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 faltering in her movements. She went to the glass a
minute, as she tied her bonnet-strings under her chin, and pinned her
shawl. A night's vigil had not chased 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 gentleman
crossed the road. He asked whether Mrs. Ayrton lived in that house?
Rhoda's vision danced across his features, but she knew him unerringly
to be the cruel enemy.
“My sister, Dahlia Fleming, lives there,” she said.
“Then, you are Rhoda?”
“My name is Rhoda.”
“Mine--I fear it will not give you pleasure to hear it--is Edward
Blancove. 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 countenance, 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.
“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?”
Rhoda controlled the surging of her blood for a vehement reply; saying
simply, “You will not see her.”
“My child, I must.”
“I am not a child, and I say what I mean.”
“But 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 perfectly. 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 distinguishing 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. I 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 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 determine, 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-forty 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, vanquished her
self-possession.
“Are you cold?” he said, seeing the ripple of a trembling run over her.
“I am not cold. I cannot remain here.” Rhoda tightened 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 her
poor head. We poor people read our Bibles, and find nothing that excuses
you. You are not punished, because there is no young man in our family.
Go.”
Edward gazed at her for some time. “Well, I've deserved worse,” he said,
not sorry, now that he saw an opponent in her, that she should waste her
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.”
“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 Rhoda.
“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 Robert
appeared round a corner of the street. He made his voice heard, and,
coming up at double quick, caught Edward Blancove by the collar,
swinging him off. Rhoda, with a sign, tempered him to muteness, and the
three eyed one another.
“It's you,” said Robert, and, understanding immediately the tactics
desired by Rhoda, 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 Robert,
Rhoda following.
“What does this mean?” said Robert 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 instigated 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 Robert, “it'd be a base creature that
would think of doing harm to her now.”
He had a man's perception that Edward would hardly have been found in
Dahlia's neighbourhood with evil intentions 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
here is a very sad one. But first, 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.”
Rhoda burst in--“No, Robert!” But Robert 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 me, and I'm 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 wretched. Just hear me out; you'll decide;
but pray, pray don't be rash. He wishes to marry her; says he has spoken
to his father this very night; came 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 could 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 like 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 doesn't
like the marriage overmuch, Rhoda. Perhaps he may think differently when
he comes to hear of things. As to Mr. Blancove, men change and change
when they're young. I mean, gentlemen. 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 Rhoda. The mentioning of money to be paid
had sickened and weakened her, as with the very physical taste of
degradation.
Hearing the sigh, Robert thought she had become subdued. Then Rhoda
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 lodgings.
Father will not arrive till twelve. Wait and comfort her till I come,
and answer no questions. Robert,” she gave 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 door, intent on
scrubbing, and he passed in. Rhoda walked on to Edward.