George Meredith
Rhoda Fleming. Complete
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Dahlia; “not going to leave the dear old farm, and our lane, and the old oaks, leading up to the heath. Are they? Father will miss it. Rhoda will mourn so. No place will ever be like that to them. I love it better than any place on earth.”
“That’s queer,” said Anthony. “Why do you refuse to go, or won’t let your husband take you down there; if you like the place that raving-like? But ‘queer’’s your motto. The truth is this—you just listen. Hear me—hush! I won’t speak in a bawl. You’re a reasonable being, and you don’t—that’s to say, you do understand, the old farmer feels it uncomfortable—”
“But I never helped him when I was there,” said Dahlia, suddenly shrinking in a perceptible tremble of acute divination. “I was no use. I never helped him—not at all. I was no—no use!”
Anthony blinked his eyes, not knowing how it was that he had thus been thrown out of his direct road. He began again, in his circumlocutory delicacy: “Never mind; help or no help, what th’ old farmer feels is—and quite nat’ral. There’s sensations as a father, and sensations as a man; and what th’ old farmer feels is—”
“But Rhoda has always been more to father than I have,” Dahlia cried, now stretching forward with desperate courage to confront her uncle, distract his speech, and avert the saying of the horrible thing she dreaded. “Rhoda was everything to him. Mother perhaps took to me—my mother!”
The line of her long underlie drawn sharp to check her tears, stopped her speaking.
“All very well about Rhoda,” said Anthony. “She’s everything to me, too.”
“Every—everybody loves her!” Dahlia took him up.
“Let ‘em, so long as they don’t do no harm to her,” was Anthony’s remark. There was an idea in this that he had said, and the light of it led off his fancy. It was some time before he returned to the attack.
“Neighbours gossip a good deal. O’ course you know that.”
“I never listen to them,” said Dahlia, who now felt bare at any instant for the stab she saw coming.
“No, not in London; but country’s different, and a man hearing of his child ‘it’s very odd!’ and ‘keepin’ away like that!’ and ‘what’s become of her?’ and that sort of thing, he gets upset.”
Dahlia swallowed in her throat, as in perfect quietude of spirit, and pretended to see no meaning for herself in Anthony’s words.
But she said, inadvertently, “Dear father!” and it gave Anthony his opening.
“There it is. No doubt you’re fond of him. You’re fond o’ th’ old farmer, who’s your father. Then, why not make a entry into the village, and show ‘em? I loves my father, says you. I can or I can’t bring my husband, you seems to say; but I’m come to see my old father. Will you go down to-morrow wi’ me?”
“Oh!” Dahlia recoiled and abandoned all defence in a moan: “I can’t—I can’t!”
“There,” said Anthony, “you can’t. You confess you can’t; and there’s reason for what’s in your father’s mind. And he hearin’ neighbours’ gossip, and it comes to him by a sort of extractin’—‘Where’s her husband?’ bein’ the question; and ‘She ain’t got one,’ the answer—it’s nat’ral for him to leave the place. I never can tell him how you went off, or who’s the man, lucky or not. You went off sudden, on a morning, after kissin’ me at breakfast; and no more Dahly visible. And he suspects—he more’n suspects. Farm’s up for sale. Th’ old farmer thinks it’s unbrotherly of me not to go and buy, and I can’t make him see I don’t understand land: it’s about like changeing sovereigns for lumps o’ clay, in my notions; and that ain’t my taste. Long and the short is—people down there at Wrexby and all round say you ain’t married. He ain’t got a answer for ‘em; it’s cruel to hear, and crueller to think: he’s got no answer, poor old farmer! and he’s obliged to go inter exile. Farm’s up for sale.”
Anthony thumped with his foot conclusively.
“Say I’m not married!” said Dahlia, and a bad colour flushed her countenance. “They say—I’m not married. I am—I am. It’s false. It’s cruel of father to listen to them—wicked people! base—base people! I am married, uncle. Tell father so, and don’t let him sell the farm. Tell him, I said I was married. I am. I’m respected. I have only a little trouble, and I’m sure others have too. We all have. Tell father not to leave. It breaks my heart. Oh! uncle, tell him that from me.”
