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Les diagrammes suivents illustrant le mAthode. 1 2 3 4 5 6 32X I RHODA FLEMING -\ il 3S5PS Bl BHODA FLEMraGr a fttota BT GEORGE MEREDITH REVISED EDITION TORONTO GEORGE N. MORANG 1899 iniiiiasii Copyright, 1897, by George Meredith, for the United States of America. Printed «t the University Press by John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. V'^ 'V(o CHA1 I II III IV \ V VI VII I 3 X XI X : X x^ CONTENTS. h .0 PAOB CHAP. ^ . 1 I. THE KENTI8II FAMILY 11. QUEEN ANNE'S FARM „,. SUGGESTS T..F. MIGHT OF THE MONF.V DEMON . • 1^ IV. THE TEXT FItOM 3CRIPTUBE • « • "*' V. THE SISTER8 MEET . • . . 36 VI. EDWARD AND ALGERNON ... 48 VII. GREAT NEWS FROM DAHLIA . . 57 VIII. INTRODUCES MRS. LOVELL . 64 IX. ROBERT INTERVENES . . 70 X. DAHLIA IS NOT VISIBLE 80 XI AN INDICATIVE DUET IN A MINOR KKY .... 88 XII. AT THE THEATRE ... 97 XIII. THE FARMER SPEAKS . . 105 XIV BETWEEN RHODA AND ROBERT ... Ill XV A VISIT TO WREXBY HALL 119 XVI. AT FAIRLY PARK . 127 XVII. A YEOMAN OF THE OLD BREED vi CHAP. Will. MX. X\. XXI. XX 11. XXIII. XXIV. XXV. XXVI. ^XVII. XXVIII. XXIX. XXX. XXXI. XXXII. XXXIII. XXXIV. XXXV. XXXVI. XXXVII. XXXVIII. XXXIX. XL. CONTENTS. PAOB A-N A^bKMIiLY .iT TIIK I'lLOT IXN 137 UOUKIJT SMITTEN LOW 154 MUS. I.OVKLL snows A TAMK KKUTE .... 166 GIVKS A (ILIMI'SE OV WHAT I'OOU VILLANIKS THE i.T01!V CONTAINS 171 FTtWAltn TAKKS HIS COUiJ.'^C 184 MA.IOU I'KItCV WAUIXG 195 WAHHKACII VILLA(iK CIIUUCII 207 OK THK FEAUFUL TF.MI'TATION WHICH CAME Ul'ON AXTHOXV IIACKUUT, AM) OF HIS MRETING WITH DAHLIA 214 IN TIIK PARK 229 CONTAINS A STUDY OF A FOOL IN TROUBLE . . 2.3(» kdwaud's LF.TTER 242 FUIifllKUMORF; OF THE FOOL 247 Tin: F.xriATiON 259 THK MELTING OF THK THOUSAND 272 LA QUESTION D'ARGKNT 289 KDWARD's liKTUHN 299 FATHER AND SON 310 THK XIGIIT nKFORK 316 KinVARI) MKKTS HIS MATCH 320 KDWARD TRIES MIS KLOQUFNCE 327 TOO LATK 331 DAHLIA OOKS I10:\IK 339 A FRKAIC OF THK MOXKV-DEMON, THAT MAY HAVE KEEN ANTICIPATED 348 CONTENTS. CHAP. xLi. dahlia's fukxzy XLII. ANTHONY IN A COLLAPSE . . XLIII. lUIODA I'LKDGKS HER HAND . XLIV. THE EXE:.!Y AITKAKS . . . XLV. THE FAltMEK IS AWAKENED . XLVI. WHEN THE MCIIT IS DARKEST XLVII. DAWN IS NEAR XLVIII. CONCLUSION Vll FADE . 358 . 3G5 . 37G . 386 . 391 . 39G . 407 . 412 .to4e.d'n^.,«i ! 1 s RHODA FLEMING CHAPTER I THE KENTISH FAMILY Eemains of our good yeomanry blood will be found in Kent, developing stiff, solid, unobtrusive men, and very personable women. The distinction survives there between Kentish women and women of Kent, as a true Southeastern dame will let you know, if it is her fortune to belong to that favoured portion of the county where the great battle was fought, in which the gentler sex performed manful work, but on what luckless heads we hear not ; and when garrulous tradition is discreet, the severe historic Muse declines to hazard a guess. Saxon, one would presume, since it is thought something to have broken them. My plain story is of two Kentish damsels, and runs from a home of flowers into regions where flowers are few and sickly, on to where the flowers which breathe sweet breath have been proved in mortal fire. Mrs. Fleming, of Queen Anne's Farm, was the wife of a yeoman-farmer of the county. Both were of sound Kentish extraction, albeit varieties of the breed. The farm had its name from a tradition , common to many other farmhouses within a circuit of the metropolis, that the ante-Hanoverian lady had used the place in her day as a nursery-hospital for the royal little ones. It was a square, three-storied building of red brick, much beaten and stained by the weather, with an ivied side, up which the ivy grew stoutly, topping the roof in triumphant lumps. The house could hardly be termed picturesque. Its aspect had 1 1 RHODA FLEMING struck many eyes as being very much that of a red-coat sentinel grenadier, battered with service, and standing firmly enough, though not at ease. Surrounding it was a high wall, built partly of flint and partly of brick, and ringed all over with grey lichen and brown spots of bearded moss, that bore witness to the touch of many winds and rains. Tufts of pale grass, and gilliflowers, and travelling stone-crop, hung from the wall, and driblets of ivy ran broadening to the outer ground. The royal Arms were said to have surmounted the great iron gateway; but they had vanished, either with the family, or at the indications of an approaching lust. Rust defiled its bars ; but when you looked through them, the splendour of an unrivalled garden gave vivid signs of youth, and of the taste of an orderly, laborious, and cunning hand. The garden was under Mrs. Fleming's charge. The joy of her love for it was written on its lustrous beds, as poets write. She had the poetic passion for flowers. Perhaps her taste may now seem questionable. She cherished the old-fashioned delight in tulips ; the house was reached on a gravel-path between rows of tulips, rich with one natural blush, or freaked by art. She liked a bulk of colour; and when the dahlia dawned upon our gardens, she gave her heart to dahlias. By good desert, the fervent woman gained a prize at a flower-show for one of her dahlias, and " Dahlia " was the name uttered at the christening of her eldest daughter, at which all Wrexby parish laughed as long as the joke could last. There was laughter also when Mrs. Fleming's second daughter received the name of "Rhoda; " but it did not endure for so long a space, as it was known that she had taken more to the solitary and reflective reading of her Bible, and to thoughts upon flowers eternal. Country people are not inclined to tolerate the display of a passion for anything. They find it as intrusive and exasperating as is, in the midst of larger con- gregations, what we call genius. For some years Mrs. Fleming's proceedings were simply a theme for gossips, and her vanity was openly pardoned, until that delusively prosperous appearance which her labour lent to the house, was worn through by the enforced confession of t! -^re being poverty in the household. The raggtd'elbow was to THE KENTISH FAMILY 8 n then projected in the face of Wrexby in a manner to pre- clude it from a sober appreciation of the fairness of the face. Critically, moreover, her admission of great poppy-heads into her garden was objected to. She would squander her care on poppies, and she had been heard to say that, while she lived, her children should be fully fed. The encour- agement of flaunting weeds in a decent garden was indica- tive of a moral twist that the expressed resolution to sup- ply her table with plentiful nourishment, no matter whence it came or how provided, sufficiently confirmed. The reason with which she was stated to have fortified her stern resolve was of the irritating order, right in the abstract, and u* fcerly unprincipled in the application. She said, "Good bread, and good beef, and enough of both, make good blood; and my children shall be stout." This is such a thing as may be announced by foreign princesses and rulers over serfs; but English Wrexby, in cogitative mood, demanded an equivalent for its beef and divers economies consumed by the hungry chiklren of the author- itative woman. Practically it was obedient, for it had got the habit of supplying her. Though payment was long in arrear, the arrears were not treated as lost ones by Mrs. Fleming, who, without knowing it, possessed one main secret for mastering the custodians of credit. She had a considerate remembrance and regard for the most distant of her debts, so that she seemed to be only always a little late, and exceptionally wrong-headed in theory. Wrexby, therefore, acquiesced in helping to build up her children to stoutness, and but for the blindness of all people, save artists, poets, novelists, to the grandeur of their own creations, the inhabitants of this Kentish village might have had an enjoyable pride in the beauty and robust grace of the young girls, — fair-haired^ black-haired girls, a kindred contrast, like fire and smoke, to look upon. In stature, in bearing, and in expression, they were, if I may adopt the eloquent modern manner of eulogy, strikingly above their class. They carried erect shoulders, like creatures not ashamed of showing a merely animal pride, which is never quite apart from the pride of developed beauty. They were as upright as Oriental girls, whose BHODA FLEMING il' i heads are nobly poised from carrying the i)itchei to the well. Dark Khoda might have passed for Rachel, and Dahlia called her Rachel. They tossed one another their mutual compliments, drawn from the chief book of their reading. Queen of Sheba was Dahlia's title. No master of calisthenics could have set them up better than their mother's receipt for making good blood, combined with a certain harmony of their systems, had done; nor could a schoolmistress have taught them corrector speaking. The characteristic of girls having a disposition to rise, is to be cravingly mimetic; and they remembered, and crooned over, till by degrees they adopted, the phrases and manner of speech of highly grammatical people, such as the rector and his lady, and of people in stoiy-books, especially of the courtly French fairy-books, wherein the princen talk in periods as sweetly rounded as are their silken ci^lves; nothing less than angelically, so as to be a model to ordi- nary men. The idea of love upon the lips of ordinary men pro- voked Dahlia's irony; and the youths of Wrexby and Fen- hurst had no chance against her secret Prince Florizels. Them she endowed with no pastoral qualities; on the contrary, she conceived that such pure young gentlemen were only to be seen, and perhaps met, in the great and mystic City of London. Naturally, the girls dreamed of London. To educate themselves, they copied out whole pages of a book called the " Field of Mars," which was next to the family Bible in size among the volumes of the farmer's small library. The deeds of the heroes of this book, and the talk of the fairy princes, were assimilated in their minds; and as they looked around them upon millers', farmers', maltsters', and tradesmen's sons, the thought of what manner of youth would propose to marry ijhem be- came a precocious tribulation. Rhoda, at the age of fif- teen, was distracted by it, owing to her sister's habit of masking her own dismal internal forebodings on the subject under the guise of a settled anxiety concerning her sad chance. In dress, the wife of the rector of Wrexby was their model. There came once to Squire Blancove's unoccupied pew a dazzling vision of a fair lady. They heard that she THE KENTISH FAMILY. 5 was a cousin of his third wife, and a widow, Mrs. Lovell by name. They looked at her all through the service, and the lady certainly looked at them in return; nor could they, with any distinctness, imagine why, but the look dwelt long in their hearts, and often afterward, when Dahlia, upon taking her seat in church, shut her eyes, according to custom, she strove to conjure up the image of herself, as she had appeared to the beautiful woman in the dress of grey-shot silk, with violet mantle and green bonnet, rose-trimmed; and the picture she conceived was the one she knew herself by, for many ensuing years. Mrs. Fleming fought her battle with a heart worthy of her countrywomen , and with as much success as the burden of a despondent husband would allow to her. William John Fleming was simply a poor farmer, for whom the wheels of the world went too fast, — a big man, appearing to be difficult to kill, though deeply smitten. His cheeks bloomed in spite of lines and stains ; and his large, quietly- dilated, brown ox-eyes, that never gave out a meaning, sel- dom showed as if they had taken one from what they saw. Until his wife was lost to him, he believed that he had a mighty grievance against her ; but as he was not wordy, and was by nature kind, it was her comfort to die and not to know it. This grievance was rooted in the idea that she was ruinously extravagant. The sight of the plentiful table was sore to him; the hungry mouths, though he grudged to his offspring nothing that he could pay for, were an afflicting prospect. "Plump 'em up, and make 'em dainty," he advanced in contravention of his wife's talk of bread and beef. But he did not complain. If It came to an argument, the farmer sidled into a secure corner of prophecy, and bade his wife to see what would come of having dainty childrtn. He could not deny that bread and beef made blood, and were cheaper than the port-wine which doctors were in the habit of ordering for this and that delicate person in the neighbourhood; so he was compelled to have recourse to secret discontent. The attention, the time, and the trifles of money shed upon the flower-garden, were hardships easier to bear. He liked flowers, and he liked ««i«»«kA4-n I '/ 6 KHODA TLEMING. ,'.. to hear tne praise of his wife's horticultural skill. Thfj garden was a distinguishing thing to the farm, and whea on a Sunday he walked home from church among full June roses, he felt the odour of them to be so like his im- agined sensations of prosperity, that the deception was worth its cost. Yet the garden in its bloom revived a cruel blow. His wife had once wounded his vanity. The massed vanity of a silent man, when it does take a wound, desires a giant's vengeance; but as one can scarcely seek to enjoy that monstrous gratification when one's wife is the offender, the farmer escaped from his dilemma by going apart into a turnip-field, and swearing, with his fist out- stretched, never to forget it. His wife had asked him, seeing that the garden flourished and the farm decayed, to yield the labour of the farm to the garden; in fact, to turn nurseryman under his wife's direction. The woman could not see that her garden drained the farm already, distrac 3d the farm, and most evidently impoverished him. She could not understand that in permitting her, while he sweated fruitlessly, to give herself up to the occupation of a lady, he had followed the promptings of his native kind- ness, and certainly not of his native v isdom. That she should deem herself "best man" of th:; two, and suggest his stamping his name to such an opinion before the world, was an outrage. Mrs. Fleming was failing in health. On that plea, with the solemnity suited to the autumn of her allotted days, she persuaded her husband to advertise for an assistant, who would pay a small sum of money to learn sound farming, and hear arguments in favour of the Corn Laws. To please her, he threw seven shillings away upon an advertisement, and laughed when the advertise' ment was answered, remarking that he doubted much whether good would come of dealings with strangers. A young man, calling himself Robert Armstrong, underwent a presentation to the family. He paid the stipulated sum, and was soon enrolled as one of them. He was of a guardsman's height and a cricketer's suppleness, a drinker of water, and apparently the victim of a dislike of his species; for he spoke of the great night-lighted city with a horror that did not seem to be an estimable point in him. men. likenel blaze that tl undyi{ The afield,! dancet likewil restraf ■'^ THE KENTISH FA^HLY ■whea g fuil lis im- m was nved a . The wound, ly seek •wife is ,y going ist out- jd liim, ayed, to fact, to } -woman already, led him. while he pation of ive kind- rhat she 1 suggest le world, hat plea, r allotted e for an r to learn ,r of the ings away advertise' ted mnch ngers. A underwent lated suni, 1 was of a , a drinker ike of his city with a int in him, ^5 as judged by a pair of damsels for whom the mysterious metropolis flew with liery fringes through dark space, in tlieir dreams. In other respects, the stranger was weV thought of, as being handsome and predate. He talked fondly of one friend that he had, an officer in the army, which was considered pardonably vain. He did not reach to the ideal of his sex which had been formed by the sisters ; but Mrs. Fleming, trusting to her divination of his sex's character, whispered a mother's word about him to her husband a little while before her death. It was her prayer to heaven that she might save a doctor's bill. She died, without lingering illness, in her own be- loved month of June ; the roses of her tending at the open window, and a soft breath floating up to her from the garden. On the foregoing May-day, she had sat on the green that fronted the iron gateway, when Dahlia and Rhoda dressed the children of the village in garlands, and crowned the fairest little one queen of May : a sight that revived in Mrs. Fleming's recollection the time of her own eldest and fairest taking homage, shy in her white smock and light thick curls. The gathering was large, and the day was of the old nature of May, before tyrannous East- winds had captured it and spoiled its consecration. The mill-stream of the neighbouring mill ran blue among the broad green pastures ; the air smelt of cream-bowls and wheaten loaves; the firs on the beacon-ridge, far south- ward, over Fenhurst and Helm villages, were transported nearer to see the show, and stood like friends anxious to renew acquaintance. Dahlia and Rhoda taught the children to perceive how they resembled bent old beggar- men. The two stone-pines in the miller's grounds were likened by them to Adam and Eve turning away from the blaze of Paradise ; and the saying of one receptive child, that they had nothing but hair on, made the illustration undying both to Dahlia and Rhoda. The magic of the weather brought numerous butterflies afield, and one fiddler, to whose tuning the little women danced ; others closer upon womanhood would have danced likewise, if the sisters had taken partners ; but Dahlia was restrained by the sudden consciousness that she was under I. :. \ \ i \: i g BHODA FLEMING the immediate observation of two manifestly London gentle- men, and she declined to be led forth by Robert Armstrong. The intruders were youths of good countenance, known to be the son and the nephew of Squire Blancove of Wrexby Hall. They remained for some time watching the scene, and destroyed Dahlia's single-mindedness. Like many days of gaiety, the Gods consenting, this one had its human shadow. There appeared on the borders of the festivity a young woman, the daughter of a Wrexby cottager, who had left her home and but lately returned to it, with a spotted name. No one addressed her, and she stood humbly apart. Dahlia, seeing that every one moved away from her, whispering with satisfied noddings, wished to draw her in among the groups. She mentioned the name of Mary Burt to her father, supposing that so kind a man would not fail to sanction her going up to the neglected young woman. To her surprise, her father became vio- lently enraged, and uttered a stern prohibition, speaking a word that stained her cheeks. Rhoda was by her side, and she wilfully, without asking leave, went straight over to Mary, and stood with her under the shadow of the Adam and Eve, until the farmer sent a messenger to say that he was about to enter the house. Her punishment for the act of sinfulness was a week of severe silence ; and the farmer would have kept her to it longer, but for her mother's ominously growing weakness. The sisters were strangely overclouded by this incident. They could not fathom the meaning of their father's unkindness, coarseness, and in- dignation. Why, and why ? they asked one another, blankly. The Scriptures were harsh in one part, but was the teaching to continue so after the Atonement? By degrees they came to reflect, and not in a mild spirit, that the kindest of men can be cruel, and will forget their Christianity toward offending and repentant women. f I I I idon gentle- Armstrong, nee, known 3 of Wrexby r the scene, e many days its human he festivity ottager, who it, with a 1 she stood moved away B, wished to ed the name ) kind a man ;he neglected became yio- ion, speaking by her side, straight over of the Adam say that he nt for the act nd the farmer her mother's reie strangely Dt fathom the eness, and in- one another, part, but was )uement ? By ild spirit, that 1 forget their it women. QUEEN ANNE's FARM 9 CHAPTEE II QUEEN Anne's farm Mrs. Fleming had a brother in London, who had run away from his Kentish home when a small boy, and found refuge at a Bank. The position of Anthony Hackbut in that celebrated establishment, and the degree of influence exercised by him there, were things unknown ; but he had stuck to the Bank for a great number of years, and he had once confessed to his sister that he was not a beggar. Upon these joint facts the farmer speculated, deducing from them that a man in a London Bank, holding money of his own, must have learnt the ways of turning it over — farming golden ground, as it were ; consequently, that amount must now have increased to a very considerable sum. You ask. What amount ? But one who sits brooding upon a pair of facts for years, with the imperturbable gravity of creation upon chaos, will be as successful in evoking the concrete from the abstract. The farmer saw round figures among the possessions of the family, and he assisted mentally in this money-turning of Anthony's, counted his gains for him, disposed his risks, and eyed the pile of visionary gold with an interest so* remote that he was almost correct in calling it disinterested. The brothers- in-law had a mutual plea of expense that kept them sepa- rate. When Anthony refused, on petition, to advance one hundred pounds to the farmer, ^.here was ill blood to divide them. Queen Anne's Farm riissed the flourishing point by one hundred pounds exactly. With that addition to its exchequer, it would have made head against its old enemy, Taxation, and started rejuvenescent. But the Radicals were in power to legislate and crush agriculture, and " I 've got a miser for my brother-in-law," said the farmer. Alas I the hundred pounds to back him, he could have sowed what he pleased, and when it pleased him, partially defying the capricious clouds and their treasures, and playing tunefully upon his land, his own land. Instead of which, and while too keenly aware that the one hundred would have made 10 RHODA FM<:MIN(} M excesses in any direction tributary to his pocket, the poor man ^'voancd at continuous falls of moisture, and when rain was prayed for in church, ho had to bo down on his knees, praying' heartily with the rest of the congregation. It was done, and bitter reproaches were cast upon Anthony for the enforced necessity to do it. On the occasion of his sister's death, Antliony informed his bereaved brother-in-law that he could not come down to follow the hearse as a mourner. " My jdace is one of great trust," he said, "and I cannot be spared." He offered, however, voluntarily to pay half the expenses of the fu- neral, stating the limit of the cost. It is unfair to sound any man's springs of action critically Avhile he is being tried I a sorrow; and the farmer's angry rejection of Anthony's offer of aid must pass. He remarked in his letter of reply, that his wife's funeral should cost no less than he chose to expend on it. He breathed indignant fumes against " interferences." He desired Anthony to know that he also was " not a beggar," and that he would not be treated as one. The letter showed a solid yeoman's fist. Farmer Fleming told his chums, and the shopkeeper of Wrexby, with whom he came into converse, that he would honour his dead wife up to his last penny. Some month or so afterward it was generally conjectured that lie had kept his word. Anthony's rejoinder was characterized by a marked hu- mility. He expressed contrition for the farmer's misun- derstanding of his motives. His fathomless conscience had plainly been reached. He wrote again, without waiting for an answer, speaking of the Funds indeed, but only to pronounce them worldly things, and hoping that they all might meet in heaven, where brotherly love, as well as money, was ready made, and not always in the next street. A hint occurred that it would be a gratification to him to be invited down, whether he could come or no ; for holi- days were expensive, and journeys by rail had to be thought over before they were undertaken ; and when you are away from your post, you never know who may be supplanting you. He did not promise that he could come, but frankly stated his susceptibility to the friendliness of an invitation. The feeling indulged by Farmer Fleming in refusing to noti the tene besii ful£ and The iiigi debt, unac( of th wond anytli ivill ( and t interv or lesj As i wrote that h where might world, , one of brothe frienc thony Who miser every whelkg a sight of all the mi he jokf gn ards and do "Hor& "theb that hi display 14 i QUEEN ANNE 8 FAllM 11 he poor leu rain s knees, It v:as lony for nformed doNvn to of great ! offered, if the fu- to sound is being lection of 2d in his st no less indignant ithony to ; he would L yeoman's liopkeeper e, that he ny. Some •ed that he larked Im- er's misun- science had ,ut waiting but only to lat tliey all as well as next street. a to him to ; for holi- 5 be thought ou are away supplanting but frankly m invitation, refusing to notice Anthony's advance toward a reconciliation, was, ou the wliolo, not creditable to him. Spite is more often fat- tened than propitiated by penitence. He may have thought besides (policy not being always a vacant space in revenge- ful acts) that Anthony was capable of something stronger and warmer, now that his luimauity had been aroused. The speculation is commonly perilous ; but Farmer Flem- ing had the desperation of a man who has run slightly into debt, and has heard the first din of dunning, which to the unaccustomed imagination is fearful as bankruptcy (shorn of the horror of the word). And, moreover, it was so wonderful to find Anthony displaying Jiumanity at all, that anything might be expected of him. " Let 's see what he ivill «lo," thought the farmer in an interval of his wrath ; and the wrath is very new which lias none of these cool intervals. The passions, do but watch them, are all more or less intermittent. As it chanced, lie acted sagaciously, for Anthony at last wrote to say that his home in Loudon was cheerless, and that he intended to move into fresh and airier lodgings, where the presence of a discreet young housekeeper, who might wish to see London, and make acquaintance with the world, would be agreeable to him. Plis project was that one of his nieces should fill this office, and he requested his brother-in-law to reflect on it, and to think of him as of a friend of the family, now and in the time to come. An- thony spoke of the seductions of London quite unctuously. Who could imagine this to be the letter of an old crabbed raiser ? " Tell her, " he said, " thsro 's fruit at stalls at every street-corner all the year through — oysters and whelks, if she likes — winkles, lots of pictures in shops — a sight of muslin and silks, and rides on omnibuses — bands of all sorts, and now and then we can take a walk to see the military on horseback, if she 's for soldiers." Indeed, he joked quite comically in speaking of the famous horse- gpards — warriors who sit on their horses to be looked at, and do not mind it, because they are trained so thoroughly. "Horse-guards blue, and horse-guards red," he wrote, — "the blue only want boiling." Tliere is reason to suppose that his disrespectful joke was not original in him, but it displayed his character in a fresh light. Of course, if either mpiv^wiiifg)) . j.-~.*iifc».' *VJB«g9Wl ' 8MW QUEEN ANNE S FARM 13 farmer 16 idea. ■f to this ,he other surpass- 3rance of uld amo- for the d seemed ._, to the ve of the and fat; mly indi- cries, the with the t old man )re Robert h him and remarked had much jondon, his as he ad- ings of the is condem- ies at last went up to he division letters was herself to !ommanded, autiful that ay from her eep the por- 1 showing it >tion subsid- kept secret, ly not with- in when the Rhoda lived of Dahlia's features, and her heart yearned to her uncle for so caring to decorate the lovely face. One day Rhoda was at her bed-room window, on the point of descending to encounter the daily dumpling, which was the principal and the unvarying item of the midday meal of the house, when she beheld a stranger trying to turn the handle of the iron gate. Her heart thumped. She divined correctly that it was her uncle. Dahlia had now been ab- sent for very many months, and Rhoda's growing fretful- ness sprang the conviction in her mind that something closer than letters must soon be coming. She ran down- stairs, and along the gravel-path. He was a little man, square-built, and looking as if he had worn to toughness ; with an evident Sunday suit on : black, and black gloves, though the day was only antecedent to Sunday. " Let me help you, sir," she said ; and her hands came in contact with his, and were squeezed. "How is my sister?" She had no longer any fear in asking. " Now, you let me through, first," he replied, imitating an arbitrary juvenile. " You 're as tight locked in as if you was in dread of all the thieves of London. You ain't afraid o' me, miss ? I 'm not the party generally outside of a fortification ; I ain't, I can assure j'^ou. I 'm a defence party, and a reg'lar lion when I 've got the law backing me." He spoke in a queer, wheezy voice, like a cracked flute, combined with the effect of an ill-resined fiddle-bow. "You are in the garden of Queen Anne's Farm," said Rhoda. " And you 're my pretty little niece, are you ? ' the darkie lass, ' as your father says. * Little ,' says I ; why, you need n't be ashamed to stand beside a grenadier. Trust the country for growing fine gals." " You are my uncle, then ? " said Rhoda. " Tell me how my sister is. Is she well ? Is she quite happy?" " Dahly ? " returned old Anthony, slowly. "Yes, yes; my sister!" Rhoda looked at him with distressful eagerness. "Now, don't you be uneasy about your sister Dahly." Old Anthony, as he spoke, fixed his small brown eyes M Mftm w i ' i" ■ ■ ^ W " 14 KHODiV FLE^ITNG I on the girl, and seemed immediately to have departed far away in speculation. A question recalled him. '' Is her health good ? " "Ay stomach's good, head's good, lungs, brain, what not, all good. She 's a bit giddy, that 's all." "In her head?" . , ^^ , , "Ay; and on her pins. Never you mind. You look a steady one, my dear. I shall take to you, I think." " But my sister — " Khoda was saying, when the farmer came out, and sent a greeting from the threshold, — "Brother Tony!" "Here he is, brother William John." "Surely, and so he is, at last," The farmer walked up to him with his hand out. "And it ain't too late, I hope. Eh ? " "It 's never too late — to mend," said the farmer. "Eh? not my manners, eh?" Anthony struggled to keep up the ball; and in this way they got over the confu- sion of the meeting after many years and some differences. "Made acquaintance with Ehoda, I see," said the farmer, as they turned to go in. "The ' darkie lass ' you write of. She 's like a coal nigh a candle. She looks, as you 'd say, ' t' other side of her sister.' Yes, we 've had a talk." "Just in time for dinner, brother Tony. We ain't got much to offer, but what there is is at your service. Step aside with me." The farmer got Anthony out of hearing a moment, ques- tioned, and was answered; after which he looked less anxious, but a trifle perplexed, and nodded his head as Anthony occasionally lifted his, to enforce certain points in some halting explanation. You would have said that a debtor was humbly putting his case in his creditor's ear, and could only now and then summon courage to meet the censorious eyes. They went in to Mrs. Sumfit's shout that the dumplings were out of the pot: old Anthony bowed upon the announcement of his name, and all took seats. But it was not the same sort of dinner-hour as that which the inhabitants of the house were accustomed to; there was conversation. The farmer asked Anthony by what conveyance he had M QUEEN ANXE S FARM IC, ted far n, what 1 look a i farmer liked up 3r. ggled to he confu- fferences. e farmer, coal nigli ie of her ain't got ice. Step ent, ques- >oked less s head as ain points said that a itor's ear, ,0 meet the shout that ony bowed book seats, that which . to; there ince he had come. Anthony shyly, Imt not without evident self- approbation, related how, having oome by the train, he got into conversation with the driver of a fly at a station, who advised him of a cart that would he passing near Wrexby. For threepennyworth of beer, he had got a friendly intro- duction to the carman, who took Iiim within two miles of the farm for one shilling, a distance of fifteen miles. That was pretty good. " Home pork, brother Tony,'' said the farmer, approvingly. "And home-made bread, too, brother William John," said Anthony, becoming brisk. "Ay, and the beer, such as it is." The farmer drank and sighed. Anthony tried the beer, remarking, "That's good beer; it don't cost much." "It ain't adulterated. T>y what I read of your London . 3er, this stuff 's not so bad, if you bear in mind it 's pure. Pure 's my motto. ' Pure , though ])oor ! ' " "Up there, you pay for rank poison," said Anthony. "So, what do I do ? 1 drink water and thank 'em, that 's wise. j> "Saves stomach and purse." The farmer put a little stress on "purse." "Yes, I calculate I save threepence a day in beer alone," said Anthony. "Three times seven 's twenty-one, ain't it?" Mr. Fleming said this, and let out his elbow in a snail perplexity, as Anthony took him up: "And fifty -two times twenty-one ? " "Well, that 's, that's — how much is that, Mas* Gam- mon ? " the farmer asked in a bellow. Master Oammon was laboriously and steadily engaged in tightening himself with dumpling. He relaxed his exer- tions sufficiently to take this new burden on his brain, and immediately cast it off. "Ah never thinks when T feeds — Ah was al'ays a bad hand at 'counts. Gi'es it up." "Why, you 're like a horse that never was rode! Try again, old man," said the farmer. "If I drags a cart," Master Gammon replied, "that ain't no reason why I should leap a gate." I! ^ 16 EHODA FLEMING The farmer felt that he was worsted as regarded the irustratioii, and with a bit of the boy's fear of the peda- gogue, he fought Anthony off by still pressing the arith- medcal problem upon Master Gammon, until the old man, goaded to exasperation, rolled out thunderingly, •— "If I works fer ye, that ain't no reason why I should think fer ye," which caused him to be left in peace. "Eh Robert?" the farmer transferred the question. "Come'l whatisit?" , •■, a .-u ^ i, ^ Kobert begged a minute's delay, while Anthony watched him with hawk eyes. . , t. , "I tell you what it is — it 's pounds," said Kobert. This tickled Anthony, who let him escape, crying: ''Capital! Pounds it is in your pocket, sir, and you hit that neatly, I will say. Let it be five. You out with your five at interest, compound interest; soon comes another five; treat it the same: in ten years — eh ? and then you get into figures i you swim in figures!" " I should think you did! " said the farmer, winking slyly. Anthony caught the smile, hesitated and looked shrewd, and then covered his confusion by holding his plate to Mrs. Sumfit for a help. The manifest evasion and mute decla- ration that dumpling said " mum " on that head, gave the farmer a quiet glow. "When you are ready to tell me all about my darlin', sir," Mrs. Sumfit suggested, coaxingly. "After dinner, mother — after dinner," said the farmer. "And we're waitin*, are we, till them dumplings is finished ?" she exclaimed, piteously, with a glance at Mas- ter Gammon's plate. "After dinner we '11 have a talk, mother." Mrs. Sumfit feared from this delay that there was queer news to be told of Dahlia's temper; but she longed for the narrative no whit the less, and again cast a sad eye on the leisurely proceedings of Master Gammon. The veteran was still calmly tightening. His fork was on end, with a vast mouthful impaled on the prongs. Master Gammon, a thoughtful eater, was always last at the meal, and a latent, deep-lying irritation at Mrs. Sumfit for her fidgetiness, day after day, toward the finish of the dish, added a relish to his engulfing of the monstrous morsel. He looked at her st then '. "You Mrs the soi "I f "Lord and be prickei Londoi and on things The knife a Gammc sounde( -N"o hun demons he had strained "Wh( Thus knife a^ eyelids, "Wh( After Mrs. But space, and mov in the d deemini him to Thev buttons went fo parties, Gammoi to speak dolefuln take a p d the peda- arith- L man, bould Bstion. atched t. jrying: ^ou hit bh your mother len you g slyly. shrewd, to Mrs. e decla- rave the darlin' , farmer, plings is } at Mas- v^as queer ;d for the ye on the } veteran id, with a ammon, a I a latent, iness , day i a relish looked at QUEEN ANNE'S FARM 17 I 4 her steadily, like an ox of the fields, and consumed it, and then holding his plate out, in a remorseless way, said, "You make 'em so good, marm." Mrs. Sumfit, fretted as she was, was not impervious to the sound sense of the remark, as well as to the compliment. "I don't want to hurry you, Mas' Gammon," she said; "Lord knows, I like to see you and everybody eat his full and be thankful; but, all about my Dahly waitin', — I feel pricked wi' a pin all over, I do; and there 's my blessed in London," she answered, "and we knowin' nothin' of her, and one close by to tell me ! I never did feel what slow things dumplin's was, afore now! " The kettle simmered gently on the hob. Every other knife and fork was silent; so was every tongue. Master Gammon ate and the kettle hummed. Twice Mrs. Sumfit sounded a despairing, "Oh, deary me! " but it was useless. No human power had ever yet driven Master Gammon to a demonstration of haste or to any acceleration of the pace he had chosen for himself. At last, she was not to be re- strained from crying out, almost tearfully, — "When do you think you '11 have done, Mas' Gammon?" Thus pointedly addressed. Master Gammon laid down his knife and fork. He half raised his ponderous, curtaining eyelids, and replied, — " When I feels my buttons, marm." After which he deliberately fell to work again. Mrs. Sumfit dropped back in her chair as from a blow. But even dumplings, though they resist so doggedly for a space, do ultimately submit to the majestic march of Time, and move. Master Gammon cleared his plate. There stood in the dish still half a dumpling. The farmer and Rhoda, deeming that there had been a show of inhospitality, pressed him to make away with this forlorn remainder. The vindictive old man, who was as tight as dumpling and buttons could make him, refused it in a drooping tone, and went forth, looking at none. Mrs. Sumfit turned to all parties, and begged them to say what more, to please Master Gammon, she could have done? When Anthony was ready to speak of her Dahlia, she obtruded this question in utter dolefulness. Kobert was kindly asked by the farmer to take a pipe among them. Rhoda put a chair for him, but »«♦* — .. . -—'jstr- 18 RHODA FLEMING .'Ik '/ he thanked them both, and said he ooiihl not negeet some work to be dono in tlie tiehls. Slie thought that he feared pain from hearing Dahlia's name, and followed him with her eyes eoinraiseratingly. „ „ • , "Does that young fellow attend to business?" said Anthony. , , , , The farmer praised Kobert as a rare hand, but one affected with bees in his nightcap, —who had ideas of his own about farming, and was obstinate with them; "pays you due resi)ect, but 's got a notion as how his way of thinking 's better 'n his seniors. It 's the style now with all young folks. Makes a butt of old Mas' Gammon; laughs at the old man. It ain't respectful t' age, I say. Gammon don't understand nothing about new feeds for sheep, and dam nonsense about growing such things as melons, fiddle- faddle, for 'em. Robert 's a beginner. What he knows, I taught the young fellow. Then, my question is, where 's his ideas come from, if they're contrary to mine? If they 're contrary to mine, they 're contrary to my teaching. Well, then, what are they worth? He can't see that. He 's a good one at work — I '11 say so much for him." Old Anthony gave Rhoda. a pat on the shoulder. CHAPTER III SUGGESTS THE MIGHT OF THE MONEY DEMON "Pipes in the middle of the day's regular revelry," ejac- ulated Anthony , whose way of holding the curved pipe-stem displayed a mind bent on reckless enjoyment, and said as much as a label issuing from his mouth, like a figure in a comic woodcut of the old style: "that 's," he pursued, — " that 's if you have n't got to lock up at the clock every two minutes, as if the devil was after you. But, sitting here, you know, the afternoon 's a long evening; nobody 's your master. You can on wi' your slippers, up wi' your legs, talk, or go for'ard, counting, twicing, and threetimesing; by George! I should take to drinking beer if I had my pew s( of savi whistl there ' and w] there c and a ] The iraproh give th of his 5 brain, Surafit knee, d eyes to dering j Rhod "Ko^^ "I'll got such got." Theg "Oh," His w had eno his extrj hint, was not and smai "Ah! holiday "Wh "I sh self in ; at 'em Spaniar cans — . rj If I like! more, I THE MIGHT OF THE MONEY DEMON 19 some eared with ' said it one of his " pays vay of dth all laughs wnmon jp, and iiddle- iiows , T /here 's le? If laching. ;. He's •y )" ejac- ipe-stem said as gure in a rsued , — very two in g here, ly 's your rour legs, timesing; : had my .'i I afternoons to myself in the city, just for the sake of sitting and doing sums in a tap-room; if it 's a bi^c tap-room , with pew sort o' places, and dark red curtains, a fire, and a smell of sawdust, ale, and tobacco, and a boy going by outside whistling a tune of the day. Somebody comes in. *Ah, there 's an idle old chap,' he says to himself (meaning me), and where, I should like to ask him, 'd his head be if he sat there dividing two hundred and fifty thousand by forty-five and a half ! " The farmer nodded encouragingly. He thought it not improbable that a short operation with these numbers would give the sum in Anthonj^'s possession, the exact calculation of his secret hoard, and he set to work to stamp them on his brain, which rendered him absent in manner, while Mrs. Sumfit mixed liquor with hot water, and pushed at his knee, doubling in her enduring lips, and lengthening her eyes to aim a side-glance of reprehension at Anthony's wan- dering loquacity. llhoda could bear it no more. "Now let me hear of my sister, uncle," she said. "I'll tell you what," Anthony responded, "she hasn't got such a pretty sort of a sweet blackbirdy voice as you 've got." The girl blushed scarlet. "Oh, she can mount them colours, too," said Anthony. His way of speaking of Dahlia indicated that he and she had enough of one another; but of the peculiar object of his extraordinary visit not even the farmer had received a hint. Mrs. Sumfit ventured to think aloud that his grog was not stiff enough, but he took a gulp under her eyes, and smacked his lips after it in a most convincing manner. "Ah! that stuff wouldn't do for me in London, half- holiday or no half-holiday," said Anthony. " Why not ? " the farmer asked. " I should be speculating — deep — could n't hold ray- self in : Mexicans, Peroovians, Venzeshoolians, Spaniards, at 'em I should go. I see bonds in all sorts of colours, Spaniards in black and white, Peruvians — orange, Mexi- cans — red as the British army. Well, it 's just my whim. If I like red, I go at red. I ain't a bit of reason. What 's more, I never speculate." »*' I wmsi mm 20 RHODA FLEMING , r I .'. f I!'! ** M "Why that 's safest, brother Tony," said the farmer. "And safe's my game — always was, always will be! Do vou think" — Anthony sucked his grog to the sugar- dregs, till the spoon settled on his nose — "do you think I sliould hold the position I do hold, be trusted as I am trusted? Ah! you don't know much about that. Should I have money placed in my hands, do you think — and it 's thousands at a time, gold, and notes, and cheques — if I was a risky chap? I 'm known to be thoroughly respec- table. Five and forty years I 've been in Boyne's Bank, and thank ye, ma'am, grog don't do no harm down here. And I will take another glass. k? The ^n. And, ,, and the appealed to Rhoda to speak up for her sister. Elioda sat in quiet reserve. She was sure her sister must bo justified in all she did ; but the picture of the old man coming from his work every night to take liis tea quite alone made her sad. She found herself unable to speak, and as she did not, ISIys. Sumfit had an acute twinge from her recently trodden foot, and called her some bitter names : which was not an unusual case, for the kind old woman could be querulous, and belonged to the list of those whose hearts are as scales, so that they love not one person devotedly without a corresponding spirit of opposition to another. Rhoda merely smiled. By-and-by, the women left the two men alone. Anthony turned and struck the farmer's knee. "You've got a jewel in that gal, brother William John." " Eh ! she 's a good enough lass. Not much of a mana- ger, brother Tony. Too much of a thinker, I reckon. She 's got a temper of her own too. I 'm a bit hurt, brother Tony, about that other girl. She must leave London, if she don't alter. It 's flightiness ; that 's all. You must n't think ill of poor Dahly. She was always the pretty one, and when they know it, they act up to it : she was her mother's favourite." " Ah ! poor Susan ! an upright woman before the Lord." " She was," said the farmer, bowing his head. " And a good wife," Anthony interjected. " None better — never a better ; and I wish she was living to look after her girls." " I came through the churchyard, hard by," said Anthony ; " and I read that writing on her tombstone. It went like a choke in my throat. The first person I saw next was her child, this young gal you call Rhoda; and, thinks I to my- self, you might ask me, I 'd do anything for ye — that I could, of course." The farmer's eye had lit up, bat became overshadowed by the characteristic reservation. "Nobody 'd ask you to do nioro tlan you could," he remarked, rather coldly. "It '11 never be much," sighed Anthony. " Well, the world '«? nothing, if you come to look at it 'ifit {I close; " the farmer adopted a similar tone. mmn rwaw mmm* .r 24 RHODA FLEMING I "What 's money! " said Anthony. Tlie farmer immediately resumed his this-worldliness, — "Well, it's fine to go about asking us poor devils to answer ye that," he said, and chuckled, conceiving that he had nailed Anthony down to a partial confession of his ownership of some worldly goods. , , , "What do you call having money ?" observed the latter, clearly in the trap. " Fifty thousand ? " " Whew I " went the farmer, as at a big draught of powerful stuff. "Ten thousand?" Mr. Fleming took this second gulp almost contemptu- ously, but still kindly. "Come," quoth Anthony, "ten thousand 's not so mean, you know. You 're a gentleman on ten thousand. So, on five. I '11 tell ye, many a gentleman M be glad to own it. Lor' bless you! But, you know nothing of the world, brother William John. Some of 'em have n't one — ain't so rich as you!" "Or yov, brother Tony ?" The farmer made a grasp at his will-o'-the-wisp. " Oh ! me ! " Anthony sniggered. " I 'm a scraper of odds and ends. I pick up things in the gutter. Mind you, those Jews ain't such fools, though a curse is on 'em, to wander forth. Th(^y know the meaning of the multiplica- tion table. They can turn fractions into whole numbers. No ; I 'm not to be compared to gentlemen. My property 's my respectability. I said that at the beginning, and I say it now. But, I '11 tell you what, brother William John, it's an emotion when you've got bags of thousands of pounds in your arms." Ordinarily, the farmer was a sensible man, as straight on the level of dull intelligence as other men; but so cred- ulous was he in regard to the riches possessed by his wife's brother, that a very little tempted him to childish exagger- ation of the probable amount. Now that Anthony himself furnished the incitement, he was quite lifted from the earth. He had, besides, taken more of the strong mixture than he was ever accustomed to take in the middle of the day; and as it seemed to him that Anthony was really about to be seduced into a particular statement of the exten Anth( his hi tivoly reckoi as mi to say the dj money style done, '. aimed Mom no subi thing, ( like sui a forced on thir lying d( all like] or, safe] him and after hi make ca whichev Farmer dour, tl even twl heiressej having up a wai grubbinj died to he coulc shouldei well-cold Life Ins age. T] with a civil-spc seems tl ^1^^ I THE MIGHT OF THE MONEY DEMON 26 less, — vils to that he of his ! latter, ight of temptu- lo mean, So, on ) own it. B world, 5 — ain't grasp at jr of odds ind you, n 'em, to ultiplica- numbers. roperty 's and I say am John, usands of s straight it so cred- his wife's h exagger- ny himself from the ig mixture Idle of the was really lent of the extent of the property which formed his respectability (as Anthony had chosen to put it), he got up a little game ia his head by guessing how much the amount might posi- tively be, so that he could subsequently compare his shrewd reckoning with the avowed fact. He tamed his wild ideas as much as possible; thought over what his wife ust'd to say of Anthony's saving ways from boyhood, thought of the dark hints of the Funds, of many bold strokes for money made by sagacious persons; of Anthony's close style of living, and of the lives of celebrated misers ; this done, he resolved to make a sure guess, and therefore aimed below the mark. Money, when the imagination deals with it thus, has no substantial relation to mortal affairs. It is a tricksy thing, distending and contracting as it dances in the mind , like sunlight on the ceiling cast from a morning tea-cup, if a forced simile will aid the conception. The farmer struck on thirty thousand and some odd hundred pounds — out- lying debts, or so, excluded — as what Anthony's will, in all likelihood, would be sworn under: say, thirty thousand, or, safer, say, *^wenty thousand. Bequeathed — how? To him and to his children. But to the children in reversion after his decease? Or how? In any case, they might make capital marriages ; and the farm estate should go to whichever of the two young husbands he liked the best. Farmer Fleming asked not for any life of ease and splen- dour, though thirty thousand pounds was a fortune; or even twenty thousand. Noblemen have stooped to marry heiresses owning no more than that! The idea of their having done so actually shot across him , and his heart sent up a warm spring of tenderness toward the patient, good , grubbing old fellow, sitting beside him, who had lived and died to enrich and elevate the family. At the same time, he could not refrain from thinking that Anthony, broad- shouldered as he was, though bent, sound on his legs, and well-coloured for a Londoner, would be accepted by any Life Insurance office, at a moderate rate, considering his age. The farmer thought of his own health, and it was with a pang that he fancied himself being probed by the civil-speaking Life Insurance doctor (a gentleman who seems to issue upon us applicants from out the muffled I ' :2Kjm mm ^ ^ m ■■■ill lllll 26 RHODA FLEMING ^il ,1 ; > It*' ' f folding doors of Hades; taps us on the chest, once, twice, and forthwith writes down our fateful dates). Probably, Anthony would not have to pay a higlier rate of interest than he. "Are you insured, brother Tony?" the question escaped "No, I ain't, brother William John; " Anthony went on nodding like an automaton set in motion. " There 's two sides to that. I 'm a long-lived man. Long-lived men don't insure; that is, unless they 're fools. That 's how the Offices thrive." "Case of accident ? " the farmer suggested. "Oh! nothing happens to me," re^jlied Anthony. The farmer jumped on his legs, and yawned. "Shall we take a turn in the garden, brother Tony?" "With all my heart, brother William John." The farmer had conscience to be ashamed of the fit of irritable vexation which had seized on him; and it was not till Anthony, being asked the date of his birth, had de- clared himself twelve years his senior, that the farmer felt his speculations to be justified. Anthony was nearly a generation ahead. They walked about, and were seen from the windows touching one another on the shoulder in a brotherly way. When they came back to the women, and tea, the farmer's mind was cooler, and all his reckon- ings had gone to mist. He was dejected over his tea. " What is the matter, father ? " said Ehoda. "I'll tell you, my dear," Anthony replied for him. "He 's envying me some one I want to ask me that question when I 'm at my tea in London." CHAPTEU IV TnE TKXT FROM SrRTPTURE Mr. Fleming kept his forehead from his daughter's good-night kiss until the room was cleared, after supper, and then, embracing her very heartily, he informed her that her uncle had offered to pay her expenses on a visit to Lon had to t drea ende and were Avhat the V give hims( tatior allure insigl Rhodj listen! "Y( If IC( one to "Da Khoda "Ay every i But,' tl housek one of And ii societj? glass o sort o' to you mayha Perret/ equals] TJie vindicj daughf tion; i| nestlj'- RhoJ looking THE TEXT FROM S(^RIPTrTRE 27 :wice, 3ably, iterest scaped ent on 's two d men tow the ^y 9" le fit of was not had de- farmer s nearly ere seen Dulder in women, i reckon- tea. for him. ; question laughter's er supper, ed her that a visit to London, by which he contrived to hint that a gohlen path had opened to his girl, and at the same time entreated her to think nothing of it ; to dismiss all expectations and dreams of impossible suras from hor mind, and simply to endeavour to please her uncle, avIio had a right to his own, and a right to do what he liked with his own, though it were forty, fifty times as much as he possessed — and what that might amount to no one knew. In fact, as is the way with many experienced persons, in his attempt to give advice to another, he was very impressive in lecturing iiimself, and warned that other not to succumb to a temp- tation principally l)y indicating the natural basis of the allurement. Hai)pily for young and for old, the intense insight of the young has much to distract or soften it. lihoda thanked her father, and chose to think that she had listened to good and wis 3 things. "Your sister," he said — "but we won't speak of her. If I could part with you, my lass, I 'd rather she was the one to come back. " "Dahlia would be killed by our quiet life now," said llhoda. "Ay," the farmer mused. "If she 'd got to pay six men every Saturday night;, she would n't complain o' the quiet. But, there! — you neither of you ever took to farming or to housekeeping; but any gentleman might be proud to have one of you for a wife. I said so when you was girls. And if you 've been dull, my dear, what 's the good o' society? Tea-cakes may n't seem to cost money, nor a glass o' grog to neighbours ; but once open the door to that sort o' thing and your reckoning goes. And what I said to your poor mother's true. I said: Our girls, they're mayhap not equals of the Hollands, the Nashaws, the Ferrets, and the others about here — no ; they 're not equals, because the others are not equals o' them., maybe." The yeoman's pride struggled out in this obscure way to vindicate his unneighbourliness and the seclusion of his daughters from the society of girls of their age and condi- tion; nor was it hard for Khoda to assure him, as she ear- nestly did, that he had acted rightly. Ehoda, assisted by Mrs. Sumfit, was late in the night looking up what poor decorations she possessed wherewith hi \' >l "^sm RHODA FLElVnNG k t I \ n to enter London, and be worthy of her sister's embrace, so that she might not shock the lady Dahlia had become. "Depend you on it, my dear," said Mrs. Sumfit, "my Dahly 's grown above him. That 's nettles to your uncle, 'ny dp^f. He can't abide it. Don't you see he can't? Some men 's like that. Others 'd see you dressed like a princess, and not be satisfied. They vary so, the teasin' creatures! But one and all, whether they likes it or not, owns a woman 's the better for bein' dressed in the fashion. What do grieve me to my insidest heart, it is your bonnet. What a bonnet that was lying beside her dear round arm in the po'trait. and her finger up making a dimple in her cheek, as if she was thinking of us in a sorrowful way. That 's the arts o' being lady-like — look sad-like. How could we get a bonnet for you ? " " My own must do^ " said Rhoda. " Yes, and you to look like lady and servant-gal a-goin* out for an airin'; and she to feel it! Pretty, that *d be! " "She won't be ashamed of me," Rhoda faltered; and then hummed a little tune, and said firmly, "It 's no use my trying to look like what I 'm not." "No, truly," Mrs. Sumfit assented. "But it's your bein' behind the fashions what hurt me. As well you might be an old thing like me, for any pleasant looks you '11 git. Now, the country — you 're like in a coal-hole, for the matter o' that. While London, my dear, its pave- ment and gutter, and omnibus traffic; and if you 're not in the fashion, the little wicked boys of the streets themselves '11 let you know it; they 've got such eyes for fashions, they have. And I don't want my Dahly's sister to be laughed at, and called * coal-scuttle,' as happened to me, my dear, believe it or not, and shoved aside, and said to, * Who are you? ' For she reely is nice-looking. Your uncle Anthony and Mr. Robert agreed upon that." Rhoda coloured, and said, after a time, " It would please me if people did n't speak about my looks." The looking-glass probably told her no more than that she was nice to the eye ; but a young man who sees any- thing should not see like a mirror, and a girl's instinct whispers to her, that her image be j not been taken to heart when she is accurately and impartially described by him. T] wan time dark eyes; the c after extre Rhod a hea chin, mind knew bright that h figure knowl is wan girl th out en she pn the bac But spirit that nij ing tui the lai blue hj which Atbl necess£ exactly He me stances similai catchii feel hij it. I Mind, with i| trains.! iili THE TEXT PROM SCRIPTURE 29 ,ce, so "my uncle, can't? like a teasin' or not, ishion. Donnet. arm in in her il way. How a-goin' dbel" ed; and no use s your rell you at looks oal-hole, its pave- re not in emselves Eashions, er to be id to me, I said to, our uncle lid please than that sees any- 3 instinct n to heart by him. The key to Rhoda at this period was a desire to be made warm with praise of her person. She beheld her face at times, and shivered. The face was so strange with its dark, thick eyebrows, and peculiarly straight-gazing brown eyes; the level, long, red under-lip and curved upper; and the chin and nose, so unlike Dahlia's, whose nose was, after «, little dip from the forehead, one soft line to its extremity, and whose chin seemed shaped to a cup. Rhoda's outlines were harder. There was a suspicion of a heavenward turn to her nose, and of squareness to her chin. Her face, when studied, inspired in its owner's mind a doubt of her being even nice to the eye, though she knew that in exercise, and when smitten by a blush, brightness and colour aided her claims. She knew also that her head was easily poised on her neck, and that her figure was reasonably good; but all this was unconfirmed knowledge, quickly shadowed by the doubt. As the sun is wanted to glorify the right features of a landscape, this girl thirsted for a dose of golden flattery. She felt, with- out envy of her sister, that Dahlia eclipsed her; and all she prayed for was that she might not be quite so much in the background and obscure. But great, powerful London — the new universe to her spirit — was opening its arms to her. In her half sleep that night she heard the mighty thunder of the city, crash- ing tumults of disordered harmonies, and the splendour of the lamp-lighted city appeared to hang up under a dark- blue heaven, removed from earth, like a fresh planet to which she was being beckoned. At breakfa: t, on the Sunday morning, her departure was necessarily spoken of in public. Robert talked to her exactly as he had talked to Dahlia, on the like occasion. He mentioned; as she remembered in one or two in- stances, the names of the same streets, and professed a similar anxiety as regarded driving her to the station and catching the train. "That 's a thing which makes a man feel his strength's nothing," he said. "You can't stop it. I fancy I could stop a four-in-hand at full gallop. Mind, I only fancy I could; but when you come to do with iron and steam, I feel like a baby. You can't stop trains." m L 30 RHODA FLEMING f . i t h 1 !' I «Vf on can trip 'em," said Anthony, a remark that called forth general laughter, and increased the impression that he wa.? a man of resources. Khoda was vexed by Kobert's devotion to his strength. She was "oing, and wished to go, but she wished io be re- gretted as" well; and she looked at him more. He, on the contrary, scarcely looked at her at all. He threw verbal turnips, oats, oxen, poultry, and every possible melancholy matter-of-fact thing, about the table, described the farm and his fondness for it and the neighbourhood; said a farmer's life was best, and gave lihoda a week in which to be tired of Londoii. ,.-,,, She sneered in her soul, thinking "how little he knows of the constancy in the nature of women! " adding, ^'ichen they form attachments." Anthony was shown at church, in spite of a feeble inti- mation he expressed, that it would be agreeable to him to walk about in the March sunshine, and see the grounds and the wild flowers, which never gave trouble, nor cost a penny, and were always pretty, and worth twenty of your artificial contriv i." os. "Same as I say to Miss Dahly," he took occasion to re- mark; "bu^, no! — no good. I don't believe women hear ye when you talk sense of that kind. ' Look,' says T, 'at a violet.' 'Look,' says she, 'at a rose.' Well, what can ye say after that? She swears the rose looks best. You swear the violet costs least. Then there you have a battle between what it costs and how it looks." Robert pronounced a conventional affirmative, when called on for it by a look from Anthony. Whereupon Rhoda cried out, — "Dahlia was right, — she was right, uncle." "She was right, my dear, if she was a ten-thousander. She was n't right as a farmer's daughter with poor expec- tations, — I 'd say humble, if humble she were. As a farm- er's daughter, she should choose the violet side. That 's clear as day. One thing 's good, I admit; she tells me she makes her own bonnets, and they 're as good as milliners', and that 's a proud matter to say of your own niece. And to buy dresses for herself, I suppose, she 's sat down and she made dresses for fine ladies. I 've found her at it. THE TEXT FROM SCIUPTLTRE 31 * Save the money for the work,' says I. What does she reply, — she always has a reply: ' Uii(;le, I know the valne of money better.' ' You mean, you spend it,' I says to her. ' I buy more than it's worth,' says she. And I '11 tell you what, Mr. Kobert Armstrong, as I find your name to be, sir ; if you beat women at talking, my lord ! you 're a clever chap." Robert laughed. "I give in at the first mile." " Don't think much of women — is that it, sir ? " "I 'ra glad to say I don't think of them at all." "Do you think of one woman, now, Mr. Eobert Arm- strong ? " " I 'd much rather think of two." " And why, may I ask ? " "It's safer." "Now, I don't exactly see that," said Anthony. "You set one to tear the other," Robert explained. "You're a Grand Turk Mogul in your reasonings of women, Mr. Robert Armstrong. I hope as your morals are sound, sir ? " They were on the road to church, but Robert could not restrain a swinging outburst. He observed that he hoped likewise that his morals were sound. "Because," said Anthony, "do you see, sir, two wives — " "No, no; one wife," interposed Robert. "You said * think about; ' T 'd ' think about ' any number of women, if I was idle. But the woman you mean to make your wife, you go to at once, and don't * think about ' her or the question either." " You make sure of her, do you, sir ? " "No: I try my luck; that is all." "Suppose she won't have ye ?" "Then I wait for her." " Suppose she gets married to somebody else ? " " Well, you know, I should n't cast eye on a woman who was a fool." " Well, upon my — " Anthony checked his exclamation, returning to the charge with, " Just suppose, for the sake of supposing — supposing she was a fool, and gone and got I m i Ni fl ^ KHODA FLEMING married, and you thrown back'ard on one leg, starin' at the other, stupefied-like?" . , ,, , . «« v > "I don't mind supposing it," said Kobert. "Say, she s a fool Her being a fool argues that I was one in making a fool's choice. So, she jilts me, and I get a pistol, or I get a neat bit of rope, or I take a clean header with a cannon- ball at my heels, or I go to the chemist's and ask for stuff to poison rats, — anything a fool 'd do under the circum- stances, it don't matter what." Old Anthony waited for Rhoda to jump over a stile, and said to her, — « „ " He laughs at the whol'^ lot of ye.' " Who ? " she asked, v h betraying cheeks. "This Mr. Robert Armstrong of yours." "Of mine, uncle! " "He don't seem to care a snap o' the finger for any of ye." "Then, none of us must care for him, uncle." "Now, just the contrary. That always shows a young fellow who 's attending to his business. If he 'd seen you boil potatoes, make dumplins, beds, tea, all that, you 'd have had a chance. He 'd have marched up to ye before you was off to London." " Saying, ' You are the woman. ' " Rhoda was too desper- ately tickled by the idea to refrain from uttering it, though she was angry, and suffering internal discontent. "Or else, * You are the cook,' " she muttered, and shut, with the word, steel bars across her heart, calling him, men- tally, names not justified by anything he had said or done, — such as mercenary, tyrannical, and such like. Robert was attentive to her in church. Once she caught him with his eyes on her face ; but he betrayed no confu- sion, and looked away at the clergyman. When the text was given oat, he found the place in his Bible, and handed it to her pointedly, — " There shall be snares and traps unto you; " a line from Joshua. She received the act as a polite parting civility ; but when she was coming out of church, Robert saw that a blush swept over her face, and wondered what thoughts could be rising within her, unaware that girls catch certain meanings late, and suffer a fiery torture when these meanings are clear to them. Rhoda called up the pr man w colour But m( which finger i whole 1 her vis ignoran deep in ral actii them up When scarcely ] station a: don, whid anticipati the watei became n her the a spect, unj concern in] representf ing durinJ who can ] principle,] overmatcl so the cal language uncle styj edly of d| a season. Anthony' J THE SISTEBS MEET 33 and the pride of her womanhood that she might despise the man who had dared to distrust her. She kept her poppy- colour throughout the day, so sensitive was this pride. But most she was angered, after reflection, by the doubts which Kobert appeared to cast on Dahlia, in setting his finger upon that burning line of Scripture. It opened a whole black kingdom to her imagination, and first touched her visionary life with shade. She was sincere in her ignorance that the doubts were her own, but they lay deep in unawakened recesses of the soul ; it was by a natu- ral action of her reason that she transferred and forced them upon him who had chanced to make them visible. r any CHAPTER V young an you you'd before lesper- ;hough "Or with men- r done, caught confu- le text handed ps unto a polite church, Dndered re that torture illed up THE SISTERS MEET When young minds are set upon a distant object, they scarcely live for anything about them. The drive to the station and the parting with Eobert, the journey to Lon- don, which had latterly seemed to her secretly-distressed anticipation like a sunken city — a place of wonder with the waters over it — all passed by smoothly ; and then it became necessary to call a cabman, for whom, as he did her the service to lift her box, Rhoda felt a gracious re- spect, until a quarrel ensued between him and her uncle concerning sixpence, —a poor sum, as she thought; but representing, as Anthony impressed upon her understand- ing during the conflict of hard words, a principle. Those who can persuade themselves that they are fighting for a principle, fight strenuously, and may be reckoned upon to overmatch combatants on behalf of a miserable small coin ; so the cabman went away discomfited. He used such bad language that Rhoda had no pity for him, and hearing her uncle style it "the London tongue," she thought dispirit- edly of DaLlia's having had to listen to it through so long a season. Dahlia was not at home; but Mrs. Wicklow, Anthony's landlady, undertook to make Rhoda comfort- 3 h •SSSmiS^ 34 KIIODA FI.EMINC! ■ \ J able, wl.icli operation slie began by praising dark young lulies over fair ones, at tlie same time shaking Klioda's arm, tliat slus might not lail to see a conii)liment was in- tended. " This is our London way," she said. IJut Khoda was most disconcerted wlien she heard Mrs. Wicklow rehite that her daughter and Dahlia w(!re out together, and say that she had no doul)t they had lound some pleasant and attentive gentleman for a companion, if they had not gone purposely to meet one. Her thoughts of her sister were perplexed, and London seemed a gigantic net around them both. . , , . , , „ . -. "Yes, that's the habit with the girls up here," said Anthony; "that's wliat line bonnets mean." llhoda dropped into a bitter dejjth of brooding. The savage nature of her virgin pride was such that it gave her great suffering even to sui)pose that a strange gentleman would dare to address her sister, i^he half-fashioned the words on her lips that she had dreamed of a false Zion, and was being righteously punished. By-and-by the land- lady's daughter returned home alone, saying, with a dreadful laugh, that Dahlia had senther for her Bible; but she wonld give no exidanation of the singular mission whicli had been entrusted to her, and she showed no will- ingness to attempt to fulfil it, merely repeating, "Her Bible!" with a vulgar exhibition of simulated scorn that caused Rhoda to shrink from her, though she would gladly have poured cut a multitude of questions in the ear of one who had last been with her beloved. After a Avhile, Mrs. Wicklow looked at the clock, and instantly became over- clouded with an extreme gravity. "Eleven! and she sent Mary Ann home for her Bible. This looks bad. I call it hyi^ocritical, the idea of mention- ing the Bible. Now, if she had said to Mary Ann, Go and fetch any other book but a Bible! " "It was mother's Bible," interposed Ehoda. Mrs. Wicklow replied : " And I wish all young women to be as innocent as you, my dear. You '11 get you to bed. You 're a dear, mild, sweet, good young woman. I 'm never deceived in character." Vaunting her penetration, she accompanied Rhoda to Dahlia's chamber, bidding her sleep speedily, or that when I)er sist hoarse. "TJie ing less The n of tlie w of the ci sea. Rl lamps, a stars wa kind hci landlady a cab foi fair. " 1 undressec heard the ter appro door and 1 she quick delight of door was Dahlia's \ she felt t waited fo fling out 1 But Dahli and spoke "Hows inured. " quite a wc used to lai brows of meant by on purpose Rhoda ' and almosl her still. " I camel ised mothi lying in things ? TflK SISTRI;,S MKKT m lier sistor camo tlicy would ho talkiuL,' till l,lio cock crowed hoarse. "Tlicre's a pouliry-yard close to us?" said Uhoda; feel- injjf loss at homo when slio hoard that there was not. The night was quiet and clear. She leaned her head out of the window, and heard the mellow Sunday evening roar of the city as of a sea at ehh. And Dahlia was out on the sea. llhoda thought of it as she looked at the row of lamps, and listened to the noise remote, until the sight of stars was ]deasant as the faces of friends. " l*eople are kind here," she reflected, for her short experience of the landlady was good, and a young gentleman who iiad hailed a cal) for her at the station, had a nice voice. He was fair. "I am dark," came a spontaneous reflection. She undressed, and half dozing over her heating heart in hod, heard the street door open, and leaped to think that her sis- ter approached, jumping up in her hed to give ear to the door and the stairs, that were conducting her joy to her; hut she quickly recomposed herself, and fVugned sleep, for the delight of revelling in her sister's first wonderment. The door was flung wide, and llhoda heard her name called hy Dahlia's voice, and then there was a delicious silence, and she felt that Dahlia was coming up to her on ti])toe, and waited for her head to he stooped near, that she might fling out her arms, and draw the dear head to her bosom. Ihit Dahlia came only to the hedside, without leaning over, and spoke of her looks, which lield the girl (|uiet. "How she sleeps! It 's a country sleep! '' Dahlia mur- mured. " She 's changed, hut it 's all for the better. vSho 's quite a woman; she's a perfect brunette; and the nose I used to laugh at suits her face and those black thick eye- brows of hers; my pet! Oh, why is she here? What's meant hy it? I knew nothing of her coming. Is she sent on purpose?" Khoda did not stir. The tone of Dahlia's speaking, low and almost awful to her, laid a flat iiand on her, and kept her still. " I came for my Bible," she heard Dahlia say. " I prom- ised mother — oh, my ])oor darling mother! And Dody lying in ray bed ! Who would liave thought of such things ? Perhaps heaven does look after us and interfere. ^msk.^^^£^- > 36 RHODA FLEMING » I itu H I' I ,- i ill i 1 ■ #• m i'.i What will become of me ? Oh, you pretty innocent in your sleep ! I lie for hours, and can't sleep. She binds her hair in a knot on the pillow, just as she used to in the old farm days ! " . , , . , Rhoda knew that her sister was bending over her now, but she was almost frigid, and could not move. Dahlia went to the looking-glass. " How flushed I am I " she murmured. "No; I 'm pale, quite white. I 've lost my strength. What can I do ? How could I take mother's Bible, and run from my pretty one, who expects me, and dreams she '11 wake with me beside her in the morning! I can't — I can't! If you love me, Edward, you won't wish it." She fell into a chair, crying wildly, and muffling her sobs. Rhoda's eyelids grew moist, but wonder and the cold anguish of senseless sympathy held her still frost- bound. All at once she heard the window open. Some one spoke in the street below; some one uttered Dahlia's name. A deep bell swung a note of midnight. "Go!" cried Dahlia. The window was instantly shut. The vibration of Dahlia's voice went through Ehoda like the heavy shaking of the bell after it had struck, and the room seemed to spin and hum. It was to her but an- other minute before her sister slid softly into the bed, and they were locked together. CHAPTER VI EDWARD AND ALGERNON Boyne's Bank was of the order of those old and firmly fixed establishments which have taken root with the for- tunes of the country, — are honourable as England's name, solid as her prosperity, and even as the flourishing green tree to shareholders : a granite house. Boyne himself had been disembodied for more than a century: Burt and Hamble were still of the flesh; but a greater than Burt or Hambl onet, wealth; ing, wi brother these tv than wl cated t( a life d Squire ; despised occupati into sou elastic J colonel, Sir Will the spir brother's say, as h^ non was career ol than was excellent, heir to hi and in r forted, d( very unju for runni another f< them. T round of sensation enrapture them try He would son, Edw£ in the Tei Edward, c cousin, tracted tc senior de^ EDWARD AND ALGERNON 87 Hamble was Blancove — the Sir William Blancove, Bar- onet, of city feasts and charities, wlio, besides being a wealthy merchant, possessed of a very acute head for bank- ing, was a scholarly gentleman, worthy of riches. His brother was Squire Blancove, of Wrexby; but between these two close relatives there existed no stronger feeling than what was expressed by open contempt of a mind dedi- cated to business on the one side, and quiet contempt of a life devoted to indolence on the other. Nevertheless, Squire Blancove, though everybody knew how deeply he despised his junior for his city-gained title and commercial occupation, sent him his son Algernon, to get the youth into sound discipline, if possible. This was after the elastic Algernon had, on the paternal intimation of his colonel, relinquished his cornetcy and military service. Sir William received the hopeful young fellow much in the spirit with, which he listened to the tales of his brother's comments on his own line of conduct; that is to say, as homage to his intellectual superiority. Mr. Alger- non was installed in the Bank, and sat down for a long career of groaning at the desk, with more complacency than was expected from him. Sir William forwarded excellent accounts to his brother of the behaviour of the heir to his estates. It was his way of rebuking the squire, and in return for it the squire, though somewhat com- forted, despised his clerkly son, and lived to learn how very unjustly he did so. Adolescents, who have the taste for running into excesses, enjoy the breath of change as another form of excitement; change is a sort of debauch to them. They will delight infinitely in a simple country round of existence, in propriety and church-going, in the sensation of feeling innocent. There is little that does not enrapture them, if you tie them down to nothings and let them try all. Sir William was deceived by hi? nephew. He would have taken him into his town-house ; but his own son, Edward, who was studying for the law, ha 1 chambers in the Temple, and Algernon, receiving an invi tation from Edward, declared a gentle preference for the ibode of his cousin. His allowance from his father was properly con- tracted to keep him from excesses, as the genius of his senior devised, and Sir William saw no objection to the •". Ci 38 RHODA FLEMING The two dined with him about Fdwiird mancove was tliree-and-twenty years ok dent by lits.and a youn- man given to be moody, powers of gaiety far eclipsing Algernon's, but he the same easy tripi)ing sinner and flippant soul. scheme, and made none. twice in tlie month. , ^ ^ u .. Kdward IJlancove was three-and-twenty years old, a stu- He had was not He was iiTtiiiit "yeasty condition of his years when action and re- flection alternately usurp the mind; remorse succeeded dis- sipation, and indulgences offered the soporific to remorse. The friends of tlie two imagined that Algernon was, or would become, his evil genius. In reality, Edward was the perilous companion. He was composed of better stuff. Alo-ernon was but an airy animal nature, the soul within him being an effervescence lightly let loose. Edward had a fatally serious spirit, and one of some strength. What he gave himself up to, lie could believe to be correct, in the teeth of an opposing world, until he tired of it, when he sided as heartily witli the world against his quondam self. Algernon might mislead, or ])oint his cousin's passions for a time; yet if they continued their courses together, there was danger that Algernon would degenerate into a reckless subordinate, — a minister, a valet, and be tempted unknow- ingly to do things in earnest, which is nothing less than perdition to this sort of creature. But the key to young men is the ambition, or, in the place of it, the romantic sentiment nourished by them. Edward aspired to become Attorney-General of these realms, not a judge, you observe; for a judge is to the imagination of youthful minds a stationary being, vener- able, but not active; whereas, your Attorney-General is always in the fray, and fights commonly on the winning side, — a point that renders his position attractive to saga- cious youth. Algernon had other views. Civilization had tried him, nnd found him wanting; so he condemned it. Moreover, sitting now all day at a desk, he was civiliza- tion's drudge. No wonder, then, that his dream was of prairies, and primeval forests, and Australian wilds. He believed in his heart that he would be a man new made over there, and always looked forward to savage life as to a bath that would cleanse him, so that it did not much matter his being unclean for the present. The Margar with he the swc vaunted had sei vindicat ished 01 he owed was ask giddy si She, how the regi] her com] am )} wealthy, and she reasons 1 candid ; dark disg Mrs. I ravages ( claimants autumnal in it, sha tall, of a brilliant 1 easy draw no mean c comrade, off her s humiliatio where she circle of capped th Betwee understanc spoke in p been suppc quarrel, th deed unveil r ■r EDWAIII) AND ALCJKUNON 30 vener- al is nning saga- had ed it. iliza- ,vas of He made as to much The young men had a fair cousin by inairiage, a Mrs. Margaret Lovcll, a widow. At seventeen she had gone with her husband to India, where Harry Lovell encountered the sword of a Sikh Sirdar, and tried the hist of his much- vaunted swordsmanship, which, with liis skill at the pistols, had served him better in two antecedent duels, for the vindication of his lovely and terrible young wife. He per- ished on the field, critically admiring the stroke to which he owed his death. A week after Harry's burial his widow was asked in marriage by his colonel. Captains, and a giddy subaltern likewise, disputed claims to possess her. She, however, decided to arrest further bloodshed by quitting the regiment. She always saiti that she left India to save her complexion ; " and people don't know how very candid I am," she added, for the colonel above-mentioned was wealthy, — a man expectant of a title, and a good match, and she was laughed at when she thus assigned trivial reasons for momentous resolutions. It is a luxury to be candid ; and perfect candour can do more for us than a dark disguise. Mrs. Lo veil's complexion was worth saving from the ravages of an Indian climate, and the persecution of claimants to her hand. She was golden and white, like an autumnal birch-tree, — yellow hair, with warm-toned streaks in it, shading a fabulously fair skin. Then, too, she was tall, of a nervous build, supple and proud in motion, a brilliant horsewoman, and a most distinguished sitter in an easy drawing-room chair, which is, let me impress upon you, no mean quality. After riding out for hours with a sweet comrade, who has thrown the mantle of dignity half-way off her shoulders, it is perplexing, and mixed strangely of humiliation and ecstasy, to come upon her clouded majesty where she reclines as upon rose-hued clouds, in a mystic circle of restriction (she who laughed at your jokes, and capped them, two hours ago) a queen. Between Margaret Lovell and Edward there was a mis- understanding, of which no one knew the nature, for they spoke in public very respectfully one of the other. It had been supposed that they were lovers once ; but when lovers quarrel, they snarl, they bite, they worry ; their eyes are in- deed unveiled, and their mouths unmuzzled. Now Margaret 40 KHODA FLEMING a I / ! I : liiil: i ^r ii fl] I . said of Edward: "He is sure to rise; he has such good principles." Edward said of Margaret : " She only wants a husband who will keep her well in hand." These sentences scareelv carried actual compliments when you knew the speakers; but outraged lovers cannot talk in that style after they have broken apart. It is possible that Margaret and Edward conveyed to one another as sharp a sting as envenomed lovers attempt. Gossip had once betrothed them, but was now at fault, the lady had a small jointure, and lived partly with i.ev uncle, Lord Elling, partly with Squire Blancove, her aunt's husband, and a little oy herself, which was when sh.^ counted money in hei purse, and chose to assert her independence. She had a name in the world. There is a fate attached to some women, from Helen of Troy downward, that blood is to be shed for them. One duel on behalf of a woman is a reputation to her for life ; two are notoriety. If she is very young, can they be attributable to he^? We charge them naturally to her overpowering b '.auty. It happened that Mrs. Lovell was beautiful. Undei- the lir'ht of the two duels her beauty shone as from an illumination of black flame. Boys adored Mrs, Lovell. These are moths. But more, the birds of air, nay, grave owls (who stp.nd in this metaphor for whiskered experience) thronged, dashing at the apparition of terrible splendour. Was it her fault that she had a name in the world ? Mrs. Margaret Lovell's portrait hung in Edward's room. It was a photograph exquisitely coloured, and was on the left of a dark Judith, dark with a serenity of sternness. On the right hung another coloured photograph of a young lady, also fair ; and it was a point of taste to choose between them. Do you like the hollowed lily's cheeks, or the plump rose's ? Do you like a thinnish fall of golden hair, or an abundant cluster of nut-brown ? Do you like your blonde with limpid blue eyes, or prefer an endowment of sunny hazel ? Finally, are you taken by an air of artistic inno- cence winding serpentine about your heart's fibres; or is blushing simplicity sweeter to you? Mrs. Lovell's eye- brows were the faintly-marked trace of a perfect arch. The other young person's were thickish, more level ; a full brown colour. She looked as if she had not yet attained to any sense o was cle intentm bone; t were n Here, ii the pie line, an pouting. It waj ant cold out simi flannels, greetings tossed 01 they had table hac glance wl stood opi falling cl feet, for i Edward, vigour of his shape no comma men alwa; " Now, * in good s boy under "Step a with the p "I'llsti to Paris a; sation to s the other.' "Stick t "Hangi "Youta "'Gad, 1 "I want "Yousa EDWARD AND ALGERNON 41 the sense of her being a professed beauty ; but the fair widow was clearly bent upon winning you, and had a shy, playful intentness of aspect. Her pure white skin was flat on the bone ; the lips came forward in a soft curve, and, if they were not artistically stained, were triumphantly fresh. Here, in any case, she beat her rival, whose mouth had the plebeian beauty's fault of being too straight in a line, and was not trained, apparently, to tricks of dainty pouting. It was morning, and the cousins having sponged in pleas- ant cold water, arranged themselves for exercise, and came out simultaneously into the sitting-room, slippered, and in flannels. They nodded, and went through certain curt greetings, and tten Algernon stepped to a cupboard and tossed out the leather gloves. The room was large and they had a tolerable space for the work, when the breakfast- table had been drawn a little on one side. You saw at a glance which was the likelier man of the two, when they stood opposed. Algernon's rounded features, full lips, and falling chin were not a match, though he was quick on his feet, for the wary, prompt eyes, set mouth, and hardness of Edward. Both had stout muscle, but in Edward there was vigour of brain as well, which seemed to knit and inform his shape : without which, in fact, a man is as a ship under no command. Both looked their best ; as, when sparring, men always do look. "Now, then," said Algernon, squaring up to his cousin in good style, " now 's the time for that unwholesome old boy underneath to commence groaning." " Step as light as you can," replied Edward, meeting him with the pretty motion of the gloves. " I '11 step as light as a French dancing-master. Let 's go to Paris and learn the savate, Ned. It must be a new sen- sation to stand on one leg and knock a fellow's hat off with the other." "Stick to your fists." " Hang it ! I wish your fists would n't stick to me so." "You talk too much." " 'Gad, I don't get puffy half so soon as you." " I want country air." " You said you were going out, old Ned," U I J til"! ^'f ;'./ RHODA FLEMING [I I / ■ l\ « I changed my mind." „ , - Saying which, Edward shut his teeth, and talked for two or three hot minutes wholly with his fists. The room shook under Algernon's boundings to right and left till a blow sent him back on the breakfast-table, shattered a cup on the floor, and bespattered his close flannel shirt with a funereal cofPee-tinge. " What the deuce I said to bring that on myself, I don't know," Algernon remarked as he rose. "Anything con- nected with the country disagreeable to you, Ned ? Come ! a bout of quiet scientific boxing, and none of these beastly rushes, as if you were singling me out of a crowd of mags- men. Did you go to church yesterday, Ned ? Confound it, you 're on me again, are you ! " And Algernon went on spouting unintelligible talk under a torrent of blows. He lost his temper and fought out at them ; but as it speedily became evident to him that the loss laid him open to punishment, he prudently recovered it, sparred, danced about, and contrived to shake the room in a manner that caused Edward to drop his arms, in con- sideration for the distracted occupant of the chambers below. Algernon accepted the truce, and made it peace by casting off one glove. "There! that's a pleasant morning breather," he said, and sauntered to the window to look at the river. " I always feel the want of it when I don't get it. I could take a thrashing rather tlian not on with the gloves to begin the day. Look at those boats ! Fancy my having to go down to the city. It makes me feel like my blood circulating the Avrong way. My father '11 suffer some day, for keeping me at this low ebb of cash, by jingo ! " He uttered this with a prophetic fierceness. "I cannot even scrape together enough for entrance money to a Club. It 's sickening ! I wonder whether I shall ever get used to banking work? There's an old clerk in our office who says he should feel ill if he missed a day. And the old porter beats him — bangs him to fits. I believe he 'd die off if he did n't see the house open to the minute. They say that old boy 's got a pretty niece ; but he don't bring her to the office now. Reward of merit ! — Mr. Anthony Hackbut is going to receive ten pounds a year ej I could extra j But if don't le that olc fifty poi "The on a bo echoing. "Her( trait. ' change i "She] "How ask. Edwar having fii her yeste The ini " Oh, s some attr " You r Edward g come up I "The ] young Ju called it i — the olc always s( think the^ that girl's Edward "What said Algei "Mygc no conscie they breal don't ask but the wi at all, or 1 EDWAED AND ALGERNON 43 year extra. That 's for his honesty. I wonder whether I could earn a reputation for the sake of a prospect of ten extra pounds to my salary, /'ve got a salary I hurrah ! But if they keep me to my hundred and fifty per annum, don't let them trust me every day with the bags, as they do that old fellow. Some of the men say he 's good to lend fifty pounds at a pinch. — Are the chops coming, Ned ? " " The chops are coming," said Edward, who had thrown on a boating-coat and plunged into a book, and spoke echoing. " Here 's little Peggy Lovell." Algernon faced this por- trait. '* It don't do her justice. She 's got more life, more change in her, more fire. She 's starting for town, I hear." " She is starting for town," said Edward. " How do you know that ? " Algernon swung about to ask. Edward looked round to him. " By the fact of your not having fished for a holiday this week. How did you leave her yesterday, Algy? Quite well, I hope." The ingenuous face of the young gentleman crimsoned. " Oh, she was well," he said. " Ha ! I see there can be some attraction in your dark women." " You mean that Judith? Yes, she 's a good diversion." Edward gave two-edged response. " What train did you come up by last night ? " " The last from Wrexby. That reminds me : I saw a young Judith just as I got out. She wanted a cab. I called it for her. She belongs to old Hackbut of the Bank — the old porter, you know. If it wasn't that there's always something about dark women which makes me think they 're going to have a moustache, I should take to that girl's face." Edward launched forth an invective against fair women. " What have they done to you, — what have they done ? " said Algernon. " My good fellow, they 're nothing but colour. They 'vo no conscience. If they swear a thing to you one moment, they break it the next. They can't help doing it. You don't ask a gilt weathercock to keep faith with anything but the wind, do you? It 's an ass that trusts a fair woman at all, or has anything to do with the confounded set. I '\ \-i ' {'.