The Vicar's People. Fenn George Manville

and one of her little feet began to beat the thick Turkey carpet.

      “Don’t be foolish, my dear. He is desperately taken with you, and will make you a capital husband.”

      “Husband?” cried the girl, passionately. “Oh, papa, you cannot mean this. Mr Tregenna is – ”

      “A gentleman, my dear, a great friend of mine – of ours, I should say – of great assistance to me in my business arrangements, and I think the match most suitable – that is, if he is in earnest.”

      “In earnest? Oh, papa?” cried Rhoda, piteously, “have you thought – have you considered Mr Tregenna’s character?”

      “Character?” said Mr Penwynn, turning his head in astonishment.

      “Yes, papa. People – Miss Pavey, Mr Paul, Dr Rumsey – all say – ”

      “Bah! rubbish! stuff! you silly goose! All sorts of things, of course, as they do about every handsome, well-to-do young bachelor. They are a set of whist-playing, gossiping, mischief-making old women, the lot of them, and if Rumsey don’t mind what he’s about he’ll lose what little practice he has. He don’t come here again.”

      “No, papa, you will not visit my hasty words on poor Dr Rumsey,” said Rhoda, with spirit.

      “And as for old Paul,” continued Mr Penwynn, from behind the paper, “he’s a bilious, chronic, ill-tempered, liverless old capsicum, who would rob his own mother of her good name – if she had one.”

      “I believe he is a true gentleman at heart,” said Rhoda, quickly.

      “Then I’d rather not be a gentleman,” said Mr Penwynn, laughing, “or a lady either like Miss Pavey. Poor little red-nosed thing. Pity she wasn’t married twenty years ago. I see: I see: that’s it,” he said, laughing heartily, and taking off and wiping his glasses. “Poor little Martha Pavey, of course! She fell desperately in love with Tregenna, and – and – ha! ha! ha! ha! – he – he did not return the passion. Heavens! what a wicked wretch.”

      Rhoda had risen, and stood with her hand upon the back of her chair, looking very much agitated, but cold and stern, as she watched her father, and waited till his assumed gaiety was at an end.

      “Papa,” she said, at length, in a tone that taught him that he was on the wrong tack, and that he must speak to his daughter upon this important point as if she were a woman, and not as a silly, weak girl, “I do not base my objections to Mr Tregenna upon what people say alone.”

      “Then on what, pray?” he exclaimed, with his glass now falling inside his open vest. “What has he done? Did he once upon a time kiss some pretty fisher-girl, with bare legs? or a nice-looking miner’s daughter? If so, it was very bad taste, but very natural.”

      “Mr Tregenna is a gentleman I could never like,” retorted Rhoda, without condescending to answer this banter, “and I believe he is already engaged to Margaret Mullion.”

      “Engaged? Madge Mullion? Now, my dear Rhoda, what nonsense. Is it likely that if Tregenna were engaged to Madge he would talk as he has several times talked to me? How can you be so absurd?”

      “But he must be, papa,” said Rhoda, quickly.

      “Nonsense! Absurd!”

      “I have myself met them on the cliffs and up An Lowan.”

      “Well, and if you did, it was only a bit of silly flirtation with a very handsome girl. Tregenna could not care for her. Besides, she is a notorious flirt.”

      “I have nothing to say to that, papa,” replied Rhoda, quietly.

      “But I have,” he said, now angrily, “and I really am surprised at you – a girl of so much sense – bringing up some silly flirtation against a man who proposes for your hand. What do you want to marry – an archangel?”

      “No, papa,” said Rhoda, coldly.

      “Now look here, Rhoda,” exclaimed Mr Penwynn, growing angry at the opposition he was encountering, “you have some reason for this.”

      “I have given you my reasons, papa. I do not, and never like Mr Tregenna.”

      “Then,” he cried, passionately striking the table with his fist, “there is some one in the way. Who is it?”

      “Who is it, papa?”

      “Yes; I insist upon knowing who it is. And look here, if you have been entering into an engagement with some beggarly up start, who – ”

      “Papa,” said Rhoda, looking him full in the face, “why do you speak to me like that? You would not if you were not in a passion. You know perfectly well that I keep nothing from you.”

      This was a heavy blow for Mr Penwynn, and it made him wince. It cooled him, and he shook his head, muttered, and ended by exclaiming, —

      “Sit down, Rhoda. What is the use of your being so obstinate and putting me out? You make me say these things. Come, be reasonable. See Mr Tregenna, and let him speak to you.”

      “I would far rather not, papa,” said Rhoda, firmly.

      “But you must. I insist; I beg of you. It is not courteous to him. Come; see him, and hear what he has to say. There, there, I knew you would. Look here, Rhoda, tell me this. I ask it of you as your father. Had your sweet mother been alive, it would have come from her; I would not intrude upon the secrets of your heart. Have you cared, do you care, for any one else?”

      Rhoda smiled sadly.

      “I have no secrets in my heart, papa,” she said, quietly, “and I feel urged to say that I will not answer your question; but I will answer it,” she continued with her dark, clear eyes fixed on his. “No, papa, I never have cared for any one else, neither do I. I might almost say that I never thought of such a thing as marriage.”

      Mr Penwynn uttered a sigh of relief.

      “And you will see Tregenna when he calls. I beg, I implore you to, Rhoda.”

      “I will see him then, papa; but – ”

      “No, no. Let me have no hasty declarations, my dear,” he said, rising, and taking her hand. “Marriages are a mystery. See Mr Tregenna, and take time. Hear what he has to say; give him time too, as well – months, years if you like – and, meanwhile, shut your ears against all paltry scandal.”

      “I will, papa.”

      “And, my darling, if it should come off, you will have won a good husband for yourself, and a valuable friend and counsellor for me.”

      “But – ”

      “No more new, my dear; no more now. We have said enough. Take time, and get cool. Then we shall see.”

      Evidently with the idea of himself getting cool he began to walk slowly and thoughtfully up and down the room, his hands behind him, his feet carefully placed one before the other, heel to toe, as if he were measuring off the carpet, – rather a ridiculous proceeding to a stranger, but his daughter was accustomed to the eccentricity, and now saw nothing absurd in his struggles to retain his balance.

      “Yes,” he said suddenly, after pacing up and down the carpet a few times, “take time, and get cool.”

      As he spoke he left the room, and Rhoda Penwynn seated herself in the window, with her eyes apparently fixed upon the dancing boats at sea, though they saw nothing but the dark, handsome face of John Tregenna, with the slight puckering beneath his eyes, and the thin, close red line of his lips, as he appeared to her last when he took her hand to raise it respectfully to the said thin lips; and, as she, seemed to meet his eyes, she shuddered, and wished that she could change places with the poorest girl upon the cliff.

      “Miss Pavey, ma’am,” said a footman, and she started, for she had not heard him enter; “in the drawing-room, ma’am.”

      Rhoda rose hastily, and tried to smooth away the lines of care, as she hurried into the room to meet her visitor.

      Chapter Two

      The