Dahlia gathered her shawl close, and set an irresolute hand upon her bonnet strings, that moved as if it had forgotten its purpose. She could say no more. She could only watch her uncle’s face, to mark the effect of what she had said.
Anthony nodded at vacancy. His eyebrows were up, and did not descend from their elevation. “You see, your father wants assurances; he wants facts. They’re easy to give, if give ‘em you can. Ah, there’s a weddin’ ring on your finger, sure enough. Plain gold—and, Lord! how bony your fingers ha’ got, Dahly. If you are a sinner, you’re a bony one now, and that don’t seem so bad to me. I don’t accuse you, my dear. Perhaps I’d like to see your husband’s banker’s book. But what your father hears, is—You’ve gone wrong.”
Dahlia smiled in a consummate simulation of scorn.
“And your father thinks that’s true.”
She smiled with an equal simulation of saddest pity.
“And he says this: ‘Proof,’ he says, ‘proof’s what I want, that she’s an honest woman.’ He asks for you to clear yourself. He says, ‘It’s hard for an old man’—these are his words ‘it’s hard for an old man to hear his daughter called…’”
Anthony smacked his hand tight on his open mouth.
He was guiltless of any intended cruelty, and Dahlia’s first impulse when she had got her breath, was to soothe him. She took his hand. “Dear father! poor father! Dear, dear father!” she kept saying.
“Rhoda don’t think it,” Anthony assured her.
“No?” and Dahlia’s bosom exulted up to higher pain.
“Rhoda declares you are married. To hear that gal fight for you—there’s ne’er a one in Wrexby dares so much as hint a word within a mile of her.”
“My Rhoda! my sister!” Dahlia gasped, and the tears came pouring down her face.
In vain Anthony lifted her tea-cup and the muffin-plate to her for consolation. His hushings and soothings were louder than her weeping. Incapable of resisting such a protest of innocence, he said, “And I don’t think it, neither.”
She pressed his fingers, and begged him to pay the people of the shop: at which sign of her being probably moneyless, Anthony could not help mumbling, “Though I can’t make out about your husband, and why he lets ye be cropped—that he can’t help, may be—but lets ye go about dressed like a mill’ner gal, and not afford cabs. Is he very poor?”
She bowed her head.
“Poor?”
“He is very poor.”
“Is he, or ain’t he, a gentleman?”
Dahlia seemed torn by a new anguish.
“I see,” said Anthony. “He goes and persuades you he is, and you’ve been and found out he’s nothin’ o’ the sort—eh? That’d be a way of accounting for your queerness, more or less. Was it that fellow that Wicklow gal saw ye with?”
Dahlia signified vehemently, “No.”
“Then, I’ve guessed right; he turns out not to be a gentleman—eh, Dahly? Go on noddin’, if ye like. Never mind the shop people; we’re well-conducted, and that’s all they care for. I say, Dahly, he ain’t a gentleman? You speak out or nod your head. You thought you’d caught a gentleman and ‘taint the case. Gentlemen ain’t caught so easy. They all of ‘em goes to school, and that makes ‘em knowin’. Come; he ain’t a gentleman?”
Dahlia’s voice issued, from a terrible inward conflict, like a voice of the tombs. “No,” she said.
“Then, will you show him to me? Let me have a look at him.”
Pushed from misery to misery, she struggled within herself again, and again in the same hollow manner said, “Yes.”
“You will?”
“Yes.”
“Seein’s believin’. If you’ll show him to me, or me to him…”
“Oh! don’t talk of it.” Dahlia struck her fingers in a tight lock.
“I only want to set eye on him, my gal. Whereabouts does he live?”
“Down—down a great—very great way in the West.”
Anthony stared.
She replied to the look: “In the West of London—a long way down.”
“That’s where he is?”
“Yes.”
“I thought—hum!” went the old man suspiciously. “When am I to see him? Some day?”
“Yes; some day.”