•• 44 EHODA FLEMING U r A Cleopatra was fair; so was Delilah; so is the Devil's wife. Beach me that book of Reports." "By jingo ! " ^^^^^ Algernon, "my stomach reports that if provision does n't soon app ; oach — Why don't 7'ou keep a French cook here, Ned ? Let 's give up the wou 3n, and take to a French cook." Edward yawned horribly. " All in good time. It 's what we come to. It 's philosophy — your Fre-^ch cook ! I wish I had it, or him. I 'ra afraid a fellow can't anticipate his years — not so lucky ! " "By Jove I we shall have to be philosophers before we breakfast ! " Algernon exclaimed. " It 's nine. I 've to be tied to the stake at ten, chained and muzzled — a leetle-a dawg ! I wish I had n't had to leave the service. It was a vile conspiracy against me there, Ned. Hang all trades- men! I sit on a stool, and add up figures. I work harder than a nigger in the office. That 's my life : but I must feed. It 's no use going to the office in a rage." " Will you try on the gloves agaiL?" was Edward's mild suggestion. Algernon thanked him, and replied that he knew him. Edward hit hard when he was empty. They now effected patience, as far as silence went to make up an element of that sublime quality. The chops arriving, they disdained the mask. Algernon fired his glove just over the waiter's head, and Edward put the case to the man's conscience ; after which they sat and ate, talk- ing little. The difference between them was, that Edward knew the state of Algernon's mind and what was working within it, while the latter stared at a blank wall as re- garded Edward's. " Going out after breakfast, Ned ? " said Algernon. "We'll walk to the city together, if you like." Edward fixed one of his intent looks upon his couein. " You 're not going to the city to-day? " "The deuce, I 'm not ! " " You 're going to dance attendance on Mrs. Lovell, whom it 's your pleasure to call Peggy, when you 're some leagues out of her hearing." Algernon failed to command his countenance. He glanced at one of the portraits, and said, '' Who is that girl EDWARD AND ALGERNON 46 ^hom Lgues up therft ? Tell us her name. Talking of Mrs. Lovell, has she ever seen it ? " " If you '11 put on your coat, my dear Algy, I will talk to you about Mrs. Lovell." Edward kept his penetrative eyes on Algernon. ** Listen to me : you '.'! get into a mess there." " If I must listen, Ned, I '11 listen in my shirt-sleeves, with all respect to the lady." '* Very well. The shirt-sleeves help the rir of bravado. Now, you know that I 've what they call * knelt at her feet.' She 's handsome. Don't cry out. She 's dashing, and as near being a devil as any woman I ever met. Do you know why we broke ? I '11 tell you. Plainly, because I refused to believe that one of her men had insulted her. You underst ind what that means. I declined to be a chief party in a scandal." " Declined to fight the fellow ? " interposed Algernon. " More shame to you ! " '< I think you 're a year younger than I am, Algy. You have the privilege of speaking with that year's simplicitJ^ Mrs. Lovell will play you as she played me. I acknowledge her power, and I keep out of her way. I don't bet ; I don't care to waltz ; I can't keep horses ; so I don't lose much by the privation to which I subject myself." "I bet, I waltz, and I ride. So," said Algernon, "I should lose tremendously." "You will lose, mark my words." "Is the lecture of my year's senior concluded?" said Algernon. "Yes; If've done," Edward answered. "Then I '11 put on my coat, Ned, and I '11 smoke in it. That '11 give you assurance I 'm not going near Mrs. Lovell, if anything will." " That gives me assurance that Mrs. Lovell toleratf^s in you what she detests," said Edward, relentless in his in- sight; "and, consequently, gives me assurance that she finds you of particular service to her at present." Algernon had a lighted match in his hand. He flung it into the fire. *' I \a hanged if I don't think you have the confounded vanity to suppose she sets me as a spy upon you I " !■;!' 46 BHODA FLEMING ^»f ' » A smile ran along Edward's lips. " I don't think you 'd know it, if she did." " Oh, you 're ten years older ; you 're twenty," bawled Algernon, in an extremity of disgust. " Don't I know what game you 're following up ? Is n't it clear as day you 've got another woman in your eye ? " "It's as clear as day, my good Algy, that you see a por- trait hanging in mj chambers, and you have heard Mrs. Lo veil's opinion of the fact. So much is perfectly clear. There 's my hand. I don't blame you. She 's a clever woman, and, like many of the sort, shrewd at guessing the worst. Come, take my hand. I tell you, I don't blame you. I 've been little dog to her myself, and fetched and carried, and wagged my tail. It 's charming while it lasts. Will you shake it ? " " Your tail, man ? " Algernon roared in pretended amazement. Edward eased him back to friendliness by laughing. " No ; my hand." They shook hands. "All right," said Algernon. " You mean well. It 's very well for you to preach virtue to a poor devil ; you 've got loose, or you 're regularly in love." "Virtue! by heaven!" Edward cried; ''I wish I were entitled to preach it to any man on earth." His face flushed. "There, good-bye, old fellow," he added. "Go to the city. I'll dine with you to-night, if you like; come and dine with me at my Club. I shall be disengaged." Algernon mumbled a flexible assent to an appointment at "P'-lward's Club, dressed himself with care, borrowed a sovereign, for which he nodded his acceptance, and left him. Edward set his brain upon a book of law. It may have been two hours after he had sat thus in his Cistercian stillness, when a letter was delivered to him by one of the Inn porters. Edward read the superscription, and asked the porter who it was that brought it. Two young ladies, the porter said. These were the contents : — "I a forgive to spea] why, ar cry whi all nigl morning brought bed thei so, I C( there; a on you. do make forgive i] behind n I declare here. I by my ] strength I never 1 see they j and am si touch fooi so; but a I know ] trust you and that have to y( day in tJ streaked t scrubbing your see] you? D for you, d that I sho I am dyin There -r " May I you 11 be EDWARD AND ALGERNON 47 " T am not sure that you will ever forgive liie. I cannot forgive myself when I think of that one word I was obliged to speak to you in the cold street, and nothing to explain why, and how much I love you. Oh ! how I love you ! I cry while I write. I cannot help it. I was a sop of tears all night long, and oh! if you had seen my face in the morning. I am thankful you did not. Mother's Bible brought me home. It must have been guidance, for in my bed there lay my sister, and I could not leave her, I love her so. I could not have got down stairs again after seeing her there ; and I had to say that cold word and shut the window on you. May I call you Edward still ? Oh, dear Edward, do make allowance for me. Write kindly to me. Say you forgive me. I feel like a ghost to-day. My life seems quite behind me somewhere, and I hardly feel anything I toucli. I declare to you, dearest one, I had no idea my sister was here. I was surprised when I heard her name mentioned by my landlady, and looked on the bed; suddenly my strength was gone, and it changed all that I was thinking. I never knew before that women were so weak, but now I see they are, and I only know I am at my Edward's mercy, and am stupid ! Oh, so wretched and stupid. I shall not touch food till I hear from you. Oh, if you are angry, write so ; but do write. My suspense would make you pity me. I know I deserve your anger. It was not that I do not trust you, Edward. My mother in heaven sees my heart and that I trust, I trust my heart and everything I am and have to you. I would almost wish and wait to see you to- day in the Gardens, but my crying has made me such a streaked thing to look at. If 1 had rubbed my face with a scrubbing-brush, I could not look worse, and I cannot risk your seeing me. It would excuse you for hating me. Do you? Does he hate her? She loves you. She would die for you, dear Edward. Oh ! I feel that if I was told to-day that I should die for you to-morrow, it would be happiness. I am dying — yes, I am dying till I hear from you. "Believe me, "Your tender, loving, broken-hearted, " Dahlia." There was a postscript : — " May I still go to lessons ?" ■ 'I .\iy , 1! ■J fl ■ r : : 48 EHODA FLEMING lii > ^r I., ■:l 'Hi Edward finislied the letter with a calmly perusing eye. He had winced tritiingly at one or two expressions contained in it; forcible, perhaps, but not such as Mrs. Lovell smiling from the wall yonder would have used. " The poor child threatens to eat no dinner, if I don't write to her," he said ; and replied in a kind and magnani- mous spirit, concluding — " Go to lessons, by all means." Having accomplished this, he stood up, and by hazard fell to comparing the rival portraits ; a melancholy and a comic thing to do, as you will find if you put two painted heads side by side, and set their merits contesting, and re- flect on the contest, and to what advantages, personal or of the artist's, the winner owes the victory. Dahlia had been admirably dealt with by the artist ; the charm of pure in- genuousness without rusticity was visible in her f^ee and figure. Hanging there on the wall, she was a match for Mrs. Lovell. CHAPTER VII JEEAT NEWS FROM DAHLIA Ehoda returned home the heavier for a secret that she bore with her. All through the first night of her sleeping in London, Dahlia's sobs, and tender hugs, and self-re- proaches had peneirated her dreams, and when the morn- ing came she had scarcely to^ learn that Dahlia loved some one. The confession was made ; but his name was reserved. Dahlia spoke of him with such sacredness of respect that she seemed lost in him, and like a creature kissing his feet. With tears rolling down her cheeks, and with moans of anguish, she spoke of the deliciousness of loving, of know- ing one to whom she abandoned her will and her destiny, until, seeing how beautiful a bloom love threw upon the tearful worn face of her sister, Rhoda was impressed by a mystical veneration for this man, and readily believed him to \ e above all other men, if not superhuman ; for she was of & 1 age and an imagination to conceive a spiritual pre- emi. .ence over the weakness of mortality. She thought that one wh and gi\ said he even sc should "lia "No, what h Ehoc and sh( one wb As re haved f She tall a thin s marvel want mi books f{ named 1 " For m must no sure tha words n is," said Could upon thi returned no feeli sister, w placed h many cl them do^ Rhoda \\ from th( blest abf terday," him agai seen him So hu forecast on a sum ■ GREAT NEWS FROM DAHLIA 49 one who could so transform her sister, touch her with awe, and give her gracefulness and humility, must be what Dahlia said he was. She asked shyly for his Christian name ; but even so little Dahlia withheld. It was his wish that Dahlia should keep silence concerning him. " liave you sworn an oath ? " said Rhoda, wonderingly. "No, dear love," Dahlia replied; "he only mentioned what he desired." Rhoda was ashamed of herself for thinking it strange, and she surrendered her judgement to be stamped by the one who knew him well. As regarded her uncle. Dahlia admitted that she had be- haved forgetfully and unkindly, and promised amendment. She talked of the Farm as of an old ruin, with nothing but a thin shade of memory threading its walls, and appeared to marvel vaguel5'" that it stood yet. " Father shall not always want money," she said. She was particular in prescribing books for Rhoda to read ; good authors, she emphasized, and named books of history, and poets, and quoted their verses. " For my darling will some day have a dear husband, and he must not look down on her." Rhoda shook her head, full sure that she could never be brought to utter such musical words naturally. " Yes, dearest, when you know what love is," said Dahlia, in an underbreath. Could Robert inspire her with the power ? Rhoda looked upon that poor ho'".tjly young man half-curiously when she returned, and quite dismissed the notion. Besides she had no feeling for herself. Her passion was fixed upon her sister, whose record of emotions in the letters from London placed her beyond dull days and nights. The letters struck many chords. A less subservient reader would have set them down as variations of the language of infatuation ; but Rhoda was responsive to every word and change of mood, from the " I am unworthy, degraded, wretched," to " I am blest above the angels." If one letter said, " We met yes- terday," Rhoda's heart beat on to the question, " Shall I see him again to-morrow ? " And will she see him ? — has she seen him ? — agitated her and absorbed her thoughts. So humbly did she follow her sister, without daring to forecast a prospect for her, or dream of an issue, that when on a summer morning a letter was brought in at the break- 4 ii 60 RHODA FLEMING fast-tab'e, marked "urgent and private," she opened it, and the first line dazzled her eyes — the surprise was a shock to her brain. She rose from her unfinished meal, and walked out into the wide air, feeling as if she walked on thunder. The letter ran thus : — "My own Innocent!— I am married. We leave Eng- land to-day. I must not love you too much, for I have all my love to give to my Edward, my own now, and I am his trustingly for ever. But he will let me give you some of it — and Ehoda is never jealous. She shall have a great deal. Only I am frightened when I think how immense my love is for him, so that anything — everything he thinks right is right to me. I am not afraid to think so. [f I were to try, a cloud would come over me — it does, if only I fancy for half a moment I am rash, and a straw. I cannot exist except through him. So I must belong to him, and his will is my law. My prayer at my bedside every night is that I may die for him. We used to think the idea of death so terrible ! Do you remember how we used to shudder together at night when we thought of people lying in the grave ? And now, when I think that perhaps I may some day die for him, I feel like a crying in my heart with joy. " I have left a letter — sent it, I mean — enclosed to uncle for father. He will see Edward by-and-by. Oh ! may heaven spare him from any grief. Rhoda vill comfort him. Tell him how devoted I am. I am like drowned to every- body but one. " We are looking on the sea. In half an hour I shall have forgotten the tread of English earth. I do not know that I breathe. All I know is a fear that I am flying, and my strength will not continue. That is when I am not touching his hand. There is France opposite. I shut my eyes and see the whole country, but it is like what I feel for Edward — all in dark moonlight. Oh ! I trust him so ! I bleed for him. I could make all my veins bleed out at a sad thought about him. And from France to Switzerland and Italy. The sea sparkles just as if it said ' Come to the sun ; ' and I am going. Edward calls. Shall I be punished for so much happiness ? I am too happy, I am too happy. "Goc now. «0h, Ehoda ! "I ca is Edwa "Adc "P.S will ah you, po God ble I never purpose sanne. now the must si^ By th to the s the stra her witl scenes, < of them beauty I Sumfit, of old, a Gammo] lying 01 "My old mai flash of as when tomary "And you, Da GREAT NEWS FROM DAHLIA 61 " God bless my beloved at home ! That is my chief prayer now. I shall think of her when I am in the cathedrals. " Oh, my Father in heaven ! bless them all ! bless Rhoda ! forgive me ! ♦* I can hear the steam of the steamer at the pier. Here is Edward. He says I may send his love to you. " Address : — " Mrs. Edward Ayrton, "Poste Restante, " Lausanne, " Switzerland. "P. S. — Lausanne is where — but another time, and I will always tell you the history of the places to instruct you, poor heart in dull England. Adieu! Good-bye and God bless my innocent at home, my dear sister. I love her. I never can forget her. The day is so lovely. It seems on purpose for us. Be sure you write on thin paper to Lau- sanne. It is on a blue lake : you see snow mountains, and now there is a bell ringing — kisses from me ! we start. I must sign. " Dahlia." By the reading of this letter, Rhoda was caught vividly to the shore, and saw her sister borne away in the boat to the strange countries ; she travelled with her, following her with gliding speed through a multiplicity of shifting scenes, opal landscapes, full of fire and dreams, and in all of them a great bell towered. ''Oh, my sweet! my own beauty ! " she cried in Dahlia's language. Meeting Mrs. Sumfit, she called her " Mother Dumpling," as Dahlia did of old, affectionately, and kissed her, and ran on to Master Gammon, who was tramping leisurely on to the oatfield lying on toward the millholms. " My sister sends you her love," she said brightly to the old man. Master Gammon responded with no remarkable flash of his eyes, and merely opened his mouth and shut it, as when a duck divides its bill, but fails to emit the cus- tomary quack. "And to you, little pigs; and to you, Mulberry; and you, Dapple j and you, and you, and you." t I ' M 52 RHODA FLEMING Rhoda nodded round to all the citizens of the farmyard ; and so eased her heart of its laughing bubbles. After which, she fell to a meditative walk of demurer joy, and had a regret. It was simply that Dahlia's hurry in signing the letter had robbed her of the deliglit of seeing "Dahlia Ayrton " written proudly out, with its wonderful signifi- cation of the change in her life. That was a trifling matter ; yet Rhoda felt the letter was not complete in the absence of the bridal name. She fan- cied Dahlia to have meant, perhaps, that she was Dahlia to her as of old, and not a stranger. "Dahlia ever; Dahlia nothing else for you," she heard her sister say. But how delicious and mournful, how terrible and sweet with mean- ing, would "Dahlia Ayrton," the new name in the dear handwriting, have looked ! " And I have a brother-in-law," she thought, and her cheeks tingled. The banks of fern and foxglove, and the green young oaks fringing the copse, grew rich in colour, as she reflected that this beloved un- known husband of her sister embraced her and her father as well ; even the old bent beggarman on the sandy ridge, though he had a starved frame and carried pitiless faggots, stood illumined in a soft warmth. Rhoda could not go back to the house. It chanced that the farmer that morning had been smitten with the virtue of his wife's opinion of Robert, and her parting recommendation concerning him. " Have you a mind to either one of my two girls ? "* he put the question bluntly, finding himself alone with Robert. Robert took a quick breath, and replied, " I have." " Then make your choice," said the farmer, and tried to go about his business, but hung near Robert in the fields till he had asked : " Which one is it, my boy ? " Robert turned a blade of wheat in his mouth. " I think I shall leave her to tell that," was his answer. "Why, don't ye know which one you prefer to choose, man ? " quoth Mr. Fleming. ft " I may n't know whether she prefers to choose me, said Robert. The farmer smiled. " You never can exactly reckon about them ; that 's true." you can I '11 say At th ing fidg appearec his idea They when a v Hackbut Fleming "Lord Rober The dre£ yet none be impe policy of conceale threaten her fav( class; b educated like a ra of the c Rhoda s ered wii problem GREAT KEWS FROM DAHLIA 53 He was led to think, " Dahlia 's the lass ; " seeing that Bobert had not had many opportunities of speaking with her. " When my girls are wives, they '11 do their work in the house," he pursued. " They may have a little bit o' prop- erty in land, ye know, and they may have a share in — in gold. That 'snot to be reckoned on. We're an old fam- ily, Kobert, and I suppose we 've our pride somewhere down. Anyhow, you can't look on my girls and not own they 're superior girls. I 've no notion of forcing them to clean, and dish up, and do dairying, if it's not to their turn. They're handy with tb' needle. They dress con- formably, and do the millinery themselves. And I know they say their prayers of a night. That I know, if that 's a comfort to ye, and it should be, Robert. For pray, and you can't go far wrong ; and it 's particularly good for girls. 1 '11 say no more.'* At the dinner-table Rhoda was not present. Mr. Flem- ing fidgeted, blamed her, and excused her, but as Robert appeared indifferent about her absence, he was confirmed in his idea that Dahlia attracted his fancy. They had finished dinner, and Master Gammon had risen, when a voice immediately recognized as the voice of Anthony Hackbut was heard in the front part of the house. Mr. Fleming went round to him with a dismayed face. "Lord! " said Mrs. Sumfit, "how I tremble! " Robert, too, looked grave, and got away from the house. The dread of evil news of Dahlia was common to them all ; yet none had mentioned it, Robert conceiving that it would DC impertinence on his part to do so ; the farmer, that the policy of permitting Dahlia's continued residence in London concealed the peril; while Mrs. Sumfit fiatly defied the threatening of a mischance to one so sweet and fair, and her favourite. It is the insincerity of persons of their class ; but one need not lay stress on the wilfulness of un- educated minds. Robert walked across the fields, walking like a man with an object in view. As he dropped into one of the close lanes which led up to Wrexby Hall, he saw Rhoda standing under an oak, her white morning-dress cov- ered with sun-spots. His impulse was to turn back, the problem, how to speak to her, not being settled within him. *i , *■' n\ 54 RHODA FLEMING '1^1 But the next moment his blood chilled; for he had per- ceived, though he had not felt simultaneously, that two gentlemen were standing near her, addressing her. And it was likewise manifest that she listened to them. These presently raised their hats and disappeared. Rhoda came on toward Robert. " You have forgotten your dinner," he said, with a queer sense of shame at dragging in the mention of that meal. " I have been too happy to eat," Rhoda replied. Robert glanced up the lane, but she gave no heed to this indication, and asked : " Has uncle come ? " " Did you expect him? " « I thought he would come." « What has made you happy ? " "You win hear from uncle." "Shall I go and hear what those — " Robert checked himself, but it would have been better had he spoken out. Rhoda's face, from a light of interrogation, lowered its look to contempt. She did nol affect the feminine simplicity which can so prettily misunderstand and put by an implied accusation of that nature. Doubtless her sharp instinct served her by telling her that her contempt would hurt him shrewdly now. Tho foolishness of a man having much to say to a woman, and not knowing how or where the beginning of it might be, was perceptible about him. A shout from her father at the open garden-gate hurried on Rhoda to meet him. Old Anthony was at Mr. Fleming's elbow. " You know it ? You have her letter, father ? " said Rhoda, gaily, beneath the shadow of his torehead. "And a Queen of the Egyptians is what you might have been," said Anthony, with a speculating eye upon Rhoda's dark bright face. Rhoda put out her hand to him, but kept her gaze on her father. William Fleming relaxed the knot of his brows and lifted the letter. " Listen all ! This is from a daughter to her father." And he read, oddly accentuating the first syllables of the 80i:'tences : — GREAT NEWS EROM DAHLIA 55 " Dear Father, — My husband will bring me to see you when I return to dear England. I ought to have concealed nothing, I know. Try to forgive me. I hope you will. I shall always think of you. God bless you ! "lam, "Ever with respect, " Your dearly loving Daughter, "Dahlia." said " Dahlia Blank ! " said the farmer, turning his look from face to face. A deep fire of emotion was evidently agitating him, for the letter rustled in his hand, and his voice was uneven. Of this, no sign was given by his inexpressive features. The round brown eyes and the ruddy varnish on his cheeks were a mask upon grief, if not also upon joy- " Dahlia — what ? What 's her name ? " he resumed. " Here — ' my husband will bring me to see you ' — who 's her husband ? Has he got a name ? And a blank envelope to her uncle here, who 's kept her in comfort for so long ! And this is all she writes to me ! Will anyone spell out the meaning of it ? " ** Dahlia was in great haste, father," said Rhoda. "Oh, ay, you! — you're the one, I know," returned the farmer. " It 's sister and sister, with you." " But she was very, very hurried, father. I have a letter from her, and I have only ' Dahlia ' written at the end — no other name." " And you suspect no harm of your sister." " Father, how can I imagine any kind of harm? " " That letter, my girl, sticks to my skull, as though it meant to say, 'You 've not understood me yet.' I 've read it a matter of twenty times, and I 'm no nearer to the truoh of it. But, if she 's lying, here in this letter, what 's she walking on ? rtow long are we to wait for to hear ? I give you my word, llobert, I 'm feeling for you as I am for myself. Or, was n't it that one ? Is it this one ? " He levelled his finger at Rhoda. " In any case, Robert, you '11 feel for me as a father. I 'm shut in a dark room with the caudle blown out. I 've heard of a sort of fear you have in i ? '■: m t' 1 56 BHODA FLEMING n- that dilemmer, lest you should lay your fingers on edges of sharp knives, and if I think a step— if I go thinking a step, and feel my way, I do cut myself, and I bleed, I do. Robert, just take and say, it was n't that one." Such a statement would carry with it the confession that it was this one for whom he cared, — this scornful one, this jilt, this brazen girl who could make appointments with gentlemen, or suffer them to speak to her, and subsequently look at him with innocence and with anger. "Believe me, Mr. Fleming, I feel for you as much as a man can," he said, uneasily, swaying half round as he spoke. " Do you suspect anything bad?" The farmer repeated the question, like one who only wanted a confirmation of his own suspicions to see the fact built up. "Kobert, does this look like the letter of a married woman? Is it daughterlike — eh, man ? Help another : I can't think for myself — she ties my hands. Speak out." Robert set his eyes on Rhoda. He would have given much to have been able to utter, " I do." Her face was like an eager flower straining for light ; the very beauty of it swelled his jealous passion, and he flattered himself with his incapacity to speak an abject lie to propitiate her. " She says she is married. We 're bound to accept what she says." That was his answer. " Is she married ? " thundered the farmer. " Has she been and disgraced her mother in her grave ? What am I to think ? She 's my flesh and blood. Is she — " " Oh, hush, father ! " Rhoda laid her hand on his arm. " What doubt can there be of Dahlia ? You have forgotten that she is always truthful. Come away. It is shameful to stand here and listen to unmanly things." She turned a face of ashes upon Robert. " Come away, father. She is our own. She is my sister A doubt of her is an insult to us." "But Robert don't doubt her — eh ? " already half distracted from his suspicions, real doubt about the girl, Robert ? " " I don't trust myself to doubt anybody," said Robert. "You don't cast us off, my boy? " The farmer was " Have you any "I away. "H lad! his ha: on a Si Rho mouth Thai and W] drawing sunligh slopes. by the s lived th( his time in his P< this gre£ belief so ing as ii the bottl mood to we see t] cannot a issue wc foot; bui It was o) on the £ adopted thing to Mrs. Lo^ lady leac mostly ir \:-i INTRODUCES MUS. LOVELL 67 " I 'm a labourer on the farm," said Robert, and walked away. " He 's got reason to feel this more 'n the rest of us, poor lad ! It 's a blow to him." With which the farmer struck his band on Ehoda's shoulder. " I wish he 'd set his heart on a safer young woman." Ehoda's shudder of revulsion was visible as she put her mouth up to kiss her father's cheek. CHAPTER VIII INTRODUCES MRS. LOVELL ister was any That is Wrexby Hall, upon the hill between Fenhurst and Wrexby: the white square mansion, with the tower drawing-room windows one full bow of glass against the sunlight, and great single trees spotting the distant green slopes. From Queen Anne's Farm you could read the hour by the stretching of their shadows. Squire Blanco ve, who lived there, was an irascible, gouty man, out of humour with his time, and beginning, alas for him ! to lose all true faith in his Port, though, to do him justice, he wrestled hard with this great heresy. His friends perceived the decay in his belief sooner than he did himself. He was sour in the even- ing as in the morning. There was no chirp in him when the bottle went round. He had never one hour of a humane mood to be reckoned on now. The day, indeed, is sad when we see the skeleton of the mistress by whom we suffer, but cannot abandon her. The squire drank, knowing that the issue would be the terrific, curse-begetting twinge in his foot; but, as he said, he was a man who stuck to his habits. It was over his Port that he had quarreP.ed with his rector on the subject of hopeful Algernon, and the system he adopted with that young man. This incident has some- thing to do with Rhoda's story, for it was the reason why Mrs. Lovell went to Wrexby Church, the spirit of that lady leading her to follow her own impulses, which were mostly in opposition. So, when perchance she visited the • ■ \ V' !■', 68 BHODA FLEMING th Hall, she chose not to accompany the squire and his subservient guests to Fenhurst, but made a point of going down to the unoccupied Wrexby pew. She was a beauty, and therefore powerful ; otherwise her act of nonconform- ity would have produced bad blood between her and the squire. It was enough to have done so m any case; for now, instead of sitting at home comfortably, and reading off the week's chronicle of sport while he nursed his leg, the unfor- tunate gentleman had to be up and away to Fenhurst every Sunday morning, or who would have kno>vn that the old cause of his general abstention from Sabbath services lay in the detestable doctrine of Wrexby's rector ? Mrs. Lovell was now at the Hall, and it was Sunday morning after breakfast. The lady stood like a rival head among the other guests, listening, gloved and bonneted, to the bells of Wrexby, west of the hills, and of Fenhurst, northeast. The squire came in to them, groaning over his boots, cross with his fragile wife, and in every mood for satire, except to receive it. " How difficult it is to be gouty and good ! " murmured Mrs. Lovell to the person next her. " Well," said the squire, singling out his enemy, " you 're going to that fellow, I suppose, as usual — eh? " "Not 'as usual,'" replied Mrs. Lovell, sweetly; "I wish it were ! " " Wish it were, do you ? — you find him so tntertaining ? Has he got to talking of the fashions ? " "He talks properly; I don't ask for more." Mrs. Lovell assumed an air of meekness under persecution. " I thought you were Low Church." " Lowly of the Church, I trust you thought," she corrected him. "But, for that matter, any discourse, plainly delivered, will suit me." "His elocution's perfect," said the squire; "that is, before dinner." " I have only to do with him before dinner, you know." " Well, I 've ordered a carriage out for you." "That is very honourable and kind." " It would be kinder if I contrived to keep you away from the fellow." forwa fixing cally, our re The rebuke to set tempej "Sir site wi The has ha] self-cor Mrs. L snappec eyes re; "We: asked Ji "I hi be as d smile. "I th "You'i and I s teacher, " Thei "Yo.i hi own. C The fl level in that he help, an strain o: ordinary to the ( securely headed o oppositio her carri with sen INTRODUCES MRS. LOVELL 69 t IS, from " "Would it not be kinder to yourself," Mrs. Lovell swam forward to him in all tenderness, taking his hands, and fixing the swimming blue of her soft eyes upon him patheti- cally, " if you took your paper and your slippers, and awaited our return ? " The squire felt the circulating smile about the room. He rebuked the woman's audacity with a frown. " 'T is my duty to set an example," he said, his gout}' foot and irritable temper now meeting in a common fire. "Since you are setting an example," rejoined the exqui- site widow, " I have nothiag more to say. " The squire looked what he dared not speak. A woman has half, a beauty has all, the world with her when she is self-contained, and holds her place ; and it was evident that Mrs. Lovell was not one to abandon her advantages. He snapped roL nd for a victim, trying his wife first. Then his eyes rested ipon Algernon. "Well, here we are; which of us will you take?" he asked Mrs. Lovell in blank irony. "I hare engaged my cavalier, who is waiting, and will be as devout as possible." Mrs. Lovell gave Algernon a smile. "I thought I hit upon the man," growled the squire. "You 're going in to Wrexby, sir! Oh, go, by all means, and I sha'n't be astonished at what comes of it. Like teacher, Lke pupil!" " There ! " Mrs. Lovell gave Algernon another smile. "Yon have to bear the sins of your rector, as well as your own. Can you support it ? " The flimsy fine dialogue was a little above Algernon's level in the society of ladies; but he muttered, bowing, that he would endeavour to support it, with Mrs. Lovell's help, and this did well enough; after which, the slight strain on the intellects of the assemblage relaxed, and ordinary topics were discussed. The carriages came round to the door; gloves, parasols, and scent-bottles were securely grasped; whereupon the squire, standing bare- headed on the steps, insisted upon se'^mg the party of the opposition off first, and waited to h. li Mrs. Lovell into her carriage, an ironic gallantry '• ; pted by the lady with serenity befitting the sacred .u. r. iM n |.:l 60 RHODA FLEMING /I "All ! ray pencil, to mark the text for you, squire," she said, taking her seat; and Algernon turned back at her bidding, to get a pencil; and she, presenting a most har- monious aspect in the lovely landscape, reclined in the carriage as if, like the sweet summer air, she too were quieted by those holy bells, while the squire stood, fuming, bareheaded, and with boiling blood, just within the bounds of decorum on the steps. She was more than his match. She was more than a match for most; and it was not a secret. Algernon knew it as well as Edward, or anyone. She was a terror to the soul of the youth, and an attrac- tion. Her smile was the richest flattery he could feel ; the richer, perhaps, from his feeling it to be a thing impossible to fix. He had heard tales of her ; he remembered Edward's warning; but he was very humbly sitting with her now, and very happy. "I^n in for it," he said to his fair companion; "no cheque for me next quarter, and no chance of an increase. He '11 tell me I 've got a salary. A salary ! Good Lord ! what a man comes to ! I 've done for myself with the squire for a year." "You must think whether you have compensation," said the lady, and he received it in a cousinly squeeze of his hand. He was about to raise the lank white hand to his lips. " Ah ! " she said, " there would be no compensation to me, if that were seen;" and her dainty hand was with- drawn. "Now, tell me," she changed her tone. "How do the loves pi )sper?" Algernon begged her not to call them "loves." She nodded and smiled. "Your artistic admiration," she observed. "I am to see her in church, am I not ? Only, my dear Algy, don't go too far. Eustic beauties are as dangerous as Court Prin- cesses. Where was it you saw her first ? " "At the Bank," said Algernon. "Really ! at the Bank ! So your time there is not abso- lutely wasted. What brought her to London , I wonder ? " "Well, she has an old uncle, a queer old fellow, and he *s a sort of porter — money porter — in the Bank, awfully honest, or he might half break it some fine day, if he chose INTRODUCES MRS. LOVELL 61 She go i*rin- he's to cut and run. She 's got a sister, prettier than tliis girl, the fellows say; I 've never seen her. I expect I 've seen a pc^rtrait of her, though." " Ah! " Mrs. Lovell musically drew him on. " Was she dark, too ? " "No, she 's fair. At least, she is in the portrait." "Brown hair; hazel Cj r>irr j3 9 " " Oh — oh ! You guess, do you ? " "I guess nothing, though it seems profitable. That Yankee betting man ' guesses, ' and what heaps of money he makes by it ! " " T wish I did," Algernon sighed. " All my guessing and reckoning goes wrong. I'm safe for next spring, that's one comfort. J. shall make twenty thousand next spring." "OnTemplemore?" " That 's the horse. I 've got a little on Tenpenny Nail as well. But I'm quite safe m Templemore; unless the Evil Principle comes into the field." " Is he so sure to be against you, if he does appear ? " said Mrs. Lovell. " Certain ! " ejaculated Algernon, in honest indignation. " Well, Algy, I don't like to have him on my side. Per- haps I will take a share in your luck, to make it — to make it — " She played prettily as a mistress teasing her lap-dog to jump for a morsel; adding: "Oh! Algy, you are not a Frenchman. To make it divine, sir ! you have missed your chance." "Tbore 's one chance I should n't like to miss," said the youth. "Then do not mention it," she counselled him. "And, seriously, I will take a part of your risk. I fear T am lucky, which is rumous. We will settle that by-and-by. Do you know, Algy, the most expensive position in the world is a widow's?" "You need n't be one very long," growled he. " I 'm so wretchedly fastidious , don't you see ? And it 's best not to sigh when we 're talking of business, if you '11 take me for a guide. So the old man brought this pretty rustic Miss Rhoda to the Bank ? " "Once," said Algernon. "Just as he did with her sister. He's proud of his nieces; shows them and then m t' 'i lli !' -I ■ I I f 4i 62 RHODA FLEJMING ?rr V i h hides them. The feliows at the Bank never saw her again." " Her name is — " "Dahlia." "Ah, yes, — Dal :•, T/'tremely pretty. There are brown dahlias — dah. so. .1] colours. And the portrait of this fair creature hangs up rv your chambers in town ? " "Don't call them my chambers," Algernon protested. "Your cousin's, if you like. Probably Edward hap- pened to be at the Bank when fair Dahlia paid her visit. Once seems to have been enough for both of you." Algernon was unread in the hearts of women, and ima- gined that Edward's defection from Mrs. LovelPs sway had deprived him of the lady's sympathy and interest in his fortunes. "Poor old Ned 's in some scrape, I think," he said. "Where is he?" the lady asked, languidly. "Paris." "Paris? How very odd! And out of the season, in this hot weather. It 's enough to lead me to dream that he has gone over — one cannot realize why." " Upon my honour ! " Algernon thumped on his knee ; "by jingo! " he adopted a less compromising interjection; "Ned's fool enough. My idea is, he's gone and got married." Mrs. Lovell was lying back with the neglectful grace of incontestable beauty; not a line to wrinkle her smooth, soft features. For one sharp instant her face was all edged and puckered, like the face of a fair witch. She sat upright. " Married ! But how can that be when we none of us have heard a word of it ? " " I daresay you have n't, " said Algernon ; " and not likely to. Ned 's the closest fellow of my acquaintance. He hasn't taken me into his confidence, you may be sure; he knows I 'm too leaky. There 's no bore like a secret ! I 've come to my conclusion in this affair by putting together a lot of little incidents and adding them up. First, I believe he was at the Bank when that fair girl was seen there. Secondly, from the description the fellows give of her, I should take her to be the original of the portrait. Next, I know that Bhoda has a fair sister who has run for it. the h \ ■ I I J ll|i Jl l lll |I H "11 - INTRODUCES MRS. LOVELL 68 I And last, Rhoda has had a letter from her sister, to say she 's away to the Continent and is married. Ned 's in Paris. Those are my facts, and I give you my reckoning of them." Mrs. Lovell gazed at Algernon for one long meditative moment. "Impossible!" she exclaimed. "Edward has more brains than heart." And now the lady's face was scarle "How did this Rhoda, with her absurd name, think oi! meeting you to tell you such stuff ? Indeed, there 'l a simplicity in some of these young women — " She said the remainder to herself. "She's really very innocent and good/' Algernon de- fended Rhoda. "She is. There is n't a particle of non- sense in her, I first met her in town, as I stated, ao the Bank; just on the steps, and we remembered I had called a cab for her a little before ; and I met her again by acci- dent yesterday." " You are only a boy in their hands, my cousin Algy ! " said Mrs. Lovell. Algernon nodded with a self-defensive knowingness. " I fancy there 's no doubt her sister has written to her that she 's married. It 's certain she has. She 's a blunt sort of girl; not one to lie, not even for a sister or a lover, unless she had previously made up her mind to it. In that case, she would n't stick at much." "But, do you know," said Mrs. Lovell — "do you know that Edward's father would be worse than yours over such an act of folly? He would call it an offence against com- mon-sense, and have no mercy for it. He would be vindic- tive on principle. This story of yours cannot be true. Nothing reconciles it." "Oh, Sir Billy will be rusty; that stands to reason," Algernon assented. "It may n't be true. I hope it is n't. But Ned has a madness for fair women. He 'd do any- thing on earth for them. He loses his head entirely." "That he may have been imprudent — " Mrs. Lovell thus blushingly hinted at the lesser sin of his deceiving and ruining the girl. "Oh, it needn't be true," said Algernon; and with meaning, " Who 's to blame if it is ? " i } \ [ <;f tl m . 'i RHODA FLEMING reddened. She touched Algernon's )) cried Mrs. Lovell again fingers. "His friends mustn't forsake him, m any case." " By Jove ! you are tlie right sort of woman, Algernon. It was beyond liis faculties to divine that her not forsak- ing of Edward might haply come to mean something disas- trous to him. The touch of Mrs. Lovell's hand made him forget Rhoda in a twinkling. He detained it, audaciously, even until she frowned with petulance and stamped her foot. Thero was over her bosom a large cameo-brooch, repre- senting a tomb under a palm-tree, and the figure of a veiled woman with her head bowed upon the tomb. This brooch was falling, when Algernon caught it. The pin tore his finger, and in the energy of pain, he dashed the brooch to her feet, with immediate outcries of violent disgust at himself, and exclamations for pardon. He picked up the brooch. It was open. A strange, discoloured, folded sub- stance lay on the floor of the carriage. Mrs. Lovell gazed down at it, and then at him, ghastly pale. He lifted it by one corner, and the diminutive folded squares came out, revealing a strip of red-stained handkerchief. Mrs. Lovell grasped it, and thrust it out of sight. She spoke as they approached the church-door : " Mention nothing of this to a soul, or you forfeit my friendship for ever." When they alighted, she was smiling in her old affable manner. CHAPTER IX (I ROBERT INTERVENES Some consideration for Robert, after ail, as being the man who loved her, sufficed to give him rank as a more elevated kind of criminal in Rhoda's sight, and exquisite torture of the highest form was administered to him. Her faith in her sister was so sure that she could half pardon ROBERT INTERVENES 65 him for the momentary harm he had done to Dahlia with her father; but, judging him by the lofty standard of one who craved to be her husband, she could not pardon his unmanly hesitation and manner of speech. The old and deep grievance in her heart as to what men thought of women, and as to the harshness of men, was stirred con- stantly by the remembrance of his irresolute looks, and his not having dared to speak nobly for Dahlia, even though he might have had the knavery to think evil. As the case stood, there was still mischief to counteract. Her father had willingly swallowed a drug, but his suspicions only slumbered, and she could not instil her own vivid hopeful- ness and trust into him. Letters from Dahlia came regu- larly. The first, from Lausanne, favoured Rhoda's con- ception of her as of a happy spirit resting at celestial stages of her ascent upward through spheres of ecstasy. Dahlia could see the snow-mountains in a flying glimpse; and again, peacefully seated, she could see the snow- mountains reflected in clear blue waters from her window, which, Rhoda thought, must be like heaven. On these in- spired occasions , Robert presented the form of a malignant serpent in her ideas. Then Dahlia made excursions upon glaciers with her beloved, her helpmate, and had slippings and tumblings, — little earthly casualties which gave a charming sense of reality to her otherwise miraculous flight. The Alps were crossed : Italy was beheld. A pro- fusion of " Oh's ! " described Dahlia's impressions of Italy; and "Oh! the heat!" showed her to be mortal, notwith- standing the sublime exclamations. Como received the blissful couple. Dahlia wrote from Como : — "Tell father that gentlemen in my Edward's position cannot always immediately proclaim their marriage to the world. There are reasons. I hope he has been very angry with me; then it will be soon over, and we shall be — But I cannot look back. I shall not look back till we reach Venice. At Venice, I know I shall see you all as clear as day ; but I cannot even remember the features of my dar- ling here." Her Christian name was still her only signature. The thin blue-and-pink paper, and the foreign post- marks — testifications to Dahlia's journey not being a ficti- I ) 1 5i \ !", •I 1' il m =1 Jifl f, '^:1E V t '^ 06 RHODA FLEMING tious event, had a singular deliciousness for the solitary girl at the farm. At times, as she turned them over, she was startled by the intoxication of lier sentiments, for the wild thought would come, that many, many whose pas- sionate hearts she could feel as her own, were ready to abandon principle and the bondage to the hereafter, for such a long delicious gulp of divine life. Rhoda found herself more than once brooding on the possible case that Dahlia had done this thing. The fit of languor came on her unawares, probing at her weakness, and blinding her to the laws and duties of earth, until her conscious womanhood checked it, and she sprang from the vision in u spasm of terror, not knowing how far she had fallen. After such personal experiences, she suffered great longings to be with her sister, that the touch of her hand, the gaze of her eyes, the tone of Dahlia's voice, might make her sure of her sister's safety. llhoda's devotions in church were frequently distracted by the occupants of the Blancove pew. Mrs. Lovell had the habit of looking at her with an extraordinary direct- ness, an expressionless dissecting scrutiny, that was bewil- dering and confusing to the country damsel. Algernon likewise bestowed marked attention on her. Some curious hints had been thrown out to her by this young gentleman on the day when he ventured to speak to her in the lane, which led her to fancy distantly that he had some acquaint- ance with Dahlia's husband, or that he had heard of Dahlia. It was clear to Rhoda that Algernon sought another in- terview. He appeared in the neighbourhood of the farm on Saturdays, and on Sundays he was present in the church, sometimes with Mrs. Lovell, and sometimes without a companion. His appearance sent her quick wits travelling through many scales of possible conduct; and tliey struck one ringing note, — she thought that by the aid of this gen- tleman a lesson might be given to Robert's mean nature. It was part of Robert's punishment to see that she was not unconscious of Algernon's admiration. The first letter from Venice consisted of a series of in- terjections in praise of the poetry of gondolas, varied by allusio amazin compos " Tit sat to darling model coverin down, to kno\ made seems " The them li A color (speakii has no i me. A of being all at h( should ■\ "Pers well. ^ I know men do, was a w to him. leaves i lieve th glad, th is genei sight. "But will lau face an( cracked, about n you and dear mc always me so ^ ROBERT INTERVENES 67 allusions to the sad smell of the low tide water, and the amazing quality of the heat; and then Dahlia wrote more composedly, — "Titian the painter lived here, and painted ladies, who sat to him without a bit of garment on; and indeed, my darling, I often think it was more comfortable for the model than for the artist. Kven modesty seems too hot a covering for human creatures here. The sun strikes mo down. I am oeasins; to have a complexion. It is pleasant to know that my Edward is still proud of me. He has made acquaintance with some of the officers here, and seems pleased at the compliments they pay me. " They have nice manners, and white uniforms that fit them like a kid glove. I am Edward's 'resplendent wife.' A colonel of one of the regiments invited him to dinner (speaking English), ' with your resplendent wife.' Edward has no mercy for errors of language, and he would not take me. Ah ! who knows how strange men are ! Never think of being happy unless you can always be blind. I see you all at home — Mother Dumpling and all — as I thought I should when I was to come to Venice. "Persuade — do persuade father that everything will be well. Some persons are to be trusted. Make him feel it. I know that I am life itself to Edward. He has lived as men do, and he can judge, and he knows that there never was a wife who brought a heart to her husband like mine to him. He wants to think, or he wants to smoke, and he leaves me; but, oh' when he returns, he can scarcely be- lieve that he has m»-, his joy is so great. He looks like a glad, thankful child, and he has the manliest of faces. It is generally thoughtful; you might think it hard, at^rs^ sight. "But you must be beautiful to please some men. You will laugh — I have really got the habit of talking to my face and all myself in the glass. Rhoda would think me cracked. And it is really true that I was never so humble about my good looks. You used to spoil me at home — you and that wicked old Mother Dumpling, and our own dear mother, Rhoda — oh ! mother, mother ! I wish I had always thought of you looking down on me! You made me so vain — much more vain than I let you see I was. v/ 1^ ■*! i\ t I' 1 m >. VI W 68 BHODA FLEMING There were times when it is quite true I tliought myself a princess. I am not worse-looking now, but I suppose I desire to be so beiutiful that nothing satisfies me. "A spot on iT'y neck gives me a dreadful fright. If my hair comes out mucn when I comb it, it sets my heart beat- inp:; and it is a daihj misery to me that my hands are larger than they should be, belonging to Edward's ' re- splendent wife.' I thank heaven that you and I always saw the necessity of being careful of our finger-nails. My feet are of moderate size, though they are not French feet, as Edward says. No; I shall never dance. He sent me to the dancing-master in London, but it was too late. But I have been complimented on my walking, and that seems to please Edward. He does not dance (or mind dancing) himself, only he does not like mo to miss one perfection. It is his love. Oh ! if I have seemed to let you suppose he does not love me as ever, do not think it. He is most tander and true to me. Addio! I am signora, you are signorina. "They have such pretty manners to Edward says they think less of women; I more. But I feel he must be right. Oh, loving, innocent sister ! put out your arms ; I shall them round ]ne, and kiss you, kiss you for ever ! " Onward from city to city, like a radiation of light from the old farm-house, where so little of it was, Dahlia con- tinued her journey ; and then, without a warning, with only a word to say that she neared Rome, the letters ceased. A chord snapped in Rhoda's bosom. While she was hearing from her sister almost weekly, her confidence was buoyed en a summer sea. In the silence it fell upon a dread. She had no answer in her mind for her father's unspoken dissatisfaction, and she had to conceal her cruel anxiety. There was an interval of two months; a blank fell charged with apprehension that was like the humming of a toneless wind before storm ; worse than the storm, for any human thing to bear. Rhoda was unaware that Robert, who rarely looked at her, and never sought to speak a word to her when by chance they met and were alone, studied each change in her face, and read its signs. He was left to his own interpre- us over here, say they think my dear, cold, " " ' feel tation that ht Hebel One ing, th eviden down t for her At ROBERT INTERVENES 69 tation of them, but the signs he knew accurately. He knew that her pride had sunk, and that her heart was desolate. He believed that she had discovered her sister's misery. One day a letter arrived that gave her no joyful colour- ing, though it sent colour to her cheeks. She opened it, evidently not knowing the handwriting; her eyes ran down the lines hurriedly. After a time she went upstairs for her bonnet. At the stile leading into that lane where Eobert had previously seen her, she was stopped by him. "No farther," was all that he said, and he was one who could have interdicted men from advancing. "Why may I not go by you?" said Ilhoda, with a woman's affected humbleness. Robert joined his hands. "You go no farther. Miss Rhoda, unless you take me with you." "I shall not do that, Mr. Robert." "Then you had better retarn home." " Will you let me know what reasons you have for be- having in this manner to me ? " "I'll let you know by-and-by," said Robert. "At present, you '11 let the stronger of the two have his way." He had always been so meek and gentle and inoffen- sive that her contempt had enjoyed free play, and had never risen to anger; but violent anger now surged against him, and she cried, "Do you dare to touch me ?" trying to force her passage by. Robert caught her softly by the wrist. There stood at the same time a full-statured strength of will in his eyes, under which her own fainted. "Go back," he said; and she turned that he might not see her tears of irritation and shame. He was treating her as a child; but it was to herself alone that she could defend herself. She marvelled that when she thought of an out- spoken complaint against him, her conscience gave her no support. " Is there no freedom for a woman at all in this world ? " Rhoda framed the bitter question. Rhoda went back as she had come. Algernon Blancove did the same. Between them stood Robert, thinking, "Now I have made that girl hate me for life." lU^ \i hh vv h ins /} • / 70 EHODA FLEMING It was in November thcat a letter, dated from London, reached the farm, quickening Rhoda's blood anew. "I am alive," said Dahlia; and she said little more, except that she was waiting to see her sister, and bade her urgently to travel up alone. Her father consented to her doing so. After a consultation with Robert, however, he determined to accompany her. "She can't object to see me too," said the farmer; and Ehoda answered, "No." But her face was bronze to Robert when they took their departure. CHAPTER X DAHLIA IS NOT VISIBLE Old Anthony was expecting them in London. It was now winter, and the season for theatres; so, to show his brother-in-law the fun of a theatre was one part of his pro- jected hospitality, if Mr. Fleming should haply take the hint that he must pay for himself. Anthony had laid out money to welcome the farmer, and was shy and fidgety as a girl who anticipates the visit of a promising youth, over his fat goose for next day's din- ner, and his shrimps for this day's tea, and his red slice of strong cheese, called of Cheshire by the reckless butter- man, for supper. He knew that both Dahlia and Ehoda must have told the farmer that he was not high up in Boyne's Bank, and it fretted him to think that the mysterious respect enter- tained for his wealth by the farmer, which delighted him with a novel emotion, might be dashed by what the farmer would behold. During his last visit to the farm, Anthony had talked of the Funds more suggestively than usual. He had alluded to his own dealings in them, and to what he would do and would not do under certain contingencies; thus shadowing out, dimly luminous and immense, what he could do if his sagacity prompted the adventure. The farmer had lis- i tened sighing brother about ances ; IS aij ti giving people topsy show buy up look at you into th< a lord t Insp country he was mer's o tuous, had pui the che boldly J lighted placards buy. A wax of ' stamp o: nified ai of the I by one c it was w at the r out of b ing dow which g them, one mis pect. ' thought additior Ii DAHLIA IS NOT VISIBLE 71 tened through the buzzing of his uncertain grief, only- sighing for answer. "If ever you eome up to London, brother William John," said Anthony, "you mind you go about arm-in-arm with me, or you '11 be judging by appear- ances; and says you, *Lor', what a thousander fellow this is ! ' and ' What a millioner fellow that is ! ' You '11 be giving your millions and your thousands to the wrong people, when they have n't got a penny. All London '11 be topsy-turvy to you, unless you've got a guide, and he'll show you a shabby -coated, head-in-the-gutter old man '11 buy up the lot. Everybody that does n't know him says — look at him ! but they that knows him — hats off, I can tell you. And talk about lords ! We don't mind their coming into the city, but they know the scent of cash. I 've had a lord take off his hat to rae. It 's a fact, I have." In spite of the caution Anthony had impressed upon his country relative, that he should not judge by appearances, he was nevertheless under an apprehension that the far- mer's opinion of him, and the luxurious, almost volup- tuous, enjoyment he had of it, were in peril. When he had purchased the well-probed fat goose, the shrimps, and the cheese, he was only half-satisfied. His ideas shot boldly at a bottle of wine, and he employed a summer- lighted evening in going a round of wine-merchants' placards, and looking out for the cheapest bottle he could buy. And he would have bought one — he had sealing- wax of his own and could have stamped it with the office- stamp of Boyne's Bank for that matter, to make it as dig- nified and costly as the vaunted red seals and green seals of the placards — he would have bought one, had he not, by one of his lucky mental illuminations, recollected that it was within his power to procure an order to taste wine at the Docks, where you may get as much wine as you like out of big sixpenny glasses, and try cask after cask, walk- ing down gas-lit paths between the huge bellies of wine which groan to be tapped and tried, that men may knoAv them. The idea of paying two shillings and sixpence for one miserable bottle vanished at the richly-coloured pros- pect. "That '11 show him something of what London is," thought Anthony; and a companion thought told him in addition that the farmer, with a skinful of wine, would -il trra-mr.' iioRa'. ir m pi • / I 72 RHODA FLEMING emerge into the open air imagining no small tlimgs of the man who corJd gain admittance into those marvellous caverns. *'By George! it 's like a boy's story-book," cried Anthony, in his soul, and he chuckled over the vision of the farmer's amazement — acted it with his arms extended, and his hat unseated, and plunged into wheezy fits of laughter. T»r -r^. He met his guests at th^ tation. Mr. Fleming was soberly attired in what, to Anthony's London eye, was a curiosity costume; but the broad brim of the hat, the square cut of the brown coat, and the leggings, struck him as being very respectable, and worthy of a presentation at any Bank in Loudon. " You stick to a leather purse, brother William John ? " he inquired, with an artistic sentiment for things in keeping. " I do," said the farmer, feeling seriously at the button over it. "All right; I sha'n't ask ye to show it in .the street," Anthony i-ejoiued, and smote Rhoda's hand as it hung. " Glad to see your old uncie — are ye ? " Rhoda replied quietly that she was, but had come with the principal object of seeing her sister. "There ! " cried Anthony, "you never ■ a compliment out of this gal. She gives ye the nut, ana you 're to crack it, and there may be, or there may n't be, a kernel inside — she don't care." " But there ain't much in it ! " the farmer ejaculated, withdrawing his fingers from the button they had been teasing for security since Anthony's question about the purse. " Not much — eh ! brother William John ? " Anthony threw up a puzzled look. " Not much baggage — I see thr.l: ! " he exclaimed ; " and, Lord be thanked ! no trunks, j^iir, ny dear " — he turned to Rhoda — "you remember your lesson, do v e ? Now, mark me — I '11 remember you for it. Do you know, my dear," he said to Rhoda confi- d-'ntially, 'that sixpenn'orth of chaff which I made the cabman vaT u^v— there was the cream of it !— that was better tuan Peruvian bark to my constitution. It was as good to m ; as a sniff of sea-breeze and no excursion ex- penses I'd h stood Jack why I all the I let self, on the are st£ makes Befo tussle portera the fan his way "I r said, w The looked. "Don remarke side of "Nov we shou the bag racts of good nc one of " a penny o' tempt cash, da lord, aiK bowing knockin plexion, wine, ai called h * Carrots thing,' a come in ":ry ♦- ® *"■.*. DAHLIA IS NOT VISIBLE 73 penses. I *d like another, just to feel young again, when I 'd have backed myself to beat — cabmen ? Ah ! I 've stood up, when I was a young 'un, and shut up a Cheap Jack at a fair. Circulation 's the soul o' chaff. That 's why I don't mind tackling cabmen — they sit all day, and all they 've got to say is ' rat-tat,' and they 've done. But I let the boys roar. I know what I was when a boy my- self. I 've got devil in me — never you fear — but it 's all on the side of the law. Now, let 's off, for the gentlemen are starin' at you, which won't hurt ye, ye know, but makes me jealous." Before the party moved away from the platform, a sharp tussle took place between Anthony and the farmer as to the porterage of the bulky bag ; but it being only half-earnest, the farmer did not put out his strength, and Anthony had his way. " I rather astonished you, brother William John," he said, when they were in the street. The farmer admitted that he was stronger than he looked. "Don't you judge by appearances, that's all," Anthony remarked, setting down the bag to lay his finger on one side of his nose for impressiveness. " Now, there we leave London Bridge to the right, and we shoulder away to the left, and quiet parts." He seized the bag anew. "Just listen. That's the roaring of oata racts of gold you hear, brother William John. It 's a good notion, ain't it ? Hark ! — I got that notion from one of your penny papers. You can buy any amount for a penny, now-a-days — poetry up in a corner, stories, tales o' temptation — one fellow cut his lucky with his master's cash, dashed away to Australia, made millions, fit to be a lord, and there he was ! liable to the law ! and everybody bowing their hats and their heads oif to him, and his knees knocking at the sight of a policeman ~ a man of a red com- plexion, full habit of body, enjoyed his dinner and his wine, and on account of his turning white so often, they called him — * Sealing-wax and Parchr :nt ' was one name ■ * Carrots and turnips ' was another ; . lumonge and some- thing,' and so on. Fancy his having to pay half his in- come in pensions to chaps who could h.Kve had liim out of ,VW^ -,Vt f 1 ?,*■ ■ u BHODA FLEMING Si;;: :1 M:f /ii his town or country mansion and popped into gaol in a jiffy. And found out at last ! Them tales set you think- ing. Once I was an idle young scaramouch. But you can. buy every idea that 's useful to you for a penny. I tried the halfpenny journals. Cheapness ain't always profitable. The moral is, Make your money, and you may buy all the rest." Discoursing thus by the way, and resisting the farmer's occasional efforts to relieve him of the bag, with the obser- vation that appearances were deceiving, and that he in- tended, please his Maker, to live and turn over a little more interest yet, Antliony brought them to Mrs. Wicklow's house. Mrs. "W Icklo w prom ised to put them into the track of the omnibuses.- running toward Dahlia's abode in the Southwest, and Mary Ann Wicklow, who had a burning desire in her bosom to behold even the outside shell of her friend's new grandeur, undertook ' ery disinterest- edly to accompany tlnem. Anthony's strict injunction held them due at a lami)-post outside Boyne's Bank, at half-past three o'clock in th'j afternoon, "My love to Dahly," he said. ''She was always a head and shoulders over my size. Tell her, when she rolls by in her carriage, not to mind me. I got my own notions of value. And if that IVlr. Ayrton of hers '11 bank at Boyne's, I '11 behave to him like a customer. This here 's the girl for my money." He touched Khoda's arm, and so disappeared. The farmer chided iier for her cold manner to her uncle, murmuring aside to her : " You heard what he said." Bhoda was frozen wi^-li Jier li'^art's expectation, and insensible to hints or reprcii. The oeople who entered the omnibus seemed to her stale phantoms bearing a likeness to every one she had known, sav<, to ber beloved whom she was about to meet, after long seimratiov,. She marvelled pityingly at the sort of madness which kept the streets so lively for no reasonable purpose. When she was on i or feet ag. in, she felt for the first time, that she was nearing the sister for whom she hungered, and the sensation beset lier that she had landed in a foreign country. Mary Ann Wicidow chattered all the while to the general ear. It was her pride to be the discoverer of Dahlia's terrace. <'No a genei where Eho( walk, a Dahlia' fixed u] fair Ma f ul reel ''Ik the boTv Gard correctl close bi Mary A too late that L( when re ning. they ha( sprang i whirled eyes, as pressed "It u trembled as by a 1 that the^ them ! — knitted 1 maid op came in me. I n would fit « Ayrt please, IV very son morrow, sure yoi anxious i sorry, bu and pun( tartawrtr DAHLIA IS NOT VISIBLE 76 ral *'Not for worlds would she enter the house," she said, in a general tone ; she knowing better than to present herself where downright entreaty did not invite her. Rhoda left her to count the numbers along the terrace- walk, and stood out in the road that her heart might select Dahlia's habitation from the other hueless residences. She fixed upon one, but she was wrong, and her heart sank. The fair Mary Ann fought her and beat her by means of a care- ful reckoning, as she remarked, — " I keep my eyes open : Number 15 is the corner house, the bow-window, to a certainty." Gardens were in front of the houses ; or, to speak more correctly, strips of garden walks. A cab was drawn up close by the shrub-covered iron gate leading up to No. 15. Mary Ann hurried them on, declaring that they might be too late even now at a couple of dozen paces distant, seeing that London cabs, crawlers as they usually were, could, when required, and paid for it, do their business like light- ning. Her observation was illustrated the moment after they had left her in the rear; for a gentleman suddenly sprang across the pavement, jumped into a cab, and was whirled away, with as much apparent magic to provincial eyes, as if a pantomimic trick had been performed. Rhoda pressed forward a step in advance of her father. ''It may have been her husband," she thought, and trembled. Tlie curtains up in the drawing-room were moved as by a hand, but where was Dahlia's face ? Dahlia knew that they were coming, and she was not on the look-out for them ! — a strange conflict of facts, over which Rhoda knitted her black brows, so that she looked menacing to the maid opening the door, whose " Oh, if you please. Miss," came in contact with " My sister — Mrs. , she expects me. I mean, Mrs. " but no other name than " Dahlia " would fit itself to Rhoda's mouth. " Ayrton," said the maid, and recommenced, "Oh, if you please, Miss, and you are the young lady, Mrs. Ayrton is very sorry, and have left word, would you call again to- morrow, as she have made a pressing appointment, and was sure you would excuse her, but her husband was very anxious for her to go^ and could not put it off, and was very .sorry, but would ycu call again to-morrow at twelve o'clock? and punctually she would be here." 4 •• t ^ V 76 BHODA FLEmNG / ' ^' 1 ^f 13 to V < . i 1'' i The maid smiled as one who had fairly accomplished the recital of her lesson. Rhoda was stunned. " Is Mrs. Ayrton at home ? — Not at home ? " she said. " No : don't ye hear ? " quoth the farmer, sternly. " Phe had my letter — do you know ? " Rhoda appealed to the maid. " Oh, yes, Miss. A letter from the country." " This morning ? " <' Yes, Miss ; this morning." " And she has gone out ? What time did she go out ? When will she be in ? " Her fatlier plucked at her dress. "Best not go making the young woman repeat herself. She says, nobody 's at home to ask us in. There 's no more, then, to trouble her for." "At twelve o'clock to-morrow ?" Rhoda faltered. "Would you, if you please, call again at twelve o'clock to-morrow, and punctually she would be here," said the maid. The farmer hung his head and turned. Ehoda followed him from th'i garden. She was immediately plied with queries and interjections of wonderment by Miss Wick low, and it was not until she said : " You saw him go out, did n't you ? — into the cab ? " that Rhoda awakened to a meaning in her gabble. Was it Dahlia's husband whom they had seen ? And if so, why was Dahlia away from her husband ? She ques- tioned in her heart, but not for an answer, for she allowed no suspicions to live. The farmer led on with his plodding country step, burdened shoulders, and ruddy-jowled, serious face, not speaking to Rhoda, who had no desire to hear a word from him, and let him be. Mary Ann steered him and called from behind the turnings he was to take, while she speculated aloud to Rhoda upon the nature of the busi- ness that had torn Dahlia from the house so inopportunely. At last she announced that she knew what it was, but Rhoda failed to express curiosity. Mary Ann was driven to whisper something about strange things in the way of purchases. At that moment the farmer threw up his umbrella, shouting for a cab, and Rhoda ran up to him, — " Oh, father, why do we want to ride ? " "Yes coat-col "Iti «Wh roared after w placid Anthon away S( quarter which h came tl and hui across a were fol mighty threadir sengers. wilderec voice, ing brig down tl understa "I've John," h worth so Let any i stop a ra Helau small an face, he ( "You man but me thirt another John, g( Didn't 3 That was watched ing num Williaru DAHLIA IS NOT VISIBLE "Yes, I tell ye!" said the farmer, chafing against his coat-collar. " It is au expense, when we can walk, father." "What do I care for th' expense? I shall ride." He roared again for a cab, and one came that took them in ; after which, the farmer, not being spoken to, became gravely placid as before. They were put down at Boyne's Bank. Anthony was on the look-out, and signalled them to stand away some paces from the door. They were kept about a quarter of an hour waiting between two tides of wayfarers, which hustled them one way and another, when out, at last, came the old, broad, bent figure, with little finicking steps, and hurried past them head foremost, his arms narrowed across a bulgy breast. He stopped to make sure that they were following, beckoned with his chin, and proceeded at a mighty rate. Marvellous was his rounding of corners, his threading of obstructions, his skilful diplomacy with pas- sengers. Presently they lost sight of him, and stood be- wildered ; but while they were deliberating they heard his voice. He was above them, having issued from two swing- ing bright doors ; and he laughed and nodded, as he ran down the steps, and made signs, by which they were to understand that he was relieved of a weight. "I've done that twenty year of my life, brother William John," he said. " Eh ? Perhaps you did n't guess I was worth some thousands when I got away from you just now ? Let any chap try to stop me ! They may just as well try to stop a railway train. Steam 's up, and I 'm off." He laughed, and wiped his forehead. Slightly vexed at the small amount of discoverable astonishment on the farmer's face, he continued, — " You don't think much of it. Why, there ain't another man but myself Boyne's Bank would trust. They ' ve trusted me thirty year : — why should n't they go on trusting me another thirty year ? A good character, brocher William John, goes on compound-interesting, just like good coin. Did n't you feel a sort of heat as I brushed by you — eh ? That was a matter of one — two — three — four" (Anthony watched the farmer as his voice swelled up on the heighten- ing numbers), "five — six — six thousand pounds, brother William John. People must think something of a man to V t^^i M^ 78 RHODA FLEMING ,,. : trust him with tliat sum pretty near every day of their lives, Sundays excepted — eh? don't you think so?" He dwelt upou the immense confidence reposed in him, and the terrible temptation it would be to some men, and how they ouglit to thank their stars that they were never thrown in tlie way of such a temptation, of which he really thought nothing at all — nothing! until the farmer's coun- tenance was lightened of its air of oppression, for a puzzlo was dissolved in his bvain. It was now manifest to him that Anthony was trusted in this extraordinary manner be- cause the heads and managers of Boyne's Bank knew the old man to be possessed of a certain very respectable sum ; in all probability they held it in their coffers for safety, and credited him with the amount. Nay, more ; it was fair to imagine that the guileless old fellow, who conceived himself to be so deep, had let them get it all into their hands without any suspicion of their prominent object in doing so. Mr. Fleming said, " Ah, yes, surely." He almost looked shrewd as he smiled over Anthony's hat. The healthy exercise of his wits relieved his appre- hensive paternal heart ; and when he mentioned that Dahlia had not been at home when he called, he at the same time sounded his hearer for excuses to be raised on her behalf, himself clumsily suggesting one or two, as to show that he was willing to swallow a very little for comfort. '* Oh, of course ! " said Anthony, jeeringly. " Out ? If you catch her in, these next three or four days, you'll be lucky. Ah, brother William John!" The farmer, half frightened by Anthony's dolorous shake of his head, exclaimed : " What's the matter, man? " " How proud I should be if only you was in a way to bank at Boyne's ! " J* Ah ! " went the farmer in his turn, and he plunged his chin deep in his neckerchief. "Perhaps some of your family will, some day, brother William John." " Happen, some of my family do, brother Anthony I " *' Will is what I said, brother William John ; if good gals, and civil, and marry decently — eh ?" and he faced about to Rhoda, who was walking' with Miss Wicklow. " What does I donl and I . i t^ DAHLIA IS NOT VISIBLE 79 '*f lis Iter does she look so down about, my dear '^ Never be down. I don't mind you telling your young man, whoever he is ; and I 'd li .e him to he a strapping young six-footor I 've got in my eye, who farms. What does he farm with to make farming answer now-a-days ? Why, he farms with brains. You '11 find that in my last week's Journal, brother William John, and thinks I as I conned it — the farmer ought to read that ! You may tell any young man you like, my dear, that your old uncle 's fond of ye." On their arrival home, Mrs. Wicklow met them with a letter in her hand. It was for Rhoda from Dahlia, saying that Dahlia was grieved to the heart to have missed her dear father and her darling sister. But her husband had insisted upon her going out to make particular purchases, and do a dozen things ; and he was extremely sorry to have been obliged to take her away, but she hoped to see hor dear sister and her father very, very soon. She wished she were her own mistress that she might run to them, but men when they are husbands require so much waiting on that she could never call five minutes her own. She would entreat them to call to-morrow, only she would then be moving to her new lodgings. " But, oh ! my dear, my blessed Khoda ! " the letter concluded, " do keep fast in your heart that I do love you so, and pray that we may meet soon, as I pray it every night and all day long. Beg father to stop till we meet. Things will soon be arranged. They must. Oh ! oh, my Rhoda, love ! how handsome you have grown. It is very well to be fair for a time, but the brunettes have the happiest lot. They last, and when we blond ones cry or grow thin^ oh ! what objects we become ! " There were some final affectionate words, but no further explanations. The wrinkles again settled on the farmer's mild, uncom- plaining forehead. Rhoda said : " Let us wait, father." When alone, she locked the letter against her heart, as to suck the secret meaning out of it. Thinking over it was useless; except for this one thought: how did her sister know she had grown very handsome ? Perhaps the house- maid had prattled. 