“He is there.”

CHAPTER XXXVI

At once Rhoda perceived that it was time for her to act.  The name of him who stood in the street below was written on her sister’s face.  She started to her side, got possession of her hands, murmuring,—­

“Come with me.  You are to come with me.  Don’t speak.  I know.  I will go down.  Yes; you are to obey, and do what I tell you.”

Dahlia’s mouth opened, but like a child when it is warned not to cry, she uttered a faint inward wailing, lost her ideas, and was passive in a shuddering fit.

“What am I to do?” she said supplicatingly, as Rhoda led her to her bedroom.

“Rest here.  Be perfectly quiet.  Trust everything to me.  I am your sister.”

Leaving her under the spell of coldly-spoken words, Rhoda locked the door on her.  She was herself in great agitation, but nerved by deeper anger there was no faltering in her movements.  She went to the glass a minute, as she tied her bonnet-strings under her chin, and pinned her shawl.  A night’s vigil had not chased the bloom from her cheek, or the swimming lustre from her dark eyes.  Content that her aspect should be seemly, she ran down the stairs, unfastened the bolts, and without hesitation closed the door behind her.  At the same instant, a gentleman crossed the road.  He asked whether Mrs. Ayrton lived in that house?  Rhoda’s vision danced across his features, but she knew him unerringly to be the cruel enemy.

“My sister, Dahlia Fleming, lives there,” she said.

“Then, you are Rhoda?”

“My name is Rhoda.”

“Mine—­I fear it will not give you pleasure to hear it—­is Edward Blancove.  I returned late last night from abroad.”

She walked to a distance, out of hearing and out of sight of the house, and he silently followed.  The streets were empty, save for the solitary footing of an early workman going to his labour.

She stopped, and he said, “I hope your sister is well.”

“She is quite well.”

“Thank heaven for that!  I heard of some illness.”

“She has quite recovered.”

“Did she—­tell me the truth—­did she get a letter that I sent two days ago, to her?  It was addressed to ‘Miss Fleming, Wrexby, Kent, England.’  Did it reach her?”

“I have not seen it.”

“I wrote,” said Edward.

His scrutiny of her features was not reassuring to him.  But he had a side-thought, prompted by admiration of her perfect build of figure, her succinct expression of countenance, and her equable manner of speech:  to the effect, that the true English yeomanry can breed consummate women.  Perhaps—­who knows? even resolute human nature is the stronger for an added knot—­it approved the resolution he had formed, or stamped with a justification the series of wild impulses, the remorse, and the returned tenderness and manliness which had brought him to that spot.