Full Text Archive logoFull Text Archive — Books, poems, drama…

Rhoda Fleming, v5 by George Meredith

Part 1 out of 2

Adobe PDF icon
Download this document as a .pdf
File size: 0.2 MB
What's this? light bulb idea Many people prefer to read off-line or to print out text and read from the real printed page. Others want to carry documents around with them on their mobile phones and read while they are on the move. We have created .pdf files of all out documents to accommodate all these groups of people. We recommend that you download .pdfs onto your mobile phone when it is connected to a WiFi connection for reading off-line.

This etext was produced by Pat Castevans


By George Meredith




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

"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

"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

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

"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

"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,

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?"


"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

"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,--


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

"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.


So long as we do not know that we are performing any remarkable feat, we
may walk upon the narrowest of planks between precipices with perfect
security; but when we suffer our minds to eye the chasm underneath, we
begin to be in danger, and we are in very great fear of losing our equal
balance the moment we admit the insidious reflection that other men,
placed as we are, would probably topple headlong over. Anthony Hackbut,
of Boyne's Bank, had been giving himself up latterly to this fatal
comparison. The hour when gold was entrusted to his charge found him
feverish and irritable. He asked himself whether he was a mere machine to
transfer money from spot to spot, and he spurned at the pittance bestowed
upon honesty in this life. Where could Boyne's Bank discover again such
an honest man as he? And because he was honest he was poor! The
consideration that we alone are capable of doing the unparalleled thing
may sometimes inspire us with fortitude; but this will depend largely
upon the antecedent moral trials of a man. It is a temptation when we
look on what we accomplish at all in that light. The temptation being
inbred, is commonly a proof of internal corruption. "If I take a step,
suppose now, to the right, or to the left," Anthony had got into the
habit of saying, while he made his course, and after he had deposited his
charge he would wipe his moist forehead, in a state of wretched
exultation over his renowned trustworthiness.

He had done the thing for years. And what did the people in the streets
know about him? Formerly, he had used to regard the people in the
streets, and their opinions, with a voluptuous contempt; but he was no
longer wrapped in sweet calculations of his savings, and his chances, and
his connection with a mighty Bank. The virtue had gone out of him. Yet
he had not the slightest appetite for other men's money; no hunger, nor
any definite notion of enjoyment to be derived from money not his own.
Imagination misled the old man. There have been spotless reputations
gained in the service of virtue before now; and chaste and beautiful
persons have walked the narrow plank, envied and admired; and they have
ultimately tottered and all but fallen; or they have quite fallen, from
no worse an incitement than curiosity. Cold curiosity, as the directors
of our human constitution tell us, is, in the colder condition of our
blood, a betraying vice, leading to sin at a period when the fruits of
sin afford the smallest satisfaction. It is, in fact, our last
probation, and one of our latest delusions. If that is passed
successfully, we may really be pronounced as of some worth. Anthony
wished to give a light indulgence to his curiosity; say, by running away
and over London Bridge on one side, and back on the other, hugging the
money. For two weeks, he thought of this absurd performance as a comical
and agreeable diversion. How would he feel when going in the direction
of the Surrey hills? And how, when returning, and when there was a
prospect of the Bank, where the money was to be paid in, being shut?
Supposing that he was a minute behind his time, would the Bank-doors
remain open, in expectation of him? And if the money was not paid in,
what would be thought? What would be thought at Boyne's, if, the next
day, he was late in making his appearance?

"Holloa! Hackbut, how's this?"--"I'm a bit late, sir, morning."--"Late!
you were late yesterday evening, weren't you?"--"Why, sir, the way the
clerks at that Bank of Mortimer and Pennycuick's rush away from business
and close the doors after 'em, as if their day began at four p.m., and
business was botheration: it's a disgrace to the City o' London. And I
beg pardon for being late, but never sleeping a wink all night for fear
about this money, I am late this morning, I humbly confess. When I got
to the Bank, the doors were shut. Our clock's correct; that I know. My
belief, sir, is, the clerks at Mortimer and Pennycuick's put on the
time."--"Oh! we must have this inquired into."

Anthony dramatized the farcical scene which he imagined between himself
and Mr. Sequin, the head clerk at Boyne's, with immense relish; and
terminated it by establishing his reputation for honesty higher than ever
at the Bank, after which violent exercise of his fancy, the old man sank
into a dulness during several days. The farmer slept at his lodgings for
one night, and talked of money, and of selling his farm; and half hinted
that it would be a brotherly proceeding on Anthony's part to buy it, and
hold it, so as to keep it in the family. The farmer's deep belief in the
existence of his hoards always did Anthony peculiar mischief. Anthony
grew conscious of a giddiness, and all the next day he was scarcely fit
for his work. But the day following that he was calm and attentive. Two
bags of gold were placed in his hands, and he walked with caution down
the steps of the Bank, turned the corner, and went straight on to the
West, never once hesitating, or casting a thought behind upon Mortimer
and Pennycuick's. He had not, in truth, one that was loose to be cast.
All his thoughts were boiling in his head, obfuscating him with a
prodigious steam, through which he beheld the city surging, and the
streets curving like lines in water, and the people mixing and passing
into and out of one another in an astonishing manner--no face
distinguishable; the whole thick multitude appearing to be stirred like
glue in a gallipot. The only distinct thought which he had sprang from a
fear that the dishonest ruffians would try to steal his gold, and he
hugged it, and groaned to see that villany was abroad. Marvellous, too,
that the clocks on the churches, all the way along the Westward
thoroughfare, stuck at the hour when Banks are closed to business! It
was some time, or a pretence at some time, before the minute-hands
surmounted that difficulty. Having done so, they rushed ahead to the
ensuing hour with the mad precipitation of pantomimic machinery. The
sight of them presently standing on the hour, like a sentinel presenting
arms, was startling--laughable. Anthony could not have flipped with his
fingers fifty times in the interval; he was sure of it, "or not much
more," he said. So the City was shut to him behind iron bars.

Up in the West there is not so much to be dreaded from the rapacity of
men. You do not hear of such alarming burglaries there every day; every
hand is not at another's throat there, or in another's pocket; at least,
not until after nightfall; and when the dark should come on, Anthony had
determined to make for his own quarter with all speed. Darkness is
horrible in foreign places, but foreign places are not so accusing to you
by daylight.

The Park was vastly pleasant to the old man.

"Ah!" he sniffed, "country air," and betook himself to a seat.
"Extraordinary," he thought, "what little people they look on their
horses and in their carriages! That's the aristocracy, is it!" The
aristocracy appeared oddly diminutive to him. He sneered at the
aristocracy, but, beholding a policeman, became stolid of aspect. The
policeman was a connecting link with his City life, the true lord of his
fearful soul. Though the moneybags were under his arm, beneath his
buttoned coat, it required a deep pause before he understood what he had
done; and then the Park began to dance and curve like the streets, and
there was a singular curtseying between the heavens and the earth. He
had to hold his money-bags tight, to keep them from plunging into
monstrous gulfs. "I don't remember that I've taken a drink of any sort,"
he said, "since I and the old farmer took our turn down in the Docks.
How's this?" He seemed to rock. He was near upon indulging in a fit of
terror; but the impolicy of it withheld him from any demonstration, save
an involuntary spasmodic ague. When this had passed, his eyesight and
sensations grew clearer, and he sat in a mental doze, looking at things
with quiet animal observation. His recollection of the state, after a
lapse of minutes, was pleasurable. The necessity for motion, however,
set him on his feet, and off he went, still Westward, out of the Park,
and into streets. He trotted at a good pace. Suddenly came a call of
his name in his ear, and he threw up one arm in self-defence.

"Uncle Anthony, don't you know me?"

"Eh? I do; to be sure I do," he answered, peering dimly upon Rhoda: "I'm
always meeting one of you."

"I've been down in the City, trying to find you all day, uncle. I meet
you--I might have missed! It is direction from heaven, for I prayed."

Anthony muttered, "I'm out for a holiday."

"This"--Rhoda pointed to a house--"is where I am lodging."

"Oh!" said Anthony; "and how's your family?"

Rhoda perceived that he was rather distraught. After great persuasion,
she got him to go upstairs with her.

"Only for two seconds," he stipulated. "I can't sit."

"You will have a cup of tea with me, uncle?"

"No; I don't think I'm equal to tea."

"Not with Rhoda?"

"It's a name in Scripture," said Anthony, and he drew nearer to her.
"You're comfortable and dark here, my dear. How did you come here?
What's happened? You won't surprise me."

"I'm only stopping for a day or two in London, uncle."