'i '% ■' ^■^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I \^m m •^ IM III 12.2 U 2.0 1.8 1.25 u ||6 1 « 6" »■ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80 (716) 873-4503 '< ^Krj ///// ^^ U.x % i RHODA FLEMING CHAPTER XI AS INDICATIVE DUET IN A MINOR KEY Dahlia, the perplexity to her sister's heart, lay stretched at full length upon the sofa of a pleasantly furnished Lon- don drawing-room, sobbing to herself, with her handker- chief across her eyes. She had cried passion out, and sobbed now for comfort. She lay in her rich silken dress like the wreck of a joyful creature, v/hile the large red winter sun rounded to even- ing, and threw deep-coloured beams against the wall above her head. They touched the nut-brown hair to vivid threads of fire ; but she lay faceless. Utter languor and the dread of looking at her eyelids in the glass kept her prostrate. So the darkness closed her about ; the sickly gas-lamps of the street showing her as a shrouded body. A girl came in to spread the cloth for dinner, and went through her duties with the stolidity of the London lodging- house maidservant, poking a clogged fire to perdition, and repressing a songful spirit. Dahlia knew well what was being done ; she would have given much to have saved her nostrils from the smell of dinner; it was a great immediate evil to her sickened senses ; but she had no energy to call out, nor will of any kind. The odours floated to her, and passively she com- bated them. At first she was nearly vanquished ; the meat smelt so acrid, the potatoes so sour ; each afflicting vegetable asserted itself peculiarly; and the bread, the salt even, on the wings of her morbid fancy, came steaming about her, subtle, pene- trating, thick, and hateful, like the pressure of a cloud out of which disea -ic Is shot. Such it seemed to her, till she could have shrieked ; but only a few fresh tears started down her cheeks, and she lay enduring it. Dead silence and stillness hung over the dinner-service, when the outer door below was opened, and a light foot sprang up the stairs. AN INDICATIVE DUET 81 ^^ There entered a young gentleman in evening dress, with a loose black wrapper drooping from his shoulders. He looked on the table, and then glancing at the sofa, said, — " Oh, there she is ! " and went to the window and whistled. After a minute of great patience, he turned his face back to the room again, and commenced tapping his foot on the carpet. " Well ? " he said, finding these indications of exemplary self-command unheeded. His voice was equally po verless to provoke a sign of animation. He now displaced his hat; and said, "Dahlia!" She did not move. " I am here to very little purpose, then," he remarked. A fluttering fall of her bosom was perceptible?. "For heaven's sake, take away that handkerchief, my good child ! Why have you let your dinner get cold ? Here," he lifted a cover ; "here's roast-beef. You like it — why don't you eat it ? That 's only a small piece of the general inconsistency, I know. And why have n't they put champagne on the table for you ? You lose your spirits without it. If you took it when these moody fits came on — but there 's no advising a woman to do anything for her own good. Dahlia, will you do me the favour to speak two or three words with me before I go ? I would have dined here, but I have a man to meet me at the Club. Of what mortal service is it shamming the insensible ? You 've produced the required effect, I am as uncomfortable as I need be. Absolutely ! "Well," seeing that words were of no avail, he summed up expostulation and reproach in this sigh of resigned philo- sophy, " I am going. Let me see — I have my Temple keys ? — yes ! I am afraid that even when you are inclined to be gracious and look at me, I shall not be visible to you for some days. I start for Lord Elling's to-morrow morn- ing at five. I meet my father there by appointment. I 'm afraid we shall have to stay over Christmas. Good-bye." He paused. " Good-bye, my dear." Two or three steps nearer the door, he said, " By the way, do you want anything ? Money ? — do you happen to want any money ? I will send a blank cheque to-morrow. I have 6 i4 82 RHODA FLEMING ;i sufficient for both of us. I shall tell the landlady to order your Christmas dinner. How about wine? There is champagne, I know, and bottled ale. Sherry ? I '11 drop a letter to my wine-merchant j I think the sherry's running dry." Her sense of hearing was now afflicted in as gross a man- ner as had been her sense of smell. She could not have spoken, though her vitality had pressed for speech. It would have astonished him to hear that his solicitude con- cerning provender for her during his absence was not es- teemed a kindness ; for surely it is a kindly thing to think of it ; and for whom but for one for whom he cared would he be counting the bottles to be left at her disposal, inso- much that the paucity of the bottles of sherry in the estab- lishment distressed his mental faculties ? " Well, good-bye," he said, finally. The door closed. Had Dahlia's misery been in any degree simulated, her eyes now, as well as her ears, would have taken positive assurance of his departure. But with the removal of her handkerchief, the loathsome sight of the dinner-table would have saluted her, and it had already caused her suffering enough. She chose to remain as she was, saying to herself, " I am dead ; " and softly revelling in that corpse-like senti- ment. She scarcely knew that the door had opened again. « Dahlia ! " She heard her name pronounced, and more entreatingly, and closer to her. " Dahlia, my poor girl ! " Her hand was pressed. It gave her no shudders. "I am dead," she mentally repeated, for the touch did not run up to her heart and stir it. "Dahlia, do be reasonable! I can't leave you like this. We shall be separated for some time. And what a miser- able fire you 've got here ! You have agreed with me that we are acting for the best. It 's very hard on me ! I try what I can to make you comf — happy ; and really, to see you leaving your dinner to get cold ! Your hands are like ice. The meat won't be eatable. You know I 'm not my own master. Come, Dahly, my darling ! " He gently put his hand to her chin, and then drew away the handkerchief. D she « M to be Bv acce see t Tl he ni one like of It AN INDICATIVE DUET 88 V.S. Dahlia moaned at the exposure of her tear-stained face ; she turned it languidly to the wall. " Are you ill, my dear ? " he asked. Men are so considerately practical ! He begged urgently to be allowed to send for a doctor. But women, when they choose to be unhappy, will not accept of practical consolations ! She moaned a refusal to see the doctor. Then what can I do for her ? he naturally thought, and he naturally uttered it. "Say good-bye to me," he whispered. "And my pretty one will write to me. I shall reply so punctually ! I don't like to leave her at Christmas ; and she will give me a line of Italian, and a little French — mind her accents, though ! — and she need n't attempt any of the nasty German — kshrra-houzzra-kratz ! — v;hicli her pretty lips can't do, and won't do; but only French and Italian. Why, she learnt to speak Italian ! ' La dolcezza ancor dentro me sKona.' Don't you remember, and made such fun of it at first? ' Amo zoo;' 'no amo me?' my sweet!" This was a specimen of the baby-lover talk which is charming in its season, and may be pleasantly cajoling to a loving woman at all times, save when she is in Dahlia's condition. It will serve even then, or she will pass it for- givingly, as not the food she for a moment requires ; but it must be purely simple in its utterance, otherwise she de- tects the poor chicanery, and resents the meanness of it. She resents it with unutterable sickness of soul, for it is the language of what \vere to her the holiest hours of her existence, which is thus hypocritically used to blind and rock her in a cradle of deception. If corrupt, she may be brought to answer to it all the same, and she will do her part of the play, and babble words, and fret and pout deliciously ; and the old days will seem to be revived, when both know they are dead ; and she will thereby gain any advantage she is seeking. But Dahlia's sorrow was deep: her heart was sound. She did not even perceive the opportunity offered to her for a wily performance. She felt the hollowness of his speech, and no more; and she said, "Good-bye, Edward." He had been on one knee. Springing cheerfully to his )A f 84 RHODA FLEMING feet, "Good-bye, darling," he said. "But I must see her sit to table first. Such a wretched dinner for her ! " and he mumbled, "By Jove, I suppose I sha'n't get any at all my- self ! " His watch confirmed it to him that any dinner which had been provided for him at the Club would be spoilt. "Never mind," he said aloud, and examined the roast- beef ruefully, thinking that, doubtless, it being more than an hour behind the appointed dinner-time at the Club, his guest must now be gone. For a minute oi so he gazed at the mournful spectacle. The potatoes looked as if they had comn \tted suicide in their own steam. There were mashed turr^ips, with a glazed surface, like the bright bottom of a tin pan. One block of bread was by the lonely plate. Neither hot nor cold, the whole aspect of the dinner-table resisted and repelled the gaze, and made no pretensions to allure it. The thought of partaking of this repast endowed him with a critical appreciation of its character, and a gush of charitable emotion for the poor girl who had such miser- able dishes awaiting her, arrested the philosophic reproof which he could have administered to one that knew so little how a dinner of any sort should be treated. He .strode to the windows, pulled down the blind he had pre- viously raised, rang the bell, and said, — "Dahlia, there — I'm going to dine with you, my love. I've rung the bell for more candles. The room shivers. That girl will see you, if you don't take care. Where is the key of the cupboard ? We must have some wine out. The champagne, at all events, won't be flat." He commenced humming the song of complacent resigna- tion. Dahlia was still inanimate ; but as the door was about to open, she rose quickly and sat in a tremble on the sofa, concealing her face. An order was given for additional candles, coals, and wood. When the maid had disappeared. Dahlia got on her feet, and steadied herself by the wall, tottering away to her chamber. "Ah, poor thing! " ejaculated the young man, not with- out an idea that the demonstration was unnecessary. For what is decidedly disagreeable is, in a young man ,? calcu- lation concerning women, not necessary at all, — quite the rave lun£ piec sticl AN INDICATIVE DUET 85 'T^' to h- or u- ine reverse. Are not women the flowers which decorate sub- lunary life ? It is really irritating to discover them to be pieces of machinery, that for want of proper oiling, creak, stick, threaten convulsions, and are tragic and stir us the wrong way. However, champagne does them good? an admirable wine, — a sure specific for the sex ! He searched around for the keys to get at a bottle and uncork it forthwith. The keys were on the mantelpiece, — a bad comment on Dahlia's housekeeping qualities ; but in the hurry of action let it pass. He welcomed the candles gladly, and soon had all the cupboards in the room royally open. Bustle is instinctively adopted by the human race as the substitute of comfort. He called for more lights, more plates, more knives and forks. He sent for ice : the maid observed that it was not to be had save at a distant street : " Jump into a cab — champagne 's nothing without ice, even in winter," he said, and rang for her as she was leaving the house, to name a famous fishmonger who was sure to supply the ice. The establishment soon understood that Mr. Ayrton in- tended dining within those walls. Fresh potatoes were put on to boil. The landlady came up herself to arouse the fire. The maid war> for a quarter of an hour hovering between the order to get ice and the execution of immediate commands. One was that she should take a glass of cham- pagne to Mrs. Ayrton in her room. He drank off one him- self. Mrs. Ayrton's glass being brought back untouched, he drank that off likewise, and as he became more exhila- rated, was more considerate for her, to such a degree that when she appeared he seized her hands and only jestingly scolded her for her contempt of sound medicine, declaring, in spite of her protestations, that she was looking lovely, and so they sat down to their dinner, she with an anguished glance at the looking-glass as she sank in her chair. "It's not bad, after all," said he, drenching his tasteless mouthful of half-cold meat with champagne. ** The truth is, that Clubs spoil us. This is Spartan fare. Come, drink with me, my dearest. One sip." She was coaxed by degrees to empty a glass. She had a gentle heart, and could not hold out long against a visible lively kindliness. It pleased him that she should bow to M k > ^ s> i ' n I I ' ■ X-: 86 RHODA FLEMING him over fresh bubbles; and they went fornically through the ceremony, and she smiled. He joked and laughed and talked, and she eyed him a faint sweetness. He perceived now that she required nothing more than the restoration of her personal pride, and, setting bright eyes on her, hazarded a bold compliment. Dahlia drooped like a yacht with idle sails struck by a sudden blast, that dips them in the salt ; but she raised her face with the full bloom of a blush : and all was plain sail- ing afterward. " Has my darling seen her sister ? " he asked softly. Dahlia answered, " No," in the same tone. Both looked away. "She won't leave town without seeing you ?" " I hope — I don't know. She — she has called at our last lodgings twice." "Alone?" " Yes ; I think so." Dahlia kept her head dowi;, veplying ; and his observa- tion of her wavered uneasily. " Why not write to her, then ^ " " She will bring father." The sob thickened in her throat; but, alas for him who had at first, while she was on the sofa, affected to try all measures to revive her, that I must declare him to know well how certain was his mastery over her when his man- ner was thoroughly kind. He had not much fear of her relapsing at present. " You can't see your father ? " "No." "But, do. It's best." " I can't." "Why not?" "Not — " she hesitated, and clasped her hands in her lap. "Yes, yes; I know," said he; "but still! You could surely see him. You rouse suspicions that need not exist. Try another glass, my dear." "No more." " Well ; as I was saying, you force him to think — and there is no necessity for it. He may be as hard on this me. AN INDICATIVE DUET 87 point as you say; but now and then a little innoceit de- ception may be practised. We only require to gain time. You place me in a very hard position. I have a father too. He has his own idea of things. He *s a proud man, as I Ve told you; tremendously ambitious, and he wants to push me, not only at the bar, but in the money market matri- monial. All these notions I have to contend against. Things can't be done at onco. If I give him a shock — well, we'll drop any consideration of the consequences. Write to your sister to tell her to bring your father. If they make particular inquiries — very unlikely I think — but, if they do, put them at their ease." She sighed. " Why was my poor darling so upset, when I came in ? " said he. There was a difficulty in her speaking. He waited with much patient twiddling of bread crumbs; and at last she said, — " My sister called twice at my — our old lodgings. The second time, she burst into tears. The girl told me so." "But women cry so often, and for almost anything, Dahlia." " Rhoda cries with her hands closed hard, and her eye- lids too." " Well, that may be her way." "I have only mother was flying, and asked her to fetch a rose from the garden. I met her on the stairs. She was like wood. She hates crying. She loves me so." The sympathetic tears rolled down Dahlia's cheeks. " So, you quite refuse to see your father ? " he asked. "Not yet!" " Not yet," he repeated. At the touch of scorn in his voice, she exclaimed, — "Oh, Edward! not yet, I cannot. I know I am weak. I can't meet him now. If my Rhoda had come alone, as I hoped — ! but he is with her. Don't blame me, Edward. I can't explain. I only know that I really have not the power to see him." Edward nodded. " The sentiment some women put into things is inexplicable," he said. " Your sister and father t seen her cry once, and that was when iil mmmmmmmi 88 BHODA FLEftUNG I! il t'v ',7 y! H i' i If 1 % ■i f 's I 1^ ! will return home. They will have formed their ideas. You kuow how unjust they will be. Since, however, the taste is for being a victim — eh ? " London lodging-house rooms in winter when the blinds are down, and a cheerless fire is in the grate, or when blinds are up and street-lamps salute the inhabitants with uncor- dial rays, are not entertaining places of residence for rest- less spirits. Edward paced about the room. He lit a cigar and puffed at it fretfully. " Will you come and try one of the theatres for an hour ? " he asked. She rose submissively, afraid to say that she thought she should look ill in the staring lights ; but he, with great quickness of perception, rendered her task easier by naming the dress she was to wear, the jewels, and the colour of the opera cloak. Thus prompted, Dahlia went to her chamber, and passively attired herself, thankful to have been spared the pathetic troubles of a selection of garments from her wardrobe. When she came forth, Edward thought her marvellously beautiful. Pity that she had no strength of character whatever, nor any pointed liveliness of mind to match and wrestle with his own, and cheer the domestic hearth ! But she was certainly beautiful. Jldward kissed her hand in commen- dation. Though it was practically annoying that she should be sad, the hue and spirit of sadness came home to her aspect. Sorrow visited her tenderly falling eyelids like a sister. CHAPTER XII AT THE THEATRE Edward's engagement at his Club had been with his unfortunate cousin Algernon ; who not only wanted a dinner but " five pounds or so " (the hazy margin which may extend illimitably, or miserably contract, at the lender's pleasure, and the necessity for which shows the borrower to be dancing on Fortune's tight-rope above the old abyss). AT THE THEATRE 89 9" " Over claret," was to have been the time for the asking; anrl Algernon waited dinnerless until the healthy-going minutes distended and swelled monstrous and horrible as viper-bitten bodies, and the venerable Signior, Time, became of unhealthy hue. For this was the first dinner which, during the whole course of the young man's career, had ever been failing to him. Reflect upon the mournful gap ! He could scarcely believe in his ill-luck. He suggested it to himself with an inane grin, as one of the far-away freaks of circumstances that had struck him — and was it not comical ? He waited fi jm the hour of six till the hour of seven. He compared clocks in the hall and the room. He changed the posture of his legs fifty times. For a while he wrestled right gallantly with the apparent menace of the Fates that he was to get no dinner at all that day; it seemed incredibly derisive, for, as I must repeat, it had never happened to him by any accident before. " You are born — you dine." Such appeared to him to be the positive regulation of affairs, and a most proper one, — of the matters of course following the birth of a young being. By what frightful mischance, then, does he miss his dinner ? By placing the smallest confidence in the gentle- manly feeling of another man ! Algernon deduced this reply accurately from his own experience, and whether it can be said by other ''undined" mortals, does not matter in the least. But we have nothing to do with the constitu- tionally luckless : the calamitous history of a simple empty stomach is enough. Here the tragedy is palpable. Indeed, too sadly so, and I dare apply but a flash of the microscope to the raging dilemmas of this animalcule. Five and twenty minutes had signalled their departure from the hour of seven, when Algernon pronounced his final verdict upon Edward's conduct by leaving the Club. He returned to it a quarter of an hour later, and lingered on in desperate mood till eight. He had neither watch in his pocket, nor ring on his finger, nor disposable stud in his shirt. The sum of twenty- one pence was in his possession, and I ask you, as he asked himself, how is a gentleman to dine upon that? He laughed at the notion. The irony of Providence sent him by a \^ ( • !i 90 RHODA FLEMING i) ; I cook's shop, whern the mingled steam of meats and pud- dings rushed out upon the wayfarer like ambushed bandits, and seized him and dragged him in, or sent him qualmish and humbled on his way. Two little boys had flattened their noses to the whiteness of winkles against the jealously misty windows. Algernon knew himself to be accounted a generous fellow, and, remem- bering his reputation, he, as to hint at what Fortune might do in his case, tossed some coppers to the urchins, who ducked to the pavement and slid before the counter, in a flash, with never a '• thank ye," or the thought of it. Algernon was incapable of appreciating this childish faith in the beneficence of the unseen Powers who feed us, which, I must say for him, he had shared in a very similar manner only two hours ago. He laughed scornfully : " The little beggars ! " considering in his soul that of such is humanity composed : as many a dinnerless man has said before, and will again, to point the speech of fools. He continued strolling on, comparing the cramped misty London aspect of things with his visionary free dream of the glorious prairies, where his other life was : the forests, the mountains, the endless expanses ; the horses, the flocks, the slipshod ease of language and attire ; and the grog-shops. Aha ! There could be no mistake about him as a gentleman and a scholar out there! Nor would Nature shut up her pocket and demand innumerable things of him, as civilization did. This he thought in the vengefulness of his outraged mind. Not only had Algernon never failed to dine every day of his life : he had no recollection of having ever dined with- out drinking wine. His conception did not embrace the idea of a dinner lacking wine. Possibly he had some embodied understanding that wine did not fall to the lot of every fellow upon earth: he had heard of gullets unre- freshed even by beer: but at any rate he himself was accustomed to better things, and he did not choose to excavate facts from the mass of his knowledge in order to reconcile himself to the miserable chop he saw for his dinner in the distance — a spot of meat in the arctic circle of a plate, not shone upon by any rosy-warming sun of a decanter ! But metaphorical language, though nothing other will the AT THE THEATRE 91 will convey the extremity of his misery, or the form of his thoughts, must be put aside. "Egad, and every friend I have is out of town!" he exclaimed, quite willing to think it part of the plot. He stuck his hands in his pockets, and felt vagabond-like and reckless. The streets were revelling in their winter muck. The carriages rolling by insulted him with their display of wealth. He had democratic sentiments regarding them. Oh for a horse upon the boundless plains ! he sighed to his heart. He remembered bitterly how he had that day ridden his stool at the Bank, dreaming of his wilds, where bailiff never ran, nor duns obscured the firmament. And then there were theatres here — huge extravagant places ! Algernon w^nt over to an entrance of one, to amuse his mind, cynically criticizing the bill. A play was going forward within, that enjoyed great popular esteem, " The Holly Berries." Seeing that the pit was crammed, Algernon made application to learn the state of the boxes, but, hearing that one box was empty, he lost his interest in the performance. As he was strolling forth, his attention was taken by a noise at the pit-doors, which swung open, and out tumbled a tough little old man with a younger one grasping his coat- collar, who proclaimed that he would sicken him of pushing past him at the end of every act. "You 're precious fond of plays," sneered the junior. " I 'm fond of everything I pay for, young fellow," replied the shaken senior ; "and that's a bit of enjoyment you've got to learn — ain't it ? " " "Well, don't you knock by me again, that 's all," cried the choleric youth. " You don't think I 'm likely to stop in your company, do you ? " " Whose expense have you been drinking at ? " " My country's, young fellow; and mind you don't soon feed at the table. Let me go." Algernon's hunger was appeased by the prospect of some excitement, and, seeing a vicious shake administered to the old man by the young one, he cried, " Hands off ! " and undertook policeman's duty; but as he was not in blue, \\ I V ' ■""-''o.'imtM-'X 92 RHODA FLEMING I i r » fvif/ his authoritative mandate obtained no respect until he had interposed his fist. When ho had done so, he recognized the porter at Boyne's Bank, whose enemy retired upon the threat that there should be no more pushing past him to get back to seats for the next act. <'I paid," said Anthony ; " and you 're aticketer, and you ticketers sha'n't stop me. I 'm worth a thousand of you. Holloa, sir," he cri^'d to Algernon j " I did n't know you. I'm much obliged. These chaps get tickets given 'm, and grow as cocky in a theatre as men who pay. He never had such wine in him as I 've got. That I 'd swear. Ha ! ha ! 1 come out for an airing after every act, and there 's a whole pitfull of ticketers yelling and tearing, and I chaff my way tlirough and back clean as a red-hot poker." Anthony laughed, and rolled some',vliat as he laughed. "Come along, sir, into the street," he said, boring on to the pavement. " It 's after office hours. And, ha ! ha! what do you think? There 's old farmer in there, afraid to move off his seat, and the girl with him, sticking to him tight, and a good girl too. She thinks we 've had too much. We been to the Docks, wine-tasting : Port — Sherry : Sherry — Port ! and, ha! ha ! ' what a lot of wine ! ' says farmer, never think- ing how much lie''s taking on board. 'I guessed it was night,' says farmer, as we got into the air, and to see him go on blinking, and stumbling, and saying to me, ' You stand wine, brother Tony ! ' I 'm blest if I ain't bottled laughter. So, says I, 'come and see "The Holly Berries," brother William John ; it 's the best play in London, and a suitable winter piece.' * Is there a rascal hanged in the piece? ' says he. ' Oh, yes ! ' I let him fancy there was, and he — ha ! ha ! old farmer's sticking to his seat, solemn as a judge, waiting for the gallows to come on the stage." A thought quickened Algernon's spirit. It was a noto- rious secret among the young gentlemen who assisted in maintaining the prosperity of Boyne's Bank, that the old porter — the "Old Ant," as he was called — possessed money, and had no objection to put out small sums for a certain interest. Algernon mentioned casually that he had left his purse at home ; and " by the way," said he, " have you got a few sovereigns in your pocket ? " <( sir, -^ in a AT THE THEATRE 98 " What ! and come tlirough that crush, sir ? " Anthony negatived the question decisively with a reference to his general kuowingness. Algernon pressed him ; saying at last, " Well, have you got one ? " "I don't think I've been such a fool," said Anthony, feeling slowly about his person, and muttering as to the changes that might possibly have been produced in him by the Docks. "Confound it, I haven't dined!" exclaimed Algernon, to hasten his proceedings ; but at this, Anthony eyed him queerly. " What have you been about then, sir ? " " Don't you see I 'm in evening dress ? I had an appoint- ment to dine with a friend. He did n't keep it. I find I've left my purse in mv other clothes." }} was Anthony's comment. 've left my purse in my "That's a bad habit, sir, "You don't care much for your purse. " Much for my purse, be hanged ! " interjected Algernon. " You 'd have felt it, or you 'd have heard it, if there 'd been any weight in it," Anthony remarked. " How can you hear paper ? " "Oh, paper's another thing. You keep paper in your mindf don't you — eh? Forget pound notes? Leave pound notes in a purse ? And you Sir William's nephew, sir, who 'd let you bank with him and put down everything in a book, so that you could n't forget, or if you did, he 'd remember for you ; and you might change your clothes as often as not, and no fear of your losing a penny." Algernon shrugged aisgustedly, and was giving the old man up as a bad business, when Anthony altered his manner. "Oh! well, sir, I don't mind letting you have what I 've got. I 'm out for fun. Bother affairs ! " The sum of twenty shillings was handed to Algernon, after he had submitted to the indignity of going into a public-house, and writing his I. O. U. for twenty-three to Anthony Hackbut, which included interest. Algernon re- monstrated against so needless a formality ; but Anthony put the startling supposition to him, that he might die that night. He signed the document, and was soon feeding and drinking his wine. This being accomplished, he took some hasty puffs of tobacco, and returned to the theatre, in the V^ 4 . .' ' 94 RHODA FLEaUNG W ■1 hope that the dark giyl Ehoda was to be seen there ; for now that he had dined, Anthony's communication with regard to the farmer and his daughter became his upper- most thought, and a young man's uppermost thought is usually the propelling engine to his actions. By good chance, and the aid of a fee, he obtained a front seat, commanding an excellent side-view of the pit, which sat wrapt in contemplation of a Christmas scene : snow, ice, bare twigs, a desolate house, and a woman shivering, — one of man's victims. It is a good public, that of Britain, and will bear any- thing, so long as villany is punished, of which there was ripe promise in the oracular utterances of a rolling, stout, stage- sailor, whose nose, to say nothing of his frankness on the subject, proclaimed him his own worst enemy, and whose joke, by dint of repetition, had almost become the joke of the audience too; for whenever he appeared, there was agitation in pit and gallery, which subsided only on his jovial thundering of the familiar sentence ; whereupon laughter ensued, and a quieting hum of satisfaction. It was a play that had been favoured with a great run. Critics had once objected to it, that it was made to subsist on scency, a song, and a stupid piece of cockneyism pre- tending to be a jest, that was really no more than a form of slapping the public on the back. But the public likes to have its back slapped, and critics, frozen by the Medusa- head of Success, were soon taught manners. The office of critic is now, in fact, virtually extinct ; the taste for tick- ling and slapping is universal and imperative ; classic ap- peals to the intellect, and passions not purely domestic, have grown obsolete. There are captains of the legions, but no critics. The mass is lord. And behold our friend the sailor of the boards, whose walk is even as two meeting billows, appears upon the lonely moor, and salts that uninhabited region with nauti- cal interjections. Loose are his hose in one part, tight in another, and he smacks them. It is cold ; so let that be his excuse for showing the bottom of his bottle to the glittering spheres. He takes perhaps a sturdier pull at the liquor than becomes a manifest instrument of Providence, whose services may be immediately required j but he informs us AT THE THEATRE 95 that Lis ship was never known not to right itself when called upon. He is alone in the world, he tells us likewise. If his one friend, the uplifted flask, is his enemy, why then he feels bound to treat his enemy as his friend. This, with a pathetic allusion to his interior economy, which was ap- plauded, and the remark " Ain't that Christian ? " which was just a trifle risky ; so he secured pit and gallery at a stroke by a surpassingly shrewd blow at the bishops of our Church, who are, it can barely be contested, in foul esteem with the multitude — none can say exactly for what reason — and must submit to be occasionally offered up as propi- tiatory sacrifices. This good sailor was not always alone in the world. A sweet girl, whom he describes as reaching to his knee-cap, and pathetically believes still to be of the same height, once called him brother Jack. To hear that name again from her lips, and a particular song ! — he attempts it ludicrously, yet touchingly withal. Hark ! Is it an echo from a spirit in the frigid air ? The song trembled with a silver ring to the rer^otest corners of the house. At that moment the breathless hush of the audience was flurried by hearing " Dahlia " called from the pit. Algernon had been spying among the close-packed faces for a sight of Rhoda. Rhoda was now standing up amid gathering hisses and outcries. Her eyes were bent on a particular box, across which a curtain was hastily being drawn. "My sister!" she sent out a voice of anguish, and remained with clasped hr-^ds and twisted eyebrows, looking toward that one spot, as if she would have flown to it. She was wedged in the mass, and could not move. The exclamation heard had belonged to brother Jack, on the stage, whose burst of fraternal surprise and rapture fell flat after it, to the disgust of numbers keenly awakened for the sentiment of this scene. Roaring accusations that she was drunk, that she had just escaped from Bedlam for an evening, that she should be gagged and turned headlong out, surrounded her; but she stood like a sculptured figure, vital in her eyes alone. The farmer put his arm about his girl's waist. The in- 'i ' W ^ : 96 RHODA FLEmNQ '•1 If h 'Mm ■] I! ; I i ! stant, however, that Anthony's head uprose on the other side of her, the evil reputation he had been gaining for himself all through the evening produced a general clamour, over which the gallery played, miauling, and yelping like dogs that are never to be divorced from a noise. Algernon feared mischief. He quitted his seat, and ran out into the lobby. Half-a-dozen steps, and he came in contact with some one, and they were mutually drenched with water by the shock. It was his cousin Edward, bearing a glass in his hand. Algernon's wrath at the sight of this offender was stimu- lated by the cold bath ; but Edward cut him short. " Go ill there ; " he pointed to a box-door. " A lady has fainted. Hold her up till I come." No time was allowed for explanation. Algernon passed into the box, and was alone with an inanimate shape in blue bournous. The uproar in the theatre raged ; the whole pit was on its legs and shouting. He lifted the pallid head over one arm, miserably helpless and perplexed, but his anxiety concerning Ehoda's personal safety in that sea of strife prompted him to draw back the curtain a little, and he stood exposed. Rhoda perceived him. She motioned with both her hands in dumb supplication. In a moment the curtain closed between them. Edward's sharp white face cursed him mutely for his folly, while he turned and put the water to Dahlia's lips, and touched her forehead with it. " What 's the matter ? " whispered Algernon. " We must get her out as quick as we can. This is the way with women! Come! she's recovering." Edward nursed her sternly as he spoke. " If she does n't, pretty soon, we shall have the pit in upon us," said Algernon. " Is she that girl's sister ? " " Don't ask damned questions." Dahlia opened her eyes, staring placidly. " Now you can stand up, my dear. Dahlia ! all 's well. Try," said Edward. She sighed, murmuring, "What is the time ? " and again, " What noise is it ? " Edward coughed in a vexed attempt at tenderntoS, using all feet the sist( iMA^-lvt -;„. THE FARMER SPEAKS 97 all his force to be gentle with her as he brought her to her feet. The task was difficult amid the threatening storm in the theatre, and cries of "Show the young woman her sister ! " for Rhoda had won a party in the humane public. ''Dahlia, in God's name give me your help!" Edward called in her ear. The fair girl's eyelids blinked wretchedly in protestation of her weakness. She had no will either way, and suffered herself to be led out of the box, supported by the two young men. "Eun for a cab," said Edward; and Algernon went ahead. He had one waiting for them as they came out. They placed Dahlia on a seat with care, and Edward, jumping in, drew an arm tightly about her. " I can't cry," she moaned. The cab was driving off as a crowd of people burst from the pit-doors, and Algernon heard the voice of Farmer Fleming, very hoarse. He had discretion enough to retire. i M W CHAPTER XIII THE FARMER SPEAKS Robert was to drive to the station to meet Rhoda and her father returning from London, on a specified day. He was eager to be asking cheerful questions of Dnhlia's health and happiness, so that he might dispel the absurd general belief that he had ever loved the girl, and was now regret- ting her absence ; but one look at Rhoda's face when she stepped from the railway carriage kept him from uttering a word on that subject, and the farmer's heavier droop and acceptance of a helping hand into the cart, were signs of bad import. Mr. Fleming made no show of grief, like one who nursed it. He took it to all appearance as patiently as an old worn horse would do, although such an outward submissiveness will not always indicate a placid spirit in men. He talked at stale intervals of the weather, and the state of the ground 7 \ i' m wl . I RHODA FLEMING / ;■'; \'i 'f :h j along the line of rail down home, and pointed in contempt or approval to a field here and there ; but it was as one who no longer had any professional interest in the tilling of the land. Doubtless he was trained to have no understanding of a good to be derived by his communicating what he felt and getting sympathy. Once, when he was uncertain, and a secret pride in Dahlia's beauty and accomplishments had whispered to him that her flight was possibly the opening of her road to a higher fortune, he made a noise for comfort, believing in his heart that she was still to be forgiven. He knew better now. By holding his peace he locked out the sense of shame which speech would have stirred within him. " Got on pretty smooth with old Mas' Gammon ? " he ex- pressed his hope ; and Robert said, "Capitally. We shall make something out of the old man yet, never fear." Master Gammon was condemned to serve at the ready-set tea-table as a butt for banter; otherwise it was apprehended well that Mrs. Sumfit would have scorched the ears of all present, save the happy veteran of the furrows, with repe- titions of Dahlia's name, and wailings about her darling, of whom no one spoke. They suffered from her in spite of every precaution. " Well, then, if I 'm not to hear anything dooring meals — as if I 'd swallow it and take it into ray stomach ! — I '11 wait again for what ye 've got to tell," she said, and finished her cup at a gulp, smoothing her apron. The farmer then lifted his head. "Mother, if you've done, you'll oblige me by going to bed," he said. " We want the kitchen." " A-bed ? " cried Mrs. Sumfit, with instantly ruffled lap. " Upstairs, mother ; when you 've done — not before." "Then bad's the noos! Something have happened, Wil- liam. You 'm not going to push me out ? And my place is by the tea-pot, which I cling to, rememberin' how I seen her curly head grow by inches up above the table and the cups. Mas' Gammon," she appealed to the sturdy feeder, "five cups is your number?" Her hope was reduced to the prolonging of the service of tea, with Master Gammon's kind assistance. i » THE FARMER SPEAKS 99 ^ to "Four, mann," said her inveterate antagonist, as he finished that amount, and consequently put the spoon in his cup. Mrs. Sumfit rolled in her chair. "O Lord, Mas' Gammon ! Five, 1 say; and never a cup less so long as here you 've been." "Four, marm. I don't know," said Master Gammon, with a slow nod of his head, " that ever I took five cups of tea at a stretch. Not runnin'." "I do know, Mas' Gammon. And ought to; for don't I pour out to ye? It 's five you take, and please, your cup, if you '11 hand it over." "Four 's my number, marm," Master Gammon reiterated resolutely. He sat like a rock. "If they was dumplins," moaned Mrs. Sumfit, "not four, no, nor five, 'd do till enough you 'd had, and here we might stick to our chairs, but you 'd go on and on; you know you would." "That's eatin*, marm;" Master Gammon condescended to explain the nature of his habits. " I 'm reg'lar in my drinkin'." Mrs. Sumfit smote her hands together. "0 Lord, Mas' Gammon, the wearisomest old man I ever come across is you. More tea *s in the pot, and it ain't watery, and you won't be comfortable. May you get forgiveness from above! is all I say, and I say no more. Mr. Robert, perhaps you '11 be so good as let me help you, sir ? It 's good tea; and my Dody," she added, cajolingly, "my home girl '11 tell us what she saw. I 'm pinched and starved to hear." "By-and-by, mother," interposed the farmer; "to- morrow." He spoke gently, but frowned. Both Rhoda and Robert perceived that they were pecu- liarly implicated in the business which was to be discussed without Mrs. Sumfit's assistance. Her father's manner forbade Rhoda from making any proposal for the relief of the forlorn old woman. "And me not to hear to-night about your play-goir.g! " sighed Mrs. Sumfit. "Oh, it 's hard on me. I do call it cruel. And how my sweet was dressed — like as for a Ball." 100 KHODA FLEMING 7 I' ;■;( \ 1 nv She saw the farmer mo'/e his foot impatiently. "Then, if nobody drinks this remaining cup, I will," she pursued. No voice save her own was heard till the cup was emp- tied, upon which Master Gammon, according to his wont, departed for bed to a-'oid the seduction of suppers, which he shunned as apoplectic, and Mrs. Sumfit prepared, in a desolate way, to wash tho tea-things; but the farmer, say- ing that it could be done in the morning, went to the door and opened it for her. She fetched a great sigh and folded her hands resignedly. As she was passing him to make her miserable enforced exit, the heavy severity of his face afflicted her with a deep alarm; she fell on her knees, crying, — "Oh, William! it ain't for sake of hearin' talk; but you, that went to see our Dahly, the blossom, *ve come back streaky under the eyes, and you make the house feel as if we neighboured Judgement Day. Down to tea you set the first moment, and me alone with none of you, and r^y love for my girl known well to you. And now to be marched off! How can I go a-bed and sleep, and my heart jumps so? It ain't Christian to ask me to. I got a heart, dear, I have. Do give a bit of comfort to it. Only a word of my Dahly to me." The farmer replied: "Mother, let's have no woman's nonsense. What we 've got to bear, let us bear. And you go on your knees to the Lord, and don't be a heathen woman, I say. Get up! There 's a Bible in your bed- room. Find you out comfort in that." "No, William, no!" she sobbed, still kneeling; ain't a dose o' comfort there when poor souls is in dark, and haven't got patience for passages. And me and my Bible! — how can I read it, and not know my ailing, and abstract one good word, William? It '11 seem only the devil's shootin' black lightnings across the page, as poor blessed granny used to say, and she believed witches could do it to you in her time, when they was evil-minded. No! To-night I look on the binding"^ of the Holy Book, and I don't, and I won't, I sha'n't open it." This violent end to her petition was wrought by the farmer grasping her arm to bring her to her feet. " there the (( i ■ I* n THE FARMER SPEAKS 101 " Go to bed, mother ! " "I sha'u't open it," she repeated, defiantly. "And it ain't," she gathered up her comfortable fat person to assist the words — " it ain't good — no, not the best pious ones — I shall, Pid will say it! as is aPays ready to smack your face with the Bible." "Now, don't ye be angry," said the farmer. She softened instantly. "William, dear, I got fifty-seven pounds sterling, and odd shillings, in a Savings-bank, and that I meant to go to Dahly, and not to yond' dark thing sitting there so sullen, and me in my misery ; I 'd give it to you now for news of my dariin'. Yes, William; and my poor husband's cot- tage, in Sussex — seventeen pound per annum. That, if you '11 be goodness itself, and let me hear a word." " Take her upstairs," said the farmer to Ehoda; and Rhoda went by her and took her hands, s.nd by dint of pushing from behind and dragging in front, Mrs. Sumfit, as near on a shriek as one so fat and sleek could be, was ejected. The farmer and Robert heard her struggles and exclamations along the passage, but her resistance sub- sided very suddenly. " There 's power in that girl," said the farmer, standing by the shut door. Robert thought so, too. It affected his imagination, and his heart began to beat sickeningly. " Perhaps she promised to speak — what has happened, whatever that may be," he suggested. "Not she; not she. She respects my wishes." Robert did not ask what had happened. Mr. Fleming remained by the door, and shut his mouth from a further word till he heard Rhoda's returning foot- step. He closed the door again behind her, and went up to the square deal table, leaned his body forward on the knuckles of his trembling fist, and said, " We 're pretty well broken up, as it is. I 've lost my taste for life." There he paused. Save by the shining of a wet fore- head, his face betrayed nothing of the anguish he suffered. He looked at neither of them, but sent his gaze straight away under labouring brows to an arm of the fireside chair, while his shoulders drooped on the wavering sup- m R 102 RHODA FLEMING m port of his hard-shut hands. Rhoda's eyes, ox-like, as were her father's, smote full upon Eobert's, as in a pang of apprehension of what was about to be uttered. It was a quick blaze of light, wherein he saw that the girl's spirit was not with him. He would have stopped the farmer at once, but he had not the heart to do it, even had he felt in himself strength to attract an intelligent response from that strange, grave, bovine fixity of look, over which the human misery sat as a thing not yet taken into the dull brain. "My taste for life," the old man resumed, "that 's gone. I didn't bargain at set-out to go on fighting agen the world. It 's too much for a man o' my years. Here 's the farm. Shall 't go to pieces? I 'm a farmer of thirty year back — thirty year back, and more. I 'm about no better 'n a farm labourer in our time, which is to-day. I don't cost much. I ask to be fed, and to work for it, and to see my poor bit o' property safe, as handed to me by my father. Not for myself, 't ain't; though perhaps there 's a bottom of pride there too, as in most things. Say it 's for the name. My father seems to demand of me out loud, ' What ha' ye done with Queen Anne's Farm, William? ' and there 's a holler echo in my ears. Well, God was n't mer- ciful to give me a son. He give me daughters." Mr. Fleming bowed his head as to the very weapon of chastisement. "Daughters!" He bent lower. His hearers might have imagined his headless address to them to be also without a distinct termination, for he seemed to have ended as abruptly as he had begun; so long was the pause before, with a wearied lifting of his body, he pursued, in a sterner voice, — "Don't let none interrupt me." His hand was raised as toward where Rhoda stood, but he sent no look with it; the direction was wide of her. The aspect of the blank blind hand motioning to the wall away from her, smote an awe through her soul that kept her dumb, though his next words were like thrusts of a dagger in her side. " My first girl — she 's brought disgrace on this house. She 's got a mother in heaven, and that mother 's got to blus Lon It THE FARMER SPEAKS 103 blush for her. My first girl's gone to harlotry in London." It was Scriptural severity of speech. Robert glanced quick with intense commiseration at Rhoda. He saw her hands travel upward till tliey fixed in at her temples with crossed fingers, making the pressure of an iron band for her head, while her lips parted, and her teeth and cheeks and eyeballs were all of one whiteness. Her tragic, even, in and out breathing, where there was no fall of the breast, but the air was taken and given, as it were the square blade of a sharp-edged sword, was dreadful to see. She had the look of a risen corpse, recalling some one of the bloody ends of life. The farmer went on, — "Bury her I Now you here know the worst. There's my second girl. She 's got no stain on her, if people '11 take her for what she is herself. She 's idle. But I be- lieve the flesh on her bones she 'd wear away for anyone that touched her heart. She 's a temper. But she 's clean both in body and in spirit, as I believe, and say before my God. I — what I 'd pray for is, to see this girl safe. All I have shall go to her. That is, to the man who will — won't be ashamed — marry her, I mean ! " The tide of his harshness failed him here, and he began to pick his words, now feeble, now emphatic, but alike wanting in natural expression, for he had reached a point of emotion upon the limits of his nature, and he was now wilfully forcing for misery and humiliation right and left, in part to show what a black star Providence had been over him. " She '11 be gratf ful. I shall be gone. What disgrace I bring to their union, as father of the other one also, will, I 'm bound to hope, be buried with me in my grave; so that this girl's husband sha'n't have to complain that her character and her working for him ain't enough to cover any harm he 's like to think o' the connexion. And he won't be troubled by relationships after that. " I used to think Pride a bad thing. I thank God we 've all got it in our blood — the Flemings. I thank God for that now, I do. Wo don't face again them as we offend. Not, that is, with the hand out. We go. We 're seen no more ; and she HI be seen no more. On that, rely. •r \ -i« — . '• 104 EHODA FLEMING i/ ' n "I want my girl here not to keep me in the fear of death. For I leiir death wliile slie 's not safe in somebody's hands — kind, if I can get him for her. Somebody — young or old ! " The farmer lifted his head for the first time, and stared vacantly at Kobcrt. "I'd marry her," he said, "if I was knowing myself dying now or to-morrow morning, I 'd marry her, rather than leave her alone — I 'd marry her to that old man, old Gammon." The farmer pointed to the ceiling. His sombre serious- ness cloaked and carried even that suggestive indication to the possible bridegroom's age and habits, and all things associated with him, through the gates of ridicule; and there was no laughter, and no thought of it. " It stands to reason for me to prefer a young man for her liusband. He '11 farm the estate, and won't sell it; so that it goes to our blood, if not to a Fleming. If, I mean, he 's content to farm soberly, and not play Jack o' Lantern tricks across his own acres. Right in one thing 's right, I grant; but don't argue right in all. It's right only in one thing. Young men, when they 've made a true hit or so, they 're ready to think it 's themselves that 's right." This was of course a reminder of the old feud with Rob- ert, and sufficiently showed whom the farmer had in view for a husband to Rhoda, if any doubt existed previously. Having raised his eyes, his unwonted power of speech abandoned him, and he concluded, wavering in look and in tone, — "I 'd half forgotten her uncle. I 've reckoned his riches when I cared for riches. I can't say th' amount; but, all — I 've had his word for it — all goes to this — God knows how much! — girl. And he don't hesitate to say she's worth a young man's fancying. May be so. It depends upon ideas mainly, that does. All goes to her. And this farm. — I wish ye good-night." He gave them no other sign, but walked in his oppressed way quietly to the inner door, and forth, leaving the rest to them. ((I BETWEEN BHODA AND ROBERT 105 CHAPTER XIV BETWEEN RHOOA AND ROBERT The two were together, and all preliminary difficulties had been cleared for Robert to say what he had to say, in a manner to make the saying of it well-nigh impossible. And yet silence might be misinterpreted by her. He would have drawn her to his heart at one sign of tender- ness. There came none. The girl was frightfully torn with a great wound of shame. She was the first to speak. " Do you believe what father says of my sister ? " " That she — ? " Robert swallowed the words. " No I " and he made a thunder with his fist. "No!" She drank up the word. "You do not? No! You know that Dahlia is innocent ? " Rhoda was trembling with a look for the asseveration, her pale face eager as a cry for life ; but the answer did not come at once hotly as her passion for it demanded. She grew rigid, murmuring faintly : " Speak ! Do speak I " His eyes fell away from hers. Sweet love would have wrought in him to think as she thought, but she kept her heart closed from him, and he stood sadly judicial, with a conscience of his own, that would not permit him to declare Dahlia innocent, for he had long been imagining the reverse. Rhoda pressed her hands convulsively, moaning, " Oh ! " down a short deep breath. "Tell me what has happened?" said Robert, made mad by that reproachful agony of her voice. " 1 'm in the dark. I 'm not equal to you all. If Dahlia's sister wants one to stand up for her, and defend her, whatever she has done or not done, ask me. Ask me, and I '11 revenge her. Here am I, and I know nothing, and you despise me because — Don't think me rude or unkind. This hand is yours, if you will. Come, Rhoda. Or, let me hear the case, and I '11 satisfy you as best I can. Feel for her? I feel for her as you do. You don't want me to stand a liar to your ques- tion? How can I speak? " 1, k I r ^ >''< he »;! \ i i i rl. P ' 106 EHODA FLEMING A woman's instinct at red heat pierces the partial dis- ingenuousness which Kobert could only have avoided by declaring the doubts he entertained. Khoda desired simply to be supported by his conviction of her sister's innocence, and she had scorn of one who would not chivalrously advance upon the risks of right and wrong, and rank him- self prime champion of a woman belied, absent, and so helpless. Besides, there was but one virtue possible in Ehoda's ideas as regarded Dahlia, — to oppose facts, if necessary, and have her innocent perforce, and fight to the death them that dared cast slander on the beloved head. Her keen instinct served her so far. His was alive when she refused to tell him what had taken place during their visit to London. She felt that a man would judge evil of the circum- stances. Her father and her uncle had done so; she felt that Robert would. Love for him would have prompted her to confide in him absolutely. She was not softened by love; there was no fire on her side to melt and make them run in one stream, and they could not meet. "Then, if you will not tell me," said Robert, "say what you think of your father's proposal? He meant that I may ask you to be my wife. He used to fancy I cared for your sister. That's false. I care for her — yes; as my sister too; and here is my hand to do my utmost for her, but I love you, and I've loved you for some time. I 'd be proud to marry you and help on with the old farm. You don't love me yet — which is a pretty hard thing for me to see to be certain of. But I love you, and I trust you. I like the stuff you 're made of — and nice stuff I 'm talking to a young woman," he added, wiping his forehead at the idea of the fair and flattering addresses young women expect when they are being wooed. Ap it was, Rhoda listened with savage contempt of his idle talk. Her brain was beating at the mystery and miso] y wherein Dahlia lay engulfed. She had no under- standing for Robert's sentimentality, or her father's requi- sition. Some answer had to be given, and she said, — " I 'm not likely to marry a man who supposes he has anything to pardon," \ BETWEEN BHODA AND ROBERT 107 I'm has "I don't suppose it," cried Kobert. "You heard what father said." " I heard what he said, but I don't think the same. What has Dahlia to do with you?" He was proceeding to rectify this unlucky sentence. All her covert hostility burst out on it. "My sister? — what has my sister to do with me? — you mean ! — you mean ! — you can only mean that we are to be separated and thought of as two people- and we are one, and will be till we die. I feel my sister's hand in mine, though she 's away and lost. She is iry darling for ever and ever. We 're one ! " A spasm of anguish checked the girl. "I mean," Robert resumed steadily, "that her conduct, good or bad, does n't touch you. If it did, it 'd be the same to me. I ask you to take me for your husband. Just reflect on what your father said, Rhoda." The horrible utterance her father's lips had been guilty of flashed through her, filling her with mastering vindic- tiveness, now that she had a victim. " Yes ! I 'm to take a husband to remind me of what he said." Robert eyed her sharpened mouth admiringly; her defence of her sister had excited his esteem, wilfully though she rebutted his straightforward earnestness ; and he had a feeling also for the easy turns of her neck and the confident poise of her figure. "Ha ! well !" he interjected, with his eyebrows queerly raised, so that she could make nothing of his look It seemed half maniacal, it was so ridged with bright eagerness. "By heaven ! the task of taming you — that's the bless- ing I 'd beg for in my prayers ! Though you were as wild as a cat of the woods, by heaven ! I 'd rather have the taming of you than go about with a leash of quiet " — he checked himself — " companions." Such was the sudden roll of his tongue, that she was lost in the astounding lead he had taken, and stared. "You're the beauty to my taste, and devil is what I want in a woman ! I can make something out of a girl with a temper like yours. You don't know me, Miss i ■ * t'li im ■I»I'I HU » » |W » I "J ^ 108 EHODA FLEMING §■' i il i. Rhofla. I 'm what you reckon a good young man. Is n't that it ? " Robert drew up with a very hard smile. " I would to God I were ! Mind, I feel for you about your sister. I like you the better for holding to her through thick and thin. But my sheepishness has gone, and I tell you 1 '11 have you whether you will or no. I can help you and you can help me. I 've lived here as if I had no more fire in me than old Gammon snoring on his pillow up aloft; and who kept me to it? Did you see I never touched liquor ? What did you guess from that ? — that I was a mild sort of fellow? So I am; but T have n't got that reputation in other parts. Your father '1 like me to marry you, and I 'm ready. Who kept me tc work, so that I might learn to farm, and be a man, and be able to take a wife? I came here — I '11 tell you how. I was a useless dog. I ran from home and served as a trooper. An old aunt of mine left me a little money, which just woke me up and gave me a lift of what con- science I had, and I bought myself out. "I chanced to see your father's advertisement — came, looked at you all, and liked you — brought my traps and settled among you, and lived like a good young man. I like peace and orderliness, I find. I always thought I did, when I was dancing like mad to hell. I know I do now, and you 're the girl to keep me to it. I 've learnt that much by degrees. With any other, I should have been playing the fool, and going my old ways, long ago. I should have wrecked her, and drunk to forget. You 're my match. By-and-by you '11 know me yours ! You never gave me, or anybody else that I 've seen, sly sidelooks. "Come! I'll speak out now I'm at work. I thought you at some girl's games in the summer. You went out one day to meet a young gentleman. Offence or no offence, I speak and you listen. You did go out. I was in love with you then, too. I saw London had been doing its mischief. I was down about it. I felt that he would make nothing of you, but I chose to take the care of you, and you *ve hated me ever since. "That Mr. Algernon Blancove 's a rascal. Stop! You '11 say as much as you like presently. I give you a f BETWEEN KHODA AND ROBERT 109 warning — the man 's a rascal. I did n't play spy on your acts, but your looks. I can read a lace like yours, and it 's my home, my home ! — by heaven, it is. Now, Rhoda, you know a little more of me. Perhaps I 'm more of a man than you thouj^ht. Marry another, if you will ; but I 'm the man for you, and I know it, and you '11 go wrong if you don't too. Come ! let your father sleep well. Give me your hand." All through this surprising speech of Robert's, which was a revelation of one who had been previously dark to her, she had steeled her spirit as she felt herself being borne upon unexpected rapids, and she marvelled when she found her hand in his. Dismayed, as if caught in a trap , she said, — "You know I 've no love for you at all." "None — no doubt," he answered. The fit of verbal energy was expended, and he had become listless, though he looked frankly at her, and assumed the cheerfulness which was failing within him. *'I wish to remain as I am," she faltered, surprised again by the equally astonishing recurrence of humility, and more spiritually subdued by it. " I 've no heart for a change. Father will understand. I am safe." She ended with a cry, "Oh! my dear, my own sister ! I wish you were safe. Get her here to me and I '11 do what I can, if you 're not hard on her. ?he 's so beautiful, she can't do wrong. My Dahlia 's in some trouble. Mr. Robert, you might really be her friend? " "Drop the Mister," said Robert. "Father will listen to you," she pleaded. "You won't leave us? Tell him you know I am safe. But I have n't a feeling of any kind while my sister 's away. I will call you Robert, if you like." She reached her liand forth. "That 's right," he said, taking it with a show of hearti- ness; "that 's a beginning, I suppose." She shrank a little in his sensitive touch, and he added : "Oh, never fear. I 've spoken out, and don't do the thing too often. Now you know me, that's enough. I trust you, so trust me. I '11 talk to your father. I 've got a dad of my own, who is n't so easily managed. You and I, Rhoda — we 're about the right size for a couple. There 110 KHODA FLEMING — don't be frightened ! I was only thinking — I '11 let go your hand in a minute. If Dahlia 's to be found, I '11 find her. Thank you for that squeeze. You 'd wake a dead man to life, if you wanted to. To-morrow I set about the business. That 's settled. Now your hand 's loose. Are you going to say good-night? You must give me your hand again lor that. What a rough fellow I must seem to you ! Different from the man you thought I was? I 'm just what you choose to make me, Rhoda; remember that. 13y heaven ! go at once, for you 're an armful — " She took a candle and started for the door. " Aha ! you can look fearful as a doe. Out ! make haste ! " In her hurry at his speeding gestures, the candle dropped ; she was going to pick it up, but as he approached, she stood away frightened. "One kiss, my girl," he said. "Don't keep me jealous IS fire. One! and I 'm a plighted man. One ! — or I shall swear you know what kisses are. Why did you go out to meet that fellow? Do you think there 's no danger in it? Doesn't he go about boasting of it now, and saying — that girl ! But kiss me and I '11 forget it; I '11 forgive you. Kiss me only once, and I shall be certain you don't care for him. That 's the thought maddens me outright. I can't bear it now I 've seen you look soft. I 'm stronger than you, mind." He caught her by the waist. "Yes," Rhoda gasped, "you are. You are only a brute." " A brute 's a lucky dog, then, for I Ve got you ! " " Will you touch me ? " " You 're in my power." "It's a miserable thing, Robert." "Why don't you struggle, my girl? a minute." "You 're never my friend again." " I 'm not a gentleman, I suppose ! " "Never! after this." " It is n't done. And first you 're like a white rose, and next you 're like a red. Will you submit? " "Oh! shame!" Rhoda uttered. "Because I 'm not a gentleman? " I shall kiss you in A VISIT TO WREXBY HALL 111 "You are not." " So, if I could make you a lady — eh? the lips 'd be ready in a trice. You think of being made a lady — a lady ! " His arm relaxed in the clutch of her figure. She got herself free, and said, "We saw Mr. Blancove at the theatre with Dahlia." It was her way of meeting his accusation that she had cherished an ambitious feminine dream. He, to hide a confusion that had come upon him, was righting the fallen candle. "Now I knovj you can be relied on; you can defend yourself," he said, and handed it to her, ligiited. ' Yom keep your kisses for this or that young gentleman. Quite right. You really can defend yourself. That 's all I was up to. So let us hear that you forgive me. The door 's open. You won't be bothered by me any more; and don't hate me overmuch." "You might have learned to trust me without insulting me, Robert," she said. " Do you fancy I 'd take such a world of trouble for a kiss of your lips, sweet as they are?" His blusterous beginning ended in a speculating glance at her mouth. She saw it would be wise to accept him in his present mood, and go; and with a gentle "Good-night," that might sound like pardon, she passed through the doorway. CHAPTER XV A VISIT TO WREXBY HALL Next day, while Squire Blancove was superintending the laying down of lines for a new carriage drive in his park, as he walked slowly up the green slope he perceived Farmer Fleming, supported by a tall young man ; and when the pair were nearer, he had the gratification of noting like- wise that the worthy yeoman was very much bent, as with H' w 11 jK ;!; 1' w t Pi 1 i 1 ■*; 1 I 112 RHODA FLEMING t \A ■ 4 an accute attack of his well-known chronic malady of a want of money. The squire greatly coveted the freehold of Queen Anne's Farm. He had made offers to purchase it till he was tired, and had gained for himself the credit of being at the bot- tom of numerous hypothetical cabals to injure and oust the farmer from his possession. But if Naboth came with his vineyard in his hand, not even Wrexby's rector (his quarrel with whom haunted every turn in his life) could quote Scripture against him for taking it at a proper valuation. The squire had employed his leisure time during service in church to discover a text that might be used against him in the event of the farmer's reduction to a state of distress, and his, the squire's, making the most of it. On the con- trary, according to his heathenish reading of some of the patriarchal doings, there was more to be said in his favour than not, if he increased his territorial property ; nor could he, throughout the Old Testament, hit on one sentence that looked like a personal foe to his projects, likely to fit into the mouth of the rector of Wrexby. "Well, farmer," he said, with cheerful familiarity, " winter crops looking well ? There 's a good show of green in the fields from my windows, as good as that land of yours will allow in heavy seasons." To this the farmer replied, " I 've not heart or will to be round about, squire. If you'll listen to me — here, or where you give command.'^ " Has it anything to do with pen and paper, Fleming ? In that case you 'd better be in my study," said the squire. "I don't know that it have. I don't know that it have." The farmer sought Eobert's face. " Best where there 's no chance of interruption," Robert counselled, and lifted his hat to the squire. "Eh ? Well, you see I 'm busy." The latter affected a particular indifference, that in such cases, when well acted (as lords of money can do — squires equally with usurers), may be valued at hundreds of pounds in the pocket. " Can't you put it off ? Come again to-morrow." "To-morrow's a day too late," said the farmer, gravely. Whereto replying, "Oh! well, come squire led the way. g-long in, then," the A VISIT TO WREXBY HALL 113 " You 're two to one, if it 's a transaction," he said, nod- ding to Robert to close the library door. "Take seats. Now, then, what is it ? And if I make a face, just oblige me by thinking nothing about it, for my gout 's beginning to settle in the leg again, and shoots like an electric tele- graph from purgatory." He wheezed and lowered himself into his arm-chair ; but the farmer and Eobert remained standing, and the farmer spoke : — " My words are going to be few, squire. I 've got a fact to bring to your knowledge, and a question to ask." Surprise, exaggerated on his face by a pain he had antici- pated, made the squire glare hideously. " Confound it, that 's what they say to a prisoner in the box. Here 's a murder committed : — Are you the guilty person? Fact and question! Well, out with 'em, both together." " A father ain't responsible for the sins of his children," said the farmer. "Well, that's a fact," the squire emphasized. "I've always maintained it ; but, if you go to your church, farmer — small blame to you if you don't ; that fellow who preaches there — I forget his name — stands out for just the other way. You are responsible, he swears. Pay your son's debts, and don't groan over it : — He spent the money, and you 're the chief debtor ; that 's his teaching. Well : go on. What 's your question? " " A father 's not to be held responsible for the sins of his children, squire. My daughter 's left me. She 's away. I saw my daughter at the theatre in London. She saw me, and saw her sister with me. She disappeared. It 's a hard thing for a man to be saying of his own flesh and blood. She disappeared. She went, knowing her father's arms open to her. She was in company with your son." The squire was thrumming on the arm of his chair. He looked up vaguely, as if waiting for the question to follow, but meeting the farmer's settled eyes, he cried, irritably, « Well, what 's that to me ? " " What 's that to you, squire ? " " Are you going to make me out responsible for my son's conduct ? My son 's a rascal, — everybody knows that. I 8 Hi 114 BHODA FLEMma I ' 1 U't paid his debts once, and I 've finished with him. Don't come to me about the fellow. If there 's a greater curse than the gout, it 's a sou." "My girl," said the farmer, "she's my flesh and blood, and I must fiud her, and I 'm here to ask you to make your son tell me where she 's to be found. Leave me to deal with that young mau — leave you me ! but I v»ant my girl." " But I can't give her to you," roared the squire, afflicted by his two great curses at once. " Why do you come to me ? I 'm not responsible for the doings of the dog. I 'm sorry for you, if that 's what you want to know. ])o you mean to say that my son took her away from your house ? " " I don't do so, Mr. Blancove. I 'm seeking for my daughter, and I see her in company with your son." " Very well, very well," said the squire ; " that shows his habits ; I can't say more. But what has it got to do with me ? " The farmer looked helplessly at Robert. " No, no," the squire sung out, " no interlopers, no inter- preting here. I listen to you. My son — your daughter. I understand that, so far. It 's between us two. You 've got a daughter who 's gone wrong somehow ; I 'm sorry to hear it. I 've got a son who never went right ; and it 's no comfort to me, upon my word. If you were to see the bills and the letters I receive ! but I don't carry my grievances to my neighbours. I should think, Fleming, you 'd do best, if it 's advice you 're seeking, to keep it quiet. Don't make a noise about it. Neighbours' gossip / find pretty well the worst thing a man has to bear, who 's unfortunate enough to own children." The farmer bowed his head with that bitter humbleness which characterized his reception of the dealings of Provi- dence toward him. " My neighbours '11 soon be none at all," he said. " Let 'em talk. I 'm not abusing you, Mr. Blancove. I 'm a broken man : but I want my poor lost girl, and, by God, responsible for your son or not, you must help me to find her. She may be married, as she says. She may n't be. But I must find her." The squire hastily seized a scrap of paper on the table and wrote on it. A VISIT TO WREXBT HALL 115 come u the icted me? pyfor say my I " There ! " he handed the paper to the farmer ; " that 's my son's address, '^Boyne's Bank, City, London.' Go to him there, and you '11 Hnd him perched on a stool, and a good drubbing won't hurt him. You 've my hearty permission, I can assure you : you may say so. * Boyne's Bank.' Any- body will show you the place. He 's a rascally clerk in the oflBce, and precious useful, I dare swear. Thrash him, if you think fit." " Ay," said the farmer, " Boyne's Bank. I 've been there already. He 's absent from work, on a visit down into Hamp- shire, one of the young gentlemen informed me ; Fairly Park was the name of the place : but I came to you, Mr. Blancove ; for you 're his father." " Well now, my good Fleming, I hope you think I 'm prop- erly punished for that fact." The squire stood up with horrid contortions. Eobert stepped in advance of the farmer. "Pardon me, sir," he said, though the squire met his voice with a prodigious frown ; " this would be an ugly business to talk about, as you observe. It would hurt Mr. Fleming in these parts of the country, and he would leave it, if he thought fit ; but you can't separate your name from your son's — begging you to excuse the liberty I take in men- tioning it — not in public; and your son has the misfor- tune to be well known in one or two places where he was quartered when in the cavalry. That matter of the jeweller — " "Hulloa," the squire exclaimed, in a perturbation. " Why, sir, I know all about it, because I was a trooper in the regiment your son, Mr. Algernon Blancove, quitted : and his name, if I may take leave to remark so, won't bear printing. How far he 's guilty before Mr. Fleming we can't tell as yet ; but if Mr. Fleming holds him guilty of an offence, your son '11 bear the consequences, and what 's done will be done thoroughly. Proper counsel will be taken, as need n't be said. Mr. Fleming applied to you first, partly for your sake as well as his own. He can find friends, both to advise and to aid him." "You mean, sir," thundered the squire, "that he can find enemies of mine, like that infernal fellow who goes by the title of Reverend, down below there. That '11 do, f ♦■ - -^11 m K 4 116 RHODA FLEMING ^ f i^ that will do; there's some extortion at the bottom of this. You 're putting on a screw." " We 're putting on a screw, sir," said Robert, coolly. "Not a penny will you get by it." Robert Hushed with heat of blood. " You don't wish you were a young man half so much as I do just now," he remarked, and immediately they were in collision, for the squire made a rush to the bell-rope, and Robert stopped him. "We're going," he said; "we don't want man-servants to show us the way out. Now mark me, Mr. Blancove, you 've insulted an old man in his misery; you shall suffer for it, and so shall your son, whom I know to be a rascal worthy of transportation. You think Mr. Fleming came to you for money. Look at this old man, whose only fault is that he 's too full of kind- ness; he came to you just for help to find his daughter, with whom your rascal of a son was last seen, and you swear he 's come to rob you of money. Don't you know yourself a fattened cur, squire though you be, and called gentleman? England 's a good place, but you make Eng- land a hell to men of spirit. Sit in your chair, and don't ever you, or any of you, cross my path; and speak a word to your servants before we 're out of the house, and I stand in the hall and give 'em your son's history, and make Wrexby stink in your nostril, till you 're glad enough to fly out of it. Now, Mr. Fleming, there 's no more to be done here; the game lies elsewhere." Robert took the farmer by the arm, and was marching out of the enemy's territory in good order, when the squire, who had presented many changing aspects of astonish- ment and rage, arrested them with a call. He began to say that he spoke to Mr. Fleming, and not to the young ruffian of a bully whom the farmer had brought there ; and then asked in a very reasonable manner what he could do, — what measures he could adopt to aid the farmer in finding his child. Robert hung modestly in the background while the farmer laboured on with a few sentei.oes to explain the case, and finally the squire said that, his foot permitting (it was an almost pathetic reference to the weakness of flesh), he would go down to Fairly on the day following, and have a personal interview with his son, and set things righ ineai H that and (t A VISIT TO WREXBY HALL 117 were •rope, "we right, as far as it lay in his power, though he was by no means answerable for a young man's follies. He was a little frightened by the farmer's having said that Dahlia, according to her own declaration, was married, and therefore himself the more anxious to see Mr. Alger- non, and hear the truth from his estimable offspring, whom he again stigmatized as a curse terrible to him as his gouty foot, but nevertheless just as little to be left to his own devices. The farmer bowed to these observations ; as also when the squire counselled him, for his own sake, not to talk of his misfortune all over the parish. " I *m not a likely man for that, squire ; but there 's no telling where gossips get their crumbs. It 's about. It *s about." "About my son? " cried the squire. "My daughter ! " "Oh, well, good-day," the squire resumed more cheer- fully. "I'll go down to Fairly, and you can't ask more than that." When the farmer was out of the house and out of hear- ing, he rebuked Robert for the inconsiderate rashness of his behaviour, and pointed out how he, the farmer, by being patient and peaceful, had attained to the object of his visit. Robert laughed without defending nimself. "I shouldn't ha' known ye," the farmer repeated fre- quently; "I shouldn't ha' known ye, Robert." "No, I 'm a trifle changed, maybe," Robert agreed. "I 'm going to claim a holiday of you. I 've told Rhoda that if Dahlia's to be found, I '11 find her; and I can't do it by sticking here. Give me three weeks. The land's asleep. Old Gammon can hardly turn a furrow the wrong way. There 's nothing to do, which is his busiest occupa- tion when he 's not interrupted at it." "Mas' Gammon's a rare old man," said the farmer, emphatically. "So I say. ElsvN how would you see so many farms flourishing ! " "Come, Robert; you hit th' old man hard; you should learn to forgive." "So I do; and a telling blow's a man's best road to • \ '' .'i' }i i i i ! 118 BHODA FLEMING charity. I'd forgive the squire and many another, if I had them within two feet of my list." "Do you forgive my girl Rhoda for putting of you off 1 " Robert screwed in his cheek. "Well, yes, I do," he said. "Only it makes me feel thirsty, that's all." The farmer remembered this when they had entered the farm. "Our beer's so poor, Robert," he made apology; "but Rhoda shall get you some for you to try, if you like. Rhoda, Robert's solemn thirsty." "Shall I?" said Rhoda, and she stood awaiting his bidding. "I'm not a thirsty subject," replied Robert. "You know I 've avoided drink of any kind since I set foot on this floor. But when I drink," he pitched his voice to a hard, sparkling heartiness, "I drink a lot, and the stuff must be strong. I 'm very much obliged to you, Miss Rhoda, for what you 're so kind as to offer to satisfy my thirst, and you can't give better, and don't suppose that I 'm complaining ; but vour father 's right, it is rather weak, and would n't break thv. uooth of my thirst if I drank at it till Gammon left off tninking about his dinner." With that he announced hib approaching departure. The farmer dropped into his fireside chair, dumb and spiritless. A shadow was over the house, and the inhabi- tants moved about their domestic occupations silent as things that feel the thunder-cloud. Before sunset Robert was gone on his long walk ^o the station, and Rhoda felt a woman's great envy of the liberty of a man, who has not, if it pleases him not, to sit and eat grief among familiar images, in a home that furnishes its altar-flame. lug a*i AT FAIRLY PARK 119 CHAPTER XVI AT FAIRLY PARK Fairly, Lord Elling's seat in Hampshire, lay over the Warbeach river; a white mansion among great oaks, in view of the summer sails and winter masts of the yacht- ing squadron. The house was ruled, during the congrega- tion of the Christmas guests, by charming Mrs. Lovell, who relieved the invalid Lady of the house of the many serious cares attending die reception of visitors, and did it all with ease. Under her sovereignty the place was de- lightful, and if it was by repute pleasanter to young men than to any other class, it will be admitted that she satis- fied those who are loudest in giving tongue to praise. Edward and Algernon journeyed down to Fairly together, after the confidence which the astute young lawyer had been compelled to repose in his cousin. Sir William Blancove was to be at Fairly, and it was at his father's pointed request that Edward had accepted Mrs. Lovell's invitation. Half in doubt as to the lady's disposition toward him, Edward eased his heart with sneers at the soft, sanguinary graciousness they were to expect, and racked mythology for spiteful comparisons; while Alger- non vehemently defended her with a battering fire of British adjectives in superlative. He as much as hinted, under instigation, that he was entitled to defend her; and his claim being by-and-by yawningly allowed by Edward, and presuming that he now had Edward in his power and need not fear him, he exhibited his weakness in the guise of a costly gem, that he intended to present to Mrs. Lovell — an opal set in a cross pendant from a necklace ; a really fine opal, coquetting with the lights of every gem that is known : it shot succinct red flashes, and green, and yellow ; the emerald, the amethyst, the topaz lived in it, and a remote ruby; it was veined with lightning hues, and at times it slept in a milky cloud, innocent of fire, quite maidenlike. "That will suit her," was Edward's remark. 'ifl I }im M 1 1 f , ■;? 120 EHODA FLERUNG V I *'I didn't want to get anything common," said Alger- non, making the gem play before his eyes. " A pretty stone," said Edward. "Do you think so?" "Very pretty indeed." "Harlequin pattern." " To be presented to Columbine ! " "Tlie Harlequin pattern is of the best sort, you know. Perhaps you like the watery ones best? This is fresh from Kussia. There's a set I've my eye on. I shall complete it in time. I want Peggy Lovell to wear the jolliest opals Ui the world. It 's rather nice, isn't it?" " It 's a spleraid opal," said Edward. "She likes opals," said Algernon. "She 'II take your meaning at once," said Edward. " How? I '11 be hanged if I know what my meaning is, Ned." "Don't you know the signification of your gift? " "Not a bit." " Oh ! you '11 be Oriental when you present it." "The deuce I shall!" " It means, * You 're the prettiest widow in the world.' " " So she is. I '11 be right there, old boy." "And, 'You're a rank, right-down widow, and no mis- take; you're everything to everybody; not half so innocent as you look : you 're green as jealousy, red as murder, yellow as jaundice, and put on the whiteness of a virgin when you ought to be blushing like a penitent.' In short, < You have no heart of your own, and you pretend to pos- sess half a dozen ; you 're devoid of one steady beam, and play tricks with every scale of colour; you're an arrant widow, and that 's what you are.' An eloquent gift, Algy." "Gad, if it means all that, it'll be rather creditable to me," said Algernon. " Do opals mean widows? " "Of course," was the answer. " Well, she is a widow, and I suppose she 's going to re- mam one for she 's had lots of offers I shall never She 's done me never lets me feel a fool with If I marry a girl, like her half as much as Peggy Lovell. up for every other woman living. She her ; and she has a way, by Jove, of looking at me, and letting me know she 's up to III AT FAIRLY PARK 121 my thoughts and is n't angry. What 's the use of my thinking of her at all? She *d never go to the Colonies, and live in a log hut and make cheeses, while I tore about on horseback gathering cattle." "I don't think she would," observed Edward, emphati- cally; "I don't think she would." "And I shall never have money. Confound stingy parents! It's a question whether I shall get Wrexby: there 's no entail. I 'm heir to the governor's temper and his gout, I dare say. He '11 do as he likes with the estate. I call it beastly unfair." Edward asked how much the opal had cost. "Oh, nothing," said Algernon; "that is, I never pay for jewellery." Edward was curious to know how he managed, to obtain it "Why, you see," Algernon explained, "they, the jewel- lers — I 've got two or three in hand — the fellows are acquainted with my position, and they speculate on my expectations. There is no harm in that if they like it. I look at their trinkets, and say, * I 've no money ; ' and they say, * Never mind ; ' and I don't mind much. The under- standing is, that I pay them when I inherit." " In gout and bad temper? " " Gad, if I inherit nothing else, they '11 have lots of that for indemnification. It's a good system, Ned; it enables a young fellow like me to get through the best years of his life — which I take to be his youth — without that squalid poverty bothering him. You can make presents, and wear a pin or a ring, if it takes your eye. You look well, and you make yourself agreeable; and I see nothing to com- plain of in that." "The jewellers, then, have established an institution to correct one of the errors of Providence." "Oh! put it in your long-winded way, if you like," said Algernon ; " all I know is, that I should often have wanted a five-pound note, if — that is, if I had n't happened to be dressed like a gentleman. With your prospects, Ned, I should propose to charming Peggy to-morrow moiiiing early. We mustn't let her go out of the family. If I can't have her, I 'd rather you would." *f\ !• 122 RHODA FLEMING II "You forget the incumbrances on one side," said Edward, his face darkening. "Oh! that 's all to be managed," Algernon rallied him. " Why, Ned, you '11 have twenty -thousand a-year, if you have a penny; and you'll go into Parliament, and give dinners, and a woman like Peggy Lovell 'd intrigue for you like the deuce." "A great deal too like," Edward muttered. "As for that pretty girl," continued Algernon; but Edward peremptorily stopped all speech regarding Dahlia. His desire was, while he made holiday, to shut the past behind a brazen gate ; which being communicated sympa- thetically to his cousin, the latter chimed to it in bois- terous shouts of anticipated careless jollit}^ at Fairly Park, crying out how they would hunt and snap fingers at Jews, and all mortal sorrows, and have a fortnight, or three weeks, perhaps a full month, of the finest life possible to man, with good horses, good dinners, good wines, good society, at command, and a queen of a woman to rule and order everything. Edward affected a disdainful smile at tlio prospect; but was in reality the weaker of the two in his thirst for it. They arrived at Fairly in time to dress for dinner, and in the drawing-room Mrs. Lovell sat to receive them. She looked up to Edward's face an imperceptible half- second longer than the ordinary form of welcome accords, — one of the looks which are nothing nt all when there is no spiritual apprehension between young jjcople, and are so much wlien there is. To Algernon, who was gnzing opals on her, she simply gave her fingers. At her right hand was 8ir John Capes, her antique devotee; a pure, milky-wliite old gentleman, with sparkling fingers, who played Apollo to his Daphne, and was out of breath. Lord Suckling, a boy with a boisterous constitution, and a guardsman, had his place near her left hand, as if ready to seize it at the first whisper of encouragement or oppor- tunity. A very little lady of seventeen, Miss Adeline Gosling, trembling with shyness under a cover of demure- ness, fell to Edward's lot to conduct down to dinner, where he neglected her disgracefully. His father, Sir William, was present ,.c \he table, and Lord Filing, with AT FAIRLY PARK 123 said and pure, with whom he was in repute as a talker and a wit. Quickened with his host's renowned good wine (and the bare renown of a wine is inspiriting), Edward pressed to be brilliant. He had an epigrammatic turn, and though his mind was prosaic when it ran alone, he could appear inventive and fanciful with the rub of other minds. Now, at a table where good talking is cared for, the triumphs of the ex- celling tongue are not for a moment to be despised, even by the huge appetite of the monster Vanity. For a year Edward had abjured this feast. Before the birds appeared and the champagne had ceased to make its circle, he felt that he was now at home again, and that the term of his wandering away from society was one of folly. He felt the joy and vigour of a creature returned to his element. Why had he ever quitted it? Already he looked back upon Dahlia from a prodigious distance. He knew that there was something to be smoothed over; something written in the book of facts which had to be smeared out, and he seemed to do it, while he drank the babbling wine and heard himself talk. Not one man at that table, as he reflected, would consider the bond which held him in any serious degree binding. A lady is one thing, and a girl of the class Dahlia had sprung from, altogether another. He could not help imagining the sort of appearance she would make there ; and the thought even was a momentary clog upon his tongue. How he used to despise these people ! Especially he had despised the young men as brainless cowards in regard to their views of women and conduct toward them. All that was changed. He fancied now that they, on the contrary, would despise him, if only they could be aware of the lingering sense he entertained of his being in bondage under a sacred obligation to a farmer's daughter. But he had one thing to discover, and that was, why Sir William had made it a peculiar request that he should come to meet him here. Could the desire possibly be to reconcile him with Mrs. Lovell ? His common-sense re- jected the idea at once. Sir William boasted of her wit and tact, and admired her beauty, but Edward remembered hip having responded tacitly to his estimate of her char- acter, and Sir William was not the man to court the alli- (i^ ,f Mr , \ r> ', i 124 RHODA FLEMING ance of his son with a woman like Mrs. Lovell. He per- ceived that his father and the fair widow frequently took counsel together. Edward laughed at the notion that the grave senior had himself become fascinated, but without utterly scouting it, until he found that the little lady whom he had led to dinner the first day was an heiress ; and from that, and other indications, he exactly divined the nauure of his father's provident wishes. But this revelation rendered Mrs. Lovell's behaviour yet more extraordinary. Could it be credited that she was abetting Sir William's schemes with all her woman's craft? "Has she," thought Edward, "become so indifferent to me as to care for my welfare?" He determined to put her to the test. He made love to Adeline Gosling. Nothing that he did dis- turbed the impenetrable complacency of Mrs. Lovell. She threw them together as she shuffled the guests. She really seemed *^^o him quite indifferent enough to care for his welfare. It was a point in the mysterious ways of women, or of widows, that Edward's experience had not yet come across. All the parties immediately concerned we''" apparently so desperately acquiescing in his suit, th^i' lie soon grew uneasy. Mrs. Lovell not only shuffled him into places with the raw heiress, but with the child's mother; of whom he spoke to Algernon as of one too strongly breathing of matrimony to appease the cravings of an eclectic mind. "Make the path clear for we, then," said Algernon, "if you don't like the girl. Pitch her tales about me. Say, I 've got a lot in me, though I don't let it out. The game 's up between you and Peggy Lovell, that 's clear. She don't forgive you, my boy." " Ass ! " muttered Edward, seeing by the light of his perception that he was too thoroughly forgiven. A principal charm of the life at Fairly to him was that there was no one complaining. No one looked reproach at him. If a lady was pale and reserved, she did not seem to accuse him, and to require coaxing. All faces here were as light as the flying moment, and did not carry the shadowy weariness of years, like that burdensome fair face in the London lodging-house, to which the Fates had terribly attached themselves. So, he was gay. He AT FAIRLY PARK 125 closed, as it were, a lilack volume, and opened a now and a briglit one. Young men easily fancy that they may do this, and tliat when the black volume is sliut the tide is stopped. Saying, " I was a fool," they believe they have put an end to the foolishness. What father teaches them that a human act once set in motion flows on for ever to the great account? Our deathlessness is in what we do, not in what we are. C jmfortable Youth thinkvS otherwise. The days at a well-ordered country-house, where a divin- ing lady rules, speed to the measure of a waltz, in harmo- nious circles, dropping like crystals into the gulfs of Time, and appearing to write nothing in his book. Not a single hinge of existence is heard to creak. There is no after- dinner bill. You are waited on without being elbowed by the humanity of your attendants. It is a civilized Arca- dia. Only, do not desire, that you may not envy. Accept humbly what rights of citizenship are accorded to you upon entering. Discard the passions when you cross the threshold. To breathe and to swallow merely, are the duties which should prescribe your conduct; or, such is the swollen condition of the animal in this enchanted region that the spirit of man becomes dangerously beset. Edward breathed and swallowed, and never went beyond the prescription, save by talking. No otlier junior could enter the library without encountering the scorn of his elders; so he enjoyed the privilege of hearing all the scandal, and his natural cynicism was plentifully fed. It was more of a school to him than he knew. These veterans, in their arm-chairs, stripped th3 bloom from life, and showed it to be bare bones. They took their wisdom for an experience of the past; they were but giving their sensations in the present. Not to perceive this is Youth's error when it hears old gentlemen talking at their ease. On the third morning of their stay at Fairly, Algernon came into Edward's room with a letter in his hand. "There ! read that ! " he said. "It is n't ill-luck; it 's infernal persecution ! What, on earth ! — why, I took a close cab to the station. l''ou saw me get out of it. I '11 swear no creditor of mine knew I was leaving London. 5)1 I. ■; . ! ( ■ I r I'i 1 a' 1 ttiMm ^m ■! > 126 RHODA FLEMING -■ i './ ■ m My belief is that tlie fellows who give credit have spies about at every railway terminus in the kingdom. They won't give me three days' peace. It 's enough to disgust any man with civilized life; on my soul, it is ! " Edward glanced at the superscription of the letter. "Xot posted," he remarked. "No; delivered by some confounded bailiff, who's been hounding me." "Bailiffs don't generally deal in warnings." " 'Vill you read it! " Algernon shouted. The letter ran thus : — " Mb. Algi^knon Blancove, — "The writer of this intends taking the first opportunity of meeting you, and gives you warning, you will have to answer his question with a Yes or a No, and speak from your conscience. The respectfulness of his behaviour to you as a gentleman will depend upon that." Algernon followed his cousin's eye down to the last letter in the page. " What do you think of it ? " he asked eagerly. Edward's broad, thin-lined brows were drawn down in gloom. Mastering some black meditation in his brain, he answered Algernon's yells for an opinion, — "I think — well, I think bailiffs have improved in their manners, and show you they are determined to belong to the social march in an age of universal progress. Noth- ing can be more comforting." " But suppose this fellow comes across me ? " "Don't know him." "Suppose he insists on knowing me? " "Don't know yourself." " Yes ; but hang it ! if he catches hold of me ? " "Shake him off'." " Suppose he won't let go ? " "Cut him with your horsewhip." " You think it 's about a debt, then? " "Intimidation, evidently." " I shall announce to him that the great Edward Blan- cove is not to be intimidated. You '11 let me borrow your A YEOMAN OF THE OLD BREED 127 name, old Ned. I 've stood by you in my time. As for leaving Fairly, I tell you I can't. It 's too delightful to be near Peggy Lovell." Edward smiled with a peculiar friendliness, and Alger- non went off, very well contented with his cousin. CHAPTER XVII A YEOMAN OP THE OLD BREED Within a mile of Fairly Park lay the farm of another yeoman; but he was of another character. The Hamp- shireman was a farmer of renown in his profession; fifth of a family that had cultivated a small domain of one hundred and seventy acres with sterling profit, and in a style to make Sutton the model of a perfect farm through- out the country. Royal eyes had inspected his pigs approvingly; Royal wits had taken hints from Jonathan Eccles in matters agricultural; and it was his comforting joke that he had taught his Prince good breeding. In return for the service, his Prince had transformed a lusty Radical into a devoted Royalist. Framed on the walls of his parlours were letters from his Prince, thanking him for specimen seeds and worthy counsel, — veritable auto- graph letters of the highest value. The Prince had stei.med up the salt river, upon which the Sutton harvests were mirrored, and landed on a spot marked in honour of the event by a broad grey stone ; and from that day Jona- than Eccles stood en a pinnacle of pride, enabling him to see horizons of despondency hitherto unknown to him. For he had a son, and the son was a riotous devil, a most wild young fellow, who had no taste for a farmer's life, and openly declared his determination jiot to perpetuate the Sutton farm in the hands of the Eccieses, by running off one day and entering the ranks of the British army. Those framed letters became melancholy objects for con- templation, when Jonathan thought that no posterity of his would point them out gloryingly in emulation. Man's ;■! i( i ) 128 RHODA FLE»nNG aim is to culminate; but it is the saddest thing in the world to feel that we have accomplished it. Mr. Eccles shrugged with all the philosophy he could summon, and transferred his private disappointment to his country, whose agricultural day was, he said, doomed. "We shall be beaten by those Yankees." He gave Old England twenty years of continued pre-eminence (due to the impe- tus of the present generation of Englishmen), and then, said he, the Yankees will flood the market. No more green pastures in Great Britain; no pretty clean-footed animals; no yellow harvests; but huge chimney-pots everywhere ; black earth under black vapour, and smoke- begrimed faces. In twenty years' time, sooty England was to be a gigantic manufactory, until the Yankees beat us out of that field as well ; beyond which Jonathan Eccles did not care to spread any distinct border of prophecy; merely thanking the Lord that he should then be under grass. The decay of our glory was to be edged with blood; Jonathan admitted that there would be stuff in the fallen race to deliver a sturdy fight before they went to their doom. For this prodigious curse England had to thank young Robert, the erratic son of Jonathan. It was now two years since Robert had inherited a small legacy of money from an aunt, and spent it in waste, as the farmer bitterly supposed. He was looking at some immense seed-melons in his garden, lying about in morning sunshine, — a new feed for sheep, of his own invention, — when the call of the wanderer saluted his ears, and he beheld his son Robert at the gate. "Here I am, sir," Robert sang out from the exterior. "Stay there, then," was his welcome. They were alike in their build and in their manner of speech. The accost and the reply sounded like reports from the same pistol. The old man was tall, broad- shouldered, and muscular, — a grey edition of the son, upon whose disorderly attire he cast a glance, while speaking, with settled disgust. Robert's necktie streamed loose; his hair was uncombed; a handkerchief dangled from his pocket. He had the look of the prodigal, returned with impudence for his portion instead of repentance. '■I Al . A YEOMAN OF THE OLD LilEED 129 "I can't see how you are, sir, from this distance," said Robert, bohlly assuming his privilege to enter. "Are you drunk?" Jonathan asked, as Robert marched up to him. "Give me your hand, sir." " Give me an answer first. Are you drunk? " Robert tried to force the complacent aspect of a mind unabashed, but felt that he made a stupid show before that clear-headed, virtuously living old man of iron nerves. The alternative to flying into a passion was the looking like a fool. "Come, father," he said; with a miserable snigger, like a yokel's smile; "here I am at last. I don't say, kill the fatted calf and take a lesson from Scripture, but give me your hand. I 've done no man harm but myself — damned if I 've done a mean thing anywhere ! and there 's no shame to you in shaking your son's hand after a long absence." Jonathan Eccles kept both hands firmly in his pockets. "Are you drunk? " he repeated. Robert controlled himself to answer, "I 'm not." "Well, then, just tell me when you were drunk last." "This is a pleasant fatherly greeting!" Robert inter- jected. " You get no good by fighting shy of a simple question, Mr. Bob," said Jonathan. Robert cried querulously, " I don't want to fight shy of a simple question." " Well, then, when were you drunk last ? answer me that." "Last night." Jonathan drew his hand from his pocket to thump his leg. " I 'd have sworn it ! " All Robert's assurance had vanished in a minute, and he stood like a convicted culprit before his father. "You know^ sir, I don't tell lies. I was drunk last night. I could n't help it." "No more could the little boy." "I was drunk last night. Say, I 'm a beast." " I sha'n't ! " exclaimed Jonathan, making his voice soand as a defence to this vile charge against the brutish character. 9 i '- 130 RHODA FLEMING * \ 'i ' .} l>v I *' ■: ( exasi t V "Say, I'm worse than a beast, then," cried Robert, in Lasperation. "Take my word that it lias n't happened to me to be in that state for a year and more. Last night I was mad. I can't give you any reasons. 