CHAPTER XXXIX

Late into the afternoon, Farmer Fleming was occupying a chair in Robert's

lodgings, where he had sat since the hour of twelve, without a movement

of his limbs or of his mind, and alone. He showed no sign that he

expected the approach of any one. As mute and unremonstrant as a fallen

tree, nearly as insensible, his eyes half closed, and his hands lying

open, the great figure of the old man kept this attitude as of stiff

decay through long sunny hours, and the noise of the London suburb.

Although the wedding people were strangely late, it was unnoticed by him.

When the door opened and Rhoda stepped into the room, he was unaware that

he had been waiting, and only knew that the hours had somehow accumulated

to a heavy burden upon him.

"She is coming, father; Robert is bringing her up," Rhoda said.

"Let her come," he answered.

Robert's hold was tight under Dahlia's arm as they passed the doorway,

and then the farmer stood. Robert closed the door.

For some few painful moments the farmer could not speak, and his hand was

raised rejectingly. The return of human animation to his heart made him

look more sternly than he felt; but he had to rid himself of one terrible

question before he satisfied his gradual desire to take his daughter to

his breast. It came at last like a short roll of drums, the words were

heard,--

"Is she an honest woman?"

"She is," said Rhoda.

The farmer was looking on Robert.

Robert said it likewise in a murmur, but with steadfast look.

Bending his eyes now upon Dahlia, a mist of affection grew in them. He

threw up his head, and with a choking, infantine cry, uttered, "Come."

Robert placed her against her father's bosom.

He moved to the window beside Rhoda, and whispered, and she answered, and

they knew not what they said. The joint moans of father and daughter--the

unutterable communion of such a meeting--filled their ears. Grief held

aloof as much as joy. Neither joy nor grief were in those two hearts of

parent and child; but the senseless contentment of hard, of infinite hard

human craving.

The old man released her, and Rhoda undid her hands from him, and led the

pale Sacrifice to another room.

"Where's...?" Mr. Fleming asked.

Robert understood him.

"Her husband will not come."

It was interpreted by the farmer as her husband's pride. Or, may be, the

man who was her husband now had righted her at last, and then flung her

off in spite for what he had been made to do.

"I'm not being deceived, Robert?"

"No, sir; upon my soul!"

"I've got that here," the farmer struck his ribs.

Rhoda came back. "Sister is tired," she said. "Dahlia is going down home

with you, for...I hope, for a long stay."

"All the better, while home we've got. We mayn't lose time, my girl.

Gammon's on 's way to the station now. He'll wait. He'll wait till

midnight. You may always reckon on a slow man like Gammon for waitin'.

Robert comes too?"

"Father, we have business to do. Robert gives me his rooms here for a

little time; his landlady is a kind woman, and will take care of me. You

will trust me to Robert."

"I'll bring Rhoda down on Monday evening," Robert said to the farmer.

"You may trust me, Mr. Fleming."

"That I know. That I'm sure of. That's a certainty," said the farmer.

"I'd do it for good, if for good was in the girl's heart, Robert. There

seems," he hesitated; "eh, Robert, there seems a something upon us all.

There's a something to be done, is there? But if I've got my flesh and

blood, and none can spit on her, why should I be asking 'whats' and

'whys'? I bow my head; and God forgive me, if ever I complained. And you

will bring Rhoda to us on Monday?"

"Yes; and try and help to make the farm look up again, if Gammon'll do

the ordering about."

"Poor old Mas' Gammon! He's a rare old man. Is he changed by adversity,

Robert? Though he's awful secret, that old man! Do you consider a bit

Gammon's faithfulness, Robert!"

"Ay, he's above most men in that," Robert agreed.

"On with Dahlia's bonnet--sharp!" the farmer gave command. He felt, now

that he was growing accustomed to the common observation of things, that

the faces and voices around him were different from such as the day

brings in its usual course. "We're all as slow as Mas' Gammon, I reckon."

"Father," said Rhoda, "she is weak. She has been very unwell. Do not

trouble her with any questions. Do not let any questions be asked of her

at hone. Any talking fatigues; it may be dangerous to her."

The farmer stared. "Ay, and about her hair....I'm beginning to remember.

She wears a cap, and her hair's cut off like an oakum-picker's. That's

more gossip for neighbours!"

"Mad people! will they listen to truth?" Rhoda flamed out in her dark

fashion. "We speak truth, nothing but truth. She has had a brain fever.

That makes her very weak, and every one must be silent at home. Father,

stop the sale of the farm, for Robert will work it into order. He has

promised to be our friend, and Dahlia will get her health there, and be

near mother's grave."

The farmer replied, as from a far thought, "There's money in my pocket to

take down two."

He continued: "But there's not money there to feed our family a week on;

I leave it to the Lord. I sow; I dig, and I sow, and when bread fails to

us the land must go; and let it go, and no crying about it. I'm

astonishing easy at heart, though if I must sell, and do sell, I shan't

help thinking of my father, and his father, and the father before

him--mayhap, and in most likelihood, artfuller men 'n me--for what they

was born to they made to flourish. They'll cry in their graves. A man's

heart sticks to land, Robert; that you'll find, some day. I thought I

cared none but about land till that poor, weak, white thing put her arms

on my neck."