"Ah! a wicked place; that it is. No wickeder than other places, I'll be
bound. Well; I must be trotting. I can't sit, I tell you. You're as
dark here as a gaol."

"Let me ring for candles, uncle."

"No; I'm going."

She tried to touch him, to draw him to a chair. The agile old man
bounded away from her, and she had to pacify him submissively before he
would consent to be seated. The tea-service was brought, and Rhoda made
tea, and filled a cup for him. Anthony began to enjoy the repose of the
room. But it made the money-bags' alien to him, and serpents in his
bosom. Fretting--on his chair, he cried: "Well! well! what's to talk
about? We can't drink tea and not talk!"

Rhoda deliberated, and then said: "Uncle, I think you have always loved

It seemed to him a merit that he should have loved her. He caught at the

"So I have, Rhoda, my dear; I have. I do."

"You do love me, dear uncle!"

"Now I come to think of it, Rhoda--my Dody, I don't think ever I've loved
anybody else. Never loved e'er a young woman in my life. As a young

"Tell me, uncle; are you not very rich?"

"No, I ain't; not 'very'; not at all."

"You must not tell untruths, uncle."

"I don't," said Anthony; only, too doggedly to instil conviction.

"I have always felt, uncle, that you love money too much. What is the
value of money, except to give comfort, and help you to be a blessing to
others in their trouble? Does not God lend it you for that purpose? It
is most true! And if you make a store of it, it will only be unhappiness
to yourself. Uncle, you love me.
I am in great trouble for money."

Anthony made a long arm over the projection of his coat, and clasped it
securely; sullenly refusing to answer. "Dear uncle; hear me out. I come
to you, because I know you are rich. I was on my way to your lodgings
when we met; we were thrown together. You have more money than you know
what to do with. I am a beggar to you for money. I have never asked
before; I never shall ask again. Now I pray for your help. My life, and
the life dearer to me than any other, depend on you. Will you help me,
Uncle Anthony? Yes!"

"No!" Anthony shouted.

"Yes! yes!"

"Yes, if I can. No, if I can't. And 'can't' it is. So, it's 'No.'"

Rhoda's bosom sank, but only as a wave in the sea-like energy of her

"Uncle, you must."

Anthony was restrained from jumping up and running away forthwith by the
peace which was in the room, and the dread of being solitary after he had
tasted of companionship.

"You have money, uncle. You are rich. You must help me. Don't you ever
think what it is to be an old man, and no one to love you and be grateful
to you? Why do you cross your arms so close?"

Anthony denied that he crossed his arms closely.

Rhoda pointed to his arms in evidence; and he snarled out: "There, now;
'cause I'm supposed to have saved a trifle, I ain't to sit as I like.
It's downright too bad! It's shocking!"

But, seeing that he did not uncross his arms, and remained bunched up
defiantly, Rhoda silently observed him. She felt that money was in the

"Don't let it be a curse to you," she said. And her voice was hoarse
with agitation.

"What?" Anthony asked. "What's a curse?"


Did she know? Had she guessed? Her finger was laid in a line at the
bags. Had she smelt the gold?

"It will be a curse to you, uncle. Death is coming. What's money then?
Uncle, uncross your arms. You are afraid; you dare not. You carry it
about; you have no confidence anywhere. It eats your heart. Look at me.
I have nothing to conceal. Can you imitate me, and throw your hands out
--so? Why, uncle, will you let me be ashamed of you? You have the money

"You cannot deny it. Me crying to you for help! What have we talked
together?--that we would sit in a country house, and I was to look to the
flower-beds, and always have dishes of green peas for you-plenty, in
June; and you were to let the village boys know what a tongue you have,
if they made a clatter of their sticks along the garden-rails; and you
were to drink your tea, looking on a green and the sunset. Uncle! Poor
old, good old soul! You mean kindly. You must be kind. A day will make
it too late. You have the money there. You get older and older every
minute with trying to refuse me. You know that I can make you happy. I
have the power, and I have the will. Help me, I say, in my great
trouble. That money is a burden. You are forced to carry it about, for
fear. You look guilty as you go running in the streets, because you fear
everybody. Do good with it. Let it be money with a blessing on it! It
will save us from horrid misery! from death! from torture and death!
Think, uncle! look, uncle! You with the money--me wanting it. I pray
to heaven, and I meet you, and you have it. Will you say that you refuse
to give it, when I see--when I show you, you are led to meet me and help
me? Open;--put down that arm."

Against this storm of mingled supplication and shadowy menace, Anthony
held out with all outward firmness until, when bidding him to put down
his arm, she touched the arm commandingly, and it fell paralyzed.

Rhoda's eyes were not beautiful as they fixed on the object of her quest.
In this they were of the character of her mission. She was dealing with
an evil thing, and had chosen to act according to her light, and by the
counsel of her combative and forceful temper. At each step new
difficulties had to be encountered by fresh contrivances; and money now--
money alone had become the specific for present use. There was a
limitation of her spiritual vision to aught save to money; and the money
being bared to her eyes, a frightful gleam of eagerness shot from them.
Her hands met Anthony's in a common grasp of the money-bags.

"It's not mine!" Anthony cried, in desperation.

"Whose money is it?" said Rhoda, and caught up her hands as from fire.

"My Lord!" Anthony moaned, "if you don't speak like a Court o' Justice.
Hear yourself!"

"Is the money yours, uncle?"

"It--is," and "isn't" hung in the balance.

"It is not?" Rhoda dressed the question for him in the terror of
contemptuous horror.

"It is. I--of course it is; how could it help being mine? My money?
Yes. What sort o' thing's that to ask--whether what I've got's mine or
yours, or somebody else's? Ha!"

"And you say you are not rich, uncle?"

A charming congratulatory smile was addressed to him, and a shake of the
head of tender reproach irresistible to his vanity.

"Rich! with a lot o' calls on me; everybody wantin' to borrow--I'm rich!
And now you coming to me! You women can't bring a guess to bear upon the
right nature o' money."

"Uncle, you will decide to help me, I know."

She said it with a staggering assurance of manner.

"How do you know?" cried Anthony.

"Why do you carry so much money about with you in bags, uncle?"

"Hear it, my dear." He simulated miser's joy.

"Ain't that music? Talk of operas! Hear that; don't it talk? don't it
chink? don't it sing?" He groaned "Oh, Lord!" and fell back.

This transition from a state of intensest rapture to the depths of pain
alarmed her.

"Nothing; it's nothing." Anthony anticipated her inquiries. "They bags
is so heavy."

"Then why do you carry them about?"

"Perhaps it's heart disease," said Anthony, and grinned, for he knew the
soundness of his health.

"You are very pale, uncle."

"Eh? you don't say that?"

"You are awfully white, dear uncle."

"I'll look in the glass," said Anthony. "No, I won't." He sank back in
his chair. "Rhoda, we're all sinners, ain't we? All--every man and
woman of us, and baby, too. That's a comfort; yes, it is a comfort.
It's a tremendous comfort--shuts mouths. I know what you're going to
say--some bigger sinners than others. If they're sorry for it, though,
what then? They can repent, can't they?"

"They must undo any harm they may have done. Sinners are not to repent
only in words, uncle."

"I've been feeling lately," he murmured.

Rhoda expected a miser's confession.

"I've been feeling, the last two or three days," he resumed.

"What, uncle?"

"Sort of taste of a tremendous nice lemon in my mouth, my dear, and liked
it, till all of a sudden I swallowed it whole--such a gulp! I felt it
just now. I'm all right."

"No, uncle," said Rhoda: "you are not all right: this money makes you
miserable. It does; I can see that it does. Now, put those bags in my
hands. For a minute, try; it will do you good. Attend to me; it will.
Or, let me have them. They are poison to you. You don't want them."

"I don't," cried Anthony. "Upon my soul, I don't. I don't want 'em.
I'd give--it is true, my dear, I don't want 'em. They're poison."

"They're poison to you," said Rhoda; "they're health, they're life to me.
I said, 'My uncle Anthony will help me. He is not--I know his heart--he
is not a miser.' Are you a miser, uncle?"

Her hand was on one of his bags. It was strenuously withheld: but while
she continued speaking, reiterating the word "miser," the hold relaxed.
She caught the heavy bag away, startled by its weight.

He perceived the effect produced on her, and cried; "Aha! and I've been
carrying two of 'em--two!"

Rhoda panted in her excitement.

"Now, give it up," said he. She returned it. He got it against his
breast joylessly, and then bade her to try the weight of the two. She
did try them, and Anthony doated on the wonder of her face.

"Uncle, see what riches do! You fear everybody--you think there is no
secure place--you have more? Do you carry about all your money?"

