"As you say, Uncle Paul," said Geoffrey, probing the old man to the quick, "you cannot live much longer. You have had your spell of life, and you will give that by deed of gift at once to save poor Madge's fame, and the rest when you die?" The old man nodded. "Suppose I say make it ten thousand down?" "Take--take it all," said the old man, piteously; and then, in a low voice, "God help me to do one good act before I die." As he spoke he tried to withdraw his hand from Geoffrey's. "Take what I have," he said again, "but wipe away the stain from that poor girl's life." "God bless you, Uncle Paul," cried Geoffrey, wringing the old man's hand. "You're a noble old fellow, but if your money was millions, instead of thousands, not a penny could I touch. Go and see the poor girl, and then you must see another, and come back and tell me that you ask my pardon for what you have said." The piteous look, the air of weakness, and the trembling of the hands passed away as if by magic, as Uncle Paul tore his fingers from Geoffrey's grasp; and, in place of his mingled appeal and disgust, passion flashed from the old man's eyes. "Dog--coward--scoundrel!" he cried, shaking his cane threateningly. "Your success at the mine, and your hopes of wedding Rhoda Penwynn, have blinded you to all that is honourable and true, but you shall repent it." "Oh, hush, hush!" cried Geoffrey. "Mr Paul!" "Silence, scoundrel!" he roared. "You shall live to see your mine a wreck; and as to that Rhoda Penwynn--" "Silence, yourself, old man," cried Geoffrey, in a rage. "How dare you mention her name?" "How dare I, dog?" he cried; "because she is too good, and pure, and virtuous for such a libertine as you. Out upon you for your worthlessness! I tell you, that girl will turn her back upon you in shame and disgust. You don't know of what stuff our Cornish women are. I meant to keep this silent if I could. Now the town shall know you for what you are; and as for my poor niece--Heaven forgive her!--I would sooner see her in her coffin than the wife of such a heartless, cold-blooded, mercenary wretch." "You will repent all this when you are cool," cried Geoffrey, whose own rage was driven away in dread lest the old man should fall before him in some fit. "Out of my sight, dog! Leave this house." "Uncle Paul, you are mad. Will you listen to reason?" "Go!" cried the old man panting, as he threatened the tall, sturdy young fellow with his stick; "go, and present yourself at Penwynn's, and be shown the door. Out! Go! I cannot breathe the same air with so heartless a villain." "If I leave this house," said Geoffrey, "it is for good. No apologies will bring me back." "Apologies," cried the old man. "Oh, if Heaven would give me back my strength but for one short hour! Scoundrel!" he cried, sinking back in his chair, "if I were but a man instead of such a poor old wreck--"