CHAPTER XXX

Those two in the open carriage, one of whom had called out Sedgett's

name, were Robert and Major Waring. When the cab had flown by, they fell

back into their seats, and smoked; the original stipulation for the day

having been that no harassing matter should be spoken of till nightfall.

True to this, Robert tried to think hard on the scene of his recent

enjoyment. Horses were to him what music is to a poet, and the glory of

the Races he had witnessed was still quick in heart, and partly

counteracted his astonishment at the sight of his old village enemy in

company with Algernon Blancove.

It was not astonishing at all to him that they should have quarrelled and

come to blows; for he knew Sedgett well, and the imperative necessity for

fighting him, if only to preserve a man's self-respect and the fair

division of peace, when once he had been allowed to get upon terms

sufficiently close to assert his black nature; but how had it come about?

How was it that a gentleman could consent to appear publicly with such a

fellow? He decided that it meant something, and something ominous--but

what? Whom could it affect? Was Algernon Blancove such a poor creature

that, feeling himself bound by certain dark dealings with Sedgett to keep

him quiet, he permitted the bullying dog to hang to his coat-tail? It

seemed improbable that any young gentleman should be so weak, but it

might be the case; and "if so," thought Robert, "and I let him know I

bear him no ill-will for setting Sedgett upon me, I may be doing him a

service."

He remembered with pain Algernon's glance of savage humiliation upward,

just before he turned to follow Sedgett into the cab; and considered that

he ought in kindness to see him and make him comfortable by apologizing,

as if he himself had no complaint to make.

He resolved to do it when the opportunity should come. Meantime, what on

earth brought them together?

"How white the hedges are!" he said.

"There's a good deal of dust," Major Waring replied.

"I wasn't aware that cabs came to the races."

"They do, you see."

Robert perceived that Percy meant to fool him if he attempted a breach of

the bond; but he longed so much for Percy's opinion of the strange

alliance between Sedgett and Algernon Blancove, that at any cost he was

compelled to say, "I can't get to the bottom of that."

"That squabble in the road?" said Percy. "We shall see two or three more

before we reach home."

"No. What's the meaning of a gentleman consorting with a blackguard?"

Robert persisted.

"One or the other has discovered an assimilation, I suppose," Percy gave

answer. "That's an odd remark on returning from Epsom. Those who jump

into the same pond generally come out the same colour."

Robert spoke low.

"Has it anything to do with the poor girl, do you think?"

"I told you I declined to think till we were home again. Confound it,

man, have you no idea of a holiday?"

Robert puffed his tobacco-smoke.

"Let's talk of Mrs. Lovell," he said.

"That's not a holiday for me," Percy murmured but Robert's mind was too

preoccupied to observe the tone, and he asked,--

"Is she to be trusted to keep her word faithfully this time?"

"Come," said Percy, "we haven't betted to-day. I'll bet you she will, if

you like. Will you bet against it?"

"I won't. I can't nibble at anything. Betting's like drinking."

"But you can take a glass of wine. This sort of bet is much the same.

However, don't; for you would lose."

"There," said Robert; "I've heard of being angry with women for

fickleness, changeableness, and all sorts of other things. She's a lady I

couldn't understand being downright angry with, and here's the reason--it

ain't a matter of reason at all--she fascinates me. I do, I declare,

clean forget Rhoda; I forget the girl, if only I see Mrs. Lovell at a

distance. How's that? I'm not a fool, with nonsensical fancies of any

kind. I know what loving a woman is; and a man in my position might be

ass enough to--all sorts of things. It isn't that; it's fascination. I'm

afraid of her. If she talks to me, I feel something like having gulped a

bottle of wine. Some women you have a respect for; some you like or you

love; some you despise: with her, I just feel I'm intoxicated."

Major Waring eyed him steadily. He said: "I'll unriddle it, if I can, to

your comprehension. She admires you for what you are, and she lets you

see it; I dare say she's not unwilling that you should see it. She has a

worship for bravery: it's a deadly passion with her."

Robert put up a protesting blush of modesty, as became him. "Then why, if

she does me the honour to think anything of me, does she turn against

me?"

"Ah! now you go deeper. She is giving you what assistance she can; at

present: be thankful, if you can be satisfied with her present doings.

Perhaps I'll answer the other question by-and-by. Now we enter London,

and our day is over. How did you like it?"

Robert's imagination rushed back to the downs.

"The race was glorious. I wish we could go at that pace in life; I should

have a certainty of winning. How miserably dull the streets look; and the

people creep along--they creep, and seem to like it. Horseback's my

element."