"No," he chuckled at her astonishment. "I've...Yes. I've got more of my
own." Her widened eyes intoxicated him. "More. I've saved. I've put
by. Say, I'm an old sinner. What'd th' old farmer say now? Do you love
your uncle Tony? 'Old Ant,' they call me down at--" "The Bank," he was
on the point of uttering; but the vision of the Bank lay terrific in his
recollection, and, summoned at last, would not be wiped away. The
unbearable picture swam blinking through accumulating clouds; remote and
minute as the chief scene of our infancy, but commanding him with the
present touch of a mighty arm thrown out. "I'm honest," he cried. "I
always have been honest. I'm known to be honest. I want no man's money.
I've got money of my own. I hate sin. I hate sinners. I'm an honest
man. Ask them, down at--Rhoda, my dear! I say, don't you hear me?
Rhoda, you think I've a turn for misering. It's a beastly mistake: poor
savings, and such a trouble to keep honest when you're poor; and I've
done it for years, spite o' temptation 't 'd send lots o' men to the
hulks. Safe into my hand, safe out o' my hands! Slip once, and there
ain't mercy in men. And you say, 'I had a whirl of my head, and went
round, and didn't know where I was for a minute, and forgot the place I'd
to go to, and come away to think in a quiet part.'..." He stopped
abruptly in his ravings. "You give me the money, Rhoda!"

She handed him the money-bags.

He seized them, and dashed them to the ground with the force of madness.
Kneeling, he drew out his penknife, and slit the sides of the bags, and
held them aloft, and let the gold pour out in torrents, insufferable to
the sight; and uttering laughter that clamoured fierily in her ears for
long minutes afterwards, the old man brandished the empty bags, and
sprang out of the room.

She sat dismayed in the centre of a heap of gold.


On the Monday evening, Master Gammon was at the station with the cart.
Robert and Rhoda were a train later, but the old man seemed to be unaware
of any delay, and mildly staring, received their apologies, and nodded.
They asked him more than once whether all was well at the Farm; to which
he replied that all was quite well, and that he was never otherwise.
About half-an-hour after, on the road, a gradual dumb chuckle overcame
his lower features. He flicked the horse dubitatively, and turned his
head, first to Robert, next to Rhoda; and then he chuckled aloud:

"The last o' they mel'ns rotted yest'day afternoon!"

"Did they?" said Robert. "You'll have to get fresh seed, that's all."

Master Gammon merely showed his spirit to be negative.

"You've been playing the fool with the sheep," Robert accused him.

It hit the old man in a very tender part.

"I play the fool wi' ne'er a sheep alive, Mr. Robert. Animals likes
their 'customed food, and don't like no other. I never changes my food,
nor'd e'er a sheep, nor'd a cow, nor'd a bullock, if animals was masters.
I'd as lief give a sheep beer, as offer him, free-handed--of my own will,
that's to say--a mel'n. They rots."

Robert smiled, though he was angry. The delicious unvexed country-talk
soothed Rhoda, and she looked fondly on the old man, believing that he
could not talk on in his sedate way, if all were not well at home.

The hills of the beacon-ridge beyond her home, and the line of stunted
firs, which she had named "the old bent beggarmen," were visible in the
twilight. Her eyes flew thoughtfully far over them, with the feeling
that they had long known what would come to her and to those dear to her,
and the intense hope that they knew no more, inasmuch as they bounded her

"If the sheep thrive," she ventured to remark, so that the comforting old
themes might be kept up.

"That's the particular 'if!'" said Robert, signifying something that had
to be leaped over.

Master Gammon performed the feat with agility.

"Sheep never was heartier," he pronounced emphatically.

"Lots of applications for melon-seed, Gammon?"

To this the veteran's tardy answer was: "More fools 'n one about, I
reckon"; and Robert allowed him the victory implied by silence.

"And there's no news in Wrexby? none at all?" said Rhoda.

A direct question inevitably plunged Master Gammon so deep amid the
soundings of his reflectiveness, that it was the surest way of precluding
a response from him; but on this occasion his honest deliberation bore

"Squire Blancove, he's dead."

The name caused Rhoda to shudder.

"Found dead in 's bed, Sat'day morning," Master Gammon added, and, warmed
upon the subject, went on: "He's that stiff, folks say, that stiff he is,
he'll have to get into a rounded coffin: he's just like half a hoop. He
was all of a heap, like. Had a fight with 's bolster, and got th' wust
of it. But, be 't the seizure, or be 't gout in 's belly, he's gone
clean dead. And he wunt buy th' Farm, nether. Shutters is all shut up
at the Hall. He'll go burying about Wednesday. Men that drinks don't

Rhoda struck at her brain to think in what way this death could work and
show like a punishment of the heavens upon that one wrong-doer; but it
was not manifest as a flame of wrath, and she laid herself open to the
peace of the fields and the hedgeways stepping by. The farm-house came
in sight, and friendly old Adam and Eve turning from the moon. She heard
the sound of water. Every sign of peace was around the farm. The cows
had been milked long since; the geese were quiet. There was nothing but
the white board above the garden-gate to speak of the history lying in
her heart.

They found the farmer sitting alone, shading his forehead. Rhoda kissed
his cheeks and whispered for tidings of Dahlia.

"Go up to her," the farmer said.

Rhoda grew very chill. She went upstairs with apprehensive feet, and
recognizing Mrs. Sumfit outside the door of Dahlia's room, embraced her,
and heard her say that Dahlia had turned the key, and had been crying
from mornings to nights. "It can't last," Mrs. Sumfit sobbed: "lonesome
hysterics, they's death to come. She's falling into the trance. I'll
go, for the sight o' me shocks her."

Rhoda knocked, waited patiently till her persistent repetition of her
name gained her admission. She beheld her sister indeed, but not the
broken Dahlia from whom she had parted. Dahlia was hard to her caress,
and crying, "Has he come?" stood at bay, white-eyed, and looking like a
thing strung with wires.

"No, dearest; he will not trouble you. Have no fear."

"Are you full of deceit?" said Dahlia, stamping her foot.

"I hope not, my sister."

Dahlia let fall a long quivering breath. She went to her bed, upon which
her mother's Bible was lying, and taking it in her two hands, held it
under Rhoda's lips.

"Swear upon that?"

"What am I to swear to, dearest?"

"Swear that he is not in the house."

"He is not, my own sister; believe me. It is no deceit. He is not.
He will not trouble you. See; I kiss the Book, and swear to you, my
beloved! I speak truth. Come to me, dear." Rhoda put her arms up
entreatingly, but Dahlia stepped back.

"You are not deceitful? You are not cold? You are not inhuman?
Inhuman! You are not? You are not? Oh, my God! Look at her!"

The toneless voice was as bitter for Rhoda to hear as the accusations.
She replied, with a poor smile: "I am only not deceitful. Come, and see.
You will not be disturbed."

"What am I tied to?" Dahlia struggled feebly as against a weight of
chains. "Oh! what am I tied to? It's on me, tight like teeth. I can't
escape. I can't breathe for it. I was like a stone when he asked me--
marry him!--loved me! Some one preached--my duty! I am lost, I am lost!
Why? you girl!--why?--What did you do? Why did you take my hand when I
was asleep and hurry me so fast? What have I done to you? Why did you
push me along?--I couldn't see where. I heard the Church babble. For
you--inhuman! inhuman! What have I done to you? What have you to do
with punishing sin? It's not sin. Let me be sinful, then. I am. I am
sinful. Hear me. I love him; I love my lover, and," she screamed out,
"he loves me!"

Rhoda now thought her mad.

She looked once at the rigid figure of her transformed sister, and
sitting down, covered her eyes and wept.

To Dahlia, the tears were at first an acrid joy; but being weak, she fell
to the bed, and leaned against it, forgetting her frenzy for a time.

"You deceived me," she murmured; and again, "You deceived me." Rhoda did
not answer. In trying to understand why her sister should imagine it,
she began to know that she had in truth deceived Dahlia. The temptation
to drive a frail human creature to do the thing which was right, had led
her to speak falsely for a good purpose. Was it not righteously
executed? Away from the tragic figure in the room, she might have
thought so, but the horror in the eyes and voice of this awakened
Sacrifice, struck away the support of theoretic justification. Great
pity for the poor enmeshed life, helpless there, and in a woman's worst
peril,--looking either to madness, or to death, for an escape--drowned
her reason in a heavy cloud of tears. Long on toward the stroke of the
hour, Dahlia heard her weep, and she murmured on, "You deceived me;" but
it was no more to reproach; rather, it was an exculpation of her
reproaches. "You did deceive me, Rhoda." Rhoda half lifted her head;
the slight tone of a change to tenderness swelled the gulfs of pity, and
she wept aloud. Dahlia untwisted her feet, and staggered up to her, fell
upon her shoulder, and called her, "My love!--good sister!" For a great
mute space they clung together. Their lips met and they kissed
convulsively. But when Dahlia had close view of Rhoda's face, she drew
back, saying in an under-breath,--

"Don't cry. I see my misery when you cry."

