Edward thought for a moment, and conscientiously accepted
the suggestion; for, standing under that roof, with
her whom he loved near him, it was absolutely out
of his power for him to comprehend that his wish to
break from Dahlia, and the measures he had taken or
consented to, had sprung from his own unassisted temporary
baseness.
Then Robert spoke to the farmer.
Rhoda could hear Robert’s words. Her fear
was that Dahlia might hear them too, his pleading
for Edward was so hearty. “Yet why should
I always think differently from Robert?” she
asked herself, and with that excuse for changeing,
partially thawed.
She was very anxious for her father’s reply;
and it was late in coming. She felt that he was
unconvinced. But suddenly the door opened, and
the farmer called into the darkness,—
“Dahlia down here!”
Previously emotionless, an emotion was started in
Rhoda’s bosom by the command, and it was gladness.
She ran up and knocked, and found herself crying
out: “He is here—Edward.”
But there came no answer.
“Edward is here. Come, come and see him.”
Still not one faint reply.
“Dahlia! Dahlia!”
The call of Dahlia’s name seemed to travel endlessly
on. Rhoda knelt, and putting her mouth to the
door, said,—
“My darling, I know you will reply to me.
I know you do not doubt me now. Listen.
You are to come down to happiness.”
The silence grew heavier; and now a doubt came shrieking
through her soul.
“Father!” rang her outcry.
The father came; and then the lover came, and neither
to father nor to lover was there any word from Dahlia’s
voice.
She was found by the side of the bed, inanimate, and
pale as a sister of death.
But you who may have cared for her through her many
tribulations, have no fear for this gentle heart.
It was near the worst; yet not the worst.
Up to the black gates, but not beyond them.
The dawn following such a night will seem more like
a daughter of the night than promise of day.
It is day that follows, notwithstanding: The sad
fair girl survived, and her flickering life was the
sole light of the household; at times burying its
members in dusk, to shine on them again more like a
prolonged farewell than a gladsome restoration.
She was saved by what we call chance; for it had not
been in her design to save herself. The hand
was firm to help her to the deadly draught. As
far as could be conjectured, she had drunk it between
hurried readings from her mother’s Bible; the
one true companion to which she had often clung, always
half-availingly. The Bible was found by her side,
as if it had fallen from the chair before which she
knelt to read her last quickening verses, and had
fallen with her. One arm was about it; one grasped
the broken phial with its hideous label.
