CHAPTER XIII

Robert was to drive to the station to meet Rhoda and her father returning

from London, on a specified day. He was eager to be asking cheerful

questions of Dahlia's health and happiness, so that he might dispel the

absurd general belief that he had ever loved the girl, and was now

regretting her absence; but one look at Rhoda's face when she stepped

from the railway carriage kept him from uttering a word on that subject,

and the farmer's heavier droop and acceptance of a helping hand into the

cart, were signs of bad import.

Mr. Fleming made no show of grief, like one who nursed it. He took it to

all appearance as patiently as an old worn horse would do, although such

an outward submissiveness will not always indicate a placid spirit in

men. He talked at stale intervals of the weather and the state of the

ground along the line of rail down home, and pointed in contempt or

approval to a field here and there; but it was as one who no longer had

any professional interest in the tilling of the land.

Doubtless he was trained to have no understanding of a good to be derived

by his communicating what he felt and getting sympathy. Once, when he was

uncertain, and a secret pride in Dahlia's beauty and accomplishments had

whispered to him that her flight was possibly the opening of her road to

a higher fortune, he made a noise for comfort, believing in his heart

that she was still to be forgiven. He knew better now. By holding his

peace he locked out the sense of shame which speech would have stirred

within him.

"Got on pretty smooth with old Mas' Gammon?" he expressed his hope; and

Robert said, "Capitally. We shall make something out of the old man yet,

never fear."

Master Gammon was condemned to serve at the ready-set tea-table as a butt

for banter; otherwise it was apprehended well that Mrs. Sumfit would have

scorched the ears of all present, save the happy veteran of the furrows,

with repetitions of Dahlia's name, and wailings about her darling, of

whom no one spoke. They suffered from her in spite of every precaution.

"Well, then, if I'm not to hear anything dooring meals--as if I'd swallow

it and take it into my stomach!--I'll wait again for what ye've got to

tell," she said, and finished her cup at a gulp, smoothing her apron.

The farmer then lifted his head.

"Mother, if you've done, you'll oblige me by going to bed," he said. "We

want the kitchen."

"A-bed?" cried Mrs. Sumfit, with instantly ruffled lap.

"Upstairs, mother; when you've done--not before."

"Then bad's the noos! Something have happened, William. You 'm not going

to push me out? And my place is by the tea-pot, which I cling to,

rememberin' how I seen her curly head grow by inches up above the table

and the cups. Mas' Gammon," she appealed to the sturdy feeder, "five cups

is your number?"

Her hope was reduced to the prolonging of the service of tea, with Master

Gammon's kind assistance.

"Four, marm," said her inveterate antagonist, as he finished that amount,

and consequently put the spoon in his cup.

Mrs. Sumfit rolled in her chair.

"O Lord, Mas' Gammon! Five, I say; and never a cup less so long as here

you've been."

"Four, marm. I don't know," said Master Gammon, with a slow nod of his

head, "that ever I took five cups of tea at a stretch. Not runnin'."

"I do know, Mas' Gammon. And ought to: for don't I pour out to ye? It's

five you take, and please, your cup, if you'll hand it over."

"Four's my number, marm," Master Gammon reiterated resolutely. He sat

like a rock.

"If they was dumplins," moaned Mrs. Sumfit, "not four, no, nor five, 'd

do till enough you'd had, and here we might stick to our chairs, but

you'd go on and on; you know you would."

"That's eatin', marm;" Master Gammon condescended to explain the nature

of his habits. "I'm reg'lar in my drinkin'."

Mrs. Sumfit smote her hands together. "O Lord, Mas' Gammon, the

wearisomest old man I ever come across is you. More tea's in the pot, and

it ain't watery, and you won't be comfortable. May you get forgiveness

from above! is all I say, and I say no more. Mr. Robert, perhaps you'll

be so good as let me help you, sir? It's good tea; and my Dody," she

added, cajolingly, "my home girl 'll tell us what she saw. I'm pinched

and starved to hear."

"By-and-by, mother," interposed the farmer; "tomorrow." He spoke gently,

but frowned.

Both Rhoda and Robert perceived that they were peculiarly implicated in

the business which was to be discussed without Mrs. Sumfit's assistance.

Her father's manner forbade Rhoda from making any proposal for the relief

of the forlorn old woman.

"And me not to hear to-night about your play-going!" sighed Mrs. Sumfit.

"Oh, it's hard on me. I do call it cruel. And how my sweet was

dressed--like as for a Ball."

She saw the farmer move his foot impatiently.

"Then, if nobody drinks this remaining cup, I will," she pursued.

