George Meredith
Rhoda Fleming. Complete
CHAPTER XLIV
She watched her father as he went across the field and into the lane. Her breathing was suppressed till he appeared in view at different points, more and more distant, and then she sighed heavily, stopped her breathing, and hoped her unshaped hope again. The last time he was in sight, she found herself calling to him with a voice like that of a burdened sleeper: her thought being, “How can you act so cruelly to Robert!” He passed up Wrexby Heath, and over the black burnt patch where the fire had caught the furzes on a dry Maynight, and sank on the side of the Hall.
When we have looked upon a picture of still green life with a troubled soul, and the blow falls on us, we accuse Nature of our own treachery to her. Rhoda hurried from the dairy-door to shut herself up in her room and darken the light surrounding her. She had turned the lock, and was about systematically to pull down the blind, when the marvel of beholding Dahlia stepping out of the garden made her for a moment less the creature of her sickened senses. Dahlia was dressed for a walk, and she went very fast. The same paralysis of motion afflicted Rhoda as when she was gazing after her father; but her hand stretched out instinctively for her bonnet when Dahlia had crossed the green and the mill-bridge, and was no more visible. Rhoda drew her bonnet on, and caught her black silk mantle in her hand, and without strength to throw it across her shoulders, dropped before her bed, and uttered a strange prayer. “Let her die rather than go back to disgrace, my God! my God!”
She tried to rise, and failed in the effort, and superstitiously renewed her prayer. “Send death to her rather!”—and Rhoda’s vision under her shut eyes conjured up clouds and lightnings, and spheres in conflagration.
There is nothing so indicative of fevered or of bad blood as the tendency to counsel the Almighty how he shall deal with his creatures. The strain of a long uncertainty, and the late feverish weeks had distempered the fine blood of the girl, and her acts and words were becoming remoter exponents of her character.
She bent her head in a blind doze that gave her strength to rise. As swiftly as she could she went in the track of her sister.
That morning, Robert had likewise received a letter. It was from Major Waring, and contained a bank-note, and a summons to London, as also an enclosure from Mrs. Boulby of Warbeach; the nature of which was an advertisement cut out of the county paper, notifying to one Robert Eccles that his aunt Anne had died, and that there was a legacy for him, to be paid over upon application. Robert crossed the fields, laughing madly at the ironical fate which favoured him a little and a little, and never enough, save just to keep him swimming.
The letter from Major Waring said:—
“I must see you immediately. Be quick and come. I begin to be of your opinion—there are some things which we must take into our own hands and deal summarily with.”
“Ay!—ay!” Robert gave tongue in the clear morning air, scenting excitement and eager for it as a hound.
More was written, which he read subsequently
“I wrong,” Percy’s letter continued, “the best of women. She was driven to my door. There is, it seems, some hope that Dahlia will find herself free. At any rate, keep guard over her, and don’t leave her. Mrs. Lovell has herself been moving to make discoveries down at Warbeach. Mr. Blancove has nearly quitted this sphere. She nursed him—I was jealous!—the word’s out. Truth, courage, and suffering touch Margaret’s heart.
“Yours,“Percy.”
Jumping over a bank, Robert came upon Anthony, who was unsteadily gazing at a donkey that cropped the grass by a gate.
“Here you are,” said Robert, and took his arm.
Anthony struggled, though he knew the grasp was friendly; but he was led along: nor did Robert stop until they reached Greatham, five miles beyond Wrexby, where he entered the principal inn and called for wine.
“You want spirit: you want life,” said Robert.
Anthony knew that he wanted no wine, whatever his needs might be. Yet the tender ecstacy of being paid for was irresistible, and he drank, saying, “Just one glass, then.”
Robert pledged him. They were in a private room, of which, having ordered up three bottles of sherry, Robert locked the door. The devil was in him. He compelled Anthony to drink an equal portion with himself, alternately frightening and cajoling the old man.
“Drink, I tell you. You’ve robbed me, and you shall drink!”
“I haven’t, I haven’t,” Anthony whined.
