Some consideration for Robert, after all, 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 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 constantly 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 hopefulness and trust
into him. Letters from Dahlia came regularly. The first, from Lausanne,
favoured Rhoda's conception of her as of a happy spirit resting at
celestial stages of her ascent upward through spheres of ecstacy. 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
inspired 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 profusion of “Oh's!”
described Dahlia's impressions of Italy; and “Oh! the heat!” showed her
to be mortal, notwithstanding 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
darling here.”
Her Christian name was still her only signature.
The thin blue-and-pink paper, and the foreign postmarks--testifications
to Dahlia's journey not being a fictitious 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 her sentiments, for
the wild thought would come, that many, many whose passionate 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 a 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.
Rhoda'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 directness, an expressionless dissecting scrutiny, that
was bewildering 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
acquaintance with Dahlia's husband, or that he had heard of Dahlia.
It was clear to Rhoda that Algernon sought another interview. 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 they struck one ringing
note:--she thought that by the aid of this gentleman 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 interjections in
praise of the poetry of gondolas, varied by 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. Even modesty
seems too hot a covering for human creatures here. The sun strikes me
down. I am ceasing 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 believe that he has me, 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 first
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. There were
times when it is quite true I thought myself a princess. I am not
worse-looking now, but I suppose I desire to be so beautiful that
nothing satisfies me.
“A spot on my neck gives me a dreadful fright. If my hair comes out much
when I comb it, it sets my heart beating; and it is a daily misery to
me that my hands are larger than they should be, belonging to Edward's
'resplendent wife.' I thank heaven that you and I always saw the
necessity of being careful of our fingernails. 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 me 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
tender and true to me. Addio! I am signora, you are signorina.
“They have such pretty manners to us over here. Edward says they think
less of women: I say they think more. But I feel he must be right. Oh,
my dear, cold, loving, innocent sister! put out your arms; I shall feel
them round me, 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 continued 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 on 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 interpretation 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 colouring, 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 Robert 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 Rhoda, 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 return home.”
“Will you let me know what reasons you have for behaving in this manner
to me?”
“I'll let you know by-and-by,” said Robert. “At present, You'll let the
stronger of the two have his way.”
He had always been so meek and gentle and inoffensive, 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 outspoken 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.”
It was in November that 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 Rhoda answered
“No.” But her face was bronze to Robert when they took their departure.