No voice save her own was heard till the cup was emptied, upon which

Master Gammon, according to his wont, departed for bed to avoid the

seduction of suppers, which he shunned as apoplectic, and Mrs. Sumfit

prepared, in a desolate way, to wash the tea-things, but the farmer,

saying that it could be done in the morning, went to the door and opened

it for her.

She fetched a great sigh and folded her hands resignedly. As she was

passing him to make her miserable enforced exit, the heavy severity of

his face afflicted her with a deep alarm; she fell on her knees,

crying,--

"Oh, William! it ain't for sake of hearin' talk; but you, that went to

see our Dahly, the blossom, 've come back streaky under the eyes, and you

make the house feel as if we neighboured Judgement Day. Down to tea you

set the first moment, and me alone with none of you, and my love for my

girl known well to you. And now to be marched off! How can I go a-bed and

sleep, and my heart jumps so? It ain't Christian to ask me to. I got a

heart, dear, I have. Do give a bit of comfort to it. Only a word of my

Dahly to me."

The farmer replied: "Mother, let's have no woman's nonsense. What we've

got to bear, let us bear. And you go on your knees to the Lord, and don't

be a heathen woman, I say. Get up. There's a Bible in your bedroom. Find

you out comfort in that."

"No, William, no!" she sobbed, still kneeling: "there ain't a dose o'

comfort there when poor souls is in the dark, and haven't got patience

for passages. And me and my Bible!--how can I read it, and not know my

ailing, and a'stract one good word, William? It'll seem only the devil's

shootin' black lightnings across the page, as poor blessed granny used to

say, and she believed witches could do it to you in her time, when they

was evil-minded. No! To-night I look on the binding of the Holy Book, and

I don't, and I won't, I sha' n't open it."

This violent end to her petition was wrought by the farmer grasping her

arm to bring her to her feet.

"Go to bed, mother."

"I shan't open it," she repeated, defiantly. "And it ain't," she gathered

up her comfortable fat person to assist the words "it ain't good--no, not

the best pious ones--I shall, and will say it! as is al'ays ready to

smack your face with the Bible."

"Now, don't ye be angry," said the farmer.

She softened instantly.

"William, dear, I got fifty-seven pounds sterling, and odd shillings, in

a Savings-bank, and that I meant to go to Dahly, and not to yond' dark

thing sitting there so sullen, and me in my misery; I'd give it to you

now for news of my darlin'. Yes, William; and my poor husband's cottage,

in Sussex--seventeen pound per annum. That, if you'll be goodness itself,

and let me hear a word."

"Take her upstairs," said the farmer to Rhoda, and Rhoda went by her and

took her hands, and by dint of pushing from behind and dragging in front,

Mrs. Sumfit, as near on a shriek as one so fat and sleek could be, was

ejected. The farmer and Robert heard her struggles and exclamations along

the passage, but her resistance subsided very suddenly.

"There's power in that girl," said the farmer, standing by the shut door.

Robert thought so, too. It affected his imagination, and his heart began

to beat sickeningly.

"Perhaps she promised to speak--what has happened, whatever that may be,"

he suggested.

"Not she; not she. She respects my wishes."

Robert did not ask what had happened.

Mr. Fleming remained by the door, and shut his mouth from a further word

till he heard Rhoda's returning footstep. He closed the door again behind

her, and went up to the square deal table, leaned his body forward on the

knuckles of his trembling fist, and said, "We're pretty well broken up,

as it is. I've lost my taste for life."

There he paused. Save by the shining of a wet forehead, his face betrayed

nothing of the anguish he suffered. He looked at neither of them, but

sent his gaze straight away under labouring brows to an arm of the

fireside chair, while his shoulders drooped on the wavering support of

his hard-shut hands. Rhoda's eyes, ox-like, as were her father's, smote

full upon Robert's, as in a pang of apprehension of what was about to be

uttered.

It was a quick blaze of light, wherein he saw that the girl's spirit was

not with him. He would have stopped the farmer at once, but he had not

the heart to do it, even had he felt in himself strength to attract an

intelligent response from that strange, grave, bovine fixity of look,

over which the human misery sat as a thing not yet taken into the dull

brain.

"My taste for life," the old man resumed, "that's gone. I didn't bargain

at set-out to go on fighting agen the world. It's too much for a man o'

my years. Here's the farm. Shall 't go to pieces?--I'm a farmer of thirty

year back--thirty year back, and more: I'm about no better'n a farm

labourer in our time, which is to-day. I don't cost much. I ask to be

fed, and to work for it, and to see my poor bit o' property safe, as

handed to me by my father. Not for myself, 't ain't; though perhaps

there's a bottom of pride there too, as in most things. Say it's for the

name. My father seems to demand of me out loud, 'What ha' ye done with

Queen Anne's Farm, William?' and there's a holler echo in my ears. Well;

God wasn't merciful to give me a son. He give me daughters."

