“You must be a woman, and get well. That little thing must be your reason; so make a brave fight for it.”
Madge shook her head, and looked at him piteously.
“No,” she said, “I feel that I have not strength now, and as if the greatest kindness I could do to you, Mr Trethick, is to die.”
“Nonsense?” he said, kindly. “You have done me no harm—only brought me to my senses, and saved me from an ugly fate.”
“Ah! Mr Trethick,” she cried, “what bitter words! You do not mean them.”
“Oh, but I do, Madge,” he said, laughing cynically. “Look here, my lass, 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?”