Rhoda promised that she would check her tears, and they sat quietly, side
by side, hand in hand. Mrs. Sumfit, outside, had to be dismissed twice
with her fresh brews of supplicating tea and toast, and the cakes which,
when eaten warm with good country butter and a sprinkle of salt,
reanimate (as she did her utmost to assure the sisters through the closed
door) humanity's distressed spirit. At times their hands interchanged a
fervent pressure, their eyes were drawn to an equal gaze.

In the middle of the night Dahlia said: "I found a letter from Edward
when I came here."

"Written--Oh, base man that he is!" Rhoda could not control the impulse
to cry it out.

"Written before," said Dahlia, divining her at once. "I read it; did not
cry. I have no tears. Will you see it? It is very short-enough; it
said enough, and written before--" She crumpled her fingers in Rhoda's;
Rhoda, to please her, saying "Yes," she went to the pillow of the bed,
and drew the letter from underneath.

"I know every word," she said; "I should die if I repeated it. 'My wife
before heaven,' it begins. So, I was his wife. I must have broken his
heart--broken my husband's." Dahlia cast a fearful eye about her; her
eyelids fluttered as from a savage sudden blow. Hardening her mouth to
utter defiant spite: "My lover's," she cried. "He is. If he loves me
and I love him, he is my lover, my lover, my lover! Nothing shall stop
me from saying it--lover! and there is none to claim me but he. Oh,
loathsome! What a serpent it is I've got round me! And you tell me God
put it. Do you? Answer that; for I want to know, and I don't know where
I am. I am lost! I am lost! I want to get to my lover. Tell me,
Rhoda, you would curse me if I did. And listen to me. Let him open his
arms to me, I go; I follow him as far as my feet will bear me. I would
go if it lightened from heaven. If I saw up there the warning, 'You
shall not!' I would go. But, look on me!" she smote contempt upon her
bosom. "He would not call to such a thing as me. Me, now? My skin is
like a toad's to him. I've become like something in the dust. I could
hiss like adders. I am quite impenitent. I pray by my bedside, my head
on my Bible, but I only say, 'Yes, yes; that's done; that's deserved, if
there's no mercy.' Oh, if there is no mercy, that's deserved! I say so
now. But this is what I say, Rhoda (I see nothing but blackness when I
pray), and I say, 'Permit no worse!' I say, 'Permit no worse, or take the
consequences.' He calls me his wife. I am his wife. And if--" Dahlia
fell to speechless panting; her mouth was open; she made motion with her
hands; horror, as of a blasphemy struggling to her lips, kept her dumb,
but the prompting passion was indomitable.... "Read it," said her
struggling voice; and Rhoda bent over the letter, reading and losing
thought of each sentence as it passed. To Dahlia, the vital words were
visible like evanescent blue gravelights. She saw them rolling through
her sister's mind; and just upon the conclusion, she gave out, as in a
chaunt: "And I who have sinned against my innocent darling, will ask her
to pray with me that our future may be one, so that may make good to her
what she has suffered, and to the God whom we worship, the offence I have

Rhoda looked up at the pale penetrating eyes.

"Read. Have you read to the last?" said Dahlia. "Speak it. Let me hear
you. He writes it.... Yes? you will not? 'Husband,' he says," and then
she took up the sentences of the letter backwards to the beginning,
pausing upon each one with a short moan, and smiting her bosom. "I found
it here, Rhoda. I found his letter here when I came.. I came a dead
thing, and it made me spring up alive. Oh, what bliss to be dead! I've
felt nothing...nothing, for months." She flung herself on the bed,
thrusting her handkerchief to her mouth to deaden the outcry. "I'm
punished. I'm punished, because I did not trust to my darling. No, not
for one year! Is it that since we parted? I am an impatient creature,
and he does not reproach me. I tormented my own, my love, my dear, and
he thought I--I was tired of our life together. No; he does not accuse
me," Dahlia replied to her sister's unspoken feeling, with the shrewd
divination which is passion's breathing space. "He accuses himself. He
says it--utters it--speaks it 'I sold my beloved.' There is no guile in
him. Oh, be just to us, Rhoda! Dearest," she came to Rhoda's side, "you
did deceive me, did you not? You are a deceiver, my love?"

Rhoda trembled, and raising her eyelids, answered, "Yes."

"You saw him in the street that morning?"

Dahlia smiled a glittering tenderness too evidently deceitful in part,
but quite subduing.

"You saw him, my Rhoda, and he said he was true to me, and sorrowful; and
you told him, dear one, that I had no heart for him, and wished to go to
hell--did you not, gbod Rhoda? Forgive me; I mean 'good;' my true, good
Rhoda. Yes, you hate sin; it is dreadful; but you should never speak
falsely to sinners, for that does not teach them to repent. Mind you
never lie again. Look at me. I am chained, and I have no repentance in
me. See me. I am nearer it...the other--sin, I mean. If that man
comes...will he?"

"No--no!" Rhoda cried.

"If that man comes--"

"He will not come!"

"He cast me off at the church door, and said he had been cheated. Money!
Oh, Edward!"

Dahlia drooped her head.

"He will keep away. You are safe," said Rhoda.

"Because, if no help comes, I am lost--I am lost for ever!"

"But help will come. I mean peace will come. We will read; we will work
in the garden. You have lifted poor father up, my dear."

"Ah! that old man!" Dahlia sighed.

"He is our father."

"Yes, poor old man!" and Dahlia whispered: "I have no pity for him. If I
am dragged away, I'm afraid I shall curse him. He seems a stony old man.
I don't understand fathers. He would make me go away. He talks the
Scriptures when he is excited. I'm afraid he would shut my Bible for me.
Those old men know nothing of the hearts of women. Now, darling, go to
your room."

Rhoda begged earnestly for permission to stay with her, but Dahlia said:
"My nights are fevers. I can't have arms about me."

They shook hands when they separated, not kissing.


Three days passed quietly at the Farm, and each morning Dahlia came down
to breakfast, and sat with the family at their meals; pale, with the
mournful rim about her eyelids, but a patient figure. No questions were
asked. The house was guarded from visitors, and on the surface the home
was peaceful. On the Wednesday Squire Blancove was buried, when Master
Gammon, who seldom claimed a holiday or specified an enjoyment of which
he would desire to partake, asked leave to be spared for a couple of
hours, that he might attend the ceremonious interment of one to whom a
sort of vagrant human sentiment of clanship had made him look up, as to
the chief gentleman of the district, and therefore one having claims on
his respect. A burial had great interest for the old man.

"I'll be home for dinner; it'll gi'e me an appetite," Master Gammon said
solemnly, and he marched away in his serious Sunday hat and careful coat,
blither than usual.

After his departure, Mrs. Sumfit sat and discoursed on deaths and
burials, the certain end of all: at least, she corrected herself, the
deaths were. The burials were not so certain. Consequently, we might
take the burials, as they were a favour, to be a blessing, except in the
event of persons being buried alive. She tried to make her hearers
understand that the idea of this calamity had always seemed intolerable
to her, and told of numerous cases which, the coffin having been opened,
showed by the convulsed aspect of the corpse, or by spots of blood upon
the shroud, that the poor creature had wakened up forlorn, "and not a
kick allowed to him, my dears."

"It happens to women, too, does it not, mother?" said Dahlia.

"They're most subject to trances, my sweet. From always imitatin' they
imitates their deaths at last; and, oh!" Mrs. Sumfit was taken with
nervous chokings of alarm at the thought. "Alone--all dark! and hard
wood upon your chest, your elbows, your nose, your toes, and you under
heaps o' gravel! Not a breath for you, though you snap and catch for
one--worse than a fish on land."

"It's over very soon, mother," said Dahlia.

"The coldness of you young women! Yes; but it's the time--you feeling,
trying for air; it's the horrid 'Oh, dear me!' You set your mind on it!"

"I do," said Dahlia. "You see coffin-nails instead of stars. You'd give
the world to turn upon one side. You can't think. You can only hate
those who put you there. You see them taking tea, saying prayers,
sleeping in bed, putting on bonnets, walking to church, kneading dough,
eating--all at once, like the firing of a gun. They're in one world;
you're in another."

