CHAPTER V

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

Robert, the journey to London, 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 respect, until a quarrel ensued between

him and her uncle concerning sixpence;--a poor sum, as she thought; but

representing, as Anthony impressed upon her understanding during the

conflict of hard words, a principle. Those who can persuade themselves

that they are fighting for a principle, fight strenuously, and maybe

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 dispiritedly of Dahlia'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 comfortable, which operation

she began by praising dark young ladies over fair ones, at the same time

shaking Rhoda's arm that she might not fail to see a compliment was

intended. "This is our London way," she said. But Rhoda was most

disconcerted when she heard Mrs. Wicklow relate that her daughter and

Dahlia were out together, and say, that she had no doubt they had found

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

what fine bonnets mean."

Rhoda dropped into a bitter depth of brooding. The savage nature of her

virgin pride was such that it gave her great suffering even to suppose

that a strange gentleman would dare to address her sister. She

half-fashioned the words on her lips that she had dreamed of a false

Zion, and was being righteously punished. By-and-by the landlady's

daughter returned home alone, saying, with a dreadful laugh, that Dahlia

had sent her for her Bible; but she would give no explanation of the

singular mission which had been entrusted to her, and she showed no

willingness 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 out a multitude of questions in

the ear of one who had last been with her beloved. After a while, Mrs.

Wicklow looked at the clock, and instantly became overclouded with an

extreme gravity.

"Eleven! and she sent Mary Ann home for her Bible. This looks bad. I call

it hypocritical, the idea of mentioning 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 Rhoda.

Mrs. Wicklow replied: "And I wish all young women to be as innocent as

you, my dear. You'll 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 her sister came they would be

talking till the cock crowed hoarse.

"There's a poultry-yard close to us?" said Rhoda; feeling less at home

when she heard 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 ebb. And

Dahlia was out on the sea. Rhoda thought of it as she looked at the row

of lamps, and listened to the noise remote, until the sight of stars was

pleasant as the faces of friends. "People are kind here," she reflected,

for her short experience of the landlady was good, and a young gentleman

who had hailed a cab 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 beating heart in bed, heard the street door open, and

leaped to think that her sister approached, jumping up in her bed to give

ear to the door and the stairs, that were conducting her joy to her: but

she quickly recomposed herself, and feigned sleep, for the delight of

revelling in her sister's first wonderment. The door was flung wide, and

Rhoda heard her name called by Dahlia's voice, and then there was a

delicious silence, and she felt that Dahlia was coming up to her on

tiptoe, and waited for her head to be stooped near, that she might fling

out her arms, and draw the dear head to her bosom. But Dahlia came only

to the bedside, without leaning over, and spoke of her looks, which held

the girl quiet.

"How she sleeps! It's a country sleep!" Dahlia murmured. "She's changed,

but it's all for the better. She's quite a woman; she's a perfect

brunette; and the nose I used to laugh at suits her face and those black,

thick eyebrows of hers; my pet! Oh, why is she here? What's meant by it?

I knew nothing of her coming. Is she sent on purpose?"

Rhoda did not stir. The tone of Dahlia's speaking, low and almost awful

to her, laid a flat hand on her, and kept her still.

"I came for my Bible," she heard Dahlia say. "I promised mother--oh, my

poor darling mother! And Dody lying in my bed! Who would have thought of

such things? Perhaps heaven does look after us and interfere. 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!" 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'll 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 Rhoda like the heavy shaking

of the bell after it had struck, and the room seemed to spin and hum. It

was to her but another minute before her sister slid softly into the bed,

and they were locked together.