“Drink, and be silent. You’ve robbed me, and you shall drink! and by heaven! if you resist, I’ll hand you over to bluer imps than you’ve ever dreamed of, old gentleman! You’ve robbed me, Mr. Hackbut. Drink! I tell you.”
Anthony wept into his glass.
“That’s a trick I could never do,” said Robert, eyeing the drip of the trembling old tear pitilessly. “Your health, Mr. Hackbut. You’ve robbed me of my sweetheart. Never mind. Life’s but the pop of a gun. Some of us flash in the pan, and they’re the only ones that do no mischief. You’re not one of them, sir; so you must drink, and let me see you cheerful.”
By degrees, the wine stirred Anthony’s blood, and he chirped feebly, as one who half remembered that he ought to be miserable. Robert listened to his maundering account of his adventure with the Bank money, sternly replenishing his glass. His attention was taken by the sight of Dahlia stepping forth from a chemist’s shop in the street nearly opposite to the inn. “This is my medicine,” said Robert; “and yours too,” he addressed Anthony.
The sun had passed its meridian when they went into the streets again. Robert’s head was high as a cock’s, and Anthony leaned on his arm; performing short half-circles headlong to the front, until the mighty arm checked and uplifted him. They were soon in the fields leading to Wrexby. Robert saw two female figures far ahead. A man was hastening to join them. The women started and turned suddenly: one threw up her hands, and darkened her face. It was in the pathway of a broad meadow, deep with grass, wherein the red sorrel topped the yellow buttercup, like rust upon the season’s gold. Robert hastened on. He scarce at the moment knew the man whose shoulder he seized, but he had recognised Dahlia and Rhoda, and he found himself face to face with Sedgett.
“It’s you!”
“Perhaps you’ll keep your hands off; before you make sure, another time.”
Robert said: “I really beg your pardon. Step aside with me.”
“Not while I’ve a ha’p’orth o’ brains in my noddle,” replied Sedgett, drawling an imitation of his enemy’s courteous tone. “I’ve come for my wife. I’m just down by train, and a bit out of my way, I reckon. I’m come, and I’m in a hurry. She shall get home, and have on her things—boxes packed, and we go.”
Robert waved Dahlia and Rhoda to speed homeward. Anthony had fallen against the roots of a banking elm, and surveyed the scene with philosophic abstractedness. Rhoda moved, taking Dahlia’s hand.
“Stop,” cried Sedgett. “Do you people here think me a fool? Eccles, you know me better ‘n that. That young woman’s my wife. I’ve come for her, I tell ye.”
“You’ve no claim on her,” Rhoda burst forth weakly, and quivered, and turned her eyes supplicatingly on Robert. Dahlia was a statue of icy fright.
“You’ve thrown her off, man, and sold what rights you had,” said Robert, spying for the point of his person where he might grasp the wretch and keep him off.
“That don’t hold in law,” Sedgett nodded. “A man may get in a passion, when he finds he’s been cheated, mayn’t he?”
“I have your word of honour,” said Rhoda; muttering, “Oh! devil come to wrong us!”
“Then, you shouldn’t ha’ run ferreting down in my part o’ the country. You, or Eccles—I don’t care who ‘tis—you’ve been at my servants to get at my secrets. Some of you have. You’ve declared war. You’ve been trying to undermine me. That’s a breach, I call it. Anyhow, I’ve come for my wife. I’ll have her.”
“None of us, none of us; no one has been to your house,” said Rhoda, vehemently. “You live in Hampshire, sir, I think; I don’t know any more. I don’t know where. I have not asked my sister. Oh! spare us, and go.”
“No one has been down into your part of the country,” said Robert, with perfect mildness.
To which Sedgett answered bluffly, “There ye lie, Bob Eccles;” and he was immediately felled by a tremendous blow. Robert strode over him, and taking Dahlia by the elbow, walked three paces on, as to set her in motion. “Off!” he cried to Rhoda, whose eyelids cowered under the blaze of his face.