1 thought I was cured ; but I 've trouble in my mind, and a tide swims you over the shallows — so I felt. Come, sir — father, don't make me mad again." " Where did you get the liquor ? " inquired Jonathan. "I drank at * The Pilot.'" " Ha ! there 's talk there of * that damned old Eccles * for a month to come — ' the unnatural parent. ' How long have you been down here? " "Eight and twenty hours." "Eight and twenty hours. When are you going ? " "I want lodging for a night." "What else?" "The loan of a horse that '11 take a fence." "Goon." "And twenty pounds." "Oh!" said Jonathan. "If farming came as easy to you as face, you 'd be a prime agriculturalist. Just what I thought ! What 's become of that money your aunt Jane was fool enough to bequeath to you? " "I've spent it." " Are you a Deserter? " For a moment Robert stood as if listening, and then white grew his face, and he swayed and struck his hands together. His recent intoxication had unmanned him. " Go in — go in," said his father in some concern, though wrath was predominant. " Oh, make your mind quiet about me." Robert dropped his arras. " I 'm weakened someliow — damned weak, I am — I feel like a woman when my father asks me if I 've been guilty of villany. Desert? I would n't desert from the hulks. Hear the worst, and this is the worst: I've got no money — I don't owe a penny, but I have n't got one." "And I won't give you one," Jonathan appended; and they stood facing one another in silence. A squeaky voice was heard from the other side of the garden hedge of clipped yew. « a )bert, in jened to night I it I was ims you Jr, dou't .than. les ' for )w long ?» easy to 3t wliat at Jane d then 3 hands im. though iropped leok, I if I 'VQ rt from t: I've n't got d; and of the A YEOMAN OP THE OLD BREED 131 "Hi! farmer, is that the missing young man?" and presently a neighbour, by name Jolin Sedge tt, came trot- ting through the gate, and up the garden path. " I say," he remarked, *' here 's a rumpus. Here 's a bob- bery up at Fairly. Oh ! Bob Eccles ! Bob Eceles ! At it again t " Mr. Sedgett shook his wallet of gossip with an enjoying chuckle. He was a thin-faced creature, rheumy of eye, and drawing his breath as from a well ; the ferret of the village for all underlying scandal and tattle, whose sole humanity was what he called pitifully, " a peakin' " at his chest, and who had retired from his business of grocer in the village upon the fortune brought to him in the energy and capacity of a third wife to conduct affairs, while he wandered up and down and knitted people together, — an estimable olfice in a laud where your house is so grievously your castle. "What the devil have you got in you now?" Jonathan cried out to him. Mr. Sedgetn was seized by his complaint and demanded commiseration, but, recovering, he chuckled again. "Oh, Bob Eccles! Don't you never grow oldf^r? And the first day down among us again, too. Why, Bob, as a military man, you ought to acknowled^re your superiors. Why, Stephen Bilton, the huntsman, sayr,, Bob, you pulled the young gentleman off his horse — you on foot, and him mounted. I 'd ha' given pounds to be there. And ladies present ! Lord help us ! 1 'm glad you 're returned, though. These melons of the farmer's, they're a wonderful inven- tion; people are speaking of 'em right and left, and says, says they, Farmer Eccles, he's best farmer going — Hamp- shire ought to be proud of him — he 's worth two of any others: that they are fine ones ! And you 're come back to keep 'em up, eh, Bob? Are ye, though, my man?" "Well, here I am, Mr. Sedgett," said Robert, "and talk- ing to my father." "Oh! I wouldn't be here to interrupt ye for the world." Mr. Sedgett made a show of retiring, but Jonathan insisted upon his disburdening himself of his tale, saying, "Damn your raw beginnings, Sedgett! What 's been up? Nobody can hurt me." I>\ \^f I i ?! ) u ( ■ . *? A 1! 132 RHODA FLEMING il ' U I "That they can't, neighbour; nor liob neither, as far as stand-up man to man go. I give liim three to one — Bob Eccles! He took 'em when a boy. He may, yon know, he may have the law ag'in him, and, by Gearge ! if he do — why, a man 's no match for the law. No use bein' a hero to the law. The law masters every man alive; and there 's law in everything, neighbour Eccles; eh, sir? Your friend, the Prince, owns to it, as much as you or me. But, of course, you know what Bob's been doing. What I dropped in to ask was, why did ye do it. Bob? Why pull the young gentleman off his horse? I 'd ha' given pounds to be there!" "Pounds o' tallow candles don't amount to much," quoth Robert. "That's awful bad brandy at < The Pilot,'" said Mr. Sedgett, venomously. "Were you drunk when you committed this assault?" Jonathan asked his son. "I drank afterwards," Robert replied. "'Pilot' brandy's poor consolation," remarked Mr. Sedgett. Jonathan had half a mind to turn his son out of the gate, but the presence of Sedgett advised him that his doings were naked to the world. " You kicked up a shindy in the hunting-field — what about ? Who mounted ye ? " Robert remarked that he had been on foot. " On foot — eh? on foot ! " Jonathan speculated, unable to realize the image of his son as a foot-man in the hunting-field, or to comprehend the insolence of a pedes- trian who should dare to attack a mounted huntsman. "You were on foot? The devil you were on foot ! Foot? And caught a man out of his saddle?" Jonathan gave up the puzzle. He laid out his forefinger decisively, — "If it 's an assault, mind, you stand damages. My land gives and my land takes my money, and no drunken dog lives on the produce. A row in the hunting-field 's un- English, I call it." "So it is, sir," said Robert. "So it be, neighbour," said Mr. Sedgett. i* It'* «i A YEOMAN OF THE OLD BREED 133 as far as o ~ Boh u know, he do — n' a hero :l there 's Your or me. What '? Why a' given ," quotli aid Mr. ssault? " led Mr. t of the that his — what I, unable I in the a pedes- ntsman. Foot? irefinger My land ien dog d's un- Whereupon Robert took his arm, and, holdinf; the snraggy wretch forward, commanded him to out with what he knew. "Oh, I don't know no more than what I've told you." Mr. Sedgett twisted a feeble remonstrance of his bones, that were chiefly his being, at the gripe; "excei)t that you got hold the horse by the bridle, and would n't let Iiim go, because the young gentleman would n't speak as a gentle- man; and — oh! don't squeeze so hard — " "Out with it! " cried Eobert. "And you said, Steeve Bilton said, you said, 'Where is she? ' you said, and he swore, and you swore, and a lady rode up, iid you ])ulled, and she sang out, and olf went the gentleman, and Steeve said she said, 'For shame.' " "And it was the truest word spoken that day! " Robert released him. "You don't know much, Mr. Sedgett; but it 's enough to make me explain the cause to my father, and, with your leave, I'll do so." Mr. Sedgett remarked, " By all means, do ; " and rather preferred that his wits should be accused of want of brightness than that he should miss a chance of hearing the rich history of the scandal and its origin. Something stronger than a hint sent him off at a trot, hugging in his elbows. " The postman won't do his business quicker than Sed- gett '11 tap this tale upon every door in the parish," said Jonathan. " I can only say I 'm sorry, for your sake ; " Robert was expressing his contrition, when his father caught him up, — "Who can hurt me? — my sake? Have I got the habits of a sot? — what you 'd call 'a beast ' ! But I know the ways o' beasts, and if you did too, you wouldn't bring them in to bear your beastly sins. Who can hurt me ? — You 've been quarrelling with this young gentleman about a woman — did you damage him ? " •'If knuckles could do it, I should have brained him, sir," said Robert. •'You struck him, and you got the best of it?" "He got the worst of it any way, and will again." "Then the devil take you for a fool ! Why did you go and II AN ASSEMBLY AT THE PILOT INN 139 He rented one of the Fairly farms, known as the Three- Tree Farm, subsisting there, men fancied, by the aid of his housekeeper's money. For he was of those evil fellows who disconcert all righteous prophecy, and it was vain for Mrs. Boulby and War beach village to declare that no good could come to hii ^ when Fortune manifestly kept him going. He possessed the rogue's most serviceable art: in spite of a countenance that was not attractive, this fellow could, as was proved by evidence, make himself pleasing to women. " The truth of it is," said Mrs. Boulby, at a loss for any other explanation, and with a woman's love of sharp generalization, " it 's because my sex is fools." He had one day no money to pay his rent, and forthwith (using for the purpose his last five shillings, it was said) advertized for a housekeeper ; and before Warbeach had done chuckling over his folly, an agreeable woman of about thirty-five was making purchases in his name ; she made tea, and the evening brew for such friends as he could collect, and apparently paid his rent for him, after a time ; the distress was not in the house three days. It seemed to Warbeach an erratic proceeding on the part of Providence, that Nic should ever be helped to swim ; but our modern prophets have small patience, and summon Destiny to strike without a preparation of her weapons or a warning to the victim. More than Robert's old occasional vice was at the bottom of his popularity, as I need not say. Let those who gen- eralize upon ethnology determine whether the ancient oppo- sition of Saxon and Norman be at an end ; but it is certain, to my thinking, that when a hero of the people can be gOu from the common popular stock, he is doubly dear. A gentleman, however gallant and familiar, will hardly ever be as much beloved, until he dies to inform a legend or a ballad: seeing that death (.nly can remove the pe{ uliar distinctions and distances which the people feel to exist between themselves and the gentleman-class, and which, not to credit them witix preternatural discernment, they are carefully taught to feel. Dead Britons are all Britons, but live Britons are not quite brothers. It was as the son of a yeoman, showing comprehensible 140 EHODA FLEIVnNG 1 ?i ft .. accomplishments, that Kobert took his lead. He was a very brave, a sweet-hearted, and a hanr^some young man, and he had very cliivalrous views of life, that were under- stood by a sufficient number under the influence of ale or brandy, and by a few in default of that material aid ; and they had a family pride in him. The pride was mixed with fear, which threw^ over it a tender light, like a mother's dream of her child. The people, I have said, are not so lost in self-contempt as to undervalue their best men, but it must be admitted that they rarely produce young fellows wearing the undeniable chieftain's stamp, and the rarity of one like Kobert lent a hue of sadness to him in their thoughts. Fortune, moreover, the favourer of Nic Sedgett, blew foul whichever the wav Robert set his sails. He would not look to his own advantage ; and the belief that man should set his little traps for the liberal hand of his God, if he wishes to prosper, rather than strive to be merely honourable in his Maker's eye, is almost as general among poor people as it is with the moneys d classes, who survey them from their height. When jolly Butcher Billing, who was one of the limited company which had sat with Robert at the Pilot last night, reported that he had quitted the army, he was heark- ened to dolefully, and the feeling was universal that glori- ous Robert had cut himself off from his pension and his hospital. But when gossip Sedgett went his rounds, telling that Robert was down among them again upon the darkest expe- dition their minds could conceive, and rode out every morn- ing for the purpose of encountering one of the gentlemen up at Fairly, and had already pulled him off his horse and laid him in the mud, calling him scoundrel and challenging him either to yield his secret or to fight ; and that he fol- lowed him, and was out after him publicly, and matched himself against that gentleman, who had all the other gen- tlemen, and the earl, and the law to back him, the little place buzzed with wonder and alarm. Faint hearts de- clared that Robert was now done for. All felt that he had gone miles beyond the mark. Those were the misty days when fogs rolled up the salt river from the winter sea, and .':> I <1 was a ? man, AN ASSEMBLY AT THE PILOT INN 141 the sun lived but an hour in the clotted sky, extinguished near the noon. Robert was seen riding out, and the tramp of his horse ■was heard as he returned homeward. He called no more at the Pilot. Darkness and mystery enveloped him. There were nightly meetings under Mrs. Boulby's roof, in the belief that he could not withstand her temptations ; nor did she imprudently discourage them ; but the woman at last over- came the landlady within her, and she wailed : " He won't come because of the drink. Oh ! why was I made to sell liquor, which he says sends him to the devil, poor blessed boy ! and I can't help begging him to take one little drop. I did, the first night he was down, forgetting his ways ; ho looked so desperate, he did, and it went on and went on, till he was primed, and me proud to see him get out of his misery. And now he hates the thought of » me. In her despair she encouraged Sedgett to visit her bar and parlour, and he became everywhere a most important man. Farmer Eccks's habits of seclusion (his pride, some said), and more especially the dreaded austere Aunt Anne, who ruled that household, kept people distant from the Warbeach farm-house, all excepting Sedgett, who related that every night on his return she read a chapter from the Bible to Robert, sitting up for him patiently to fulfil this duty ; and that the farmer's words to his son had been : " Rest here ; eat and drink, and ride my horse ; but not a penny of my money do you have." By the help of Steeve Bilton, the Fairly huntsman, Sedgett was enabled to relate that there was a combina- tion of the gentlemen against Robert, whose behaviour none could absolutely approve, save the landlady and jolly Butcher Billing, Vv'ho stuck to him with a hearty blind faith. " Did he ever," asked the latter, " did Bob Eccles ever conduct himself disrespectful to his superiors ? Was n't he always found out at his wildest for to be right — to a sen- sible man's way of thinking ? — though not, I grant ye, to his own interests — there 's ling's staunch adherence to another tale." And Mr. Bli- the hero of the village was I < Ti 142 RHODA FLEMING ! ! cried out to his credit when Sedgett stated, on Stephen Bilton's authority, that Robert's errand was the defence of a girl who had been wronged, and whose whereabout, that she might be restored to her parents, was all he wanted to know. This story passed from mouth to mouth, receiving much ornament in the passage. The girl in ques- tion became a lady ; for it is required of a mere common girl that she should display remarkable character before she can be accepted as the fitting companion of a popular hero. She became a young lady of fortune, in love with Robert, and concealed by the artifice of the offending gentleman whom Robert had challenged. Sedgett told this for truth, being instigated to boldness of invention by pertinacious inquiries, and the dignified sense which the whole story hung upon him. Mrs. Boulby, who, as a towering woman, despised Sed- gett's weak frame, had been willing to listen till she perceived him to be but a man of fiction, and then she gave him a flat contradiction, having no esteem for his custom. " Eh ! but, Missis, I can tell you his name — the gentle- man's name," said Sedgett, placably. " He *s a Mr. Algernon Blancove, and a cousin by marriage, or something, of Mrs. Lovell." " I reckon you 're right about that, goodman," replied Mrs. Boulby, with intuitive discernment of the true from the false, mingled with a desire to show that she was under no obligation for the news. " All t' other 's a tale of your own, and you know it, and no more true than your rigmaroles about my brandy, which is French ; it is, as sure as my blood's British." "Oh! Missis," quoth Sedgett, maliciously, "as to tales, you 've got witnesses enough it crassed chann'l. Aha ! Don't bring 'em into the box. Don't you bring 'em into ne'er a box." " You mean to say, Mr. Sedgett, they won't swear ? " " No, Missis ; they '11 swear, fast and safe, if you teach *em. Dashed if they won't run the Pilot on a rock with their swearin'. It ain't a good habit." " Well, Mr. Sedgett, the next time you drink my brandy and find the consequences bad, you let me hear of it." AN ASSEMBLY AT THE PILOT TNN 143 Stephen defence reabout, is all he D mouth, in ques- common jfore she lar hero. L Robert, sntleman or truth, minacious le story 5ed Sed- till she ;hen she for his e gentle- llgernon of Mrs. lied Mrs. 'rom the under no our own, ^maroles e as my to tales, [. Aha! 'em into ,r?" )u teach )ck with r brandy t." Sedgett." when he " And what '11 you do, Missis, maybe ? " Listeners were by, and Mrs. Boulby cruelly retorted j " I won't send you home to your wife ; " which created a roar against this hen-pecked man. " As to consequences, Missis, it 's for your sake I 'm look- ing at them^" Sedgett said, when he had recovered from the blow. "You say that to the Excise, Mr. Sedgett; it, belike, '11 make 'em sorry." "Brandy's your weak point, it appears, Missis." " A little in you would stiif en your back , Mr. " Poor Bob Eccles did n't want no stiffenir _ come down first," Sedgett interjected. At which, flushing enraged, Mrs. Boulby cried : " Men- tion him, indeed ! And him and you, and that son of your'n — the shame of your cheeks if people say he 's like his father. Is it your son, Nic Sedgett, thinks to inform against me, as once he swore to, and to get his wage that he may step out of a second bankruptcy? — and he a farmer! You let him know that he isn't feared by me, Sedgett, and there 's one here to give him a second dose, without waiting for him to use clasp-knives on harmless innocents." "Pacify yourself, ma'am, pacify yourself," remarked Sedgett, hardened against words abroad by his endurance of blows at home. "Bob Eccles, he 's got his hands full, and he, maybe, '11 reach the hulks before my Nic do, yet. And how 'ra I answerable for Nic, I ask you? " "More luck to you not to be, I say; and either, Sedgett, you does woman's work, gossipin' about like a cracked bell- clapper, or men's the biggest gossips of all, which I be- lieve; for there's no beating you at your work, and one can't wish ill to you, knowing what you catch." "In a friendly way, Missis," — Sedgett fixed on the com- pliment to his power of propagating news, — " in a friendly way. You can't accuse me of leavin' out the ' 1 ' in your name, now, can you? I make that observation," — the venomous tattler screwed himself up to the widow insinu- atingly, as if her understanding could only be seized at close quarters, — "I make that observation, because poor Dick Boulby, your lamented husband — eh! poor Dick I M I < ( :•: hi 144 RHODA FLEMING -/t You see, Missis, it ain't tlie tough ones last longest; he 'd sing, 'I'm a Sea-Booby,' to the song, 'I'm a green Mer- maid:' poor Dick! 'a-shinin' upon the sea-deeps.' He kept the liquor from his head, but did n't mean it to stop down in his leg." "Have you done, Mr. Sedgett?" said the widow, blandly. " You ain't angry, Missis? " "Not a bit, Mr. Sedgett; and if I knock you over with the flat o' my hand, don't you think so." Sedgett threw up the wizened skin of his forehead, and retreated from the bar. At a safe distance, he called: "Bad news that about Bob Eccles swallowing a blow yesterday ! " Mrs. Boulby faced him complacently till he retired, and then observed to those of his sex surrounding her, " Don't *woman-and-dog-and- walnut-tree' me! Some of you men 'd be the better for a drubbing every day of your lives. Sedgett yond' 'd be as big a villain as his son, only for what he gets at home." That was her way of replying to the Parthian arrow; but the barb was poisoned. The village was at fever heat concerning Kobert, and this assertion that he had swal- lowed a blow produced almost as great a consternation as if a fleet of the enemy had been reported off Sandy Point. Mrs. Boulby went into her parlour and wrote a letter to Kobert, which she despatched by one of the loungers about the bar, who brought back news that three of the gentlemen of Fairly were on horseback, talking to Parmer Eccles at his garden gate. Affairs were waxing hot. The gentlemen had only to threaten Parmer Eccles to make him side with his son, right or wrong. In the evening, Stephen Bilton, the huntsman, presented himself at the door of the long parlour of the Pilot, and loud cheers were his greeting from a full company. "Gentlemen all," said Stephen, with dapper modesty; and acted as if no excitement were current, and he had nothing to tell. "Well, Steeve?" said one, to encourage him. "How about Bob, to-day? " said another. AN ASSEMBLY AT THE PILOT INN 146 It; he'd en Mer- )s.' He : to stop widow, ^er with !ad, and called : a blow ^ed, and "Don't '^ou men r lives. )nly for arrow ; v^er heat d swal- 3rnation P Sandy letter to oungers e of the Farmer t. The io make ivening, [ at the srs were lOdesty; he had Before Stephen had spoken, it was clear to the appre- hension of the whole room that he did not share the pop- ular view of Kobert. He declined to understand who was meant by "Bob." He played the questions olT; and then shrugged, with, "Oh, let's have a quiet evening." It ended in his saying, "About Bob Eccles? There, that 's summed up pretty quick — he 's mad." " Mad ! " shouted Warbeach. "That's a lie," said Mrs. Boulby, from the doorway. "Well, mum, I let a lady have her own opinion." Stephen nodded to her. "There ain't a doubt as t' wliat the doctors 'd bring him in. I ain't speaking my ideas alone. It 's written like the capital letters in a news- paper. Lunatic 's the word ! And I '11 take a glass of something warm, Mrs. Boulby. We had a stiff run to-day." " Where did ye kill, Steeve?" asked a dispirited voice. " We did n't kill at all : he was one of those 'longshore dog-foxes, and got away home on the cliff." Stephen thumped his knee. " It 's my belief the smell o' sea gives 'em extra cunning." " The beggar seems to have put ye out rether — eh , Steeve?" So it was generally presumed: and yet the charge of madness was very staggering; madness being, in the first place, indefensible, and everybody's enemy when at large ; and Robert's behaviour looked extremely like it. It had already been as a black shadow haunting enthusiastic minds in the village, and there fell a short silence, during which Stephen made his preparations for filling and lighting a pipe. "Come; how do you make out he 's mad? " Jolly Butcher Billing spoke ; but with none of the ironj of confidence. " Oh ! " Stephen merely clapped both elbows against his sides. Several pairs of eyes were studying him. He glanced over them in turn, and commenced leisurely the puff contemplative. " Don't happen to have a grudge of e'er a kind against old Bob, Steeve? " 10 u \ u I 146 RHODA FLEMING i ! r . • 1 ( • ? 1 } 111 ill, i%^ |4l !i 'ill Mi'* ' ' / ; I iJl' i ill ' I ,1 : - 1 ^r** ■f. f'j U M i I "Not I!" Mrs. Boulby herself brouglit his glass to Stephen, and, retreating, left the parlour-door open. "What causes you for to think him mad, Steeve? " A second "Oh! " as from the heights dominating argu- ment, sounded from Stephen's throat, half like a grunt. This time he condescended to add, — "How do you know when a dog's gone mad? Well, Eobert Eccles, he 's gone in like manner. If you don't judge a man by his actions, you 've got no means of reck- oning. He comes and attacks gentlemen, and swears he '11 go on doing it." "Well, and what does that prove?" said jolly Butcher Billing. Mr. William Moody, boat-builder, a liver-complexioned citizen, undertook to reply. "What does that prove? What does that prove when the midshipmite was found with his head in the mixed- pickle jar? It proved that his head was lean, and t' other part was rounder." The illustration appeared forcible, but not direct, and nothing more was understood from it than that Moody, and two or three others who had been struck by the image of the infatuated young naval officer, were going over to the enemy. The stamp of madness upon Robert's acts cer- tainly saved perplexity, and was the easiest side of the argument. By this time Stephen had finished his glass, and the effect was seen. "Hang it!" he exclaimed, "I don't agree he deserves shooting. And he may have had harm done to him. In that case, let him fight. And I say, too, let the gentleman give him satisfaction." " Hear ! hear ! " cried several. "And if the gentleman refuse to give him satisfaction in a fair stand-up fight, I say he ain't a gentleman, and deserves to be treated as such. My objection 's personal. I don't like any man who spoils sport, and ne'er a rascally vulpeci' spoils sport as he do, since he 's been down in our parts again. I '11 take another brimmer, Mrs. Boulby." "To be sure you will, Stephen," said Mrs. Boulby, bending as in a curtsey to the glass; and so soft with him, AN ASSEMBLY AT THE PILOT INN 147 hen, and, e?" ing argu- a grunt. ? Well, you don't ! of reek- ears he '11 Butcher jlexioned ove when e mixed- d t' other rect, and Dody, and image of rev to the acts eer- ie of the lis glass, deserves tiim. In 3ntleman isfaction nan, and )ersoual. rascally n in our ilby." Boulby, ith him, that foolish fellows thought her cowed by the accusation thrown at her favourite. " There 's two questions about they valpecies, Master Stephen," said Farmer Wainsby, a farmer with a griev- ance, fixing his elbow on his knee for serious utterance. " There 's to ask, and t' ask again. Sport, 1 grant ye. All in doo season. But," he performed a circle with his pipe-stem, and darted it as from the centre thereof toward Stephen's breast, with the poser, " do we s'pport thieves at public expense for tliein to keep thievin' — black, wiiite, or brown — no matter, eh? Well, then, if the public wunt bear it, dang me if I can see wliy individles shud bear it. It ent no manner o' reason, net as I can see; let gentlemen have their opinion, or let 'em not. Foxes be hanged ! " Much slow winking was interchanged. In a general sense. Farmer Wainsby's remarks were held to be un- English, though he was pardoned for them as one having peculiar interests at stake. "Ay, ay ! we know all about that," said Stephen, taking succour from the eyes surrounding him. "And so, maybe, do we," said Wainsby. "Fox-hunting '11 go on when your great-grandfather's your youngest son, farmer; or t' other way." " I reckon it '11 be a stuffed fox your chil'ern '11 hunt, Mr. Steeve; more straw in 'em than bow'ls." "If the country," Stephen thumped the table, "were what you 'd make of it, hang me if my name 'd long be Englishman ! " " Hear, hear, Steeve ! " was shouted in support of the Conservative principle enunciated by him. "What I say is, flesh and blood afore foxes! " Thus did Farmer ' Wainsby likewise attempt a rallying- cry; but Stephen's retort, "Ain't foxes flesh and blood?" convicted him of clumsiness, and, buoyed on the uproar of cheers, Stephen pursued, "They are; to kill 'em in cold blood's beast-murder, so it is. What do v/e do? We give 'em a fair field — a fair field and no favour ! We let 'em trust to the instincts Nature , she 's given 'em ; and don't the old woman know best? If they can get away, they win the day. All's open, and honest, and aboveboard. Kill your rats and kill your rabbits, but leave foxes to ^■' '/' 148 EHODA FLElVnNG your betters. Foxes are gontlcmeii. You don't uudor- staiul? He hanged \i they ain't! I like tlie ohl iox, and 1 don't like to see him murdered and exterminated, but die the death of a gentleman, at the hands of gentlonum — " "And ladies," sneered the farmer. All the room was with Stei)hen, and would have backed him uproariously, had he not reaeheil his sinmding period without knowing it, and thus allowed his opponent to blip in that abominable addition. "Ay, and ladies," cried the luintsman, keen at recovery. " Why should n't they? I hate a Held v. itiiont a woman in it; don't you? and you? a;ul you? And you, too, Mrs. houlby ? There you are, and the room looks better for you — don't it, la,ds ? Hurrah ! " The cheering was now aroused, and Stephen had his glass filled again in triumph, while the farmer meditated thickly over the ruin of his argument from that fatal effort at fortifying it by throwing a hint to the discredit of the sex, as many another wan has meditated before. "Eh! poor old Bob!" Stephen sighed and si})ped. "I can cry that with any of y(m. It 's worse for me to see than for you to hear of him. Was n't \ always a friend of his, and said he was worthy to be a gentleman, many a time? PCe's got the manners of a gentleman now; offs with his hat, if there 's a lady present, pud such a neat way of speaking. But there, acting's the thing, and his behaviour's beastly bad! You can't call it no other. There 's two Mr Hlancoves up at Fairly, relations of Mrs. Lovell's — whom I '11 take the liberty of calling My ]}cauty, and no offence meant; and it's before her that Bob only yesterday rode u]) — one of the gentlemen being Mr. Alger- non, free of hand and a good seat in the saddle, t' other's Mr. Edward; but Mr. Algernon, he 's Bobert Eccles's man — u]) rides Bob, just as we was tying Mr. Keenard's brush to the pommel of the lady's saddle, down in Ditley Marsh; and he bows to the lady. Says he — but he 's mad, stark mad ! " Stephen resumed his pipe amid a din of disappointment that made the walls ring and the glasses leap. "A little more sugar, Stephen?" said Mrs. Boulby, mov- ing in lightly from the doorway. «^i AN ASSEMBLY AT THE PILOT INN 149 't under- ox, and J 1, but (lie len — " e ])iU'kp(l ig poriod nt to bHj) rocovery. voimiii ill ioc), Mrs. )otter Tor his glass d thickly effort at f the sex, pod. "I lie to see friend of many a ;iow; offs neat way and his 10 other. s of Mrs. y ]>eauty, Bob only Ir. Alger- t' other 's les's man d's brush y Marsh; ad, stark ointment Iby, mov- " Thank ye, mum ; you 're the best hostess that ever breathed." '* So she bo ; but how about Bob? " cried lier guests — some asking whether he carried a pistol or tiourished a stick. "Ne'er a blessed twig, to save his soul; and there's the madness written on him ; " Stephen roared as loud as any of them. "And me to see liiiii riding in the ring there, and knowing what the gentleman had sworn to do if he came across the hunt; and feeling that he was in the wrong ! I have n't got a oatli to swear how mad I was. Fancy yourselves in my place. I love old Bob. 1 've drunk with him; I owe him obligations from since I was a boy up'ard; I ilon't know a better than Bob in all Eng- land. And there he was ; and says to Mr. Algernon, ' You know what I'm come for.' I never did behold a gentle- man so pale-shot all over liis cheeks as he was, and pinkish under the eyes; if you 've ever noticed a chap laid hands on by detectives in plain clothes. Smack at Bob went Mr. Edward's whip." "Mr. Algernon's," Stephen was corrected. " Mr. Edward's, 1 tell ye — the cousin. And right across the face. My Lord ! it made my blood tingle." A sound like the swish of a whij) expressed the senti- ments of that assemblage at the I'ilot. " Bob swallowed it? " " What else couhl ho do, the fool ? He had nothing to help him but his hand. Says he, * That 's a poor way of trying to stop me. My business is with this gentleman;' and Bob set his horse at Mr. Algernon, and Mrs. Lovell rode across him with her hand raised; and just at that moment up jogged the old gentleman, S(]uire Blancove, of Wrexby : and Robert Eccles says to him, ' You might have saved your son something by keeping your word.' It appears, according to Bob, that the squire had promised to see his son, and settle matters. All Mrs. Lovell could do was hardly enough to hold back Mr. Edward from laying out at Bob. He was like a white devil, and speaking calm and })olite all the time. Says Bob, ' 1 'm willing to take one when I 've done with the other;' and the squire began talk- ing to his son, ]\lrs. Lovell to Mr. Edward, and the rest of . • 150 RHODA FLEIMING mi 'i'{ ■ i. the gentlemen all round poor dear old Bob, rather bullying- like for my blood ; till Bob could n't help being nettled, and cried out, ' Gentlemen, I hold him in my power, and I 'm silent so long as there 's a chance of my getting him to behave like a man with human feelings.' If they 'd gone at him then, I don't think I could have let him stand alone : an opinion 's one thing, but blood 's another, and I 'ra dis- tantly related to Bob ; and a man who 's always thinking of the value of his place, he ain't worth it. But Mrs. Lovell, she settled the case — a lady, Farmer Wainsby, with your leave. There 's the good of having a lady pres- ent on the field. That 's due to a lady ! " " Happen she was at the bottom of it," the farmer re- turned Stephen's nod grumpily. " How did it end, Stephen, my lad ? " said Butcher Bil- ling, indicating a " never mind him." " It ended, my boy, it ended like my glass here — hot and strong stuff, with sugar at the bottom. And I don't see this, so glad as I saw tliat, my word of honour on it ! Boys all ! " Stephen drank the dregs. Mrs. Boulby was still in attendance. The talk over the circumstances was sweeter than the bare facts, and the replenished glass enabled Stephen to add the picturesque bits of the affray, unspurred by a surrounding eagerness of his listeners — too exciting for imaginative effort. In par- ticular, he dwelt on Robert's dropping the reins and riding with his heels at Algernon, when Mrs. Lovell put her horse in his way, and the pair of horses rose like waves at sea, and both riders showed their horsemanship, and Robert an adroit courtesy, for which the lady thanked him with a bow of her head. " I got among the hounds, pretending to pacify them, and call 'em together," said Stephen, "and I heard her say — just before all was over, and he turned off — I heard her say : ' Trust this to me : I will meet you.' I '11 swear to them exact words, though there was more, and a ' where ' in the bargain, and that I did n't hear. Aha ! by George ! thinks I, old Bob, you 're a lucky beggar, and be hanged if I would n't go mad too for a minute or so of short, sweet, private talk with a lovely young widow lady as ever the sun did shine upon so boldly — oho ! i , •' lullying. nettled, ver, and ing him ■ 'd gone i alone : ['ra dis- hinking ut Mrs. /"ainsby, iy pres- mer re- her Bil- hot and an't see ! Boys Dver the and the luresque mess of In par- riding i^r horse at) sea, )bert an h a bow them, ird her I heard 1 swear where ' jBorge ! mged if , sweet, ver the AN ASSEMBLY AT THE PILOT INN 161 You 've seen a yacht upon the sea, She dances and she dances, ! As fair is my wild maid to me . . . ' Something about * prances, ! ' on her horse, you know, or you 're a hem'd fool if you don't. I never could sing ; wish I could ! It's the joy of life ! It 's utterance ! Hey for harmony ! " "Eh ! brayvo ! now you 're a man, Steeve! and welcomes and welcomes^; yi — yi, O!" jolly Butcher Billing sang out sharp. "Life wants watering. Here's a health to Robert Eccles, wheresoever and whatsoever! and ne'er a man shall say of me I did n't stick by a friend like Bob. Cheers, my lads ! " Robert's health was drunk in a thunder, and praises of the purity and the brandy followed the grand roar. Mrs. Boulby received her compliments on that head. " 'Pends upon the tide, Missis, don't it? " one remarked with a grin broad enough to make the slyness written on it easy reading. " Ah! first a flow and then a ebb," said another. " It 's many a keg I plant i' the mud, Coastguard'sman, come ! and I '11 have your blood ! " Instigation cried, " Cut along ; " but the defiant smuggler was deficient in memory, and, like Steeve Bilton, was re- duced to scatter his concluding rhymes in prose, as " some- thing about ; " whereat jolly Butcher Billing, a reader of song-books from a literary delight in their contents, scraped his head, and then, as if he had touched a spring, carolled, — " In spite of all you Gov'ment pack, I '11 land my kegs of the good CognyAC " — "though," he took occasion to observe when the chorus and a sort of cracker of irrelevant rhymes had ceased to explode ; " I 'm for none of them games. Honesty ! — there 's the sugar o' my grog." " Ay, but you like to be cock-sure of the stuff you drink, if o'er a man did," said the boatbuilder, whose eye blazed yellow in this frothing season of song and fun. /: 'h r ! i v II /K m 't 152 BHODA FLEMING ^1? " Right so, Will Moody ! " returned the jolly butcher : " which means — not wrong this time ! " " Then, what 's understood by your sticking prongs into your hostess here concerning of her brandy ? Here it is — which is enough, except for discontented fellows." " Eh, Missus ? " the jolly butcher appealed to her, and pointed at Moody's complexion for proof. It was quite a fiction that kegs of the good cognac were sown at low water, and reaped at high, near the river-gate of the old Pilot Inn garden ; but it was greatly to Mrs. Boulby's interest to encourage the delusion which imaged her brandy thus arising straight from the very source, without villanous contact with excisemen and corrupting dealers ; and as, perhaps, in her husband's time, the thing had happened, and still did, at rare intervals, she compla- certly gathered the profitable fame of her brandy being the best in the district. " I 'm sure I hope you 're satisfied, Mr. Bir^'ng," she said. The jolly butcher asked whether Will Moody was satis- fied, and Mr. William Moody declaring himself thoroughly satisfied. " Then I 'm satisfied too ! " said the jolly butcher ; upon which the boatbuilder heightened the laugh by saying he was not satisfied at all; and to escape from the execra- tions of the majority, pleaded that it was because his glass was empty : thus making his peace with them. Every glass in the room was filled again. The young fellows now loosened tongue ; and Dick Cur- tis, the promising cricketer of Hampshire, cried, "Mr. Moody, my hearty ! that 's your fourth glass, so don't quarrel with me now ! " " You ! " Moody fired up in a bilious frenzy, and called him a this and that and t' other young vagabond ; for which the company, feeling the ominous truth contained in Dick Curtis's remark more than its impertinence, fined Mr. Moody in a song. He gave the — " So many young Captains have walked o'er my pate, It 's no wonder you see me quite bald, sir," with emphatic bitterness, and the company thanked him. Seeing him stand up as to depart, however, a storm of contempt was hurled at him; some said he was like old f AN ASSEMBLY AT THE PILOT INN 153 utcher : igs into Bre it is er, and ac were v^er-gate to Mrs. imaged source, rupting le thing compla- 3ing the e said. ,s satis- roughly mtcher ; 7 saying execra- lis glass ry glass ick Cur- i, "Mr. 50 don't i called >r which in Dick ed Mr. 3d him. borm of like old Sedgett, and was afraid of his wife ; and some, that he was like Nic Sedgett, and drank blue. " You 're a bag of blue devils, oh dear ! oh dear ! " sang Dick, to the tune of " The Campbells are coming. " " I ask e'er a man present," Mr. Moody put out his fist, a is that to be borne ? Did n't you," he addressed Dick Curtis, — " did n't you sing into my chorus — ' It 's no wonder to hear how you squall'd, sir ' ? You did!" " Don't he " — Dick addressed the company — " make Mrs. Boulby's brandy look ashamed of itself in his face ? I ask e'er a gentleman present." Accusation and retort were interchanged, in the course of which Dick called Mr. Moody Nic Sedgett's friend ; and a sort of criminal inquiry was held. It was proved that Moody had been seen with Nic Sedgett ; and then three or four began to say that Nic Sedgett was thick with some of the gentlemen up at Fairly ; — just like his luck ! Stephen let it be known that he could confirm this fact ; he having seen Mr. Algernon Blanco ve stop Nic on the road and talk to him. " In that case," said Butcher Billing, " there 's mischief in a state of fermentation. Did ever anybody see Nic and the devil together ? ' " I saw Nic and Mr. Moody together," said Dick Curtis. " Well, I 'm only stating a fact," he exclaimed, as Moody rose, apparently to commence an engagement, for which the company quietly prepared, by putting chairs out of his way ; but the recreant took his a vantage from the error, and got away to the door, pursued. " liere 's an example of what we lose in having no Presi- dent," sighed the jolly butcher. " There never was a man built for the chair like Bob Eccles, I say ! Our evening 's broke up, and I, for one, 'd ha' made it moruing. Hark, outside ! By H^earge ! they 're snowballing." An adjournn it to the front door brought them in view of a white " ;» silent earth under keen stars, and Dick Curtis and tl ^ iiious boat-builder, foot to foot, snowball in f' % >! h : 154 EHODA FLEMING \ hand. A bout of the smart exercise made Mr. Moody laugh again, and all parted merrily, delivering final shots as they went their several ways. "Thanks be to heaven for snowing," said Mrs. Boulby; " or when I should have got to my bed. Goodness only can tell ! " With which, she closed the door upon the empty inn. CHAPTER XIX Ji' ) I '^ ROBERT SMITTEN LOW The night was warm with the new-fallen snow, though the stars sparkled coldly. A fleet of southwesterly rain- clouds had been met in mid-sky by a sharp puff from due north, and the moisture had descended like a woven shroud, covering all the land, the house-tops, and the trees. Young Harry Boulby was at sea, and this still weather was just what a mother's heart wished for him. The widow looked through her bedroom window and listened, as if the absolute stillness must beget a sudden cry. The thought of her boy made her heart revert to Robert. She was thinking of Robert, when the muffled sound of a horse at speed caused her to look up the street, and she saw one coming, — a horse without a rider. The next minute he was out of sight. Mrs. Boulby stood terrified. The silence of the night hanging everywhere seemed to call on her for proof that she had beheld a real earthly spectacle and the dead thump of the hooves on the snow-floor in passing struck a chill through her as being phantom-like. But she had seen a saddle on the horse, and the stirrups flying, and the horse looked affrighted. The scene was too earthly in its sugges- tion of a tale of blood. What if the horse were Robert's ? She tried to laugh at her womanly fearfulness, and had almost to suppress a scieam in doing so. There was no help for it but to believe her brandy as good and effica- cious as her guests did, so she went downstairs and took a fortifying draught ; after which her blood travelled faster, and the event galloped swiftly into the recesses of time, and she slept. .c&_. ROBERT SMITTKN LOW 155 y laugh as they Boulby ; nly can pty inn. though iy raiu- rom due shroud, weather e widow ,3 if the )ught of hinking i caused - a horse jht. e night Dof that i thump a chill . seen a le horse sugges- abert's ? md had was no i effica- nd took i faster, sf time, While the morning was still black, and the streets with- out a sign of life, she was aroused by a dream of sonie one knocking at her grave-stone. "Ah, that brandy!" she sighed. " This is what a poor woman has to pay for cus- tom ! " Which we may interpret as the remorseful morning confession of a guilt she had been the victim of over night. She knew that good brandy did not give bad dreams, and was self-convicted. Strange were her sensations when the knocking continued ; and presently she heard a voice in the naked street below call in a moan, " Mother ! " " My darling ! " she answered, divided in her guess at its being Harry or Robert. A glance from the open window showed Robert leaning in the quaint old porch, with his head bound by a handker- chief; but he had no strength to reply to a ciiu'stion at that distance, and when she let him in he made two steps and dropped forward on the floor. Lying chore, he plucked at her skirts. She was shouting for help, but with her ready apprehension of the pride in his character, she knew what was meant by his broken whisper before she put her ear to his lips, and she was silent, — miserable sight as was his feeble effort to rise on an elbow that would not straighten. His head was streaming with blood, and the stain was on his neck and chest. He had one helpless arm ; his clothes were torn as from a fierce struggle. "I'm quite sensible," he kept repeating, lest she s} «uld relapse into screams. "Lord love you for your spirit!" exclaimed the widow, and there they remained, he like a winged eagle, striving to raise himself from time to time, and fighting with his desperate weakness. His face was to the ground ; after a while he was still. In alarm the widow stooped over him : she feared that he had given up his last breath ; but the candle-light showed him shaken by a sob, as it seemed to her, though she could scarce believe it of this manly fellow. Yet it proved true; she saw the very tears. He was crying at his helplessness. " Oh, my darling boy ! " she burst out ; " what have they done to ye ? the cowards they are ! but do now have pity on a woman, and let me get some creature to lift you to a bed, >n< fl^ ii ' u 156 KHODA FLEMING n dear. And don't flap at me with your hand like a bird that 's shot. You 're quite, quite sensible, I know ; quite S( lisiUe, dear ; but for my sake, Robert, my Hari-y's good M iur .■ only for my sake, let yourself be a carried to a clean, ce 0L'\, till I get Dr. Bean to you. Do, do." Her i" ' %\ii' 162 RHODA FLEMING " There 's comfort in tliat;" she replied. **As much as there 's needeu/' «!aid he. The widow curtseyed again. " it 's not to trouble you, sir, I called. Kobert — thanks be to Above ! — is not hurt serious, though severe." " Where 's he hurt? " the farmer asked rather hurriedly. "In the head, it is." " What have you come for? " "First, his best hat." "Bless my soul!" exclaimed the farmer. "Well, if that '11 mend liis head it 's at his service, I 'm sure." Sick at his heartlessness, the widow scattered emphasis over her concluding remarks. "First, his best hat, he wants; and his coat and clean shirt; and they mend the looks of a man, Mr. Eccles ; and it 's to look well is his object : for he 's not one to make a moan of himself, and doctors may starve before he 'd go to any of them. And my begging prayer to you is, that when you see your son, you '11 not tell him I let you know his head or any part of him was hurt. I wish you good-morning, Mr. Eccles." "Good-morning to you, Mrs. Boulby. You 're a respect- able woman." "Not to be soaped," she murmured to herself in a heat. The apparently medicinal articles of attire were obtained from Aunt Anne, without a word of speech on the 'pB.rt of that pale spinster. The deferential hostility between the two women acknowledged an intervening chasm. Aunt Anne produced a bundle, and placed the hat on it, upon which she had neatly pinned a tract, "The Drunkard's Awakening!" Mrs. Boulby glanced her eye in wrath across this superscription, thinking to herself, "Oh, you good people! how you make us long in our hearts for trouble with you ! " She controlled the impulse, and mollified her spirit on her way home by distributing stray leaves of the tract to the outlying heaps of rubbish, and to one inquisitive pig, who was looking up from a badly smelling sty for what the heavens might send him. She found Robert with his arm doubled over a basin, and Susan sponging cold water on it. "No bones broken, mother ! " he sang out. " I 'm sound; all right again. Six hours have done it this time. Is it ROBERT S>nTTEN LOW 163 ble you, not hurt irriedly. Well, if • mphasis hat, he lend the ell is his self, and m. And '^our son, y part of cles." b respect- i a heat, obtained le part of iveen the 1. Aunt it, upon •unkard's in wrath 'Oh, you ?arts for Ise, and ng stray li, and to a badly L. a basin, tn sound; le. Is it a thaw? You need n't tell me what the old dad has been saying. I shall be ready to breakfast in half an hour. " " Lord, what a big arm it is ! " exclaimed the widow. "And no wonder, or how would you be a terror to men? ^ou naughty boy, to think of stirring ! Here you '11 lie." "Ah, will I?" said Kobert; and he gave a spring, and sat upright in the bed, rather white with the effort, which seemed to affect his mind, for he asked dubiously, " What do I look like, mother ? " She brought him the looking-glass, and, Susan being dismissed, he examined his features. "Dear!" said the widow, sitting down on the bed; "it ain't much for me to guess you 've got an appointment." "At twelve o'clock, mother." "With her?" she uttered softly. "It's with a lady, mother." "And so many enemies prowling about, Robert, my dear. Don't tell me they did n't fall upon you last night. I said nothing, but I 'd swear it on the Book. Do you think you can go ? " " Why, mother, I go by my feelings, and there 's no need to think at all, or God knows what I should think." The widow shook her head. " Nothing '11 stop you, I suppose ? " "Nothing inside of me will, mother." "Doesn't ask, Robert; she — But never mind. I 've no right to and if I have curiosity, it 's about last night. and why you should let villains escape. But there 's no accounting for a man's notions; only, this I say, and I do say it, Nic Sedgett, he 's at the bottom of any mischief brewed against you down here. And last night Stephen Bilton, or somebody, declared that Nic Sedgett had been seen up at Fairly." " Selling eggs, mother. Why should n't he ? We must n't complain of his getting an honest livelihood." "He's black-blooded, Robert; and I never can under- stand why the Lord did not make him a beast in face. I 'm told that creature 's found pleasing by the girls." "Ugh, mother, I 'm not." " She won't have you, Robert ? " He laughed. "We shall see to-day." M * >■ (■>: i' / I I ,. ..> f -il I i; t« ^y! 'ill i in\ 164 KHODA FLEMING " You deceiving boy ! " cried the widow ; " and me not know it 's Mrs. Lovell you 're going to meet ! and would to heaven she 'd see the worth of ye, ior it 's a born lady you ought to marry." "Just feel in my pockets, mother, and you won't be so ready with your talk of my marrying. And now I '11 get up. I feel as if my legs had to learn over again how to bear me. The old dad, bless his heart! gave me sound wind and limb to begin upon, so I 'm not easily stumped, you see, though I 've been near on it once or twice in my life." Mrs. Boulby murmured, "Ah! are you still going to be at war with those gentlemen, Robert ? " He looked at her steadily, while a shrewd smile wrought over his face, and then, taking her hand, he said: '' I '11 tell you a little; you deserve it, and won't tattle. My curse is, I 'm ashamed to talk about my feelings ; but there 's no shame in being fond of a girl, even if she refuses to have anything to say to you, is there ? No, there i' n't. I went with my dear old aunt's money to a farme^ .i Kent, and learnt farming; clear of the army first, by- • But I must stop that burst of swearing. Half the time I 've been away I was there. The farmer 's a good, sober, down- hearted man — a sort of beaten Englishman, who don't know it, tough, and always backing. He has two daugh- ters: one went to London, and came to harm, of a kind. The other I 'd prick this vein for and bleed to death, sing- ing; and she hates me ! 1 wish she did. She thought me such a good young man! I never drank; went to bed early, was up at work with the birds. Mr. Robert Arm- strong! That changing of my name was like a lead cap on my head. I was never myself with it, felt hang-dog — it was impossible a girl could care for such a fellow as I was. Mother, just listen : she 's dark as a gipsy. She 's the faithfullest, stoutest-hearted creature i i the world. She has black hair, large brown eyes ; see her once ! She 's my mate. I could say to her, ' Stand there; take guard of a thing; ' and I could be dead certain of her — she 'd perish at her post. Is the door locked ? Lock the door; I won't be seen when I speak of her. Well, never mind whether she 's handsome or not. She is n't a lady; but she's my ROBERT SMITTF-N LOW 165 me not vould to ady you I't be so I '11 get how to i sound tumped, e in my Qg to be wrouglit I '11 tell curse is, 3re 's no to have n't. I .1 Kent, But I Die I 've r, down- 10 don't ) daugh- a kind. th, sing- uglit me : to bed rt Arm- d cap on [log — it LS I was. le 's the id. She he 's my ard of a d perish I won't whether he 's my lady ; she 's the woman I could be proud of. She sends me to the devil! I believe a woman 'd fall in love with her cheeks, they are so round and soft and kindly coloured. Think me a fool ; I am. And here am 1, away from her, and I feel that any day harm may come to her, and she '11 melt, and be as if the devils of hell were mocking me. Who 's to keep harm from her when I 'm away ? What can I do but drink and forget ? Only now, when I wake up from it, I 'm a crawling wretch at her feet. If I had her feet to kiss ! I 've never kissed her — never ! And no man has kissed her. Damn my head ! here 's the aclie coming on. That 's my last oath, mother. I wish there was a Bible handy ; but I '11 try and stick to it without. My God ! when I think of her, I fancy everything on earth hangs still and doubts what 's to happen. I 'm like a wheel, and go on spinuiug. Feel my pulse now. Why is it I can't stop it ? But there she is, and I could crack up this old world to know what 's coming. I was mild as milk all those days I was near her. My comfort is, she don't know me. And that 's my curse too ! If she did, she 'd know as clear as day I 'm her mate , her mat'»-h, the man for her. I am, by heaven ! — that 's an oatn per- mitted. To see the very soul I want, and to miss her ! I'm down here, mother; she loves her sister, and I must learn where her sister 's to be found. One of thitse gentle- men up at Fairly 's the guilty man. I don't say which; perhaps I don't know. But oh, what a lot of lightnings I see in the back of my head ! " Kobert fell back on the pillow. Mrs. Boulby wiped her eyes. Ker feelings were overwhelmed with mournful devotion to the passionate young man ; and she expressed them practically: "A rump-steak would never digest in his poor stomach! " He seemed to be of that opinion too, for when, after lying till eleven, he rose and appeared at the breakfast-table, he ate nothing but crumbs of dry bread. It was curious to see his precise attention to the neatness of his hat and coat, and the nervous eye he cast upon the clock, while brushing and accurately iixing these garments. The hat would not sit as he was accustomed to have it, owing to the bruise on his head, and he stood like a woman petulant with hei mmmm 166 BHODA FLEMING milliner before the glass; now pressing the hat down till the pain was insufferable, and ar^'aiu trying wl' ether it pre- sented him acceptably in the enforced style of his wearing it. He persisted in this, till Mrs. Boulby's exclamation of wonder admonished him of the ideas received by other eyes than his own. When we appear most incongruous, we are ten exposing the key to our characters ; and how much his vanity, wounded by Ehoda, had to do with his proceedings down at Warbeach, it were unfair to measure just yet, lest his finer qualities be cast into shade, but to what degree it affected him will be seen. Mrs. Boulby's persuasions induced him to take a stoat silver-topped walking-stick of her husband's, a relic .shaped from the wood of the Royal George; leaning upon which rather more like a Naval pensioner than he would have cared to know, he went forth to his appointment with the lady. CHAPTER XX MRS, JOVRLL SHOWS A TAME BRUTE « Hi The park-sward of Fairly, white with snow, rolled down in long sweeps to the salt water; and under the last sloping oak of the park there was a gorse-bushed lane, green in summer, but now bearing cumbrous blossom-like burdens of the crisp snow-fall. Mrs. Lovell sat on horseback here, and alone, with her gauntleted hand at her waist, charm- ingly habited in tone with the landscape. She expected a cavalier, and did not perceive the approach of a pedestrian, but bowed quietly when Robert lifted his hat. "They say you are mad. You see, I trust myself to you." "I wish I could thank you for your kindness, madam." " Ire you ill ? " "I had a fall last night, madam." The lady patted her horse's neck. "I haven't time to inquire about it. You understand that I cannot give you more than a minute." th( ;! I own till it pre- wearing amation 3y other igriious, md how vith his measure but to 3oulby's r-topped rom the rather cared to ady. ed down t sloping green in burdens ick here, ;, charm- :pected a destrian, lyself to laaam. » derstand vry* t«is MKS. LOVELL SHOWS A TAME BRUTE 167 She glanced at her watch. " Let us say five exactly. To begin : I can't affect to be ignorant of the business which brings you down here. I won't pretend to lecture you about the course you have taken; but let me distinctly assure you that the gentle- man you have chosen to attack in this extraordinary manner has done no wrong to you or to anyone. It is therefore disgracefully unjust to single him out. You know he cannot possibly tight you. I speak plainly." "Yes, madam," said Robert. "I'll answer plainly. He can't fight a man like me. I know it. I bear him no ill-will. I believe he 's innocent enough in this matter as far as acts go." " That makes your behaviour to him worse ! " Robert looked up into lier eyes. " You are a lady. You won't be shocked at what I tell you." "Yes, yes," said Mrs. Lovell, hastily; "I have learnt — I am aware of the tale. Some one has been injured; or, you think so. I don't accuse you of madness, but, ^ood heavens! what means have you been pursuing! Indv d, sir, let your feelings be as deeply engaged as pons'lie, you have gone altogether the wrong way to work." "Not if I have got your help by it, madam." "Gallantly spoken." She smiled with a simple grace. T' e next moment she consulted her watch. "Time has gone faster than I anticipated. I must leave you. Let this be our stipulation." She lowered her voice. "You shall have the address you require. I will under- take to see her myself when next 1 am in London. It will be soon. In return, sir, favour me with your word of honour not to molest this gentleman any further. Will you do that ? You may trust me." " I do, madam, with all mv soul ! " said Robert. "That 's suflficirnt. I ask no more. Good-moruing." Her parting b( remained Tvith hi'u like a vision. Her voice was like tm tinkling of harp-sirings about his ears. The colour of her riding-habit this day, harmonious with the snow-faced eai :h, as well as the gentle mission she : W * t h M W 1^ 'l I* i *l i^ il^ i )V :( I And, I do assure you, Kobert, your hat's neat, if you'd only let it be comfortable; such fidgeting worries the brim. You 're best in appearance — and I always said it — when stripped for boxing. Hats are gentlemen's tilings, and becomes them like as if a title to their heads; though you 'd bear being Sir Robert, that you would ; and for that matter, your hat is agreeable to behold, and not like the run of our Sunday hats ; only you don't seem easy in it. Oh, oh ! my tongue 's a yard too long. It 's the poor head aching, and me to forget it. It 's because you never will act invalidy ; and I remember how handsome you were one day in the field behind our house, when you boxed a wager with Simon Billet, the waterman; and you was made a bet of then, for my husband betted on you; and that's what made me think of comparisons of you out of your hat and you in it." Thus did Mrs. Boulby chatter along the way. There was an eminence a little out of the road, overlooking the Fairly stables. Robert left her and went to this point, from whence he beheld the horsemen with the grooms at the horses' heads. "Thank God, I 've only been a fool for five minutes! " he summed up his sensations at the sight. He shut his eyes, praying with all his might never to meet Mrs, Lovell more. It was impossible for him to combat the suggestion that she had befooled him; yet his chivalrous faith in women led hira to believe, that as she knew Dahlia's his- tory, she would certainly do her best for the poor girl, and keep her word to him. The throbbing of his head stopped all further thought. It had become violent. He tried to gather his ideas, but the effort was like that of a light dreamer to catch the sequence of a dream, when blackness follows close up, devouring all that is said and done. In despair, he thought with kindness of Mrs. Boulby's brandy. "Mother," he said, rejoining her, "I've got a notion brandy can't hurt a man when he 's in bed. I '11 go to bed, and you shall brew me some ; and you '11 let no one come nigh me ; and if I talk light-headed, it 's blank paper and scribble, mind that." The widow promised devoutly to obey all his directions ; but he had begun to talk light-headed before he was if you 'd ;he brim. ; — when ngs, and ; though L for that like the asy in it. oor head ever will were one I a wager 3 made a d that's ; of your . There )king the lis point, [rooms at linutes! " ! shut his [•s, Lovell iiggestion faith in ilia's his- girl, and 1 stopped e tried to if a light blackness lone. In s brandy. a notion ^0 to bed, one come )aper and reotions ; he was THE POOK VILLANIES OF THE STORY 171 undressed. He called on the name of a Major Waring, of whom Mrs. Boulby had heard him speak tenderly as a gen- tleman not ashamed to be his friend; first reproaching him for not being by, and then by the name of Percy, call- ing to him endearingly and reproaching himself for not having written to him. " Two to one, and in the dark ! " he kept moaning; " and I one to twenty, Percy, all in broad day. Was it fair, I ask?" Kobert's outcries became anything but " blank paper and scribble " to the widow when ho mentioned Nic Sedgett's name, and said, "Look over his right temple; he's got my mark a second time." Hanging by his bedside, Mrs. Boulby strung together, bit by bit, the history of that base midnight attack, which had sent her glorious boy bleeding to her. Nic Sedgett, she could understand, was the accomplice of one of the Fairly gentlemen ; but of which one she could not discover, and consequently set him down as Mr. Algernon Blancove. By diligent inquiry, she heard that Algernon had been seen in company with the infamous Nic, and likewise that the countenance of Nicodemus was reduced to accept the consolation of a poultice, which was confirmation sufficient. By nightfall Robert was in the doctor's hands, unconscious of Mrs. Boulby's breach of agreement. His father and his aunt were informed of his condition, and prepared, both of them, to bow their heads to the close of an ungodly career. It was known over Warbeach that Robert lay in danger, and believed that he was dying. CHAPTER XXI GIVES A GLIMPSE OF WHAT POOR VILLANIE» THE STORY CONTAINS Mrs. Boulby's ears had not deceived her; it had been a bet: and the day would have gone disastrously with Robert if Mrs. Lovell had not won her bet. What was heroism to Warbeach, appeared very outrageous blackguardism up 4 '■ 'i, ■ '.* t ill II1 ) ■ , r ^ ' B J i ^ •, 172 EHODA FLEMING at Fairly. It was there believed by the gentlemen , thr>iigli rather against evidence, tliat the man was a sturdy ruftian and an infuriated sot. The first s^gestion was to drag him before the magistrates; but against this Algernon protested, declaring his readiness to defend himself with so vehement a magnanimity that it was clearly seen the man had a claim on him. Lord Elling, however, when he was told of these systematic assaults upon one of his guests, announced his resolve to bring the law into opera- tion. Algernon heard it as the knell to his visit. He was too happy, to go away willingly, and the great Jew City of London was exceedingly hot for him at that period; but to stay and risk an exposure of his extinct military career was not possible. In his despair, he took Mrs. Lovell entirely into his confidence; in doing which, he only filled up the outlines of what she already knew concerning Edward. He was too useful to the lady for her to afford to let him go. No other youth called her "angel" for listening complacently to strange stories of men and their dilemmas ; no one fetched and carried for her like Algernon ; and she was a woman who cherished dog-like adoration, and could not part with it. She had also the will to reward it. At her intercession, Eobert was spared an introduction to the magistrates. She made light of his misdemeanours, assuring everybody that so splendid a horseman deserved to be dealt with differently from other offenders. The gentlemen who waited upon Farmer Eccles went in obedi- ence to her orders. Then came the scene on Ditley Marsh, described to that assembly at the Pilot, by Stephen Bilton, when she per- ceived that Eobert was manageable in silken trammels, and made a bet that she would show him tamed. She won her bet, and saved the gentlemen from soiling their hands, for which they had conceived a pressing necessity, and they thanked her, and paid their money over to Algernon, whom she constituted her treasurer. She was called " the man- tamer," gracefully acknowledging the compliment. Colonel Barclay, the moustachioed horseman, who had spoken the few words to Robert in passing, now remarked that there was an end of the military profession. was V I THE POOR VILLANIES OP THE STORY 173 :: I " I surrender my sword," he said gallantly. Another declared that ladies would now act in lieu of causing an appeal to arms. ^^ Similia similibiis, «&c.," said Edward. "They can, apparently, cure what they originate." "Ah, the poor sex!" Mrs. Lovell sighed. "When we bring the millennium to you, I believe you will still have a woid against Eve." The whole parade back to the stables was marked by pretty speeches. "By Jove! but he ought to have gone down on his knees, like a horse when you've tamed him," said Lord Suckling, the young guardsman. "I would mark a distinction between a horse and a brave man. Lord Suckling," said the lady; and such was Mrs. Lovell's dignity wlion an allusion to Robert was forced on her, and her wit and ease were so admirable that none of those who rode with her thought of sitting in judgement on her conduct. Women can make for them- selves new spheres, new laws, if they will assume their right to be eccentric as an unquestionable thing, and always reserve a season for showing forth like the conventional women of society. The evening was Mrs. Lovell's time for this important re-establishment of her position; and many a silly youth who had sailed pleasantly with her all the day was wrecked when he tried to carry on the topics where she reigned the lady of the drawing-room. Moreover, not being eccentric from vanity, but simply to accommodate what had once been her tastes and were now her necessities, she avoided slang, and all the insignia of eccentricity. Thus she mastered the secret of keeping the young men respectfully enthusiastic ; so that their irrepressible praises did not (as is usual when these are in acclamation) drag her to their level ; and the female world, with which she was perfectly feminine, and as silkenly insipid every even- ing of her life as was needed to restore her reputation, admitted that she belonged to it, which is everything to an adventurous spirit of that sex : indeed, the sole secure basis of operations. You are aware that men's faith in a womua whom her 1 I .n!\ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 150 '""== 1^ IIM m |40 ||M 2.0 1.8 U IIIIII.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation ^i WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 l/l 174 BHODA FLEMING I , sisters discountenance, and partially repudiate, is uneasy, however deeply they may be charmed. On the other hand, she may be guilty of prodigious oddities without much disturbing their reverence, while she is in the feminine circle. But what fatal breath was it coming from Mrs. Lovell that was always inflaming men to mutual animosity ? What encouragement had she given to Algernon, that Lord Suckling should be jealous of him ? And what to Lord Suckling, that Algernon should loathe the sight of the young lord ? And why was each desirous of showing his manhood in combat before an eminent peacemaker ? Edward laughed — "Ah-ha!" and rubbed his hands as at a special confirmation of his prophecy, when Algernon came into his room and said, "I shall fight that fellow Suckling. Hang me if I can stand his impudence ! I want to have a shot at a man of my own set, just to let Peggy Lovell see ! I know what she thinks." "Just to let Mrs. Lovell see!" Edward echoed. "She has seen it lots of times, my dear Algy. Come; this looks lively. I was sure she would soon be sick of the water- gruel of peace." " I tell you she 's got nothing to do with it, Ned. Don't be confoundedly unjust. She did n't tell me to go and seek him. How can she help his whispering to her ? And then she looks over at me, and I swear I 'm not going to be defended by a woman. She must fancy I have n't got the pluck of a flea. I know what her idea of young fel- lows is. Why, she said to me, when Suckling went off from her the other day, * These are our Guards. ' I shall fight him." "Do," said Edward. " Will you take a challenge ? " "I 'm a lawyer, Mr. Mars." "You won't tale a challenge for a friend when he's insulted ? " " I reply again, I am a lawyer. But this is what I '11 do, if you like. I '11 go to Mrs. Lovell, and inform her that it is your desire to gain her esteem by fighting with pistols. That will accomplish the purpose you seek. It will pos- sibly disappoint her, for she will have to stop the afPair; THE POOR VILLANIES OP THE STORY 175 uneasy, r hand, ' much minine Lovell losity ? at Lord ;o Lord of the 'ing his inds as Igernon fellow I want Peggy "She is looks } water- Don't go and her ? )t going ! n't got ang fel- veut off I shall sn he 's [ '11 do, that it pistols. ill pos- affaiij but women are born to be disappointed — they want so much." "I '11 fight him some way or other," said Algernon, glow- ering; and then his face became bright: "I say, didn't she manage that business beautifully this morning ? Not another woman in the world could have done it." "Oh, Una and the Lion! Mrs. Valentine and Orson! Did you bet with the rest ? " his cousin asked. "I lost my tenner; but what 's that ! " "There will be an additional five to hand over to the man Sedgett. What 's that ! " " No, hang it ! " Algernon shouted. " You 've paid your ten for the shadow cheerfully. Pay your five for the substance." " Do you mean to say that Sedgett — " Algernon stared. "Miracles, if you come to examine them, Algy, have generally had a pathway prepared for them; and the miracle of the power of female persuasion exhibited this morning was not quite independent of the preliminary agency of a scoundrel." " So that 's why t/ou did n't bet." Algernon signified the opening of his intelligence with his eyelids, pronouncing " by jingos " and " by Joves," to ease the sudden rush of ideas within him. " You might have let me into the secret, Ned. I 'd. lose any number of tens to Peggy Lovell, but a fellow don't like to be in the dark." "Except, Algy, that when you carry light, you're a general illuminator. Let the matter drop. Sedgett has saved you from annoyance. Take him his five pounds." "Annoyance be hanged, my good Ned ! " Algernon was aroused to reply. " I don't complain, and I 've done my best to stand in front of you ; and as you 've settled the fellow, I say nothing; but, between us two, who's the guilty party, and who 's the victim ? " " Did n't he tell you he had you in his power ? " "I don't remember that he did." "Well, I heard him. The sturdy cur refused to be bribed, so there was only one way of quieting him; and you see what a thrashing does for that sort of beast. I, Algy, never abandon a friend; mark that. Take the five pounds to Sedgett." ^ 1 > 176 RHODA FLEMING !«i H M Algernon strode about the room. " First of all, you stick me up in a theatre, so that I'm seen with a girl; and then you get behind me, and let me be pelted," he began grum- bling. " And ask a fellow for money, who has n't a far- thing! I sha'n't literally have a farthing till that horse j[ arent merit; I do not hold candles to lamps." "True," said she. "And as gentle means are so admirable, it would be as well to stop incision and imbruing between those two boys." " Which ? " she asked innocently. " Suckling and Algy." "Is it possible ? They are such boys." " Exactly of the kind to do it. Don't you know ? " and Edward explained elaborately and cruelly the character of the boys who rushed into conflicts. Colour deep as even- ing red confused her cheeks, and she said, "We must step them." " Alas !" he shook his head; "if it*s not too late." "It never is too late." " Perhaps not, when the embodiment of gentle means is so determined." " Come ; I believe they are in the billiard-room now, and you shall see," she said. The pair were found in the billiard-room, even as a pair of terriers that remember a bone. Mrs. Lovell proposed a game, and offered herself for partner to Lord Suckling. THE POOK VILLANIES OF THE STORY 181 "Till total defeat do us part," the young nobleman acquiesced; and total defeat befell them. During the play of the balls, Mrs. Lovell threw a jealous intentness of observation upon all the strokes made by Algernon; say- ing nothing, but just looking at him when he did a suc- cessful thing. She winked at some quiet stately betting that went on between him and Lord Suckling. They were at first preternaturaily polite and formal toward one another; by degrees, the influence at work upon them was manifested in a thaw of their stiff de- mea.iour, and they fell into curt dialogues, which Mrs. Lovell gave herself no concern to encourage too early. Edward saw, and was astonished himself to feel that she had ceased to breathe that fatal inciting breath, which made men vindictively emulous of her favour, and mad to match themselves for a claim to the chief smile. No per- ceptible change was displayed. She was Mrs. Lovell still; vivacious and soft; flame-coloured, with the arrowy eye- lashes ; a pleasant companion, who did not play the woman obtrusively among men, and show a thirst for homage. All the difference appeared to be that there was an absence as of some evil spiritual', emanation. And here a thought crossed him, — one of the memorable little evanescent thoughts which sway us by our chance weakness: "Does she think me wanting in physical coiirage ? " Now, though the difference between them had been owing to a scor.oful remark that she had permitted herself to utter, on his refusal to accept a quarrel with one of her numerous satellites, his knowledge of her worship of brains, and his pride in his possession of the burdensome weight, had quite precluded his guessing that she might haply suppose him to be deficient in personal bravery. He was astounded by the reflection that she had thus mis- judged him. It was distracting; sober-thoughted as he was by nature. He watched the fair simplicity of her new manner with a jealous eye. Her management of the two youths was exquisite; but to him, Edward, she had never condescended to show herself thus mediating and amiable. Why ? Clearly because she conceived that he had no virile fire in his composition. Did the detestable I 'M m itr 1 i \ v,< It 'i;' i ^^! 182 RHODA FLEMING little devil think silly duelling a display of valour ? Did the fair seraph think him anything less than a man ? How beautifully hung the yellow loop of her hair as she leaned over the board ! How gracious she was, and like a Goddess with these boys, as he called them ! She rallied her partner, not letting him forget that he had the honour of being her partner; while she appeared envious of Alger- non's skill, and talked to both, and got them upon common topics, and laughed, and was like a fair English flower of womanhood; nothing deadly. " There, Algy ; you have beaten us. I don^t think I '11 have Lord Suckling for my partner any more," she said, putting up her wand, and pouting. " You don't bear malice ? " said Algernon, revived. "There is my hand. Now you must play a game alone with Lord Suckling, and beat him ; mind you beat him, or it will redound to my discredit." With which, she and Edward left them. "Algy was a little crestfallen, and no wonder," she said. "He is soon set up again. They will be good friends » now. " Is n't it odd that they should be ready to risk their lives for trifles ? " Thus Edward tempted her to discuss the subject which he had in his mind. She felt intuitively the trap in his voice. "Ah, y3S," she replied; "it must be because they know their lives are not precious." So utterly at her mercy had he fallen, that her pronun- ciation of that word " precious " carried a severe sting to him, and it was not spoken with peculiar emphasis; on the contrary, she wished to indicate that she was of his way of thinking, as regarded this decayed method of settling disputes. He turned to leave her. "You go to your Adeline, T presume," she said. " Ah ! that reminds me. I have never thanked you." " For my good services? such as they are. Sir William will be very happy, and it was for him, a little more than for you, that I went out of my way to be a match-maker." " It was her character, of course, that struck you as being so eminently suited to mine." " Can I tell what is the character of a girl ? She is mild '(! THE POOR VILLANIES OP THE STORY 183 Did Ik I'll said, » and shy, and extremely gentle. In all probability she has a passion for battles and bloodshed. I judged from vour father's point of view. She has money, and you are to have money ; and the union of money and money is supposed to be a good thing. And besides, you are variable, and off to- morrow what you are on to-day ; is it not so? and heiresses are never jilted. Colonel Barclay is only awaiting your retirement. Le roi est 7nort ; vive le roi! Heiresses may cry it like kingdoms." " I thought," said Edward, meaningly, " the colonel had better taste." " Do you not know that my friends are my friends because they are not allowed to dream they will do anything else? If they are taken poorly, I commend them to a sea-voyage — Africa, the North-West Passage, the source of the Nile. Men with their vanity wounded may discover wonders ! They return friendly as before, whether they have done the Geographical Society a service or not. That is, they gener- ally do." " Then I begin to fancy I must try those latitudes." . " Oh ! you are my relative." He scarcely knew that he had uttered " Margaret." She replied to it frankly, " Yes, Cousin Ned. You have made the voyage, you see, and have come back friends with me. The variability of opals ! Ah ! Sir John, you join us in season. We were talking of opals. Is the opal a gem that stands to represent women? " Sir John Capes smoothed his knuckles with silken palms, and with courteous antique grin responded, " It is a gem I would never dare to offer to a lady's acceptance." " It is by repute unlucky ; so you never can have done so." " Exquisite ! " exclaimed the veteran in smiles, " if what you deign to imply were only true ! " They entered the drawing-room among the ladies. Edward whispered in Mrs. Lovell's ear, " He is in need of the voyage." " He is very near it," she answered in the same key, and swam into general conversation. Her cold wit, Satanic as the gleam of it struck through his mind, gave him a throb of desire to gain possession of her, and crush her, 1 184 BHODA FLEMING CHAPTER XXII > < EDWARD TAKES HIS COURSE The writing of a letter to Dahlia had previously been attempted and abandoned as a sickening task. Like an idle boy with his holiday imposition, Edward shelved it among the nightmares, saying, " How can I sit down and lie to her ! " and thinking that silen<)e would prepare her bosom for the coming truth. Silence is commonly the slow poison used by those who mean to murder love. There is nothing violent about it ; no shock is given ; Hope is not abruptly strangled, but merely dreams of evil, and fights with gradually stifling shadows. When the last convulsions come they are not terrific ; the frame has been weakened for dissolution ; love dies like natural decay. It seems the kindest way of doing a cruel thing. But Dahlia wrote, crying out her agony at th3 torture. Possibly your nervously organized natures require a modification of the method. Edward now found himself able to conduct a correspondence. He despatched the following : — "My dear Dahlia, — Of course I cannot expect you to be aware of the bewildering occupations of a country house, where a man has literally not five minutes' time to call his own; so I pass by your reproaches. My father has gone at last. He has manifested an extraordinary lik- ing for my society, and I am to join him elsewhere — per- haps run over to Paris (your city) — but at present for a few days I am my own master, and the first thing I do is to attend to your demands : not to write * two lines,' but to give you a good long letter. "What on earth makes you fancy me unwell? You know I am never unwell. Au.I as to your nursing me — when has there ever been any need for it ? " You must positively learn patience. I have been absent a week or so, and you talk of coming down here and haunt- ing the house ! Such ghosts as you mP3t with strange treatment when they go about unprotected, let me give you t? EDWARD TAKES HIS COURSE 185 warning. You have my full permission to walk out in the Parks for exercise. I think you are bound to do it, for your health's sake. " Pray discontinue that talk about the alteration in your looks. You must learn that you are no longer a child. Cease to write like a child. If people stare at you, as you say, you are very well aware it is not because you are be- coming plain. You do not mean it, I know ; but there is a disingenuousness in remarks of this sort that is to rae exceedingly distasteful. Avoid the shadow of hypocrisy. Women are subject to it — and it is quite innocent, no doubt. I won't lecture you. "My cousin Algernon is here with me. He has not spoken of your sister. Your fears in that direction are quite unnecessary. He is attached to a female cousin of ours, a very handsome person, witty, and highly sensible, who dresses as well as the lady you talk about having seen one day in Wrexby Church. Her lady's-maid is a French- woman, which accounts for it. You have not forgotten the boulevards ? "I wish you to go on with your lessons in French. Educate yourself, and you will rise superior to these dis- tressing complaints. I recommend you to read the news- papers daily. Buy nice picture-books, if the papers are too matter-of-fact for you. By looking eternally inward, you teach yourself to fret, and the consequence is, or will be, that you wither. No constitution can stand it. All the ladies here take an interest in Parliamentary affairs. They can talk to men upon men's themes. It is impossible to explain to you how wearisome an everlasting nursery prattle becomes. The idea that men ought never to tire of it is founded on some queer belief that thej'^ are not mortal. " Parliament opens in February. My father wishes me to stand for Selborough. If he or some one will do the talking to the tradesmen, and provide the beer and the bribes, I have no objection. In that case my Law goes to the winds. I *m bound to make a show of obedience, for he has scarcely got over my summer's trip. He holds me a prisoner to him for heaven knows how long — it may be months. " As for the heiress whom he has here to make a match I ' .1 i' i m m 186 EHODA FLEMING "i fi l::'f for me, he and I must have a pitched battle about her by and by. At present my purse insists upon my not offending him. When will old men understand young ones ? I burn your letters, and beg you to follow the example. Old letters are the dreariest ghosts in the world, and you cannot keep more treacherous rubbish in your possession. A discovery would exactly ruin me. "1' our purchase of a black-velvet bonnet with pink rib- ands was very suitable. Or did you write ' blae' ribands ? But your complexion can bear anything. " You talk of being annoyed when you walk out. Re- member that no woman who knows at all hov/ to conduct herself need for one moment suffer annoyance. *' What is the * feeling ' you speak of ? I cannot conceive any ' feeling ' that should make you helpless when you con- sider that you are insulted. There are women who have natural dignity, and women who have none. "You ask the names of the gentlemen here : — Lord Carey, Lord Wippern (both leave to-morrow), Sir John Capes, Colonel Barclay, Lord Suckling. The ladies : — Mrs. Gosling, Miss Gosling, Lady Carey. Mrs. Anybody — to any extent. " They pluck hen's feathers all day and half the night. I see them out, and make my bow to the next batch of visitors, and then I don't know where I :m. " Read poetry, if it makes up for ray absence, as you say. Repeat it aloud, minding the pulsation of feet. Go to the theatre now and then, and take your landlady with you. If she 's a cat, fit one of your dresses on the servant-girl, and take her. You only want a companion — a dummy will do. Take a box a ad sit behind the curtain, back to the audience. " I wrote to my wine-merchant to send Champagne and Sherry. I hope he did : the Champagne in pints and half- pints ; if not, return them instantly. I know how Economy, sitting solitary, poor thing, would not dare to let the froth of a whole pint bottle fly out. " Be an obedient girl and please me. " Your stern tutor, "Edward the First." He read this epistle twice over to satisfy himself that it was a warm effusion, and not too tender ; and it satisfied EDWAED VKES HIS COURSE 187 •ut her by b offending ^ I burn Old letters in not keep discovery h pink rib- ' ribands ? : out. Re- to conduct Dt conceive m you con- who have 3 : — Lord Sir John ladies : — Anybody tie night. I L of visitors, as you say. Go to the ith you. If nt-girl, and imy will do. le audience, npagne and ts and half- jv Economy, et the froth HE First." self that it it satisfied him. By a stretch of imagination, he could feel that it represented him to her as in a higher atmosphere, consid- erate for her, and not so intimate that she could deem her spirit to be sharing it. Another dose of silence succeeded this discreet administration of speech. Dahlia replied with letter upon letter, — blindly impas- sioned, and again singularly cold, but with no reproaches. She was studying, she said. Her head ached a little ; only a little. She walked ; she read poetry ; she begged him to pardon h'^r for not drinking wine. She was glad that he burnt her letters, which were so foolish that if she could have the courage to look at them after they were written, they would never be sent. He was slightly revolted by one exclamation : " How ambitious you are ! " " Because I cannot sit down for life in a London lodging- house ! " he thought, and eyed her distantly as a poor good creature who had already accepted her distinctive residence in another sphere than his. From such a perception of her humanity, it was natural that his livelier sense of it should diminish. He felt that he had awakened; and he shook her off. And now he set to work to subdue Mrs. Lovell. His own subjugation was the first fruit of his effort. It was quite unacknowledged by him ; but when two are at this game, the question arises, " Which can live without the other ? " and horrid pangs smote him to hear her telling musically of the places she was journeying to, the men she would see, and the chances of their meeting again before he was married to the heiress Adeline. " I have yet to learn that I am engaged to her," he said. Mrs. Lovell gave him a fixed look, — " She has a half-brother." He stepped away in a fury. " Devil ! " he muttered, absolutely muttered it, knowing that he fooled and frowned like a stage-hero in stagey heroics. "You think to hound me into this brutal stu- pidity of fighting, do you ? Upon my honour," he added iu liis natural manner, " I believe she does, though ! " But the look became his companion. It touched and called up great vanity in his breast, and not till then could he placably confront the look. He tried a course of reading. 