Rhoda Fleming | Page 7

himself Robert Armstrong, underwent a
presentation to the family. He paid the stipulated sum, and was soon
enrolled as one of them. He was of a guardsman's height and a
cricketer's suppleness, a drinker of water, and apparently the victim of a
dislike of his species; for he spoke of the great night-lighted city with a
horror that did not seem to be an estimable point in him, as judged by a
pair of damsels for whom the mysterious metropolis flew with fiery
fringes through dark space, in their dreams.

In other respects, the stranger was well thought of, as being handsome
and sedate. He talked fondly of one friend that he had, an officer in the
army, which was considered pardonably vain. He did not reach to the
ideal of his sex which had been formed by the sisters; but Mrs. Fleming,
trusting to her divination of his sex's character, whispered a mother's
word about him to her husband a little while before her death.
It was her prayer to heaven that she might save a doctor's bill. She died,
without lingering illness, in her own beloved month of June; the roses
of her tending at the open window, and a soft breath floating up to her
from the garden. On the foregoing May-day, she had sat on the green
that fronted the iron gateway, when Dahlia and Rhoda dressed the
children of the village in garlands, and crowned the fairest little one
queen of May: a sight that revived in Mrs. Fleming's recollection the
time of her own eldest and fairest taking homage, shy in her white
smock and light thick curls. The gathering was large, and the day was
of the old nature of May, before tyrannous Eastwinds had captured it
and spoiled its consecration. The mill-stream of the neighbouring mill
ran blue among the broad green pastures; the air smelt of cream-bowls
and wheaten loaves; the firs on the beacon-ridge, far southward, over
Fenhurst and Helm villages, were transported nearer to see the show,
and stood like friends anxious to renew acquaintance. Dahlia and
Rhoda taught the children to perceive how they resembled bent old
beggar-men. The two stone-pines in the miller's grounds were likened
by them to Adam and Eve turning away from the blaze of Paradise; and
the saying of one receptive child, that they had nothing but hair on,
made the illustration undying both to Dahlia and Rhoda.
The magic of the weather brought numerous butterflies afield, and one
fiddler, to whose tuning the little women danced; others closer upon
womanhood would have danced likewise, if the sisters had taken
partners; but Dahlia was restrained by the sudden consciousness that
she was under the immediate observation of two manifestly London
gentlemen, and she declined to be led forth by Robert Armstrong. The
intruders were youths of good countenance, known to be the son and
the nephew of Squire Blancove of Wrexby Hall. They remained for
some time watching the scene, and destroyed Dahlia's

single-mindedness. Like many days of gaiety, the Gods consenting, this
one had its human shadow. There appeared on the borders of the
festivity a young woman, the daughter of a Wrexby cottager, who had
left her home and but lately returned to it, with a spotted name. No one
addressed her, and she stood humbly apart. Dahlia, seeing that every
one moved away from her, whispering with satisfied noddings, wished
to draw her in among the groups. She mentioned the name of Mary
Burt to her father, supposing that so kind a man would not fail to
sanction her going up to the neglected young woman. To her surprise,
her father became violently enraged, and uttered a stern prohibition,
speaking a word that stained her cheeks. Rhoda was by her side, and
she wilfully, without asking leave, went straight over to Mary, and
stood with her under the shadow of the Adam and Eve, until the farmer
sent a messenger to say that he was about to enter the house. Her
punishment for the act of sinfulness was a week of severe silence; and
the farmer would have kept her to it longer, but for her mother's
ominously growing weakness. The sisters were strangely overclouded
by this incident. They could not fathom the meaning of their father's
unkindness, coarseness, and indignation. Why, and why? they asked
one another, blankly. The Scriptures were harsh in one part, but was the
teaching to continue so after the Atonement? By degrees they came to
reflect, and not in a mild spirit, that the kindest of men can be cruel,
and will forget their Christianity toward offending and repentant
women.
CHAPTER II
Mrs. Fleming had a brother in London, who had run away from his
Kentish home when a small boy, and found refuge at a