He shook his head.

"Miss Penwynn would never have cared for me," he said, quietly; "I soon learned that. These things are a mystery, Trethick. Don't speak of that any more. It hurts me."

Geoffrey nodded.

"Here, sit down," he cried, "I'm tired, bodily and mentally. I feel as if I want my mother-earth--to nurse me. There," he cried, settling himself upon the turf with a grim smile, "sometimes, lately, I've felt as if I should like her to take me in her cold, clayey arms, to sleep never to wake again."

"Don't talk like that, Trethick," said the vicar, appealingly; "life is too real and good to be carelessly thrown away."

"Right, Lee; you are right--quite right. Well, then," he said, "I won't; but look here, man, you want to win the people to your side--here is your opportunity. That poor girl--Margaret Mullion."

"Yes," said the vicar, eagerly. "I wanted to talk to you about her."

"Go on then."

"I dared not commence," he said, "I shrank from beginning; but that was one reason why I longed to talk to you, Trethick."

"Well," said the other, smiling. "I am all attention."

"I wanted--not to reproach you for your sin, Trethick--"

"That's right," said Geoffrey, smiling bitterly.

"Don't treat it with levity, for heaven's sake, Trethick," cried the vicar. "Think of the poor girl--of her life blasted--of the wrecked fame, and of the expiation that might be made by way of atonement."

"Yes," said Geoffrey, "I have thought of all that."

"But an hour ago I was with the broken-hearted mother, who was sobbing at my feet."

"And she asked you to see me?"

"Yes. Begged me to see you and appeal to you, and I said I would. Mr Trethick, in our great Master's name, think of all this--think of the poor girl's fall, and try to make amends. No, no, don't interrupt me till I have done. I tell you I have knelt and prayed, night after night, that your heart might be softened, and that your reckless spirit might be tutored into seeing what was right, and into ceasing from this rebellion against the laws of G.o.d and man."

"Laws of G.o.d and man, eh?" said Geoffrey, mockingly.

"Yes; is it not written that the adulterer and adulteress shall be stoned?"

"Yes," cried Geoffrey, fiercely; "and is it not written--`He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone'? d.a.m.n it all, Lee, I'm sick of this. I've been stoned to death ever since this cursed affair got wind. My mistress--the woman I was to marry--casts the first stone at my devoted head; every one follows suit, and I am battered so that I don't know myself."

"You are mocking," cried the vicar.

"I am not mocking," cried Geoffrey; "but I am half-mad. And you," he cried, pa.s.sionately, "even you, who call yourself my friend, are like the rest. But what have you done for this wretched girl, abased and heart-broken in her sin--what have you done?--you and the better-cla.s.s people? Treated her worse than the beasts that perish. One and all.

And this is Christianity! Shame upon you! shame!"

The vicar looked at him appealingly as Geoffrey went on.

"Have you been to her and spoken words of comfort?"

"No," said the vicar, humbly.

"Have you taken her by the hand, and bidden her go and sin no more?"

"No."

"Have you tried to lead her to a better way--helped her, and guided others to help her in her sore distress?"

The vicar shook his head.

"And yet you say, How am I to win the hearts of these people?"

The vicar wiped the perspiration from his brow as Geoffrey went on.

"Not one soul of all who knew her came to the poor wretch's help. Cast off by the man who robbed her of her fame, I found her maddened with despair. Rejected by her own people, I found her ready to die. Ready to die? I found her dying, for she had said to herself--`My people--my love--the whole world turn their backs upon me. What is there for me to do but die?' What should you say to the man who, finding the poor girl drowning, leaps into the sea, drags her out, and, like some poor beggarly imitation of a Samaritan, takes her to a home, and gives her help and shelter, in defiance of the world? What would you say to such a man as that?" cried Geoffrey.

"That he was a hero," cried the vicar.

"You lie," cried Geoffrey, leaping up in his excitement. "You lie to my face, for you come and tell me I am a villain; that I wrecked the poor girl's happiness; that the world scorns me; and you bid me, for what I have done, to marry the girl and give her the shelter of my name."

"But, Trethick--Geoffrey, did you do this?"

"Did I do this? Yes, but--d.a.m.nation! there was a devil of pride rose up within me, when, on top of my reverses with the mine, I found every one turn against me, and my accusers would not let me speak. Even she who should have been the first to take my part, turned from me and made me more bitter still."

"But, Trethick," cried the vicar, excitedly, "is this true?"

"True," cried Geoffrey, throwing up his arms towards heaven, as he stood there now with the veins starting in his brow, and the pa.s.sion working within him bringing him to such a pitch of excitement, that his companion could see his temples throb. "I scarcely spoke word about it before; but I swear by the G.o.d above us I never felt love, thought love, or dreamed of love but for one woman, and, Heaven help me, she has cast me off."

He turned away and rushed headlong down the hill, but the paroxysm of rage was over, the excitement gone; and he returned directly to throw himself upon the turf.

"Did you ever see such a madman?" he cried, bitterly. "There, go on with your lecture; I'll hear you to the end."

"Trethick," said the vicar, quietly; and Geoffrey turned slowly towards him, to find that his companion was kneeling there with outstretched hands.

"Well?" was the harsh response.

"I asked you to let me be your friend. I ask you again, Geoffrey, as I ask you now, to forgive my doubts."

Geoffrey caught his outstretched hands.

"You believe me?"

"Believe you? Yes, every word. Forgive me for wronging you so cruelly.

I'll try and make amends."

"Not by taking my part--not by speaking about this?"

"Why not?"

"As the cloud came so let it go," cried Geoffrey. "The poor girl is silent about her lover, but the truth will come out of itself. Till then I am content to wait, and let the world have its say."