It was best that her sister should be away, and she turned and walked swiftly, hurrying Dahlia, and touching her. “Oh! don’t touch my arm,” Dahlia said, quailing in the fall of her breath. They footed together, speechless; taking the woman’s quickest gliding step. At the last stile of the fields, Rhoda saw that they were not followed. She stopped, panting: her heart and eyes were so full of that flaming creature who was her lover. Dahlia took from her bosom the letter she had won in the morning, and held it open in both hands to read it. The pause was short. Dahlia struck the letter into her bosom again, and her starved features had some of the bloom of life. She kept her right hand in her pocket, and Rhoda presently asked,—
“What have you there?”
“You are my enemy, dear, in some things,” Dahlia replied, a muscular shiver passing over her.
“I think,” said Rhoda, “I could get a little money to send you away. Will you go? I am full of grief for what I have done. God forgive me.”
“Pray, don’t speak so; don’t let us talk,” said Dahlia.
Scorched as she felt both in soul and body, a touch or a word was a wound to her. Yet she was the first to resume: “I think I shall be saved. I can’t quite feel I am lost. I have not been so wicked as that.”
Rhoda gave a loving answer, and again Dahlia shrank from the miserable comfort of words.
As they came upon the green fronting the iron gateway, Rhoda perceived that the board proclaiming the sale of Queen Anne’s Farm had been removed, and now she understood her father’s readiness to go up to Wrexby Hall. “He would sell me to save the farm.” She reproached herself for the thought, but she could not be just; she had the image of her father plodding relentlessly over the burnt heath to the Hall, as conceived by her agonized sensations in the morning, too vividly to be just, though still she knew that her own indecision was to blame.
Master Gammon met them in the garden.
Pointing aloft, over the gateway, “That’s down,” he remarked, and the three green front teeth of his quiet grin were stamped on the impressionable vision of the girls in such a way that they looked at one another with a bare bitter smile. Once it would have been mirth.
“Tell father,” Dahlia said, when they were at the back doorway, and her eyes sparkled piteously, and she bit on her underlip. Rhoda tried to detain her; but Dahlia repeated, “Tell father,” and in strength and in will had become more than a match for her sister.
CHAPTER XLV
Rhoda spoke to her father from the doorway, with her hand upon the lock of the door.
At first he paid little attention to her, and, when he did so, began by saying that he hoped she knew that she was bound to have the young squire, and did not intend to be prankish and wilful; because the young squire was eager to settle affairs, that he might be settled himself. “I don’t deny it’s honour to us, and it’s a comfort,” said the farmer. “This is the first morning I’ve thought easily in my chair for years. I’m sorry about Robert, who’s a twice unlucky ‘un; but you aimed at something higher, I suppose.”
Rhoda was prompted to say a word in self-defence, but refrained, and again she told Dahlia’s story, wondering that her father showed no excitement of any kind. On the contrary, there was the dimple of one of his voiceless chuckles moving about the hollow of one cheek, indicating some slow contemplative action that was not unpleasant within. He said: “Ah! well, it’s very sad;—that is, if ‘tis so,” and no more, for a time.
She discovered that he was referring to her uncle Anthony, concerning whose fortunate position in the world, he was beginning to entertain some doubts. “Or else,” said the farmer, with a tap on his forehead, “he’s going here. It ‘d be odd after all, if commercially, as he ‘d call it, his despised brother-in-law—and I say it in all kindness—should turn out worth, not exactly millions, but worth a trifle.”
The farmer nodded with an air of deprecating satisfaction.
Rhoda did not gain his ear until, as by an instinct, she perceived what interest the story of her uncle and the money-bags would have for him. She related it, and he was roused. Then, for the third time, she told him of Dahlia.
Rhoda saw her father’s chest grow large, while his eyes quickened with light. He looked on her with quite a strange face. Wrath, and a revived apprehension, and a fixed will were expressed in it, and as he catechized her for each particular of the truth which had been concealed from him, she felt a respectfulness that was new in her personal sensations toward her father, but it was at the expense of her love.
When he had heard and comprehended all, he said, “Send the girl down to me.”
But Rhoda pleaded, “She is too worn, she is tottering. She cannot endure a word on this; not even of kindness and help.”
