No sooner had Rhoda appeared than her father held up the key of Dahlia's
bed-room, and said, "Unlock your sister, and fetch her down to her
husband."
Mechanically Rhoda took the key.
"And leave our door open," he added.
She went up to Dahlia, sick with a sudden fright lest evil had come to
Robert, seeing that his enemy was here; but that was swept from her by
Dahlia's aspect.
"He is in the house," Dahlia said; and asked, "Was there no letter--no
letter; none, this morning?"
Rhoda clasped her in her arms, seeking to check the convulsions of her
trembling.
"No letter! no letter! none? not any? Oh! no letter for me!"
The strange varying tones of musical interjection and interrogation were
pitiful to hear.
"Did you look for a letter?" said Rhoda, despising herself for so
speaking.
"He is in the house! Where is my letter?"
"What was it you hoped? what was it you expected, darling?"
Dahlia moaned: "I don't know. I'm blind. I was told to hope. Yesterday
I had my letter, and it told me to hope. He is in the house!"
"Oh, my dear, my love!" cried Rhoda; "come down a minute. See him. It
is father's wish. Come only for a minute. Come, to gain time, if there
is hope."
"But there was no letter for me this morning, Rhoda. I can't hope. I am
lost. He is in the house!"
"Dearest, there was a letter," said Rhoda, doubting that she did well in
revealing it.
Dahlia put out her hands dumb for the letter.
"Father opened it, and read it, and keeps it," said Rhoda, clinging tight
to the stricken form.
"Then, he is against me? Oh, my letter!" Dahlia wrung her hands.
While they were speaking, their father's voice was heard below calling
for Dahlia to descend. He came thrice to the foot of the stairs, and
shouted for her.
The third time he uttered a threat that sprang an answer from her bosom
in shrieks.
Rhoda went out on the landing and said softly, "Come up to her, father."
After a little hesitation, he ascended the stairs.
"Why, girl, I only ask you to come down and see your husband," he
remarked with an attempt at kindliness of tone. "What's the harm, then?
Come and see him; that's all; come and see him."
Dahlia was shrinking out of her father's sight as he stood in the
doorway. "Say," she communicated to Rhoda, "say, I want my letter."
"Come!" William Fleming grew impatient.
"Let her have her letter, father," said Rhoda. "You have no right to
withhold it."
"That letter, my girl" (he touched Rhoda's shoulder as to satisfy her
that he was not angry), "that letter's where it ought to be. I've
puzzled out the meaning of it. That letter's in her husband's
possession."
Dahlia, with her ears stretching for all that might be uttered, heard
this. Passing round the door, she fronted her father.
"My letter gone to him!" she cried. "Shameful old man! Can you look on
me? Father, could you give it? I'm a dead woman."
She smote her bosom, stumbling backward upon Rhoda's arm.
"You have been a wicked girl," the ordinarily unmoved old man retorted.
"Your husband has come for you, and you go with him. Know that, and let
me hear no threats. He's a modest-minded, quiet young man, and a farmer
like myself, and needn't be better than he is. Come you down to him at
once. I'll tell you: he comes to take you away, and his cart's at the
gate. To the gate you go with him. When next I see you--you visiting me
or I visiting you--I shall see a respected creature, and not what you
have been and want to be. You have racked the household with fear and
shame for years. Now come, and carry out what you've begun in the
contrary direction. You've got my word o' command, dead woman or live
woman. Rhoda, take one elbow of your sister. Your aunt's coming up to
pack her box. I say I'm determined, and no one stops me when I say that.
Come out, Dahlia, and let our parting be like between parent and child.
Here's the dark falling, and your husband's anxious to be away. He has
business, and 'll hardly get you to the station for the last train to
town. Hark at him below! He's naturally astonished, he is, and you're
trying his temper, as you'd try any man's. He wants to be off. Come,
and when next we meet I shall see you a happy wife."
He might as well have spoken to a corpse.
"Speak to her still, father," said Rhoda, as she drew a chair upon which
she leaned her sister's body, and ran down full of the power of hate and
loathing to confront Sedgett; but great as was that power within her, it
was overmatched by his brutal resolution to take his wife away. No
argument, no irony, no appeals, can long withstand the iteration of a
dogged phrase. "I've come for my wife," Sedgett said to all her
instances. His voice was waxing loud and insolent, and, as it sounded,
Mrs. Sumfit moaned and flapped her apron.
"Then, how could you have married him?"
They heard the farmer's roar of this unanswerable thing, aloft.
"Yes--how! how!" cried Rhoda below, utterly forgetting the part she had
played in the marriage.
"It's too late to hate a man when you've married him, my girl."
Sedgett went out to the foot of the stairs.
"Mr. Fleming--she's my wife. I'll teach her about hating and loving.
I'll behave well to her, I swear. I'm in the midst of enemies; but I say
I do love my wife, and I've come for her, and have her I will. Now, in
two minutes' time. Mr. Fleming, my cart's at the gate, and I've got
business, and she's my wife."
