“Have you come here to insult me—to tell me this?” cried Rhoda, trying to release her skirt.
“To tell you, not to insult you,” said Madge, clinging the more tightly as she felt Rhoda’s efforts to get free. “It is I who ought to reproach you, who are blind and mistaken; it is you who have come between me and mine.”
“Will you loose my dress?” panted Rhoda, growing excited now; “will you leave me?”
“Not till I have told you all,” cried Madge. “Miss Penwynn, I don’t think I have long to live. I could not tell you a lie.”
“It was mad and foolish to let you be admitted,” cried Rhoda, angrily. “You wicked girl, I thought you had come to me for help, and I would not send you empty away, but you insult me for my forbearance.”
“No,” said Madge, hoarsely. “I came to help you, not to ask for help. I feel free to speak now, and I tell you, Rhoda Penwynn, that you have cast away the truest man who ever saw the light.”
“You wicked girl! Go: leave me,” panted Rhoda. “I will not listen;” but she struggled less hard.
“You shall listen for his sake, if I die in saying it,” panted Madge, as she twisted the stout silk more tightly in her hands, “Mr Trethick never said word of love to me. He never looked even lovingly in my eyes, though, in my pique, I tried to make him, for he loved you too well.”
“It is false—he sends you here to insult me,” panted Rhoda, “and to plead for him. I will have you turned from the house.”
“It is true,” cried Madge; “and you turn from this true, honest gentleman, whose clear, transparent heart you might read at a glance.”