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 negative.
"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 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 her home, and the line of stunted
firs, which she had named "the old bent beggarmen," were visible in the
twilight. Her 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, inasmuch 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," he 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 Gammon added, and, warmed
upon the subject, went on: "He's that stiff, folks say, that stiff he is,
he'll 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 wunt buy th' Farm, nether. Shutters is all shut up
at the Hall. He'll 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 manifest as a flame of wrath, and she laid herself open to the
peace of the fields and the hedgeways stepping by. The farm-house came
in sight, and friendly old Adam and Eve turning from the moon. She heard
the sound of water. Every sign of peace was around the farm. The cows
had been milked long since; the geese were quiet. There was nothing but
the white board above the garden-gate to speak of the history lying in
her heart.
They found the farmer sitting alone, shading his forehead. Rhoda kissed
his cheeks and whispered for tidings of Dahlia.
"Go up to her," the farmer said.
Rhoda grew very chill. She went upstairs with apprehensive 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'll
go, for the sight o' me shocks her."
Rhoda knocked, waited patiently till her persistent repetition 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!"
The toneless voice was as bitter for Rhoda to hear as the accusations.
She replied, with a poor smile: "I am only not deceitful. Come, and see.
You will not be disturbed."
"What am I tied to?" Dahlia struggled feebly as against a weight of
chains. "Oh! what am I tied to? It's on me, tight like teeth. I can't
escape. I can't breathe for it. I was like a stone when he asked me--
marry him!--loved me! Some one preached--my duty! I am lost, I am lost!
Why? you girl!--why?--What did 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 couldn't see where. I heard the Church babble. For
you--inhuman! inhuman! What have I 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 tears 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 justification. 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 was an exculpation of her
reproaches. "You did deceive me, Rhoda." Rhoda half lifted her head;
the slight tone of a change to tenderness swelled the gulfs of pity, and
she wept aloud. Dahlia untwisted her feet, and staggered up to her, fell
upon her shoulder, and called her, "My love!--good sister!" For a great
mute space they clung together. Their lips met and they kissed
convulsively. But when Dahlia had close view of Rhoda's face, she drew
back, saying in an under-breath,--
"Don't cry. I see my misery when you cry."
Rhoda promised that she would check her tears, and they sat quietly, side
by side, hand in hand. Mrs. Sumfit, outside, had to be dismissed twice
with her fresh brews of supplicating tea and toast, and the cakes which,
when eaten warm with good country butter and a sprinkle of salt,
reanimate (as she did her utmost to assure the sisters through the closed
door) humanity's distressed spirit. At times their hands interchanged a
fervent pressure, their eyes were drawn to an equal gaze.
In the middle of the night Dahlia said: "I found a letter from Edward
when I came here."
"Written--Oh, base man that he is!" Rhoda could not control the impulse
to cry it out.
"Written before," said Dahlia, divining her at once. "I read it; did not
cry. I have no tears. Will you see it? It is very short-enough; it
said enough, and written before--" She crumpled her fingers in Rhoda's;
Rhoda, to please her, saying "Yes," she went to the pillow of the bed,
and drew the letter from underneath.