188 RHODA FLEMING i^U Every morning he was down in the library, looking old in an arm-chair over his book, an intent abstracted figure. Mrs. Lovell would enter and eye him carelessly; utter little commonplaces and go forth. The silly words struck on his brain. The book seemed hollow, sounded hollow as he shut it. This woman breathed of active striving life. She was a spur to black energies, a plumed glory, impul- sive to chivalry. Everything she said and did held men in scales, and approved or rejected them. Intoxication followed this new conception of her. He lost altogether his right judgement; even the cooler after- thoughts were lost. What sort of man had Harry been, her first husband ? A dashing soldier, a quarrelsome duel- list, a dull dog. But, dull to her ? She, at least, was reverential to the memory of him. She lisped now and then of " my husband," very prettily and with intense provocation ; and yet she worshipped brains. Evidently she thirsted for that rare union of brains and bravery in a man, and would never surrender till she had discovered it. Perhaps she fancied it did not exist. It might be that she took Edward as the type of brains, and Harry of bravery, and supposed that the two qualities were not to be had actually in conjunction. Her admiration of his (Edward's) wit, therefore, only strengthened the idea she entertained of his deficiency in that other companion, manly virtue. Edward must have been possessed, for he ground his teeth villanously in supposing himself the victim of this outrageous suspicion. And how to prove it false ? How to prove it false in a civilized age, among sober-living men and women, with whom the violent assertion of bravery would certainly imperil his claim to brains ? His head was like a stew-pan over the fire, bubbling endlessly. He railed at her to Algernon, and astonished the youth, who thought them in a fair way to make an alliance. " Milk and capsicums," he called her, and compared her to bloody mustard-haired Saxon Queens of history, and was childishly spiteful. And Mrs. Lovell had it all reported to her, as he was quite aware. *' The woman seeking for an anomaly wants a master." W'h this pompous aphorism, he finished his reading of the fair Enigma. so EDWARD TAKES HIS COURSE 189 J old in re. ^; utter struck )llow as ng life. , impul- men in ler. He r after- y been, ne duel- ist, was prettily •shipped >f brains till she xist. It tins, and ies were >re, only jiency in )und his I of this How to men and ry would as like a le youth, . "Milk o bloody hildishly er, as he ister." iading of Words big in the mouth serve their turn when there is no way of satisfying the intelligence. To be her master, however, one must not begin by writh- ing as her slave. The attempt to read an inscrutable woman allows her to dominate us too commandingly. So the lordly mind takes her in a hard grasp, cracks the shell, and, drawing forth the kernel, says, " This was all the puzzle." Doubtless it is the fate which women like Mrs. Lovell provoke. The truth was, that she could read a character when it was under her eyes; but its yesterday and to- morrow were a blank. She had no imaginative hold on anything. For which reason she was always requiring tangible signs of virtues that she esteemed. The thirst for the shows of valour and wit was insane with her , but she asked for nothing that she herself did not give in abundance, and with beauty superadded. Her propensity to bet sprang of her passion for combat; she was not greedy of money, or reckless in using it; but a difference of opinion arising, her instinct forcibly prompted her to back her own. If the stake was the risk of a lover's life, she was ready to put down the stake, and would have marvelled contemptuously at the lover complaining. "Sheep! sheep!" she thought of those who dared not fight, and had a wavering tendency to affix the epithet to those who simply did not fight. Withal, Mrs. LovoU was a sensible person ; clear-headed and shrewd ; logical, too, more than the run of her sex : I may say, profoundly practical. So much so, that she sys- tematically reserved the after-years for enlightenment upon two or three doubts of herself, which sUuck her in the calm of her spirit, from time to time. "France," Edward called her, in one of their colloquies. It was an illuminating title. She liked the French (though no one was keener for the honour of her own country in opposition to them), she liked their splendid boyishness, their unequalled devotion, their merciless in- tellects ; the oneness of the nation when the sword is bare and pointing to chivalrous enterprise. She liked their fine varnish of sentiment, which appears so much on the surface that Englishmen suppose it to have K: 190 RHODA FLEMING nowhere any depth ; as if the outer coating must necessarily exhaust the stock, or as if what is at the source of our being can never be made visible. She had her imagination of them as of a streaming ban- ner in the jaws of storm, with snows among the cloud- rents and lightning in the chasms : — which image may be accounted for by the fact that when a girl she had in ado- ration kissed the feet of Napoleon, the giant of the later ghosts of history. It was a princely compliment. She received it curtsey- ing, and disarmed the intended irony. In reply, she called him " Great Britain." I regret to say that he stood less proudly for hi nation. Indeed, he flushed. He remem- bered articles girding at the policy of peace at any price, and half felt that Mrs. Lovell had meant to crown him with a Quaker's hat. His title fell speedily into disuse; but, "Yes, France," and "No, France," continued, his effort being to fix the epithet to frivolous allusions, from which her ingenuity rescued it honourably. Had she ever been in love ? He asked her the question. She stabbed him with so straightforward an affirmative that he could not conceal the wound. " Have I not been married ? " she said. He began to experience the fretful craving to see the antecedents of the torturing woman spread out before him. He conceived a passion for her girlhood. He begged for portraits of her as a girl. She showpa him the portrait of Harry Lovell in a locket. He held the locket between his fingers. Dead Harry was kept very warm. Could brains ever touch her emotions as bravery had done ? " Where are the brains I boast of ? " he groaned, in the midst of these sensational extravagances. The lull of action was soon to be disturbed. A letter was brought to him. He opened it and read — " Mr. Edward Blancove, — When you rode by me under Fairlj' Park, I did not know you. I can give you a medical certificate that since then I have been in the doctor's hards. I know you now. I call upon you to meet me, with what weapons you like best, to prove that you are not a miui^ight i\ EDWARD TAKES HIS COURSE 191 assassin. The place shall be where you choose to appoint. If you decline, I will make you publicly acknowledge what you have done. If you answer, that I am not a gentleman and you are one, I say that you have attacked me in the dark, when I was on horseback, and you are now my equal, if I like to think so. You will not talk about the law after that night. The man you employed I may punish or I may leave, though he struck the blow. But I will meet you. To-morrow, a friend of mine, who is a major in the army, will be down here, and will call on you from me; or on any friend of yours you are pleased to name. I will not let you escape. Whether I shall face a guilty man in you, God knows ; but I know I have a right to call upon you to face me. " I am. Sir, " Yours truly, "Egbert Eccles." Edward's face grew signally white over the contents of this unprecedented challenge. The letter had been brought in to him at the breakfast table. " Read it, read it," said Mrs. Lovell, seeing him put it by ; and he had read it with her eyes on him. The man seemed to him a man of claws, who clutched like a demon. Would nothing quiet him? Edward thought of bribes for the sake of peace ; but a second glance at the letter assured his sagacious mind that bribes were powerless in this man's case ; neither bribes nor sticks were of service. Departure from Fairly would avail as little : the tenacious devil would follow him to London ; and what was worse, as a hound from Dahlia's family he was now on the right scent, and appeared to know that he was. How was a scandal to be avoided ? By leaving Fairly instantly for any place on earth, he could not avoid leaving the man behind ; and if the man saw Mrs. Lovell again, her instincts as a woman of her class were not to be trusted. As likely as not she would side with the ruffian ; that is, she would think he had been wronged — perhaps think that he ought to have been met. There is the democratic virus secret in every woman; it was predominant in Mrs. Lovell, according to Edward's observation of the lady. The rights of individual i 1 •. I 192 RHODA FLEMING « ! 1! n manhood were, as he angrily perceived, likely to be recog- nized by her spirit, if only they were stoutly asserted; and that in defiance of station, of reason, of all the ideas incul- cated by education and society. " I believe she '11 expect me to fight him," he exclaimed. At least he knew she would despise him if he avoided the brutal challenge without some show of dignity. On rising from the table, he drew Algernon aside. It was an insufferable thought that he was compelled to take his brainless cousin into his confidence, even to the extent of soliciting his counsel, but there was no help for it. In vain Edward asked himself why he had been such an idiot as to stain his hands with the affair at all. He attributed it to his regard for Algernon. Having commonly the sway of his passions, he was in the habit of ft,rgetting that he ever lost control of them; and the fierce bh ck mood, engendered by Robert's audacious persecution, had passed from his memory, though it was now recalled in full force. " See what a mess you drag a man into," he said. Algernon read a line of the letter. " Oh, confound this infernal fellow!" he shouted, in sickly wonderment ; and snapped sharp, " I drag you into the mess ? Upon my honour, your coolness, Ned, is the biggest part about you, if it is n't the best." Edward s grip fixed on him, for they were only just out of earshot of Mrs. Lovell. They went upstairs, and Algernon read the letter through. "'Midnight assassin/" he repeated; "by Jove! how beastly that sounds. It's a lie that you attacked him in the dark, Ned — eh ? " " I did not attack him at all," said Edward. " He be- haved like a ruffian to you, and deserved shooting like a mad dog." " Did you, though," Algernon persisted in o^uestioning, despite his cousin's manifest shyness of the subject, — "did you really go out with that man Sedgett, and stop this follow on horseback? He speaks of a blow. You did n't strike him, did you, Ned ? I mean, not a hit, except in self- de France? " E] ward bit his lip, and shot a level reflective side-look, pGculiav to him when meditating. He wished his cousin to EDWARD TAKES HIS COURSE 193 propose that Mrs. Lovell should see the letter. He felt that by consulting with her he could bring her to apprehend the common-sense of the position, and be so far responsible for what he might do that she would not dare to let her heart be rebellious toward him subsequently. If he himself went to her it would look too much like pleading for her inter- cession. The subtle directness of the woman's spirit had to be guarded against at every point. He replied to Algernon, — " What I did was on your behalf. Oblige me by not in- terrogating me. I give you my positive assurance that I encouraged no unmanly assault on him." " That '11 do, that '11 do," said Algernon, eager not to hear more, lest there should come an explanation of what he had heard. " Of course, then, this fellow has no right — the devil 's in him ! If we could only make him murder Sed- gett and get hanged for it! He's got a friend who's a major in the army ? Oh, come, I say ; this is pitching it too stiff. I shall insist upon seeing his commission. Really, Ned, I can't advise. I '11 stand by you, that you may be sure of — stand by you; but what the deuce to say to help you ! Go before the magistrate. . . . Get Lord Elling to issue a warrant to prevent a breach of the peace. No ; that won't do. This quack of a major in the array 's to call to-morrow. I don't mind, if he shows his credentials all clear, amusing him in any manner he likes. I can't see the best scheme. Hang it, Ned, it 's very hard upon me to ask me to do the thinking. I always go to Peggy Lovell when I 'm bothered. There — Mrs. Lovell ! Mistress Lovell ! Madame ! my Princess Lovell, if you want me to pronounce respectable titles to her name. You 're too proud to ask a woman to help you, ain't you, Ned?" **No," said Edward, mildly. "In some cases their wits ar i keen enough. One does n't like to drag her into such a business." " H'm," went Algernon. " I don't think she 's so innocent of it as you fancy." " She 's very clever," said Edward. " She 's awfully clever ! " cried Algernon. He paused to give room for more praises of her, and then pursued: 13 ft - ,!l *; - ■/I ,1 . ► .1 i 1 •.V 194 BHODA FLEMING I! I fj '•'She's so kind. That's what you don't credit her for. I '11 go and consult her, if positively you don't mind. Trast her for keeping it quiet. Come, Ned, she 's sure to hit upon the right thing. May I go ? " " It 's your affair, more than mine," said Edward. "Have it so, if you likj," returned the good-natured fellow. " It -s worth while consulting her, just to see how neatly she '11 take it. Bless your heart, she won't know a bit more than you want her to* know. I 'm oft' to her now." He carried away the letter. Edward's own practical judgement would have advised his instantly sending a short reply to Robert, explaining that he was simply in conversation with the man Sedgett, when Robert, the old enemy of the latter, rode by, and, that while regretting Sedgett's proceedings, he could not be held accountable for them. But it was useless to think of acting in accordance with his reason. Mrs. Lovell was queen, and sat in reason's place. It was absolutely necessary to con- ciliate her approbation of his conduct in this dilemma, by submit ing to the decided unpleasantness of talking with her on a subject that fevered him, and of allowing her to suppose he required the help of her sagacity. Such was the humiliation imposed upon him. Further than this he had nothing to fear, for no woman cc \ld fail to be over- borne by the masculine force of his brain in an argument. The humiliation was bad enough, and half tempted him to think that his old dream of working as a hard student, with fair and gentle Dahlia ministering to his comforts, and too happy to call herself his, was best. Was it not, after one particular step had been taken, the manliest life he could have shaped out? Or did he imagine it so at this moment, because he was a coward, and because pride and vanity and ferocity alternately had to screw him up to meet the consequences of his acts, instead of the great heart ? If a coward, Dahlia was his home, his refuge, his sanctu- ary. Mrs. Lovell was perdition and its scorching fires to a man with a taint of cowardice in him. Whatever he was, Edward's vanity would not permit him to acknowledge himself that. Still, he did not call on his heart to pla-y inspiiiting music. His ideas turned to subtei- MAJOR PERCY WARING 195 fuge. His aim was to keep the good opinion of Mrs. Lovell while he quieted Kobert ; and he entered straightway upon that very pervious course, the attempt, for the sake of win- ning her, to bewilder and deceive a woman's instincts. !■ i'l » CHAPTER XXIII r k' MAJOR PERCY WARING d him :.udent, Qforts, it not, ist life ; so at I pride 1 up to great Over a fire in one of the upper sitting-rooms of the Pilot Inn, Robert sat with his friend, the beloved friend of whom he used to speak to Dahlia and Rhoda, too proudly not to seem betraying the weaker point of pride. This friend had accepted the title from a private soldier of his regiment ; to be capable of doing which, a man must be both officer and gentleman in a sterner and less liberal sense than is expressed by that everlasting phrase in the mouth of the military parrot. Major Percy Waring, the son of a clergy- man, was a working soldier, a slayer, if you will, from pure love of the profession of arms, and all the while the sweet- est and gentlest of men. I call him a working soldier in opposition to the parading soldier, the coxcomb in uniform, the hero by accident, and the martial boys of wealth and station, who are of the army of England. He studied war when the trumpet slumbered, and had no place but in the field when it sounded. To him the honour of England was as a babe in his arms : he hugged it like a mother. He knew the military history of every regiment in the service. Disasters even of old date brought groans from him. This enthusiastic face vras singularly soft when the large dark eyes were set musing. The cast of it being such, some- times in speaking of a happy play of artillery upon congre- gated masses, an odd effect was produced. Ordinarily, the 'jlear features were reflective almost to sadness, in the absence of animation; but an exulting energy for action would now and then light them up. Hilarity of spirit did not belong to him. He was, nevertheless, a cheerful talker, as could be seen in the glad ear given to him by Robert. ■iilaabi 196 RHODA FLEMING I Between them it was " Eobert " and " Percy." Robert had rescued him from drowning on the East Anglian shore, and the friendship which ensued was one chief reason for Robert's quitting the post of trooper and buying himself out. It was against Percy's advice, who wanted to pur- chase a commission for him ; but the humbler man had the sturdy scruples of his rank regarding money, and his romantic illusions being dispersed by an experience of the absolute class-distinctions in the service, Robert, that he might prevent his friend from violating them, made use of his aunt's legacy to obtaii release. Since that date they had not met; but their friendship was fast. Percy had recently paid a visit to Queen Anne's Farm, where he had seen Rhoda and heard of Robert's departure. Knowing Robert's birthplace, he had come on to Warbeach, and had seen Jonathan Eccles, who referred him to Mrs. Boulby, licensed seller of brandy, if he wished to enjoy an inter- view with Robert Eccles. " The old man sent up regularly every day to inquire how his son was faring on the road to the next world," said Robert, laughing. " He 's tough old English oak. I 'm just to him what I appear at the time. It 's better having him like that than one of your jerky fathers, who seem to belong to the stage of a theatre. Everybody respects my old dad, and I can laugh at what he thinks of me. I 've only to let him know I've served an apprenticeship in farming, and can make use of some of his ideas — sound ! every one of 'em ; every one of 'em sound ! And that I say of my own father." " Why don't you tell him ? " Percy asked. " I want to forget all about Kent and drowu the county," said Robert. "And I 'm going to, as far as my memory 's concerned." Percy waited for some seconds. He comprehended per- fectly this state of wilfulness in an uneducated sensitive man. "She has a steadfast look in her face, Robert. She doesn't look as if she trifled. I've really never seen a finer, franker girl in my life, if faces are to be trusted." "It's t'other way. There's no trifling in her case. She's frank. She fires at you point blank." )i irt had , and MAJOR PERCY WARING 197 I'm "You never mentioned her in your letters to me, Robert." <* No. I had a suspicion from the first I was going to be a fool about the girl." Percy struck his hand. " You did n't do quite right." " Do you say that ? " Robert silenced him with this question, for there was a woman in Percy's antecedent liistory. The subject being dismissed, they talked more freely. Robert related the tale of Dahlia, and of his doings at Fairly. " Oh ! we agree," he said, noting a curious smile that Percy could not smooth out of sight. " I know it was odd conduct. I do respect my superiors; but, believe me or not, Percy, injury done to a girl makes me mad, and I can't hold back ; and she 's the sistcr of the girl you saw. By heaven ! if it were n't for my head getting blind now when my blood boils, I 've the mind to walk straight up to the house and screw the secret out of one of them. What I say is — Is there a God up aloft ? Then, he sees all, and society is vapour, and while I feel the spirit in me to do it, I go straight at my aim." " If, at the same time, there *s no brandy in you," said Percy, " which would stop your seeing clear or going straight." The suggestion was a cruel shock. Robert nodded. " That 's true. I suppose it 's my bad education that won't let me keep cool. I 'm nshamed of myself after it. I shout and thunder, and the end of it is, I go away and think about the same of Robert Ecclds that I 've frightened other people into thinking. Perhaps you '11 think me to blame in this case? Oi.e of those Mr. Blancoves — not the one you've heard of — struck me on the field before a lady. I bore it. It was part of what I 'd gone out to meet. I was riding home late at night, and he stood at the corner of the lane, with an old enemy of mine, and a sad cur that is ! Sedgett 's his name — Nic, the Christian part of it. There 'd just come a sharp snowfall from the north, and the moonlight shot over the flying edge of the rear-cloud; and I saw Sedgett with a stick in his hand; but the gentleman had fO 198 EHODA FLEMING /.' l! ' hi I no stick. I '11 ^ivo Mr. Edward Blancove credit for not meauiii},' to be active in a dastardly assault. "But wliy was he in consultation \,rith my enemy? And he let my enemy — by the way, Percy, you dislike that sort of talk of ' my enemy,' I know. You like it put plain and simple : but down in these old parts again, I catch at old habits ; and I 'm always a worse man when I have n't seen you for a time. Sedgett, say. Sedgett, as I passed, made a sweep at my horse's knees, and took them a little over the fetlock. The beast reared. While I was holding on, he swung a blow at me, and took me here." Kobert touched his head. " I dropped like a horse- chestnut from the tree. When I recovered, I was lying in the lane. I think I was there flat, face to the ground, for half an ' our, quite sensible, looking at the pretty colour of my blood on the snow. The horse was gone. I just managed to reel along to this place, where there 's always a home for me. Now, will you believe it possible ? I went out next day : I saw Mr. Edward Blancove, and I might have seen a baby and felt the same to it. I didn't know him a bit. Yesterday morning your letter was sent up from Sutton farm. Somehow, the moment I 'd read it, I remembered his face. I sent him word there was a matter to be settled between us. You think I was wrong ? " Major Waring had set a deliberately calculating eye on him. " I want to hear more," he said. " You think I have no claim to challenge a man in his position ? " "Answer me first, Robert. You think this Mr. Blancove helped, or instigated this man Sedgett in his attack upon you ? " 'M have n't a doubt that he did." " It 's not plain evidence." " It 's good circumstantial evidence." "At any rate, you are perhaps justified in thinking him capable of this : though the rule is, to believe nothing against a gentleman until it is flatly proved — when we drum him out of the ranks. But, if you can fancy it true, would you put yourself upon an equal footing with him ? " "I would," said Robert. iaiH MAJOR I»EIICY WARING 199 he " Then you accept his code of morals." " That 's too shrewd for iu(> : but iiioii who preach aj^ainst duelling, or any kind of nian-to-nian in hot earnest, always fence in that way." " I detest duelling," Major Waring remark'^d. " I don't like a system that permits knaves and fools to exercise a claim to imperil the lives of useful men. Lot mo observe that I am not a preacher against it. I think you know my opinions ; and they are not quite those of the English magis- trate, and other mild persons who are wrathful at the prac- tice upon any pretence. Keep to the other discussion. You challenge a man — you admit him your equal. But why do I argue with you ? I know your mind as well as my own. You have some other idea in the background." " I feel that he 's th guilty man," said Kobert. "You feel called upon to punish him." "No. Wait : he will not fight; but I have him and I '11 hold him. I feel he 's the man who has injured this girl, by every witness of facts that I can bring together ; and as for the other young fellow, I led such a dog's life down here, I could beg his pardon. This one's eye met mine. I saw it would n't have stopped short of murder — oppor- tunity given. Why ? Because I pressed on the right spring. I 'ra like a woman in seeing some things. He shall repent. By ! Slap me on the face, Percy. I 've taken to brandy and to swearing. Damn the girl who made me forget good lessons! Bless her heart, I mean. She saw you, did she ? Did she colour when she heard your name ? " " Very much," said Major Waring. " Was dressed in — " " Black, with a crimson ribbon round the collar." Eobert waved the image from his eyes. " I 'm not going to dream of her. Peace, and babies, and farming, and pride in myself with a woman by my side — there ! You 've seen her — all that's gone. I might as well ask the east wind to blow west. Her face is set the other way. Of course, the nature and value of a man is shown by how he takes this sort of pain ; and hark at me ! I'm yelling. I thought I was cured. I looked up into the eyes of a lady ten times sweeter — when? — somewhen! !i: \i V u 200 RHODA FLEMING : [i' ■> '; J'M I A II I 've lost dates. But here 's the girl at me again. She cuddles into me — slips her hand into my breast and tugs at strings there. I can't help talking to you about her, now we 've got over the first step. I '11 soon give it up. " She wore a red ribbon ? If it had been spring, you 'd have seen roses. Oh ! what a stanch heart that girl has. Where she sets it, mind! Her life where that creature sets her heart ! But, for me, not a penny of comfort ! Now for a whole week of her, day and niglit, in that black dress with the coloured ribbon. On she goes : walking to church ; sitting at table ; looking out of the window ! — "Will you believe I thought those thick eyebrows of hers ugly once — a tremendous long time ago. Yes ; but what eyes she has under them ! And if she looks tender, one corner of her mouth goes quivering ; and the eyes are steady, so that it looks like some wonderful bit of mercy. " I think of that true-hearted creature praying and long- ing f-^r her sister, and fearing there 's shame — that 's why she hates me. I wouldn't say I was certain her sister had not fallen into a pit. I could n't. I was an idiot. I thought I wouldn't be a hypocrite. I might have said I believed as she did. There she stood ready to be taken — ready to have given herself to me, if I had only si)oken a word ! It was a moment of heaven, and God the Father could not give it to me twice ! The chance has gone. "Oh! what a miserable mad dog I am to gabble on in this way. — Come in ! come in, mother." Mrs. Boulby entered, with soft footsteps, bearing a letter. " From the Park," she said, and commenced chiding Rob- ert gently, to establish her right to do it with solemnity. " He will talk, sir. He 's one o' them that either they talk or they hang silent, and no middle way will they take ; and the doctor 's their foe, and health they despise ; and since this cruel blow, obstinacy do seem to have been knocked like a nail into his head so fast, persuasion have not a atom o' power over him." " There must be talking when friends meet, ma'am," said Major Waring. " Ah ! " returned the widow, " if it would n't be all on one side." " I 've done now, mother," said Robert. 'I ■MM ■■M MAJOR PERCY WARING 201 Mrs. Boulby retired, and Eobert opened the letter. It ran thus : — " Sir, — I am glad you have done me the favour of ad- dressing me temperately, so that I am permitted to clear myself of an unjust and most unpleasant imputation. I will, if you please, see you, or your friend; to whom per- haps I shall better be able to certify how unfounded is the charge you bring against me. I will call upon you at the Pilot Inn, where I hear that you are staying; or, if you prefer it, I will attend to any appointment you may choose to direct elsewhere. But it must be immediate, as the term of my residence in this neighbourhood is limited. " I am, "Sir, " Yours obediently, "Edward Blancove." Major Waring read the lines with a critical attention. " It seems fair and open," was his remark. " Here," Robert struck his breast, — " here 's what answers him. What shall I do? Shall I tell him to come? " " Write to say that your friend will meet him at a stated place." Robert saw his prey escaping. "Pm not to see hira ? " " No. The decent is the right way in such cases. You must leave it to me. This will be the proper method between gentlemen." " It appears to my idea," said Robert, " that gentlemen are always, somehow, stopped from taking the straight- ahead measure." "You," Percy rejoined, "are like a civilian before a for- tress. Either he finds it so easy that he can Avalk into it, or he gives it up in despair as unassailable. You have fol- lowed your own devices, and what have you accomplished ? " " He will lie to you smoothly." *' Smoothly or not, if I discover that he hn^' spoken falsely, he is answerable to me." " To me, Percy." "No; to me. He can elude you; and will be acquitted by the general verdict. But when he becomes answerable t 'i N y% 202 BHODA FLEMING ■.il - 'VA \ i ; ,t r r ' I' . 'K^' If r m J- to me, his honour, in the conventional, which is here the practical, sense, is at stake, and I have him." "I see that. Yes; he can refuse to fight me," Robert sighed. " Hey, Lord ! it 's a heavy world when we come to methods. But will you, Percy, will you put it to him at the end of your fist — ' Did you deceive the girl, and do you know where the girl now is ? ' Why, great heaven ! we only ask to know where she is. She may have been murdered. She 's hidden from her family. Let him confess, and let him go." Major Waring shook his head. " You see like a woman perhaps, Eobert. You certainly talk like a woman. I will state your suspicions. When I have done so, I am bound to accept his reply. If we discover it to have been false, I have my remedy." " Won't you perceive that it is n't my object to punish him by and by, but to tear the secret out of him on the spot — now — instantly ? " Robert cried. " I perceive your object, and you have experienced some of the results of your system. It 's the primitive action of an appeal to the god of combats, that is exploded in these days. You have no course but to take his word." " She said " — Robert struck his kneo — " she said I should have the girl's address. She said sh^ would see her. She pledged that to me. I 'm speaking of the lady up at Fairly. Come ! things get clearer. If she knows where Dahlia is, who told her? This Mr. Algernon — not Edward Blancove — was seen with Dahlia in a box at the Playhouse. He was there with Dahlia, yet I don't think him the guilty man. There's a finger of light upon that other." " Who is this lady ? " Major Waring asked, with lifted eyebrows. " Mrs. Lovell." At the name Major Waring sat stricken. "Lovell!" he repeated, under his breath. "Lovell! Was she ever in India?" " I don't know, indeed." " Is she a widow ? " " Ay ; that I 've heard." " Describe her," MAJOR PERCY WARING 203 here the ," Robert we come to him at id do you ! we only lurdered. 5, and let a woman n. I will tm bound n false, I :o punish 1 the spot iced some action of in these le said I vould see the lady le knows ion — not )x at the n't think ipon that ith lifted " Lovell ! Robert entered upon the task with a dozen headlong exclamations, and very justly concluded by saying that he could give no idea of her ; but his friend apparently had gleaned sufficient. Major Waring's face was touched by a strange pallor, and his smile had vanished. He ran his fingers through his hair, clutching it in a knot, as he sat eyeing the red chasm in the fire, where the light of old days and wild memories hangs as in a crumbling world. Robert was aware of there being a sadness in Percy's life, and that he had loved a woman and awakened from his passion. Her name was unknown to him. In that matter, his natural delicacy and his deference to Percy had always checked him from sounding the subject closely. He might be, as he had said, keen as a woman where his own instincts were in action ; but they were inefi'ective in guessing at the cause for Percy's sudden depression. "She said — this lady, Mrs. Lovell, whoever she may be — she said you should have the girl's address: gave you that pledge of her word ? " Percy spoke, half meditating. " How did this happen ? When did you see her ? " Robert related the incident of his meeting with her, and her effort to be a peacemaker, but made no allusion to Mrs. Boulby's tale of the bet. " A peacemaker ! " Percy interjected. " She rides well ? " " Best horsewoman I ever saw in my life," was Robert's ready answer. Major Waring brushed at his forehead, as in impatience of thought. " You must write two letters : one to this Mrs. Lovell. Say, you are about to leave the place, and remind her of her promise. It 's incomprehensible ; but never mind. Write that first. Then to the man. Say that your friend — By the way, this Mrs. Lovell has small hands, has she ? I mean, peculiarly small ? Did you notice, or not ? I may know her. Never mind. Write to the man. Say — don't write down my name — say that I will meet him." Percy spoke on as in a dream. " Appoint any place and hour. To-morrow at ten, down by the river — the bridge. Write briefly. Thank him for his offer to afford you explanations. Don't argue with me any more. Write both the letters straight off." 204 RHODA FLEMING i i a I t f; f > His back was to Robert as he uttered the injunction. Robert took pen and paper, and did as he was bidden, with all the punctilious obedience of a man who consents per- force to see a better scheme abandoned. One effect of the equality existing between these two of diverse rank in life and perfect delicacj' of heart, was, that the moment Percy assumed the lead, Robert never disputed it. Muttering simply that he was incapable of writing except when he was in a passion, he managed to produce what, in Percy's eyes, were satisfactory epistles, though Robert had horrible misgivings in regard to his letter to Mrs. Lovell — the wording of it, the cast of the sentences, even down to the character of the handwriting. These missives were despatched immediately. "Youai-e sure she said that?" Major Waring inquired more than once during the afternoon, and Robert assured him that Mrs. Lovell had given him her word. He grew very positive, and put it on his honour that she had said H. " You may have heard incorrectly." " I 've got the words burning inside me," said Robert. They walked together, before dark, to Sutton Farm, but Jonathan Eccles was abroad in his fields, and their welcome was from Mistress Anne, whom Major Waring had not power to melt; the moment he began speaking praise of Robert, she closed her mouth tight and crossed her wrists meekly. " I see," said Major Waring, as they left the farm, " your aunt is of the godly who have no forgiveness." " I 'm afraid so," cried Robert. " Cold blood never will come to an understanding with hot blood, and the old lady's is like frozen milk. She 's right in her way, I dare say. I don't blame her. Her piety 's right enough, take it as you find it." Mrs. Boulby had a sagacious notion that gentlemen always dined well every day of their lives, and claimed that much from Providence as their due. She had exerted herself to spread a neat little repast for Major Waring, and waited on the friends herself; grieving considerably to observe that the major failed in his duty as a gentleman, as far as the relish of eating was concerned. s MAJOR PERCY WARING 205 injunction, dden, with sents per- these two leart, was, bert never capable of lanaged to y epistles, ard to his ast of the ndwriting. g inquired rt assured He grew i she had tobert. Farm, but, r welcome had not praise of ler wrists •m, " your lever will the old ly , I dare ugh, take fentlemen claimed d exerted bring, and erably to Butleman, " But," she said below at her bar, " he smokes the beauti- fuUest-smelliug cigars, and drinks coffee made in his own way. He's very particular." Which was reckoned to be in Major Waring's favour. The hour was near midnight when she came into the room, bearing another letter from the Park. She thumped it on the table, ruffling and making that pretence at the controlling of her bosom which precedes a feminine storm. Her indignation was caused by a communication delivered by Dick Curtis, in the parlour underneath, to the effect that Nicodemus Sedgett was not to be heard of in the neighbourhood. Eobort laughed at her, and called her Hebrew woman — eye-for-eye and tooth-for-tooth woman. " Leave real rascals to the Lord above, mother. He 's safe to punish them. They 've stepped outside the chances. That's my idea. I wouldn't go out of my way to kick them — not I ! It 's the half-and-half villains we 've got to dispose of. They're the mischief, old lady." Percy, however, asked some questions about Sedgett, and seemed to think his disappearance singular. He had been examining the handwriting of the superscription to the letter. His face was flushed as he tossed it for Robert to open. Mrs. Boulby dropped her departing curtsey, and Robert read out, with odd pauses and puzzled emphasis : "Mrs. Lovell has received the letter which Mr. Robert Eccles has addressed to her, and regrets that a misconcep- tion should have arisen from anything that was uttered during their interview. The allusions are obscure, and Mrs. Lovell can only remark, that she is pained if she at all misled Mr. Eccles in what she either spoke or promised. She is not aware that she can be of any service to him. Should such an occasion present itself, Mr. Eccles may rest assured that she will not fail to avail herself of it, and do her utmost to redeem a pledge to which he has apparently attached a meaning she can in no way account for or comprehend." When Robert had finished, " It 's like a female lawyer,'* he said. ** That woman speaking, and that woman writing, •I 206 BHODA FLEMING they 're two different creatures — upon my soul, they are ! Quick, sharp, to the point, when she speaks ; and read this ! Can I venture to say of a lady, she 's a liar ? " "Perhaps you had better not," said Major Waring, who took the letter in his hand and seemed to study it. After which he transferred it to his pocket. "To-morrow? To-morrow 's Sunday," he observed. "We will go to church to-morrow." His eyes glittered. "Why, I'm hardly in the mood," Eobert protested. " I have n't had the habit latterly." " Keep up the habit," said Percy. " It 's a good thing for men like you." " But what sort of a fellow am I to be showing myself there among all the people who 've been talking about me — and the people up at Fairly ! " Kobert burst out in horror of the prospect. "I shall be a sight among the people. Percy, upon my honour, I don't think I well can. I'll read the Bible at home if you like." " No ; you '11 do penance," said Major Waring. "Are you meaning it?" " The penance will be ten times greater on my part, believe me." Eobert fancied him to be referring to some idea of mock- ing the interposition of religion. " Then we '11 go to Upton Church," he said. " I don't mind it at Upton." " I intend to go to the church attended by ' The Family,' as we say in our parts ; and you must come with me to Warbeach." Clasping one hand across his forehead, Kobert cried: ** You could n't ask me to do a thing I hate so much. Go, and sit, and look sheepish, and sing hymns with the people I 've been badgering ; and everybody seeing me ! How can it be anything to you like what it is to me ? " " You have only to take my word for it that it is, and far more," said Major Waring, sinking his voice. " Come ; it won't do you any harm to make an appointment to meet your conscience now and then. You will never be ruled by reason, and your feelings have to teach you what you learn. At any rate, it 's my request." WAEBEACH VILLAGE CHURCH 207 they are ! •ead this ! I'iug, who t. After ed. "We )rotested. ood thing ig myself about me it out in nong the c I well my part, of mock- "I don't Family,' ;h me to :t cried: ch. Go, ^e people How can , and far /ome; it to meet be ruled 'hat you This terminated the colloquy upon that topic, looked forward to a penitential Sabbath-day. Robert "She is a widow still," thought Major Waring, as he stood alone in his bedroom, and, drawing aside the curtains of his window, looked up at the white moon. CHAPTER XXIV WARBEACH VILLAGE CHURCH When the sun takes to shining in winter, and the south- west to blowing, the corners of the earth cannot hide from him, — the mornings are like halls full of light. Robert had spent his hopes upon a wet day that would have kept the congregation sparse and the guests at Fairly absent from public devotions. He perceived at once that he was doomed to be under everybody's eyes when he walked down the aisle, for every- body would attend the service on such a morning as this. Already he had met his conscience, in so far as that he shunned asking Percy again what was the reason for their going to church, and he had not the courage to petition to go in the afternoon instead of the morning. The question, " Are you ashamed of yourself, then ? " sang in his ears as a retort ready made. There was no help for it ; so he set about assisting his ingenuity to make the best appearance possible, — brushing his hat and coat with extraordinary care. Percy got him to point out the spot designated for the meeting, and, telling him to wait in the Warbeach church- yard, or within sight of it, strolled off in the direction of the river. His simple neatness and quiet gentlemanly air abashed Robert, and lured him from his intense conception of abstract right and wrong, which had hitherto encouraged and incited him, so that he became more than ever crest- fallen at the prospect of meeting the eyes of the church people, and with the trembling sensitiveness of a woman 1 \ (^ Jy I m 'i - ir 1 iH ^{'A $H ' I i ' i hi i; ' 1 1[^ |i'' 11 < !!■ i |: 1 K i r * ' <,f»T: ■' .. 208 EHODA FLEMING P I I who weighs the merits of a lover when passion is having one of its fatal pauses, he looked at himself, and compared himself with the class of persons he had outraged, and tried to think better of himself and to justify himself, and sturdily reject comparisons. They would not be beaten back. His enemies had never suggested them, but they were forced on him by the aspect of his friend. Any man who takes the law into his own hands, and chooses to stand against what is conventionally deemed fitting, — against the world, as we say, — is open to these moods of degrading humility. Robert waited for the sound of the bells with the emotions of a common culprit. Could he have been driven to the church and deposited suddenly in his pew, his mind would have been easier. It was the walking there, the walking down the aisle, the sense of his being the fellow who had matched himself against those well-attired gentlemen, which entirely confused him. And not exactly for his own sake — for Percy's partly. He sickened at the thought of being seen by Major Waring's side. His best suit and his hat were good enough, as far as they went, only he did not feel that he wore them — he could not divine how it was — with a proper air, an air of signal comfort. In fact, the graceful negligence of an English gentleman's manner had been unexpectedly re- vealed to him ; and it was strange, he reflected, that Percy never appeared to observe how deficient he was, and could still treat him as an equal, call him by his Christian name, and not object to be seen with him in public. Robert did not think at the same time that illness had impoverished his blood. Your sensational beings must keep a strong and a good flow of blood in their veins to be always on a level with the occasion which they provoke. He re- membered wouderingly that he had used to be easy in gait and ready of wit when walking from Queen Anne's Farm to Wrexby village church. Why was he a diiferent crea- ture now? He could not answer the question. Two or three of his Warbeach acquaintances passed him in the lanes. They gave him good day, and spoke kindly, and with pleasant, friendly looks. Their impression when" they left him was that he was growing proud. WABBEACH VILLAGE CHURCH 209 s having ompared ?ed, and self, and beaten 3ut they ids, and deemed to these le sound Could uddenly was the 36 of his st those 1. And ly. He taring's 1, as far m — he -n air of > of an idly re- Lt Percy id could a name, ess had ist keep always He re- in gait s Farm it crea- led him kindly, he was The jolly butcher of Warbeach, who had a hearty affec- tion for him, insisted upon clapping his hand, and showing him to Mrs. Billing, and showing their two young ones to Robert. With a kiss to the children, and a nod, Robert let them pass. Here and there, he was hailed by young fellows who wore their hats on one side, and jaunty-fashioned coats — Sunday being their own bright day of exhibition. He took no notice of the greetings. He tried to feel an interest in the robins and twittering wrens, and called to mind verses about little birds, and kept repeating them, behind a face that chilled every friendly man who knew him. Moody the boat-builder asked him, with a stare, if he was going to church, and on Robert's replying that perhaps he was, said " I 'm dashed ! " and it was especially discourag- ing to one in Robert's condition. Further to inspirit him, he met Jonathan Eccles, who put the same question to him, and, getting the same answer, turned sharp round and walked homeward. Robert had a great feeling of relief when the bells were silent, and sauntered with a superior composure round the holly and laurel bushes concealing the church. Not once did he ponder on the meeting between Major Waring and Mr. Edward Blancove, until he beheld the former standing alone by the churchyard gate, and then he thought more of the empty churchyard and the absence of carriages, pro- claiming the dreadful admonition that he must immediately consider as to the best way of comporting himself before an observant and censorious congregation. Major Waring remarked, "You are late." " Have I kept you waiting ? " said Robert. " Not long. They are reading the lessons." "Is it full inside?" " I dare say it is." " You have seen him, I suppose ? " " Oh, yes ; I have seen him." Percy was short in his speech, and pale as Robert had never seen him before. He requested hastily to be told the situation of Lord Filing's pew. " Don't you think of going into the gallery ? " said Robert, 14 \ '!?• I S^ 210 RHODA FLEMING ruise on esolately vith evil le thing n giant NTHONY y man's iety and genuous acter of i it will anxiety it in the ent, and * hands. 31 on for er-ends. power, )t it be feed on 3y have erely a miser, 3 sweet al love pieces, if they indulg- ing wayward appetites for herrings and whelks and other sea-dainties that render up no account to you when they have disappeared, he put by copper and silver continually, weekly and monthly, and was master of a sum. He knew the breadth of this sum with accuracy, and what it would expand to this day come a year, and probably this day come five years. He knew it only too well. The sum took no grand leaps. It increased, but did not seem to multiply. And he was breathing in the heart of the place, of all places in the world, where money did multiply. He was the possessor of twelve hundred pounds, solid, and in haven; that is, the greater part in the Bank of England, and a portion in Boyne's Bank. He had besides a few skirmishing securities, and some such bits of paper as Algernon had given him in the public-house on that remarkable night of his visit to the theatre. These, v/hen the borrowers were defaulters in their pay- n?ents and pleaded for an extension of time, inspired him with sentiments of grandeur that the solid property could not impart. Nevertheless, the anti-poetical tendency within him which warred with the poetical, and set him reducing whatsoever he claimed to plain figures, made it but a fitful hour of satisfaction. He had only to fix his mind upon Farmer Fleming's con- ception of his wealth, to feel the miserable smallness of what seemed legitimately his own; and he felt it with so poignant an emotion that at times his fears of death were excited by the knowledge of a dead man's impotence to suggest hazy margins in the final exposure of his property. There it would lie, dead as himself ! contracted, coffined, contemptible ! What would the farmer think when he came to hear that his brother Tony's estate was not able to buy up Queen Anne's Farm? — when, in x oint of fact, he found that he had all along been the richer man of the two ! Anthony's comfort was in the unfaltering strength of his constitution. He permitted his estimate of it to hint at the probability of his outlasting his brother William John, to whom he wished no earthly ill, but onlj'- that he shouM not live with a mitigated veneration for him. He was really nourished by the farmer's gluttonous delight in his supposed y/ ^4 216 RHODA FLEMING m piles of wealth. Sometimes, for weeks, he had the gift of thinking himself one of the Bank with which he had been so long connected ; and afterward a wretched reaction set in. It was then that his touch upon Bank money began to intoxicate him strangely. He had at times thousands hugged against his bosom, and his heart swelled to the money-bags immense. He was a dispirited, but a grateful creature, after he had delivered them up. The delirium came by fits, as if a devil lurked to surprise him. "With this money," said the demon, "you might specu- late, and in two days make ten times the amount." To which Anthony answered: "My character's worth fifty times the amount." Siich wf s his reply, but he did not think it. He was honest, and liis honesty had become a habit ; but the money was the only thing which acted on his imagination; his character had attained to no sacred halo, and was just worth his annual income and the respect of the law for his person. The money fired his brain ! " Ah ! if it was mine ! " he sighed. " If I could call it mine for just forty or fifty hours ! But it ain't, and I can't." He fought dogged battles with the tempter, and beat him off again and again. One day he made a truce with him by saying that if ever the farmer should be in town of an after- noon he would steal ten minutes or so, and make an appoint- ment with him somewhere and show him the money-bags without a word : let him weigh and eye them : and then the plan was for Anthony to pocket them and talk of politics, while the farmer's mind was in a ferment. With this arrangement the infernal Power appeared to be content, and Anthony was temporarily relieved of his trouble. In other words, the intermittent fever of a sort of harmless rascality was afflicting this old creature. He never enter- tained the notion of running clear away with the money entrusted to him. Whither could an aged man fly ? He thought of foreign places as of spots that gave him a shivering sense of its being necessary for him to be born again in nakedness and helplessness, if ever he was to see them and set foot on them. Anthony's fearful temptation 217 le gift of d been so 1 set in. iy began housands d to the grateful delirium it specu- 's worth He was le money :ion ; his ist worth 3 person. )uld call 't, and I 3eat him I him by m after- appoint- ley-bags jhen the politics, ed to be trouble, larmless ir enter- money foreign e of its kedness set foot Londou was his home, and clothed him about warmly and honourably, and so he said to the demon in their next colloquy. Anthony had become guilty of the imprudence of admit- ting him to conferences and arguing with him upon equal terms. They tell us, that this is the imprudence of women under temptation ; and perhaps Anthony was pushed to the verge of the abyss from causes somewhat similar to those which imperil them, and employed the same kind of efforts in his resistance. In consequence of this compromise, the demon by degrees took seat at his breakfast-table, when Mrs. Wicklow, his landlady, could hear Anthony talking in the tone of voice of one who was pushed to his sturdiest arguments. She conceived that the old man's head was softening. He was making one of his hurried rushes with the por- terage of money on an afternoon in spring, when a young female plucked at his coat, and his wrath at offenders against the law kindled in a minute into fury. " Hands off, minx ! " he cried. " You shall be given in charge. Where 's a policeman ? " " Uncle ! " she said. " You precious swindler in petticoats ! " Anthony fumed. But he had a queer recollection of her face, and when she repeated piteously, " Uncle ! " he peered at her features, saying, — " No ! " in wonderment, several times. Her hair was cut like a boy's. She was in common gar- ments, with a close-shaped skull-cap and a black straw bonnet on her head ; not gloved, of ill complexion, and with deep dark lines slanting down from the corners of her eyes. Yet the inspection convinced him that he beheld Dahlia, his niece. He was amazed ; but speedily remembering the price- less trust in his arms, and the wickedness of the streets, he bade her follow him. She did so with some difficulty, for he ran, and dodged, and treated the world as his enemy, suddenly vaiiished, and appeared again breathing freely. "Why, my girl?" he said. "Why, Dahl — Mrs. What *s-your-name ? Why, who 'd have known you ? Is that" — he got his eyes close to her hair, — "is that the ladies* fashion now? 'Cause, if it is, our young street n) 218 EHODA FLEMING ? i '.*. scamps has only got to buy bonnets, and — I say, you don't look the Pomp. Not as you used to. Miss — Ma'am, I mean — no, that you don't. Well, what 's the news ? How 's your husband ? " " Uncle," said Dahlia, " will you, please, let me speak to you somewhere ? " " Ain't we standing together ? '* " Oh ! pray, out of the crowd ! " " Come home with me, if my lodgings ain't too poor for you," said Anthony. " Uncle, I can't. I have been unwell. I cannot walk far. Will you take me to some quiet place ? " "Will you treat me to a cab?" Anthony sneered vehemently. " T have left off riding, uncle." " What ! Hulloa ! " Anthony sang out. " Cash is down in the moutb at home, is it ? Tell me that, now ? " Dahlia dropped her eyelids, and then entreated him once more to conduct her to a quiet place where they might sit together, away from noise. She was very earnest and very sad, not seeming to have much strength. '* Do you mind taking my arm ? " said Anthony. She leaned her hand on his arm, and he dived across the road with her, among omnibuses and cabs, shouting to them through the roar, — " We 're the Independence on two legs, warranted sound, and no competition ; " and saying to Dahlia : " Lor' bless you ! there 's no retort in 'em, or I 'd say something worth hearing. It 's like poking lions in cages with raw meat, afore you get a chafRng-match out o' tnem. Some of 'em know me. They 'd be good at it, those fellows. I 've heard or good things said by 'em. But there they sit, and they 've got no circulation — ain't ready, except a,t old women, or when they catch you in a mess, and getting the worst of it. Let me tell you, you '11 never get manly chaff out of big bundles o' fellows with ne'er an atom o' circulation. The river 's the place for that. I 've heard uncommon good things on the river — not of 'em, but heard 'em. T' other 's most part invention. And, they tell me, horseback 's a prime thing for chaff. Circulation, again. Sharp and lively, I mean ; not bawl, and answer over your back — most part impudence, JH ANTHONY S FEARFUL TEMPTATION 219 '■, you don't -Ma'am, I the news? 16 speak to 00 poor for )t walk far. ly sneered sh is down d him once y might sit st and very across the ng to them ited sound, Lor' bless hing worth raw meat, ime of 'em I 've heard nd they 've women, or ;vorst of it. out of big tion. The jood things ler's most )rime thing mean; not mpudence, and nothing else — and then out of hearing. That sort o' chaff 's cowardly Boys are stiff young parties — circulation and I don't tackle them pretty often, 'xcept when I'm going like a ball among nine-pins. It 's all a matter o' circulation. I say, my dear," Anthony addressed her seri- ously, " you should never lay hold o' my arm when you see me going my pace of an afternoon. I took you for a thief, and worse — I did. That I did Had you been waiting to see me ? " " A little," Dahlia replied, breathless. « You have been ill ? " "A little," she said. " You 've written to the farm ? 0' course you have ! '* " Oh ! uncle, wait," moaned Dahlia. " But, ha' you been sick, and not written home ? " "Wait; please, wait," she entreated him. " I '11 wait," said Anthony ; " but that 's no improvement to queerness ; and • queer ' 's your motto. Now we cross London Bridge. There 's the Tower that lived in times when no man was safe of keeping his own money, 'cause of grasping kings — all claws and crown. I'm Republican as far as 'none o' them' — goes. There's the ships. The sun rises behind 'em, and sets afore 'em, and you may fancy, if you like, there 's always gold in their rigging. Gals o' your sort think — I say, come ! tell me, if you are a lady ? " " No, uncle, no ! " Dahlia cried, and then, drawing in her breath, added, " not to you." " Last time I crossed this bridge with a young woman hanging on my arm, it was your sister ; they say she called on you, and you would n't see her ; and a gal so good and a gal so true ain't to be got for a sister everjr day in the year ! What are you pulling me for ? " Dahlia said nothing, but clung to him with a drooping head, and so they hurried along, until Anthony stopped in front of a shop displaying cups and muffins at the window, and leprous-looking strips of bacon, and sausages that had angled for appetites till they had become pallid sodden things, like washed-out bait. Into this shop he led her, and. they took possession of a compartment, and ordered tea and muffins. The shop was empty. i.-'i 1 i> f! i^h MH f 220 BHODA FLEMING « It's one of the expenses of relationship," Anthony sighed, after probing Dahlia unsatisfactorily to see whether she intended to pay for both, or at least for herself; and finding that she had no pride at all. " My sister marries your father, and, in consequence — well ! a muffin now and then ain't so very much. We'll forget it, though it is a breacli, mind, in counting up afterwards, and tAvopences every day 's equal to a good big cannon-ball in the castle- wall at the end of the year. Have you written home ? " Dahlia's face showed the bright anguish of unshed tears. " Uncle — oh ! speak low. I have been near death. I have been ill for so long a time. I have come to you to hear ab( t them, — my father and Rhoda. Tell me what they are doing, and do tliey sleep and eat well, and are not in trouble ? 1 could not write. I was helpless. I could not hold a pen. Be kind, dear uncle, and do not reproach me. Please, tell me that they have not been sorrowful." A keenness shot f i-om Anthony's eyes. " Then, where 's your husband ? " he asked. She made a sad attempt at smiling. " He is abroad." "How about his relations? Ain't there one among 'em to write for you when you 're ill ? " " He . . . Yes, he has relatives. I could not ask them. Oh ! I am not strong, uncle ; if you will only leave follow- ing me so with questions ; but tell me, tell me what I want to know." "Well, then, you tell me where your husband banks," returned Anthony. " Indeed, I cannot say." " Do you," Anthony stretched out alternative fingers, — " do you get money from him to make payments in gold, or do you get it in paper ? " She stared as in terror of a pitfall. " Paper," she said at a venture. "Well, then, name your Bank." There was no cunning in her eye as she answered : " I don't know any bank, except the Bank of England." " Why the deuce did n't you say so at once — eh ? " cried Anthony. " He gives you bank-notes. Nothing better in the world. And he a'n't been givin'you many lately — is that it ? What 's his profession, or business ? " ANTHONY*S FEARFUL TEMPTATION 221 Anthony ie whether •self; and '1' marries ' now and 'M it is a ;wopences ;he castle- Dme?" ed tears, death. I to you to me what i are not I could reproach ►wful." M^here 's I'oad." mong 'em isk them, e follow- it I want I banks," ngers, — - 1 gold, or she said red 55 "I ? " cried better in ;ely — is "He is ... he is no profession." " Then, what is he 1 Is he a gentleman ? " " Yes," she breathed plaintively. " Your husband 's a gentleman. Eh ? — and lost his money ? " "Yes." " How did he lose it ? " The poor victim of this pertinacious interrogatory now beat about within herself for succour. " I must not say," she replied. " You 're going to try to keep a secret, are ye ? " said Anthony; and she, in her relief at the pause to her tor- ment, said, "I am," with a little infantile, withering half-smile. " Well, you 've been and kept yourself pretty secret," the old man pursued. " I suppose your husband 's proud ? He 's proud, ain't he ? He 's of a family, I '11 be bound. did he like your dressing up down in the City and see I mean, he did not see me." Is he of a family ? How like a mill'ner gal to come me?" Dahlia's guile was not ready. " He did n't mind," she said. "He didn't mind, didn't he? He don't mind your cut- ting of your hair so ? — did n't mind that ? " She shook her head. " No." Anthony was down upon her like a hawk. "Why, he's abroad!" "Yes; ' ■" With which, in a minute, she was out of his grasp; but her heart beat thick, her lips were dry, and her thoughts were in disorder. " Then, he don't know you 've been and got shaved, and a poll like a turnip-head of a thief ? That 's something for him to learn, is it ? " The picture of her beauty gone, seared her eyes like heated brass. She caught Anthony's arm with one firm hand to hold him silent, and with the otlier hand covered her sight and let the fit of weeping pass. When the tears had spent themselves, she relinquished her hold of the astonished old man, who leaned over the table to her, and, dominated by the spirit of her touch, "4 I ■■ m V 1 ^> 222 RHODA FLEMING I V m ' whispered, like one who had accepted a bond of secrecy : " Th' old farmer 's well. So 's Rhoda — my darkie lass. They 've taken on a bit. And then they took to religion for comfort. Th' old farmer attends Methody meetin's, and quotes Scriptur' as if lie was fixed like a pump to the Book, and could n't fetch a breath without quotin'. Rhoda 's oftenest along with your rector's wife down there, and does works o' charity, sick-nussin', readin' — old farmer does the preachin'. Old mother Sumfit 's fat as ever, and says her money 's for you. Old Gammon goes on eatin' of the dump- lins. Hey ! what a queer old ancient he is. He seems to me to belong to a time afore ever money was. That Mr. Robert's oif . . . never been down there since he left, 'cause my darkie lass thought herself too good for him. So she is ! — too good for anybody. They 're going to leave the farm ; sell, and come to London." "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 divi- nation. "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 ANTHONY S FEAKPUL TF5M! TATION 223 secrecy : rkie lass, 'ligion for ;in's, and the Book, Rhoda 's and does does the says her ;he dump- seems to That Mr. he left, him. So to leave eave the ing up to loda will I love refuse to J if you ur motto, lush ! I and you I farmer . Dahlia, ute divi- )t at all. i^as that e began d; help nat'ral. a man; '. have,'* courage ert the " Rlioda was to nie — my saying of the horril»l(> thing slio drcndod. everything to liini. Mother pevliaps took mother ! " The line of her long underlip drawn sharp to check her tears, stopped her spi'aking. "All very well about llhoda," 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 tlio attack. "Neighbours gossip a good deal. 0' 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 (;an'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 Ox 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 wei^t off sudden, on a morning, after kissin' me at breakfast ; and no '■ \ \h 224 RHODA FLEMING %\ rf mf. li ' Slit • ' more Dahly visible. And he suspects — he more'n sus- pects. 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 changing sover- eigns 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 I 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 for- gotten 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. / 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' — fi h fc hi Anthony's fearful temptation 225 ore'n sus- hinks it's piake him ing sover- ain't my there at J ain't got to think: •bMged to id colour married, listen to married, i-m. Tell I have We all rt. Oh! rresolute had for- uld only she had ' up, and 3e, your easy to in' ring 'd! how sinner, i to me. ee your rs, is — Q. 7- what I you to lan' — 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. " Khoda 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 Ehoda ! my sister ! " Dahlia gasped, and the tears came pouring down her face. In vain Anthony lifted her teacup and the muffin- plate to her for consolation. His bushings 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 mumblinnf, "Though I can't make out about your husband, and why he lets ye be cropped — that, he can't help, maybe — but lets ye go about dressed like a mill'ner gal, and nut 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 oi accounting for your queerness, more or less. TVas it that fellow that Wicklow gal saw ye with?" Dahlia signified vehe'.nently, "No." "Then I 've guessed right ; he turns out not to be a gen- tleman — 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 15 •', !■ \i I .• 1 r ^H* '^■u B H i if" ill I t I t! iU IM 1^ S : 226 UHODA FLEMING speak out or uod your bead. You thought you'd caught a gentleman and 't ain't the (lase. (rontknnen ain't cauglit so easy. They all of 'cm 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, (I Yes." "You will?" " Yes." " Seein' 's believin'. If you '11 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 on the old man, suspiciously. " When am I to see him ? Some day ? " "Yes ; some day." " Did n't I say, Sundaij ? " " Next Sunday ? " — Dahlia gave a muffled cry. " Yes, next Sunday. Day after to-morrow. And I '11 write off to-morrow and ease th' old farmer's heart, and Rhoda '11 be proud for you. She don't care about gentle- man — 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." J. Anthony's feahful temptation 007 I cauglit a c.'iuglit so uakes 'em nflict, like ve a look cd within iner said, or me to igers iu a ereabouts } West." idon — a )iciously. Liid I'll art, and t gentle- r. It's 3 father it them iband — on you. ^leaded. "Where is he ?" Anthony asked. "lie's in the country." Anthony pounced on her, as ho liad done previously. " You said to me he was abroad." " Iu 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 flutter- ing 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 h(> Y 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 receiv- ing a meditative look in return for her air of expectancy after the amount had been laid on the table, at once accel- erated 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 por- tion. 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 '11 to the West. Don't th' old far- mer pronounce like ' toe ' the West ? Wo '11 ' 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 did n'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. 228 EHODA FLEMING ., J '' t; ill " Sir William Blancove's house is a first-rater. I 've been in it., He lives in the library. All the other rooms — en- ter 'em, and if 't ain't like a sort of a social sepulchre! Dashed if he can get his son to live with him ; though they 're f i-iends, and his son '11 get all the money, and go into Parliament, and cut a shine, never fear. "By the way, I've seen Robert too. you. He called on me at the Bank. Asked a! tor " * 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 Continen- talling. 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 about a to catch parcel o' thieves, and not go distracting of 'em women.' " He 's awfully down about Rhoda. She might do worse };han 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 ? — eli ? 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 would n'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 tor- ment the wretchedness of this lie revolted her. "Oh! for God's sake, uncle, give me peace about that! " The old man miirmared, "Ay, ay;" and thought it natural that she should shun an allusion to the circum- stance. They crossed one of the bridges, and Dahlia stopped and said, "Kiss me, uncle." "I ain't ashamed," said Anthony. ril wl df ^1 cfl IN THE PARK 229 I Ve been )oms — en- sepulchre ! n; though ey, and go led on me ays. Continen- on is you can't find to catch parcel o' ; do worse a chance big 'un I 3out what emark, I ihe man ? a ?" I seen me •eed with husband he . . . 3 he was her tor- ch! lor Hight it circum- ped and This being over, she insisted on his not accompanying her farther. Anthony made her pledge her word of honour as a mar- ried woman, to bring her husband to the identical spot where they stood at three o'clock in the afternoon of Sun- day 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 sweet- ness 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-by, J)ahly. You be a good girl, and all '11 go right. Old farmer talks about praying. If he did n't make it look so dark to a chap, I 'd be ready to fancy some- thing 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 IN THE PARK Sir William Blancove did business at his Bank till the hour of three in the afternoon, when his carriage con- veyed 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. ■ m ir ■; I I- 230 RHODA FLEMING It! ; 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 liorseback. Like Achilles (if the bilious Shade will permit the impu- dent 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 Wil- liam, though his faith reposed in his son, was averse to his inexplicably prolonged residence in the French metrop- olis, 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 Wil- liam 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 men- tal 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. ini wl| sel inl sl{ if I IN THE PARK 231 ^owiis, and ire in the eback. ' the inipu- ut,at tlieir ^niplished, ience from wealth are i Sir Wil- averse to 'h metrop- school for 11 less for ommence, lly man's of others, Sir Wil- , that he by Mama "let the 3n }) and eting the a verse: d be the nt in the dst men- William cuts the ^ard was ^is light A^it and i young ition of [do: of ed with defunct 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 does n'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. "Xo; he shall net do it again. It occurred yesterday, and on no other occasion that I am aware of. He presumes that I am as excited as ho is himself about the race — " The lady bowed to a passing cavalier; a smarting blush dyed her face. /' k 232 BHODA FLEMING i \ f i I . i (•' I \ I n ■■ 1 "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 smallnesp of the amount in some degree account for the betting ? " he 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 rest- lessness 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 her- self, 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 Blanco ve's in for five hundred to me," he said; adding with energy, " I hope you have n't lost ? No, don't go and dash my jolly feeling by saying you have. It was a fine heatj neck-and-neck past the Stand. Have you ?" li m THE PARK 233 young man Ired pounds ome degree lly. "You but a small pted to bid igh-road to 5 doing no conduct, I allows his my young hundred lets," said ier-pigeon am all aiu of her T and rest- )f natural in all she ig caution and Mrs. ss of her- istress of from the st, out of , rode up aten, and 'avourites money" he said; No, don't It was 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 m-^in the reverse." "It don't with him. But, Mrs. Lovell, do tell me you have n'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 have n't won. I 'm not cool-blooded enough to bet against favour- ites. 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 tlie 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 thut 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 con- science had once reproached me. I am a mark for t lander, and brave men shoald beware of herding with despicable slanderers." She spoke, gazing frontward all the while. The pace she maintained in no degree impeded the concentrated pas- sion of her utterance. But it was a more difficult task for him, going at that 1.. [ j'/^l (-. .«, Hi, ' ' ^ i IM f I * 234 RHODA FLEMING 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 liave done — done, that I have not been bitterly punished for ? Wliat 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 Waring! 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, t\asting 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. Every- where you kept up the look of my judge. You ! — and I have been 'Margaret' to you. Major Waring, how many a del dai IN THE PARK 235 lisitely fair th a mellow le. Let me re not been Why do h? Not by ' cruelty to you wound IT?" ^aring! say a new pain Qger, some pride," she btei sort." rds to the it my pride lis manner e betrayed your self- r Waring. . I was a station on lole army. For me, have been church at u on the . Every- ! — and I low many a woman in my place would attribute your relentless con- demnation 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 the 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 honou" 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. -I ■!> I. ; I i I 1^ - 236 BHODA FLEMING ! v-? CHAPTER XXVII CONTAINS A STUDY OF A FOOL IN TROUBLE li ( i I; i v i ^ ,i The Park had been empty, but the opera-house was full; and in the brilliance of the lights and divine soaring of the music, the genius of Champagne luncheons discussed the fate of the horse Templemore; some, as a matter of remote history; some, as another delusion in horse-flesh; the greater number, however, with a determination to stand by the beaten favourite, though he had fallen, and proclaim him the best of ncers and an animal foully mis- handled on the course. Ihere were whispers and hints and assertions ; now implicating the jockey, now the owner of Templemore. The Manchester party and the York- shire party, and their diverse villanous tricks, came under review. Several offered to back Templemore at double the money they had lost, against the winner. A favourite on whom money has been staked, not only has friends, but in adversity he is still believed in ; nor could it well be otherwise, for the money, no doubt, stands for faith, or it would never have been put up to the risks of a forfeit. Foremost and wildest among the excited young men who animated the stalls, and rushed about the lobby, was Algernon. He was the genius of Champagne luncheon incarnate. On him devolves, for a time, the movement of this story, and we shall do well to contemplate him, though he may seem possibly to be worthless. What is worthless if it be well looked at ? Nay, the most worthless crea- tures are most serviceable for examination when the micro- scope is applied to them, as a simple study of human mechanism. This youth is one of great Nature's tom- fools; an elegant young gentleman outwardly, of the very large class who are simply the engines of their appetites, and, to the philosophic eye, still run wild in woods, as did the primitive nobleman that made a noise in the earlier world. Algernon had this day lost ten times more than he could hope to be in a position to pay within ten years, at the ^■':\ A FOOL IN TROUBLE 237 3LE e was full; soaring of discussed matter of lorse-flesh; ination to fallen, and bully mis- and Jiiiits the owner the York- ame under at double L favourite friends, I it well be Paith, or it orfeit. » men Avho Dbby, was 1 luncheon •vement of m, though worthless iless crea- the micro- of human ire's tom- f the very appetites, ids, as did lie earlier I he could rs, at the least, if his father continued to argue the matter against Providence, and live. He had lost, and might speedily expect to be posted in all good betting circles as something not pleasantly odoriferous for circles where there is no betting. Nevertheless, the youth was surcharged with gaiety. The soul of mingled chicken and wine illumined his cheeks and eyes. He laughed and joked about the horse, — his horse, as he called Templemore, — and, meet- ing Lord Suckling, won five sovereigns of him by betting that the colours of one of the beaten horses, Benloo, were distinguished by a chocolate bar. The bet was referred to a dignified umpire, who, a Frenchman, drew his right hand down an imperial tuft of hair dependent from his chin, and gave a decision in Algernon's favour. Lord Suckling paid the money on the spot, and Algernon pocketed it exulting. He had the idea that it was the first start in his making head against the flood. The next instant he could have pitched himself upon the floor and bellowed. For a soul of chicken and wine, lightly elated, is easily dashed; and if he had but said to Lord Suckling that it might as well be deferred, the thing would have become a precedent, and his own debt might have been held back. He went on saying, as he rushed forward alone, "Never mind, Suckling. Oh, hang it! put it in your pocket;" and the imperative necessity for talking, and fancying what was adverse to fact, enabled him to feel for a time as if he had really acted according to the prompting of his wisdom. It amazed him to see people sitting and listening. The more he tried it, the more unendurable it became. Those sitters and loungers appeared like absurd petrifactions to him. If he abstained from activity for ever so short a term, he was tormented by a sense of emptiness ; and, as he said to himself, a man who has eaten a chicken, and part of a game-pie, and drunk thereto Champagne all day, until the popping of the corks has become as familiar as minute- guns, he can hardly be empty. It was peculiar. He stood, just for the sake of investigating the circumstance — it was so extraordinary. The music rose in a triumphant swell. And now he was sure that he was not to be blamed for thinking this form of entertainment detestable. How could people pretend to like it ? " Upon my honour ! " he 238 RHODA FLEMING I'f'l ( r !'!/ / i m ]}ij M ■HI :■ i 1 said aloud, Tlie hypocritical nonsense of pretending to like opera-music disgusted him. " Where is it, Algy ? " a friend of his and Suckling's asked, with a languid laugh. " Where 's what ? " "Your honour." " My honour ? Do you doubt my honour ? " Algernon stared defiantly at the inoffensive little fellow. "Not in the slightest. Very sorry to, seeing that I have you down in my book." "Latters? Ah, yes," said Algernon, musically, and letting his under lip hang that he might restrain the im- pulse to bite it. " l^'ifty, or a hundred, is it ? I lost my book on the downs." " Fifty ; but wait till settling-day, my good fellow, and don't fiddle at your pockets as if 1 'd been touching you up for the money. Come and sup with me to-night." Algernon muttered a queer reply in a good-tempered tone, and escaped from him. He was sobered by that naming of settling-day. He could now listen to the music with attention, if not with satisfaction. As he did so, the bead of drowned memory rose slowly up through the wine-bubbles in his brain, and he flung out a far thought for relief: "How, if I were to leave England with that dark girl Ehoda at Wrexby, marry her like a mar, and live a wild ramping life in the col- onies ? " A curtain closed on the prospect, but if memory was resolved that it would not be drowned, he had at any rate dosed it with something fresh to occupy its digestion. His opera-glass had been scouring the house for a sight of Mrs. Lovell, and at last she appeared in Lord Elling's box. "I can give you two minutes, Algy," she said, as he entered and found her opportunely alone. " We have lost, I hear. No interjection, pray. Let it be, fors I'honnenr, with us. Come to me to-morrow. You have tossed trinkets into my lap. They were marks of esteem, my cousin. Take them in the same light back from me. Turn them into money, and pay what is most pressing. Then go to Lord Suckling. He is a good boy, and won't distress you; but you must speak openly to him at once. Perhaps i mm 'm' -"^ - itending to Suckling's Algernon iliat I have cally, and lin the ini- I lost Diy ellow, and ing you up l-tempered •day. He f not with d memory [brain, and ' I were to iby, marry in the col- it' memory lad at any digestion, Por a sight ■d Elling's id, as he have lost, i'honneWf re tossed teem, my ne. Turn g. Then 't distress Perhaps A FOOL IN TROUBLE 239 he will help you. I will do my best, though whether I can, I have yet to learn." "Dear Mrs. Lovell!" Algernon burst out, and the cor- ners of his mouth played nervously. He liked her kindness, and he was wroth at the projected return of his gifts. A man's gifts are an exhibition of the royalty of his soul, and they are the last things which should be mentioned to him as matters to be blotted out when he is struggling against ruin. The lady had blunt insight just then. She attributed his emotion to gratitude. "The door may be opened at any minute," she warned him. " It 's not about myself, " he said ; " it 's you. I believe I tempted you to back the beastly horse. And he would have won — a fair race, and he would have won easy. He was winning. He passed the stand a head ahead. He did win. It 's a scandal to the Turf. There 's an end of racing in England. It 's up. They 've done for themselves to- day. There 's a gang. It 's in the hands of confederates. j> "Think so, if it consoles you," said Mrs. Lovell; "don't mention your thoughts, that is all." " I do think so. Why should we submit to a robbery ? It 's a sold affair. That Frenchman, Baron Vistocq, says we can't lift our heads after it." "He conducts himself with decency, I hope." "Why, he's won!" "Imitate him." Mrs. Lovell scanned the stalls. " Always imitate the behaviour of the winners when you lose," she resumed. "To speak of other things: I have had no letter of late from Edward. He should be anxious to return. I went this morning to see that unhappy girl. She consents." "Poor creature," murmured Algernon; and added, "Everybody wants money." " She decides wisely ; for it is the best she can do. She deserves pity, for she has been basely used." "Poor old Ned didn't mean," Algernon began pleading on his cousin's behalf, when Mrs. Lovell's scornful eye checked the feeble attempt. " I am a woman, and, in certain cases, I side with my sex." ■ W r !.f Mi •!l ii •';i •■ 'M 240 BHODA FLEMING « ■. "Was n't it for you?" "That he betrayed her? If tliat were so, I should be sitting in ashes." Algernon's look plainly declared that he thought her a mystery. The simplicity of his bewilderment made her smile. " I think your colonies are the right place for you, Algy, if you can get an appointment; which must be managed by-and-by. Call on me to-morrow, as I said." Algernon signified positively that he would not, and doggedly refused to explain why. " Then I will call on you, " said Mrs. Lovell. He was going to say something angrily, when Mrs. Lovell checked him: "Hush! she is singing." Algernon listened to the prima donna in loathing; he had so much to inquire about, and so much to relate: such a desire to torment and be comforted ! Before he could utter a word further, the door opened, and Major Waring appeared, and he beheld Mrs. Lovell blush strangely. Soon after, Lord Elling came in, and spoke the ordinary sentence or two concerning the day's topic — the horse Templemore. Algernon quitted the box. His ears were surcharged with sound entirely foreign to his emotions, and he strolled out of the house and ofE to his dingy chambers, now tenanted by himself alone, and there faced the sealed letters addressed to Edward, which had, by order, not been forwarded. No less than six were in Dahlia's handwriting. He had imagination sufficient to conceive the lamentations they contained, and the re- proach they were to his own subserviency in not sending them. He looked at the postmarks. The last one was dated two months back. " How can she have cared a hang for Ned, if she 's ready to go and marry a yokel, for the sake of a home and respec- tability ? " he thought, rather in scorn ; and, having estab- lished this contemptuous opinion of one of the sex, he felt justified in despising all. " Just like women ! They — No ! Peggy Lovell is n't. She 's a trump card, and she 's a coquette — can't help being one. It's in the blood. I never saw her look so confoundedly lovely as when that fellow came into the box. One up, one down. Ned's should be ^ght her a r smile, you, Algy, managed not, and hen Mrs. ithing; he late: such )r opened, fs. Lovell e in, and the day's i the box. ■oreign to ind off to ilone, and rd, which L six were sufficient d the re- '' sending one was 3 's ready d respec- ig estab- K, he felt They- l she 's a ilood. I len that Ned's A POOL IN TROUBLE 241 away, and it 's this fellow's turn. Why the deuce does she always think I 'm a boy ? or else, she pretends to. But I must give my mind to business." He drew forth the betting-book which his lively fancy had lost on the downs. Prompted by an afterthought, he went to the letter-box, saying, — " Who knows ? Wait till the day 's ended before you curse your luck.'* There was a foreign letter in it from Edward, addressed to him, and another addressed to " Mr. Blancuv," that he tore open and read with disgusted laughter. It was signed "N. Sedgett." Algernon read it twice over, for the enjoy- ment of his critical detection of the vile grammar, with many " Oh ! by Joves I " and a concluding, " This is a curiosity ! " It was a countryman's letter, ill-spelt, involved, and of a character to give Algernon a fine scholarly sense of supe- riority altogether novel. Everybody abused Algernon for his abuse of common Queen's English in his epistles ; but here was a letter in comparison with which his own were doctorial, and accordingly he fell upon it with an acrimoni- ous rapture of pedantry known to dull wits that have by extraordinary hazard pounced on a duller. " You 're * willing to forgeit and forgeive,^ are you, you dog ! " he exclaimed, half dancing. " You 'd forge any- thing, you rascal, if you could disguise your hand — that, I don't doubt. You * expeck the thousand pound to be paid down the day of my marriage,' do you, you impudent ruf- fian ! 'acording to agremint.' What a mercenary vaga- bond this is ! " Algernon reflected a minute. The money was to pass through his hands. He compressed a desire to dispute with Sedgett that latter point about the agreement, and opened Edward's letter. It contained an order on a firm of attorneys to sell out so much Bank Stock and pay over one thousand pounds to Mr. A. Blancove. The beautiful concision of style in this document gave Algernon a feeling of profound deference toward the law and its officers. " Now, that 's the way to write ! " he said. m i \ I ■*j ■ u I: ' I MP mi — MkMMH w m ; ■. ;" ■ i :; ' 242 EHODA FLEMING CHAPTER XXVIII Ml •I f ■| ' ( ^ # I i >|f ii EDWARD'S LETTER Accompanying this pleasant, pregnant bit of paper, possessed of such admirable literary excellence, were the following flimsy lines from Edward's self, to Algernon incomprehensible. As there is a man to be seen behind these lines in the dull unconscious process of transformation from something very like a villain to something by a few degrees more estimable, we may as well look at the letter in full. It begins with a neat display of consideration for the person addressed, common to letters that are dictated by overpowering egoism : — " Dear Algy, — I hope you are working and attending regularly to office business. Look to that and to your health at present. Depend upon it, there is nothing like work. Fix your teeth in it. Work is medicine. A tru- ism! Truisms, whether they lie in the depths of thought or on the surface, are at any rate the pearls of experience. " I am coming home. Let me know the instant this affair is over. I can't tell why I wait here. I fall into lethar- gies. I write to no one but to you. Your supposition that I am one of the hangers-on of the coquette of her time, and that it is for her I am seeking to get free, is conceived with your usual discrimination. For Margaret Lovell ? Do you imagine that I desire to be all my life kicking the beam, weighed in capricious scales, appraised to the direct nicety, petulantly taken up, probed for my weakest point, and then flung into the grate like a child's toy ? That 's the fate of the several asses who put on the long-eared Lovell-livery. "All women are the same. Know one, know all. Aware of this, and too wise to let us study them success- fully, Nature — pretty language this is for you, Algy ! I can do nothing but write nonsense. I am sick of life. I feel choked. After a month, Paris is sweet biscuit. EDWARD S LETTER 243 "I have sent the order for the If it of paper, were t]ie Algernon les in the ometlung rees more 1. n for the ctated by attending to your liing like A tru- " thought lerience. ;his affair io lethar- ition that iime, and ionceived Lovell ? iking the ie direct St point, That 's ng-eared low all. success- Igy! I life. T lit. my experience, woman. Even do not believe through with it. money, it it were two, or twenty, thousand pounds, it would be the same to me. "I swear to heaven that my lowest cynical ideas of women, and the loathing with which their sim])ly animal vagaries inspire a thoughtful man, are distanced and made to seem a benevolent criticism, by the actualities of I say that you cannot put faith in a now, I do not — it's against reason — I that she — this Dahlia — means to go She is trying me. I have told her that she was my wife. Her self-respect — everything that keeps a woman's head up — must have induced her to think so. Why, she is not a fool ! How can she mean to give herself to an ignorant country donkey ? She does not : mark me. For her, who is a really — I may say, the most refined nature I have ever met, to affect this, and think of deceiving lue, does not do credit to her wits — and she is not without her share. " I did once mean that she should be honourably allied to me. It 's comforting that the act is not the wife of the intention, or I should now be yoked to a mere thing of the seasons and the hours — a creature whose ' No ' to-day is the ' Yes ' of to-morrow. Women of this cast are sure to end comfortably for themselves, they are so obedient to the whips of Providence. " But I tell you candidly, Algy, I believe she 's pushing me, that slie may see how far I will let her go. I do not permit her to play at this game with me. The difiiculty is in teaching women that we are not constituted as they are, and that we are wilfully earnest, while they, who never can be so save under compulsion, carry it on with us, expecting that at a certain crisis a curtain will drop, and we shall take a deep breath, join hands, and exclaim, * What an exciting play ! ' — weeping luxuriously. The actualities of life must be branded on their backs — you can't get their brains to apprehend them. " Poor things ! they need pity. I am ready to confess I did not keep my promise to her. I am very sorry she has been ill. Of course, having no brains — nothing but sensa- tions wherewith to combat every new revolution of fortune, ■■) I., rv Ii ■ H' I 3 1 1* 1 mh^ 244 EHODA FLEMPTG she can't but fall ill. But I think of her ; and I wish to God I did not. She is going to enter her own sphere — though, mark me, it will turn out as I say, that, when it comes to the crisis, there will be shrieks and astonishment that the curtain does n't fall and the whole resolve itself to what they call a dream — in our language, a farce. " I am astonished that tliere should be no letters for me. I can understand her not writing at first ; but apparently she cherishes rancour. It is not like her. I can't help thinking there must be one letter from her, and that you keep it back. I remember that I told you when I left England I desired to have no letter forwarded to me, but I have repeatedly asked you since if there was a letter, and it appears to me that you have shuffled in your answer. I merely wish to know if there is a letter ; because I am at present out in my study of her character. It seems mon- strous that she should never have written! Don't you view it in that light ? To be ready to break with me, withoui one good-bye ! — it 's gratifying, but I am astonished ; for so gentle and tender a creature, such as I knew her, never existed to compare with her. Ce qui est bien la preuve que je ne la connaissals pas ! I thought I did, which was my error. I have a fatal habit of trusting to my observation less than to my divining wit; and La Rochefoucauld is right: *on est quelquefois un sot avec de I'esprit; mais on ne I'est jamais avecdu jugement.' Well! better be deceived in a character than doubt it. " This will soon be over. Then back to the dear old dusky chambers, with the pick and the axe in the mine of law, till I strike a gold vein, and follow it to the woolsack. I want peace. I begin to hate pleading. I hope to meet Death full-wigged. By my troth, I will look as grimly at him as he at me. Meantime, during a vacation, I will give you holiday (or better, in the February days, if I can spare time and Equity is dispensed without my aid), dine you, and put you in the whirl of Paris. You deserve a holiday. Nunc est bibendum ! You shall sing it. Tell me what you think of her behaviour. You are a judge of women. I think I am developing nerves. In fact, work is what I need — a file to bite. And send me also the name of this man who has made the bargain — who is to be her husband. \\ Edward's letter 245 I wish to sphere — when it nishment itself to 'S for lue. ^parently iii't help that you 3n I left me, but tter, and swer. I i am at ws mon- '^ou view withoui led J for ;r, never 'uve que was niy ervation cauld is mais on leeeived ear old tnine of )olsack. meet jiiily at ill give 1 spare e you, 5liday. at you m. I ^hat I f this iband. Give me a description of him. It is my duty to see that he has principle ; at least we 're bound to investigate his character, if it 's really to go on. I wonder whether you will ever perceive the comedy of life. I doubt whether a man is happier when he does perceive it. Perhaps the fact is, that he has by that time lost his power of laughter; except in the case of here and there a very tremendous philosopher. " I believe that we comic creatures suffer more than your tragic personages. We, do you see, are always looking to be happy and comfortable ; but in a tragedy, the doomed wretches are liver-complexioned, from the opening act. Their laughter is the owl ; their broadest smile is twilight. All the menacing horrors of an eclipse are ourfe, for we have a sun over us j but they are born in shades, with the tuck of a curtain showing light, and little can be taken from them; so that they find scarce any terrors in the inevitable final stroke. No; the comedy is painfullest. You and I, Algy, old bachelors, will earn the right just to chuckle. We will take the point of view of science, be the stage carpenters, and let the actors move on and off. By this we shall learn to take a certain pride in the machinery. To become stage carpenter is to attain to the highest rank within the reach of intellectual man. But your own machinery must be sound, or you can't look after that of the theatre. Don't over-tax thy stomach, youth ! " And now, farewell, my worthy ass ! You have been thinking me one through a fair half of this my letter, so I hasten to be in advance of you, by calling you one. You are one : I likewise am one. We are all one. The universal language is hee-haw, done in a grievous yawn. " Yours, "Edward B. " P. S. — Don't fail to send a letter by the next post ; then, go and see her; write again ex((ctly what she says, and let me know the viari's name. You will not lose a minute. Also, don't waste ink in putting Mrs. Lovell's name to paper: I desire not to hear anything of the woman." ) 246 BHODA FLEMING i> if- ■ : m V i5 i- I J k V i 1 |- j / 1 il \ "' ^' i 1 Hi 11 V 'Kf' 1 (';;' Ifl t.. ,; 11 ,1 •l 1 J"' 1 M ''Iff 1: 1 B, V R ; '* ' fill II, f i i •'''' 1 1 i ' 1' ■ 1 1) ^1. 