“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.”