They drove up to Robert's lodgings, where, since the Winter, he had been

living austerely and recklessly; exiled by his sensitiveness from his two

homes, Warbeach and Wrexby; and seeking over London for Dahlia--a

pensioner on his friend's bounty; and therein had lain the degrading

misery to a man of his composition. Often had he thought of enlisting

again, and getting drafted to a foreign station. Nothing but the

consciousness that he was subsisting on money not his own would have kept

him from his vice. As it was, he had lived through the months between

Winter and Spring, like one threading his way through the tortuous

lengths of a cavern; never coming to the light, but coming upon absurd

mishaps in his effort to reach it. His adventures in London partook

somewhat of the character of those in Warbeach, minus the victim; for

whom two or three gentlemen in public thoroughfares had been taken. These

misdemeanours, in the face of civil society, Robert made no mention of in

his letters to Percy.

But there was light now, though at first it gave but a faint glimmer, in

a lady's coloured envelope, lying on the sitting-room table. Robert

opened it hurriedly, and read it; seized Dahlia's address, with a brain

on fire, and said:

"It's signed 'Margaret Lovell.' This time she calls me 'Dear Sir.'"

"She could hardly do less," Percy remarked.

"I know: but there is a change in her. There's a summer in her writing

now. She has kept her word, Percy. She's the dearest lady in the world. I

don't ask why she didn't help me before."

"You acknowledge the policy of mild measures," said Major Waring.

"She's the dearest lady in the world," Robert repeated. He checked his

enthusiasm. "Lord in heaven! what an evening I shall have."

The thought of his approaching interview with Dahlia kept him dumb.

As they were parting in the street, Major Waring said, "I will be here at

twelve. Let me tell you this, Robert: she is going to be married; say

nothing to dissuade her; it's the best she can do; take a manly view of

it. Good-bye."

Robert was but slightly affected by the intelligence. His thoughts were

on Dahlia as he had first seen her, when in her bloom, and the sister of

his darling; now miserable; a thing trampled to earth! With him, pity for

a victim soon became lost in rage at the author of the wrong, and as he

walked along he reflected contemptuously on his feeble efforts to avenge

her at Warbeach. She lived in a poor row of cottages, striking off from

one of the main South-western suburb roads, not very distant from his own

lodgings, at which he marvelled, as at a cruel irony. He could not

discern the numbers, and had to turn up several of the dusky little

strips of garden to read the numbers on the doors. A faint smell of lilac

recalled the country and old days, and some church bells began ringing.

The number of the house where he was to find Dahlia was seven. He was at

the door of the house next to it, when he heard voices in the garden

beside him.

A man said, "Then I have your answer?"

A woman said, "Yes; yes."

"You will not trust to my pledged honour?"

"Pardon me; not that. I will not live in disgrace."

"When I promise, on my soul, that the moment I am free I will set you

right before the world?"

"Oh! pardon me."

"You will?"

"No; no! I cannot."

"You choose to give yourself to an obscure dog, who'll ill-treat you, and

for whom you don't care a pin's-head; and why? that you may be fenced

from gossip, and nothing more. I thought you were a woman above that kind

of meanness. And this is a common countryman. How will you endure that

kind of life? You were made for elegance and happiness: you shall have

it. I met you before your illness, when you would not listen to me: I met

you after. I knew you at once. Am I changed? I swear to you I have

dreamed of you ever since, and love you. Be as faded as you like; be

hideous, if you like; but come with me. You know my name, and what I am.

Twice I have followed you, and found your name and address; twice I have

written to you, and made the same proposal. And you won't trust to my

honour? When I tell you I love you tenderly? When I give you my solemn

assurance that you shall not regret it? You have been deceived by one

man: why punish me? I know--I feel you are innocent and good. This is the

third time that you have permitted me to speak to you: let it be final.

Say you will trust yourself to me--trust in my honour. Say it shall be

to-morrow. Yes; say the word. To-morrow. My sweet creature--do!"

The man spoke earnestly, but a third person and extraneous hearer could

hardly avoid being struck by the bathetic conclusion. At least, in tone

it bordered on a fall; but the woman did not feel it so.

She replied: "You mean kindly to me, sir. I thank you indeed, for I am

very friendless. Oh! pardon me: I am quite--quite determined. Go--pray,

forget me."

This was Dahlia's voice.