1 . I ' t El ' (i I' nn . ■ 1 1 ^H '^ Syn L ' ,' 1 IT I 1 .1 l/P \ ! iciE« ) 1 Illy i 1 s , H - ^^^I'B w im ^: ^ Algernon read this letter in a profound mystification, marvelling how it could possibly be that Edward and Mrs. Lovell had quarrelled once more, and without meeting. They had parted, he knew or supposed that he knew, under an engagement to arrange the preliminaries of an alliance, when Edward should return from France ; in other words, when Edward had thrown grave-dust on a naughty portion of his past ; severing an unwise connection. Such had certainly been Edward's view of the matter. But Mrs. Lovell had never spoken to Algernon on that subject. She had spoken willingly and in deep sympathy of Dahlia. She had visited her, pitied her, comforted her ; and Algernon remembered that she had looked very keen and pinched about the mouth in alluding to Dahlia ; but how she and Edward had managed to arrive at another misunderstanding was a prodigious puzzle to him ; and why, if their engage- ment had snapped, each consented to let Dahlia's marriage (which was evidently distasteful to both) go on to the con- clusion of the ceremony, he could not comprehend. There were, however, so many things in the world that he coula not comprehend, and he had grown so accustomed, after an effort to master a difficulty, to lean his head back upon downy ignorance, that he treated this significant letter of Edward's like a tough lesson, and qidetly put it by, together with every recommendation it contained. For all that was prac- tical in it, it might just as well not have been written. The value of the letter lies in the exhibition it presents of a rather mark worthy young man, who has passed through the hands of a — (what I must call her ; and in doing so, I ask pardon of all the Jack Cades of Letters, who in the absence of a grammatical king and a government, sit as lords upon the English tongue) a crucible-woman. She may be inexcusable herself ; but you — for you to be base, for you to be cowardly, even to betray a weakness, though it be on her behalf, — though you can plead that all you have done is for her, yea, was partly instigated by her, — it will cause her to dismiss you with the inexorable con- tempt of Nature, when she has tried one of her creatures and found him wanting. Margaret Lovell was of this description : a woman fash- ioned to do both harm and good, and more of harm than of iMta FUBTHEEMOEE OF THE FOOL 247 tification, and Mrs. leeting. he knew, ies of an . in other ' naughty n. Such But Mrs. 'ct. She ia. She Algernon pinched she and standing • engage- narriage the con- There he coula after an n downy Idward's ler with as prac- en. 3resents through ng so, I in the > sit as She )e base, though a^U you her, — le con- Jatures 1 fash- ;ian of good ; but never to sanction a scheme of evil or blink at it in alliance with another : a woman in contact with whom you were soon resolved to your component elements. Sep- arated from a certain fascination that there was for her in Edward's acerb wit, she saw that he was doing a dastardly thing in cold blood. We need not examine their corre- spondence. In a few weeks she had contrived to put a chasm between them as lovers. Had he remained in England, boldly racing his own evil actions, she would have been subjugated, for however keenly she might pierce to tLe true character of a man, the show of an unflinching courage dominated her ; but his departure, leaving all the brutality to be done for him behind his back, filled this woman with a cutting spleen. It is sufficient for some men to know that they are seen through, in order to turn away in loathing from her whom they have desired ; and when they do thus turn away, they not uncommonly turn with a rush of old affection to those who have generously trusted them in the days past, and blindly thought them estimable beings. Algernon was by no means gifted to perceive whether this was the case with his cousin in Paris. CHAPTER XXIX FURTHERMORE OF THE FOOL So long as the fool has his being in the world, he will be a part of every history, nor can I keep him from his place in a narrative that is made to revolve more or less upon its own wheels. Algernon went to bed, completely forgetting Edward and his own misfortunes, under the influence of the opiate of the order for one thousand pounds, to be delivered to him upon application. The morning found him calmly cheerful, until a little parcel was bi'ought to his door, to- gether w'*-h a note from Mrs. Lovell, explaining that the parcel co: v. lined those jewels, his precious gifts of what she hat^ -^ ultingly chosen to call "esteem" for her. !*; 248 KHODA FLEMING I'i ' \ t Algernon took it in his hand, and thought of flinging it through the window ; but as the window happened to be open, he checked the impulse, and sent it with great force in- to a corner of the room : a perfectly fool-like proceeding, for the fool is, after his fashion, prudent, and will never, if he can help it, do himself thorough damage, that he may learn by it and be wiser. " I never stand insult," he uttered self-approvingly, and felt manlier. " No ; not even from you, ma'am," he apos- trophized Mrs. Lovell's portrait, that had no rival now upon the wall, and that gave him a sharp fight for the preserva- tion of his anger, so bewitching she was to see. Her not sending up word that she wished him to come to her ren- dered his battle easier. " It looks rather like a break between us," he said. " If so, you won't find me so obedient to your caprices, Mrs. Margaret L. ; though you are a pretty woman, and know it. Smile away. I prefer a staunch, true sort of a woman, after all. And the colonies it must be, I begin to suspect." This set him conjuring before his eyes the image of Rhoda, until he cried, " I '11 be hanged if the girl does n't haunt me ! " and considered the matter with some curiosity. He was quickly away, and across the square of Lincoln's Inn Fields to the attorney's firm, where apparently his com- ing was expected, and he was told that the money would be placed in his hands on the following day. He then com- municated with Edward, in the brief Caesarian tongue of the telegraph : " All right. Stay. Ceremony arravjed" After which he hailed a skimming cab, and, pronouncing the word " Epsom," sank back in it, and felt in his breast- pocket for his cigar-case, without casting one glance of interest at the deep fit of cogitation the cabman had been thrown into by the suddenness of the order. " Dash'd if it ain't the very thing I went and gone and dreamed last night," said the cabman, as he made his dis- positions to commence the journey. Certain boys advised him to whip it away as hard as he could, and he woula come in the winner. " Where shall I grub, sir ? " the cabman asked through the little door above, to get some knowledge of the quality of his fare. « it FURTHERMORE OF THE FOOL 249 f flinging it >peued to be •eat force in- proceeding, ^^ill never, if ihat he may >y/"gly, and > he apos- il now upon le preserva- '• Her not to her ren- said. " If trices, Mrs. nd know it. a woman, suspect." 3 of Rhoda, s n't haunt )sity. |f Lincoln's ;lyhis com- ney would J then com- tongue of arranyied." 'onouncing his breast- glance of 1 had been gone and lie his dis- ard as he I through le quality " Eat your * grub ' on the course," said Algernon. " Ne'er a hamper to take up nowheres, is there, sir ? " " Do you like the sight of one ? " " Well, it ain't what I object to," " Then go fast, my man, and you will soon see plenty." " If you took to chaftiu' a bit later in the day, it 'd impart more confidence to my bosom," said the cabman; but this he said to that bosom alone. " Ain't no particular colours you 'd like me to wear, is there ? I 'H get a rosette, if you like, sir, and enter in triumph. Gives ye something to stand by. That 's always my remark, founded on observation." " Go to the deuce ! Drive on," Algernon sang out. " Red, yellow, and green." " Lobster, ale, and salad ! " said the cabman, flicking his whip ; " and good colours too. Tenpenny Nail 's the horse. He 's the colours I stick to." And off he drove, envied of Londun urchins, as mortals would have envied a charioteer driving visibly for Olympus. Algernon crossed his arms, with the frown of one looking all inward. At school this youth had hated sums. All arithmetical difficulties had confused and sickened him. But now he worked with indefatigable industry on an imaginary slate ; put his postulate, counted probabilities, allowed for chances, added, deducted, multiplied, and unknowingly performed algebraic feats, till his brows were stiff with frown'"ig, and his brain craved for stimulant. This necessity sent his hand to his purse, for the calling of the cab had not been a premeditated matter. He dis- covered therein some half-crowns and a sixpence, the latter of which he tossed in contempt at some boys who were cheering the vehicles on their gallant career. There was something desperately amusing to him in the thought that he had not even money enough to pay the cab- man, or provide for a repast. He rollicked in his present poverty. Yesterday he had run down with a party of young guardsmen in a very royal manner; and yesterday he had lost. To-day he journeyed to the course poorer than many of the beggars he would find there ; and by a natural deduction, to-day he was to win. m n KKXirvrvjj ii i 250 RHODA FLEMING '(}■■ P fl' it- P , ' i! v| m ) I He whistled mad waltzes to the measure of the wheels. He believed that he had a star. He pitched his half-crowns to the turiipike-meu, and sought to propitiate Fortune by displaying a signal indifference to small change ; in which j.iethod of courting her he was perfectly serious. He abso- lut' ly rejected coppers. They "crossed his luck." Nor caii ive say that he is not an authority on this point: the Goddess certainly does not deal in coppers. Anxious efforts at recollection perplexed him. He could not remember whether he had "turned his money" on looking at the last new moon. Whsn had he seen the lab*-. new moon, and where ? A cloud obscured it ; he had forgotten. He consoled himself by cursing superstition. Tenpenny Nail was to gain the day in spite of Fortune. Algernon said this, and entrenched his fluttering spirit behind common-sense, but he found it a cold corner. The longing for Champagne stimulant increased in fervour. Arithmetic languished. As he was going up the hill, the wheels were still for a moment, and, hearing " Tenpenny Nail " shouted, he put forth his head, and asked what the cry was, concerning that horse. " Gone lame," was the answer. It hit the centre of his nerves, without reaching his com- prehension, and, all Englishmen being equal on Epsom Downs, his stare at the man who had spoken, and his sickly colour, exposed him to pungent remarks. " Hulloa ! here 's another Ninepenny — a penny short ! " and similar specimens of Epsom wit, encouraged by the winks and retorts of his driver, surrounded him ; but it was empty clamour outside. A rage of emotions drowned every idea in his head, and when he got one clear from the mass, it took the form of a bitter sneer at Providence, for cutting off his last chance of reforming his conduct and becoming good. What would he not have accomplished, that was brilliant and beautiful and soothing, but for this dead set against him ! It was clear that Providence cared " not a rap," whether he won or lost — was good or bad. One might just as well be a heathen : why not ? He jumped out of the cab (tearing his coat in the act — a FURTHERMORE OF THE FOOL 2d1 jhe wheels, lalf-crowns :''ortune by ; in wliich He abso- ick." Nor point: the He could loney" on 3n the lab^ t; he had perstition. f Fortune, ing spirit ruer. The fervour. still for a }d, he put joncerning g his com- )n Epsom his sickly y short ! " Jd by the but it was ned every the mass, or cutting becoming that was dead set ' whether st as well e act — a minor evil, but " all of a piece," as he said), and made his way to the Ring. The bee-swarm was thick as ever on the golden bough. Algernon heard no curses, and began to nourish hope again, as he advanced. He began to hope wildly that this rumour about the horse was a falsity, for there was no commotion, no one declaiming. He pushed to enter the roaring ircle, which the demand for an entrance-fee warned him wl a privilege, and ho stammered, and forgot the gent'omaiu/ coolness commonly distinguishing him, under one ot ihe acuter twinges of his veteran complaint of impecuniositv. And then the cabman made himself heard : a civil cabman, but without directions, and uncertain of his dinner a 1 his pay, tolerably hot, also, from threading a crowd after ,., deaf gentleman. His half- injured look restored to Algernon his self-possession. " Ah ! there you are : — scurry away and fetch my purse out of the bottom of the cab. I 've dropped it." On this errand the confiding cabman retired. Holding to a gentleman's purse is even securer than holding to a gentleman. While Algernon was working his forefinger in his waist- coat-pocket reflectively, a man at his elbow said, with a show of familiar deference, — " If it 's any convenience to you, sir," and showed the rim of a gold piece 'twixt finger and thumb. "All right," Algernon replied readily, and felt that he was known, but tried to keej) his eyes from looking at the man's face ; which was a vain effort. He took the money, nodded curtly, and passed in. Once through the barrier, he had no time to be ashamed. He was in the atmosphere of challenges. He heard voices, and saw men whom not to challenge, or try a result with, was to acknowledge oneself mean, and to abandon the man- liness of life. Algernon's betting-book was soon out and in operation. While thus engaged, he beheld faces passing and repassing that were the promise of luncheon and a loan ; and so comfortable was the assurance thereof to him, that he laid the thought of it aside, quite in the background, and went on betting with an easy mind. Small, senseless bets, they merely occupied him ; and winning them was really less satisfactory than losing, which, '( ■ 252 RHODA FLEMING . r' ■•• ; ly ILi at all events, had the merit of adding to tlie bulk of his accusation against the ruling Powers unseen. Algernon was too savage for betting when the great race v/as run. He refused both at taunts and cajoleries ; liut Lord Suckling, coming by, said, " Name your horse," and, caught unawares, Algernon named Little John, one of the ruck, at a hazard. Lord Suckling gave him fair odds, asking, " In tens ? — fifties ? " "Silver," shrugged Algernon, implacable toward Fortune ; and the kindly young nobleman nodded, and made allowance for his ill-temper and want of spirit, knowing the stake he had laid on the favourite. Little John startled the field by coming in first at a canter. " Men have committed suicide for less than this," said Algernon within his lips, and a modest expression of sub- mission to fate settled on his countenance. He stuck to the Ring till he was haggard with fatigue. His whole nature cried out for Champagne, and now he burst away from that devilish circle, looking about for Lord Suckling and a hamper. Food and a frothing drink were all that he asked from Fortune. It seemed to him that the concourse on the downs shifted in a restless way. " What 's doing, I wonder ? " he thought aloud. " Why, sir, the last race ain't generally fashionable," said his cabman, appearing from behind his shoulder. " Don't you happen to be peckish, sir ? — 'cause, luck or no luck, that 's my case. I could n't see your purse, nowheres." " Confound you ! how you hang about me ! What do you want ? " Algernon cried ; and answered his own question by speeding the cabman to a booth with what money re- mained to him, and appointing a place of meeting for the return. After which he glanced round furtively to make sure that he was not in view of the man who had lent him the sovereign. It became evident that the downs were flow- ing back to London. He hurried along the lines of carriages, all getting into motion. The ghastly conviction overtook him that he was left friendless, to starve. Wherever he turned, he saw strangers and empty hampers, bottles, straw, waste paper — the ruins of the feast ; Fate's irony meantime besetting ^^^^M^^^VMH FUliTHKllMOKE OF THE FOOL 253 [ulk of his great race Jei'jps; but >i'sc," aiul, in, ono of fair odds, Fortune ; allowance (e stake he first at a ill is," said m of sub- tiek to the ole nature from that »g and a ' lie asked rse on the ble," said " Don't no luck, ires." at do you question noney re- g for the to make lent him '^ere flow- ting into t he was he saw ;e paper esetting him with beggars, who swallowed Ins imprecations as the earnest of coming charity in such places. At last, he was brought almost to si^^h that he might see the man who had lent him the sovereign, and his wish was hardly formed, when Nicodemus Sedgett approached, waving a hat encircled by preposterous wooden iigures, a trifle less lightly attired than the ladies of the ballet, and as bold in the matter of leg as the female fashion of the period. Algernon eyed the lumpy-headed, heavy-browed rascal with what disgust he had left in him, for one who came as an instrument of the Fates to help him to some poor re- freshment. Sedgett informed him that he had never had such fun in his life. "Just 'fore matrimony," he communicated in a dull whisper, " a fellow ought to see a bit o' the world, I says — don't you, sir ? and this has been rare sport, that it has! Did ye lind your purse, sir ? Never mind 'bout that ther' pound. I '11 lend you another, if ye like. How sh'U it be ? Say the word." Algernon was meditating, apparently on a remote subject. He nodded sharply. "Yes. Call at my chambers to-morrow." Another sovereign was transferred to him ; but Sedgett would not be shaken off. " I just wanted t' have a bit of a talk with you," he spoke low. " Hang it ! I have n't eaten all day," snapped the irritable young gentleman, fearful now of being seen in the rascal's company. " You come along to the joUiest booth — I '11 show it to you, ' said Sedgett, and lifted one leg in dancing attitude. "Come along, sir : the joUiest booth I ever was in, dang me if it ain't ! Ale and music — them 's my darlings ! " the wretch vented his slang. " And I must have a talk with you. I '11 stick to you. I 'm social when I 'm jolly, that I be ; and I don't know a chap on these here downs. Here 's the pint : Is all square ? xim I t' have the cash in cash counted down, I asks ? And is it to be before, or Is it to be after, the ceremony ? There ! bang out ! say, yes or i^J no.' Algernon sent him to perdition with infinite heartiness, ■^S«S.'J.-.,-i->*- 254 RHODA FLEMING ri' i'i: t I It • I j i !■ » ■ 5 II \M '4 Ml ^ but he was dry, dispirited, and weak, and he walked on, Sedgott accompunying him. Ho entered a booth, and par- took of ale and hum, feeling that he was in the dregs of calamity. Though the ale did some service in reviving, it did not cheer him, and he had a fit of moral objection to Sedgett's discourse. Sedgett took his bluntness as a matter to be endured for the honour of hob-a-nobbing with a gentleman. Several times he recurred to the theme which he wanted, as he said, to have a talk upon. He related how ho had courted the young woman, " bash- ful-like," and had been so ; for she was a splendid young woman ; not so handsome now as she used to be when he had seen her in the winter ; but her illness had pulled her down and made her humble : they had cut her hair during the fever, which had taken her pride clean out of her ; and when he had put the question to her on the evening of last Sunday, she had gone into a sort of faint, and he walked away with her affirmative locked up in his breast-pocket, and was resolved always to treat her well — which he swore to. " Married, and got the money, and the lease o' my farm disposed of, I 'm off to Australia and leave old England behind me, and thank ye, mother, thank ye ! and we sha'n't meet again in a hurry. And what sort o' song T 'm to sing for ' England is my nation,' ain't come across me yet. Aus- tralia 's such a precious big world ; but that '11 come easy in time. And there '11 I farm, and damn all you gentlemen, if you come anigh me." The eyes of the fellow were fierce as he uttered this ; they were rendered fierce by a peculiar blackish flush that came on his brows and cheek-bones ; otherwise, the yellow about the little brown dot in the centre of the eyeball had not changed ; but the look was unmistakably savage, animal, and bad. He closed the lids on them, and gave a sort of churlish smile immediately afterward. " Harmony 's the game. You act fair, I act fair. I 've kept to the condition. She don't know anything of my whereabouts — res'dence, I mean ; and thinks I met you in her room for the first time. That 's the truth, Mr. Blan- cove. And thinks me a sheepish chap, and I 'm that, when at supi abol onc| \\Q\ It'l fori soil BH WIHWWW I 19 FURTHERMORE OF THE FOOL 255 walked on, ^ij aud par! 'e dregs of reviving, it objection to 'ndured for 1- Several as he said, .an, " baslv ^did young e when he pulled her 'air during ^'lier; and »g of last he walked ist-pocket, which he ^y farm England we sha'n't ni to sing et. Aus- le easy in blemen, if red this ; ush that e yellow ball had » animal, ' sort of r. ve of my t you in r. Blan- t; when I *ra along wi' her. She can't make out liow I conio to call at her house and know her first. Gives up guessing, I suppose, for she 'a quiet about it ; and I pitch her tales about Australia, and life out there. I've got her to smile, once or twice. She'll turn her hand to making cheeses, never you fear. Only, this I say. I must have the money. It's a thousand and a bargain. No thousand, and no wife for me. Not that I don't stand by the agreement. I 'm solid." Algernon had no power of encountering a human eye steadily, or he would have shown the man with a look how repulsive he was to a gentleman. His sensations grew remorseful, as if he were guilty of handing a victim to the wretch. But the woman followed her own inclination, did she not ? There was no compulsion : she accepted this man. And if she could do that, pity was wasted on her ! So thought he ; and so the world would think of the poor forlorn soul striving to expiate her fault, that her father and sister might be at peace, without shame. Algernon signified to Sedgett that the agreement was fixed and irrevocable on his part. Sedgett gulped some ale. "Hands on it,'* he said, and laid his huge hand open across the table. This was too much. "My word must satisfy you," said Algernon, rising. " So it shall. So it do," returned Sedgett, rising with him. " Will you give it in writing ? " " I won't." "That's blunt. Will you come and have a look at a sparring-match in yond' brown booth, sir ? " " I am going back to London." " London and the theayter — that 's the fun, now, ain't it!" Sedgett laughed. Algernon discerned his cabman and the ■ ;;veyance ready, and beckoned him. " Perhaps, sir," said Sedgett, " if I might make so bold — I don't want to speak o' them sovereigns — but I 've got to get back too, and cash is run low. D' ye mind, sir ? Are you kind-hearted?" ', f 7 J' i .1 ■ ! I! ! \ I ^^PW^WWWB Mr: 25G IIHODA FLEMING A constitutional habit of servility to his creditor when present before him signalized Algernon. He detested the man, but his feebleness was seized by the latter question and he fancied he might, on the road to London, convey to Sedgett's mind that it would be well to split that thou- sand, as he had previously devised. " Jump in," he said. When Sedgett was seated, Algernon would have been glad to walk the distance to London to escape from the unwholesome proximity. He took the vacant place, in horror of it. The man had hitherto appeared respectful; and in Dahlia's presence he had seemed a gentle big fellow with a reverent, affectionate heart. Sedgett rallied him. " You 've had bad luck — that 's wrote on your hatband. Now^ if you was a woman, 1 'd say, tak' and go and have a peroose o' your Bible. That's what my young woman does ; and by George ! it 's just like medicine to her — that 't is ! I 've read out to her till I could ha' swallowed two quart o' beer at a gulp — I was that mortal thirsty. It don't somehow seem to improve men. It didn't do we no good. There was I, cursin' at the bother, down in my boots, like, and she with her hands in a knot, staring the lire out o' count'nance. They 're weak, poor sort o' things." The intolerable talk of the ruffian prompted Algernon to cry out, for relief, — " A scoundrel like you must be past any good to be got from reading his Bible." Sedgett turned his dull brown eyes on him, the thick and hateful flush of evil blood informing them with de- testable malignity. " Come ; you be civil, if you 're going to be my com- panion," he said. " I don't like bad words ; they don't go down my windpipe. * Scoundrel ' 's a name I 've got a retort for, and if it had n't been you, and you a gentleman, you 'd have had it spanking hot from the end o' ray fist. Perhaps you don't know what sort of a arm I 've got ? Just you feel that ther' muscle." He doubled his arm, the knuckles of the fist toward Algernon's face. "Down with it, you dog ! " cried Algernon, crushing his hat as he started up. sa| Ji:ecIitor when Idetestod the F^' question, |don, convey |t that thoi have been |pe from the t place, in I'espectful; ,f l^ig fellow |lied him. 'ur hatband. and have a ^^ng woman 5 to her-^ ' swallowed tal thirsty, ^n't do We ^wn in iiiy ■i"g the fire things," k-lgernon to FUIITHERMORE OF THE FOOL 257 *<^ be got the thick I with de- ray com- y don't go 've got a ^ntleman, >' ray fist, 've got? t toward hing hi IS "It'll come on your nose, if I downs with it, ray lord," said Sedgett. " You 've what they Londoners calls * bon- neted yourself.' " He pulled Algernon by the coat-tail into his seat. " Stop ! " Algernon shouted to the cabman. " Drive ahead ! " roared Sedgett. This signal of a dissension was heard along the main street of Epsom, and re-awake led the flagging hilarity of the road. Algernon shrieked his commands ; Sedgett thundered his. They tussled, and each having inflicted an unpleasant squeeze on the other, they came apart by mutual consent, and exchanged half-length blows. Overhead, the cabman — not merely a cabman, but an individual — f icked the flanks of his horse, and cocked his eye and head in answer to ges- ticulations from shop-doors and pavement. " Let 'em fight it out, I 'm impartial," ht remarked ; and having lifted his little observing door, and g.'ven one glance, parrot-wise, below, he shut away the troubled prospect of those mortals, and drove along benignly. Epsom permitted it; but Ewell contained a sturdy citizen, who, smoking his pipe under his eaves, contemplative of passers-by, saw strife rushing on like a meteor. He raised the waxed end of his pipe, and with an authoritative motion of his head at the same time, pointed out the case to a man in a donkey-cart, who looked behind, saw pugnacity upon wheels, and manoeuvred a docile and wonderfully pretty- stepping little donkey in such a manner that the cabman was fain to pull up. The combatants jumped into the road. " That 's right, gentlemen ; I don't want to spile sport," said the donkey's man. " 0' course you ends your Epsom- day with spirit." "There's sunset on their faces," said the cabman. " Would you try a by-lane, gentlemen? " But now the donkey's man had inspected the figures of the antagonistic couple. " 'T ain't fair play," he said to Sedgett. " You leave that gentleman alone, you, sir ! " The man with the pipe came up. ** No fighting," he observed. "We ain't going to have t7 ,.: M W ^4 258 PvHODA FLEMING § " PI I i I ♦•: 'H ' }^} our roads disgraced. It sha'n't be said Englishmen don't know how to enjoy themselves without getting drunk and disorderly. You drop your fists." The separation had to be accomplished by violence, for Algernon's blood was up. A crowd was not long in collecting, which caused a stop- page of vehicles of every description. A gentleman leaned from an open carriage to look at the fray critically, and his companion stretching his neck to do likewise, " Sedgett ! " burst from his lips involuntarily. The pair of original disputants (for there were many by this time) turned their heads simultaneously toward the carriage. " Will you come on ? " Sedgett roared, but whether to Algernon, or to one of the gentlemen, or one of the crowd, was indefinite. None responding, he shook with ox-like wrath, pushed among shoulders, and plunged back to his seat, making the cabman above bound and sway, and the cab-horse to start and antic. Greatly to the amazement of the spectator: Me manifest gentleman (by comparison) who had recen ly been at a pummelling match with him, and bore the stains of it, hung his head, stepped on the cab, and suffered himself to be driven away. " Sort of a ' man-and-wife ' quarrel," was the donkey's man's comment. " There 's something as corks 'em up, and something uncorks 'em ; but what that something is, I ain't, nor you ain't, man enough to inform the company." He rubbed his little donkey's nose affectionately. " Any gentleman open, to a bet I don't overtake that ere Hansom within three miles o' Ewell ? " he asked, as he took the rein. But his little donkey's quality was famous in the neigh- bourhood. " Come on, then," he said ; " and rhow what you can do, without emilation. Master Tom." Away the little donkey trotted. GUI WJ an(| bee r f i : ' * ■M THE EXPIATION ihmeii don't drunk and iolence, for ■sed a stop- look at the neck to do itarily. L'e many by toward the ivhether to the crowd, ith ox-like ack to his y, and the e manifest been at a of it, hung self to be ! donkey's m up, and is, I ain't, , ,:v; )) e that ere ed, as he he neigh- •u can do, CHAPTER XXX THE EXPIATION Those two in the open carriage, one of whom had calk-d out Sedgett's name, were liobert and Major Waring. When the cab had flown by, they fell back into their seats, and smoked; the original stipulation for the day having been that no harassing matter should be spoken of till nightfall. True to this, Robert tried to think hard on the scene of his recent enjoyment. Horses were to him what music is to a poet, and the glory of the Races he had witnessed was still quick in heart, and partly counteracted his astonish- ment at the sight of his old village enemy in company with Algernon Blaucove. It was not astonishing at all to him that they should have quarrelled and come to blows; for he knew Sedgett well, and the imperative necessity for fighting lam, if only to preserve a man's self-respect and the fair division of peace, when once he had been allowed to get upon terms sufficiently close to assert his black nature ; but how had it come about ? How was it that a gentleman could consent to appear publicly with such a fellow ? He decided that it meant something, and something ominous — but what ? Whom could it affect? Was Algernon Blancove such a poor creature that, feeling himself bound by certain dark dealings with Sedgett to keep him quiet, he permitted the bullying dog to hang to his coat-tail ? It seemed improb- able that any young gentleman should be so weak, but it might be the case ; and " if so," thought Robert, " and I let him know I bear him no ill-will for setting Sedgett upon me, I may be doing him a service." He remembered with pain Algernon's glance of savage humiliation upward, just before he turned to follow Sedgett into the cab ; and considered that he ought in kindness to see him and make him comfortable by apologizing, as if he himself had no complaint to make. (,'> ^1 HI ..>»■: jw»«« «»-i»i«i**i(«iif.,»*«(!i%-!tJf5^(|!fC»M?. rri THE EXriATlON 261 m houkl r? come. I'eplied. him if he so much for •^etlgett and onipelled to "We shall consorting ition, I sup. mark on re- i same pond in, do you lome again. 9 }> nured; but e tone, and hfully this K. I '11 bet t?" ing's like ^ of bet is lose." ngry with ;S of other iiig down- b a matter of reason at all — she fascinates me. I do, I declare, clean forget llhoda ; I forget the girl, if only I see Mrs. Lovell at a distance. How 's that ? I 'm not a fool, with nonsensical fancies of any kind. I know what loving a woman is ; and a man in my position might be ass enough to — all sorts of things. It is n't that ; it 's fascination. I 'm afraid of her. If she talks to me, I feel something like having gulped a bottle of wine. Some women you have a resi)ect for ; some you like or you love ; some you despise : with her, I just feel I'm intoxicated." Major Waving eyed him steadily. He said : " I '11 un- riddle it, if I can. to your comprehension. She admires you for what you are, and she lets you see it ; I dare say she 's not unwilling that you should see it. She has a worship for bravery : it 's a deadly passion with her." Robert put up a protesting blush of modesty, as became him. "Then why, if she does me the honour to think any- thing of me, does she turn against me ? " " Ah ! now you go deeper. She is giving you what assist- ance she can ; at present : be thankful if you ca: '. be satis- fied with her present doings. Perhaps I '11 answer ^Ke oriV-^r question by and by. Now we enter London, and o'j r day is over. How did you like it ?" Robert's imagination rushed back to the downs. " The race was glorious. I Avish we could j^o at that pace in life; I should have a cctainty of winning. Mow miserably dull the streets look ; and the pec^;le ci'eep along — they creep, and seem to like it. Horseback' , my element." They drove up to Robert's lodgings, whore, since the winter, lie had been living austerely and recklessly ; exiled by his sensitiveness from his two homes, Warbeach and Wrexby, and seeking over London for Dahlia, — a pen- sioner on his friend's bounty ; and therein had laii! the de- grading misery to a man of his composition. Often had he thought of enlisting again, and getting drafted to a foreign station. Nothing but the consciousness that he was sub- sisting on loney not his own would have kept him from his vice. 2 s it was, he had lived through the months be- tween win ir and spring, like one threading his way through the -ortuoas lengths of a cavern ; never coming to ( ; 262 KHODA FLEMING h\ I !«i' -!.Hi! ^.ii the light, but coming upon absurd mishcaps in his effort to reach it. His adventures in London partook somewhat of the charactor of those in War beach, minus the victim ; for whom two or three gentlemen in public thoroughfares had been taken. Tliese misdemeanours, in the face of civil society, Robert made no mention of in his letters to Percy. But there was light now, though at first it gave but a faint glimmer, in a lady's coloured envelope, lying on the sitting-room table. Robert opened it hurriedly, and read it ; seized Dahlia's address, with a brain on fire, and said : " It 's signed ' Margaret Lovell.' This time she calls me ' Dear Sir.' " " She could hardly do less," Percy remarked. " I know : but there is a change in her. There 's a sum- mer in her writing now. She has kept her word, Percy. She 's the dearest lady in the world. I don't ask why she did n't help nu before." "You acknowledge the policy of mild measures," said Major Waring. " She 's the dearest lady in the world," Robert repeated. He checked his enthusiasm. " Lord in heaven ? what an evening I shall have." The thought of his approaching interview with Dahlia kept him dumb. As they were parting in the street, Major Waring said: " I will be here at twelve. Let me tell you this, Robert : she is going to be married ; say nothing to dissuade her ; it 's the best she can do ; take a manly view of it. Good-bye." Robert was but slightly affected by the intelligence. His thoughts were on Dahlia as he had first seen her, when in her bloom, and the sister of his darling ; now miserable ; a thing trampled to earth ! With him,, pity for a victim soon became lost in rage at the author of the wrong; and as he walked along he reflected contemptuously on his feeble efforts to avenge her at Warbeach, She lived in a poor row of cottages, striking oif from one of the main south- western suburb roads, not very distant from his own lodgings, at which he marvelled, as at a, cruel irony. He could not discern the numbers, and had to turn up several of the dusky little strips of garden to read the numbers on the doors, A faint smell of lilac recalled the coi Th sev he / < jiotKiuw^^m^iij^i'^fi^^iUficJtAit ^ THE EXPIATION 263 liis efPort to iomewhat of victim; for ^ghfares had ace of civil irs to Percy. gave but a ying on the V-, and read , and said : she calls me ire 's a sum- ord, Percy, sk why she ures," said 't repeated. I.' what an ith Dahlia aring said : s, Robert: e her ; it 's rOod-bye." telligence. her, when miserable ; r a victim ig; and as his feeble in a poor ain south- his own •ony. He turn up read the called the country and old days, and some churcli bells began ringing. The number of the house where he was to find Dahlia was seven. He was at the door of the liouse next to it, when he heard voices in the c:arden beside him. A man said, " Then I have your answer ? " A woman said, " Yes ; yes." " You will not trust to my pledged honour ? " " Pardon me ; not that. I will not live in disgrace." "When I promise, on my soul, that the moment I am freo I will set you right before the world ? " " Oh ! pardon me." « You will ? " " No ; no ! I cannot." " You choose to give yourself to an obscure dog, who '11 ill-treat you, and for whom you don't care a pin's-head ; and why ? that you may be fenced from gossip, and nothing more. I thought ijou were a woman above that kind of meanness. And this is a common countryman. How will you endure that kind of life ? You were made for elegance and happiness : you shall have it. I met you before your illness, when you would not listen to me : I met you after. I knew you at once. Am I changed ? I swear to you I have dreamed of you ever since, and love you. Be as faded as you like ; be hideous, if you like ; but come with me. You know my name, and what I am. Twice I have fol- lowed you, and found your name and address ; twice I have written to you, and made the same proposal. And you won't trust to my honour ? When I tell you I love you tenderly ? When I give you my solemn assurance that you shall not regret it ? You have been deceived by one man : why punish me ? I know — I feel you are innocent and good. This is the third time that you have permitted me to speak to you : let it be final. Say you will trust yourself to me — trust in my honour. Say it shall be to- morrow. Yes ; say the word. To-morrow. My sweet creature — do ! " The man spoke earnestly, but a third person and extra- neous hearer could hardly avoid being struck by the bathetic conclusion. At least, in tone it bordered on a fall; but the woman did not feel it so. She replied : " You mean kindly to me, sir. I thank you tS; ^ i % l,»1 v\ > ^l.f I ,-1 *fW ' 1 i I :|( ■lil HI m If 'i ! % 264 BHODA FLERUNG am indeed, for I am very friendless. Oh ! pardon me : I quite — quite determined. Go — pray, forget me." This was Dahlia's voice. Robert was unconscious of having previously suspected it. Heartily ashamed of letting his ears be filled with secret talk, he went from the garden and crossed the street. He knew this to be one of the temptations of young women in London. Shortly after, the man came through the iron gateway of the garden. He passed under lamplight, and Robert per- ceived him to be a gentleman in garb. A light appeared in the windows of the house. Now that he had heard her voice, the terrors of his interview were dispersed, and he had only plain sadness to encounter. He knocked at the door quietly. There was a long delay after he had sent in his name ; but finally admission was given. " If I had loved her! " groaned Robert, before he looked on her; but when he did look on her, affectionate pity washed the selfish man out of him. All these false sensa- tions, peculiar to men, concerning the soiled purity of woman, the lost innocence, the brand of shame upon her, which are commonly the foul sentimentalism of such as can he too eager in the chase of corruption when occasion suits, ;ind are another side of pruriency, not absolutely foreign to the best of us in our youth, — all passed away from him in Dahlia's presence. The young man who can look on them we call fallen women with a noble eye, is to my mind he that is most nobly begotten of the race, and likeliest to be the sire of a noble line. Robert was less than he ; but Dahlia's aspect helped him to his rightful manliness. He saw that her worth survived. The creature's soul had put no gloss upon her sin. She had sinned, and her suffering was manifest. She had chosen to stand up and take the scourge of God; after which the stones cast by men are not painful. By this I mean that she had voluntarily stripped her spirit bare of evasion, and seen herself for what she was ; pleading no excuse. His scourge is the Truth, and she had faced it. I set disi upc THE EXPIATION 265 iiie am puspected it. with secret ftreet. IS of young gateway of pobert per- "se. Kow s interview ' encounter. ^OMg delay mission was e he looked lonate pity alse sensa- purity of ' upon her, such as can asion suits, ' foreign to ■om hiiu in call fallen It is most 2 sire of a ia's aspect that her sin. She •eof God: 1. Pped her she was ; 1 she had Innumerable fanciful thoughts, few of them definite, be- set the mind at interviews such as these; but Robert was distinctly impressed by her look. It was as that of one upon the yonder shore. Though they stood close together, he had the thought of their being separate — a gulf between. The colourlessness of her features helped to it, and the odd little close-fitting white linen cap which she wore to conceal the stubborn-twisting clipped curls of her shorn head, made her unlike women of our world. She was dressed in black up to the throat. Her eyes were still lu- minously blue, and she let them dwell on Kobert one gentle instant, giving him her hand humbly. " Dahlia ! — my dear sister, I wish I could say j but the luck 's against me," Robert began. She sat, with her fingers locked together in her lap, gazing forward on the floor, her head a little sideways bent. " I believe," he went on — "I have n't heard, but lieve Rhoda is well." "She and father are well, I know," said Dahlia. Robert started : " Are you in communication them ? " She shook her head. " At the end of some days I see them." " And then perhaps you '11 plead my cause, and make me thankful to you for life, Dahlia ? " " Rhoda does not love you." " That 's the fact, if a young woman 's to be trusted to know her own mind, in the first place, and to speak it, in the second." Dahlia closed her lips. The long-lined underlip was no more very red. Her heart knew that it was not to speak of himself that he had come; but she was poor-witted, through weakness of her blood, and out of her own immediate line of thought could think neither far nor desp. He entertained her with talk of his notions of Rhoda, finishing, — " But at the end of a week you will see her, and I dare say she'll give you her notions of me. Dahlia! how happy this '11 make them. I do say — thank God ! from my soul, for this," I be- with shall ( ; 266 RHODA FLEMING ■i"» \m /! She pressed her hands in her lap, trembling. "If you will, please, not speak of it, Mr. Robert." " Say only you do mean it, Dahlia. You mean to let them see you V " She shivered out a " Yes." " That 's right. Because a father and a sister — have n't they a claim ? Think a while. They 've had a terrible time. And it 'f true that you 've consented to a husband, Dahlia ? I 'm glad, if it is ; and he 's good and kind. Right soul-glad I am." While he was speaking, her eyelids lifted and her eyes be- came fixed on him in a stony light of terror, like a creature in anguish before her executioner. Then again her eyelids dropped. She had not moved from her still posture. " You love him ? " he asked in some wonderment. She gave no answer. " Don't you care for him ? " There was no reply. " Because, Dahlia, if you do not — I know I have no right to fancy you do not. How is it ? Tell me. Marriage is an awful thing, where there 's no love. And this man, whoever he is — is he in good circumstances ? I would n't speak of him ; but, you see, I must, as your friend — and I'm that. Come: he loves you? Of course he does. He has said so. I believe it. And he 's a man you can honour and esteem ? You would n't consent without, I 'm sure. What makes me anxious — I look on you as my sister, whether Rhoda will have it so or not; I'm anxious be- cause ■ — I 'm anxious it should be over, for then Rhoda will be proud of the faith she had in you, and it will lighten the old man's heart." Once more the inexplicable frozen look struck over him from her opened eyes, as if one of the minutes of Time had yawned to show him its deep, mute, tragic abyss, and was extinguished. " When does it take place, Dahlia ? " Her long underlip, white almost as the row of teeth it revealed, hung loose. "When?" he asked, leaning forward to hear, and the word was " Saturday," uttered with a feeble harshness, not like the gentle voice of Dahlia. she! as coi I .i' THE EXPIATION 2G7 " This coming Saturday ? " '' No." " Saturday week ? " She fell into a visible trembling. « You named the day ? " He pushed for an indication of cheerful consent to the act she was about to commit, or of reluctance. Possibly she saw this, for now she answered, "I did." The sound was deep in her throat. "Saturday week," said Robert. "I feel to the man as a brother, already. Do you live — you '11 live in the country ? " " Abroad." « Not in Old England ? I 'm sorry for that. But — well ! Things must be as they're ordered. Heigho ! I\6 got to learn it." Dahlia smiled kindly. " Rhoda will love you. She is firm when she loves." " When she loves. Where 's the consolation to me?" — as much — " sister with all her " Do you think she loves me as much " As much as ever ? She loves her heart — all, for I haven't a bit of it." " It is because," said Dahlia, slowly, — "it is because she thinks I am — " Here the poor creature's bosom heaved piteously. " What has she said of me ? I wish her to have blamed me — it is less pain." "Listen," said Robert. "She does not, and couldn't blame you, for it 's a sort of religion with her to believe no wrong of you. And the reason why she hates me is, that I, knowing something more of the world, suspected, and chose to let her know it — I said it, in fact — that you had been deceived by a — But this isn't the time to abuse others. She would have had me, if I had thought proper to think as she thinks, or play hypocrite, aiid pretend to. I'll tell you openly, Dahlia; your father thinks the worst. Ah ! you look the ghost again. It 's hard for you to hear, but you give me a notion of having got strength to hear it. It 's your father's way to think the worst. Now, when you can show him your husband, my dear, he '11 lift his head. He 'sold English. He won't dream of asking questions. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I I 50 M 3.6 i^ IIIIIM If- 1^ u 1- ,. M |M 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 < 6" — ► Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 873-4503 < , ^B ''Mis * fc ^ \^" \ ..v?\ -^Z"^ u 268 RHODA FLEMING Wt ■ s .11. / '. :t • i 1 '.1 ' ^ : . I i: ,''j 1^' i^l : ' J I some day, all England the the day He '11 see a brave and honest young man who must love you, or — he does love you, that 's settled. Your father '11 shake his hand, and as for Ehoda, she'll triumph. The only person to speak out to, is the man who marries you and that you 've done." Eobert looked the interrogation he did not utter. " I have," said Dahlia. " Good : if I may call him brother, better for me. Now, you won't leave you 're married." " Soon. I pray that it may be soon." "Yes; well, on that morning, I'll have your father and Rhoda at my lodgings, not wide from here : if I 'd only known it earlier ! — and you and your husband shall come there and join us. It'll be a happy meeting at last." Dahlia stopped her breathing. "Will you see Rhoda? " "I '11 go to her to-morrow, if you like." " If I might see her, just as I am leaving England ! not before." " That 's not generous," said Robert. " Is n't it ? " she asked like a child. "Fancy! — to see you she's been longing for, and the ship that takes ytu off, perhaps everlastingly, as far as this world 's concerned ! " " Mr. Robert, I do not wish to deceive my sister. Father need not be distressed. Rhoda shall know. I will not be guilty of falsehoods any more — no more ! Will you go to her ? Tell her — tell Rhoda what I am. Say I have been ill. It will save her from a great shock." She covered her eyes. " I said in all my letters that my husband was a gentle- man." It v.\is her first openly penitential utterance in his pres- ence, and her cheeks were faintly reddened. It may have been this motion of her blood which aroused the sunken humanity within her ; her heart leaped, and she cried, — " I can see her as I am, I can. I thought it impossible. Oh! I can. Will she come to me ? My sister is a Chris- tian and forgives. Oh ! let me see her. And go to her, ;ho must love our father '11 ^mmph. The marries you, utter. ^ay, all the and the day your father Here: if l'(j lusband shall 7 meeting at Ingland I not for, and the y> as far as ter. Father ■ will not be Will you go Say I have '■as a gentle- in his pres- et may have the sunken cried, — impossible, is a Chris- go to her, THE EXPIATION 269 dear Mr. Robert, and ask her — tell her all, and ask her if I may be spared, and may work at something — anything, for my livelihood near my sister. It is difficult for women to earn money, but I think I can. I have done so since my illness. I have been in the hospital with brain fever. Jle was lodging in the house with me before. He found me at the hospital. When I came out, he walked with me to support me : I was very weak. Ho read to me, and then asked me to marry him. He asked again. I lay in bed one night, and with my eyes open, I saw the dangers of women, and the trouble of my father and sister ; and pits of wickedness. I saw like places full of snakes. I had such a yearning for protection. I gave him my word I would be his wife, if he was not ashamed of a wife like me. I wished to look once in father's face. I had fan- cied that Rhoda would spurn me, when she discovered ray falsehood. She — sweet dear! would she ever? Go to her. Say, I do not love any man. I am heart-dead. I have no heart except for her. I cannot love a husband. He is good, and it is kind : but, oh ! let me be spared. His face! — " She pressed her hands tight into the hollow of her eyes. " No ; it can't be meant. Am I very ungrateful ? This does not seem to be what God orders. Only if this must be ! only if it must be ! If my sister cannot look on me without ! He is good, and it is unselfish to take a money- less, disgraced creature : but, my misery ! — If my sister will see me, without my doing this ! — Go to her, Mr. Robert. Say Dahlia was false, and repents, and has worked with her needle to subsist, and can, and will, for her soul strives to be clean. Try to make her understand. If Rhoda could love you, she would know. She is locked up — she is only ideas. My sweet is so proud. I love her for her pride, if she will only let me creep to her feet, kiss her feet. Dear Mr. Robert, help me ! help me ! 1 will do anything she says. If she says I am to marry him, I will. Don't mind my tears — they mean nothing now. Tell my dear, I will obey her. I will not be false any more to her. I wish to be quite stripped. And Rhoda may know me, and forgive me, if she can. And — Oh ! if she thinks, for father's ^ ■: I .^1 270 RHODA PLEMINQ % t' sake, I ought, I will submit and speak the words ; 1 will • I am ready. I pray for mercy." Robert sat with his fist at his temples, in a frowning meditation. Had she declared her reluctance to take the step, in the first moments of their interview, he might have been ready to support her; but a project fairly launched becomes a reality in the brain, — a thing once spoken of attracts like a living creature, and does not die voluntarily. Eobert now beheld all that was in its favour, and saw nothing but flighty, flimsy objections to it. He was hardly moved by her unexpected outburst. Besides, there was his own position in the case. Rhoda would smile on him if he brought Dahlia to her, and brought her happy in the world's eye. It will act as a sort of signal for general happiness. But if he had to go and explain matters base and mournful to her , there would be no smile on her face, and not much gratitude in her breast. There would be none for a time, certainly. Proximity to her faded sister made him conceive her attainable, and thrice precious by contrast. He fixed his gaze on Dahlia, and the perfect refinement of her simplicity caused him to think that she might be aware of an inappropriateness in the contemplated union. *' Is he a clumsy fellow ? I mean, do you read straight ofE that he has no pretension to any manners of a gentle- man — nothing near it ? " To this question, put with hesitation by Robert, Dahlia made answer, "T respect him." She would not strengthen her prayer by drawing the man's portrait. Speedily she forgot how the doing so would in any way have strengthened her prayer. The excitement had left her brain dull. She did little more than stare mildly, and absently bend her head, while Robert said that he would go to Rhoda on the morrow, and speak seriously with her. " But I think I can reckon her ideas will side with mine, that it is to your interest, my dear, to make your feelings come round warm to a man you can respect, and who offers you a clear path," he said. Whereat Dahlia quietly blinked her eyes. an! ..^l, — i_. THE EXPIATION 271 ords; 1 will; 1 a frowning 5 step, in the ^e been ready >d becomes a attracts like 'ily- Robert nothing but ly moved by ase. Rhoda to her, and i^ill act as a be bad to go tbere would itude in her certainly. onceive her refinement 16 might be ited union. 3ad straight of a gentle- )ert, Dahlia rawing the e doing so ayer. Tlie little more ead, while le morrow, with mine, ur feelings who offers When he stood up, she rose likewise. " Am I to take a kiss to llhoda ? " be said, and, seeing her answer, bent bis foreliead, to which she put her lips. "And now I must think all night long about the method of transferring it. Good-bye, Dahlia. You shall hear from your sister the morning after to-morrow. Good- bye ! " He pressed her hand, and went to the door. "There 's nothing I can do for you, Dahlia ? " "Not anything." "God bless you, my dear ! " Robert breathed with the pleasant sense of breathing, when he was again in the street. Amazement, that what he had dreaded so much should be so easily over, set him thinking, in his fashion, on the marvels of life, and the naturalness in the aspect of all earthly things when you look at them with your eyes. But in the depths of his heart there was disquiet. " It 's the best she can do; she can do no better," he said; and said it more frequently than it needed by a mind estab- lished in the conviction. Gradually he began to feel that certain things seen with the eyes, natural as they may then appear and little terrible, leave distinct, solid, and grave impressions. Something of what our human tragedy may show before high heaven possessed him. He saw it bare of any sentiment, in the person of the girl Dahlia. He could neither put a halo of imagination about her, nor could he conceive one degraded thought of the creature. She stood a naked sorrow, haunting his brain. And still he continued saying, "It 's the best she can do; it 's best for all. She can do nothing better." He said it, unaware that he said it in self-defence. The pale, nun-like, ghostly face hung before him, stronger in outline the farther time widened between him and that suffering flesh. Pi I i ^11 " * I ', \ EflK^^Hil ! j' ■ * ^^Hl ll 't ^9] m a 1 1 272 BHODA FLEMING CHAPTER XXXI i I u:> THE MELTING OF THE THOUSAND The thousand pounds were in Algernon's hands at last. He had made his escape from Boyne's Bank early in the afternoon, that he might obtain the cheque, and feel the money in his pocket before thr.t day's sun was extin- guished. There was a note fo five hundred, four notes for a hundred severally, and two fifties. And all had come to him through the mere writing down of his name as a recipient of the sum ! It was enough to make one in love with civilization. Money, when it is once in your pocket, seems to have come there easily, even if you have worked for it; but if you have done no labour whatever, and still find it there, your sensations (supposing you to be a butterfly youth — th ^ typical child of a wealthy country) exult marvellously, and soar above the conditions of earth. He knew the very features of the notes. That gallant old Five Hundred, who might have been a Thousand, but that he had nobly split himself into centurions and skir- mishers, stood in his imaginative contemplation like a grand white-headed warrior, clean from the slaughter and in court-ruffles — say, Blucher at the court of the Waterloo Regent. The Hundreds were his Generals; the Fifties his captains; and each one was possessed of unlimited power of splitting himself into serviceable regiments at the call of his lord, Algernon. He scarcely liked to make the secret confession that it was the largest sum he had ever as yet carried about: but as it heightened his pleasure, he did confess it for half an instant. Five Hundred in the bulk he had never attained to. He felt it as a fortification against every mishap in life. To a young man commonly in difficulties with regard to the paying of Ins cabman, and latter Ij* the getting of his dinner, the sense of elevation impartea by the sum was intoxicating. But, thinking too much of the Five Hun- THE MELTING OP THE THOUSAND 273 ands at last, early in the md feel the was extin- . four notes nd all had )f his name civilization. have come but if you there, your ^outh — th'^ llously, and 'hat gallant ousand, but IS and skir- tion like a Lughter and le Waterloo the Fifties ' unlimited Jgiments at sion that it about: but for half an er attained mishap in i regard to ting of his 3 sum was Five Hun- dred waxed dangerous for the fifties ; it dwarfed them to such insignificance that it made them lose their self- respect. So, Algernon, ])ursuing excellent tactics, set his mind upon some stray shillings that he had — a remainder of five pounds borrowed from old Anthony, when he endeavoured to obtain repayment of the one pound and interest dating from the night at tlie theatre. Algernon had stopped his mouth on that point, as well as (ioncerning his acquaintance with Dahlia, by immediately attempting to borrow further, whenever Anthony led the way for a word in private. A one-pouiid creditor had no particular terrors for him, and be mancjeuvred the old man neatly, saying, as previously, "Really, T don't know the young person you allude to; I happened to meet her, or some one like her, casually," and dropping his voice, "I'm rather short — what do you think ? Could you ? — a trifling ac- commodation ? " from which Anthony fled. But on the day closing the Epsom week he beckoned Anthony secretly to follow him out of the office, and vol- unteered to give news that he had just heard of Dahlia. "Oh," said Anthony, "I've seen her." "I haven't," said Algernon, "upon my honour." " Yes, I 've seen her, sir, and sorry to hear her husband 's fallen a bit low." Anthony touched his pocket. "What they calls * nip ' tides, ain't it ? " Algernon sprang a compliment under him, which sent the vain old fellow up, whether he would or not, to the effect that Anthony's tides were not subject to lunar influence. "Now, Mr. Blancove, you must change them notions o' me. I don't say I should n't be richer if I 'd got what 's owing to me." " You 'd have to be protected ; you 'd be Bullion on two legs," said Algernon, always shrewd in detecting a weak- ness. " You 'd have to go about with sentries on each side, and sleep in an iron safe ! " The end of the interview was a visit to the public-house, and the transferring of another legal instrument from Algernon to Anthony. The latter departed moaning over his five pounds ten shillings in paper; the former rejoicing at his five pounds in gold. That day was Saturday. On 18 'C ■.1 :'iif 274 RHODA FLEMING ^ 'ri - 'i I! 1^ f ' ' i •;! / • ijii • I A '' Monday, only a few shillings of the five pounds remained* but they were sutticient to command a cab, and if modesty in dining was among the prescriptions for the day, a dinner. Algernon was driven to the West. He remembered when he had plunged in the midst of the fashionable whirlpool, having felt reckless there formerly, but he had become remarkably sedate when he stepped along the walks. A certain equipage, or horse, was to hig taste, and once he would have said, " That 's the thing for me;" being penniless. Now, on the contrary, he reckoned the possible cost grudgingly, saying, "Eh?" to himself, and responding " No, " faintly, and then more positively, '^Won't do." He was by no means acting as one on a footing of equal- ity with the people he beholds. A man who is ready to wager a thousand pounds that no other man present has that amount in his pocket, can hardly feel unequal to his company. Charming ladies 0:1 horseback cantered past. " Let them go," he thought. Yesc'^rday the sight of one would have set him dreaming on grp.nd alliances. When you can afford to be a bachelor, the case is otherwise. Presently, who should ride by but Mrs. Lovell! She was talking more earnestly than was becoming to that easy-mannered, dark- eyed fellow ; the man who had made him savage by enter- ing the opera-box. " Poor old Ned ! " said Algernon ; " I must put him on his guard." But even the lifting of a finger — a hint on paper — would bring Edward over from Paris, as he knew; and that was not in his scheme ; so he only determined to write to his cousin. A flood of evening gold lay over the Western park. " The glory of this place," Algernon said to himself, "is, that you're sure of meeting none but gentlemen here ; " and he contrasted it with Epsom Downs. A superstitious horror seized him when, casting his eyes ahead, he perceived Sedgett among the tasteful groups — as discordant a figure as could well be seen, and clumsily aware of it, for he could neither step nor look like a man at ease. Algernon swung round and retraced his way; but Sedgett had long sight vol cai ev^ anj wil y--{ THE MELTING OF THE THOUSAND 275 Js remained- ^ li modesty tlie day, l niiJst of the I'e formerly, ^le stepped "> ^vas to his lie thing for he reckoned to himself, positively, ^S of equal- is ready to present has qual to his "Let them vould have 1 can afford ^ntly, who king more Bred, dark- s by enter- »ut him on - a hint on he knew J irmined to IS. •ark. iself, ** in here;" J his eyes groups — clumsily a man at ivayj but "I 'd heard of London " — Algernon soon lind the hated voice in his ears, — "and I 've bin up to London j'fore; I came here to have a wink at the fash'nables — hang me, if ever I see such a scrumptious lot. It 's worth a walk up and down for a hour or more. D you come heer often, sir? " •' Eh ? Who are you ? Oh ! '' said Algernon, half mad with rage. "Excuse me; " and he walked faster. ** Fifty times over, " Sedgett responded cheerfully. " I 'd pace you for a match up and down this place if you liked. Ain't the horses a spectacle ? I 'd rather be heer than there at they Races. As for the ladies, I '11 tell you what: ladies or no ladies, give my young woman time for her hair to grow-, and her colour to como, by George ! if she would n't shine against e'er a one — smite me stone blind, if she wouldn't! So she shall! Australia '11 see. I owe you my thanks for interdoocin' me, and never fear my not remembering." Where there was a crowd, Algernon could elude his persecutor by threading his way rapidly; but the open spaces condemned him to merciless exposure, and he flew before eyes that his imagination exaggerated to a stretch of supernatural astonishment. The tips of his fingers, the roots oi his hair, pricked with vexation, and still, manoeuvre as he might, Sedgett followed him. "Call at my chambers," he said sternly. "You 're nover at home, sir." "Call to-morrow morning, at ten." "And see a great big black door, and kick at it till my toe ?3omes through my boot. Thank ye." "I tell you, I won't have you annoying me in public; once for all." "Why, sir, I thought we parted friends last time. Did n't you shake my hand, now, did n't you shake my hand, sir ? I ask you whether you shook my hand, or whether you did n't ? A plain answer. We had a bit of a scrimmage coming home. I admit we had; but shaking hands means 'friends again we are.' I know you're a gentleman, and a man like me should n't be so bold as fur to strike his betters. Only, don't you see, sir, Full-o'- Beer *s a hasty chap, and up in a minute ; and he 's sorry for it after." i 1 'li 276 RHODA FLEMING ','\ \\ 1 •J i P ' I. is I ^ 'i Algernon conceived a brilliant notion. Drawing five shillings from his pocket, he held them over to Sed<'ett and toid him to drive down to his chambers, and aw.-iit his coming. Sedgett took the money; but it was iivo shillings lost. He made no exhibition of receiving orders, and it was impossible to address him imperiously without pro- voking observations of an animated kind from the elegant groups parading and sitting. Young Harry Latters cauglit Algernon's eye; never was youth more joyfully greeted. Harry spoke of the Friday's race, and the defection of the horse Tenpenny Nail. A man passed with a nod and " How d' ye do ? " for which he received in reply a cool stare. " Who 's that ? " Algernon asked. "The son of a high dignitary," said Harry. "You cut him." "I can do the thing, you see, when it 's a public duty." "What's the matter with him ?" " Merely a black-leg, a grec, a cheat, swindler, or what- ever name you like," said Harry. "We none of us nod to the professionals in this line; and I won't exchange salutes with an amateur. I 'm peculiar. He chose to he a,bsent on the right day last year; so from that date, I consider him absent in toto ; ' none of your rrrrt' — m reck- onings, let 's nave the rrnT — vi toto ; ' — you remember Suckling's story of the Yankee fellow ? Bye-bye ; shall see you the day after to-morrow. You dine with me and Suckling at the Club." Latters was hailed by other friends. Algernon was forced to let him go. He dipped under the iron rail, and crossed the row at a run; an indecorous proceeding; he could not help it. The hope was that Sedge tt would not have the like audacity, or might be stopped, and Alger- non's reward for so just a calculation was, that on looking round he found himself free. He slipped with all haste out of the Park. Sedgett's presence had the deadening power of the torpedo on the thousand pounds. For the last quarter of an hour, Algernon had not felt a motion of it. A cab, to make his escape certain, was suggested to his mind; and he would have called a cab, had not the novel apparition of economy, which now THE MELTING OF THE THOUSAND 277 IV rawing fiv^ J'^ ►'^edgett, Ki await Jiis \'L' shillings '!•'!•«, and it itliout pro- the elegant never was ha Friday's y Nail. A or wliich he jHo duty." -r, or what- >f us nod to exchange chose to he hat date, I r — wreck- i remeniher -bye; shall 'ith me and :ernon was )n rail, and Beding; he would not md Alger- on looking 1 all haste deadening I not felt a rtain, was led a cab, '^hich now haunted him, suggested that he had recently tossed five shillings into the gutter. A man might dine on four shil- lings and sixpence, enjoying a modest half-pint of wine, and he possessed that sum. To pinch himself and deserve well of Providence, he resolved not to drink wine, but beer, that day. He named the beverage, — a pint-bottle of ale ; and laughed, as a royal economist may, who punishes himself to please himself. " Mighty jolly, ain't it, sir ? " said Sedgett, at his elbow. Algernon faced about, and swore an oath from his boots upward; so vehement was his disgust, and all-pervading his amazem3nt. "I '11 wallop you at that game," said Sedgett. " You infernal scoundrel ! " "If you begin swearing," Sedgett warned him. " What do you want with me ? " "I '11 tell you, sir. I don't want to go to ne'er a cock- fight nor betting-hole." "Here, come up this street," said Algernon, leading the way into a dusky defile from a main parade of fashion. "Now, what's your business, confound you I" "Well, sir, I ain't goin' to be confounded; that I '11 — I'll swear to. The long and the short is, I must have some money 'fore the week 's out." "You won't have a penny from me." "That's blunt, though it ain't in my pocket," said Sedgett, grinning. " I say, sir, respectful as you like , I 7>^..ist. I've got to pay for passengerin' over the sea, self and wife ; and quick it must be. There 's things to buy on both sides. A small advance, and you won't be bothered. Say fifty. Fifty, and you don't see me till Saturday, when, accordin' to agreement, you hand to me the cash outside the church door; and then we parts to meet no more. Oh! let us be joyful — I '11 sing." Algernon's loathing of the coarseness and profanity of villany increased almost to the depth of a sentiment as he listened to Sedgett. "I do nothing of the sort," he said. "You shall not have a farthing. Be off. If you follow me, I give you into custody of a policeman," "You durst n't." Sedgett eyed him warily. i: ] 11! ' ( fi k \ ' 278 RHODA FLEMING t; t , i^ A\ ! 1\ f ■ I ' He could spy a physical weakness, by affinity of cowardice, as quickly as Algernon a moral weakness, by the same sort of relationship to it. "You don't dare," Sedgett pursued. "And why should you, sir ? there 's ne'er a reason why. I 'm civil. I asks for my own; no more 'n my own, it ain't. I call the bar- gain good; why sh'd I want fur to break it ? I want the money bad. I 'm sick o' this country. I 'd like to be off in the first ship that sails. Can't you let me have ten till to-morrow ? then t' other forty. I 've got a mortal need for it, that I have. Come, it 's no use your walking at that rate; my legs are's good as yours." Algernon had turned back to the great thoroughfare. He was afraid that ten pounds must be forfeited to this worrying demon in the flesh, and sought the countenance of his well-dressed fellows to encourage him in resisting. He could think of no subterfuge ; menace was clearly use- less: and yet the idea of changing one of the notes, and for so infamous a creature, caused pangs that helped him further to endure his dogging feet and filthy tongue. This continued until he saw a woman's hand waving from a cab. Presuming that such a signal, objectionable as it was, must be addressed to himself, he considered whether he should lift his hat, or simply smile as a favoured, but not too deeply flattered, man. The cab drew up, and the woman said, "Sedgett." She was a well-looking woman, strongly coloured, brown -eyed, and hearty in appearance. " What a brute you are, Sedgett, not to be at home when you brought me up to London with all the boxes and bed- ding — my goodness ! It 's a Providence I caught you in my eye, or I should have been driving down to the docks, and seeing about the ship. You are a brute. Come in at once." " If you *re up to calling names, I 've got one or two for you," Sedgett growled. Algernon had heard enough. Sure that he had left Sedgett in hands not likely to relinquish him, he passed on with elastic step. Wine was greatly desired, after his torments. Where was credit to be had ? True, he looked contemptuously on the blooming land of credit now, but an entry to it by one of the backdoors would have been ^:i, I :! ^'^ V i^> (' ;- 'II J I: > t,lui •i ll I < "You '11 never do anything with him," ho said. " 1 don't think I shall," Sir William admitted. " Did n't I tell you so ? " "You did. But, the point is, what will you do with him?" " Send him to Jericho to ride wild jackasses. That 's all he 's fit for." The superior complacency of Sir William's smile caught the squire's attention. " What do you mean to do with Ned ? " " I hope," was the answer, " to have him married before the year is out." " To the widow ? " " The widow ? " Sir William raised his eyebrows. " Mrs. Lovell, I mean." " What gives you that idea ? " "Why, Ned has made her an offer. Don't you know that ? " "I know nothing of the sort." " And don't believe it ? He has. He 's only waiting now, over there in Paris, to get comfortably out of a scrape — you remember what I told you at Fairly — and then Mrs. Lovell 's going to have him — as he thinks ; but, by George, it strikes me this major you've got here, knows how to follow petticoats and get in his harvest in the enemy's absence." " I think you 're quite under a delusion, in both respects," observed Sir William. " What makes you think that ? " " I have Edward's word." " He lies as naturally as an infant sucks." " Pardon me ; this is mi/ son you are speaking of." " And this is your Port I 'm drinking ; so I '11 say no more.'* The squire emptied his glass, and Sir William thrummed on the table. " Now, my dog has got his name," the squire resumed. " I 'm not ambitious about him. You are, about yours ; and you ought to know him. He spends or he don't spend. It's not the question whether he gets into debt, but whether he does mischief with what he spends. If Algy 's a bai fish, LA QUESTION D ARGENT 291 n't you know m thrummed Ned's a bit of a serpent; damned cdever, no doubt. I sup- pose, you would n't let liini marry old Fleming's daughter, now, if he wanted to ? " « Who is Fleming ? '* vSir William thundered out. "Fleming's the father of the girl. I'm sorry for him. He sells his farm — land which 1 've been looking at for years ; so I profit by it ; but I don't like to see a man like that broken up. Algy, I said before, 's a bad fish. Hang me, if I think he *d have behaved like Ned. If he had, I 'd have compelled him to marry her, and shipped them both off, clean out of the country, to try their luck elsewhere. " You 're proud ; I 'm practical. I don't expect you to do the same. I 'm up in London now to raise money to buy the farm — Queen's Anne's Farm; it 's advertized for sale, I see. Fleming won't sell it to me privately, because my name 's Blancove, and I 'm the father of my son, and he fancies Algy 's the man. Why ? he saw Algy at the theatre in London with this girl of his ; — we were all young fel- lows once ! — and the rascal took Ned's burden on his shoulders. So, I shall have to compete with other buyers, and pay, I dare say, a couple of hundred extra for the prop- erty. Do you believe what I tell you now ? " " Not a word of it," said Sir William, blandly. The squire seized the decanter and drank in a fury. "I had it from Algy." "That would all the less induce me to believe it." " H'm ! " the squire frowned. " Let me tell you — he 's a dog — but it's a damned hard thing to hear one's own flesh and blood abused. Look here : there 's a couple. One of them has made a, fool of a girl. It can't be my rascal — stop a minute — he isn't the man, because she 'd have been sure to have mado a fool of him, that's certain. He's a soft- hearted dog. He 'd aim at a cock-sparrow, and be glad if he missed. There you have him. He was one of your good boys. I used to tell his poor mother, * When you leave off thinking for him, he '11 go to the first handy villain — and that's the devil.' And he's done it. But, here's the dif- ference. He goes himself ; he don't send another. I '11 tell you what : if you don't know about Mr. Ned's tricks, you ought. And you ought to make him marry the girl, and be off to New Zealand, or any of the upside-down H ''m 292 KHODA FLKMiNQ . I ). places, where he might begin by farming, and soon, with his abilities, be cock o' the walk. He woukl, perhaps, be sending us a letter to say that he i)referred to break away from the mother country and establish a republic. He 's got the same ])olitical opinions as you. Oh ! he '11 do well enough over here ; of course he will. He 's the very fellow to do well. Knock at him, he 's hard as nails, and '11 stick anywhere. You would n't listen to me, when I told you about this at Fairly, where some old sweetheart of the girl mistook that poor devil of a scapegoat, Algy, for him, and went pegging at him like a madman." " No," said Sir William, — " no, I would not. Nor do I now. At least," he struck out his right hand deprecatingly, " I listen." " Can you tell me what he was doing when he went to Italy ? " " He went partly at my suggestion." " Turns you round his little finger ! He went off with this girl : wanted to educate her, or some nonsense of the sort. That was Mr. Ned's business. Upon my soul, I'm sorry for old Fleming. I 'm told he takes it to heart. It *s done him up. Now, if it should turn out to be Ned, would you let him right the girl by marrying her ? You would n't ! " " The principle of examining your hypothesis before you proceed to decide by it, is probably unknown to you," Sir William observed, after bestowing a considerate smile on his brother, who muffled himself up from the chilling sen- tentiousness, and drank. Sir William, in the pride of superior intellect, had heard as good as nothing of the charge against his son. " Well," said the squire, " think as you like, act as you like ; all 's one to me. You 're satisfied ; that 's clear ; and I ' I 'm some hundred of pounds out of pocket. This major 's paying court to the widow, is he ? " " I can't say that he is." " It would be a good thing for her to get married." « I should be glad." " A good thing for her, I say." " A good thing for him, let us hope." " If he can pay her debts." Sir William was silent, and sipped his wine. I LA QUESTION D ARGENT 29.3 .^^id soon, with to break away il'ublic. He '8 I lie ']1 do well Ihe very feUov^ |s, and 'l\ stick en I told you [art of the girl |, for him, and 'ot- Nor do I deprecatingly, en he went to It off with this se of the sort. I 'm sorry for It 's done him vould you let )uld n't ! " sis before you ' to you," Sir rate smile on 3 chilling sen- ct, had heard ►n. ^e, act as you 's clear ; and This major 's pried.** " And if he can keep a tight hand on the reins. That 's wanted," said the squire. The geutlonum wliose road to happiness wa.s thus pre- scribed stood by Mrs, Lovell's chair in tho drawiiig-roum. He held a lotter in his hand, for which her own was i)k'ad- ingly extended. <' I know you to be the soul of truth, Percy," she was saying. *' The question is not that ; but whether you can bear the truth." " Can I not ? Who would live without it ? " " Pardon me ; there 's more. You say, you admire this friend of mine ; no doubt you do. Mind, 1 am going to give you the letter. I wish you simply to ask yourself now, whether you are satisfied at my making a conlidant of a man in Robert Eccles's position, and think it natural and just — you do ? " "Quite just," said Mrs. Lovell; "and natural? Yes, natural; though not common. Eccentric; which only means hors dii com/nmn; and can be natural. It is natural. I was convinced he was a noble fellow, before I knew that you had made a friend of him. I am sure of it now. And did he not save your life, Percy ? " " I have warned you that you are partly the subject of the letter." " Do you forget that I am a woman, and want it all the more impatiently ? " Major Waring suffered the letter to be snatched from his hand, and stood like one who is submitting to a test, or watching the effect of a potent drug. " It is his second letter to you," Mrs. Lovell murmured. " I see ; it is a reply to yours." She read a few lines, and glanced up, blushing. " Am I not made to bear more than I deserve ? " " If you can do such mischief, without meaning any, to a man who is in love with another woman — " said Percy. "Yes," she nodded, "I perceive the deduction; but in- ferences are like shadows on the wall, — they are thrown from an object, and are monstrous distortions of it. That is why you misjudge women. You infer one thing from another, and are ruled by the inference." -r- " i 294 RHODA FLE^nNG .y >\ ! I A i'\ )l He simply bowed. Edward would have answered her in a bright strain, and led her on to say brilliant things, and then have shown her, as by a sudden light, that she had lost herself, and reduced her to feel the strength and safety of his hard intellect. That was the idea in her brain. The next moment her heart ejected it. " Percy, when I asked permission to look at this letter, I was not aware how great a compliment it would be to me if I was permitted to see it. It betrays your friend." " It betrays something more," said he. Mrs. Lovell cast down her eyes and read, without further comment. These were the contents : — " My dear Percy, — Now that I see her every day again, I am worse than ever; and I remember thinking once or twice that Mrs. L. had cured me. I am a sort of man wdio would jump to reach the top of a mountain. I understa'id how superior Mrs. L. is to every woman in the world I have seen ; but Ehoda cures me on that head. Mrs. Lovell makes men mad and happy, and Ehoda makes them sensible and miserable. I have had the talk with Ehoda. It is all over. I have felt like being in a big room with one candle alight ever since. She has not looked at me, and does nothing but get by her father whenever she can, and takes his hand and holds it. I see where the blow has struck her : it has killed her pride ; and Ehoda is almost all pride. I suppose she thinks our plan is the best. She has not said she does, and does not mention her sister. She is going to die, or she turns nun, or marries a gentleman. I shall never get her. She will not forgive me for bringing this news to her. T told you how she coloured, the first day I came ; which has all gone now. She just open?=' her lips to me. You remember Corporal Thwaites — you caught his horse, when he had his foot near wrenched off, going through the gate — and his way of breathing through the under row of his teeth — the poor creature was in such pain — that 's just how she takes her breath. It makes her look sometimes like that woman's head with the snakes for her hair. Tliis bothers me — how is it you and Mrs. Lovell manage to talk together of such things ? Why, two men it f '^\ LA QUESTION D'ARGENT 295 rered her in <^i"ngs, and lat she had and safety )i'ain. The his letter, I J be to me if d." put further every day ^r thinking m a sort of ountain. I man in the head. Mrs, riakes them 'ith llhoda. m with one at me, and he can, and e blow has I is almost best. She sister. She gentleman. 31* bringing id, the first open^ her ites — you enched off, ig througli as in such makes her snakes for Irs. Lovell ", two meu rather hang their heads a bit. My notion is, that women — ladies, in especial, ought never to hear of sad things of this sort. Of course, I mean, if they do, it cannot harm them. It only upsets me. Why are ladies less particular than girls in lihoda's place ? " ( " Shame being a virtue," was Mrs. Lovell's running comment.) " She comes up to town with her father to-morrow. The farm is ruined. The poor old man had to ask mo for a loan to pay the journey. Luckily, Rhoda has saved enough with her pennies and twopences. Ever since I left the Farm, it has been in the hands of an old donkey here, who has worked it his own way. What is in the ground will stop there, and may as well. " I leave off writing, I write such stuff ; and if I go on writing to you, I shall be putting these thin;^-s ' ! ! !' The way you write about Mrs. Lovell, convinces me you are not in my scrape, or else gentlomon are just as different from their inferiors as ladies are from theirs. That's the question. What is the meaning of your 'not being able to leave her for a day, for fear she should fall under other influences ' ? Then, I copy your words, you say, * She is all things to everybody, and cannot help it.' In that case, I would seize my opportunity and her waist, and tell her she was locked up from anybody else. Friend- ship with men — but I cannot understand friendship with women, and watching them to keep them right, v-'hich must mean that you do not thirds much of them — " Mrs. Lovell, at this point, raised her eyes abruptly from the letter and returned it. " You discuss me very freely with your friend," she said. Percy drooped to her, '*I warned you when you wished to read it." " But, you see, you have bewildered him. It was scarcely wise to write other than plain facts. Men of that class — " She stopped. " Of that class? " said he. "Men of any class, then: you yourself: if anyone wrote to you such things, what would you think? It is very unfair. I have the honour of seeing you daily, because you cannot trust me out of your sight ? What is there inexpli- 296 KHODA FLEMING i^ •\ t ■M \ i-:,' I'll I ■ cable about me ? Do you wonder that I talk openly of women who are betrayed, and do my best to help them?" " On the contrary ; you command my esteem," said Percy. " But you think me a puppet ? " " Fond of them, perhaps ? " his tone of voice queried in a manner that made her smile. <' I hate them," she said, and her face expressed it. " But you make them." " How ? You torment me." " How can I explain the magic ? Are you not making one of me now, where I stand ? " " Then sit." " Or kneel ? " ''Oh, Percy ! do nothing ridiculous." Inveterate insight was a characteristic of Major War^n-j but he was not the less in Mrs. Lovell's net. He knew it to be a charm that she exercised almost unknowingly. She was simply a sweet instrument for those who could play on it, and therein lay her mighty fascination. Kobert's blunt advice that he should seize the chance, take her and make her his own, was powerful with him. He checked the par- ticular appropriating action suggested by Robert. "^'I owe you an explanation," he said. " Margaret, my friend." " You can think of me as a friend, Percy ? " " If I can call you my friend, what would I not call you besides ? I did you a great and shameful wrong when you were younger. Hush ! you did not deserve that. Judge of yourself as you will ; but I know now what my feelings were then. The sublime executioner was no more than a spiteful man. You give me your pardon, do you not? Your hand ? " She had reached her hand to him, but withdrew it quickly. " Not your hand, Margaret ? But you must give it to some one. You will be ruined if you do not." Slie looked at him with full eyes. " You know it then? " she said slowly ; but the gaze diminished as he wont on. " I know, by what I know of you, that you of all women should owe a direct allegiance. Come ; I will assume priv- ileges. Are you free ? " LA QUESTION D' ARGENT 297 k openly of sip them?" steem," said !e queried in sed it. not making ijor War'r,-j He knew it singly. She ould play on obert's blunt er and make 3ked the par- rt. Margaret, my not call you tig when you ;hat. Judge my feelings more than a you not? iv it quickly. t give it to w it then? " went on. f all women ssume priv- " Would you talk to me so, if you thought otherwise ? " she asked. « I think I would," said Percy. " A little depends upon the person. Are you pledged at all to Mr. Edward Blancove ? " " Do you suppose me one to pledge myself ? " " He is doing a base thing." " Then, Percy, let an assurance of my knowledge of that be my answer." " You do not love the man ? " " Despise him, say ! " " Is he aware of it ? " " If clear writing can make him." " You have told him as much ? " " To his apprehension, certainly." " Further, Margaret, I must speak : — did he act with your concurrence, or knowledge of it at all, in acting as he has done ? " " Heavens ! Percy, you question me like a husband." " It is what I mean to be, if I may." The frame of the fair lady quivered as from a blow, and then her eyes rose tenderly. " I thought you knew me. This is not possible." " You will not be mine ? Why is it not possible ? " " I think I could say, because I respect you too much." " Because you find you have not the courage ? " « For what ? " "To confess that you were unde^* bad influence, and were not the Margaret I can make of you. Put that aside. If you remain as you are, think of the snares. If you marry one you despise, look at the pit. Yes ; you will be mine ! Half my love of my country and my profession is love of you. Margaret is fire in my blood. I used to pray for opportunities, that Margaret might hear of me. I knew that gallant actions touched her ; I would have fallen gladly ; I was sure her heart would leap when she heard of me. Let it beat against mine. Speak ! " " I will," said Mrs. Lovell, and she suppressed the throbs of her bosom. Her voice was harsh and her face bloodless. " How much money have you, Percy ? " This sudden sluicing of cold water on his heat of passion petrified him. i . 298 RHODA FLEMING !'■' '} ■M t a >■ .