“Didn’t I say, Sunday?”
“Next Sunday?”—Dahlia gave a muffled cry.
“Yes, next Sunday. Day after to-morrow. And I’ll write off to-morrow, and ease th’ old farmer’s heart, and Rhoda ‘ll be proud for you. She don’t care about gentleman—or no gentleman. More do th’ old farmer. It’s let us, live and die respectable, and not disgrace father nor mother. Old-fashioned’s best-fashioned about them things, I think. Come, you bring him—your husband—to me on Sunday, if you object to my callin’ on you. Make up your mind to.”
“Not next Sunday—the Sunday after,” Dahlia pleaded. “He is not here now.”
“Where is he?” Anthony asked.
“He’s in the country.”
Anthony pounced on her, as he had done previously.
“You said to me he was abroad.”
“In the country—abroad. Not—not in the great cities. I could not make known your wishes to him.”
She gave this cool explanation with her eyelids fluttering timorously, and rose as she uttered it, but with faint and ill-supporting limbs, for during the past hour she had gone through the sharpest trial of her life, and had decided for the course of her life. Anthony was witless thereof, and was mystified by his incapability of perceiving where and how he had been deluded; but he had eaten all the muffin on the plate, and her rising proclaimed that she had no intention of making him call for another; which was satisfactory. He drank off her cup of tea at a gulp.
The waitress named the sum he was to pay, and receiving a meditative look in return for her air of expectancy after the amount had been laid on the table, at once accelerated their passage from the shop by opening the door.
“If ever I did give pennies, I’d give ‘em to you,” said Anthony, when he was out of her hearing. “Women beat men in guessing at a man by his face. Says she—you’re honourable—you’re legal—but prodigal ain’t your portion. That’s what she says, without the words, unless she’s a reader. Now, then, Dahly, my lass, you take my arm. Buckle to. We’ll to the West. Don’t th’ old farmer pronounce like ‘toe’ the West? We’ll ‘toe’ the West. I can afford to laugh at them big houses up there.
“Where’s the foundation, if one of them’s sound? Why, in the City.
“I’ll take you by our governor’s house. You know—you know—don’t ye, Dahly, know we been suspecting his nephew? ‘cause we saw him with you at the theatre.
“I didn’t suspect. I knew he found you there by chance, somehow. And I noticed your dress there. No wonder your husband’s poor. He wanted to make you cut a figure as one of the handsomes, and that’s as ruinous as cabs—ha! ha!”
Anthony laughed, but did not reveal what had struck him.
“Sir William Blancove’s house is a first-rater. I’ve been in it. He lives in the library. All the other rooms—enter ‘em, and if ‘taint like a sort of, a social sepulchre! Dashed if he can get his son to live with him; though they’re friends, and his son’ll get all the money, and go into Parliament, and cut a shine, never fear.
“By the way, I’ve seen Robert, too. He called on me at the Bank. Asked after you.
“‘Seen her?’ says he.
“‘No,’ I says.
“‘Ever see Mr. Edward Blancove here?’ he says.
“I told him, I’d heard say, Mr. Edward was Continentalling. And then Robert goes off. His opinion is you ain’t in England; ‘cause a policeman he spoke to can’t find you nowhere.
“‘Come,” says I, ‘let’s keep our detectives to catch thieves, and not go distracting of ‘em about a parcel o’ women.’
“He’s awfully down about Rhoda. She might do worse than take him. I don’t think he’s got a ounce of a chance now Religion’s set in, though he’s the mildest big ‘un I ever come across. I forgot to haul him over about what he ‘d got to say about Mr. Edward. I did remark, I thought—ain’t I right?—Mr. Algernon’s not the man?—eh? How come you in the theatre with him?”
Dahlia spoke huskily. “He saw me. He had seen me at home. It was an accident.”
“Exactly how I put it to Robert. And he agreed with me. There’s sense in that young man. Your husband wouldn’t let you come to us there—eh? because he…why was that?”