Robert was unconscious of having previously suspected it. Heartily

ashamed of letting his ears be filled with secret talk, he went from the

garden and crossed the street.

He knew this to be one of the temptations of young women in London.

Shortly after, the man came through the iron gateway of the garden. He

passed under lamplight, and Robert perceived him to be a gentleman in

garb.

A light appeared in the windows of the house. Now that he had heard her

voice, the terrors of his interview were dispersed, and he had only plain

sadness to encounter. He knocked at the door quietly. There was a long

delay after he had sent in his name; but finally admission was given.

"If I had loved her!" groaned Robert, before he looked on her; but when

he did look on her, affectionate pity washed the selfish man out of him.

All these false sensations, peculiar to men, concerning the soiled purity

of woman, the lost innocence; the brand of shame upon her, which are

commonly the foul sentimentalism of such as can be too eager in the chase

of corruption when occasion suits, and are another side of pruriency, not

absolutely foreign to the best of us in our youth--all passed away from

him in Dahlia's presence.

The young man who can look on them we call fallen women with a noble eye,

is to my mind he that is most nobly begotten of the race, and likeliest

to be the sire of a noble line. Robert was less than he; but Dahlia's

aspect helped him to his rightful manliness. He saw that her worth

survived.

The creature's soul had put no gloss upon her sin. She had sinned, and

her suffering was manifest.

She had chosen to stand up and take the scourge of God; after which the

stones cast by men are not painful.

By this I mean that she had voluntarily stripped her spirit bare of

evasion, and seen herself for what she was; pleading no excuse. His

scourge is the Truth, and she had faced it.

Innumerable fanciful thoughts, few of them definite, beset the mind at

interviews such as these; but Robert was distinctly impressed by her

look. It was as that of one upon the yonder shore. Though they stood

close together, he had the thought of their being separate--a gulf

between.

The colourlessness of her features helped to it, and the odd little

close-fitting white linen cap which she wore to conceal the

stubborn-twisting clipped curls of her shorn head, made her unlike women

of our world. She was dressed in black up to the throat. Her eyes were

still luminously blue, and she let them dwell on Robert one gentle

instant, giving him her hand humbly.

"Dahlia!--my dear sister, I wish I could say; but the luck's against me,"

Robert began.

She sat, with her fingers locked together in her lap, gazing forward on

the floor, her head a little sideways bent.

"I believe," he went on--"I haven't heard, but I believe Rhoda is well."

"She and father are well, I know," said Dahlia.

Robert started: "Are you in communication with them?"

She shook her head. "At the end of some days I shall see them."

"And then perhaps you'll plead my cause, and make me thankful to you for

life, Dahlia?"

"Rhoda does not love you."

"That's the fact, if a young woman's to be trusted to know her own mind,

in the first place, and to speak it, in the second."

Dahlia, closed her lips. The long-lined underlip was no more very red.

Her heart knew that it was not to speak of himself that he had come; but

she was poor-witted, through weakness of her blood, and out of her own

immediate line of thought could think neither far nor deep. He

entertained her with talk of his notions of Rhoda, finishing:

"But at the end of a week you will see her, and I dare say she'll give

you her notions of me. Dahlia! how happy this'll make them. I do say

thank God! from my soul, for this."

She pressed her hands in her lap, trembling. "If you will, please, not

speak of it, Mr. Robert."

"Say only you do mean it, Dahlia. You mean to let them see you?"

She shivered out a "Yes."

"That's right. Because, a father and a sister--haven't they a claim?

Think a while. They've had a terrible time. And it's true that you've

consented to a husband, Dahlia? I'm glad, if it is; and he's good and

kind. Right soul-glad I am."

While he was speaking, her eyelids lifted and her eyes became fixed on

him in a stony light of terror, like a creature in anguish before her

executioner. Then again her eyelids dropped. She had not moved from her

still posture.

"You love him?" he asked, in some wonderment.

She gave no answer.

"Don't you care for him?"

There was no reply.

"Because, Dahlia, if you do not I know I have no right to fancy you do

not. How is it? Tell me. Marriage is an awful thing, where there's no

love. And this man, whoever he is--is he in good circumstances? I

wouldn't speak of him; but, you see, I must, as your friend--and I'm

that. Come: he loves you? Of course he does. He has said so. I believe

it. And he's a man you can honour and esteem? You wouldn't consent

without, I'm sure. What makes me anxious--I look on you as my sister,

whether Rhoda will have it so or not; I'm anxious because--I'm anxious it

should be over, for then Rhoda will be proud of the faith she had in you,

and it will lighten the old man's heart."

