Rhoda Fleming. Complete

“Why is there no place for the unhappy, who do not wish to live, and cannot die?” she moaned.

And Rhoda cruelly fixed her to the marriage, making it seem irrevocable, and barring all the faint lights to the free outer world, by praise of her—passionate praise of her—when she confessed, that half inanimate after her recovery from the fever, and in the hope that she might thereby show herself to her father, she had consented to devote her life to the only creature who was then near her to be kind to her. Rhoda made her relate how this man had seen her first, and how, by untiring diligence, he had followed her up and found her. “He—he must love you,” said Rhoda; and in proportion as she grew more conscious of her sister’s weakness, and with every access of tenderness toward her, she felt that Dahlia must be thought for very much as if she were a child.

Dahlia tried to float out some fretting words for mercy, on one or other of her heavy breathings; but her brain was under lead. She had a thirst for Rhoda’s praise in her desolation; it was sweet, though the price of it was her doing an abhorred thing. Abhorred? She did not realize the consequences of the act, or strength would have come to her to wrestle with the coil: a stir of her blood would have endued her with womanly counsel and womanly frenzy; nor could Rhoda have opposed any real vehemence of distaste to the union on Dahlia’s part. But Dahlia’s blood was frozen, her brain was under lead. She clung to the poor delight in her sister’s praise, and shuddered and thirsted. She caught at the minutes, and saw them slip from her. All the health of her thoughts went to establish a sort of blind belief that God; having punished her enough, would not permit a second great misery to befall her. She expected a sudden intervention, even though at the altar. She argued to herself that misery, which follows sin, cannot surely afflict us further when we are penitent, and seek to do right: her thought being, that perchance if she refrained from striving against the current, and if she suffered her body to be borne along, God would be the more merciful. With the small cunning of an enfeebled spirit, she put on a mute submissiveness, and deceived herself by it sufficiently to let the minutes pass with a lessened horror and alarm.

This was in the first quarter of the night. The dawn was wearing near. Sedgett had been seen by Rhoda; a quiet interview; a few words on either side, attention paid to them by neither. But the girl doated on his ugliness; she took it for plain proof of his worthiness; proof too that her sister must needs have seen the latter very distinctly, or else she could not have submitted.

Dahlia looked at the window-blinds and at the candlelight. The little which had been spoken between her and her sister in such a chasm of time, gave a terrible swiftness to the hours. Half shrieking, she dropped her head in Rhoda’s lap. Rhoda, thinking that with this demonstration she renounced the project finally, prepared to say what she had to say, and to yield. But, as was natural after a paroxysm of weakness, Dahlia’s frenzy left no courage behind it.

Dahlia said, as she swept her brows, “I am still subject to nervous attacks.”

“They will soon leave you,” said Rhoda, nursing her hand.

Dahlia contracted her lips. “Is father very unforgiving to women?”

“Poor father!” Rhoda interjected for answer, and Dahlia’s frame was taken with a convulsion.

“Where shall I see him to-morrow?” she asked; and, glancing from the beamless candle to the window-blinds “Oh! it’s day. Why didn’t I sleep! It’s day! where am I to see him?”

“At Robert’s lodgings. We all go there.”

“We all go?—he goes?”

“Your husband will lead you there.”

“My heaven! my heaven! I wish you had known what this is, a little—just a little.”

“I do know that it is a good and precious thing to do right,” said Rhoda.

“If you had only had an affection, dear! Oh I how ungrateful I am to you.”

“It is only, darling, that I seem unkind to you,” said Rhoda.

“You think I must do this? Must? Why?”

“Why?” Rhoda pressed her fingers. “Why, when you were ill, did you not write to me, that I might have come to you?”

“I was ashamed,” said Dahlia.

“You shall not be ashamed any more, my sister.”

Dahlia seized the window-blind with her trembling finger-tips, and looked out on the day. As if it had smitten her eyeballs, she covered her face, giving dry sobs.

“Oh! I wish—I wish you had known what this is. Must I do it? His face! Dear, I am very sorry to distress you. Must I do it? The doctor says I am so strong that nothing will break in me, and that I must live, if I am not killed. But, if I might only be a servant in father’s house—I would give all my love to a little bed of flowers.”

“Father has no home now,” said Rhoda.

“I know—I know. I am ready. I will submit, and then father will not be ashamed to remain at the Farm. I am ready. Dear, I am ready. Rhoda, I am ready. It is not much.” She blew the candle out. “See. No one will do that for me. We are not to live for ourselves. I have done wrong, and I am going to be humble; yes, I am. I never was when I was happy, and that proves I had no right to be happy. All I ask is for another night with you. Why did we not lie down together and sleep? We can’t sleep now—it’s day.”

“Come and lie down with me for a few hours, my darling,” said Rhoda.

While she was speaking, Dahlia drew the window-blind aside, to look out once more upon the vacant, inexplicable daylight, and looked, and then her head bent like the first thrust forward of a hawk’s sighting quarry; she spun round, her raised arms making a cramped, clapping motion.

“He is there.”

CHAPTER XXXVI

At once Rhoda perceived that it was time for her to act. The name of him who stood in the street below was written on her sister’s face. She started to her side, got possession of her hands, murmuring,—

“Come with me. You are to come with me. Don’t speak. I know. I will go down. Yes; you are to obey, and do what I tell you.”

Dahlia’s mouth opened, but like a child when it is warned not to cry, she uttered a faint inward wailing, lost her ideas, and was passive in a shuddering fit.

“What am I to do?” she said supplicatingly, as Rhoda led her to her bedroom.

“Rest here. Be perfectly quiet. Trust everything to me. I am your sister.”

Leaving her under the spell of coldly-spoken words, Rhoda locked the door on her. She was herself in great agitation, but nerved by deeper anger there was no faltering in her movements. She went to the glass a minute, as she tied her bonnet-strings under her chin, and pinned her shawl. A night’s vigil had not chased the bloom from her cheek, or the swimming lustre from her dark eyes. Content that her aspect should be seemly, she ran down the stairs, unfastened the bolts, and without hesitation closed the door behind her. At the same instant, a gentleman crossed the road. He asked whether Mrs. Ayrton lived in that house? Rhoda’s vision danced across his features, but she knew him unerringly to be the cruel enemy.

“My sister, Dahlia Fleming, lives there,” she said.

“Then, you are Rhoda?”

“My name is Rhoda.”

“Mine—I fear it will not give you pleasure to hear it—is Edward Blancove. I returned late last night from abroad.”

She walked to a distance, out of hearing and out of sight of the house, and he silently followed. The streets were empty, save for the solitary footing of an early workman going to his labour.

She stopped, and he said, “I hope your sister is well.”

“She is quite well.”

“Thank heaven for that! I heard of some illness.”

“She has quite recovered.”

“Did she—tell me the truth—did she get a letter that I sent two days ago, to her? It was addressed to ‘Miss Fleming, Wrexby, Kent, England.’ Did it reach her?”

“I have not seen it.”

“I wrote,” said Edward.

His scrutiny of her features was not reassuring to him. But he had a side-thought, prompted by admiration of her perfect build of figure, her succinct expression of countenance, and her equable manner of speech: to the effect, that the true English yeomanry can breed consummate women. Perhaps—who knows? even resolute human nature is the stronger for an added knot—it approved the resolution he had formed, or stamped with a justification the series of wild impulses, the remorse, and the returned tenderness and manliness which had brought him to that spot.

“You know me, do you not?” he said.

“Yes,” she answered shortly.