Dahlia had it on her lips to say it “Because he was poorer than I thought;” but in the intensity of her torment, the wretchedness of this lie, revolted her. “Oh! for God’s sake, uncle, give me peace about that.”
The old man murmured: “Ay, ay;” and thought it natural that she should shun an allusion to the circumstance.
They crossed one of the bridges, and Dahlia stopped and said: “Kiss me, uncle.”
“I ain’t ashamed,” said Anthony.
This being over, she insisted on his not accompanying her farther.
Anthony made her pledge her word of honour as a married woman, to bring her husband to the identical spot where they stood at three o’clock in the afternoon of Sunday week. She promised it.
“I’ll write home to th’ old farmer—a penny,” said Anthony, showing that he had considered the outlay and was prepared for it.
“And uncle,” she stipulated in turn, “they are not to see me yet. Very soon; but not yet. Be true to me, and come alone, or it will be your fault—I shall not appear. Now, mind. And beg them not to leave the farm. It will kill father. Can you not,” she said, in the faded sweetness of her speech, “could you not buy it, and let father be your tenant, uncle? He would pay you regularly.”
Anthony turned a rough shoulder on her.
“Good-bye, Dahly. You be a good girl, and all ‘ll go right. Old farmer talks about praying. If he didn’t make it look so dark to a chap, I’d be ready to fancy something in that. You try it. You try, Dahly. Say a bit of a prayer to-night.”
“I pray every night,” Dahlia answered.
Her look of meek despair was hauntingly sad with Anthony on his way home.
He tracked her sorrowfulness to the want of money; and another of his terrific vague struggles with the money-demon set in.
CHAPTER XXVI
Sir William Blancove did business at his Bank till the hour of three in the afternoon, when his carriage conveyed him to a mews near the park of Fashion, where he mounted horse and obeyed the bidding of his doctor for a space, by cantering in a pleasant, portly, cock-horsey style, up and down the Row.
It was the day of the great race on Epsom Downs, and elderly gentlemen pricked by the doctors were in the ascendant in all London congregations on horseback.
Like Achilles (if the bilious Shade will permit the impudent comparison), they dragged their enemy, Gout, at their horses’ heels for a term, and vengeance being accomplished went to their dinners and revived him.
Sir William was disturbed by his son’s absence from England. A youth to whom a baronetcy and wealth are to be bequeathed is an important organism; and Sir William, though his faith reposed in his son, was averse to his inexplicably prolonged residence in the French metropolis, which, a school for many things, is not a school for the study of our Parliamentary system, and still less for that connubial career Sir William wished him to commence.
Edward’s delightful cynical wit—the worldly man’s profundity—and his apt quotations of the wit of others, would have continued to exercise their charm, if Sir William had not wanted to have him on the spot that he might answer certain questions pertinaciously put by Mama Gosling on behalf of her daughter.
“There is no engagement,” Edward wrote; “let the maiden wait and discern her choice: let her ripen;” and he quoted Horace up to a point.
Nor could his father help smiling and completing the lines. He laughed, too, as he read the jog of a verse: “Were I to marry the Gosling, pray, which would be the goose?”
He laughed, but with a shade of disappointment in the fancy that he perceived a wearing away of the robust mental energy which had characterized his son: and Sir William knew the danger of wit, and how the sharp blade cuts the shoots of the sapling. He had thought that Edward was veritable tough oak, and had hitherto encouraged his light play with the weapon.
It became a question with him now, whether Wit and Ambition may dwell together harmoniously in a young man: whether they will not give such manifestation of their social habits as two robins shut in a cage will do: of which pretty birds one will presently be discovered with a slightly ruffled bosom amid the feathers of his defunct associate.
Thus painfully revolving matters of fact and feeling, Sir William cantered, and, like a cropped billow blown against by the wind, drew up in front of Mrs. Lovell, and entered into conversation with that lady, for the fine needles of whose brain he had the perfect deference of an experienced senior. She, however, did not give him comfort. She informed him that something was wrong with Edward; she could not tell what. She spoke of him languidly, as if his letters contained wearisome trifling.