Once more the inexplicable frozen look struck over him from her opened

eyes, as if one of the minutes of Time had yawned to show him its deep,

mute, tragic abyss, and was extinguished.

"When does it take place, Dahlia?"

Her long underlip, white almost as the row of teeth it revealed, hung

loose.

"When?" he asked, leaning forward to hear, and the word was "Saturday,"

uttered with a feeble harshness, not like the gentle voice of Dahlia.

"This coming Saturday?"

"No."

"Saturday week?"

She fell into a visible trembling.

"You named the day?"

He pushed for an indication of cheerful consent to the act she was about

to commit, or of reluctance.

Possibly she saw this, for now she answered, "I did." The sound was deep

in her throat.

"Saturday week," said Robert. "I feel to the man as a brother, already.

Do you live--you'll live in the country?"

"Abroad."

"Not in Old England? I'm sorry for that. But--well! Things must be as

they're ordered. Heigho! I've got to learn it."

Dahlia smiled kindly.

"Rhoda will love you. She is firm when she loves."

"When she loves. Where's the consolation to me?"

"Do you think she loves me as much--as much"

"As much as ever? She loves her sister with all her heart--all, for I

haven't a bit of it."

"It is because," said Dahlia slowly, "it is because she thinks I am--"

Here the poor creature's bosom heaved piteously.

"What has she said of me? I wish her to have blamed me--it is less pain."

"Listen," said Robert. "She does not, and couldn't blame you, for it's a

sort of religion with her to believe no wrong of you. And the reason why

she hates me is, that I, knowing something more of the world, suspected,

and chose to let her know it--I said it, in fact--that you had been

deceived by a--But this isn't the time to abuse others. She would have

had me, if I had thought proper to think as she thinks, or play

hypocrite, and pretend to. I'll tell you openly, Dahlia; your father

thinks the worst. Ah! you look the ghost again. It's hard for you to

hear, but you give me a notion of having got strength to hear it. It's

your father's way to think the worst. Now, when you can show him your

husband, my dear, he'll lift his head. He's old English. He won't dream

of asking questions. He'll see a brave and honest young man who must love

you, or--he does love you, that's settled. Your father'll shake his hand,

and as for Rhoda, she'll triumph. The only person to speak out to, is the

man who marries you, and that you've done."

Robert looked the interrogation he did not utter.

"I have," said Dahlia.

"Good: if I may call him brother, some day, all the better for me. Now,

you won't leave England the day you're married."

"Soon. I pray that it may be soon."

"Yes; well, on that morning, I'll have your father and Rhoda at my

lodgings, not wide from here: if I'd only known it earlier!--and you and

your husband shall come there and join us. It'll be a happy meeting at

last."

Dahlia stopped her breathing.

"Will you see Rhoda?"

"I'll go to her to-morrow, if you like."

"If I might see her, just as I am leaving England! not before."

"That's not generous," said Robert.

"Isn't it?" she asked like a child.

"Fancy!--to see you she's been longing for, and the ship that takes you

off, perhaps everlastingly, as far as this world's concerned!"

"Mr. Robert, I do not wish to deceive my sister. Father need not be

distressed. Rhoda shall know. I will not be guilty of falsehoods any

more--no more! Will you go to her? Tell her--tell Rhoda what I am. Say I

have been ill. It will save her from a great shock."

She covered her eyes.

"I said in all my letters that my husband was a gentleman."

It was her first openly penitential utterance in his presence, and her

cheeks were faintly reddened. It may have been this motion of her blood

which aroused the sunken humanity within her; her heart leaped, and she

cried "I can see her as I am, I can. I thought it impossible. Oh! I can.

Will she come to me? My sister is a Christian and forgives. Oh! let me

see her. And go to her, dear Mr. Robert, and ask her--tell her all, and

ask her if I may be spared, and may work at something--anything, for my

livelihood near my sister. It is difficult for women to earn money, but I

think I can. I have done so since my illness. I have been in the hospital

with brain fever. He was lodging in the house with me before. He found me

at the hospital. When I came out, he walked with me to support me: I was

very weak. He read to me, and then asked me to marry him. He asked again.