"Why, my goodness, one'd say she'd gone through it herself," ejaculated
Mrs. Sumfit, terrified.

Dahlia sent her eyes at Rhoda.

"I must go and see that poor man covered." Mrs. Sumfit succumbed to a
fit of resolution much under the pretence that it had long been forming.

"Well, and mother," said Dahlia, checking her, "promise me. Put a
feather on my mouth; put a glass to my face, before you let them carry me
out. Will you? Rhoda promises. I have asked her."

"Oh! the ideas of this girl!" Mrs. Sumfit burst out. "And looking so, as
she says it. My love, you didn't mean to die?"

Dahlia soothed her, and sent her off.

"I am buried alive!" she said. "I feel it all--the stifling! the
hopeless cramp! Let us go and garden. Rhoda, have you got laudanum in
the house?"

Rhoda shook her head, too sick at heart to speak. They went into the
garden, which was Dahlia's healthfullest place. It seemed to her that
her dead mother talked to her there. That was not a figure of speech,
when she said she felt buried alive. She was in the state of sensational
delusion. There were times when she watched her own power of motion
curiously: curiously stretched out her hands, and touched things, and
moved them. The sight was convincing, but the shudder came again. In a
frame less robust the brain would have given way. It was the very
soundness of the brain which, when her blood was a simple tide of life in
her veins, and no vital force, had condemned her to see the wisdom and
the righteousness of the act of sacrifice committed by her, and had urged
her even up to the altar. Then the sudden throwing off of the mask by
that man to whom she had bound herself, and the reading of Edward's
letter of penitence and love, thwarted reason, but without blinding or
unsettling it. Passion grew dominant; yet against such deadly matters on
all sides had passion to strive, that, under a darkened sky, visibly
chained, bound down, and hopeless, she felt between-whiles veritably that
she was a living body buried. Her senses had become semi-lunatic.

She talked reasonably; and Rhoda, hearing her question and answer at
meal-times like a sane woman, was in doubt whether her sister wilfully
simulated a partial insanity when they were alone together. Now, in the
garden, Dahlia said: "All those flowers, my dear, have roots in mother
and me. She can't feel them, for her soul's in heaven. But mine is down
there. The pain is the trying to get your soul loose. It's the edge of
a knife that won't cut through. Do you know that?"

Rhoda said, as acquiescingly as she could, "Yes."

"Do you?" Dahlia whispered. "It's what they call the 'agony.' Only, to
go through it in the dark, when you are all alone! boarded round! you
will never know that. And there's an angel brings me one of mother's
roses, and I smell it. I see fields of snow; and it's warm there, and no
labour for breath. I see great beds of flowers; I pass them like a
breeze. I'm shot, and knock on the ground, and they bury me for dead
again. Indeed, dearest, it's true."

She meant, true as regarded her sensations. Rhoda could barely give a
smile for response; and Dahlia's intelligence being supernaturally
active, she read her sister's doubt, and cried out,--

"Then let me talk of him!"

It was the fiery sequence to her foregone speech, signifying that if her
passion had liberty to express itself, she could clear understandings.
But even a moment's free wing to passion renewed the blinding terror
within her. Rhoda steadied her along the walks, praying for the time to
come when her friends, the rector and his wife, might help in the task of
comforting this poor sister. Detestation of the idea of love made her
sympathy almost deficient, and when there was no active work to do in
aid, she was nearly valueless, knowing that she also stood guilty of a

The day was very soft and still. The flowers gave light for light. They
heard through the noise of the mill-water the funeral bell sound. It
sank in Rhoda like the preaching of an end that was promise of a
beginning, and girdled a distancing land of trouble. The breeze that
blew seemed mercy. To live here in forgetfulness with Dahlia was the
limit of her desires. Perhaps, if Robert worked among them, she would
gratefully give him her hand. That is, if he said not a word of love.

Master Gammon and Mrs. Sumfit were punctual in their return near the
dinnerhour; and the business of releasing the dumplings and potatoes, and
spreading out the cold meat and lettuces, restrained for some period the
narrative of proceedings at the funeral. Chief among the incidents was,
that Mrs. Sumfit had really seen, and only wanted, by corroboration of
Master Gammon, to be sure she had positively seen, Anthony Hackbut on the
skirts of the funeral procession. Master Gammon, however, was no
supporter of conjecture. What he had thought he had thought; but that
was neither here nor there. He would swear to nothing that he had not
touched;--eyes deceived;--he was never a guesser. He left Mrs. Sumfit to
pledge herself in perturbation of spirit to an oath that her eyes had
seen Anthony Hackbut; and more, which was, that after the close of the
funeral service, the young squire had caught sight of Anthony crouching
in a corner of the churchyard, and had sent a man to him, and they had
disappeared together. Mrs. Sumfit was heartily laughed at and rallied
both by Robert and the farmer. "Tony at a funeral! and train expenses!"
the farmer interjected. "D'ye think, mother, Tony'd come to Wrexby
churchyard 'fore he come Queen Anne's Farm? And where's he now, mayhap?"

Mrs. Sumfit appealed in despair to Master Gammon, with entreaties, and a
ready dumpling.

"There, Mas' Gammon; and why you sh'd play at 'do believe' and at 'don't
believe,' after that awesome scene, the solem'est of life's, when you did
declare to me, sayin', it was a stride for boots out o' London this
morning. Your words, Mas' Gammon! and 'boots'-=it's true, if by that
alone! For, 'boots,' I says to myself--he thinks by 'boots,' there being
a cord'er in his family on the mother's side; which you yourself told to
me, as you did, Mas' Gammon, and now holds back, you did, like a bad

"Hey! does Gammon jib?" said the farmer, with the ghost of old laughter
twinkling in his eyes.

"He told me this tale," Mrs. Sumfit continued, daring her irresponsive
enemy to contradict her, with a threatening gaze. "He told me this tale,
he did; and my belief's, his game 's, he gets me into a corner--there to
be laughed at! Mas' Gammon, if you're not a sly old man, you said, you
did, he was drownded; your mother's brother's wife's brother; and he had
a brother, and what he was to you--that brother--" Mrs. Sumfit smote her
hands--"Oh, my goodness, my poor head! but you shan't slip away, Mas'
Gammon; no, try you ever so much. Drownded he was, and eight days in the
sea, which you told me over a warm mug of ale by the fire years back.
And I do believe them dumplings makes ye obstinate; for worse you get,
and that fond of 'em, I sh'll soon not have enough in our biggest pot.
Yes, you said he was eight days in the sea, and as for face, you said,
poor thing! he was like a rag of towel dipped in starch, was your own
words, and all his likeness wiped out; and Joe, the other brother, a
cord'er--bootmaker, you call 'em--looked down him, as he was stretched
out on the shore of the sea, all along, and didn't know him till he come
to the boots, and he says, 'It's Abner;' for there was his boots to know
him by. Now, will you deny, Mas' Gammon, you said, Mr. Hackbut's boots,
and a long stride it was for 'em from London? And I won't be laughed at
through arts of any sly old man!"

The circumstantial charge made no impression on Master Gammon, who was
heard to mumble, as from the inmost recesses of tight-packed dumpling;
but he left the vindication of his case to the farmer's laughter. The
mention of her uncle had started a growing agitation in Rhoda, to whom
the indication of his eccentric behaviour was a stronger confirmation of
his visit to the neighbourhood. And wherefore had he journeyed down?
Had he come to haunt her on account of the money he had poured into her
lap? Rhoda knew in a moment that she was near a great trial of her
strength and truth. She had more than once, I cannot tell you how
distantly, conceived that the money had been money upon which the mildest
word for "stolen" should be put to express the feeling she had got about
it, after she had parted with the bulk of it to the man Sedgett. Not
"stolen," not "appropriated," but money that had perhaps been entrusted,
and of which Anthony had forgotten the rightful ownership. This idea of
hers had burned with no intolerable fire; but, under a weight of all
discountenancing appearances, feeble though it was, it had distressed
her. The dealing with money, and the necessity for it, had given Rhoda a
better comprehension of its nature and value. She had taught herself to
think that her suspicion sprang from her uncle's wild demeanour, and the
scene of the gold pieces scattered on the floor, as if a heart had burst
at her feet.

