“I do not understand you,” said the vicar, sadly.
“Don’t understand? You know you loved Rhoda Penwynn.”
“I did love her—very dearly,” said the vicar, simply.
“And not now?”
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.”