CHAPTER IX

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.