■■ • ii " Money, " he said, with a strange frigid scrutiny of her features. As in the flash of a mirror, he beheld her bony, worn, sordid, unacceptable. But he was fain to admit it to be an eminently proper demand for enlightenment. He said deliberately, " I possess an income of five hun- dred a year, extraneous, and in addition to my pay as major in Her Majesty's service." Then he paused, and the silence was like a growing chasm between them. She broke it by saying, " Have you any expectations ? " This was crueller still, though no longer astonishing. He complained in his heart merely that her voice had be- come so unpleasant. With emotionless precision he replied, " At my mother's death — " She interposed a soft exclamation. *' At my mother's death there will come to me, by rever- sion, five or six thousand pounds. When my father dies, he may possibly bequeath his property to me. On that I cannot count." Veritable tears were in her eyes. W>»s she affecting to weep sympathetically in view of these remote contingencies ? " You will not pretend that you know me now, Percy," she said, trying to smile ; and she had recovered the natu- ral feminine key of her voice. "I am mercenary, you see; not a mercenary friend. So, keep me as a friend — say you will be my friend." '•' Nay, you had a right to know," he protested. " It was disgraceful — horrible ; bit it was necessary for me to know." " And now that you do know ? " " Now that I know, I have only to say — be as merciful in your idea of me as you can." She dropped her hand in his, and it was with a thrill of dismay that he felt the rush of passion reanimating his frozen veins. " Be mercenary, but be mine ! I will give you some- thing better to live for than this absurd life of fashion. You reckon on what our cx})cndituro will be by that stan- dard. It's comjiarative ])(>viMty ; but — but you can have some luxuries. You can have a can iagc, a horse to ride. r i <^* mtiny of her ild lier bony, :o admit it to lent. of five hun- pay as major ■owing chasm otations ? " astonishing, ^^oice had be- my mother's me, by rever- father dies, On that I ) affecting to intingoncies? now, Percy," red the natu- ^''y> you see ; friend — say ed. lecessary for as merciful th a thrill of limating his 3 you some- ! of fashion, jy that stan- ou can have jrse to ride. Edward's return 299 Active service may come: I may rise. Give yourself to mo, and you must love me, and regret nothing." « Nothing ! I should regret nothing. I don't want car- riages, or horses, or luxuries. I could live with you on a subaltern's pay. I can't marry you, Percy, and for the very reason which would make me wish to marry you." "Charade ! " said he ; and the t'oatempt of the utterance brought her head close under his. « Dearest friend, you have not to learn how to punish me. The little reproach, added to the wound to his pride, re- quired a healing medicament; she put her lips to his lingers. Assuredly the comedy would not have ended there, but it was stopped by an intrusion of the squire, followed by Sir William, who, while the squire — full of wine and vin- dictive humours — went on humming, "Ah! li'm — m — m! Soh ! '* said in the doorway to some one behind him : " And if you have lost your key, and Algernon is away, of what use is it to drive down to the Temple for a bed ? I make it an especial request that you sleep here to-night. I wish it. I have to speak with you." Mrs. Lovell was informed that the baronet had been addressing his son, who was fresh from Paris, and not, in his own modest opinion, presentable before a lady. CHAPTER XXXIII Edward's return Once more Farmer Fleming and Rhoda prepared for their melancholy journey up to London. A light cart was at the gateway, near which Robert stood with the farmer, who, in his stiff brown overcoat, that reached to his ankles, and broad country-hat, kept his posture of dumb expecta- tion like a stalled ox, and nodded to Robert's remarks on the care which the garden had been receiving latterly, the many roses clean in bud, and the trim blue and white and y If i )■•■ 300 BHODA FLEMING .1 * 'II 1 r !■! 1 i;i. m' f. V- red garden beds. Every word was a blow to him ; but he took it, as well as Rhoda's apparent dilatoriness, among the things to be submitted to by a man cut away by the roots from the home of his labour and old associations. Above his bowed head there was a board proclaiming that Queen Anne's Farm, and all belonging thereunto, was for sale. His prospect in the vague wilderness of the future was to seek for acceptance as a common labourer on some kind gentleman's property The phrase "kind gentleman" was adopted by his deliberate irony of the fate which cast him out. Robert was stamping fretfully for Rhoda to come. At times, Mrs. Sumfit showed her head from the window of her bedroom, crying, " D'rectly ! " and disappearing. The still aspect of the house on the shining May after- nooii was otherwise undisturbed. Besides Rhoda, Master Gammon was being waited for; on whom would devolve the driving of the cart back from the station. Robert heaped his vexed exclamations upon this old man. The farmer restrained his voice in Master Gammon's defence, thinking of the comparison he could make between him and Robert : for Master Gammon had never run away from the Farm and kept absent, leaving it to take care of itself. Gammon, slow as he might be, was faithful, and it was not he who had made it necessary for the Farm to be sold. Gammon was obstinate, but it was not he who, after taking a lead, and making the Farm dependent on his lead, had absconded with the brains and energy of the establishment. Such reflections passed through the farmer's mind. Rhoda and Mrs. Sumfit came together down the trim path- way ; and Robert now had a clear charge against Master Gammon. He recommended an immediate departure. " The horse '11 bring himself home quite as well and as fast as Gammon will," he said. " But for the shakin' and the joltin', which tells o' sovereigns and silver," Mrs. Sumfit was observing to Rhoda, " you might carry the box — and who would have guessed how stout it was, and me to hit it with a poker and not break it, I could n't, nor get a single one through the slit ; — the siglit I was, with a poker in ray hand ! I do declare I felt azactly like a housebreaker ; — and no Edward's return 301 him; but he ness, among away by the associations. ilaiming that mto, was for )f the future irer on some gentleman " ;e which cast )r Rhoda to head from ectly!" and g May after- hoda, Master ould devolve ion. Robert i man. The on's defence, between him m away from (are of itself, nd it was not I to be sold. after taking lis lead, had stablishment. lind. he trim path- iiinst Master )arture. well and as hich tells o' bserving to would have 'ith a poker 3ne through ; ray hand ! L'; — and no soul rhat Wh hear „..„- — notice wnat you carries. ^ ^ ^,^, my dear, go so " — Mrs. Sumiit performed a methodical " Ahem ! " and noised the sole of her shoe on the gravel « so, and folks '11 think it 's a mistake they made." " What 's tliat ? " — the farmer pointed at a projection under Rhoda's shawl. " It is a present, father, for my sister," said Rhoda. " What is it ? " the farmer questioned again. Mrs. Sumfit fawned before him penitently — "Ah! Wil- liam, she 's poor, and she do want a little to spend, or she will be so nipped and like a frost-bitten body, she will. And, perhaps, dear, have n't money in her sight for next day's dinner, which is — oh, such a panic for a young wife ! for it ain't her hunger, dear William — her husband, she thinks of. And her cookery at a stand-still ! Thinks she, *he will charge it on the kitchen;' so unreasonable 's men. Yes," she added, in answer to the rigid dejection of his look, " I said true to you. I know I said, ' Not a penny can I get, William,' when you asked me for loans ; I can't get it now. See here, and how could I get it ? dear ! " She took the box from under Rhoda's shawl, and rattled it with a down turn and an up turn. "You didn't ask me, dear William, whether I had a money-6oa;. I 'd ha' told you so at once, had ye but asked me. And had you said, * Gi' me your money-^oa;, ' it was yours, only for your asking. You do see, you can't get any of it out. So, when you asked for money, I was right to say, I 'd got none." The farmer bore with her dreary rattling of the box in demonstration of its retentive capacities. The mere force of the show stopped him from retorting ; but when, to excuse Master Gammon for his tardiness, she related that he also had a money-box, and was in search of it, the farmer threw up his head with the vigour of a young man, and thundered for Master Gammon by name, vehemently wrathful at the combined hypocrisy of the pair. He called twice, and his face was purple and red as he turned toward the cart, saying, — " We '11 go without the old man." Mrs. Sumfit then intertwisted her fingers, and related how m- ?( mf ',1 !fH 302 RHODA FLEMING that she and Master Gammon had one day, six years dis- tant, talked ou a lonely evening over the mischances which befell poor people when they grew infirm, or met with acci- dent, and .what " useless clays " they were ; and yet they had their feelings. It was a long and confidential talk on a summer evening ; and, at the r;nd of it. Master Gammon walked into Wrexby and paid a visit to Mr. Hammond, the carpenter, who produced two strong saving-boxes excellently manufactured by his own hand, without a lid to them, or lock and key : so that there would be no getting at the con- tents until the boxes were full, or a pressing occasion coun- selled the destruction of the boxes. A constant subject of jest between Mrs. Sumtit and Master Gammon was, as to which first of them would be overpowered by curiosity to know the amount of their respective savings ; and their confessions of mutual weakness and futile endeavours to extract one piece of gold from the hoard. "And now, think it or not," said Mrs. Sumfit, "I got that power over him, from doctorin' him, and cookin' for him, I persuaded him to help my poor Dahly in my blessed's need. I 'd like him to do it by halves, but he can't." Master Gammon appeared round a corner of the house, his box, draped by his handkerchief, under his arm. The farmer and Robert knew, when he was in sight, that gestures and shouts expressing extremities of the need for haste, would fail to accelerate his steps, so they allowed him to come on at his own equal pace, steady as Time, with the peculiar lopping bend of knees which jerked the move- less trunk regularly upward, and the ancient round eyes fixed contemplatively forward. There was an aft'ectingness in this view of the mechanical old man bearing his poor hoard to bestow it. Robert said out, unawares, " He must n't be let to part with his old pennies." "No," the farmer took him up ; " nor I won't let him." " Yes, father ! " Rhoda intercepted his address to Master Gammon. " Yes, father ! " she hardened her accent. " It is for my sister. He does a good thing. Let him do it." "Mas' Gammon, sung out. what ha' ye got there?" the farmer But Master Gammon knew that he was about his own ix years dis- haiices which let with acci- and yet they siitial talk on 3ter Gammon ammond, the s excellently i to them, or ig at the con- ccasion coun- mt subject of on was, as to y curiosity to 3 ; and their iideavours to it, "I got that :in' for him, I lessed's need. of the house, lis arm. The , that gestures jed for haste, lowed him to ime, with the id the move- it round eyes affectingness 'ing his poor 16 let to part I't let him." ess to Master accent. " It him do it." " the farmer 30ut his own Edward's return 303 business. Ho was a difficult old man when he served the fanner ; he was quite unmanageable in his private affairs. Without replying, he said to Mrs. Suiniit, — " I 'd gummed it." The side of the box showed that it had been iriade adhe- sive, for the sake of security, to another substance. "That 's what 's caused ye to be so long, Mas' Gammon? " The veteran of the fields responded with a grin, designed to show a lively cunning. "Deary me, Mas' Gammon, I'd give a fortnight's work to know how much you 'in saved, now, I would. And, there ! Your comfort 's in your heart. And it shall be paid to you. I do pray heaven in mercy to forgive ine," she whimpered, " if ever knowin'ly I hasted you at a meal, or did deceive you when you looked for the pickings of fresh-killed pig. But if you only knew how — to cook — it spoils the temper of a woman ! I 'd a aunt was cook in a gentleman's fain'ly, and daily he dirtiec his thirteen plates — never more nor never less; and one day — was ever a woman punished so ! her best black silk dress she greased from the top to the bottom, and he sent down nine clean plates, and no word vouchsafed of explanation. For gentlefolks, they won't teach themselves how it do hang together with cooks in a kitchen — " " Jump up, Mas' Gammon," cried the farmer, wrathful at having been deceived by two members of his household, who had sworn to him, both, that tlioy had no money, and had disregarded his necessity. Such being human nature ! Mrs. Sumfit confided the termination of her story to Rhoda ; or suggested, rather, at what distant point it might end ; and then, giving Master Gammon's box to her custody, with directions for Dahlia to take the boxes to a carpenter's shop — not attempting the power of pokers upon them — and count and make a mental note of the amount of the rival hoards, she sent Dahlia all her messages of smirking reproof, and delighted love, and hoped that they would soon meet and know happiness. Rhoda, as usual, had no emotion to spare. She took pos- session of the second box, and, thus laden, suffered Robert to lift her into the cart. They drove across the green, past the mill and its flashing waters, and into the road, where ■1 • I I I/. I ! I lUi . ill ' n .'!' ■■1 f i ' r ' v ■ I 'h ^ ' J. '' 1 1 ') 1 ' .. i '* 1 ' \ v',' ll i>^' '-i. 304 RHODA FLEMING the waving of Mrs. Sumfifc's desolate handkerchief was latest seen. A horseman rode by, whom Khoda recognized, and she blushed and had a boding shiver. Robert marked him, and the blush as well. It was Algernon, upon a livery-stable hack. His coun- tenance expressed a mighty disappointment. The farmer saw no one. The ingratitude and treaclieiy of Robert and of Mrs. Sumfit and Master Gammon kept him brooding in sombre disgust of life. He remarked that the cart jolted a good deal. " If you goes in a cart, wi' company o' four, you expects to be jolted," said Master Gammon. " You seem to like it," Robert observed to the latter. "It don't disturb 7ny in'ards," quoth the serenest of mankind. " Gammon," the farmer addressed him from the front seat, without turning his head: "you'll take and look about for a new place." Master Gammon digested the recommendation in silence. On its being repeated, with " D' ye hear ? " he replied that he heard well enough. " Well, then, look about ye sharp, or maybe you '11 be out in the cold," said the farmer. " Na," returned Master Gammon, " ah never frets till I'm pinched." " I 've given ye notice," said the farmer. " No, you ha' n't," said Master Gammon. " I give ye notice now." <* No, you don't." " How d' ye mean ? " " 'Cause I don't take ne'er a notice." "Then you'll be kicked out, old man." "Hey! there y* have me," said Master Gammon. "I growed at the Farm, and you don't go and tell ne'er a tree t' walk." Rhoda laid her fingers in the veteran's palm. " You 're a long-lived famil}'^, are n't you, Master Gam- mon ? " said Robert, eyeing Rhoda's action enviously. Master Gammon bade him go to a certain churchyard in Sussex, and inspect a particular tombstone, upon which the EDWARD S RETURN 305 terchief was i^ed, and she ked him, and His coun- nd treachery ammon ke])t ^marked that you expects le latter, serenest of >m the front £6 and look >n in silence, replied that 36 you '11 be er frets till mmon. "I i'er a tree t' aster Gam- ously. iirchyard in I which the ages of his ancestry were written. They were more like the ages of oaks than of men. " It 's the heart kills," said Kobert. " It 's damned misfortune," murmured the farmer. « It is the wickedness in the world." thought Khoda. "It 's a poor stomach, I reckon," Master Gammon rumi- nated. They took leave of him at the station, from which emi- nence it was a notable thing to see him in the road beneath, making preparations for his return, like a conqueror of the hours. Others might run, and stew, if they liked : Master Gammon had chosen his pace, and was not of a mind to change it for anybody or anything. It was his boast that he had never ridden by railway : " nor ever means to, if I can help it," he would say. He was very much in harmony with universal nature, if to be that is the secret of human life. Meantime, Algernon retraced his way to the station in profound chagrin: arriving there just as the train was visible. He caught sight of the cart with Master Gammon in it, and asked him whether all his people were going up to London ; but the reply was evidently a mile distant, and had not started ; so putting a sovereign in Master Gammon's hand, together with the reins of his hor^o, Algernon bade the old man conduct the animal to the White Bear Inn, and thus violently pushing him off the tramways of his intelli- gence, lefc him stranded. He had taken a first-class return-ticket, of course, being a gentloman. In the desperate hope that he might jump into a carriage with Rhoda, he entered one of the second-class compartments ; a fact not only foreign to his tastes and his habits, but somewhat disgraceful, as he thought. His trust was, that the ignoble of this earth alone had beheld him ; at any rate, his ticket was first class, as the guard would instantly and respectfully perceive, and if he had the dis- comforts, he hi d also some of the consolations of virtue. Once on his way, the hard seat and the contemptible society surrounding him, assured his reflective spirit that he loved : otherwise, was it in reason tliat he should endure these hardships ? " I really love the girl," he said, fidgeting for cushions. 20 I'l M i I S } , .! 111 iU f ^ I r , F' '^ :i j 1 1 |n ' i w 1 :■ i 1 1 i .. K It HI II el ! ' ; If ' \' 306 RHODA FLEMING Ho was hot, and wanted the window up, to which his fellow-travellers assented. Then, the atmosphere becoming loaded with offence to liis morbid sense of smell, he wanted the windows down ; and again they assented. "By Jove! I must love the girl," ejaculated Algernon inwardly, us cramp, cold, and aHiicted nostrils combined to astonish his physical sensations. Nor was it displeasing to him to evince that he was unaccustomed to bare boards. "We 're a rich country,'' said a man to his neighbour; " but, if you don't pay lor it, you must take your luck, and they'll make you as uncomfortable as tliey can." "Ay," said the other. "I 've travelled on tlie Continent. The second-class carriages there are fit for anybody to travel in. This is what comes of the worship of money — the in- dividual is not respected. Pounds alone! " " These," thought Algernon, " are beastly democrats." Their remarks had been sympathetic with his manifesta- tions, which had probably suggested them. He glowered out of the window in an exceedingly foreign manner. A plainly dressed woman requested that the window should be closed. Or ^ of the men immediately proceeded to close it. Algernon stopped him. " Pardon 7ne, sir," said the man ; " it 's a lady wants it done ; " and he did it. A lady ! Algernon determined that these were the sort of people he should hate for life. ''Go among them and then see what they are," he addressed an imaginary assem- bly of anti-democrats, as from a senatorial chair set in the after days. Cramp, cold, ill-ordered smells, and eternal hatred of his fellow-passengers, convinced him, in their aggregation, that he surmounted not a little for love of Rhoda. The train arrived in London at dusk. Algernon saw Rhoda step from a carriage near the engine, assisted by Robert; and old Anthony was on the platform to welcome her; and Anthony seized her bag, and the troop of pas- sengers moved away. It may be supposed that Algernon had angry sensations at sight of Robert ; and to a certain extent this was the case ; but he was a mercurial youth, and one who had satisfactorily proved superior strength enjoyed a portion of his respect. Besides, if Robert perchance should Edward's return 807 o which his sre bec'oiuiiij, 1, he wanted "By Jove! nwardly, us astonisli his to him to mis. neighbour ; nir luck, and V M' CoutiiieDt. ody to travel ley — the ill- mocrats." is manifesta- lie glowered manner. A ndow should eded to close ady wants it vere the sort ng them and jinary assem- ir set in the and eternal lim, in their for love of Igernon saw , assisted by I to welcome roop of pas- at Algernon to a certain il youth, and igth enjoyed tiance should be courting "Rhoda, ho and Robert would enter into another field of controversy; and Robert might be taught a lesson. He followed the i)arty on foot until they reached Anthony's dwelling-place, noted the house, and sped to the Temple. There he found a telegraphic message From lOdward, that had been awaiting him since t,he morning. « Stop it," were the sole words of tlie communication : brief, and, if one preferred to think so, enigmatic. "What on earth does ho mean?' cried Algernon, and affected again and again to see what Kdward meant, witliout success. " Stop it ? — stop what ? — Stoj) tiie train ? Stop my watch ? Stop tl^e universe ? Oh ! this is rank humbug." He flung the paper down, and fell to counting the money in his possession. The more it dwindled, the more imperative it became that he should depart from liis country. Behind the figures, he calculated that, in all probability, Rhoda would visit her sister this night. " I can't stop that," he said ; and hearing a clock strike, " nor that ; " a knock sounded on the door, "nor that." The reflection inspired him with fatalistic views. Sedgett appeared, and was welcome. Algernou had to check the impulse of his hand to stretch out to the fellow, so welcome was he. Sedgett stated that everything stoo(l ready for the morrow. He had accomplished all that had to be done. " And it 's more than many 'd reckon," he said, and rubbed his hands, and laughed. "I was aboard shii) in Liverpool this morning, that I was. That ere young woman 's woke up from her dream " (he lengthened the word inexpressibly) " by this time, that she is. I had to pay for my passage, though;" at which recollection he swore. " That 's money gone. Never mind ; there 's worse gone with it. Ain't it nasty — don't you think, sir — to get tired of a young woman you 've been keepin' company with, and have to be her companion, whether you will or whether you won't ? She 's sick enough now. We trav- elled all night. I got her on board ; got her to go to her bed ; and, says I, I '11 arrange about the luggage. I packs myself down into a boat, and saw the ship steam away a good 'n. Hanged if I did n't catch myself singin'. And have n't touched a drop _o' drink, nor will, till to-morrow 's ! I ;r { ;■ I:; k I i" » ' M / I i iii I' J r III yi 308 RHODA FLEMING over. Don't you think ' Daehli ' 's a very pretty name, sir ? I run back to her as hard as rail'd carry me. She 's had a letter from her sister, recommending o' her to marry me : — * a noble man,' she calls me — ha, ha ! that 's good. ' And what do i/ou think, my dear ? ' says I ; and, bother me, if I can dcrew either a compliment or a kiss out of her. She 's got fine-lady airs of her own. But I 'm fond of her, that I am. Well, sir, at the church door, after the cere- mony, you settle our business, honour bright — that 's it, en't it?" Algernon nodded. Sedgett's talk always produced dis- comfort in his ingenuous bosom. "By the way, what politics are you ? " he asked. Sedgett replied, staring, that he was a Tory, and Alger- non nodded again, but with brows perturbed at the thouglit of this ruffian being of the same political persuasion as himself. " Eh ? " cried Sedgett ; " I don't want any of your hus- tings pledges, though. You '11 be at the door to-morrow, or I '11 have a row — mind that. A bargain 's a bargain. I like the young woman, but I must have the money. Why not hand it over now ? " "Not till the deed's done," said Algernon, very reasonably. Sedgett studied his features, and as a result remarked : " You put me up to this : I '11 do it, and trust you so far, but if I 'm played on, I throw the young woman over and expose you out and out. But you mean honourable ? " " I do," Algernon said of his meaning. Another knock sounded on the door. It proved to be a footman in Sir William's livery, bearing a letter from Edward; an amplification of the telegram, — " Dear Algy, — Stop it. I 'm back, and have to see my father. I may he down about two, or three, or four, in the morning. No key ; so, keep in. I want to see you. My whole life is changed. I must see her. Did you get my telegram ? Answer, by messenger ; T shall come to you the moment my father has finished his lecture. " Yours, "E. B.» ■.. 1 Edward's keturn 309 ty name, sir ? She 's had a marry me : jood. ' And mother me, if out of her. fond of her, 'ter the cere- — that's it, )roduced dis- sked. y, and Alger- : the thougJit )ersuasion as of your hus- or to-morrow, a bargain. I loney. Wliy ■eruou, very It remarked: 3t you so far, lan over and irable ? " proved to be I letter from ive to see my r four, in t)ie ee you. My you get my come to you ire. iTours, "E. B." Algernon told Sedgett to wait while he dressed in even- ing uniform, and gave him a cigar to smoke. He wrote : — « Dear Ned, — Stop what ? Of course, I suppose there 's only one thing, and how can I stop it ? What for ? You ridiculous old boy ! What a changeable old fellow you are ! — Off, to see what I can do. After eleven o'clock to-morrow, you '11 feel comfortable. — If the Governor is sweet, speak a word for the Old Brown; and bring two dozen in a cab, if you can. There 's no encouragement to keep at home in this place. Put that to him. /, in your place, could do it. Tell him it 's a matter of markets. If I get better wine at hotels, I go to hotels, and I spend twice — ten times the money. And say, we intend to make the laundress cook our dinners in chambers, as a rule. Old B. an inducement. " Yours aff. "A. B.'» This epistle he despatched by the footman, and groaned to think that if, perchance, the Old Brown Sherry should come, he would, in all probability, barely drink more than half-a-dozen bottles of that prime vintage. He and Sedgett, soon after, were driving down to Dahlia's poor lodgings in the West. On the way, an idea struck him : Would not Sedgett be a noisier claimant for the thousand than Edward ? If he obeyed Edward's direction and stopped the marriage, he could hand back a goodly number of hundreds, and leave it to be supposed that he had advanced the remainder to Sedgett. How to do it ? Sedgett happened to say : " If you won't liand the money now, I must have it when I 've married her. S vear you '11 be in the vestry when we 're signing. I know all about marriages. You swear, or I tell you, if I find I 'm cheated, I will throw the young woman over slap." Algernon nodded. " I shall be there," he said, and thought that he certainly would not. The thought cleared an oppression in his head, though it obscured die pretty prospect of a colonial hut and horse, with Ivhoda cooking for him, far from cares. He did his best to resolve that he ,: :^PSmi»*-* ^ ir '^ >..-.. 310 FHODA FLEUHNG ■would stop the business, if he could. But, if it is permitted to the fool to create entanglements and set calamity in motion, to arrest its course is the last thing the Gods allow of his doing. CHAPTER XXXIV '. I I I rl FATHER AND SON In the shadowy library light, when there was dawn out of doors, Edward sat with his father, and both were silent, for Edward had opened his heart, and his father had breathed some of the dry stock of wisdom on it. Many times Edward rose to go ; and Sir William signalled with his finger that he should stay : an impassive motion, not succeeded by speech. And, in truth, the baronet was revolving such a problem as a long career of profitable banking refreshed by classical exercitations does not help us to solve. There sat the son of his trust and his pride, whose sound and equal temperament, whose precocious worldly wit, whose precise and broad intelligence, had been the visionary comfort of his paternal days to come ; and his son had told him, reiter- ating it in language special and exact as that of a Chancery barrister unfolding his case to the presiding judge, that he had deceived and wronged an under-bred girl of the humbler classes ; and that, after a term of absence from her, he had discovered her to be a part of his existence, and designed — " You would marry her ? " Sir William asked, though less forcibly than if he could have put on a moral amazement. "That is my intention, sir, with your permission," Edward replied firmly, and his father understood that he had never known tliis young man, and dealt virtually with a stranger in his son — as shrewd a blow as the vanity which is in paternal nature may have to endure. He could not fashion the words, " Corritus fuit," though he thought the thing in both tenses : Edward's wits had always been to j clearly in order : and of what avail was it to repeat great and honoured prudential maxims to a hard FATHER AND SON 311 is permitted calamity in e Gods allow ,s dawn out of ere silent, for had breathed times Edward is finger that succeeded by )lving such a refreshed by e. There sat nd. and equal whose precise Iry comfort of Id him, reiter- of a Chancery udge, that he f the humbler from her, he sistence, and d, though less imazement. lion," Edward he had never th a stranger ' which is in fuit," though d's wits had b avail was it [IS to a hard headed fellow, whose choice was to steer upon the rocks ? He did remark, in an under-tone, — " The ' misce stultitiam ' seems to be a piece of advice you have adopted too literally. I quote what you have observed of some one else." « It is possible, sir," said Edward. " I was not particularly sparing when I sat in the high seat. ' Non eadem est aBtas, non mens.' I now think differently." " I must take your present conduct as the fruit of your premature sagacity, I suppose. By the same rule, your cousin Algernon may prove to be some comfort to his father, in the end." "Let us hope he will, sir. His father will not have deserved it so well as mine." " The time is morning," said Sir William, looking at his watch, and bestowing, in the bitterness of his reflections, a hue of triumph on the sleep of his brother upstairs. " You are your own master, Edward. I will detain you no more." Edward shook his limbs, rejoicing. "You prepare for a life of hard work," Sir William resumed, not without some instigation to sternness from this display of alacrity. "I counsel you to try the Colonial Bar." Edward read in the first sentence, that his income would be restricted; and in the second, that his father's social sphere was no longer to be his. "Exactly, sir; I have entertained that notion myself," he said; and his breast narrowed and his features grew sharp. "And, if I may suggest such matters to you, I would advise you to see very little company for some years to come." " There, sir, you only anticipate my previously formed resolution. With a knavery on my conscience, and a giddy-pated girl on my hands, and the doors of the London world open to me, I should scarcely have been capable of serious work. The precious metal, which is Knowledge, sir, is only to be obtained by mining for it; and that ex- cellent occupation necessarily sends a man out of sight for a number of years. In the meantime, ' mea virtute me involvo,' " 312 EHODA FLEMING <^ h I'. I I. S ij "You need not stop short," said his father, with a sar- donic look for the concluding lines. "The continuation is becoming in the mouth of a hero; but humbler persons must content themselves not to boast the patent fact, I think." Edward warmed as he spoke. " I am ready to bear it. I dislike poverty ; but, as I say, I am ready to bear it. Come, sir; you did me the honour once to let me talk to you as a friend, with the limits which I have never consciously overstepped; let me ex- plain myself plainly and simply." Sir William signified, "Pray speak," from the arms of his chair; and Edward, standing, went on: "After all, a woman's devotion is worth having, when one is not asked for the small change every ten minutes. I am aware of the philosophic truth, that we get nothing in life for which we don't pay. The point is, to appreciate what we desire; and so we reach a level that makes the payment less — " He laughed. Sir William could hardly keep back the lines of an ironical smile from his lips. "This," pursued the orator, "is not the language for the Colonial Bar. I wish to show you that I shall understand the character of my vocation there. No, sir; my deeper wish is that you may accept my view of the sole course left to a man whose sense of honour is of accord with the inclination of his heart, and not in hostility to his clearer judgement." "Extremely forensic," said Sir William, not displeased by the promise of the periods. "Well, sir, I need not remirk to you that rhetoric, though it should fail to convey, does not extinguish, or imply the absence of emotion in the speaker; but rather, that his imagination is excited by his theme, and that he addresses more presences than such as are visible. It is, like the Roman mask, fashioned for large assemblages." "By a parity of reasoning, then," — Sir William was seduced into colloquy, — " an eternal broad grin is not, in the instance of a dualogue, good comedy." "It may hide profound grief." Edward made his eyes flash. "I find I can laugh; it would be difficult for me to smile. Sir, I pray that you will listen to me seri- ously, though my language is not of a kind to make you '.C 5 ) ^T, with a sar- ith of a hero; !S not to boast as he spoke. but, as I say, :ne the honour th the limits i; let me ex- |n the arms of "After all, a e is not asked am aware of life for which hat we desire; ment less — " back the lines nguage for the all understand ir; my deeper le sole course 3cord with the ' to his clearer aot displeased that rhetoric, extinguish, or r; but rather, e , and that he /■isible. It is, semblages." William was grin is not, in made his eyes ifficult for me II to me seri- l to make you FATHER AND SON 313 think me absolutely earnest in what I say, unless you know me." "Which, I must protest, I certainly do not," interposed Sir William. "I will do my best to instruct you, sir. Until recently, I have not known myself. I met this girl. She trusted herself to me. You are aware that I know a little of men and of women; and when I oell you that I respect her now even more than I did at first — much more — so thoroughly, that I would now put my honour in her hands, by the counsel of my experience, as she, prompted by her instinct and her faith in me, confided hers to mine, — perhaps, even if you persist in accusing me of rashness, you will allow that she must be in the possession of singularly feminine and estimable qualities. I deceived her. My object in doing so was to spare you. Tliose consequences followed which can hardly fail to ensue, when, of two living together, the woman is at a disadvantage, and eats her heart without complaining. I could iiave borne a shrewish tongue better, possibly because I could have answered it better. It is worse to see a pale sad face with a smile of unalterable tenderness, The very sweetness becomes repugnant." "As little boys requiring much medicine have antici- pated you by noting in this world," observed Sir William. "I thank you for the illustration." Edward bowed, but he smarted. " A man so situated lives with the ghost of his conscience." "A doubtful figure of speech," Sir William broke in. " I think you should establish the personality before you attempt to give a feature to the essence. But, continue." Edward saw that by forfeiting simplicity, in order to catch his father's peculiar cast of mind, he had left him cold and in doubt as to the existence of the powerful impulse by which he was animated. It is a prime error in the orator not to seize the emotions and subdue the humanity of his hearers first. Edward perceived his mistake. He had, however, done well in making a show of the unabated vigour of his wits. Contempt did not dAvell in the baronet's tone. On tlie contrary, tliey talked and fenced, and tripped one another as of old; and, "on- r t\>\ »*-r\ lH'^f M 1 i I Iff t\ ilVil f m ji f. O n '. ■ jel m l\ 314 RHODA FLEIVUNG i ■( sidering the breach he had been compelled to explode be- tween his father and himself, Edward understood that this was a real gain. He resumed: "All figures of speech must be inade- quate — " "Ah, pardon me," said Sir William, i)ertinaciously ; "the figure I alluded to was not inadequate. A soap- bubble is not inadequate." "Plainly, sir, in God's name, hear me out," cried Edward. " She — what shall I call her ? my mistress, my sweetheart, if you like — let the name be anything — • ife ' it should have been, and shall be — I left her, and have left her and have not looked on her for many months. I thought I was tired of her — 1 was under odd influences — witchcraft, it seems. I could believe in witchcraft now. Brutpl selfishness is the phrase for my conduct. I have found out my villany. I have not done a day's sensible work, or had a single clear thought, since I parted from her. She has had brain-fever. She has been in the hospital. She is now prostrate with misery. While she suffered, I — I can't look back on myself. If I had to plead before you for more tlian .nanly consideration, I could touch you. I am my own master, and am ready to subsist by my own efforts ; there is no necessity for me to do more than say I abide by the choice I make, and my own actions. In deciding to marry her, I do a good thing — I do a just thing. I will prove to you that I have done a wise thing. "Let me call to your recollection what you did me the honour to remark of my letters from Italy. Those were written with her by my side. Every other woman vexes me. This one alone gives me peace, and nerve to work. If I did not desire to work, should I venture to run the chances of an offence to you ? Your girls of society are tasteless to me. And they don't makes wives to working barristers. No, nor to working members. "They are very ornamental and excellent, and, af I think you would call them, accomplished. All Engknd would leap to arms to defend their incontestable superiority to their mothers and their duties. I have not the wish to stand opposed to my countrymen on any question, although to explode be- tood that this list be inade- ertiuaciously; ate. A soap- out," cried T mistress, my anything — I left her, and many months, odd influences dtchcraft now. iduct. I have day's sensible irted from her. the hospital. she suffered, plead before uld touch you. list by my own more than say n actions. In — I do a just \ done a wise ^^ou did me the \ Those were ' woman vexes nerve to work, are to run the of society are ves to working ent, and, as I All Engknd ible superiority not the wish to stion, although FATHEK AND SON 315 I go to other shores, and may be called upon to make cap- ital out of opposition. They are admirable young persons, no doubt. I do not offer you a drab for your daughter-in- law, sir. If I rise, she will be equal to my station. She has the manners of a lady — a lady, I say ; not of the modern young lady; with whom, I am iiappy to think, she does not come into competition. She has not been sedu- lously trained to pull hev way, when she is to go into harness with a yokefellow. " But I am laying myself open to the charge of feeling my position weak, seeing that I abuse the contrary one. Think what you will of me, sir, you will know that 1 have obeyed my best instinct and my soundest judgement in this matter; I need not be taught, that if it is my destiny to leave England I lose the association with him who must ever be my dearest friend. And few young men can say as much of one standing in the relation of father." With this, Edward finished; not entirely to his satisfac- tion; for he had spoken with too distinct a sincerity to please his own critical taste, which had been educated to delight in acute antithesis and culminating sentences — the grand Biscayan billows of rhetorical utterance, in compar- ison wherewith his talk was like the little chopping waves of a wind-blown lake. But he had, as he could see, pro- duced an impression. His father stood up. "We shall be always friends, I hope," Sir William said. "As regards a provision for you, suitable to your estate, that will be arranged. You must have what comforts you have been taught to look to. At the same time, I claim a personal freedom for my own actions." "Certainly, sir," said Edward, not conceiving any new development in these. "You have an esteem for Mrs. Lovell, have you not ?" Edward flushed. "I should have a very perfect esteem for her, if — " he laughed slightly — " you will think I want everybody to be married and in the traces now ; she will never be manageable till she is .narried." "I am also of that opinion," said Sir William. "I will detain you no longer. It is a quarter to five in the morn- ing. You will sleep here, of course." "No, T must go to the Temple. By the way, Algy pre- ' ^1 316 RHODA FLEMING t .' fers a petition for Sherry. He is beginning to discern good wine from bad, which may be a hopeful augury." " I will order Holmes to send some down to him when he has done a week's real duty at the Bank." "Sooner or later, then. Good-raoniing, sir." "Good-morning." Sir William shook his son's hand. A minute after, Edward had quitted the house. " That 's over!" he said, sniffing the morning air gratefully, and eyeing certain tinted wisps of cloud that were in a line of the fresh blue sky. ii I I I CHAPTER XXXV THE NIGHT BEFORE A SHY and humble entreaty had been sent by Dahlia through Robert to Rhoda, saying that she wished not to be seen until the ceremony was at an end; but Rhoda had become mentally stern toward her sister, and as much to uphold her in the cleansing step she was about to take, as in the desire to have the dear lost head upon her bosom , she disregarded Dahlia's foolish prayer, and found it was well that she had done so; for, to her great amazement, Dahlia, worn, shorn, sickened, and reduced to be a mark for the scorn of the cowardice which Ig in the world, through the selfishness of a lying man, loved the man still, and wavered, or rather shrank with a pitiful fleshly terror from the noble husband who would wipe the spot of shame from her forehead. When, after their long separation, the sisters met. Dahlia was mistress of herself, and pronounced Rhoda's name softly, as she moved up to kiss her. Rhoda could not speak. Oppressed by the strangeness of the white face which had passed through fire, she gave a mute kiss and a single groan, while Dahlia gently caressed her on the shoulder. The frail touch of her hand was harder to bear than the drear}'- division had been, and seemed not so real as many a dream of it. Rhoda sat by her, overcome by !J ■: i i to discern lugury." to him when • on's hand. 30. "That's ito fully, and e iu a line of it by Dahlia i^ished not to t lihoda had d as much to ut to take , as n her bosom , found it was b amazement, to be a mark in the world, the man still, fleshly terror spot of shame s met. Dahlia thoda's name ida could not 16 white face lute kiss and d her on the larder to b(\ar 3d not so real overcome by THE NIGHT BEL ORE 317 the awfulness of an actual sorrow, never imnginod closely, though she had conjured up vague pictures of Dahlia's face. She had imagined agony, tears, despair, but not the spectral change, the burnt-out look. It was a face like a crystal lamp in which the liame has died. The ghastly little skull-cap showed forth its wanness rigidly. lUioda wondered to hear her talk simply of home and the old life. At each question, the then and the notv struck her spirit with a lightning flash of opposing scenes. But the talk deepened. Dahlia's martyrdom was near, and their tongues were hurried into plain converse of the hour, and then Dahlia faltered and huddled herself up like a creature swept by the torrent; Rhoda learnt that, instead of hate or loathing of the devilish man who had deceived her, love survived. Upon Dahlia's lips it was compassion and for- giveness ; but Rhoda, in her contempt for the word, called it love. Dahlia submitted gladly to the torture of inter- rogation ; " Do you, can you care for him still ? " and sighed in shame and fear of her sister, not daring to say she thought iier harsh, not daring to plead for escape, as slie had done with Robert. "Why is there no place for the unhappy, who do not wish to live, and cannot die ?" she moaned. And Rhoda cruelly fixed her to the marriage, making it seem irrevocable, and barring all the faint lights to the free outer world, by praise of her — passionate praise of her — when she confessed, that half inanimate after her recovery from the fever, and in the hope that she might thereby show herself to her father, she had consented to devote her life to the only creature who was then nenr her to be kind to her. Rhoda made her relate how this man had seen her first, and hov.% by untiring diligence, he had followed her up and found her. " He — he must love you, " said Rhoda; and in proportion as she grew more conscious of her sister's weakness, and with every access of tender- ness tovrard her, she felt that Dahlia must be thought for very much as if she were a child. Dahlia tried to float out some fretting words for mercy, on one or other of her heavy breathings; but her brain was under lead. She had a thirst for Rhoda' s praise in her desolation; it was sweet, tliough the price of it was :i ! U 318 RHODA FLEMING ii M^' i I hi t:'*' her doing an abliorred thing. Abhorred ? She did not realize the consequences of the act, or strength would have come to her to wrestle with the coil : a stir of her blood would have endued her with womanly counsel and womanly frenzy ; nor could Rhoda have opposed any real vehemence of distaste to the union on Dahlia's part. But Dahlia's blood was frozen, her brain was under lead. She clung to the poor delight in her sister's praise, and shuddered and thirsted. She caught at the minutes, and saw them slip from her. All the health of her thoughts went to establisli a sort of blind belief that God, having punished her enough, would not permit a second great misery to befall her. She expected a sudden intervention, even though at the altar. She argued to herself that misery, which follows sin, can- not surely afflict us further when we are penitent, and seek to do right: her thought being, that perchance if she re- frained from striving against the current, and if she suffered her body to be borne along, God would be the more merciful. With the small cunning of an enfeebled spirit, she put on a mute submissiveness, and deceived her- self by it sufficiently to let the minutes pass with a les- sened horror and alarm. This was in the first quarter of the night. The dawn was wearing near. Sedgett had been seen by Rhoda; a quiet interview; a few words on either side, attention paid to them by neither. But the girl doated on his ugliness; she took it for plain proof of his worthiness; proof too that her sister must needs have seen the latter very distinctly, or else she could not have submitted. Dahlia looked at the window -blinds and at the candle- light. The little which had been spoken between her and her sister in such a chasm of time, gave a terrible swift- ness to the hours. Half shrieking, she dropped her head in Rhoda's lap. Rhoda, thinking that with this demon- stration she renounced the project finally, prepared to say what she had to say, and to yield. But, as was natural after a paroxysm of weakness. Dahlia's frenzy left no courage behind it. Dahlia said, as she swept her brows, " I am still subject to nervous attacks." "They will soon leave you," said Rhoda, nursing her hand. THE NIGHT BEFORE 319 She (lid not ■th would have of lier blood and womanly ^eal vehemence But Dahlia's She clung to shuddered and "saw them slip iiit to establish 'ed her enough, ifall her. She h at the altar. Hows sin, can- itent, and seek ance if she re- ;, and if she would be the f an enfeebled I deceived her- ass with a les- it. The dawn by Rhoda; a side, attention doated on his is worthiness; leen the latter ibmitted. at the candle- tween her and terrible swift- pped her head h this demon- fepared to say s was natural renzy left no Q still subject nursing her Dahlia contracted her lips. " Is father very unforgiving to women ? " "Poor father! " Rhoda interjected for answer, and Dahlia's frame was taken with a convulsion. "Where shall I see him to-morrow?" she asked; and, glancing from the beamless candle to the window-blinds': » Oh ! it 's day. Why did n't I sleep? It 's day ! Where am I to see him ? " "At Robert's lodgings. We all go there." " We all go ? — he goes ? " "Your husband will lead you there." "My heaven! my heaven! I wish you had known what this is, a little — just a little." " I do know that it is a good and precious thing to do right," said Rhoda. "If you had only had an affection, dear! Oh! how un- grateful I am to you." "It is only, darling, that I seem unkind to 2/ow," said Rhoda. " You think I must do this ? Must ? Why ? " " Why ? " Rhoda pressed her fingers. " Why, when you were i)l, did you not write to me, that I might have come to you ? " "I was ashamed," said Dahlia. "You shall not be ashamed any more, ray sister." Dahlia seized the window-blind with her trembling finger-Lips, and looked out on the day. As if it had smitten her eyeballs, she covered her face, giving dry sobs. "Oh! I wish — I wish you had known what this is. Must I do it ? His face! Dear, I am very sorry to dis- tress you. Must I do it ? The doctor says I am so strong that nothing will break in me, and that I must live, if I am not killed. Pat, if 1 might only be a servant in father's house — I would give all my love to a little bed of flowers." "Father has no home now," said Rhoda. "I know — I know. I am ready. I will submit, and then father will not be ashamed to remain at the Farm. I am ready. Dear, I am ready. Rhoda, I am ready. It is not much." She blew the candle out. "See. No one 320 RHODA FLEMING will do that for me. We are not to live for ourselves. I have done wront^, and I am going to be humble; yes, I am. I never was wJien I was happy, and that proves I had no right to be happy. All I ask is for another night with you. Why did M'e not lie down together and sleep ? We can't sleep now — it 's day." "Come and lie down with me for a few hours, my dar- ling," said lihoda. While she was speaking, Dahlia drew the window-blind aside, to look out onne more upon the vacant, inexplicable daylight, and looked, and then her head bont like the first thrust forward of a hawk's sighting quarry; she spun round, her raised arms making a cramped, clapping motion. "He is there." CHAPTER XXXVI EDWARD MEETS HIS MATCH hi- u At once Rhoda perceived that it was time for her to act. The name of him who stood in the street below was written on her sister's face. She started to her side, got possession of her hands, murmuring, — "Come with me. You are to come with me. Don't speak. I know. I will go down. Yes; you are to obey, and do what I tell you." Dahlia's mouth opened, but like a child when it is warned not to cry, she uttered a faint inward wailing, lost her ideas, and was passive in a shuddering fit. " What am I to do ? " she said supplicatingly, as Rhoda led her to her bedroom. " Rest here. Be perfectly quiet. Trust everything to me. I am your sister." Leaving her under the spell of coldly spoken words, Rhoda locked the door on her. She was herself in great agitation, but nerved by deeper anger there was no falter- ing in her movements. She went to the glass a minute, as she tied her bonnet-strings under her chin, and pinned ourselves. I liumble; yes, hat proves I nother niglit 5r and sleep ? 3urs, my dar- tvindow-blind inexplicable like the first •y; she spun )ping motion. or her to act. t below was her side, got me. Don't I are to obey, I when it is wailing, lost ■ ly, as Rhoda verything to loken words, self in great ^as no falter- iss a minute, , and jiinned EDWARD MEETS HIS MATCH 321 her shawl. A night's vigil had not ohased the bloom from her cheek, or the swimming lustre from her dark eyes. Content that her aspect should be seemly, she ran down the stairs, unfastened the bolts, and without hesitation closed the door behind her. At the same instant, a gen- tleman crossed the road. He asked whether Mrs. Ayrton lived in that house ? lihoda's vision danced across liis features, but she knew him unerringly to be the cruel enemy. "My sister. Dahlia Fleming, lives there," she said. "Then, you are lihoda ?" "My name is Rhoda." "Mine — I fear it will not give you pleasure to hear it — is Edward Blanoove. I returned late last night from abroad." She walked to a distance, out of hearing and out of sight of the house, and he silently followed. The streets were empty, save for the solitary footing of an early workman going to his labour. She stopped, and he said, "I hope your sister is well." "She is quite well." "Thank heaven for that! I heard of some illness." "She has quite recovered." "Did she — tell me the truth — did she get a letter that I sent two days ago, to her ? It was addressed to ' Miss Fleming, Wrexby, Kent, England.' Did it reach her ? " "I have not seen it." "I wrote," said Edward. His scrutiny of her features was not reassuring to him. But he had a side-thought, prompted by admiration of her perfect build of figure, her succinct expression of counte- nance, and her equable manner of speech: to the effect, that the true English yeomanry can breed consummate women. Perhaps — who knows ? even resolute human nature is the stronger for an added knot — it approved the resolution he had formed, or stamped with a justification the series of wild impulses, the remorse, and the returned tenderness and manliness which had brought him to that spot. "You know me, do you not ?" he said. "Yes," she answered shortly. 21 ) 111 'is n » 1/, ) I :>r^' 322 RHODA FLEMING u . 1 > ff>^^ :■ ( i i I "I wish to see Dahlia." "You cannot." " Not immediately, of course. But when she has risen — later in the morning. If she has received my letter, she will, she must see me." "No, not later; not at all," said Rhoda. "Not at all? Why not?" Ehoda controlled the surging of her blood for a vehe- ment reply; saying simply, "You will not see her." "My child, I must." "I am not a child, and I say what I mean." " Buu why am I not to see her ? Do you pretend that it is her wish not to see me ? You can't. I know her per- fectly. She is gentleness itself." "Yes; you know that," said Rhoda, with a level flash of her eyes, and confronting him in a way so rarely distin- guishing girls of her class, that he began to wonder and to ache with an apprehension. " She has not changed ? Rhoda — for we used to talk of you so often! You will think better of me, by-and-by. Naturally enough, you detest me at present. I have been a brute. I can't explain it, and I don't excuse myself. I state the fact to you — her sister. My desire is to make up for the past. Will you take a message to her from me ? " "I will not." "You are particularly positive." Remarks touching herself Rhoda passed by. " Why are you so decided ? " he said more urgently. "I know I have deeply offended and hurt you. T wish, and intend to repair the wrong to the utmost of my power. Surely it 's mere silly vindictiveness on your part to seek to thwart me. Go to her; say I am here. At all events, let it be her choice not to see me, if I am to be rejected at the door. She can't have had my letter. Will you do that much ? " "She knows that you are here; she has seen you." " Has seen me ? " Edward drew in his breath sharply. " Well ? and she sends you out to me ? " Rhoda did not answer. She was strongly tempted to belie Dahlia's frame of mind. she has risen my letter, she od for a vehe- ;ee her." J) » pretend that it know her per- h a level flash rarely distin- to wonder and used to talk of ^ne, by-and-by. I have been excuse myself. y desire is to message to her more urgently. ■j you. T wish, 5t of my power, ur part to seek At all events, a to be rejected '. Will you do een you." breath sharply. ^ly tempted to EDWAED MEETS HIS INIATCH 323 "She does send you to speak to me," Edward insisted. "She knows that I have come." " And you will not take one message in ? " " I will take no message from you." " You hate me, do you not ? " Again she controlled the violent shock of her heart to give him hard speech. He went on : — " Whether you hate me or not is beside the matter. It lies between Dahlia and me. I will see her. When I de- termine, I allow of no obstacles, not even of wrong-headed girls. First, let me ask, is your father in London ? " Rhoda threw a masculine meaning into her eyes. "Do not come before him, I advise you." "If," said Edward, with almost womanly softness, "you could know what I have passed through in the last eight- and-f orty hours , you would understand that I am equal to any meeting; though, to speak truth, I would rather not see him until I have done what I mean to do. Will you be persuaded ? Do you suppose that I have ceased to love your sister ? " This, her execrated word, coming from his mouth, van- quished her self-possession. "Are you cold ? " he said, seeing the ripple of a trem- bling run over her. "I am not cold. I cannot remain here." Rhoda tight- ened her intertwisting fingers across under her bosom. "Don't try to kill my sister outright. She 's the ghost of what she was. Be so good as to go. She will soon be out of your reach. You will have to kill me first, if you get near her. Never! you never shall. You have lied to her — brought disgrace on lier poor head. We poor people read our Bibles, and find nothing that excuses you. Yoa are not punished, because there is no young man in our family. Go." Edward gazed at her for some time. " Well, I 've de- served worse," he said, not sorry, now that be saw an opponent in her, that she should waste lier concentrated antagonism in this fashion, and rejoiced by the testimony it gave him that he was certainly not too late. "You know, Rhoda, she loves me." " If she does, let her pray to God on her knees." !) I « rl, 7 i V^Ml ;t-. ' km. I t -^' '! r 324 EHODA FLEMING " My good creature, be reasonable. Why am I here ? To harm her ? You take me for a kind of monster. You look at me very much, let me say, like a bristling cat. Here are the streets getting full of people, and you ought not to be seen. Go to Dahlia. Tell her I am here. Tell her I am come to claim her for good, and that her troubles are over. This is a moment to use your reason. Will you do what I ask ? " " I would cut my tongue out, if it did you a service," said Ehoda. "Citoyenne Corday," thought Edward, and observed: " Then I will dispense with your assistance." He moved in the direction of the house. Rhoda swiftly outstripped him. They reached the gates together. She threw herself in the gateway. He attempted to parley, but she was dumb to it. " I allow nothing to stand between her and me," he said, and seized her arm. She glanced hurriedly to right and left. At that moment Eobert appeared round a corner of the street. He made his voice heard, and, coming up at double quick, caught Edward Blancove by the collar, swing- ing him off. Rhoda, with a sign, tempered him to mute- ness, and the three eyed one another. "It's you," said Eobert, and, understanding immediately the tactics desired by Ehoda, requested Edward to move a step or two away in his company. Edward settled the disposition of his coat-collar, as a formula wherewith to regain composure of mind, and passed along beside Eobert, Ehoda following. " What does this mean ? " said Eobert, sternly. Edward's darker nature struggled for ascendancy within him. It was this man's violence at Fairly which had sickened him, and irritated him against Dahlia, and insti- gated him, as he remembered well, more than Mrs. Lovell's witcheries, to the abhorrent scheme to be quit of her, and rid of all botheration, at any cost. " You 're in some conspiracy to do her mischief, all of you," he cried. " If you mean Dahlia Fleming," said Eobert, " it 'd be a base creature that would think of doinff harm to her now. » EDWARD MEETS HIS MATCH 325 I here ? To ier. You look cat. Here are ught not to be Tell her I am ubles are over. you do what service," said and observed- e." Rhoda swiftly ogether. She I to parley, but d me," he said, y to right and ind a corner of coining up at e collar, swing. him to mute- ig immediattly vard to move a >at-collar, as a ind, and passed rnly. indancy within ly which liad ilia, and lusti- ly Mrs. Lo veil's lit of her, and ischief, all of )ort, "it'd be harm to her He had a man's perception that Edward would hardly have been found in Dahlia's neighbourhood with evil inten- tions at this moment, though it was a thing impossible to guess. Generous himself, he leaned to the more generous view. "I think your name is Eccles," said Edward. "Mr. Eccles, my position liere is a very sad one. But lirst let me acknowledge that I have done you personally a wrong. I am ready to bear the burden of your reproaches, or what you will. All that I beg is, that you will do me the favour to grant me five minutes in private. It is imperative." Khoda burst in — " Xo, Robert ! " But Kobert said, " It is a reasonable request;" and, in spite of her angry eyes, he waved her back, and walked apart with Edward. She stood watching them, striving to divine their speech by their gestures, and letting her savage mood interpret the possible utterances. It went ill with Robert in her heart that he did not suddenly grapple and trample the man, and so break away from him. She was outraged to see Robert's listening posture. " Lies ! lies ! " she said to herself, " and he doesn't know them to be lies." The window-blinds in Dahlia's sitting-room continued undisturbed; but she feared the agency of the servant of the house in helping to release her sister. Time was flowing to dangerous strands. At last Robert turned back singly. Rhoda fortified her soul to resist. "He has fooled you," she murmured inaudibly, before he spoke. "Perhaps, Rhoda, we ought not to stand in his way. He wishes to do what a man can do in his case. So he tells uie, and I 'ni bound not to disbelieve him. He says he repents — says the word ; and gentlemen seem to mean it when they use it. I respect the word, and them when they 're up to that word. He wrote to her that he could not marry her, and it did the mischief, and may well be repented of ; but he wishes to be forgiven and make amends — well, such as he can. He 's been abroad, and only received Dahlia's letters within the last two or three days. He seems to love her, and to be heartily wretclied. Just hear me out ; you '11 decide ; but pray, pray don't be rash. He wishes to marry her ; says he has spoken to his father this very night ; camo If v\ ; ^'•i' / ' \ ( !'- 1 JM 326 RHODA FLEMING straight over from France, after he had read her letters. He says — and it seems fair — he only asks to see Dahlia for two minutes. If she bids him go, he goes. He 's not a friend of mine, as I i ould prove to you ; but I do think he ought to see her. He says he looks on her as his wife • always meant her to be his wife, but things were against him when he wrote that letter. Well, he says so ; and it 's true that gentlemen are situated — they can't always, or think they can't, behave quite lik honest men. They 've got a hundred things to consider for our one. That 's my experience, and I know something of the best among 'em. The question is about this poor young fellow who's to marry her to-day. Mr. Blancove talks of giving him a handsome sum — a thousand pounds — and making him comfortable — " " There ! " Rhoda exclaimed, with a lightning face. " You don't see what he is, after that ? Oh ! — " She paused, revolted. " Will you let me run off to the young man, wherever he 's to be found, and put the case to him — that is, from Dahlia ? And you know she does n't like the marriage overmuch, Rhoda. Perhaps he may think differently whon he comes to hear of things. As to Mr. Blancove, men change and change when they 're young. I mean, gentle- men. We must learn to forgive. Either he's as clever as the devil, or he 's a man in earnest, and deserves pity. If you 'd heard him ! " " My poor sister ! " sighed Ehoda. The mentioning of money to be paid had sickened and weakened her, as with the very physical taste of degradation. Hearing the sigh, Eobert thought she had become sub- dued. Then Ehoda said: "We are bound to this young man who loves my sister — bound to him in honour : and Dahlia must esteem him, to have consented. As for the other. ..." She waved the thought of his claim on her sister aside with a quick shake of her head. " I rely on you to do this : — I will speak to Mr. Blancove myself. He shall not see her there.''^ She indicated the house. " Go to my sister ; and lose no time in taking her to your lodging,,. Father will not arrive till twelve. Wait and comfort her till I come, and answer no questions. Eobert," she gave |ad her letters. to see Dahlia is. He 's not a I do think he fr as his Avife • Is were against t/s so ; and it 's [n't always, or ^eD. They 've That's niy Jst among 'em. plow who's to giving him a making him ngface. "You She paused, man, wherever -that is, from the marriage ifferently when Blanco ve, men t mean, gentle- i 's as clever as irves pity. If mentioning of 3d her, as with i become sub- to this young L honour: and I- As for the ! claim on her • " I rely on ■e myself. He )use. « Go to fouT lodging., d comfort her srt," she gave EDWARD TRIES HIS ELOQUENCE 327 him her hand gently, and, looking sweetly, " if you will do this!" «If I will!" cried Robert, transported by the hopeful tenderness. The servant girl of the house had just opened the front d^or, intent on scrubbing, and he passed in. Ehoda walked on to Edward. CHAPTER XXXVH EDWARD TRIES HIS ELOQUENCE A PROFOUND belief in the efficacy of his eloquence, when he chose to expend it, was one of the principal supports of Edward's sense of mastery ; — a secret sense belonging to certain men in every station of life, and which is the staff of many an otherwise impressible and fluctuating intellect. With this gift, if he trifled, or slid downward in any direc- tion, he could right himself easily, as he satisfactorily con- ceived. It is a gift that may now and then be the ruin of promising youths, though as a rule they find it helpful enough. Edward had exerted it upon his father, and upon Robert. Seeing Rhoda's approach, he thought of it as a victorious swordsman thinks of his weapon, and aimed his observation over her possible weak and strong points, study- ing her curiously even when she was close up to him. With Robert, the representative of force, to aid her, she could no longer be regarded in the light of a despicable hindvance to his wishes. Though inclined strongly to detest, he respected her. She had decision, and a worthy bearing, and a mar- vellously blooming aspect, and a brain that worked withal. When she spoke, desh-ing him to walk on by her side, he was pleased ly her voice, and recognition of the laws of propriety, and thought it a thousand pities that she like- wise should not become the wife of a gentleman. By degrees, after tentative beginnings, he put his spell upon her ears, for she was attentive, and walked with a demure forward look upon the pavement; in reality taking small note of what things he said, until he quoted, as against H H .. !; 328 RHODA FLEMING II ■ if:-, i ft ). ^;: ]!■■■ fjll I! t ^liWr himself, sentences from Dahlia's letters ; and then she fixed her eyes on him, astoniscied that he should thus heap condemnation on his own head. They were most pathetic scraps quoted by him, showing the wrestle of love with a petrifying conviction of its hopelessness, and with the stealing on of a malady of the blood. They gave such a picture of Dahlia's reverent love for tliis man, her long torture, her chastity of soul and simple innocence, and her gathering delirium of anguish, as Rhoda had never taken at all distinctly to her mind. She tried to look out on him from a mist of tears. " How could you bear to read the letters ? " she sobbed. " Could any human being read them and not break his heart for her ? •' said he. '* How could you bear to read them and leave her to perish ? " His voice deepened to an impressive hollow : " I read them for the first time yesterday morning, in France, and I am here ! " It was undeniably, in its effect on Rhoda, a fine piece of pleading artifice. It partially excused or accounted for his behaviour, while it filled her with emotions which she felt to be his likewise, and therefore she could not remain as an unsympathetic stranger by his side. With this, he flung all artifice away. He told her the whole story, saving the one black episode of it — the one incomprehensible act of a desperate baseness that, blindly to get free, he had deliberately permitted, blinked at, and had so been guilty of. He made a mental pause as he was speaking, to consider in amazement how and by what agency he had been reduced to shame his manhood, and he left it a marvel. Otherwise, he in no degree exonerated himself. He dwelt sharply on his vice of ambition, and scorned it as a misleading light. " Yet I have done little since I have been without her ! " And then, with a per- suasive sincerity, he assured her that he could neither study nor live apart from Dahlia. " She is the dearest soul to me upon earth ; she is the purest woman. I have lived with her, I have lived apart from her, and I cannot live without her. I love her with a husband's love. Now, do you sup- pose I will consent to be separated from her ? I know that EDWAKD TRIES HIS ELOQUENCE and then she ould thus heap most pathetic of love with a and with the ey gave such a man, her long *cence, and lier id never taken Dok out on him " she sobbed, not break his i leave her to low: "I read i France, and I a fine piece of counted for his which she felt k remain as an e told her the •f it — the one IS that, blindly )linked at, and ause as he was and by what mhood, and he ree exonerated ambition, and lave done little m, with a per- l neither study rest soul to me ive lived witli )t live without V, do you sup- ' I know that 329 while her heart beats, it 's mine. Try to keep her from me — you kill her." "She did not die," said Ehoda. It confounded his menaces. " This time she might," he could not refrain from mur- muring. " Ah ! " Rhoda drew off from him. " But I say," cried he, " that I will see her." " We say, that she shall do what is for her good." " You have a project ? Let me hear it. You are mad, if you have." " It is not our doing, Mr. Blancove. It was — it was by her own choice. She will not always be ashamed to look her father in the face. She dare not see him before she is made worthy to see him. I believe her to have been directed right." " And what is her choice ? " « She has chosen for herself to marry a good and worthy }} man Edward called out, " Have you seen him — the man ? " Ehoda, thinking he wished to have the certainty of the stated fact established, replied, " I have." "A good and worthy man," muttered Edward. ''Illness, weakness, misery, have bewildered her senses. She thinks him a good and worthy man ? " •- 1 think him so." " And you have seen him ? " " I have." " Why, what monstrous delusion is this ? It can't be ! My good creature, you're oddly deceived, I imagine. What is the man's name ? I can understand that she has lost her will and distinct sight; but you are clear-sighted, and can estimate. What is the man's name ? " " I can tell ycu," said lihoda; "his name is Mr. Sedgett." " Mister — ! " Edward gave one hollow stave of laughter. "And you have seen him, and think him — " " I know he is not a gentleman," said llhoda. " He has been deeply good to my sister, and I thank him, and do respect him.'' " Deeply ! " Edward echoed. He was prompted to betray and confess himself : courage failed. ,' I \ '. I \ \\ 330 EHODA FLEMING They looked around simultaneously on hearing an ad- vancing footstep. The very man appeared — in holiday attire, flushed, smiling, and with a nosegay of roses in his hand. He studied the art of pleasing women. His eye struck on Edward, and his smile vanished. Khoda gave him no word of recognition. As he passed on, he was led to speculate from his having seen Mr. Edward instead of Mr. Algernon, and from the look of the former, that changes were in the air, possibly chicanery, and the proclaiming of himself as neatly diddled by the pair whom, with another, he heartily hoped to dupe. After he had gone by, Edward and Rhoda changed looks. Both knew the destination of that lovely nosegay. The common knowledge almost kindled an illuminating spark in her brain; but she was left in the dark, and thought him strangely divining, or only strange. For him, a horror cramped his limbs. He felt that he had raised a devil in that abominable smirking ruffian. It may not, perhaps, be said that he had distinctly known Sedgett to be the man. He had certainly suspected the possibility of his being the man. It is out of the pjwer of most wilful and seliish natures to imagine, so as to see accurately, the deeds they prompt or permit to be done. They do not comprehend them until these black realities stand up before their eyes. Ejaculating " Great heaven ! " Edward strode some steps away, and returned. "It's folly, Rhoda! — the uttermost madness ever con- ceived ! I do not believe — I know that Dahlia would never consent — first, to marry any man but myself ; secondly, to marry a man who is not a jjerfect gentleman. Her delicacy distinguishes her among women." "Mr. Blancove, my sister is nearly dead, only that she is so strong. The disgrace has overwhelmed her, it has. When she is married, she will thank and honour him, and see nothing but his lo/e and kindness. I will leave you now." " I am going to her," said Edward. "Do not." " There 's an end of talking. I trust no one will come in my path. Where am I ? " leanng an ad- attire, flushed, his hand. He eye struck on ve him no word 3d to speculate Mr. Algernon, jes were in the f of himself as her, he heartily , changed looks. nosegay. The minating spark k, and thought )r him, a horror 'aised a devil in not, perhaps, be to be the man. oi his being the Iful and selfish the deeds they act comprehend fore their eyes, rode some steps dness ever con- nlia would never ilf ; secondly, to 1. Her delicacy I, only that she lied her, it has. tionour him, and will leave you me will come in TOO LATE 331 He looked up at the name of the street, and shot away from her. Khoda departed in another direction, firm, since she had seen Sedgett pass, that his nobleness should not meet with an ill reward. She endowed him with fair moral qualities, which she contrasted against Edward Blaneove's evil ones ; and it was with a democratic fervour of contempt that she dismissed the superior outward attractions of the gentleman. CHAPTER XXXVIII TOO LATE This neighbourhood was unknown to Edward, and, after plunging about in one direction and another, he found that he had missed his way. Down innumerable dusky streets of dwarfed houses, showing soiled silent window-blinds, he hurried and chafed ; at one moment in sharp joy that he had got a resolution, and the next dismayed by the singular petty impediments which were tripping him. " My dear- est ! " his heart cried to Dahlia, " did I wrong you so ? I will make all well. It was the work of a fiend." Now he turned to right, now to left, and the minutes flew. They flew; and in the gathering heat of his brain he magnified things until the sacrifice of herself Dahlia was preparing for smote his imagination as with a blaze of the upper light, and stood sublime before him in the grandeur of old tragedy. "She has blinded her eyes, stifled her senses, eaten her heart. Oh ! my beloved ! my wife ! my poor girl ! and all to be free from shame in her father's sight ! " Who could have believed that a girl of Dahlia's class would at once have felt the shame so keenly, and risen to such pure heights of heroism ? The sacrifice flouted conception ; it mocked the steady morning. He refused to believe in it ; but the short throbs of his blood were wiser. A whistling urchin became his guide. The little lad was carelessly giving note to a popular opera tune, with happy disregard of concord. It chanced that the tune was one which had taken Dahlia's ear, and, remembering it and hex Vli: 332 BHODA FLEMING ! ' ^ I pretty humming of it in the old days, Edward's wrestling unbelief with the fatality of the hour sank, so entirely was he under the sovereignty of his sensations. He gave the boy a big fee, desiring superstitiously to feel that one human creature could bless the hour. The house was in view. He knocked, and there came a strange murmur of some denial. " She is here," he said menacingly. "She was taken away, sir, ten minutes gone, by a gentleman," the servant tried to assure him. The landlady of the house, coming up the kitchen stairs, confirmed the statement. In pity for his torpid incredulity she begged him to examine her house from top to bottom, and herself conducted him to Dahlia's room. "That bed has not been slept in," said the lawyer, point- ing his finger to it. "No, sir, poor thing ! she did n't sleep last night. She 's been wearying for weeks ; and last night her sister came, and they had n't met for very long. Two whole candles they burnt out, or near upon it." " Where ? — " Edward's articulation choked. " Where they 're gone to, sir ? That I do iiot know. Of course she will come back." The landlady begged him to wait ; but to sit and see the minutes — the black emissaries of perdition — fly upon their business, was torture as big as to endure the tearing off of his flesh till the skeleton stood out. Up to this point he had blamed himself; now he accused the just heavens. Yea! is not a sinner their lawful quarry ? and do they not slip the hounds with savage glee, and hunt him down from wrong to evil, from evil to infamy, from infamy to death, from death to woe everlasting? And is this their righteousness? He caught at the rusty garden rails to steady his feet. Algernon was employed in the comfortable degustation of his breakfast, meditating whetlier he should transfer a further slice of ham or of Yorkshire pie to his plate, or else have done with feeding and light a cigar, when Edward ap- peared before him. "Do you know where that man lives ? " Algernon had a prompting to respond, "Now, really! what man ? " But passion stops the breath of fools. He answered, " Yes." t'' card's wrestling so entirely was • He gave the that one human as in view. He of some denial. ;es gone, by a Im. kitchen stairs, •pid incredulity 1 top to bottom, in. 3 lawyer, point- t night. She 's er sister came, ole candles they ed. I not know. Of ' sit and see the — fly upon their 16 tearing off of liis point he liad heavens. Yea ! io they not slip )wn from wrong to death, from righteousness ? Y his feet, ble degustation lould transfer a is plate, or else len Edward ap- "Now, really! 1 of fools. He TOO LATE 833 " Have you the thousand in your pocket ? " Algernon nodded with a sickly grin. « Jump up ! Go to him. Give it up to him ! Say, that if he leaves London on the instant, and lets you see him off — say, it shall be doubled. Stay, I '11 write the promise, and put my signature. Tell him he shall, on my word of honour, have another — another thousand pounds — as soon as I can possibly obtain it, if he holds his tongue, and goes with you • and see that he goes. Don't talk to me on any other sub- ject, or lose one minute." Algernon got his limbs slackly together, trying to think of the particular pocket in which he had left his cigar-case. Edward wrote a line on a slip of note-paper, and signed his name beneath. With this and an unsatisfied longing for tobacco Algernon departed, agreeing to meet his cousin in the street where Dahlia dwelt. " By Jove ! two thousand ! It 's an expensive thing not to know your own mind," he thought. " How am I to get out of this scrape ? That girl Rhoda does n't care a button for me. No colonies for me. I should feel like a convict if I went alone. What on earth am I to do?" It seemed preposterous to him that he should take a cab, when he had not settled upon a scheme. The sight of a tobacconist's shop charmed one of his more immediate difficulties to sleep. He was soon enabled to puif consoling smoke. " Ned 's mad," he pursued his soliloquy. " He 's a weather- cock. Do I ever act as he does ? And I 'm the dog that gets the bad name. The idea of giving this fellow two thousand — two thousand pounds ! Why, he might live like a gentleman." And that when your friend proves himself to be dis- traught, the proper friendly thing to do is to think for him, became eminently clear in Algernon's mind. "Of course, it 's Ned's money. I 'd give it if I had it, but I have n't ; and the fellow won't take a farthing less ; I know him. However, it 's my duty to try." He summoned a vehicle. It was a boast of his proud youth that never in his life had he ridden in a close cab. Flinging his shoulders back, he surveyed the world on foot. ■! *: I 334 RHODA FLEMING ■n- i'-' i> !ii. i " Odd faces one sees," he meditated. " I suppose they Ve got feelings, like the rest; but a fellow can't help asking—. what 's the use of them ? If I inherit all right, as I ought to — why should n't I ? — 1 '11 squat down at old Wrexby, garden and farm, and drink my J\)rt. I hate London. The squire 'a not so far wrong, I fancy." It struck him that his chance of inheriting was not so very obscure, alter all. Why had he ever considered it obscure ? It was decidedly next to certain, he being an only son. And the squire's health was bad ! While speculating in this wise he saw advancing, arm-in- arm, Lord Suckling and Harry Latters. They looked at him, and evidently spoke together, but gave neither nod, nor smile, nor a word, in answer to his Hying wave of the hand. Furious, and aghast at this signal of exclusion from the world, just at the moment when he was returning to it almost cheerfully in spirit, he stopped the cab, jumped out, and ran after the pair. "I suppose I must say Mr. Latters," Algernon com- menced. Harry deliberated a quiet second or two. " Well, accord- ing to our laws of primogeniture, I don't come first, and therefore miss a better title," he said. " How are you ? " Algernon nodded to Lord Suckling, who replied, " Very well, I thank you." Their legs were swinging forward concordantly. Al- gernon plucked out his purse. " I have to beg you to ex- cuse me," he said hurriedly ; " my cousin Ned 's in a mess, and I 've been helping him as well as I can — bothered — not an hour my own. Fifty, I think ? " That amount he tendered to Harry Latters, who took it most coolly. " A thousand ? " he queried of Lord Suckling. " Divided by two," replied the young nobleman, and the BlUcher of bank-notes was proffered to him. He smiled queerly, hesitating to take it. " I was looking for you at all the Clubs last night," said Algernon. Lord Suckling and Latters had been at theirs, playing whist till past midnight; yet is money, even when paid over in this egregious public manner by a nervous hand, such testimony to the sincerity of a man, that they shouted TOO LATE 835 uppose they've t help asking •ight, as I ouglit at ohi Wrexby, ;e London. The ting was not so considered it in, he being an vancing, aiin-in- They looked at neither nod, nor ave of the hand. lusion from tlie returning to it cab, jumped out, Algernon coni- " "Well, accord- come first, and Lord Suckling, icordantly. Al- beg you to ex- *«red 's in a mess, in — bothered — - That amount he it coolly. ding. bleman, and the im. He smiled last night," said theirs, playing 3ven when paid 1 nervous hand, at they shouted a simultaneous invitation for him to breakfast with them in an hour, at the Club, or dine with thoni thero that even- ing. Algernon affected the nod of hasto and luuiuiesccMiot', and ran, lest they should liear him groan. lie told the cabman to drive northward, instead of to the southwest. The question of the thousand pounds had been decided for him — "by fate," he (diose to athrni. The consideration that one is puisued by fate will not fail to impart a sense of dignity even to tlie meanest. "After all, if I stop in England," said he, "I can't afford to lose my position in society; anything *s better than that an unniiti^rated low scoundrel like Sedgett should bag the game." iiesidcs, is it not somewhat sceptical to suppose tliat when Fate dt; cides, she has not weighed the scales, and decided for the best? Meantime, the whole energy of his intelh'f.t was set reflecting on the sort of lie which Edward would, by nature and the occasion, be disposed to swallow. He quitted the cab, and walked in the Park, and au diahle to him there ! the fool has done his work. It was now half-past ten. Robert, with u most heavy heart, had accomplished Rhoda's commands upon him. He had taken Dahlia to his lodgings, whither, when free from Edward, Rhoda proceeded in a mood of extreme sternness. She neither thanked Robert nor smiled upon her sister. Dahlia sent one quivering look up at her, and cowered lower in her chair near the window. " Father comes at twelve ? " Rhoda said. Robert replied : " He does." After which a silence too irritating for masculine nerves filled the room. "You will find, I hope, everything here that you may want," said Robert. " My landlady will attend to the bell. She is very civil." "Thank you ; we shall not want anything," said Rhoda. "There is my sister's Bible at her lodgings." Robert gladly offered to fetch it, and left them with a sense of relief that was almost joy. He waited a minute in the doorway, to hear whether Dahlia addressed him. He waited on the threshold of the house, that he might be sure Dahlia did not call for his assistance. Her cry of appeal would have fortified him to stand against Rhoda; t:i \)\ ! ' ; ' v.\ S'" ! U ■; ;• ! '■ • I '■ u ■i': !i -. 1. - * I •f > ;•'■ h: \ {■ i i: ' 336 EHODA FLEMING but no cry was heard. He kept expecting it, pausing for it, lioping it would come to solve his intense perplexity. The prolonged stillness terrified him ; for, awa}' from the sisters, he had power to read the anguish of Dahlia's heart her frozen incapacity, and the great and remorseless luas- ter}"- which lay in Rhoda's inexorable will. A few doors down the street he met Major Waring, on his way to him. "Here's five minutes' work going to be done, which we may all of us regret till the day of our deaths," Robert said, and related what had passed during the morning hours. Percy approved Bhoda, saying, " She must rescue her sis- ter at all hazards. The case is too serious for her to listen to feelings, and regrets, and objections. The world against one poor woman is unfair odds, Robert. I come to tell you I leave England in a day or two. Will you join me ? " " How do I know what I shall or can do ? " said Robert, mournfully : and they parted. Rhoda's unflickering determination to carry out, and to an end, this tragic struggle of duty against inclination ; on her own sole responsibility forcing it on ; acting like a Fate, in contempt of mere emotions, — seemed barely real to his mind : each moment that he conceived it vividly, he became more certain that she jnust break down. Was it in her power to drag Dahlia to the steps of the altar ? And would not her heart melt when at last Dahlia did get her voice ? " This marriage can never take place ! " he said, and was convinced of its being impossible. He forgot that while he was wasting energy at Fairly, Rhoda had sat hiving bitter strength in the loneliness of the Farm ; with one vile epithet clapping on her ears, and nothing but una- vailing wounded love for her absent unhappy sister to make music of her pulses. He found his way to Dahlia's room ; he put her Bible under his arm, and looked about him sadly. Time stood at a few minutes past eleven. Flinging himself into a cliiir, he thought of waiting in that place ; but a crowd of undc- finable sensations immediately beset him. Seeing Edward Blancove in the street below, he threw up the window com- passionately, and Edward, casting a glance to right and left, crossed the road. Robert went down to him. fc, pausing for c perplexity, -vay from the )ahlia's heart, lorseless mas- )!• Waring, on going to be le day of our lassed during escue her sis- lier to listen world against me to tell you 3in me ? " said Robert, 7 out, and to iclinatiou ; on acting like a h1 barely real it vividly, he n. Was it in } altar ? And a did get her 3e!" he said, le forgot that hoda had sat e Farm ; with hing but una- iister to make Alt her Bible rime stood at f into a clujr, owd of unde- 3eing Edward window com- to right and > him. TOO LATE 337 y «I am waiting for my cousin." Edward had his watch in his hand. "I think I am fast. Can you tell me the time exactly?" " Why, I 'm rather slow," said Robert, comparing time with his own watch. "I make it four minutes past the hour." " I am at fourteen," said Edward. " I fancy I must be fast." " About ten minutes past, is the time, I think." "So much as that!" " It may be a minute or so less." « I should like," said Edward, " to ascertain positively." "There's a clock down in the kitchen here, I suppose," said Robert. " Safer, there 's a clock at the church, just in sight from here." "Thank you; I will go and look at that." Robert bethought himself suddenly that Edward had better not. " I can tell you the time to a second," he said. "It's now twelve minutes past eleven." Edward held his watch balancing. "Twelve," he re- peated; and, behind this mask of common-place dialogue, they watched one another — warily, and still with pity, on Robert's side. " You can't place any reliance on watches," said Edward. " None, I believe," Robert remarked. " If you could see the sun every day in this climate ! " Edward looked up. "Ah, the sun's the best timepiece, when visible," Robert acquiesced. "Backwoodsmen in America don't need watches." " Unless it is to astonish the Indians with them." " Ah I yes ! " hummed Robert. " Twelve — fifteen — it must be a quarter past. Or, a three quarters to the next hour, as the Germans say." "Odd!" Robert ejaculated. "Foreigners have the queerest ways in the world. They mean no harm, but they make you laugh." " They think the same of us, and perhaps do the laughing more loudly." " Ah ! let them," said Robert, not without contemptuous indignation, though his mind was far from the talk. 22 11 I iifi , ii • ii 338 EHODA J'LEMING I III' .I'?' I i 1 t < ' f» ;f The sweat was on Edward's forehead. " In a few minutes it will be half-past — half-past eleven ! I expect a friend; that makes me impatient. Mr. Eccles " — Edward showed his singular, smallish, hard-cut and flashing features, clear as if he had blown off a mist — " you are too much of a man to bear malice. Where is Dahlia ? Tell me at once. Some one seems to be cruelly driving her. Has she lost her senses ? She has : — or else she is coerced in an inex- plicable and shameful manner." " Mr. Blancove," said Robert, " I bear you not a bit of malice — couldn't if I would. I'm not sure /could have said guilty to the same sort of things, in order to iell an enemy of mine I was sorry for what I had done, and I respect you for your courage. Dahlia was taken from here by me." Edward nodded, as if briefly assenting, while his features sharpened. « Why ? " he asked. " It was her sister's wish." ** Has she no will of her own ?" '• Very little, I 'm afraid, just now, sir." " A remarkable sister ! Are they of Puritan origin ? " " Not that I am aware of." « And this father ? " " Mr. Blancove, he is one of those sort — he can't lift up his head if he so much as suspects a reproach to his children." Edward brooded. " I desire — as I told you, as I told her sister, as I told my father last night — I desire to make her my wife. What can I do more ? Are they mad with some absurd country pride ? Half-past eleven ! — it will be murder if they force her to it ! Where is she ? To such a man as that ! Poor soul ! I can liardly fear it, for I can't imagine it. Here — the time is going. You know the man yourself." " /know the man ? " said Robert. "I've never set eyes on him — I 've never set eyes on him, and never liked to ask nmch about him. I had a sort of feeling. Her sister says he is a good, and kind, honourable young fellow, and he must be." "Before it's too late," Edward muttered hurriedly — " you know him — his name is Sedgett." a few minutes pect a friend ; dward showed features, clear too much of a 11 me at once. Has she lost 3d in an iuex- 1 not a bit of /could have •der to :;ell an d done, and I -s taken from le his features m origin ? " le can't lift up proach to his j^ou, as I told iesire to make ;hey mad with 1 ! — it will be ) ? To such a it, for I can't know the man never set eyes lever liked to <;. Her sister ig fellow, and hurriedly — DAHLIA GOES HOIVIE 339 Robert hung swaying over him with a big voiceless chest. " Tlifit Sedgett ? " he breathed huskily, and his look was hard to meet. Edward frowned, unable to raise his head. "Lord in heaven! some one has something to answer for ! " cried Robert. " Come on ; come to the church. That foul dog ? — Or you, stay where you are. I '11 go. He to be Dahlia's husband! They've seen him, and can't see what he is ! — cunning with women as that ? How did they meet ? Do you know ? — can't you guess ? " He flung a lightning at Edward and ran off. Bursting into the aisle, he saw the minister closing the Book at the altar, and three persons moving toward the vestry, of whom the last, and the one he discerned, was Rhoda. CHAPTER XXXIX DAHLIA GOES HOME Late into the afternoon. Farmer Fleming was occupying a chair in Robert's lodgings, where he had sat since the hour of twelve, without a movement of his limbs or of his mind, and alone. He showed no sign that he expected the approach of anyone. As mute and unremonstrant as a fallen tree, nearly as insensible, his eyes half closed, and his hands lying open, the great figure of the old man kept this attitude as of stiff decay through long sunny hours, and the noise of the London suburb. Although the wedding people were strangely late, it was unnoticed by him. When the door opened and Rhoda stepped into the room, he was unaware that he had been waiting , and only knew that the hours had somehow accumulated to a heavy burden upon him. ''She is coming, father; Robert is bringing her up," Rhoda said. "Let her come," he answered. Robert's hold was tight under Dahlia's arm as they passed the doorway, and then the farmer stood. Robert closed the door. :' fl ^ 840 EHODA FLEMING (i ! . 