"I know every word," she said; "I should die if I repeated it. 'My wife
before heaven,' it begins. So, I was his wife. I must have broken his
heart--broken my husband's." Dahlia cast a fearful eye about her; her
eyelids fluttered as from a savage sudden blow. Hardening her mouth to
utter defiant spite: "My lover's," she cried. "He is. If he loves me
and I love him, he is my lover, my lover, my lover! Nothing shall stop
me from saying it--lover! and there is none to claim me but he. Oh,
loathsome! What a serpent it is I've got round me! And you tell me God
put it. Do you? Answer that; for I want to know, and I don't know where
I am. I am lost! I am lost! I want to get to my lover. Tell me,
Rhoda, you would curse me if I did. And listen to me. Let him open his
arms to me, I go; I follow him as far as my feet will bear me. I would
go if it lightened from heaven. If I saw up there the warning, 'You
shall not!' I would go. But, look on me!" she smote contempt upon her
bosom. "He would not call to such a thing as me. Me, now? My skin is
like a toad's to him. I've become like something in the dust. I could
hiss like adders. I am quite impenitent. I pray by my bedside, my head
on my Bible, but I only say, 'Yes, yes; that's done; that's deserved, if
there's no mercy.' Oh, if there is no mercy, that's deserved! I say so
now. But this is what I say, Rhoda (I see nothing but blackness when I
pray), and I say, 'Permit no worse!' I say, 'Permit no worse, or take the
consequences.' He calls me his wife. I am his wife. And if--" Dahlia
fell to speechless panting; her mouth was open; she made motion with her
hands; horror, as of a blasphemy struggling to her lips, kept her dumb,
but the prompting passion was indomitable.... "Read it," said her
struggling voice; and Rhoda bent over the letter, reading and losing
thought of each sentence as it passed. To Dahlia, the vital words were
visible like evanescent blue gravelights. She saw them rolling through
her sister's mind; and just upon the conclusion, she gave out, as in a
chaunt: "And I who have sinned against my innocent darling, will ask her
to pray with me that our future may be one, so that may make good to her
what she has suffered, and to the God whom we worship, the offence I have
committed."
Rhoda looked up at the pale penetrating eyes.
"Read. Have you read to the last?" said Dahlia. "Speak it. Let me hear
you. He writes it.... Yes? you will not? 'Husband,' he says," and then
she took up the sentences of the letter backwards to the beginning,
pausing upon each one with a short moan, and smiting her bosom. "I found
it here, Rhoda. I found his letter here when I came.. I came a dead
thing, and it made me spring up alive. Oh, what bliss to be dead! I've
felt nothing...nothing, for months." She flung herself on the bed,
thrusting her handkerchief to her mouth to deaden the outcry. "I'm
punished. I'm punished, because I did not trust to my darling. No, not
for one year! Is it that since we parted? I am an impatient creature,
and he does not reproach me. I tormented my own, my love, my dear, and
he thought I--I was tired of our life together. No; he does not accuse
me," Dahlia replied to her sister's unspoken feeling, with the shrewd
divination which is passion's breathing space. "He accuses himself. He
says it--utters it--speaks it 'I sold my beloved.' There is no guile in
him. Oh, be just to us, Rhoda! Dearest," she came to Rhoda's side, "you
did deceive me, did you not? You are a deceiver, my love?"
Rhoda trembled, and raising her eyelids, answered, "Yes."
"You saw him in the street that morning?"
Dahlia smiled a glittering tenderness too evidently deceitful in part,
but quite subduing.
"You saw him, my Rhoda, and he said he was true to me, and sorrowful; and
you told him, dear one, that I had no heart for him, and wished to go to
hell--did you not, gbod Rhoda? Forgive me; I mean 'good;' my true, good
Rhoda. Yes, you hate sin; it is dreadful; but you should never speak
falsely to sinners, for that does not teach them to repent. Mind you
never lie again. Look at me. I am chained, and I have no repentance in
me. See me. I am nearer it...the other--sin, I mean. If that man
comes...will he?"
"No--no!" Rhoda cried.
"If that man comes--"
"He will not come!"
"He cast me off at the church door, and said he had been cheated. Money!
Oh, Edward!"
Dahlia drooped her head.
"He will keep away. You are safe," said Rhoda.
"Because, if no help comes, I am lost--I am lost for ever!"
"But help will come. I mean peace will come. We will read; we will work
in the garden. You have lifted poor father up, my dear."
"Ah! that old man!" Dahlia sighed.
"He is our father."
"Yes, poor old man!" and Dahlia whispered: "I have no pity for him. If I
am dragged away, I'm afraid I shall curse him. He seems a stony old man.
I don't understand fathers. He would make me go away. He talks the
Scriptures when he is excited. I'm afraid he would shut my Bible for me.
Those old men know nothing of the hearts of women. Now, darling, go to
your room."
Rhoda begged earnestly for permission to stay with her, but Dahlia said:
"My nights are fevers. I can't have arms about me."
They shook hands when they separated, not kissing.