Rhoda Fleming. Complete

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 parting.)

“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, saying,—

“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 room.”

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 fingers.

“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?”

“Never.”

“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.”