Rhoda was prompted to say a word in self-defence, but refrained, and again she told Dahlia’s story, wondering that her father showed no excitement of any kind.  On the contrary, there was the dimple of one of his voiceless chuckles moving about the hollow of one cheek, indicating some slow contemplative action that was not unpleasant within.  He said:  “Ah! well, it’s very sad;—­that is, if ’tis so,” and no more, for a time.

She discovered that he was referring to her uncle Anthony, concerning whose fortunate position in the world, he was beginning to entertain some doubts.  “Or else,” said the farmer, with a tap on his forehead, “he’s going here.  It ’d be odd after all, if commercially, as he ’d call it, his despised brother-in-law—­and I say it in all kindness—­should turn out worth, not exactly millions, but worth a trifle.”

The farmer nodded with an air of deprecating satisfaction.

Rhoda did not gain his ear until, as by an instinct, she perceived what interest the story of her uncle and the money-bags would have for him.  She related it, and he was roused.  Then, for the third time, she told him of Dahlia.

Rhoda saw her father’s chest grow large, while his eyes quickened with light.  He looked on her with quite a strange face.  Wrath, and a revived apprehension, and a fixed will were expressed in it, and as he catechized her for each particular of the truth which had been concealed from him, she felt a respectfulness that was new in her personal sensations toward her father, but it was at the expense of her love.

When he had heard and comprehended all, he said, “Send the girl down to me.”

But Rhoda pleaded, “She is too worn, she is tottering.  She cannot endure a word on this; not even of kindness and help.”

“Then, you,” said the farmer, “you tell her she’s got a duty’s her first duty now.  Obedience to her husband!  Do you hear?  Then, let her hear it.  Obedience to her husband!  And welcome’s the man when he calls on me.  He’s welcome.  My doors are open to him.  I thank him.  I honour him.  I bless his name.  It’s to him I owe—­You go up to her and say, her father owes it to the young man who’s married her that he can lift up his head.  Go aloft.  Ay! for years I’ve been suspecting something of this.  I tell ye, girl, I don’t understand about church doors and castin’ of her off—­he’s come for her, hasn’t he?  Then, he shall have her.  I tell ye, I don’t understand about money:  he’s married her.  Well, then, she’s his wife; and how can he bargain not to see her?”

“The base wretch!” cried Rhoda.

“Hasn’t he married her?” the farmer retorted.  “Hasn’t he given the poor creature a name?  I’m not for abusing her, but him I do thank, and I say, when he calls, here’s my hand for him.  Here, it’s out and waiting for him.”