No sooner did she hear that Anthony had been, by supposition, seen, than
the little light of secret dread flamed a panic through her veins. She
left the table before Master Gammon had finished, and went out of the
house to look about for her uncle. He was nowhere in the fields, nor in
the graveyard. She walked over the neighbourhood desolately, until her
quickened apprehension was extinguished, and she returned home relieved,
thinking it folly to have imagined her uncle was other than a man of
hoarded wealth, and that he was here. But, in the interval, she had
experienced emotions which warned her of a struggle to come. Who would
be friendly to her, and an arm of might? The thought of the storm she
had sown upon all sides made her tremble foolishly. When she placed her
hand in Robert's, she gave his fingers a confiding pressure, and all but
dropped her head upon his bosom, so sick she was with weakness. It would
have been a deceit toward him, and that restrained her; perhaps, yet
more, she was restrained by the gloomy prospect of having to reply to any
words of love, without an idea of what to say, and with a loathing of
caresses. She saw herself condemned to stand alone, and at a season when
she was not strengthened by pure self-support.

Rhoda had not surrendered the stern belief that she had done well by
forcing Dahlia's hand to the marriage, though it had resulted evilly. In
reflecting on it, she had still a feeling of the harsh joy peculiar to
those who have exercised command with a conscious righteousness upon
wilful, sinful, and erring spirits, and have thwarted the wrongdoer. She
could only admit that there was sadness in the issue; hitherto, at least,
nothing worse than sad disappointment. The man who was her sister's
husband could no longer complain that he had been the victim of an
imposition. She had bought his promise that he would leave the country,
and she had rescued the honour of the family by paying him. At what
cost? She asked herself that now, and then her self-support became
uneven. Could her uncle have parted with the great sum--have shed it
upon her, merely beneficently, and because he loved her? Was it possible
that he had the habit of carrying his own riches through the streets of
London? She had to silence all questions imperiously, recalling exactly
her ideas of him, and the value of money in the moment when money was an
object of hunger--when she had seized it like a wolf, and its value was
quite unknown, unguessed at.

Rhoda threw up her window before she slept, that she might breathe the
cool night air; and, as she leaned out, she heard steps moving away, and
knew them to be Robert's, in whom that pressure of her hand had cruelly
resuscitated his longing for her. She drew back, wondering at the
idleness of men--slaves while they want a woman's love, savages when they
have won it. She tried to pity him, but she had not an emotion to spare,
save perhaps one of dull exultation, that she, alone of women, was free
from that wretched mess called love; and upon it she slept.

It was between the breakfast and dinner hours, at the farm, next day,
when the young squire, accompanied by Anthony Hackbut, met farmer Fleming
in the lane bordering one of the outermost fields of wheat. Anthony gave
little more than a blunt nod to his relative, and slouched on, leaving
the farmer in amazement, while the young squire stopped him to speak with
him. Anthony made his way on to the house. Shortly after, he was seen
passing through the gates of the garden, accompanied by Rhoda. At the
dinner-hour, Robert was taken aside by the farmer. Neither Rhoda nor
Anthony presented themselves. They did not appear till nightfall. When
Anthony came into the room, he took no greetings and gave none. He sat
down on the first chair by the door, shaking his head, with vacant eyes.
Rhoda took off her bonnet, and sat as strangely silent. In vain Mrs.
Sumfit asked her; "Shall it be tea, dear, and a little cold meat?" The
two dumb figures were separately interrogated, but they had no answer.

"Come! brother Tony?" the farmer tried to rally him.

Dahlia was knitting some article of feminine gear. Robert stood by the
musk-pots at the window, looking at Rhoda fixedly. Of this gaze she
became conscious, and glanced from him to the clock.

"It's late," she said, rising.

"But you're empty, my dear. And to think o' going to bed without a
dinner, or your tea, and no supper! You'll never say prayers, if you
do," said Mrs. Sumfit.

The remark engendered a notion in the farmer's head, that Anthony
promised to be particularly prayerless.

"You've been and spent a night at the young squire's, I hear, brother
Tony. All right and well. No complaints on my part, I do assure ye. If
you're mixed up with that family, I won't bring it in you're anyways
mixed up with this family; not so as to clash, do you see. Only, man,
now you are here, a word'd be civil, if you don't want a doctor."

"I was right," murmured Mrs. Sumfit. "At the funeral, he was; and Lord
be thanked! I thought my eyes was failin'. Mas' Gammon, you'd ha' lost
no character by sidin' wi' me."

"Here's Dahlia, too," said the farmer. "Brother Tony, don't you see her?
She's beginning to be recognizable, if her hair'd grow a bit faster.
She's...well, there she is."

A quavering, tiny voice, that came from Anthony, said: "How d' ye do--how
d' ye do;" sounding like the first effort of a fife. But Anthony did not
cast eye on Dahlia.

"Will you eat, man?--will you smoke a pipe?--won't you talk a word?--will
you go to bed?"

These several questions, coming between pauses, elicited nothing from the
staring oldman.

"Is there a matter wrong at the Bank?" the farmer called out, and Anthony
jumped in a heap.

"Eh?" persisted the farmer.

Rhoda interposed: "Uncle is tired; he is unwell. Tomorrow he will talk
to you."

"No, but is there anything wrong up there, though?" the farmer asked with
eager curiosity, and a fresh smile at the thought that those Banks and
city folk were mortal, and could upset, notwithstanding their crashing
wheels. "Brother Tony, you speak out; has anybody been and broke? Never
mind a blow, so long, o' course, as they haven't swallowed your money.
How is it? Why, I never saw such a sight as you. You come down from
London; you play hide and seek about your relation's house; and here,
when you do condescend to step in--eh? how is it? You ain't, I hope,
ruined, Tony, are ye?"

Rhoda stood over her uncle to conceal him.

"He shall not speak till he has had some rest. And yes, mother, he shall
have some warm tea upstairs in bed. Boil some water. Now, uncle, come
with me."

"Anybody broke?" Anthony rolled the words over, as Rhoda raised his arm.
"I'm asked such a lot, my dear, I ain't equal to it. You said here 'd be
a quiet place. I don't know about money. Try my pockets. Yes, mum, if
you was forty policemen, I'm empty; you'd find it. And no objection to
nod to prayers; but never was taught one of my own. Where am I going, my

"Upstairs with me, uncle."

Rhoda had succeeded in getting him on his feet.

The farmer tapped at his forehead, as a signification to the others that
Anthony had gone wrong in the head, which reminded him that he had
prophesied as much. He stiffened out his legs, and gave a manful spring,
crying, "Hulloa, brother Tony! why, man, eh? Look here. What, goin' to
bed? What, you, Tony? I say--I say--dear me!" And during these
exclamations intricate visions of tripping by means of gold wires danced
before him.

Rhoda hurried Anthony out.

After the door had shut, the farmer said: "That comes of it; sooner or
later, there it is! You give your heart to money--you insure in a ship,
and as much as say, here's a ship, and, blow and lighten, I defy you.
Whereas we day-by-day people, if it do blow and if it do lighten, and the
waves are avilanches, we've nothing to lose. Poor old Tony--a smash, to
a certainty. There's been a smash, and he's gone under the harrow. Any
o' you here might ha' heard me say, things can't last for ever. Ha'n't
you, now?"

The persons present meekly acquiesced in his prophetic spirit to this
extent. Mrs. Sumfit dolorously said, "Often, William dear," and accepted
the incontestable truth in deep humiliation of mind.

"Save," the farmer continued, "save and store, only don't put your heart
in the box."

"It's true, William;" Mrs. Sumfit acted clerk to the sermon.

Dahlia took her softly by the neck, and kissed her.

"Is it love for the old woman?" Mrs. Sumfit murmured fondly; and Dahlia
kissed her again.

The farmer had by this time rounded to the thought of how he personally
might be affected by Anthony's ill-luck, supposing; perchance, that
Anthony was suffering from something more than a sentimental attachment
to the Bank of his predilection: and such a reflection instantly diverted
his tendency to moralize.

"We shall hear to-morrow," he observed in conclusion; which, as it caused
a desire for the morrow to spring within his bosom, sent his eyes at
Master Gammon, who was half an hour behind his time for bed, and had
dropped asleep in his chair. This unusual display of public somnolence
on Master Gammon's part, together with the veteran's reputation for
slowness, made the farmer fret at him as being in some way an obstruction
to the lively progress of the hours.

"Hoy, Gammon!" he sang out, awakeningly to ordinary ears; but Master
Gammon was not one who took the ordinary plunge into the gulf of sleep,
and it was required to shake him and to bellow at him--to administer at
once earthquake and thunder--before his lizard eyelids would lift over
the great, old-world eyes; upon which, like a clayey monster refusing to
be informed with heavenly fire, he rolled to the right of his chair and
to the left, and pitched forward, and insisted upon being inanimate.
Brought at last to a condition of stale consciousness, he looked at his
master long, and uttered surprisingly "Farmer, there's queer things going
on in this house," and then relapsed to a combat with Mrs. Sumfit,
regarding the candle; she saying that it was not to be entrusted to him,
and he sullenly contending that it was.

