"Oh, but I do, Madge," he said, laughing cynically. "Look here, my la.s.s, I rather like you, and we are a pair of miserable unfortunates. I shall have, to marry you, Madge, and force you to like and take care of your little one. Then we shall be able to go back to the cottage, and Mamma Mullion will bless us, and Uncle Paul will make us rich, and we shall all live happily afterwards, like the good people in the story-books."

"Ah! Mr Trethick," she said, softly, "do you think I cannot read your heart better than that? My trouble seems to have made me wiser than I was in my old silly, girlish days. Why do you say such foolish, bitter things? They only give me pain, and I know you do not mean them."

"Oh," he said, laughing, "but I do."

"No, no, no," she said, sadly. "You love Rhoda Penwynn with all your heart, and always will, and I have come upon your love like some cruel blight."

"Curse Rhoda Penwynn!" he cried, savagely. "I love the woman who is to be John Tregenna's wife?"

Madge started from her knees, and took two steps across the room to catch him by the arm.

"What? What is that you said?"

"That there is no such thing as true and honest love upon the face of this wretched earth," he cried. "It is a puzzle and a muddle. For a wretched error I am thrown overhand--"

"Speak what you said before," she said, wildly; "tell me what you said."

"I said that Rhoda Penwynn is about to marry John Tregenna, or John Tregenna is about to marry Rhoda Penwynn, which you like," he said, almost brutally.

"Is--this true?" she said, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Yes," he cried, with the veins standing out in his forehead, as, in spite of the calm, cynical way in which he had schooled himself to bear all this, the pa.s.sion burning at his heart would have vent. "Honesty, integrity, and virtue are to have their reward; long-suffering patience is to win the day; so I say to you again, Madge, you and I had better wed."

"Go--go and leave me," said Madge, hoa.r.s.ely. "Mr Trethick--I want to be alone."

Her looks brought Geoffrey back to his senses, and the ebullition of the pa.s.sion was over.

"No: you are ill. Sit down there. Here, let me get you water--spirit-- something, Madge. My poor girl, I have given you terrible pain by my mad words."

"Mad words? Mr Trethick," she cried, "were not those words true?"

He did not answer.

"They were true. I know they were; and yet she dared to come here and trample upon me in the midst of my wrongs."

"Who? Who came here?" cried Geoffrey.

"Rhoda Penwynn, and accused me cruelly. She to dare to speak to me as she did," cried Madge, whose face seemed quite transformed. "Half fainting as I was, I saw her take the child into her arms, and kiss and fondle it because it was his; and now she would step into my place.

But, sooner than she shall be John Tregenna's wife, I'll stand between them at the altar, and--oh, G.o.d help me! what am I saying?--and I swore to him that I would die sooner than confess his shame."

She threw herself sobbing upon the floor.

"What have I said--what have I said?" she moaned.

"Only the simple truth that I was sure I knew," said Geoffrey, looking at her sadly. "Only words that it might have been kinder if you had spoken before."

"But I could not--I dared not. He made me swear. He said it would be his ruin, Mr Trethick, and he promised that even if it was a year past, if I would be silent and help him, as soon as he had arranged his money matters I should be his wife; and I never said a word until now," sobbed the wretched girl.

"And it was your ruin and mine instead, Madge," said Geoffrey, coldly.

"But there, my girl, I don't accuse you. I felt sure it was so, and I have only waited for the truth to come."

"And you will never forgive me," she cried, piteously.

"Oh, yes, if my forgiveness will do you good, Madge, you have it freely.

But there, I must go. I shall stifle if I stay here longer;" and, without another word, he went out and down amongst the rocks, seeming to take delight in trying to exhaust himself by hurrying over the most rugged parts to calm himself by physical exertion.

Over and over again he vowed that he would go and expose John Tregenna, but he always ended by vowing that he hated Rhoda Penwynn now, and that he would not stir a step even to meet her half-way.

It was past mid-day when he slowly climbed up once more to the cottage, and encountered Bessie at the door nursing the child.

"Well, Bessie," he said, "you look startled. What's the news?"

"Miss Mullion, Mr Trethick!"

"Well, what of her? Not worse?"

"No, Mr Trethick; she has put on her things and gone out I think she has gone up into the town."

"Madge Mullion? Gone up to the town!"

"Yes, sir, unless--unless--oh pray--pray, sir, go and see."

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

JOHN TREGENNA'S VISITOR.

Mr Chynoweth was seated at his desk, with the heavy flap resting upon his head. The cards were dealt out in four packs, turned up so as to be beneath his eye, and it seemed as if some very particular hand was being played out; but Mr Chynoweth's thoughts were wandering, and for quite half-an-hour he did not move a card.

"Curse him!" he said; and then there was another long pause, during which Mr Chynoweth's thoughts still went on wandering.

"Hah!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed at last; "he seems to hold all the trumps, and beats us at every game. I don't know that I like the governor, but he has always been just to me, and paid me like a man, and trusted me.

Yes, he has always trusted me, and I'm growing old in his service, and I can't bear to see things going to the dogs. Yes, he holds all the trumps somehow, and he'll win the rubber."

There was another pause, during which Mr Chynoweth impatiently packed the cards, put them away, and shut down the heavy flap of his desk before taking up his slate, and sadly rubbing it with the piece of sponge attached by a string.

"Win the rubber, that's what he'll do. He's got the governor into a regular hole, and under his thumb, and it seems that he'll marry Miss Rhoda after all. Curse the mines! I wish he'd never touched them. An old fool! Hadn't he had experience enough of what comes to those who dabble in mines? It's wonderful! I shall be throwing my own poor savings down next like poor Rumsey, and--talk of the--Morning, Rumsey."

"Ah, Chynoweth!" said Dr Rumsey, entering the office with his fishing-rod in his hand, and his creel hanging from his shoulder. "Nice morning."

"Beautiful. How many trout?"

"Not a brace," said the doctor, drawing the basket round, and peering in at the hole disconsolately. "One miserable little fellow, that's all.

Chynoweth, I'm regularly out of luck."

"Ah, yes," said Chynoweth; "you always do seem to hold bad hands."