The farmer called for Mrs. Sumfit to come up and pack Dahlia's box, and
the forlorn woman made her way to the bedroom. All the house was silent.
Rhoda closed her sight, and she thought: "Does God totally abandon us?"
She let her father hear: "Father, you know that you are killing your
child."
"I hear ye, my lass," said he.
"She will die, father."
"I hear ye, I hear ye."
"She will die, father."
He stamped furiously, exclaiming: "Who's got the law of her better and
above a husband? Hear reason, and come and help and fetch down your
sister. She goes!"
"Father!" Rhoda cried, looking at her open hands, as if she marvelled to
see them helpless.
There was for a time that silence which reigns in a sickchamber when the
man of medicine takes the patient's wrist. And in the silence came a
blessed sound--the lifting of a latch. Rhoda saw Robert's face.
"So," said Robert, as she neared him, "you needn't tell me what's
happened. Here's the man, I see. He dodged me cleverly. The hound
wants practice; the fox is born with his cunning."
Few words were required to make him understand the position of things in
the house. Rhoda spoke out all without hesitation in Sedgett's hearing.
But the farmer respected Robert enough to come down to him and explain
his views of his duty and his daughter's duty. By the kitchen firelight
he and Robert and Sedgett read one another's countenances.
"He has a proper claim to take his wife, Robert," said the farmer. "He's
righted her before the world, and I thank him; and if he asks for her of
me he must have her, and he shall."
"All right, sir," replied Robert, "and I say too, shall, when I'm stiff
as log-wood."
"Oh! Robert, Robert!" Rhoda cried in great joy.
"Do you mean that you step 'twixt me and my own?" said Mr. Fleming.
"I won't let you nod at downright murder--that's all," said Robert.
"She--Dahlia, take the hand of that creature!"
"Why did she marry me?" thundered Sedgett.
"There's one o' the wonders!" Robert rejoined. "Except that you're an
amazingly clever hypocrite with women; and she was just half dead and had
no will of her own; and some one set you to hunt her down. I tell you,
Mr. Fleming, you might as well send your daughter to the hangman as put
her in this fellow's hands."
"She's his wife, man."
"May be," Robert assented.
"You, Robert Eccles!" said Sedgett hoarsely; "I've come for my wife--do
you hear?"
"You have, I dare say," returned Robert. "You dodged me cleverly, that
you did. I'd like to know how it was done. I see you've got a cart
outside and a boy at the horse's head. The horse steps well, does he?
I'm about three hours behind him, I reckon:--not too late, though!"
He let fall a great breath of weariness.
Rhoda went to the cupboard and drew forth a rarely touched bottle of
spirits, with which she filled a small glass, and handing the glass to
him, said, "Drink." He smiled kindly and drank it off.
"The man's in your house, Mr. Fleming," he said.
"And he's my guest, and my daughter's husband, remember that," said the
farmer.
"And mean to wait not half a minute longer till I've taken her off--mark
that," Sedgett struck in. "Now, Mr. Fleming, you see you keep good your
word to me."
"I'll do no less," said the farmer. He went into the passage shouting
for Mrs. Sumfit to bring down the box.
"She begs," Mrs. Sumfit answered to him--"She begs, William, on'y a short
five minutes to pray by herself, which you will grant unto her, dear, you
will. Lord! what's come upon us?"
"Quick, and down with the box, then, mother," he rejoined.
The box was dragged out, and Dahlia's door was shut, that she might have
her last minutes alone.
Rhoda kissed her sister before leaving her alone: and so cold were
Dahlia's lips, so tight the clutch of her hands, that she said: "Dearest,
think of God:" and Dahlia replied: "I do."
"He will not forsake you," Rhoda said.
Dahlia nodded, with shut eyes, and Rhoda went forth.
"And now, Robert, you and I'll see who's master on these premises," said
the farmer. "Hear, all! I'm bounders under a sacred obligation to the
husband of my child, and the Lord's wrath on him who interferes and lifts
his hand against me when I perform my sacred duty as a father. Place
there! I'm going to open the door. Rhoda, see to your sister's bonnet
and things. Robert, stand out of my way. There's no refreshment of any
sort you'll accept of before starting, Mr. Sedgett? None at all!
That's no fault of my hospitality. Stand out of my way, Robert."
He was obeyed. Robert looked at Rhoda, but had no reply for her gaze of
despair.
The farmer threw the door wide open.
There were people in the garden--strangers. His name was inquired for
out of the dusk. Then whisperings were heard passing among the
ill-discerned forms, and the farmer went out to them. Robert listened
keenly, but the touch of Rhoda's hand upon his own distracted his
hearing. "Yet it must be!" he said. "Why does she come here?"