"Here, we'll all go to bed," said the farmer. "What with one person
queer, and another person queer, I shall be in for a headache, if I take
to thinking. Gammon's a man sees in 's sleep what he misses awake. Did
you ever know," he addressed anybody, "such a thing as Tony Hackbut
coming into a relation's house, and sitting there, and not a word for any
of us? It's, I call it, dumbfoundering. And that's me: why didn't I go
up and shake his hand, you ask. Well, why not? If he don't know he's
welcome, without ceremony, he's no good. Why, I've got matters t' occupy
my mind, too, haven't I? Every man has, and some more'n others, let
alone crosses. There's something wrong with my brother-in-law, Tony,
that's settled. Odd that we country people, who bide, and take the
Lord's gifts--" The farmer did not follow out this reflection, but
raising his arms, shepherd-wise, he puffed as if blowing the two women
before him to their beds, and then gave a shy look at Robert, and nodded
good-night to him. Robert nodded in reply. He knew the cause of the
farmer's uncommon blitheness. Algernon Blancove, the young squire, had
proposed for Rhoda's hand.


Anthony had robbed the Bank. The young squire was aware of the fact, and
had offered to interpose for him, and to make good the money to the Bank,
upon one condition. So much, Rhoda had gathered from her uncle's
babbling interjections throughout the day. The farmer knew only of the
young squire's proposal, which had been made direct to him; and he had
left it to Robert to state the case to Rhoda, and plead for himself. She
believed fully, when she came downstairs into the room where Robert was
awaiting her, that she had but to speak and a mine would be sprung; and
shrinking from it, hoping for it, she entered, and tried to fasten her
eyes upon Robert distinctly, telling him the tale. Robert listened with
a calculating seriousness of manner that quieted her physical dread of
his passion. She finished; and he said "It will, perhaps, save your
uncle: I'm sure it will please your father."

She sat down, feeling that a warmth had gone, and that she was very bare.

"Must I consent, then?"

"If you can, I suppose."

Both being spirits formed for action, a perplexity found them weak as
babes. He, moreover, was stung to see her debating at all upon such a
question; and he was in despair before complicated events which gave
nothing for his hands and heart to do. Stiff endurance seemed to him to
be his lesson; and he made a show of having learnt it.

"Were you going out, Robert?"

"I usually make the rounds of the house, to be sure all's safe."

His walking about the garden at night was not, then, for the purpose of
looking at her window. Rhoda coloured in all her dark crimson with shame
for thinking that it had been so.

"I must decide to-morrow morning."

"They say, the pillow's the best counsellor."

A reply that presumed she would sleep appeared to her as bitterly

"Did father wish it?"

"Not by what he spoke."

"You suppose he does wish it?"

"Where's the father who wouldn't? Of course, he wishes it. He's kind
enough, but you may be certain he wishes it."

"Oh! Dahlia, Dahlia!" Rhoda moaned, under a rush of new sensations,
unfilial, akin to those which her sister had distressed her by speaking
shamelessly out.

"Ah! poor soul!" added Robert.

"My darling must be brave: she must have great courage. Dahlia cannot be
a coward. I begin to see."

Rhoda threw up her face, and sat awhile as one who was reading old
matters by a fresh light.

"I can't think," she said, with a start. "Have I been dreadfully cruel?
Was I unsisterly? I have such a horror of some things--disgrace. And
men are so hard on women; and father--I felt for him. And I hated that
base man. It's his cousin and his name! I could almost fancy this trial
is brought round to me for punishment."

An ironic devil prompted Robert to say, "You can't let harm come to your

The thing implied was the farthest in his idea of any woman's possible

"Are you of that opinion?" Rhoda questioned with her eyes, but uttered

Now, he had spoken almost in the ironical tone. She should have noted
that. And how could a true-hearted girl suppose him capable of giving
such counsel to her whom he loved? It smote him with horror and anger;
but he was much too manly to betray these actual sentiments, and
continued to dissemble. You see, he had not forgiven her for her
indifference to him.

"You are no longer your own mistress," he said, meaning exactly the

This--that she was bound in generosity to sacrifice herself--was what
Rhoda feared. There was no forceful passion in her bosom to burst
through the crowd of weak reasonings and vanities, to bid her be a woman,
not a puppet; and the passion in him, for which she craved, that she
might be taken up by it and whirled into forgetfulness, with a seal of
betrothal upon her lips, was absent so that she thought herself loved no
more by Robert. She was weary of thinking and acting on her own
responsibility, and would gladly have abandoned her will; yet her
judgement, if she was still to exercise it, told her that the step she
was bidden to take was one, the direct consequence and the fruit of her
other resolute steps. Pride whispered, "You could compel your sister to
do that which she abhorred;" and Pity pleaded for her poor old uncle
Anthony. She looked back in imagination at that scene with him in
London, amazed at her frenzy of power, and again, from that
contemplation, amazed at her present nervelessness.

"I am not fit to be my own mistress," she said.

"Then, the sooner you decide the better," observed Robert, and the room
became hot and narrow to him.

"Very little time is given me," she murmured. The sound was like a
whimper; exasperating to one who had witnessed her remorseless energy.

"I dare say you won't find the hardship so great," said he.

"Because," she looked up quickly, "I went out one day to meet him? Do
you mean that, Robert? I went to hear news of my sister. I had received
no letters from her. And he wrote to say that he could tell me about
her. My uncle took me once to the Bank. I saw him there first. He
spoke of Wrexby, and of my sister. It is pleasant to inexperienced girls
to hear themselves praised. Since the day when you told me to turn back
I have always respected you."

Her eyelids lowered softly.

Could she have humbled herself more? But she had, at the same time,
touched his old wound: and his rival then was the wooer now, rich, and a
gentleman. And this room, Robert thought as he looked about it, was the
room in which she had refused him, when he first asked her to be his.

"I think," he said, "I've never begged your pardon for the last occasion
of our being alone here together. I've had my arm round you. Don't be
frightened. That's my marriage, and there was my wife. And there's an
end of my likings and my misconduct. Forgive me for calling it to mind."

"No, no, Robert," Rhoda lifted her hands, and, startled by the impulse,
dropped them, saying: "What forgiveness? Was I ever angry with you?"

A look of tenderness accompanied the words, and grew into a dusky crimson
rose under his eyes.

"When you went into the wood, I saw you going: I knew it was for some
good object," he said, and flushed equally.

But, by the recurrence to that scene, he had checked her sensitive
developing emotion. She hung a moment in languor, and that oriental
warmth of colour ebbed away from her cheeks.

"You are very kind," said she.

Then he perceived in dimmest fashion that possibly a chance had come to
ripeness, withered, and fallen, within the late scoffing seconds of time.
Enraged at his blindness, and careful, lest he had wrongly guessed, not
to expose his regret (the man was a lover), he remarked, both truthfully
and hypocritically: "I've always thought you were born to be a lady."
(You had that ambition, young madam.)

She answered: "That's what I don't understand." (Your saying it, O my

"You will soon take to your new duties." (You have small objection to
them even now.)

"Yes, or my life won't be worth much." (Know, that you are driving me to

"And I wish you happiness, Rhoda." (You are madly
imperilling the prospect thereof.)

To each of them the second meaning stood shadowy behind the utterances.
And further,--

"Thank you, Robert." (I shall have to thank you for the issue.)

"Now it's time to part." (Do you not see that there's a danger for me
in remaining?)

"Good night." (Behold, I am submissive.)

"Good night, Rhoda." (You were the first to give the signal of

"Good night." (I am simply submissive.)

"Why not my name? Are you hurt with me?"

Rhoda choked. The indirectness of speech had been a shelter to her,
permitting her to hint at more than she dared clothe in words.

Again the delicious dusky rose glowed beneath his eyes.

But he had put his hand out to her, and she had not taken it.

"What have I done to offend you? I really don't know, Rhoda."

"Nothing." The flower had closed.

He determined to believe that she was gladdened at heart by the prospect
of a fine marriage, and now began to discourse of Anthony's delinquency,

"It was not money taken for money's sake: any one can see that. It was
half clear to me, when you told me about it, that the money was not his
to give, but I've got the habit of trusting you to be always correct."

"And I never am," said Rhoda, vexed at him and at herself.

"Women can't judge so well about money matters. Has your uncle no
account of his own at the Bank? He was thought to be a bit of a miser."