“Then, you,” said the farmer, “you tell her she’s got a duty’s her first duty now. Obedience to her husband! Do you hear? Then, let her hear it. Obedience to her husband! And welcome’s the man when he calls on me. He’s welcome. My doors are open to him. I thank him. I honour him. I bless his name. It’s to him I owe—You go up to her and say, her father owes it to the young man who’s married her that he can lift up his head. Go aloft. Ay! for years I’ve been suspecting something of this. I tell ye, girl, I don’t understand about church doors and castin’ of her off—he’s come for her, hasn’t he? Then, he shall have her. I tell ye, I don’t understand about money: he’s married her. Well, then, she’s his wife; and how can he bargain not to see her?”
“The base wretch!” cried Rhoda.
“Hasn’t he married her?” the farmer retorted. “Hasn’t he given the poor creature a name? I’m not for abusing her, but him I do thank, and I say, when he calls, here’s my hand for him. Here, it’s out and waiting for him.”
“Father, if you let me see it—” Rhoda checked the intemperate outburst. “Father, this is a bad—a bad man. He is a very wicked man. We were all deceived by him. Robert knows him. He has known him for years, and knows that he is very wicked. This man married our Dahlia to get—” Rhoda gasped, and could not speak it. “He flung her off with horrible words at the church door. After this, how can he claim her? I paid him all he had to expect with uncle’s money, for his promise by his sacred oath never, never to disturb or come near my sister. After that he can’t, can’t claim her. If he does—”
“He’s her husband,” interrupted the farmer; “when he comes here, he’s welcome. I say he’s welcome. My hand’s out to him:—If it’s alone that he’s saved the name of Fleming from disgrace! I thank him, and my daughter belongs to him. Where is he now? You talk of a scuffle with Robert. I do hope Robert will not forget his proper behaviour. Go you up to your sister, and say from me—All’s forgotten and forgiven; say, It’s all underfoot; but she must learn to be a good girl from this day. And, if she’s at the gate to welcome her husband, so much the better ‘ll her father be pleased;—say that. I want to see the man. It’ll gratify me to feel her husband’s flesh and blood. His being out of sight so long’s been a sore at my heart; and when I see him I’ll welcome him, and so must all in my house.”
This was how William Fleming received the confession of his daughter’s unhappy plight.
Rhoda might have pleaded Dahlia’s case better, but that she was too shocked and outraged by the selfishness she saw in her father, and the partial desire to scourge which she was too intuitively keen at the moment not to perceive in the paternal forgiveness, and in the stipulation of the forgiveness.
She went upstairs to Dahlia, simply stating that their father was aware of all the circumstances.
Dahlia looked at her, but dared ask nothing.
So the day passed. Neither Robert nor Anthony appeared. The night came: all doors were locked. The sisters that night slept together, feeling the very pulses of the hours; yet neither of them absolutely hopelessly, although in a great anguish.
Rhoda was dressed by daylight. The old familiar country about the house lay still as if it knew no expectation. She observed Master Gammon tramping forth afield, and presently heard her father’s voice below. All the machinery of the daily life got into motion; but it was evident that Robert and Anthony continued to be absent. A thought struck her that Robert had killed the man. It came with a flash of joy that was speedily terror, and she fell to praying vehemently and vaguely. Dahlia lay exhausted on the bed, but nigh the hour when letters were delivered, she sat up, saying, “There is one for me; get it.”
There was in truth a letter for her below, and it was in her father’s hand and open.
“Come out,” said the farmer, as Rhoda entered to him. When they were in the garden, he commanded her to read and tell him the meaning of it. The letter was addressed to Dahlia Fleming.
“It’s for my sister,” Rhoda murmured, in anger, but more in fear.
She was sternly bidden to read, and she read,—
Dahlia,—There is mercy for us. You are not lost to me.
“Edward.”
After this, was appended in a feminine hand:—
“There is really hope. A few hours will tell us. But keep firm. If he comes near you, keep from him. You are not his. Run, hide, go anywhere, if you have reason to think he is near. I dare not write what it is we expect. Yesterday I told you to hope; to-day I can say, believe that you will be saved. You are not lost. Everything depends on your firmness.
