Rhoda Fleming. Complete. George Meredith

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      “If she doesn’t, pretty soon, we shall have the pit in upon us,” said Algernon. “Is she that girl’s sister?”

      “Don’t ask damned questions.”

      Dahlia opened her eyes, staring placidly.

      “Now you can stand up, my dear. Dahlia! all’s well. Try,” said Edward.

      She sighed, murmuring, “What is the time?” and again, “What noise is it?”

      Edward coughed in a vexed attempt at tenderness, using all his force to be gentle with her as he brought her to her feet. The task was difficult amid the threatening storm in the theatre, and cries of “Show the young woman her sister!” for Rhoda had won a party in the humane public.

      “Dahlia, in God’s name give me your help!” Edward called in her ear.

      The fair girl’s eyelids blinked wretchedly in protestation of her weakness. She had no will either way, and suffered herself to be led out of the box, supported by the two young men.

      “Run for a cab,” said Edward; and Algernon went ahead.

      He had one waiting for them as they came out. They placed Dahlia on a seat with care, and Edward, jumping in, drew an arm tightly about her. “I can’t cry,” she moaned.

      The cab was driving off as a crowd of people burst from the pit-doors, and Algernon heard the voice of Farmer Fleming, very hoarse. He had discretion enough to retire.

      CHAPTER XIII

      Robert was to drive to the station to meet Rhoda and her father returning from London, on a specified day. He was eager to be asking cheerful questions of Dahlia’s health and happiness, so that he might dispel the absurd general belief that he had ever loved the girl, and was now regretting her absence; but one look at Rhoda’s face when she stepped from the railway carriage kept him from uttering a word on that subject, and the farmer’s heavier droop and acceptance of a helping hand into the cart, were signs of bad import.

      Mr. Fleming made no show of grief, like one who nursed it. He took it to all appearance as patiently as an old worn horse would do, although such an outward submissiveness will not always indicate a placid spirit in men. He talked at stale intervals of the weather and the state of the ground along the line of rail down home, and pointed in contempt or approval to a field here and there; but it was as one who no longer had any professional interest in the tilling of the land.

      Doubtless he was trained to have no understanding of a good to be derived by his communicating what he felt and getting sympathy. Once, when he was uncertain, and a secret pride in Dahlia’s beauty and accomplishments had whispered to him that her flight was possibly the opening of her road to a higher fortune, he made a noise for comfort, believing in his heart that she was still to be forgiven. He knew better now. By holding his peace he locked out the sense of shame which speech would have stirred within him.

      “Got on pretty smooth with old Mas’ Gammon?” he expressed his hope; and Robert said, “Capitally. We shall make something out of the old man yet, never fear.”

      Master Gammon was condemned to serve at the ready-set tea-table as a butt for banter; otherwise it was apprehended well that Mrs. Sumfit would have scorched the ears of all present, save the happy veteran of the furrows, with repetitions of Dahlia’s name, and wailings about her darling, of whom no one spoke. They suffered from her in spite of every precaution.

      “Well, then, if I’m not to hear anything dooring meals—as if I’d swallow it and take it into my stomach!—I’ll wait again for what ye’ve got to tell,” she said, and finished her cup at a gulp, smoothing her apron.

      The farmer then lifted his head.

      “Mother, if you’ve done, you’ll oblige me by going to bed,” he said. “We want the kitchen.”

      “A-bed?” cried Mrs. Sumfit, with instantly ruffled lap.

      “Upstairs, mother; when you’ve done—not before.”

      “Then bad’s the noos! Something have happened, William. You ‘m not going to push me out? And my place is by the tea-pot, which I cling to, rememberin’ how I seen her curly head grow by inches up above the table and the cups. Mas’ Gammon,” she appealed to the sturdy feeder, “five cups is your number?”

      Her hope was reduced to the prolonging of the service of tea, with Master Gammon’s kind assistance.

      “Four, marm,” said her inveterate antagonist, as he finished that amount, and consequently put the spoon in his cup.

      Mrs. Sumfit rolled in her chair.

      “O Lord, Mas’ Gammon! Five, I say; and never a cup less so long as here you’ve been.”

      “Four, marm. I don’t know,” said Master Gammon, with a slow nod of his head, “that ever I took five cups of tea at a stretch. Not runnin’.”

      “I do know, Mas’ Gammon. And ought to: for don’t I pour out to ye? It’s five you take, and please, your cup, if you’ll hand it over.”

      “Four’s my number, marm,” Master Gammon reiterated resolutely. He sat like a rock.

      “If they was dumplins,” moaned Mrs. Sumfit, “not four, no, nor five, ‘d do till enough you’d had, and here we might stick to our chairs, but you’d go on and on; you know you would.”