She bore the knowledge as cheerfully as she could, working hard to comfort her father, bidding him not trouble about her, but to pay to the uttermost farthing every demand.
“I shall not mind being poor,” she said to him, but she felt that she did not know all, and after long thought and trouble the feeling would always come upon her that she must leave all to fate, for she could not make her future even if she tried.
There was something very suggestive in John Tregenna’s manner to her now. He was never, in the slightest degree, effusive. If any thing, he was rather cold, but at times there was a look in his eye that told her he was waiting his time; and more than once, in the bitterness of her spirit, she had thought of the possibility of his some day asking her again to be his wife.
What should she say if he did?
No! The answer came readily enough, for a pang shot through her as she thought of Geoffrey Trethick, and wondered whether she could forgive him for the wrong he had done. She loved him still. She knew that, and in time—perhaps even now, if he came to her in humbleness and confessed his fault—she could have said forgiving words. Her pride would have forbidden her to listen to him. There was forgiveness.
But that was all. He had been set up in the innermost niche of her heart—an idol whom she had worshipped. From thence he had fallen, and as the idol lay broken she had seen that what she thought sterling gold was but miserable potter’s clay.
Still there was her love for him—the love once roused never to be completely crushed out. It burned still upon the altar before the empty niche. The idol was gone, and a soft vapour rose concealing the emptiness of the place—a place made often more dim and indistinct by her moistened eyes.
If he had only come to beg forgiveness she would not have cared, but he had taken up his stubborn stand, and to the very last time they had met his eyes looked at her with an angry defiance that made her heart beat fast with rage.
It was from no curiosity—there was not even a faint hope of meeting Geoffrey—that she took that path, but a trick of fate, and she started and turned pale, on suddenly raising her eyes, to see that she was only some fifty yards from Prawle’s cottage.
Bessie was standing by the door knitting, and the blood flushed into Rhoda’s cheeks as she saw what was by her side.