“Margaret L.”
Rhoda lifted up her eyes.
The farmer seized the letter, and laid his finger on the first signature.
“Is that the christian name of my girl’s seducer?”
He did not wait for an answer, but turned and went into the breakfast-table, when he ordered a tray with breakfast for Dahlia to betaken up to her bed-room; and that done, he himself turned the key of the door, and secured her. Mute woe was on Mrs. Sumfit’s face at all these strange doings, but none heeded her, and she smothered her lamentations. The farmer spoke nothing either of Robert or of Anthony. He sat in his chair till the dinner hour, without book or pipe, without occupation for eyes or hands; silent, but acute in his hearing.
The afternoon brought relief to Rhoda’s apprehensions. A messenger ran up to the farm bearing a pencilled note to her from Robert, which said that he, in company with her uncle, was holding Sedgett at a distance by force of arm, and that there was no fear. Rhoda kissed the words, hurrying away to the fields for a few minutes to thank and bless and dream of him who had said that there was no fear. She knew that Dahlia was unconscious of her imprisonment, and had less compunction in counting the minutes of her absence. The sun spread in yellow and fell in red before she thought of returning, so sweet it had become to her to let her mind dwell with Robert; and she was half a stranger to the mournfulness of the house when she set her steps homeward. But when she lifted the latch of the gate, a sensation, prompted by some unwitting self-accusal, struck her with alarm. She passed into the room, and beheld her father, and Mrs. Sumfit, who was sitting rolling, with her apron over her head.
The man Sedgett was between them.
CHAPTER XLVI
No sooner had Rhoda appeared than her father held up the key of Dahlia’s bed-room, and said, “Unlock your sister, and fetch her down to her husband.”
Mechanically Rhoda took the key.
“And leave our door open,” he added.
She went up to Dahlia, sick with a sudden fright lest evil had come to Robert, seeing that his enemy was here; but that was swept from her by Dahlia’s aspect.
“He is in the house,” Dahlia said; and asked, “Was there no letter—no letter; none, this morning?”
Rhoda clasped her in her arms, seeking to check the convulsions of her trembling.
“No letter! no letter! none? not any? Oh! no letter for me!”
The strange varying tones of musical interjection and interrogation were pitiful to hear.
“Did you look for a letter?” said Rhoda, despising herself for so speaking.
“He is in the house! Where is my letter?”
“What was it you hoped? what was it you expected, darling?”
Dahlia moaned: “I don’t know. I’m blind. I was told to hope. Yesterday I had my letter, and it told me to hope. He is in the house!”
“Oh, my dear, my love!” cried Rhoda; “come down a minute. See him. It is father’s wish. Come only for a minute. Come, to gain time, if there is hope.”
“But there was no letter for me this morning, Rhoda. I can’t hope. I am lost. He is in the house!”
“Dearest, there was a letter,” said Rhoda, doubting that she did well in revealing it.
Dahlia put out her hands dumb for the letter.
“Father opened it, and read it, and keeps it,” said Rhoda, clinging tight to the stricken form.
“Then, he is against me? Oh, my letter!” Dahlia wrung her hands.
While they were speaking, their father’s voice was heard below calling for Dahlia to descend. He came thrice to the foot of the stairs, and shouted for her.
The third time he uttered a threat that sprang an answer from her bosom in shrieks.
Rhoda went out on the landing and said softly, “Come up to her, father.”
After a little hesitation, he ascended the stairs.
“Why, girl, I only ask you to come down and see your husband,” he remarked with an attempt at kindliness of tone. “What’s the harm, then? Come and see him; that’s all; come and see him.”
Dahlia was shrinking out of her father’s sight as he stood in the doorway. “Say,” she communicated to Rhoda, “say, I want my letter.”
“Come!” William Fleming grew impatient.
“Let her have her letter, father,” said Rhoda. “You have no right to withhold it.”
