“What has she said of me?  I wish her to have blamed me—­it is less pain.”

“Listen,” said Robert.  “She does not, and couldn’t blame you, for it’s a sort of religion with her to believe no wrong of you.  And the reason why she hates me is, that I, knowing something more of the world, suspected, and chose to let her know it—­I said it, in fact—­that you had been deceived by a—­But this isn’t the time to abuse others.  She would have had me, if I had thought proper to think as she thinks, or play hypocrite, and pretend to.  I’ll tell you openly, Dahlia; your father thinks the worst.  Ah! you look the ghost again.  It’s hard for you to hear, but you give me a notion of having got strength to hear it.  It’s your father’s way to think the worst.  Now, when you can show him your husband, my dear, he’ll lift his head.  He’s old English.  He won’t dream of asking questions.  He’ll see a brave and honest young man who must love you, or—­he does love you, that’s settled.  Your father’ll shake his hand, and as for Rhoda, she’ll triumph.  The only person to speak out to, is the man who marries you, and that you’ve done.”

Robert looked the interrogation he did not utter.

“I have,” said Dahlia.

“Good:  if I may call him brother, some day, all the better for me.  Now, you won’t leave England the day you’re married.”

“Soon.  I pray that it may be soon.”

“Yes; well, on that morning, I’ll have your father and Rhoda at my lodgings, not wide from here:  if I’d only known it earlier!—­and you and your husband shall come there and join us.  It’ll be a happy meeting at last.”

Dahlia stopped her breathing.

“Will you see Rhoda?”

“I’ll go to her to-morrow, if you like.”

“If I might see her, just as I am leaving England! not before.”

“That’s not generous,” said Robert.

“Isn’t it?” she asked like a child.

“Fancy!—­to see you she’s been longing for, and the ship that takes you off, perhaps everlastingly, as far as this world’s concerned!”

“Mr. Robert, I do not wish to deceive my sister.  Father need not be distressed.  Rhoda shall know.  I will not be guilty of falsehoods any more—­no more!  Will you go to her?  Tell her—­tell Rhoda what I am.  Say I have been ill.  It will save her from a great shock.”

She covered her eyes.

“I said in all my letters that my husband was a gentleman.”

It was her first openly penitential utterance in his presence, and her cheeks were faintly reddened.  It may have been this motion of her blood which aroused the sunken humanity within her; her heart leaped, and she cried “I can see her as I am, I can.  I thought it impossible.  Oh!  I can.  Will she come to me?  My sister is a Christian and forgives.  Oh! let me see her.  And go to her, dear Mr. Robert, and ask her—­tell her all, and ask her if I may be spared, and may work