Rhoda had slipped away from them again.

The farmer stooped to Robert's ear. "Had a bit of a disagreement with her

husband, is it?"

Robert cleared his throat. "Ay, that's it," he said.

"Serious, at all?"

"One can't tell, you know."

"And not her fault--not my girl's fault, Robert?"

"No; I can swear to that."

"She's come to the right home, then. She'll be near her mother and me.

Let her pray at night, and she'll know she's always near her blessed

mother. Perhaps the women 'll want to take refreshment, if we may so far

make free with your hospitality; but it must be quick, Robert--or will

they? They can't eat, and I can't eat."

Soon afterward Mr. Fleming took his daughter Dahlia from the house and

out of London. The deeply-afflicted creature was, as the doctors had said

of her, too strong for the ordinary modes of killing. She could walk and

still support herself, though the ordeal she had gone through this day

was such as few women could have traversed. The terror to follow the deed

she had done was yet unseen by her; and for the hour she tasted, if not

peace, the pause to suffering which is given by an act accomplished.

Robert and Rhoda sat in different rooms till it was dusk. When she

appeared before him in the half light, the ravage of a past storm was

visible on her face. She sat down to make tea, and talked with singular

self command.

"Mr. Fleming mentioned the gossips down at Wrexby," said Robert: "are

they very bad down there?"

"Not worse than in other villages," said Rhoda. "They have not been

unkind. They have spoken about us, but not unkindly--I mean, not

spitefully."

"And you forgive them?"

"I do: they cannot hurt us now."

Robert was but striving to master some comprehension of her character.

"What are we to resolve, Rhoda?"

"I must get the money promised to this man."

"When he has flung off his wife at the church door?"

"He married my sister for the money. He said it. Oh! he said it. He shall

not say that we have deceived him. I told him he should have it. He

married her for money!"

"You should not have told him so, Rhoda."

"I did, and I will not let my word be broken."

"Pardon me if I ask you where you will get the money? It's a large sum."

"I will get it," Rhoda said firmly.

"By the sale of the farm?"

"No, not to hurt father."

"But this man's a scoundrel. I know him. I've known him for years. My

fear is that he will be coming to claim his wife. How was it I never

insisted on seeing the man before--! I did think of asking, but

fancied--a lot of things; that you didn't wish it and he was shy. Ah,

Lord! what miseries happen from our not looking straight at facts! We

can't deny she's his wife now."

"Not if we give him the money."

Rhoda spoke of "the money" as if she had taken heated metal into her

mouth.

"All the more likely," said Robert. "Let him rest. Had you your eyes on

him when he saw me in the vestry? For years that man has considered me

his deadly enemy, because I punished him once. What a scene! I'd have

given a limb, I'd have given my life, to have saved you from that scene,

Rhoda."

She replied: "If my sister could have been spared! I ought to know what

wickedness there is in the world. It's ignorance that leads to the

unhappiness of girls."

"Do you know that I'm a drunkard?"

"No."

"He called me something like it; and he said something like the truth.

There's the sting. Set me adrift, and I drink hard. He spoke a fact, and

I couldn't answer him."

"Yes, it's the truth that gives such pain," said Rhoda, shivering. "How

can girls know what men are? I could not guess that you had any fault.

This man was so respectful; he sat modestly in the room when I saw him

last night--last night, was it? I thought, 'he has been brought up with

sisters and a mother.' And he has been kind to my dear--and all we

thought love for her, was--shameful! shameful!"

She pressed her eyelids, continuing: "He shall have the money--he shall

have it. We will not be in debt to such a man. He has saved my sister

from one as bad--who offered it to be rid of her. Oh, men!--you heard

that?--and now pretends to love her. I think I dream. How could she ever

have looked happily on that hateful face?"

"He would be thought handsome," said Robert, marvelling how it was that

Rhoda could have looked on Sedgett for an instant without reading his

villanous nature. "I don't wish you to regret anything you have done or

you may do, Rhoda. But this is what made me cry out when I looked on that

man, and knew it was he who had come to be Dahlia's husband. He'll be

torture to her. The man's temper, his habits--but you may well say you

are ignorant of us men. Keep so. What I do with all my soul entreat of

you is--to get a hiding-place for your sister. Never let him take her

off. There's such a thing as hell upon earth. If she goes away with him

she'll know it. His black temper won't last. He will come for her, and

claim her."

"He shall have money." Rhoda said no more.

On a side-table in the room stood a remarkable pile, under cover of a

shawl. Robert lifted the shawl, and beheld the wooden boxes, one upon the

other, containing Master Gammon's and Mrs. Sumfit's rival savings, which

they had presented to Dahlia, in the belief that her husband was under a

cloud of monetary misfortune that had kept her proud heart from her old

friends. The farmer had brought the boxes and left them there, forgetting

them.

