Both he and Rhoda followed the farmer’s steps, drawn forth by the ever-credulous eagerness which arises from an interruption to excited wretchedness.  Near and nearer to the group, they heard a quaint old woman exclaim:  “Come here to you for a wife, when he has one of his own at home; a poor thing he shipped off to America, thinking himself more cunning than devils or angels:  and she got put out at a port, owing to stress of weather, to defeat the man’s wickedness!  Can’t I prove it to you, sir, he’s a married man, which none of us in our village knew till the poor tricked thing crawled back penniless to find him;—­and there she is now with such a story of his cunning to tell to anybody as will listen; and why he kept it secret to get her pension paid him still on.  It’s all such a tale for you to hear by-and-by.”

Robert burst into a glorious laugh.

“Why, mother!  Mrs. Boulby! haven’t you got a word for me?”

“My blessedest Robert!” the good woman cried, as she rushed up to kiss him.  “Though it wasn’t to see you I came exactly.”  She whispered:  “The Major and the good gentleman—­they’re behind.  I travelled down with them.  Dear,—­you’d like to know:—­Mrs. Lovell sent her little cunning groom down to Warbeach just two weeks back to make inquiries about that villain; and the groom left me her address, in case, my dear, when the poor creature—­his true wife—­crawled home, and we knew of her at Three-Tree Farm and knew her story.  I wrote word at once, I did, to Mrs. Lovell, and the sweet good lady sent down her groom to fetch me to you to make things clear here.  You shall understand them soon.  It’s Providence at work.  I do believe that now there’s a chance o’ punishing the wicked ones.”

The figure of Rhoda with two lights in her hand was seen in the porch, and by the shadowy rays she beheld old Anthony leaning against the house, and Major Waring with a gentleman beside him close upon the gate.

At the same time a sound of wheels was heard.

Robert rushed back into the great parlour-kitchen, and finding it empty, stamped with vexation.  His prey had escaped.

But there was no relapse to give spare thoughts to that pollution of the house.  It had passed.  Major Waring was talking earnestly to Mr. Fleming, who held his head low, stupefied, and aware only of the fact that it was a gentleman imparting to him strange matters.  By degrees all were beneath the farmer’s roof—­all, save one, who stood with bowed head by the threshold.

There is a sort of hero, and a sort of villain, to this story:  they are but instruments.  Hero and villain are combined in the person of Edward, who was now here to abase himself before the old man and the family he had injured, and to kneel penitently at the feet of the woman who had just reason to spurn him.  He had sold her as a slave is sold; he had seen her plunged into the blackest pit; yet was she miraculously kept pure for him, and if she could give him her pardon, might still be his.  The grief for which he could ask no compassion had at least purified him to meet her embrace.  The great agony he had passed through of late had killed his meaner pride.  He stood there ready to come forward and ask forgiveness from unfriendly faces, and beg that he might be in Dahlia’s eyes once—­that he might see her once.