"What he is, or what he was, I can't guess. He has not been near the
Bank since that day; nor to his home. He has wandered down on his way
here, sleeping in cottages. His heart seems broken. I have still a
great deal of the money. I kept it, thinking it might be a protection
for Dahlia. Oh! my thoughts and what I have done! Of course, I imagined
him to be rich. A thousand pounds seemed a great deal to me, and very
little for one who was rich. If I had reflected at all, I must have seen
that Uncle Anthony would never have carried so much through the streets.
I was like a fiend for money. I must have been acting wrongly. Such a
craving as that is a sign of evil."

"What evil there is, you're going to mend, Rhoda."

"I sell myself, then."

"Hardly so bad as that. The money will come from you instead of from
your uncle."

Rhoda bent forward in her chair, with her elbows on her knees, like a man
brooding. Perhaps, it was right that the money should come from her.
And how could she have hoped to get the money by any other means? Here
at least was a positive escape from perplexity. It came at the right
moment; was it a help divine? What cowardice had been prompting her to
evade it? After all, could it be a dreadful step that she was required
to take?

Her eyes met Robert's, and he said startlingly: "Just like a woman!"

"Why?" but she had caught the significance, and blushed with spite.

"He was the first to praise you."

"You are brutal to me, Robert."

"My name at last! You accused me of that sort of thing before, in this

Rhoda stood up. "I will wish you good night."

"And now you take my hand."

"Good night," they uttered simultaneously; but Robert did not give up the
hand he had got in his own. His eyes grew sharp, and he squeezed the

"I'm bound," she cried.

"Once!" Robert drew her nearer to him.

"Let me go."

"Once!" he reiterated. "Rhoda, as I've never kissed you--once!"

"No: don't anger me."

"No one has ever kissed you?"


"Then, I--" His force was compelling the straightened figure.

Had he said, "Be mine!" she might have softened to his embrace; but there
was no fire of divining love in her bosom to perceive her lover's
meaning. She read all his words as a placard on a board, and revolted
from the outrage of submitting her lips to one who was not to be her
husband. His jealousy demanded that gratification foremost. The "Be
mine!" was ready enough to follow.

"Let me go, Robert."

She was released. The cause for it was the opening of the door. Anthony
stood there.

A more astounding resemblance to the phantasm of a dream was never
presented. He was clad in a manner to show forth the condition of his
wits, in partial night and day attire: one of the farmer's nightcaps was
on his head, surmounted by his hat. A confused recollection of the
necessity for trousers, had made him draw on those garments sufficiently
to permit of the movement of his short legs, at which point their
subserviency to the uses ended. Wrinkled with incongruous clothing from
head to foot, and dazed by the light, he peered on them, like a mouse
magnified and petrified.

"Dearest uncle!" Rhoda went to him.

Anthony nodded, pointing to the door leading out of the house.

"I just want to go off--go off. Never you mind me. I'm only going off."

"You must go to your bed, uncle."

"Oh, Lord! no. I'm going off, my dear. I've had sleep enough for forty.
I--" he turned his mouth to Rhoda's ear, "I don't want t' see th' old
farmer." And, as if he had given a conclusive reason for his departure,
he bored towards the door, repeating it, and bawling additionally, "in
the morning."

"You have seen him, uncle. You have seen him. It's over," said Rhoda.

Anthony whispered: "I don't want t' see th' old farmer."

"But, you have seen him, uncle."

"In the morning, my dear. Not in the morning. He'll be looking and
asking, 'Where away, brother Tony?' 'Where's your banker's book, brother
Tony?' 'How's money-market, brother Tony?' I can't see th' old farmer."

It was impossible to avoid smiling: his imitation of the farmer's country
style was exact.

She took his hands, and used every persuasion she could think of to
induce him to return to his bed; nor was he insensible to argument, or
superior to explanation.

"Th' old farmer thinks I've got millions, my dear. You can't satisfy
him. He... I don't want t' see him in the morning. He thinks I've got
millions. His mouth'll go down. I don't want... You don't want him to
look... And I can't count now; I can't count a bit. And every post I
see 's a policeman. I ain't hiding. Let 'em take the old man. And he
was a faithful servant, till one day he got up on a regular whirly-go-
round, and ever since...such a little boy! I'm frightened o' you,

"I will do everything for you," said Rhoda, crying wretchedly.

"Because, the young squire says," Anthony made his voice mysterious.

"Yes, yes," Rhoda stopped him; "and I consent:" she gave a hurried
half-glance behind her. "Come, uncle. Oh! pity! don't let me think your
reason's gone. I can get you the money, but if you go foolish, I cannot
help you."

Her energy had returned to her with the sense of sacrifice. Anthony eyed
her tears. "We've sat on a bank and cried together, haven't we?" he
said. "And counted ants, we have. Shall we sit in the sun together
to-morrow? Say, we shall. Shall we? A good long day in the sun and
nobody looking at me 's my pleasure."

Rhoda gave him the assurance, and he turned and went upstairs with her,
docile at the prospect of hours to be passed in the sunlight.

Yet, when morning came, he had disappeared. Robert also was absent from
the breakfast-table. The farmer made no remarks, save that he reckoned
Master Gammon was right--in allusion to the veteran's somnolent
observation overnight; and strange things were acted before his eyes.

There came by the morning delivery of letters one addressed to "Miss
Fleming." He beheld his daughters rise, put their hands out, and claim
it, in a breath; and they gazed upon one another like the two women
demanding the babe from the justice of the Wise King. The letter was
placed in Rhoda's hand; Dahlia laid hers on it. Their mouths were shut;
any one not looking at them would have been unaware that a supreme
conflict was going on in the room. It was a strenuous wrestle of their
eyeballs, like the "give way" of athletes pausing. But the delirious
beat down the constitutional strength. A hard bright smile ridged the
hollow of Dahlia's cheeks. Rhoda's dark eyes shut; she let go her hold,
and Dahlia thrust the letter in against her bosom, snatched it out again,
and dipped her face to roses in a jug, and kissing Mrs. Sumfit, ran from
the room for a single minute; after which she came back smiling with
gravely joyful eyes and showing a sedate readiness to eat and conclude
the morning meal.

What did this mean? The farmer could have made allowance for Rhoda's
behaving so, seeing that she notoriously possessed intellect; and he had
the habit of charging all freaks and vagaries of manner upon intellect.

But Dahlia was a soft creature, without this apology for extravagance,
and what right had she to letters addressed to "Miss Fleming?" The
farmer prepared to ask a question, and was further instigated to it by
seeing Mrs. Sumfit's eyes roll sympathetic under a burden of overpowering
curiosity and bewilderment. On the point of speaking, he remembered that
he had pledged his word to ask no questions; he feared to--that was the
secret; he had put his trust in Rhoda's assurance, and shrank from a
spoken suspicion. So, checking himself, he broke out upon Mrs. Sumfit:
"Now, then, mother!" which caused her to fluster guiltily, she having
likewise given her oath to be totally unquestioning, even as was Master
Gammon, whom she watched with a deep envy. Mrs. Sumfit excused the
anxious expression of her face by saying that she was thinking of her
dairy, whither, followed by the veteran, she retired.

Rhoda stood eyeing Dahlia, nerved to battle against the contents of that
letter, though in the first conflict she had been beaten. "Oh, this
curse of love!" she thought in her heart; and as Dahlia left the room,
flushed, stupefied, and conscienceless, Rhoda the more readily told her
father the determination which was the result of her interview with

No sooner had she done so, than a strange fluttering desire to look on
Robert awoke within her bosom. She left the house, believing that she
went abroad to seek her uncle, and walked up a small grass-knoll, a
little beyond the farm-yard, from which she could see green corn-tracts
and the pastures by the river, the river flowing oily under summer light,
and the slow-footed cows, with their heads bent to the herbage; far-away
sheep, and white hawthorn bushes, and deep hedge-ways bursting out of the
trimness of the earlier season; and a nightingale sang among the hazels
near by.

This scene of unthrobbing peacefulness was beheld by Rhoda with her first
conscious delight in it. She gazed round on the farm, under a quick new
impulse of affection for her old home. And whose hand was it that could
alone sustain the working of the farm, and had done so, without reward?
Her eyes travelled up to Wrexby Hall, perfectly barren of any feeling
that she was to enter the place, aware only that it was full of pain for
her. She accused herself, but could not accept the charge of her having
ever hoped for transforming events that should twist and throw the dear
old farm-life long back into the fields of memory. Nor could she
understand the reason of her continued coolness to Robert. Enough of
accurate reflection was given her to perceive that discontent with her
station was the original cause of her discontent now. What she had sown
she was reaping:--and wretchedly colourless are these harvests of our

Book of the day: