“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, God 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.”