I lay in bed one night, and with my eyes open, I saw the dangers of

women, and the trouble of my father and sister; and pits of wickedness. I

saw like places full of snakes. I had such a yearning for protection. I

gave him my word I would be his wife, if he was not ashamed of a wife

like me. I wished to look once in father's face. I had fancied that Rhoda

would spurn me, when she discovered my falsehood. She--sweet dear! would

she ever? Go to her. Say, I do not love any man. I am heart-dead. I have

no heart except for her. I cannot love a husband. He is good, and it is

kind: but, oh! let me be spared. His face!--"

She pressed her hands tight into the hollow of her eyes.

"No; it can't be meant. Am I very ungrateful? This does not seem to be

what God orders. Only if this must be! only if it must be! If my sister

cannot look on me without! He is good, and it is unselfish to take a

moneyless, disgraced creature: but, my misery!--If my sister will see me,

without my doing this!--Go to her, Mr. Robert. Say, Dahlia was false, and

repents, and has worked with her needle to subsist, and can, and will,

for her soul strives to be clean. Try to make her understand. If Rhoda

could love you, she would know. She is locked up--she is only ideas. My

sweet is so proud. I love her for her pride, if she will only let me

creep to her feet, kiss her feet. Dear Mr. Robert, help me! help me! I

will do anything she says. If she says I am to marry him, I will. Don't

mind my tears--they mean nothing now. Tell my dear, I will obey her. I

will not be false any more to her. I wish to be quite stripped. And Rhoda

may know me, and forgive me, if she can. And--Oh! if she thinks, for

father's sake, I ought, I will submit and speak the words; I will; I am

ready. I pray for mercy."

Robert sat with his fist at his temples, in a frowning meditation.

Had she declared her reluctance to take the step, in the first moments of

their interview, he might have been ready to support her: but a project

fairly launched becomes a reality in the brain--a thing once spoken of

attracts like a living creature, and does not die voluntarily. Robert now

beheld all that was in its favour, and saw nothing but flighty flimsy

objections to it. He was hardly moved by her unexpected outburst.

Besides, there was his own position in the case. Rhoda would smile on

him, if he brought Dahlia to her, and brought her happy in the world's

eye. It will act as a sort of signal for general happiness. But if he had

to go and explain matters base and mournful to her, there would be no

smile on her face, and not much gratitude in her breast. There would be

none for a time, certainly. Proximity to her faded sister made him

conceive her attainable, and thrice precious by contrast.

He fixed his gaze on Dahlia, and the perfect refinement of her simplicity

caused him to think that she might be aware of an inappropriateness in

the contemplated union.

"Is he a clumsy fellow? I mean, do you read straight off that he has no

pretension to any manners of a gentleman--nothing near it?"

To this question, put with hesitation by Robert, Dahlia made answer, "I

respect him."

She would not strengthen her prayer by drawing the man's portrait.

Speedily she forgot how the doing so would in any way have strengthened

her prayer. The excitement had left her brain dull. She did little more

than stare mildly, and absently bend her head, while Robert said that he

would go to Rhoda on the morrow, and speak seriously with her.

"But I think I can reckon her ideas will side with mine, that it is to

your interest, my dear, to make your feelings come round warm to a man

you can respect, and who offers you a clear path," he said.

Whereat Dahlia quietly blinked her eyes.

When he stood up, she rose likewise.

"Am I to take a kiss to Rhoda?" he said, and seeing her answer, bent his

forehead, to which she put her lips.

"And now I must think all night long about the method of transferring it.

Good-bye, Dahlia. You shall hear from your sister the morning after

to-morrow. Good-bye!"

He pressed her hand, and went to the door.

"There's nothing I can do for you, Dahlia?"

"Not anything."

"God bless you, my dear!"

Robert breathed with the pleasant sense of breathing, when he was again

in the street. Amazement, that what he had dreaded so much should be so

easily over, set him thinking, in his fashion, on the marvels of life,

and the naturalness in the aspect of all earthly things when you look at

them with your eyes.

But in the depths of his heart there was disquiet.

"It's the best she can do; she can do no better," he said; and said it

more frequently than it needed by a mind established in the conviction.

Gradually he began to feel that certain things seen with the eyes,

natural as they may then appear and little terrible, leave distinct,

solid, and grave impressions. Something of what our human tragedy may

show before high heaven possessed him. He saw it bare of any sentiment,

in the person of the girl Dahlia. He could neither put a halo of

imagination about her, nor could he conceive one degraded thought of the

creature. She stood a naked sorrow, haunting his brain.

And still he continued saying, "It's the best she can do: it's best for

all. She can do nothing better."

He said it, unaware that he said it in self-defence.

The pale nun-like ghostly face hung before him, stronger in outline the

farther time widened between him and that suffering flesh.