1 t : I'll' 5 For some few painful moments the farmer coulrl not speak, and his hand was raised rejectingly. The return of human animation to his heart made him look more sternly than he felt; but he had to rid himself of one terrible ques- tion before he satisfied his gradual desire to take his daughter to his breast. It came at last : like a short roll of drums, the words were heard, — " Is she an honest woman ? " " She is," said Khoda. The farmer was looking on Eobert. Kobert said it likewise in a murmur, but with steadfast look. Bending his eyes now upon Dahlia, a mist of affection grew in them. He threw up his head, and with a choking, infantine cry, uttered, "Come." Robert placed her against her father's bosom. He moved to the window beside lihoda, and whispjred, and she answered, and they knew .lot what they said. The joint moans of father and daughter — the unutterable com- munion of such a meeting — fiiled their ears. Grief held aloof as much as joy. Neither joy nor grief were in those two hearts of parent and child; hit the senseless content- ment of hard, of infinite hard human craving. The old man released her, and Ilhoda undid her hands from him, and led the pale Sacrifice to another room. ''Where's . . .?" Mr. Fleming asked. Robert understood him. " Her husband will not come." It was interpreted by the far iier as her husband's pride. Or, maybe, the man who was her husband now had righted her at last, and then flung her off in spite for what he had been made to do. " I 'm not being deceived, Robert ? " " No, sir ; upon my soul ! " " I 've got that here," the farmer struck his ribs. Rhoda came back. " Sister is tired," she said. " Dahlia is going down home with you, for ... I hope, for a long stay." " All the better, while home we 've got. We may n't lose time, my girl. Gammon 's on 's way to the station now. He'll wait. He'll wait till midnight. You may always h ^ i.1 'Jl Ler could not The return of more sternly terrible ques- to take his short roll of nth steadfast [t of affection th a choking, 11. itl whispjred, ey said. The tterable coni- Grlef held were in those Bless content- id her hands her room. iband's pride. ' had righted what he had :ibs. (1. "Dahlia ", for a long mayn't lose itation now. may always DAHLIA GOES HOME 341 Robert reckon on a slow man like Gammon for waitin'. comes too?" " Father, we have business to do. Robert gives me his rooms here for a little time ; his landlady is a kind woman, and will take care of me. You will trust me to Robert." "I'll bring Rhoda down on Monday evening," Robert said to the farmer. " You may trust me, Mr. Fleming." " That I k -Dw. That I 'm sure of. That 's a certainty," said the farmer. " I 'd do it for good, if for good was i'n the girl 's heart, Robert. There seems," he hesitated ; "eh, Robert, there seems a something upon us all. There's a something to be done, is tliere ? But if I 've got my flesh and blood, and none can spit on her, why should I be asking bably topple 's Bank, had comparison, ge found him ether he was ) spot, and he y in this life. Lch an honest 18 poor ! The ioing the un- ith fortitude; cedent moral look on what ptation, being 3tion. "If I to the left," hile he made irge he would 3d exultation what did the nerly, he had leir opinions, longer wrapt chances, and tue had gone appetite for ite notion of enjoyment to be derived from money not his own. Imaqi- nation misled the old man. 'Ihero liave been spotloss rep- utations gained in the service of virtue before now ; and chaste and beautiful persons have walked tho narrow j'lank envied and admired ; and they have ultimately tottered and all but fallen ; or they have (piite fallen, from no worse an incitement than curiosity. Cold curiosity, as the direc- tors of our human constitution tell us, is, in the colder condition of our blood, a betraying vice, leading to sin at a period when the fruits of sin afford the smallest satisfac- tion. It is, in fact, our last probation, and one of our latest delusions. If that is passed successfully, we may really be pronounced as of some worth. Anthony wished to give a light indulgence to his curiosity ; say, by running away and over London Bridge on one side, and back on the other, hugging the money. For two weeks, he thought of this absurd performance as a comical and agreeable diver- sion. How would he feel when going in tho direction of the Surrey hills ? And how, when returning, and when there was a prospect of the Bank, where the money was to be paid in, being shut ? Supposing that he was a minute behind his time, would the Bank-doors remain open, in expectation of him ? And if the money was not paid in, what would be thought? What would be thought at Boyne's, if, the next day, he was late in making his appearance ? " Hulloa! Hackbut, how 's this ? " — " I 'm a bit late, sir, morning." — "Late! you were late yesterday evening, were n't you ? " — " Why, sir, the way the clerks at that Bank of Mortimer and Bennycuick's rush away from busi- ness and close the doors after 'em, as if their day began at four p. m., and business was botheration: — it 's a disgrace to the City o' London. And I beg pardon for being late, but never sleeping a wink all night for fc"- about this money, I am late this morning, I humbly cor .■js. Wl.cr^ I got to the Bank, the doors were shut. Owr e;( Ljk's correct; that I know. My belief, sir, is, the clerks at Mortimer and Pennycuick's put on the time." — " Oh ! we must have this inquired into." Anthony dramatized the farcical scene which he imagined between himself and Mr. Sequin, the head clerk at Boyne's, I . IX-: i 350 RHODA FLEMINQ I!!-' : lit *\ •with immense relish ; and terminated it by establishing his reputation for honesty higher than ever at the Bank, after which violent exercise of his fancy, the old man sank into a dulness during several days. The farmer slept at his lodgings for one night, and talked of money, and of selling his farm ; and half hinted that it would be a brotherly pro- ceeding on Anthony's part to buy it, and hold it, so as to keep it in the family. The farmer's deep belief in the existence of his hoards always did Anthony peculiar mis- chief. Anthony grew conscious of a giddiness, and all the next day he was scarcely fit for his work. But the day fol- lowing that he was calm and attentive. Two bags of gold were placed in his hands, and he walked with caution down the steps of the Bank, turned the corner, and went straight on to the West, never once hesitating, or casting a thought behind upon Mortimer and Pennycuick's. He had not, in truth, one that was loose to be cast. All his thoughts were boiling in his head, obfuscating him with a prodigious steam, through which he beheld the city surging, and the streets curving like lines in water, and the people mixing and pass- ing into and out of one another in an astonishing manner — no face distinguishable ; the whole thick multitude ap- pearing to be stirred like glue in a gallipot. The only dis- tinct thought which he had sprang from a fear that the dishonest ruffians would try to steal his gold, and he hugged it, and groaned to see that villaay was abroad. Marvellous, too, that the clocks on the chuiches, all the way along the Westward thoroughfare, stuck at the hour when Banks are closed to business ! It was some time, or a pretence at some time, before the minute-hands surmounted that diffi- culty. Having done so, they rushed ahead to the ensuing hour with the mad precipitation of pantomimic machinery. The sight of them presently standing on the hour, like a sentinel presenting arms, was startling — laughable. Anthony could not have filliped with his fingers fifty times in the interval ; he was sure of it, " or not much more," he said. So the City was shut to him behind iron bars. Up in the West there is not so much to be dreaded from the rapacity of men. You do not hear of such alarming burglaries there every day ; every hand is not at another's throat there, or in another's pocket j at least, not until after '^Xi A FREAK OP THE MONEY-DEMON 351 ablishing his Bank, after sank into a slept at his nd of selling irotherly pro- d it, so as to belief in the peculiar mis- . and all the t the day fol- bags of gold caution down went straight ing a thought e had not, in ;houghts were ligious steam, id the st'.eets dng and pass- shing manner multitude ap- The only dis- fear that the -nd he hugged Marvellous, vay along the en Banks are I pretence at bed that diffi- > the ensuing ic machinery, [le hour, like — laughable, rs fifty times ch more," he 1 bars. ireaded from ich alarming at another's 3t until after nightfall ; and when the dark should come on, Anthony had determined to make for his own quarter with all speed. Darkness is horrible in foreign places, but foreign places are not so accusing to you by daylight. The Park was vastly pleasant to the old man. " Ah ! " he sniffed, " country air," ami betook liimself to a seat. " Extraordinary," he thought, " what little people they look on their horses and in their carriages ! That 's the aristocracy, is it ! " The aristocracy appeared oddly diminutive to him. He sneered at the aristocracy, but, beholding a policeman, became stolid of aspect. The police- man was a connecting link with his City life, tlie true lord of his fearful soul. Though the money-bags were under his arm, beneath his buttoned coat, it required a deep pause before he understood what he had done ; and then the Park began to dance and curve like the streets, and there was a singular curtseying between the heavens and the earth. He had to hold his money-bags tight, to keep them from plunging into monstrous gulfs. "I don't remember that I 've taken a drink of any sort," he said, " since I and the old farmer took our turn down in the Docks. How 's this ? " He seemed to rock. He was near upon indulging in a fit of terror ; but the impolicy of it withheld him from any demon- stration, save an involuntary spasmodic ague. When this had passed, his eyesight and sensations grew clearer, and he sat in a mental doze, looking at things with quiet animal observation. His recollection of the state, after a lapse of minutes, was pleasurable. The necessity for motion, how- ever, set him on his feet, and oif he went, still Westward, out of the Park, and into streets. He trotted at a good pace. Suddenly came a call of his name in his ear, and he threw up one arm in self-defence. " Uncle Anthony, don't you know me ? " "Eh? I do; to be sure I do," he answered, peering dimly upon Rhoda; "I'm always meeting one of you." " I 've been down in the City, trying to find you all day, uncle. I meet you — I might have missed ! It is direction from heaven, for I prayed." Anthony muttered, " I 'm out for a holiday." " This " — Rhoda pointed to a house — " is where I am lodging." : i' ill M i^ I '■i ''\ 352 RHODA FLEMING i' I ^ i ■:■ " Oh! " said Anthony; " and liow 's your family ? " Rhoda perceived that he was rather distraught. After great persuasion, she got him to go upstairs with her. " Only for two seconds," he stipulated. " I can't sit." " You will have a cup of tea with me, uncle ? " "No ; I don't think I 'm equal to tea." "Not with Ehoda?" " It 's a name in Scripture," said Anthony, and he drew nearer to her. " You 're comfortable and dark here, my dear. How did you come here ? What 's happened ? You won't surprise me." " I 'm only stopping for a day or two in London, uncle." " Ah ! a wicked place ; that it is. No wickeder than other places, I '11 be bound. Well ; I must be trotting. I can't sit, I tell you. You 're as dark here as a gaol." "Let me ring for candles, uncle." "No; I 'm going." She tried to touch him, to draw him to a "jair. The agile old man bounded away from her, and she ' ,d to pacify him submissively before he would consent tc oe seated. The tea-service was brought, and Rhoda made tea, and filled a cup for him. Anthony began to enjoy the repose of the room. But it made the money-bags alien to him, and ser- pents in his bosom. Fretting on his chair, he cried : " W^ell ! well ! what 's to talk about ? We can't drink tea and not talk ! " Rhoda deliberated, and then said: "Uncle, I think you have always loved me." It seemed to him a merit that he should have loved her. He caught at the idea. " So I have, Rhoda, my dear ; I have. I do." " You do love me, dear uncle ! " " Now I come to think of it, Rhoda — my Dody, I don't think ever I've loved anybody else. Never loved e'er a young woman in my life. As a young man." " Tell me, uncle ; are you not ver}- rich ? " " No, I ain't ; not ' very ' ; not at all." " You must not tell untruths, uncle." "I don't," said Anthony; only, too doggedly to instil conviction. "I have always felt, uncle, that you love money too A FREAK OF THE MONEY-DEMON 853 much. What is the value of money except to give comfort and help you to be a blessing to others in their trouble ? Does not God lend it you for that i)urp()se ? It is most true! And if you make a store of it, it will only be un- happiness to yourself. Uncle, you love me. I auMu great trouble for money." Anthony made a long arm over the ])rojection of his con.t, and clasped it securely; sullenly refusing tr answer. "Dear uncle, hear me out. I como to you, because I know you are rich. I was on my way to your loilginf^s when we met; we were thrown together. You have more money than you know what to do with. I am a beggar to you for money. I have never asked before — 1 never shall ask again. Now I pray for your help. My life, and the life dearer to me than any other, depend on you. Will you help me, Uncle Anthony? Yes! " "No! " Anthony shouted. "Yes! yes!" "Yes, if I can. No, if I can't. And 'can't' it is. So it's 'No.'" Rhoda's bosom sank, but only as a wave 'n the sea-like energy of her spirit. "Uncle, you must." Anthony was restrained from jumping up and running away forthwith by the peace whie.h was in tlie room, and the dread of being solitary after he had tasted of companionship. "You have money, uncle. You are rich. You must help me. Don't you ever think what it is to be an old man, and no one to love you and be grateful to you ? Why do you cross your arms so close ? " Anthony denied that he crossed his arms closely. Rhoda pointed to his arms in evidence; and he snarled out, "There, now; 'cause I 'm supposed to have saved a trifle, I ain't to sit as I like. It's downright too bad! It 's shocking ! " But, seeing that he did not uncross his arms, and re- mained bunched up defiantly, Rhoda silently observed him. She felt that money was in the room. "Don't let it be a curse to you," she said. And her voice was hoarse with agitation. 23 ':H 'f '■.I'?' I 1 , I « 354 RHODA FLEMING " What ? " Anthony asked. " What 's a curse ? " "That." Did she know? Had she guessed? Her finger was laid in a line at the bags. Had she smelt the gold ? :! i. . ; "It will be a curse to you, uncle. Death is coming. What 's money then? Uncle, uncross your arms. You are afraid; you daro not. You carry it about; you have no confidence anywhere. It eats your heart. Look at me. I have nothing to conceal. Canyon imitate me, and throw your hands out — so ? Why, uncle, will you let me be ashamed of you? You have the money there. You cannot deny it. Me crying to you for help! What have we talked together ? — that we would sit in a country house, and I was to look to the flo\ver-beds, and always have dishes of green peas for you — plenty, in June; and you were to let the village boy? know what a tongue you have, if they ii' ie a clatter of their sticks along the garden-rails; and you were to drink your tea, locking on a green and the sunset. Uncle! Poor old, good old soul! Y^ou mean kindly. You must be kind. A day will make it too late. You have tlie money there. You get older and older every minuif? With trying to refuse me. You know that I can make i-yj. happy. I have the power, and I have the will. Help me, I say, in my great trouble. That money is a burden. You are forced to carry it about for fear. You look guilty as you go running in the streets, because you fear everybody. Do good with it. Let it be money with a blessing on it! It will save us from horrid misery ! fi-om death : from torture and death ! Think, uncle ! look , uncle I You with the money — me wanting it. I pray to heaven, and I meet you, and you have it. Will you say that you refuse to give it, when I see — when I show you, you are led to meet me and help me? Open! — put down that arm ! " Against this storm of mingled supplication and shadowy menace, Anthony held out with all outward firmness until, when bidding him to put down his arm, she touched the arm commandingly, and it fell pnralyzed. Khoda's eyes were not beautiful as they fixed on tlie object of her quest. In this they were of the character of her mission. She was dealing v.rith an evil thing, and had •v*^:'^w? m curse ? " finger was laid 'id ? th is coming. r arms. You '; 3^ouhaveno lOok at me. i ^j and throw you let me be You cannot hat have we country house, d always have June; and you iigue you have, le garden -rails; I green and the 1-' You mean lake it too late. md older every now that I can - have the will, riat money is a for fear. You bs, because you bo money with 1 misery ! from le! look, uncle! )ray to heaven, u say that you *v you, you are put down that n and shadowy firmness until, he touched the fixed on tlie le character of ;hing, and had A FEEAK OF THE MONEY-DEMON 35 chosen to act according to her light, and by the counsel of her combative and forceful temper. At each step new difficulties had to be encountered by fresh contrivances- and money now — money alone had become the specific for present use. There was a limitation of her spiritual vision to aught save to money; and the money beino- bared to her eyes, a frightful gleam of eagerness shot from them. Her hands met Anthony's in a common grasp of the money-bags. "It 's not mine! " Anthony cried, in desperation. "Whose money is it ?" said Rhoda, and caught up her hands as from fire. "My Lord! " Anthony moaned, "if you don't speak like a Court o' Justice. Hear yourself! " " Is the money yours , uncle ? " "It — is," and " is n't " hung in the balance. " It is 7iot ? " Rhoda dressed the question for him in the terror of contemptuous horror. " It is. I — of course it is ; how could it help being mine ? My money ? Yes. What sort o' thi; ^ 's that to ask — whether what I 've got 's mine or yours, or icmol.^dy else's? Ha!" " And you say you are not rich, uncle ? " A charming congratulatory smile was addres<^cd to him, and a shake of the head ol tender reproach irresis' ible to his vanity. "Rich! with a lot o' calls on me; everybody waniin' to borrow — I'm rich! And now you coming to me! You women can't bring a guess to bear upon the right uature o* money." "Uncle, you will decide to help me, I knew." She said it with a staggering assurance of manner. " How do you know ? " cried Anthony. " Why do you carry so much money about with you in bags, uncle ? " "Hear it, my dear." He simulated miser's joy. "Ain that music? Talk of operas! Hear that; don't it tal> don't it chink? 'Aon't it sing?" He groaned, "Oh, L^rd!" and fell back. This I -ansition from a state of intensest rapture to the depths of pain alarmed her. i •:! ^?- ^ •il ;.) I' i \ \: I , 356 RHODA FLEMING "Nothing; it 's nothing." Anthony anticipated her inquiries. "They hags is so heavy." " Then why do you carry them about ? " "Perhaps it's heart disease," said Anthony, and grinned, for he knew the soundness of his health. "You are very pale, uncle." "Eh ? you don't say that ?" "You are awfully white, dear uncle." "1 '11 look in the glass," said Anthony. "No, I won't." He sank back in his chair. " Khoda, we 're all sinners, ain't we? All — every man and woman of us, and bab}, too. That 's a comfort; yes, it is a comfort. It's a tre- mendous comfort — shuts mouths. I know what you 're going to say — some bigger sinners than others. If they 're sorry for it, though, wliat then ? They can repent, can't they?" " They must undo any harm they may have done. Sin- ners are not to repent only in words, uncle." "I 've been feeling lately," he murmured. Rhoda expected a miser's confession. "I'va been feeling, the last two or three days," he resumed. "What, uncle?" " Sort of taste of a tremendous nice lemon in my mouth, my dear, and liked it, till all of a sudden I swallowed it whole — such a gulp! I felt it just now. I 'm all right." "No, uncle," said Rhoda, "you are not all right; this money makes you miserable. It does; I can see that it does. Now, put those bags in my hands. For a minute, try ; it will do you good. Attend to me ; it will. Or, let me have them. They are poison to you. You don't want them." "I don't," cried Anthony; "upon my soul, I don't. I don't want 'em. I 'd give — it is true, my dear, I don't want 'em. They 're poison." "They 're poison to you," said Rhoda; "they 're health, they 're life to me. I said, * My uncle Anthony will help me. He is not — I know his heart — he is not a miser.' Are you a miser, uncle ? " Her hand wns on one of liis bags. It was strenuously withheld j but while she continued speaking, reiterating h.fL.i\ 'it. ,ve done. Sin- iree days," he A FREAK OF THE iMU.NEY-DEMON 357 the word " miser, " the hold relaxed. She caught the heavy bag away, startled by its weight. He perceived the effect produced on her, and cried "Aha! and I 've been carrying two of 'em — two! " ' Rhoda panted in her excitement. "Now, give it up," said he. She returned it. He got it against his breast joylessly, and then bade her to try the weight of the two. She did try them, and Anthony doated on the wonder of her face. " Uncle, see what riches do ! You fear everybody you think there is no secure place — you have more ? Do you /.a-pw flhrnif. nil vmiT mniipv 'r* " carry about all your money "No," he chuckled at her astonishment. "I've Yes. I 've got more of my own." Her widened eyes in- toxicated him. " More. I 've saved. I 've [)ut by. Say, I 'm an old sinner. What 'd th' old farmer say now ? Do you love your Uncle Tony ? •■ Old Ant, ' they call me down at — " "The Bank," he was on the point of uttering; but the vision of the Bank lay territic in his recollection, and, summoned at last, would not be wiped away. The unbear- able picture swam blinking through accumulating clouds; remote and minute as the chief scene of our infancy, but commanding him with the present touch of a mighty arm thrown out. "I'm honest," he cried. "I always have been honest. I 'm known to be honest. I want no man's money. I 've got money of my own. I hate sin. I hate sinners. I'm an honest man. Ask them, down at — Rhoda, my dear ! I say, don't you hear me ? Rhoda, you misering It 's a beastly mistake: suci) a trouble to keep honest when think I 've a turn for poor savings, and you 're poor; and i 've done it for years, spite o' tem])tation 't 'd send lots o' men to the hulks. Safe into my hand, safe out o' my hands! Slip once, and there ain't mercy in men. And you say, 'I had a whirl of my head, and went round, and didn't know where I was for a minute, and forgot the place I 'd to go to, and come away to think in a (}uiet part.' ..." He stopped abruptly in his ravings. " You give me the money, Rhoda ! " She handed him the money-bags. He seized them, and dashed them to the ground with the force of madness. Kneeling, he drew out his penknife, "■ 1 I' ■ \ 1 -J 1: '! -9 ' H J i< i -l ': ;' 368 RHODA FLEMING f^. ' and slit the sides of the bags, and held them aloft, and let the gold pour out in torrents, insufferable to the sight; and uttering laughter that clamoured fierily in her ears for long minutes afterwards, the old man brandished the empty bags, and sprang out of the room. She sat dismayed in the centre of a heap of gold. •■■•' k ii CHAPTER XLI u t DAHLIA'S FRENZY 'H I'! i| ' '1 ,! ( M '; On the Monday evening, Master Gammon was at the station with the cart. Robert and Rhoda were a train later, but the old man seemed to be unaware of any delay, and, mildly staring, received their apologies, and nodded. They asked him more than once whether all was well at the Farm; to which he replied that all was quite well, and that he was never otherwise. About half-an-hour after, on the road , a gradual dumb chuckle overcame his lower features. He flicked the horse dubitatively, and turned his head, first to Robert, next to Rhoda; and then he chuckled aloud, — "The last o' they mel'ns rotted yest'day afternoon!" "Did they ?" said Robert. "You'll have to get fresh seed, that 's all." Master Gammon merely showed his spirit to be negatfve. "You've been playing the fool with the sheep," Robert accused him. It hit the old man in a very tender part. "I play the fool wi' ne'er a sheep alive, Mr. Robert. Animals likes their 'customed food, and don't like no other. I never changes my food, nor 'd e'er a sheep, nor 'd a cow, nor 'd a bullock, if animals was masters. I 'd as lief give a sheep beer, as offer him, free-handed — of my own will, that 's to say — a mel'n. They rots." Robert smiled, though he was angry. The delicious unvexed country-talk soothed Rhoda, and she looked fondly ,.'1 DAHLIA S FRENZY 359 aloft, and let [the sight; and M" ears for long lied the empty )f gold. ion was at the were a train e of any delay, s, and nodded. all was wfdl at quite well, and -an-hour after, came his loAver 3ly, and turned i.; and then he afternoon ! " ve to get fresh : to be negative, sheep," Kobert e, Mr. Eobert. don't like no ' a sheep, nor 'd isters. I 'd as anded — of my )ts." The delicious e looked fondly on the old man, believing that he could not talk on in his sedate way, if all were not well at home. The hills of the beacon-ridge beyond lier home, and the line of stunted iirs, which she had named "the old bent beggarmen," were visible in the twilight, ller eyes flew thoughtfully far over them, with the feeling that they had long known what would come to her and to those dear to her, and the intense hope that they knew no more, inas- much as they bounded her sight. "If the sheep thrive," she ventured to remark, so that the comforting old themes might be kept up. "That's the particular 'if!'" said Robert, signifying something that had to be leaped over. Master Gammon performed the feat with agility. " Sheep never was heartier," lie pronounced emphatically. " Lots of applications for melon-seed, Gammon ? " To this the veteran's tardy answer was, "More fools 'n one about, I reckon ; " and Robert allowed him the victory implied by silence. " And there 's no news in Wrexby ? none at all ? " said Rhoda. A direct question inevitably plunged Master Gammon so deep amid the soundings of his reflectiveness, that it was the surest way of precluding a response from him; but on this occasion his honest deliberation bore fruit. "Squire Blancove, he 's dead." The name caused Rhoda to shudder. "Found dead in 's bed, Sat'day morning," Master Gam- mon added, and, warmed upon the subject, went on: "He 's that stiff, folks say, that stiff he is, he '11 have to get into a rounded coffin; he 's just like half a hoop. He was all of a heap, like. Had a fight with 's bolster, and got th' wust of it. But, be 't the seizure, or be 't gout in 's belly, he 's gone clean dead. And he wun't buy th' Farm, ne'ther. Shutters is all shut up a> the Hall. He '11 go burying about Wednesday. Men that drinks don't keep." Rhoda struck at her brain to think in what way this death could work and show like a punishment of the heavens upon that one wrong-doer; but it was not mani- fest as a flame of wrath, and she laid herself open to the peace of the fields and the hedge ways stepping by. The !: H * f J I mr^^ ■!' ^\ v/ 860 KHODA FLEMING farm-house came iu sight, and friendly old Adam and Eve turning from the moon. She heard the sound of ater. Every sign of peace was around the Farm. The cows had been milked long since; the geese were (j^uiet. There was nothing but the white board above the garden-gate to speak of tlie liistory lying in her heart. They found the farmer sitting alone, shading his fore- head. Ehoda kissed his cheeks and whispered for tidings of Dahlia. "Go up to her," the farmer said. Rhoda grew very chill. She went upstairs with appre- hensive feet, and, recognizing Mrs. Sumfit outside the door of Dahlia's room, embraced her, and heard her say that Dahlia had turned the key, and had been crying from mornings to nights. "It can't last," Mrs. Sumfit sobbed; "lonesome hysterics, they 's death to come. She 's falling into the trance. I '11 go, for the sight o' me shocks hei. ' Rhoda knocked, waited patiently till her persistent repe- tition of her name gained her admission. She beheld her sister indeed, but not the broken Dahlia from whom she had parted. Dahlia was hard to her caress, and crying, " Has he come ? " stood at bay, white-eyed, and looking like a thing strung with wires. "No, dearest; he will not trouble you. Have no fear." " Are you full of deceit ? " said Dahlia, stamping her foot. "I hope not, my sister." Dahlia let fall a long quivering breath. She went to her bed, upon which her mother's Bible was lying, and, taking it in her two hands, held it under Rhoda's lips. " Swear upon that ? " " What am I to swear to, dearest ? " "Swear that he is not in the house." "He is not, my own sister; believe me. It is no deceit. He is not. He will not trouble you. See; I kiss the Book, and swear to you, my beloved! I speak truth. Come to me, dear." Rhoda put her arms up entreatingly, but Dahlia stepped back. " You are not deceitful ? You are not cold ? You are not inhuman ? Inhuman ! You are not ? You are not ? Oh, my God! Look at her! " '<^, : DAHLIA'S FRENZY 361 (Vdam and Eve uiid of ater. The cows had t. Tliere was ;arden-gate to r ding his f cre- ed for tidings rs with appre- utside the door her say that in crying from •5umfit sobbed; She 's falling ? shocks hei. ' persistent repe- iShe behehl her rom whom she 3S, and crying, i, and looking Jave no fear." Stamping her 5he went to her ig, and, taking ips. rt is no deceit. e; I kiss the speak trutli. 3 entreatingly, Id ? You are You are not ? The toneless voice was as bitter for Rhoda to hear aa the accusations. She replied, with a poor smile, "I am only not deceitful. Come, and see. You will' nob be disturbed." "What urn I tied to?" Dahlia struggled feebly as against a weight of chains. "Oh! what am 1 tied to'? It 's on nie, tight like teeth. I can't escape. I cuu't breathe for it. I was like a stone when he asked nic marry him ! — loved me ! Some one preached — my duty ! I am lost, I am lost! Why? you girl! — why ? — What (lid you do ? Why did you take my hand when I was asleep and hurry me so fast ? What have I done to you ? Why did you push me along ? ^ I could n't see wliere. I heard the Church babble. For you — inhuman ! inhuman I What have 1 done to you ? What have you to do with punishing sin? It's not sin. Let me be sinful, then. I am. I am sinful. Hear me. I love him; I love my lover, and," she screamed out, "he loves me! " Rhoda now thought her mad. She looked once at the rigid figure of her transformed sister, and, sitting down, covered her eyes and wept. To Dahlia, the tenrs were at first an acrid joy; but being weak, she fell to the bed, and leaned against it, forgetting her frenzy for a time. "You deceived me," she murmured; and again, "You deceived me." Rhoda did not answer. In trying to understand why her sister should imagine it, she began to know that she had in truth deceived Dahlia. The temptation to drive a frail human creature to do the thing which was right, had led her to speak falsely for a good purpose. Was it not righteously executed ? Away from the tragic figure in the room, she might have thought so, but the horror in the eyes and voice of this awakened Sacrifice, struck away the support of theoretic justifica!-,ion. Great pity for the poor enmeshed life, helpless there, and in a woman's worst peril, — looking either to madness, or to death, for an escape, — drowned her reason in a heavy cloud of tears. Long on toward the stroke of the hour. Dahlia heard her weep, and she murmured on, "You deceived me ; " but it was no more to reproach ; rather, it vras an exculpation of her reproaches. "You did deceive V i * .-.i- '/ ■.%. V'S^. .0^. ^^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) k A O /- i/.. 1.0 I.I 1.25 ■- illM •^ IIIIM .'if m M 2.2 1.8 U 1111.6 6" Photographic Sciences Corporation m "^ m^ \ :\ iV \ ^ 6^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. M5B0 (716) 872-4503 ^ s\. lew seemed ilia was the ked among . That is, lal in their if relea^irg it the cold e narrative B incidents wanted, by e had posi- bhe funeral supporter )ught; but ar to noth- I — he was never a guesser. He left Mrs. Sumfit to pledge herself i> perturbation of spirit to an oath L>.at her eyes had seen Anthony Hackbut ; and more, which was, that after the close of the funeral service, the young squire had caughi sight of Anthony crouching in a corner ot the churchyard and had sent a man to him, and they had disappeared to- gether. Mrs. Sumfit was heartily laughed at and rallied Queen Anne's Farm ? And where 's he now, mayhap ? " Mrs. Sumfit appealed in despair to Master Gammon, with entreaties, and a ready dumpling. « There, Mas' Gammon ; and why you sh'd play at ' do- believe ' and at ' don't believe,' after that awesome scene, the solem'est of life's, when you did declare to me, sayin', it was a stride for boots out o' London this morning. Your words, Mas' Gammon ! and 'boots' — it 's true, if by that alone! For, 'boots,' I says to myself — he thinks by * boots,' there being a cord'er in his family on the mother's side ; which you yourself told to me, as you did, Mas' Gam- mon, and now holds back, you did, like a bad horse." « Hey ! does Gammon jib ? " said the farmer, with the ghost of old laughter twinkling in his eyes. "He told me this tale," Mrs. Sumfit continued, daring her irresponsive enemy to contradict her, with a threaten- ing gaze. "He told me this tale, he did; and my belief's, his game 's, he gets me into a corner — there to be laughed at ! Mas' Gammon, if you 're not a sly old man, you said, you did, he was drownded ; your mother's brother's wife's brother ; and he had a ])rother, and what he was to you — that brother " — Mrs. Sumfit smote her hands — " Oh, my goodness, my poor head ! but you sha'n't slip away, Mas' Gammon ; no, try you ever so much. Drownded he was, and eight '.ays in the sea, which you told me over a warm mug of ale by the fire years back. And I do believe them dumplings makes ye obstinate: for worse you get, and that ford of 'em, I sh'U soon not have enough in our biggest pot. Yes, you said he was eight days in the sea, and as for face, you said, poor thing ! he was like a rag of towel dipped in starch, was your own words, and all his 21 370 RHODA FLEMING V'''\ **. likeness wiped out ; and Joe, the other brother, a cord'er — bootmaker, you call 'em — looked down him, as he wiis stretched out on the shore of the sea, all along, and did n't know him till he come to the boots, and he says, * It's Ab- ner ; ' for there was his boots to know him by. Now, will you deny, Mas' Gammon, you said, Mr. Hackbut's boots, and a long stride it was for 'em from London ? And I won't be laughed at through arts of any sly old man I " The circumstantial charge made no impression on Master Gammon, who was heard to mumble, as from the inmost recesses of tight-packed dumpling ; but he left the vindica- tion of his case to the farmer's laughter. The mention of her uncle had started a growing agitation in Ehoda, to whom the indication of his eccentric behaviour was a stronger confirmation of his visit to the neighbourhood. And wherefore had he journeyed down ? Had he come to haunt her on account of the money he had poured into her lap ? Rhoda knew in a moment that she was near a great trial of her strength and truth. She had more than once, I cannot tell you how distantly, conceived that the money had been money upon which the mildest word for "stolen" should be put to express the feeling she had got about it, aftor she had parted with the bulk of it to the man Sedgett. Noc " stolen," not " appropriated," but money that had per- haps been entrusted, and of which Anthony had forgotten the rightful ownership. This idea of hers had burned with no intolerable fire ; but, under a weight of all discounte- nancing appearances, feeble though it was, it had distressed her. The dealing with money, and the necessity for it, had given Rhoda abetter comprehension of its nature and value. She had taught herself to think that her suspicion sprang from her uncle's wild demeanour, and the scene of the gold pieces scattered on the floor, as if a heart had burst at her feet. No sooner did she hear that Anthony had been, by suppo- sition, seen, than the little light of secret dread flamed a panic through her veins. She left the table before Master Gammon had finished, and went out of the house to look about for her uncle. He was nowhere in the fields, nor in the graveyard. She walked over the neighbourhood deso- lately, until her quickened apprehension was extinguished, 'f ANTHONY IN A COLLAPSE 871 and she returned home relieved, tliinkinop it folly to have imagined her uncle was other than a man of hoarded wealth, and that he was here. But, in the interval, she had expe- rienced emotions which warned her of a struggle to come. Who would be friendly to hor, and an arm of might ? The thought of the storm she had sown upon all sides made her tremble foolishly. When she placed her hand in Robert's, she gave his fingers a confiding pressure, and all but dropped her head upon his bosom, so sick she was with weakness. It would have been a deceit toward him, and that restrained her ; perhaps, yet more, she was restraineil by the gloomy prospect of having to reply to any words of love, without an idea of what to say, and with a loathing of caresses. She saw herself condemned to stand alone, and at a season when she was not strengthened by pure self- support. Ehoda had not surrendered the stern belief that she had done well by forcing Dahlia's hand to the marriage, though it had resulted evilly. In reflecting on it, she had still a feeling of the harsh joy peculiar to those who have exer- cised command with a conscious righteousness upon wilful, sinful, and erring spirits, and have thwarted the wrong- doer. She could only admit that there was sadness in the issue; hitherto, at least, nothing worse than sad disap- pointment. The man who was her sister's husband could no longer complain that he had been the victim of an impo- sition. She had bought his promise that he would leave the country, and she had rescued the honour of the family by paying him. At what cost ? She asked herself that now, and then her self-support became uneven. Could her uncle have parted with the great sum — have shed it upon her, merely beneficently, and because he loved her ? Was it possible that he had the habit of carrying his own riches through the streets of London? She had to silence all questions imperiously, recalling exactly her ideas of him, and the value of money in the moment when money was an object of hunger — when she had seized it like a wolf, and its value was quite unknown, unguessed at. Ehoda threw up her window before she slept, that she might breathe the cool night air; and, as she leaned out, she heard steps moving away, and knew them to be Robert's, I ■' 372 RHODA FLEMING ^J in whom that pressure of her hand had cruelly resuscitated his longing for her. She drew back, wondering at the idle- ness of men — slaves v/hile they want a woman's love, sav- ages when they have won it. She tried to pity him, but she had not an emotion to spare, save perhaps one of dull exultation, that she, alone of women, was free from that wretched mesh called love; and upon it she slept. It was between the breakfast and dinner hours, at the Farm, next day, when the young squire, accompanied by Anthony Hackbut, met farmer Fleming in the lane border- ing one of the outermost fields of wheat. Anthony gave little more than a blunt nod to his relative, and slouched on, leaving the farmer in amazement, while the young squire stopped him to speak with him. Anthony made his way on to the house. Shortly after, he was seen passing through the gates of the garden, accompanied by Rhoda. At the dinner-hour, Robert was taken aside by the farmer. Neither Rhoda nor Anthony presented themselves. They did not appear till nightfall. When Anthony came into the room, he took no greetings and gave none. He sat down on the first chair by the door, shaking his head, with vacant eyes. Rhoda took off her bonnet, and sat as strangely silent. In vain Mrs. Sumfit asked her : " Shall it be tea, dear, and a little cold meat ? " The two dumb figures were separately interrogated, but they had no answer. " Come ! brother Tony ? " the farmer tried to rally him. Dahlia was knitting some article of feminine gear. Rob- ert stood by the musk-pots at the window, looking at Rhoda fixedly. Of this gaze she became conscious, and glanced from him to the clock. " It 's late," she said, rising. " But you 're empty, my dear. And to think o' going to bed without a dinner, or your tea, and no supper ! You '11 never say prayers, if you do," said Mrs. Sumfit. The remark engendered a notion in the farmer's head, that Anthony promised to be particularly prayerless. " You 've been and spent a night at the young squire's, I hear, brother Tony. AH right and well. No complaints on my part, I do assure ye. If you 're mixed up with that family, I won't bring it in you 're anyways mixed up with ANTHONY IN A COLLAPSE 873 as to clash, do you see. Only, man, word 'd be civil, if you don't want a this family ; not so now you are here, a doctor." « I was right," murmured Mrs. Sumfit. " At the funeral, he was; and Lord be thanked! 1 thouglit my eyes was failin'. Mas' Gammon, you'd ha' lost no character by sidin' wi' me." "Here 's Dahlia, too," said the farmer. " Krother Tony, don't you see her. She 's beginning to be recogniz'ble, if her hair 'd grow a bit faster. She 's well, there she is." A quavering, tiny voice, that came from Anthony, said : "How d'ye do — how d'ye do;" sounding like the first effort of a fife. But Anthony did not cast eye on Dahlia. " Will you eat, man ? — will you smoke a pipe ? — won't you talk a word ? — will you go to bed ? " These several questions, coming between pauses, elicited nothing from the staring old man. " Is there a matter wrong at the Bank ? " the farmer called out, and Anthony jumped in a heap. " Eh ? " persisted the farmer. Rhoda interposed: "Uncle is tired; he is unwell. To- morrow he will talk to you." " No, but is there anything wrong up there, though ? " the farmer asked with eager curiosity, and a fresh smile at the thought that those Banks and city folk were mortal, and could upset, notwithstanding their crashing wheels. "Brother Tony, you speak out; has anybody been and broke ? Never mind a blow, so long, o' course, as they have n't swallowed your money. How is it ? Why, I never saw such a sight as you. You come down from Lon- don ; you play hide and seek about your relation's house ; and here, when do you condescend to step in — eh ? ho" ia it ? You ain't, I hope, ruined, Tony, are ye ? " Rhoda stood over her uncle to conceal him. " He shall not speak till he has had some rest. And yes, mother, he shall have some warm tea upstairs in bed. Boil some water. Now, uncle, come with me." " Anybody broke ? " Anthony rolled the words over, as Rhoda raised his arm. " I 'm asked such a lot, my dear, I ain't equal to it. You said here'd be a quiet place. I don't know about money. Try my pockets. Yes, mum, if 374 BHODA. FLEMING you was forty policemen, I 'in empty ; you 'd find it. And no objection to nod to prayers ; but never was taught one of my own. Where am I going, my dear ? " " Upstairs with me, uncle." Rhoda had succeeded in getting him on his feet. The farmer tapped at his forehead, as a signification to the others that Anthony had gone wrong in the head, which reminded him that he had prophesied as much. He stiffened out his legs, and gave a manful spring, crying, "Hulloa, brother Tony! why, man, eh? Look here. What, goin' to bed ? What, you, Tony ? I say — I say — dear me ! " And during these exclamations intricate visions of tripping by means of gold wires danced before him. Rhoda hurried Anthony out. After the door had shut, the farmer said : " That comes of it ; sooner or later, there it is ! You give your heart to money — you insure in a ship, and as much as say, here 's a ship, and, blow and lighten, I defy you. Whereas we day-by-day people, if it do blow and if it do lighten, and the waves are avilanches, we 've nothing to lose. Poor old Tony — a smash, to a certainty. There 's been a smash, and he 's gone under the harrow. Any o' you here might ha' heard me say, things can't last for ever. Ha'n't you, now ? " The persons present meekly acquiesced in his prophetic spirit to this extent. Mrs. Sumfit dolorously said, " Often, William dear," and accepted the incontestable truth in deep humiliation of mind. " Save," the farmer continued, " save and store, only don't put your heart in the box." "It's true, William." Mrs. Sumfit acted clerk to the sermon. Dahlia took her softly by the neck, and kissed her. " Is it love for the old woman ? " Mrs. Sumfit murmured fondly ; and Dahlia kissed her again. The farmer had by this time rounded to the thought of how he personally might be affected by Anthony's ill-luck, supposing, perchance, that Anthony was suffering from something more than a sentimental attachment to the Bank of his predilection : and such a reflection instantly diverted his tendency to moralize. ANTHONY IN A COLLAPSE 375 |nd it. And taught one jet. lification to the head, as much. Iring, crying, JLook here. — I say — licate visions }e him. That comes >ur heart to say, here 's PVhereas we lighten, and 3. Poor old 5n a smash, here might Ha'n't you, is prophetic aid, " Often, le truth in store, only lerk to the I her. ; murmured thought of y's ill-luck, Bring from o the Bank ly diverted "We shall hear to-morrow," he observed in conclusion • which, as it caused a desire for the morrow to spring within his bosom, sent his eyes at Master Gammon, who was half an hour behind his time for bed, and had dropped asleep in his chair. This unusual display of public somnolence on Master Gammon's part, together with the veteran's repu- tation for slowness, made the farmer fret at him as being in some way an obstruction to the lively progress of the hours. « Hoy, Gammon ! " he sang out, awakeningly to ordinary ears; but Master Gammon was not one who took the ordinary plunge into the gulf of sleep, and it was required to shake him and to bellow at him — to administer at once earthquake and thunder — before his lizard eyelids wouM lift over the great, old-world eyes; upon which, like •-. clayey monster refusing to be informed with heavenly fire, he rolled to the right of his chair and to the left, and pitched forward, and insisted upon being inanimate. Brought at last to a condition of stale consciousness, he looked at his master long, and uttered surprisingly: "Farmer, there's queer things going on in this house," and then relapsed to a combat with iVIrs. Sumfit, regarding the candle ; she saying that it was not to be entrusted to him, and he sullenly contending that it was. "Here, we'll all go to bed," said the farmer. "What with one person queer, and another person queer, I shall be in for a headache, if I take to thinking. Gammon 's a man sees in 's sleep what he misses awake. Did you ever know," he addressed anybody, "such a thing as Tony Hackbut coining into a relation's house, and sitting there, call it, dumb- go up and If he don't of us ? It 's, I and not a word for any foundering. And that 's me : why did n't I shake his hand, you ask. Well, v^fhy not? know he 's welcome, without ceremony, he 's no good. Why, I 've got matters t' occupy my mind, too, haven't I ? Every man has, and some more 'n others, let alone crosses. There 's something wrong with my brother-in-law, Tony, that 's settled. Odd that we country people, who bide, and take the Lord's gifts — " The fanner did not follow out this reflection, but raising his arms, shepherd-wise, he puffed as if blowing the two women before him to their !|^^ 376 RHODA FLEMING beds, and then gave a shy look at Eobert, and nodded good-night to him. Eobert nodded in reply. He knew the cause of the farmer's uncommon blitheness. Algernon Blancove, the young squire, had proposed for Rhoda's hand. CHAPTER XLIII RHODA PLEDGES HER HAND (^ Anthony had robbed the Bank. The young squire was aware of the fact, and had offered to interpose for him, and to make good the money to the Bank, upon one condition. So much, Rhoda had gathered from her uncle's babbling interjections throughout the day. The farmer knew only of the young squire's proposal, which had been made direct to him ; and he had left it to Robert to state the case to Rhoda, and plead for himself. She believed fully, when she came downstairs into the room where Robert was awaiting her, that she had but to speak and a mine would be sprung ; and shrinking from it, hoping for it, she entered, and tried to fasten her eyes upon Robert distinctly, telling him the tale. Robert listened with a calculating seriousness of manner that quieted her physical dread of his passion. She finished; and he said, — "It will, perhaps, save your uncle. I'm sure it will please your father." She sat down, feeling that a warmth had gone, and that she was very bare. " Must I consent, then ? " "If you can, I suppose." Both being spirits formed for action, a perplexity found them weak as babes. He, moreover, was stung to see l^er debating at all upon such a question ; and he was in despair before complicated events which gave nothing for his hands and heart to do. Stiff endurance seemed to him to be his lesson ; and he made a show of having learnt it. " Were you going out, Robert ? " RHODA PLEDGES HER HAND 377 KJ 7 )e sprung ; and 1 sure it will gone; and that ? for his hands him to be his " I usually make the rounds of the house, to be sure all 's safe." His walking about the garden at night was not, then, for the purpose of looking at her window. Khoda coloured in all her dark crimson with shame for thinking that it had been so. "I must decide to-morrow morning." " They say, the pillow *s the best counsellor." A reply that presumed she would sleep appeared to her as bitterly unfriendly. « Did father wish it ? " " Not by what he spoke." " You suppose he does wish it ? " "Where's the father who wouldn't? Of course, he wishes it. He 's kind enough, but you may be certain he wishes it." " Oh ! Dahlia, Dahlia ! " Rhoda moaned, under a rush of new sensations, unfilial, akin to those which her sister had distressed her by speaking shamelessly out. " Ah ! poor soul ! " added Robert. " My darling must be brave : she must have great courage. Dahlia cannot be a coward. I beg-n to see." Rhoda threw up her face, and sat awhile as one who was reading old matters by a fresh light. "T can't think," she said, with a start. "Have I been dreadfully cruel ? Was I unsisterly ? I have such a horror of some things — disgrace. And men are so hard on women ; and father — I felt for him. And I hated that base man. It 's his cousin and his name ! I could almost fancy this trial is brought round to me for punishment." An ironic aevil prompted Robert to say, " You can't let harm come to your uncle." The thing implied was the farthest in his idea of any woman's possible duty. " Are you of that opinion ? " Rhoda questioned with her eyes, but uttered nothing. Now, he had spoken almost in the ironical tone. She should have noted that. And how could a true-hearted girl suppose him capable of giving such counsel to her whom he loved ? It smote him with horror and anger ; but he was much too manly to betray these actual sentiments, and I ' ^ 378 RHODA FLEMING d ' '^': If IS continued to dissemble. You see, he had not forgiven her for her indifference to him. " You are no longer your own mistress," he said, meaning exactly the reverse. This — that she was bound in generosity to sacrifice her- self — was what Rhoda feared. There was no forceful pas- sion in her bosom to burst through the crowd of weak reasonings and vanities, to bid her be a woman, not a puppet ; and the passion in him, for which she craved, that she might be taken up by it and whirled into forgetfulness, with a seal of betrothal upon her lips, was absent : so that she thought herself loved no more by Robert. She was weary of thinking and acting on her own responsibility, and would gladly have abandoned her will; yet her judgment, if she was still to exercise it, told her that the step she was bidden to take was one, the direct consequence and the fruit of her other resolute steps. Pride whispered, " You could compel your sister to do that which she abhorred ; " and Pity pleaded for her poor old uncle Anthony. She looked back in imagination at that scene with him in London, amazed at her frenzy of power, and again, from that con- templation, amazed at her present nervelessness. " I am not fit to be my own mistress," she said. "Then, the sooner you decide the better," observed Robert, and the room became hot and narrow to him. "Very litcle time is given me," she murmured. The sound was like a whimper, — exasperating to one who had witnessed her remorseless energy. "I dare say you won't find the hardship so great," said he. " Because," she looked up quickly, " I went out one day to meet him ? Do you mean that, Robert ? I went to hear news of my sister. I had received no letters from her. And he wrote to say that he could tell me about her. My uncle took me once to the Bank. I saw him there first. He spoke of Wrexby, and of my sister. It is pleasant to inexperienced girls to hear themselves praised. Since the day when you told me to turn back I have always respected you." Her eyelids lowered sof'^V. Coula she have humbled herself more ? But she had, at RHODA PLEDGES HER HAND 379 the same time, touched his old wound ; and his rival then was the wooer now, rich, and a gentleman. And this room Robert thought as he looked about it, was the room in which she had refused him, when he first asked lier to be his. « I think," he said, " I 've never begged your pardon for the last occasion of our being alone here together. I've had my arm round you. Don't be frightened. That's my marriage, and there was my wife. And there 's an end of my likings and my misconduct. Forgive me for calling it to mind." « No, no, Eobert ! " Rhoda lifted her hands, and, startled by the impulse, dropped them, saying, " What forgiveness ? Was I ever angry with you ? " A look of tenderness accompanied the words, and grew into a dusky crimson rose under his eyes. " When you went into the wood, I saw you going. I knew it was for some good object," he said, and flushed equally. But, by the recurrence to that scene, he had checked her sensitive developing emotion. She hung a moment in languor, and that oriental warmth of colour ebbed away from her cheeks. " You are very kind," said she. Then he perceived in dimmest fashion that possibly a chance had come to ripeness, withered, and fallen, within the late scoffing seconds of time. Enraged at his blindness, and careful, lest he had wrongly guessed, not to expose his regret (the man was a lover), he remarked, both truthfully and hypocritically, " I 've always thought you were born to be a lady." (You had that ambition, young madam.) She answered : " That 's what I don't understand." (Your saying it, my friend !) " You will soon take to your new duties." (You have small objection to them even now.) " Yes, or my life won't be worth much." (Know, that you ave driving me to it.) " And I wish you happiness, Rhoda." (You are madly imperilling the prospect thereof.) To each of them the second meaning stood shadowy behind the utterances. And further, — "Thank you, Robert." (I shall have to thank you for the issue.) < ' \ 380 RHODA FLEMING In I " Now it 's time to part." (Do you not oee that there 's a danger for me in remaining ?) " GooJ-night." (Behold, I 3m submissive.) " Good-night, Rhoda." (You were the first to give the signal of parting.) " Good-night." (I am simply submissive.) "Why not my name ? Are you hurt with me ? " Rhoda choked. The indirectness of speech had been a shelter to her, permitting her to hint at more than she dared clothe in words. Again the delicious dusky rose glowed between his eyes. But he had put his hand out to her, and she had not taken it. "Whit have I done to offend you ? I really don't know, Rhoda." " Nothing." The flo^ver had closed. He determined to believe that she was gladdened at heart by the prospect of a fine marriage, and now began to discourse of Anthony's delinquency, saying. — " It was not money taken for money's sake : any one can see that. It was half clear to me, when you told me about it, that the money was not his to give, but I've got the habit of trusting you to be always correct." "And I never am," said Rhoda, vexed at him and at herself. " Women can't judge so well about money matters. Has your uncle no account of his own at the Bank? He was thought to be a bit of a miser." "What he is, or what he was, I can't guess. He has not been near the Bank since that day ; nor to his home. He has wandered down on his way here, sleeping in cottages. His heart seems broken. I have still a great deal of the money. I kept it, thinking it might be a protection for Dahlia. Oh ! my thoughts and what I have done ! Of course, I imagined him to be rich. A thousand pounds seemed a great deal to me, and very little for one who was rich. If I had reflected at all, I must have seen that Uncle Anthony would never have carried so much through the streets. I was like a fiend for money. I must have been acting wrongly. Such a craving as that is a sign of evil." "What evil there is, you're going to mend, Rhoda." :> \ •VA •■^, EHODA PLEDGES HER HAND 381 liim and at " I sell myself, then." " Hardly so bad as that. The money will come from vou instead of from your uncle." ^ Ehoda bent forward in her chair, with her elbows on her knees, like a man brooding. Perhaps, it was right that the money should come from her. And how could she have hoped to get the money by any other means ? Here at least was a positive escape from perplexity. It came at the right moment ; was it a help divine ? What cowardice had been prompting her to evade it ? After all, could it be a dread- ful step that she was required to take ? Her eyes met Robert's, and he said startlingly: "Just like a woman ! " « Why ? " but she had caught the significance, and blushed with spite. " He was the first to praise you." " You are brutal to me, Robert." * < My name at last ! You accused me of that sort of thing before, in this room." Rhoda stood up. " I will wish you good-night." " And now you take my hand." " Good-night," they uttered simultaneously ; but Robert did not give up the hand he had got in his own. His eyes grew sharp, and he squeezed the fingers. " I 'm bound," she cried. " Once ! " Robert drew her nearer to him. " Let me go." "Once!" he reiterated. "Rhoda, as I've never kissed you — once ! " " No : don't anger me." " No one has ever kissed you ? " "Never." " Then, I — " His force was compelling the straightened figure. Had he said, " Be mine ! " she might have softened to his embrace ; but there was no fire of divining love in her bosom to perceive her lover's meaning. She read all his words as a placard on a board, and revolted from the outrage of sub- mitting her lips to one who was not to be her husband. His jealousy demanded that gratification foremost. The " Be mine I " was ready enough to follow. Ml' 882 EHODA FLEMING M "Let me go, Kobert." She was released. The cause ice ii was in the opening of the door. Anthony stood there. A more astounding resemblance to the phantasm of a dream was never presented. He was clad in a manner to show forth the condition of his wits, in partial night and day attire : one of the farmer's nightcaps was on his head, surmounted by his hat. A confused recollection of the necessity for trousers had made him draw on those gar- ments sufficiently to permit of i-he movement of his short legs, at which point their subserviency to the uses ended. Wrinkled with incongruous clothing from head to foot, and dazed by the light, he peered on them, like a mouse magni- fied and petrified. " Dearest uncle ! " Rhoda went to him. Anthony nodded, pointing to the door leading out of the house. " I just want to go off — go off. Never you mind me. I 'm only going off." " You must go to your bed, uncle." " Oh, Lord ! no. I 'm going off, my dear. I We had sleep enough for fo ty. I — " he turned his mouth to Rhoda's ear, " I don't \\ ant t' see th' old farmer." And, as if he had given a conclusive reason for his departure, he bore towards the door, repeating it, and bawling additionally, "in the morning." *' You have seen him, uncle. You have seen him. It's over," said Rhoda. }} Anthony whispered : " I don't want t' see th' old farmer." " But you have seen him, uncle." " In the morning, my dear. Not in the morning. He '11 be looking and asking, < Where away, brother Tony ? ' * Where 's your banker's book, brother Tony ? ' ' How 's money-market, brother Tony ? ' I can't see th' old farmer." It was impossible to avoid smiling : his imitation of the farmer's country style was exact. She took his hands, and used every persuasion she could think of to induce him to return to his bed j nor was he insensible to argument, or superior to explanation. "Th' old farmer thinks I 've got millions, my dear. You can't satisfy him. He ... I don't want t^ see him in the RHODA PLEDGES HER HAND 383 morning. He thinks I 've got millions. His mouth '11 so down. I don't want ... You don't want him to look - ^ -n't count now ; I can't count a bit. And every i)ost policeman. I ain't hiding. Let 'em take the old And I can' I see 's a _ ^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ man. And he was a faithful servant, tiirone'dayTe got un on a regular whirly-go-round, and ever since . . . such k little boy ! I m frightened o' you, Rhoda." "I will do everything for you," said Rhoda, crvini; wretchedly. *' *' "Because, the young squire says," Anthony made his voice mysterious. "Yes, yes," Rhoda stopped him; " and I consent : " she gave a hurried half-glance behind her. " Come, uncle. Oh ! pity ! don't let me think your reason 's gone. I can get yoii the money, but if you go foolish, I cannot help you." Her energy had returned to her with the sense of sacrifice. Anthony eyed her tears. '■' We 've sat on a bank and cried together, haven't we ?" he said. ''And counted ants, we have. Shall we sit in the sun together to-morrow ? Say, we shall. Shall we ? A good long day in the sun and no^ body looking at me 's my pleasure." Rhoda gave him the assurance, and he turned and went upstairs with her, docile at the prospect of hours to be passed in the sunlight. Yet, when morning came, he had disappeared. Robert also was absent from the breakfast-table. The farmer made no remarks, save that he reckoned Master Gammon was right — in allusion to the veteran's somnolent observation overnight ; and strange things were acted before his eyes. There came by the morning delivery of letters one ad- dressed to " Miss Fleming." He beheld his daughters rise, put their hands out, and claim it, in a breath; and they gazed upon one another like the two women demanding the babe from the justice of the Wise King. The letter was placed in Rhoda's hand; Dahlia laid hers on it. Their mouths were shut ; anyone not looking at them would have been unaware that a supreme conflict was going on in the room. It was a strenuous wrestle of their eyeballs, like the " give way " of athletes pausing. But the delirious beat down the constitutional strength. A hard bright smile ridged the hollow of Dahlia's cheeks. Rhoda's dark eyes '*1t 884 RHODA FLEMING ' ■ I. h h ■ ': shut ; she let go her hold, and Dahlia thrust the letter in against her bosom, snatched it out again, and dipped her face to roses in a jug, and kissing Mrs. Sumfit, ran from the room for a single minute; after which she came back smil- ing with gravely joyful eyes and showing a sedate readiness to eat and conclude the morning meal. What did this mean ? The farmer could have made allow- ance for Rhoda's behaving so, seeing that she notoriously possessed intellect ; and he had the habit of charging all freaks and vagaries of manner upon intellect. But Dahlia was a soft creature, without this apology for extravagance, and what right had she to letters addressed to " Miss Flem- ing " ? The farmer prepared to ask a question, and was further instigated to it by seeing Mrs. Sumfit's eyes roll S3''mpathetic under a burden of overpowering curiosity and bewilderment. On the point of speaking, he remembered that he had pledged his word to ask no questions ; he feared to — that was the secret ; he had put his trust in Rhoda's assurance, and shrank from a spoken suspicion. So, check- ing himself, he broke out upon Mrs. Sumfit : " Now, then, mother ! " which caused her to fluster guiltily, she having likewise given her oath to be totally unquestioning, even as was Master Gammon, whom she watched with a deep envy. Mrs. Sumfit excused the anxious expression of her face by saying that she was thinking of her dairy, whither, followed by the veteran, she retired. Rhoda stood eyeing Dahlia, nerved to battle against the contents of that letter, though in the first conflict she had been beaten. "Oh, this curse of love !" she thought in her heart ; and as Dahlia left the room, flushed, stupefied, and conscienceless, Rhoda the more readily told her father the determination which was the result of her interview with Robert. No sooner had she done so than a strange fluttering de- sire to look on Robert awoke within her bosom. She left the house, believing that she went abroad to seek her uncle, and walked up a small grass-knoll, a little beyond the farm- yard, from which she could see green corn-tracts and the pastures by the river, the river flowing oily under summer light, and the slow-footed cows, with their 'leads bent to the herbage j far-away sheep, and white hawthorn bushes. ri 'J RHODA TLEDGES HER HAND 385 and deep hedge-ways bursting out of the triraness of the earlier season ; and a nightingale sang among the hazels near by. This scene of unthrobbing peacefulness was beheld by Khoda with her first conscious delight in it. She gazed round on the farm, under a quick new impulse of affection for her old home, ^iid whose hand was it that could alone sustain the working of the farm, and had done so, without reward ? Her eyes travelled up to Wrexby Hall, perfectly barren of any feeling that she was to enter the place, aware only that it was full of pain for her. She accused herself, but could not accept the charge of her having ever hoped for transforming events that should twist and throw the dear old farm-life long back into the fields of memory. Nor could she understand the reason of her continued coolness to Robert. Enough of accurate reflection was given her to perceive that discontent with her station was the original cause of her discontent now. What she had sown she was reaping : — and wretchedly colourless are these harvests of our dream ! The sun has not shone on them. They may have a tragic blood-hue, as with Dahlia's ; but they will never have any warm, and fresh, and nourishing sweetness — the juice which is in a single blade of grass. A longing came upon Rhoda to go and handle butter. She wished to smell it as Mrs. Sumfit drubbed and patted and flattened and rounded it in the dairy ; and she ran down the slope, meeting her father at the gate. He was dressed in his brushed suit, going she knew whither, and when he asked if she had seen her uncle, she gave for answer a plain r.egative, and longed more keenly to be at work with her hands, and to smell the homely creamy air under the dairy- shed. M Hi 25 886 BHODA FLEAUNG CHAPTER XLIV THE ENEMY APPEARS 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 bur- dened 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 May-night, 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 sur- rounding 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 bon- net 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 supersti- tiously renewed her prayer. " Send death to her rather I " — 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 t s»y, THE ENEMY APPEARS 887 the girl, and her acts and words were becoming remoter exponents of her cluiractor. She bent her liead in a blind doze that gavn hov strenf-th 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. lioulby of Warbeach ; the nature of which was an advertis«'nK'nt 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, liobert 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. Blan- cove has nearly quitted this sphere. She nursed him — I was jealous ! — the word 's out. Truth, courage, and suffer- ing 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 ) 388 BHODA FLEIMING V f iM ■ W'- \- ''■ il -. i ' > friendly ; but he was led along : nor did Eobert 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 Eobert. 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, Eobert 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 have n't, I have n't," Anthony whined. " Drink, and be silent. You 've robbed me, and you shall drink ! and by heaven ! if you resist, I '11 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 tiiat 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 ihe sight of Dahlia stepping forth from a chemist's shop in the street nearly opposite to the inn. "This is ?»?/ 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 % •U'- THE ENEMY APPEARS 389 rt stop until rexby, where rt. vhatever his 3ing paid for t one glass, ate room, of erry, Kobert ^e compelled P, alternately id you shall nd you shall you over to gentleman ! 11 you." )bert, eyeing i^our health, eart. Never 5 flash in the lief. You 're t me see you 3od, and he lat he ought I'ing account replenishing lit of Dahlia breet nearly aid Kobert ; ent into the cock's, and half-circles ihecked and leading to Wrexby. Kobert saw two female figure? far ahead. A man was hastening to joni 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, dei^p with f^rass* wherein the red sorrel topped the yellow Imttercupt like rust upon the season's gold. Kobert 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 Sedo-ett "It's you!" "Perhaps you'll keep your hands off, before you make sure, another time." Kobert 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 cour- teous tone. " I 've come for my wife. I 'm just down by train, and a bit out of my way, I reckon. l"'m come, and I'm in a hurry. She shall get home, and have on her things — boxes packed, and we go." Kobert waved Dahlia and Khoda to speed homeward. Anthony had fallen against the roots of a banking elm, and surveyed the scene with philosophic abstractedness. Khoda 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, T tell ye." "You've no claim on her," Khoda burst forth weakly, and quivered, and turned her eyes s"'pplicatingly on Kobert. Dahlia was a statue of icy fright, "You've thrown her off, man, and sold what rights you had," said Kobert, 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, may n't he?" " I have your word of honour," said Rhoda ; muttering, " Oh I devil come to wrong us ! " " Then, you should n't ha' run ferreting down in my part o' the country. You, or Eccles — I don't care who 't is — you 've been at my servants to get at my secrets. Some of \ i 390 RHODA FLEMING !i -i i you have. YouVe declared war. You've been trying to undermine me. That 's a breach, I call it. Anyhow, I 've come for my wife. I '11 have her." " None of us, none of us ; no one has been to your house," said Ehoda, 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 :aking Dahlia by the elbow, walked three paces on, as tt set her in motion. "Off !" he cried to Rhoda, whose e;yelids cowered under the blaze of his face. It was best that her sister should be nway, 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 fea- tures 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 re- plied, 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. THE FARMER IS AWAKENED 391 m trying to nyhow, I Ve voxiY house," pshire, sir, I tv where. I ?o." he country," ye lie, Bob tremendous ahlia by the in motion. wered under ay, and she md touching , quailing in speechless ; At the last lot followed, re so full of lia took from J, and held it lort. Dahlia r starved fea- pt her right ed, — " Dahlia re- :le money to of grief for id Dahlia, a touch or a t to resume : '. am lost. I khlia shrank 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 under- stood her father's readiness to go up to Wrexby Hall. " Ho would sell me to save the Farm." She reproached lier—if for the thought, but she could not be just ; she had ihe 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. Ehoda 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 THE FARMER IS AWAKENED 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." ' 3P 1) mmm 892 EHODA FLEMING I ! if >w*' Ehoda 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 con- trary, 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 't is 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 fov 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 lather, 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 hus- band ! 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 — THE FARMER IS AWAKENED 393 -defence, but )ndering that On the con- fless chuckles ig some slow within. He ptis so," and to her uncle ition in the loubts. " Or lehead, "he's )ially, as he 'd !ay it in all millions, but g satisfaction. 1 instinct, she inole and the ed it, and he told him of vhile his eyes with quite a tension, and a chized her for oncealed from 1 her personal le expense of all, he said, i is tottering, n of kindness er she 's got a lusband ! Do 50 to her hus- calls on me. I thank him. him I owe — Y-ou go up to her and say, her father owes it to the vounc 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, theu, she's his wife J and how can he bargain not to see her?" " The base wretch ! " cried Rlioda. " Has n't he married her ? " the farmer retorted. " Has n'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 \\-.< ^^lug for him." "Father, if you let me see it — " Rhoda checked the intemperate outburst. "Father, this a bad — a bad man. He is a very wicked man. We were all deceived by him! Eobert 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, 'id 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 '11 her father be pleased ; — say that. I want to see the man. It '11 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 '11 welcome him, and so must all in my house." This was how William Fleming received the confession of his daughter's unhappy plight. »" ■ 394 RHODA FLEMING V V < 9r. 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 liev 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 >*1 THE FARMER IS AWAKENED 395 ;er, but that ishness she )urge which to perceive ition of the g that their ny appeared. sisters that f the hours ; though in a liliar country expectation. h afield, aud 16 machinery evident that A thought came with a ill to praying d on the bed, d, she sat up, and it was in tered to him. d her to read ras addressed ger, but more a,- are not lost Edward." it- tell us. But lim. 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. Yester- day I told you to hope ; to-day I can say, hoAieve 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 ray girl's seducer ? " He did not wait for an answer, but turned and went in to the breakfast-table, when he ordered a tray with breakfast for Dahlia to be taken up to her bedroom ; and tliat 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 lamen- tations. The farmer spoke nothing either of liobert 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, hur- rying 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 im- prisonment, and had less compunction in coimtin"- the min- utes 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 be- held her father, and Mrs. Sumfit, who was sitting rollmg, with her apron over her head. The man Sedgett was between them. li -rM 396 RHODA FLEMING 11 CHAPTER XLVI WHEN THE NIGHT IS DARKEST I' No sooner had Rhoda appeared than her father held up the key of Dahlia's bedroom, 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 con- vulsions of her trembling. "No letter! no letter! none? not any? Oh I no lett*^r for me I " The strange varying tones of musical interjection and interrogation were pitiful to hear. " Did you look for a letter ? " said Rhoda, despising her- self for so speaking. " Ke 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 ray letter, and it told me to hope. He is in the house I " " 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. ;■ 'X^ ^^ WHEN THE NIGHT IS DARKEST 397 against me ? Oh, my letter ! " Dahlia "Then, he is 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, "Comeun 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 lum." ' 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 need n't be better than he is. Come you down to him at once. I '11 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 '}, ! 398 EHODA FLEMING ^■i in^ m m r 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. Khoda, 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 '11 hardly get you to the station for the last train to tov^n. Hark at him below ! He 's naturally astonished, he is ; ant^ 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 lihoda, 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 tha^ power within her, it was overmatched by his brutal resolution to take his wife away. No argu- ment, 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 inso- lent, and, as it sounded, Mrs. Sum fit 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 Ehoda below, utterly forget- ting 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 '11 teach her about hating and loving. I '11 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 WHEN THE NIGHT IS DARKEST 399 bedroom. All the house was silent. Khoda 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 sick- chamber when the man of medicine takes the patient's wrist. And in the silence came a blessed sound — the lift- ing of a latch. Rhoda saw Robert's face. " So," said Robert, as she neared him, ••' you need n'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 tlie house. Rhoda spoke out all with- out hesitation in Sedgett's haaring. 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, Rooert," said the farmer. "He's righted her before the worF, 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 ? '* jaid 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. M v 400 RHODA FLEiMING . I m *' There *s one o' the wonders ! " Kobort 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. Flem- ing, you might as well send your daughter to the hangman as put lier 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. "Ti '- man's in your house, Mr. Fleming," he said. " And he 's my guest, and my daughter's husband, re- member 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 '11 do no less," said the farmer. He went into the pas- sage 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. (• WHEN THE NIOIIT IS DARKEST lOl Dahlia nodded, with sluit eyes, and "Rhoda went forth " And now, Kobert, you and I '11 see who ' „ • wi -P — ^ miistiT on these premises," said the farmer. " Hear, all ! I 'm boimdon under a sacred obligation to the husband of my cliild and the Lord's wrath on him who interferes and lifts his hand against me when I perform my sacred duty as a father riace there 1 I 'm going to open the door. Khoda, see to your sister's bonnet and things. Kobert, stand out of my way. There 's no refreshment of any sort you '11 accent of before starting, Mr. Sedgett ? None at all ! That 's no fault of my hospitality. Stand out of my way, llolxut." He 'vas obeyed. Robert looked at Khoda, 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. Kobert 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 stops, 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 I 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." Robert burst into a glorious laugh. " Why, mother ! Mrs. Boulby ! have n't you got a word for me ? " " My blessedest Robert ! " the good woman cried, as she rushed up to kiss him. " Though it was n't to see you I came exactly." She whispered : " The Major and the good '^0 (i ii • 'I 1 'I 402 RHODA FLEMING 1 i.1 gentleman — they 're behind. I travelled down with them. Dear, — you 'd like to know : — Mrs. Lovell sent her little cunning groom down to Warbeach just two weeks back to make inquiries about that villain ; and the groom left me her address, in case, my dear, when the poor creature — his true wife — crawled home, and we knew of her at Three- Tree Farm and knew her story. I wrote word at once, I did, to Mrs. Lovell, and the sweet good lady sent down her groom to fetch me to you to make things clear here. You shall understand them soon. It 's Providence at work. I do believe that now there 's a chance o' punishing the wicked )) ones The figure of Khoda with two lights in her hand was seen in the porch, and by the shadowy rays she beheld old Anthony leaning against the house, and Major Waring with a gentleman beside him close upon the gate. At the same time a sound of wheels was heard. Robert rushed back into the great parlour-kitchen, and, finding it empty, stamped with vexation. His prey had escaped. But there was no relapse to give spare thoughts to that pollution of the house. It had passed. Major Waring was talking earnestly to Mr. Fleming, who held his head low, stupefied, and aware only of the fact that it was a gentle- man imparting to him strange matters. By degrees all were beneath the farmer's roof — all, save one, who stood with bowed head by the threshold. There is a sort of hero, and a sort of villain, to this story: they are but instruments. Hero and villain are combined in the person of Edward, who was now here to abase himself before the old man and the family he had in- jured, and to kneel penitently at the feet of the woman who had just reason to spurn him He had sold her as a slave is sold; he had seen her plunjed into the blackest pit; yet was she miraculously kci)t pure for him, and if she could give him her pardon, might still be his. The grief for which he could ask no compassion had at least purified him to meet her embrace. The great agony he had passed through of late had killed his meaner pride. He stood there ready to come forward and ask forgiveness from un- friendly faces, and beg that he might be in Dahlia's eyes once — that he might see her once. [with them. [t her little ^ks back to lorn left me Jature — his |r at Three- [d at once, I It down her I here. You [at work. I : the wicked hand was beheld old faring with fd. ptchen, and, is prey had jhts to that Waring was s head low, ^as a gentle- degrees all 5, who stood lain, to this villain are now here to y he had in- the woman 'Id her as a lackest pit ; and if she The grief isfc purified had passed He stood s from un- hlia's eyes WHEN THE NIGHT IS DARKEST 403 ^ He had grown to love her with the fullest force of a self- ish, though not a common, nature. Or rather he had always loved her, and much of the selfishness had fallen away from his love. It was not the highest form of love but the love was his highest development. He had heard that Dahlia, lost to him, was free. Something like the mortal yearning to look upon the dead risen to life, made it impossible for him to remain absent and in doubt. He was ready to submit to every humiliation that he might see the rescued features ; he was willing to pay all his penalties Believing, too, that he was forgiven, he knew that Dahlia's heart would throb for him to be near her, and he had come. The miraculous agencies which had brought him and Major Waring and Mrs. Boulby to the farm, that exalted woman was relating to Mrs. Sumfit in another part of the house. The farmer, and Percy, and Robert were in the family sitting-room, when, after an interval, William Fleming said aloud, "Come in, sir," and Edward stepped in among them. Rhoda was above, seeking admittance to her sister's door, and she heard her father utter that welcome. It froze her limbs, for still she hated the evil-doer. Her hatred of him was a passion. She crouched over the stairs, listening to a low and long-toned voice monotonously telling what seemed to be one sole thing over and over, without vari- ation, in the room where the men were. Words were indis- tinguishable. Thrice, after calling to Dahlia and getting no response, she listened again, and awe took her soul at last, for, abhorred as he was by her, his power was felt; she comprehended something of that earnestness which male the offender speak of his wrongful deeds, and his shame, and his remorse, before his fellow-men, straight out and calmly, like one who has been plunged up to the imd- dle in the fires of the abyss, and is thereafter insensible to meaner pains. The voice ended. She was then aware that it had put a charm upon her ears. The other voices follow- ing it sounded dull. " Has he — can he have confessed in words all his wicked baseness ? " she thought, and in her soul the magnitude of 404 RHODA FLE^^NG h his crime threw a gleam of splendour on his courage, even at the bare thought that he might have done this. Feeling that Dahlia was saved, and thenceforth at liberty to despise him and torture him, Ehoda the more readily acknowledged that it might be a true love for her sister animating him. From the height of a possible vengeance it was i perceptible. She turned to her sister's door and knocked at it, calling to her, '' Safe, safe ! " but there came no answer ; and she was half glad, for she had a fear that in the quick revulsion of her sister's feelings, mere earthly love would act like heavenly charity, and Edward would find himself forgiven only too instantly and heartily. In the small musk-scented guest's parlour, Mrs. Boulby was giving Mrs. Sumfit and poor old sleepy Anthony the account of the miraculous discovery of Sedgett's wicked- ness, which had vindicated all one hoped for from Above; as also the narration of the stabbing of her boy, and the heroism and great-heartedness of Robert. Rhoda listened to her for a space, and went to her sister's door agjiin; but when she stood outside the kitchen she found all voices silent within. It was, in truth, not only very difficult for William Flem- ing to change his visw of the complexion of circumstances as rapidly as circumstances themselves changed, but it was very bitter for him to look upon Edward, and to see him in the place of Sedgett. He had been struck dumb by the sudden revolution of affairs in his house; and he had been deferentially convinced by Major Waring's tone that he ought rightly to give his hearing to an unknown young gentleman against whom anger was due. He had listened to Edward without one particle of comprehension, except of the fact that his behaviour was extraordinary. He- under- stood that every admission made by Edward with such grave and strange directness, would justly have condemned him to punishment which the culprit's odd, and upright, and even-toned self-denunciation rendered it impossible to think of inflicting. He knew likewise that a whole history was being narrated to him, and that, although the other two listener': manifestly did not approve it, they expected him to show ,wmo tolerance to the speaker. He said once, " Robert, do me the favour to look about WHEN THE NIGHT IS DARKEST 405 li^ urage, even s. Feeling \y to despise '".nowledged lating him. 'erceptible. t it, calling 'r; and she ik revulsion Lid act like ilf forgiven rs. Boulby nthony tlie [tt's wicked- ^loni Above; >oy, and the |oda listened agiiinj but |d all voices illiam Flem- rcumstances I, but it was o see him in umb by the he had been ne that he lown young lad listened n, except of He- under- with such condemned upright, and ble to think listory was other two pected him look about outside for t'other." u .. • ^o^ert answered him, that the man was far away by this time. The farmer suggested that he might be waiting to sav his word presently. "^ "Don't you know you've been dealing with a villain sir ? " cried Eobert. " Throw ever so little li^rht upon one of that breed, and they skulk in a hurry. Mr.'Flemin