“He strains to be Frenchy,” she said. “It may be a good compliment for them to receive: it’s a bad one for him to pay.”
“Alcibiades is not the best of models,” murmured Sir William. “He doesn’t mention Miss Gosling.”
“Oh dear, yes. I have a French acrostic on her name.”
“An acrostic!”
A more contemptible form of mental exercise was not to be found, according to Sir William’s judgement.
“An acrostic!” he made it guttural. “Well!”
“He writes word that he hears Moliere every other night. That can’t harm him. His reading is principally Memoirs, which I think I have heard you call ‘The backstairs of history.’ We are dull here, and I should not imagine it to be a healthy place to dwell in, if the absence of friends and the presence of sunshine conspire to dullness. Algy, of course, is deep in accounts to-day?”
Sir William remarked that he had not seen the young man at the office, and had not looked for him; but the mention of Algernon brought something to his mind, and he said,—
“I hear he is continually sending messengers from the office to you during the day. You rule him with a rod of iron. Make him discontinue that practice. I hear that he despatched our old porter to you yesterday with a letter marked ‘urgent.’”
Mrs. Lovell laughed pleadingly for Algernon.
“No; he shall not do it again. It occurred yesterday, and on no other occasion that I am aware of. He presumes that I am as excited as he is himself about the race—”
The lady bowed to a passing cavalier; a smarting blush dyed her face.
“He bets, does he!” said Sir William. “A young man, whose income, at the extreme limit, is two hundred pounds a year.”
“May not the smallness of the amount in some degree account for the betting?” she asked whimsically. “You know, I bet a little—just a little. If I have but a small sum, I already regard it as a stake; I am tempted to bid it fly.”
“In his case, such conduct puts him on the high road to rascality,” said Sir William severely. “He is doing no good.”
“Then the squire is answerable for such conduct, I think.”
“You presume to say that he is so because he allows his son very little money to squander? How many young men have to contain their expenses within two hundred pounds a year!”
“Not sons of squires and nephews of baronets,” said Mrs. Lovell. “Adieu! I think I see a carrier-pigeon flying overhead, and, as you may suppose, I am all anxiety.”
Sir William nodded to her. He disliked certain of her ways; but they were transparent bits of audacity and restlessness pertaining to a youthful widow, full of natural dash; and she was so sweetly mistress of herself in all she did, that he never supposed her to be needing caution against excesses. Old gentlemen have their pets, and Mrs. Lovell was a pet of Sir William’s.
She was on the present occasion quite mistress of herself, though the stake was large. She was mistress of herself when Lord Suckling, who had driven from the Downs and brushed all save a spot of white dust out of his baby moustache to make himself presentable, rode up to her to say that the horse Templemore was beaten, and that his sagacity in always betting against favourites would, in this last instance, transfer a “pot of money” from alien pockets to his own.
“Algy Blancove’s in for five hundred to me,” he said; adding with energy, “I hope you haven’t lost? No, don’t go and dash my jolly feeling by saying you have. It was a fine heat; neck-and-neck past the Stand. Have you?”
“A little,” she confessed. “It’s a failing of mine to like favourites. I’m sorry for Algy.”
“I’m afraid he’s awfully hit.”
“What makes you think so?”
“He took it so awfully cool.”
“That may mean the reverse.”
“It don’t with him. But, Mrs. Lovell, do tell me you haven’t lost. Not much, is it? Because, I know there’s no guessing, when you are concerned.”
The lady trifled with her bridle-rein.
“I really can’t tell you yet. I may have lost. I haven’t won. I’m not cool-blooded enough to bet against favourites. Addio, son of Fortune! I’m at the Opera to-night.”
As she turned her horse from Lord Suckling, the cavalier who had saluted her when she was with Sir William passed again. She made a signal to her groom, and sent the man flying in pursuit of him, while she turned and cantered. She was soon overtaken.
“Madam, you have done me the honour.”
“I wish to know why it is your pleasure to avoid me, Major Waring?”
“In this place?”
“Wherever we may chance to meet.”
“I must protest.”
“Do not. The thing is evident.”
