one’s on one’s back one is in the doctor’s hands, you know.”
“There: let him have the money, but it must be at higher interest. But stop a moment,” continued Mr Penwynn, as his managing man’s pencil gave its first grate on the slate. “You’re a great friend of Rumsey: why not lend him your name to the note?”
Mr Chynoweth had no buttons to his trousers pockets, but he went through the process of buttoning them, and looked straight now at his employer.
“How long would you keep me here if you found me weak enough to do such a thing as that, Mr Penwynn? No, no,” he said, lowering his head once more, and looking through his eyebrows, “I never lend, and I never become security for any man. I shall put it down that he can have the money.”
Mr Penwynn nodded, and his manager wrote down on one side and marked off on the other.
“Any thing else?”
“Wheal Carnac’s for sale.”
“Well, so it has been for a long time.”
“Yes, but they mean to sell now, I hear; and they say it would be worth any one’s while to buy it.”
“Yes, so I suppose,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling; “but we do not invest in mines, Chynoweth. We shall be happy to keep the account of the company, though, who start. How