“That letter, my girl” (he touched Rhoda’s shoulder as to satisfy her that he was not angry), “that letter’s where it ought to be. I’ve puzzled out the meaning of it. That letter’s in her husband’s possession.”
Dahlia, with her ears stretching for all that might be uttered, heard this. Passing round the door, she fronted her father.
“My letter gone to him!” she cried. “Shameful old man! Can you look on me? Father, could you give it? I’m a dead woman.”
She smote her bosom, stumbling backward upon Rhoda’s arm.
“You have been a wicked girl,” the ordinarily unmoved old man retorted. “Your husband has come for you, and you go with him. Know that, and let me hear no threats. He’s a modest-minded, quiet young man, and a farmer like myself, and needn’t be better than he is. Come you down to him at once. I’ll tell you: he comes to take you away, and his cart’s at the gate. To the gate you go with him. When next I see you—you visiting me or I visiting you—I shall see a respected creature, and not what you have been and want to be. You have racked the household with fear and shame for years. Now come, and carry out what you’ve begun in the contrary direction. You’ve got my word o’ command, dead woman or live woman. Rhoda, take one elbow of your sister. Your aunt’s coming up to pack her box. I say I’m determined, and no one stops me when I say that. Come out, Dahlia, and let our parting be like between parent and child. Here’s the dark falling, and your husband’s anxious to be away. He has business, and ‘ll hardly get you to the station for the last train to town. Hark at him below! He’s naturally astonished, he is, and you’re trying his temper, as you’d try any man’s. He wants to be off. Come, and when next we meet I shall see you a happy wife.”
He might as well have spoken to a corpse.
“Speak to her still, father,” said Rhoda, as she drew a chair upon which she leaned her sister’s body, and ran down full of the power of hate and loathing to confront Sedgett; but great as was that power within her, it was overmatched by his brutal resolution to take his wife away. No argument, no irony, no appeals, can long withstand the iteration of a dogged phrase. “I’ve come for my wife,” Sedgett said to all her instances. His voice was waxing loud and insolent, and, as it sounded, Mrs. Sumfit moaned and flapped her apron.
“Then, how could you have married him?”
They heard the farmer’s roar of this unanswerable thing, aloft.
“Yes—how! how!” cried Rhoda below, utterly forgetting the part she had played in the marriage.
“It’s too late to hate a man when you’ve married him, my girl.”
Sedgett went out to the foot of the stairs.
“Mr. Fleming—she’s my wife. I’ll teach her about hating and loving. I’ll behave well to her, I swear. I’m in the midst of enemies; but I say I do love my wife, and I’ve come for her, and have her I will. Now, in two minutes’ time. Mr. Fleming, my cart’s at the gate, and I’ve got business, and she’s my wife.”
The farmer called for Mrs. Sumfit to come up and pack Dahlia’s box, and the forlorn woman made her way to the bedroom. All the house was silent. Rhoda closed her sight, and she thought: “Does God totally abandon us?”
She let her father hear: “Father, you know that you are killing your child.”
“I hear ye, my lass,” said he.
“She will die, father.”
“I hear ye, I hear ye.”
“She will die, father.”
He stamped furiously, exclaiming: “Who’s got the law of her better and above a husband? Hear reason, and come and help and fetch down your sister. She goes!”
“Father!” Rhoda cried, looking at her open hands, as if she marvelled to see them helpless.
There was for a time that silence which reigns in a sickchamber when the man of medicine takes the patient’s wrist. And in the silence came a blessed sound—the lifting of a latch. Rhoda saw Robert’s face.
“So,” said Robert, as she neared him, “you needn’t tell me what’s happened. Here’s the man, I see. He dodged me cleverly. The hound wants practice; the fox is born with his cunning.”
Few words were required to make him understand the position of things in the house. Rhoda spoke out all without hesitation in Sedgett’s hearing.
But the farmer respected Robert enough to come down to him and explain his views of his duty and his daughter’s duty. By the kitchen firelight he and Robert and Sedgett read one another’s countenances.
“He has a proper claim to take his wife, Robert,” said the farmer. “He’s righted her before the world, and I thank him; and if he asks for her of me he must have her, and he shall.”