They rode together silently.
Her face was toward the sunset. The light smote her yellow hair, and struck out her grave and offended look, as in a picture.
“To be condemned without a hearing!” she said. “The most dastardly criminal gets that. Is it imagined that I have no common feelings? Is it manly to follow me with studied insult? I can bear the hatred of fools. Contempt I have not deserved. Dead! I should be dead, if my conscience had once reproached me. I am a mark for slander, and brave men should beware of herding with despicable slanderers.”
She spoke, gazing frontward all the while. The pace she maintained in no degree impeded the concentrated passion of her utterance.
But it was a more difficult task for him, going at that pace, to make explanations, and she was exquisitely fair to behold! The falling beams touched her with a mellow sweetness that kindled bleeding memories.
“If I defend myself?” he said.
“No. All I ask is that you should Accuse me. Let me know what I have done—done, that I have not been bitterly punished for? What is it? what is it? Why do you inflict a torture on me whenever you see me? Not by word, not by look. You are too subtle in your cruelty to give me anything I can grasp. You know how you wound me. And I am alone.”
“That is supposed to account for my behaviour?”
She turned her face to him. “Oh, Major blaring! say nothing unworthy of yourself. That would be a new pain to me.”
He bowed. In spite of a prepossessing anger, some little softness crept through his heart.
“You may conceive that I have dropped my pride,” she said. “That is the case, or my pride is of a better sort.”
“Madam, I fully hope and trust,” said he.
“And believe,” she added, twisting his words to the ironic tongue. “You certainly must believe that my pride has sunk low. Did I ever speak to you in this manner before?”
“Not in this manner, I can attest.”
“Did I speak at all, when I was hurt?” She betrayed that he had planted a fresh sting.
“If my recollection serves me,” said he, “your self-command was remarkable.”
Mrs. Lovell slackened her pace.
“Your recollection serves you too well, Major Waring. I was a girl. You judged the acts of a woman. I was a girl, and you chose to put your own interpretation on whatever I did. You scourged me before the whole army. Was not that enough? I mean, enough for you? For me, perhaps not, for I have suffered since, and may have been set apart to suffer. I saw you in that little church at Warbeach; I met you in the lanes; I met you on the steamer; on the railway platform; at the review. Everywhere you kept up the look of my judge. You! and I have been ‘Margaret’ to you. Major Waring, how many a woman in my place would attribute your relentless condemnation of her to injured vanity or vengeance? In those days I trifled with everybody. I played with fire. I was ignorant of life. I was true to my husband; and because I was true, and because I was ignorant, I was plunged into tragedies I never suspected. This is to be what you call a coquette. Stamping a name saves thinking. Could I read my husband’s temper? Would not a coquette have played her cards differently? There never was need for me to push my husband to a contest. I never had the power to restrain him. Now I am wiser; and now is too late; and now you sit in judgement on me. Why? It is not fair; it is unkind.”
Tears were in her voice, though not in her eyes.
Major Waring tried to study her with the coolness of a man who has learnt to doubt the truth of women; but he had once yearned in a young man’s frenzy of love to take that delicate shape in his arms, and he was not proof against the sedate sweet face and keen sad ring of the voice.
He spoke earnestly.
“You honour me by caring for my opinion. The past is buried. I have some forgiveness to ask. Much, when I think of it—very much. I did you a public wrong. From a man to a woman it was unpardonable. It is a blot on my career. I beg you humbly to believe that I repent it.”
The sun was flaming with great wings red among the vapours; and in the recollection of the two, as they rode onward facing it, arose that day of the forlorn charge of English horse in the Indian jungle, the thunder and the dust, the fire and the dense knot of the struggle. And like a ghost sweeping across her eyeballs, Mrs. Lovell beheld, part in his English freshness, part ensanguined, the image of the gallant boy who had ridden to perish at the spur of her mad whim. She forgot all present surroundings.
“Percy!” she said.
“Madam?”
“Percy!”
“Margaret?”
“Oh, what an undying day, Percy!”
And then she was speechless.