Mr. Fleming bowed his head as to the very weapon of chastisement.

"Daughters!" He bent lower.

His hearers might have imagined his headless address to them to be also

without a distinct termination, for he seemed to have ended as abruptly

as he had begun; so long was the pause before, with a wearied lifting of

his body, he pursued, in a sterner voice:

"Don't let none interrupt me." His hand was raised as toward where Rhoda

stood, but he sent no look with it; the direction was wide of her.

The aspect of the blank blind hand motioning to the wall away from her,

smote an awe through her soul that kept her dumb, though his next words

were like thrusts of a dagger in her side.

"My first girl--she's brought disgrace on this house. She's got a mother

in heaven, and that mother's got to blush for her. My first girl's gone

to harlotry in London."

It was Scriptural severity of speech. Robert glanced quick with intense

commiseration at Rhoda. He saw her hands travel upward till they fixed in

at her temples with crossed fingers, making the pressure of an iron band

for her head, while her lips parted, and her teeth, and cheeks, and

eyeballs were all of one whiteness. Her tragic, even, in and out

breathing, where there was no fall of the breast, but the air was taken

and given, as it were the square blade of a sharp-edged sword, was

dreadful to see. She had the look of a risen corpse, recalling some one

of the bloody ends of life.

The farmer went on,--

"Bury her! Now you here know the worst. There's my second girl. She's got

no stain on her; if people 'll take her for what she is herself. She's

idle. But I believe the flesh on her bones she'd wear away for any one

that touched her heart. She's a temper. But she's clean both in body and

in spirit, as I believe, and say before my God. I--what I'd pray for is,

to see this girl safe. All I have shall go to her. That is, to the man

who will--won't be ashamed--marry her, I mean!"

The tide of his harshness failed him here, and he began to pick his

words, now feeble, now emphatic, but alike wanting in natural expression,

for he had reached a point of emotion upon the limits of his nature, and

he was now wilfully forcing for misery and humiliation right and left, in

part to show what a black star Providence had been over him.

"She'll be grateful. I shall be gone. What disgrace I bring to their

union, as father of the other one also, will, I'm bound to hope, be

buried with me in my grave; so that this girl's husband shan't have to

complain that her character and her working for him ain't enough to cover

any harm he's like to think o' the connexion. And he won't be troubled by

relationships after that.

"I used to think Pride a bad thing. I thank God we've all got it in our

blood--the Flemings. I thank God for that now, I do. We don't face again

them as we offend. Not, that is, with the hand out. We go. We're seen no

more. And she'll be seen no more. On that, rely.

"I want my girl here not to keep me in the fear of death. For I fear

death while she's not safe in somebody's hands--kind, if I can get him

for her. Somebody--young or old!"

The farmer lifted his head for the first time, and stared vacantly at

Robert.

"I'd marry her," he said, "if I was knowing myself dying now or to-morrow

morning, I'd marry her, rather than leave her alone--I'd marry her to

that old man, old Gammon."

The farmer pointed to the ceiling. His sombre seriousness cloaked and

carried even that suggestive indication to the possible bridegroom's age

and habits, and all things associated with him, through the gates of

ridicule; and there was no laughter, and no thought of it.

"It stands to reason for me to prefer a young man for her husband. He'll

farm the estate, and won't sell it; so that it goes to our blood, if not

to a Fleming. If, I mean, he's content to farm soberly, and not play Jack

o' Lantern tricks across his own acres. Right in one thing's right, I

grant; but don't argue right in all. It's right only in one thing. Young

men, when they've made a true hit or so, they're ready to think it's

themselves that's right."

This was of course a reminder of the old feud with Robert, and

sufficiently showed whom the farmer had in view for a husband to Rhoda,

if any doubt existed previously.

Having raised his eyes, his unwonted power of speech abandoned him, and

he concluded, wavering in look and in tone,--

"I'd half forgotten her uncle. I've reckoned his riches when I cared for

riches. I can't say th' amount; but, all--I've had his word for it--all

goes to this--God knows how much!--girl. And he don't hesitate to say

she's worth a young man's fancying. May be so. It depends upon ideas

mainly, that does. All goes to her. And this farm.--I wish ye

good-night."

He gave them no other sign, but walked in his oppressed way quietly to

the inner door, and forth, leaving the rest to them.