“All right, sir,” replied Robert, “and I say too, shall, when I’m stiff as log-wood.”
“Oh! Robert, Robert!” Rhoda cried in great joy.
“Do you mean that you step ‘twixt me and my own?” said Mr. Fleming.
“I won’t let you nod at downright murder—that’s all,” said Robert. “She—Dahlia, take the hand of that creature!”
“Why did she marry me?” thundered Sedgett.
“There’s one o’ the wonders!” Robert rejoined. “Except that you’re an amazingly clever hypocrite with women; and she was just half dead and had no will of her own; and some one set you to hunt her down. I tell you, Mr. Fleming, you might as well send your daughter to the hangman as put her in this fellow’s hands.”
“She’s his wife, man.”
“May be,” Robert assented.
“You, Robert Eccles!” said Sedgett hoarsely; “I’ve come for my wife—do you hear?”
“You have, I dare say,” returned Robert. “You dodged me cleverly, that you did. I’d like to know how it was done. I see you’ve got a cart outside and a boy at the horse’s head. The horse steps well, does he? I’m about three hours behind him, I reckon:—not too late, though!”
He let fall a great breath of weariness.
Rhoda went to the cupboard and drew forth a rarely touched bottle of spirits, with which she filled a small glass, and handing the glass to him, said, “Drink.” He smiled kindly and drank it off.
“The man’s in your house, Mr. Fleming,” he said.
“And he’s my guest, and my daughter’s husband, remember that,” said the farmer.
“And mean to wait not half a minute longer till I’ve taken her off—mark that,” Sedgett struck in. “Now, Mr. Fleming, you see you keep good your word to me.”
“I’ll do no less,” said the farmer. He went into the passage shouting for Mrs. Sumfit to bring down the box.
“She begs,” Mrs. Sumfit answered to him—“She begs, William, on’y a short five minutes to pray by herself, which you will grant unto her, dear, you will. Lord! what’s come upon us?”
“Quick, and down with the box, then, mother,” he rejoined.
The box was dragged out, and Dahlia’s door was shut, that she might have her last minutes alone.
Rhoda kissed her sister before leaving her alone: and so cold were Dahlia’s lips, so tight the clutch of her hands, that she said: “Dearest, think of God:” and Dahlia replied: “I do.”
“He will not forsake you,” Rhoda said.
Dahlia nodded, with shut eyes, and Rhoda went forth.
“And now, Robert, you and I’ll see who’s master on these premises,” said the farmer. “Hear, all! I’m bounders under a sacred obligation to the husband of my child, and the Lord’s wrath on him who interferes and lifts his hand against me when I perform my sacred duty as a father. Place there! I’m going to open the door. Rhoda, see to your sister’s bonnet and things. Robert, stand out of my way. There’s no refreshment of any sort you’ll accept of before starting, Mr. Sedgett? None at all! That’s no fault of my hospitality. Stand out of my way, Robert.”
He was obeyed. Robert looked at Rhoda, but had no reply for her gaze of despair.
The farmer threw the door wide open.
There were people in the garden—strangers. His name was inquired for out of the dusk. Then whisperings were heard passing among the ill-discerned forms, and the farmer went out to them. Robert listened keenly, but the touch of Rhoda’s hand upon his own distracted his hearing. “Yet it must be!” he said. “Why does she come here?”
Both he and Rhoda followed the farmer’s steps, drawn forth by the ever-credulous eagerness which arises from an interruption to excited wretchedness. Near and nearer to the group, they heard a quaint old woman exclaim: “Come here to you for a wife, when he has one of his own at home; a poor thing he shipped off to America, thinking himself more cunning than devils or angels: and she got put out at a port, owing to stress of weather, to defeat the man’s wickedness! Can’t I prove it to you, sir, he’s a married man, which none of us in our village knew till the poor tricked thing crawled back penniless to find him;—and there she is now with such a story of his cunning to tell to anybody as will listen; and why he kept it secret to get her pension paid him still on. It’s all such a tale for you to hear by-and-by.”