Both he and Rhoda followed the farmer's steps, drawn forth by the
ever-credulous eagerness which arises from an interruption to excited
wretchedness. Near and nearer to the group, they heard a quaint old
woman exclaim: "Come here to you for a wife, when he has one of his own
at home; a poor thing he shipped off to America, thinking himself more
cunning than devils or angels: and she got put out at a port, owing to
stress of weather, to defeat the man's wickedness! Can't I prove it to
you, sir, he's a married man, which none of us in our village knew till
the poor tricked thing crawled back penniless to find him;--and there she
is now with such a story of his cunning to tell to anybody as will
listen; and why he kept it secret to get her pension paid him still on.
It's all such a tale for you to hear by-and-by."
Robert burst into a glorious laugh.
"Why, mother! Mrs. Boulby! haven't you got a word for me?"
"My blessedest Robert!" the good woman cried, as she rushed up to kiss
him. "Though it wasn't to see you I came exactly." She whispered: "The
Major and the good 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 Rhoda 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 gentleman 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 injured, 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 plunged into the blackest pit; yet was she miraculously kept
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 unfriendly faces, and beg that he might be in Dahlia's
eyes once--that he might see her once.
He had grown to love her with the fullest force of a selfish, 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 sisters 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 variation, in the room
where the men were. Words were indistinguishable. 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 made 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 middle 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 following it sounded dull.
"Has he--can he have confessed in words all his wicked baseness?" she
thought, and in her soul the magnitude of 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, Rhoda 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 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 wickedness, 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 again; but when she stood outside
the kitchen she found all voices silent within.
It was, in truth, not only very difficult for William Fleming to change
his view 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 understood 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
listeners manifestly did not approve it, they expected him to show some
tolerance to the speaker.
He said once, "Robert, do me the favour to look about outside for t'
other." Robert answered him, that the man was far away by this time.
The farmer suggested that he might be waiting to say his word presently.
"Don't you know you've been dealing with a villain, sir?" cried Robert.
"Throw ever so little light upon one of that breed, and they skulk in a
hurry. Mr. Fleming, for the sake of your honour, don't mention him
again. What you're asked to do now, is to bury the thoughts of him."
"He righted my daughter when there was shame on her," the farmer replied.
That was the idea printed simply on his understanding.
For Edward to hear it was worse than a scourging with rods. He bore it,
telling the last vitality of his pride to sleep, and comforting himself
with the drowsy sensuous expectation that he was soon to press the hand
of his lost one, his beloved, who was in the house, breathing the same
air with him; was perhaps in the room above, perhaps sitting impatiently
with clasped fingers, waiting for the signal to unlock them and fling
them open. He could imagine the damp touch of very expectant fingers;
the dying look of life-drinking eyes; and, oh! the helplessness of her
limbs as she sat buoying a heart drowned in bliss.
It was unknown to him that the peril of her uttermost misery had been so
imminent, and the picture conjured of her in his mind was that of a
gentle but troubled face--a soul afflicted, yet hoping because it had
been told to hope, and half conscious that a rescue, almost divine in its
suddenness and unexpectedness, and its perfect clearing away of all
shadows, approached.
Manifestly, by the pallid cast of his visage, he had tasted shrewd and
wasting grief of late. Robert's heart melted as he beheld the change in
Edward.
"I believe, Mr. Blancove, I'm a little to blame," he said. "Perhaps when
I behaved so badly down at Fairly, you may have thought she sent me, and
it set your heart against her for a time. I can just understand how it
might."
Edward thought for a moment, and conscientiously accepted the suggestion;
for, standing under that roof, with her whom he loved near him, it was
absolutely out of his power for him to comprehend that his wish to break
from Dahlia, and the measures he had taken or consented to, had sprung
from his own unassisted temporary baseness.
Then Robert spoke to the farmer.
Rhoda could hear Robert's words. Her fear was that Dahlia might hear
them too, his pleading for Edward was so hearty. "Yet why should I
always think differently from Robert?" she asked herself, and with that
excuse for changeing, partially thawed.
She was very anxious for her father's reply; and it was late in coming.
She felt that he was unconvinced. But suddenly the door opened, and the
farmer called into the darkness,--
"Dahlia down here!"
Previously emotionless, an emotion was started in Rhoda's bosom by the
command, and it was gladness. She ran up and knocked, and found herself
crying out: "He is here--Edward."
But there came no answer.
"Edward is here. Come, come and see him."
Still not one faint reply.
"Dahlia! Dahlia!"
The call of Dahlia's name seemed to travel endlessly on. Rhoda knelt,
and putting her mouth to the door, said,--
"My darling, I know you will reply to me. I know you do not doubt me
now. Listen. You are to come down to happiness."
The silence grew heavier; and now a doubt came shrieking through her
soul.
"Father!" rang her outcry.
The father came; and then the lover came, and neither to father nor to
lover was there any word from Dahlia's voice.
She was found by the side of the bed, inanimate, and pale as a sister of
death.
But you who may have cared for her through her many tribulations, have no
fear for this gentle heart. It was near the worst; yet not the worst.