"I fancy," said Robert, "we might open these."

"It may be a little help," said Rhoda.

"A very little," Robert thought; but, to relieve the oppression of the

subject they had been discussing, he forthwith set about procuring tools,

with which he split first the box which proved to be Mrs. Sumfit's, for

it contained, amid six gold sovereigns and much silver and pence, a slip

of paper, whereon was inscribed, in a handwriting identified by Rhoda as

peculiar to the loving woman,--

"And sweetest love to her ever dear."

Altogether the sum amounted to nine pounds, three shillings, and a

farthing.

"Now for Master Gammon--he's heavy," said Robert; and he made the savings

of that unpretentious veteran bare. Master Gammon had likewise written

his word. It was discovered on the blank space of a bit of newspaper, and

looked much as if a fat lobworm had plunged himself into a bowl of ink,

and in his literary delirium had twisted uneasily to the verge of the

paper. With difficulty they deciphered,--

"Complemens."

Robert sang, "Bravo, Gammon!" and counted the hoard. All was in copper

coinage, Lycurgan and severe, and reached the sum of one pound, seventeen

shillings. There were a number of farthings of Queen Anne's reign, and

Robert supposed them to be of value. "So that, as yet, we can't say who's

the winner," he observed.

Rhoda was in tears.

"Be kind to him, please, when you see him," she whispered. The smaller

gift had touched her heart more tenderly.

"Kind to the old man!" Robert laughed gently, and tied the two hoards in

separate papers, which he stowed into one box, and fixed under string.

"This amount, put all in one, doesn't go far, Rhoda."

"No," said she: "I hope we may not need it." She broke out: "Dear, good,

humble friends! The poor are God's own people. Christ has said so. This

is good, this is blessed money!" Rhoda's cheeks flushed to their

orange-rounded swarthy red, and her dark eyes had the fervour of an

exalted earnestness. "They are my friends for ever. They save me from

impiety. They help me, as if God had answered my prayer. Poor pennies!

and the old man not knowing where his days may end! He gives all--he must

have true faith in Providence. May it come back to him multiplied a

thousand fold! While I have strength to work, the bread I earn shall be

shared with him. Old man, old man, I love you--how I love you! You drag

me out of deep ditches. Oh, good and dear old man, if God takes me first,

may I have some power to intercede for you, if you have ever sinned!

Everybody in the world is not wicked. There are some who go the ways

directed by the Bible. I owe you more than I can ever pay."

She sobbed, but told Robert it was not for sorrow. He, longing to catch

her in his arms, and punctilious not to overstep the duties of his post

of guardian, could merely sit by listening, and reflecting on her as a

strange Biblical girl, with Hebrew hardness of resolution, and Hebrew

exaltation of soul; beautiful, too, as the dark women of the East. He

admitted to himself that he never could have taken it on his conscience

to subdue a human creature's struggling will, as Rhoda had not hesitated

to do with Dahlia, and to command her actions, and accept all imminent

responsibilities; not quailing with any outcry, or abandonment of

strength, when the shock of that revelation in the vestry came violently

on her. Rhoda, seeing there that it was a brute, and not a man, into

whose hand she had perilously forced her sister's, stood steadying her

nerves to act promptly with advantage; less like a woman, Robert thought,

than a creature born for battle. And she appeared to be still undaunted,

full of her scheme, and could cry without fear of floods. Something of

the chivalrous restraint he put upon the motions of his heart, sprang

from the shadowy awe which overhung that impressible organ. This feeling

likewise led him to place a blind reliance on her sagacity and sense of

what was just, and what should be performed.

"You promised this money to him," he said, half thinking it incredible.

"On Monday," said Rhoda.

"You must get a promise from him in return."

She answered: "Why? when he could break it the instant he cared to, and a

promise would tempt him to it. He does not love her."

"No; he does not love her," said Robert, meditating whether he could

possibly convey an idea of the character of men to her innocent mind.

"He flung her off. Thank heaven for it! I should have been punished too

much--too much. He has saved her from the perils of temptation. He shall

be paid for it. To see her taken away by such a man! Ah!" She shuddered

as at sight of a hideous pit.

But Robert said: "I know him, Rhoda. That was his temper. It'll last just

four-and-twenty hours, and then we shall need all our strength and

cunning. My dear, it would be the death of Dahlia. You've seen the man as

he is. Take it for a warning. She belongs to him. That's the law, human

and divine."

"Not when he has flung her off, Robert?" Rhoda cried piteously.

"Let us take advantage of that. He did fling her off, spat at us all, and

showed the blackest hellish plot I ever in my life heard of. He's not the

worst sinner, scoundrel as he is. Poor girl! poor soul! a hard lot for

women in this world! Rhoda, I suppose I may breakfast with you in the

morning? I hear Major Waring's knock below. I want a man to talk to."

"Do come, Robert," Rhoda said, and gave him her hand. He strove to

comprehend why it was that her hand was merely a hand, and no more to him

just then; squeezed the cold fingers, and left her.