CHAPTER XXXIX

Late into the afternoon, Farmer Fleming was occupying a chair in Robert’s lodgings, where he had sat since the hour of twelve, without a movement of his limbs or of his mind, and alone.  He showed no sign that he expected the approach of any one.  As mute and unremonstrant as a fallen tree, nearly as insensible, his eyes half closed, and his hands lying open, the great figure of the old man kept this attitude as of stiff decay through long sunny hours, and the noise of the London suburb.  Although the wedding people were strangely late, it was unnoticed by him.  When the door opened and Rhoda stepped into the room, he was unaware that he had been waiting, and only knew that the hours had somehow accumulated to a heavy burden upon him.

“She is coming, father; Robert is bringing her up,” Rhoda said.

“Let her come,” he answered.

Robert’s hold was tight under Dahlia’s arm as they passed the doorway, and then the farmer stood.  Robert closed the door.

For some few painful moments the farmer could not speak, and his hand was raised rejectingly.  The return of human animation to his heart made him look more sternly than he felt; but he had to rid himself of one terrible question before he satisfied his gradual desire to take his daughter to his breast.  It came at last like a short roll of drums, the words were heard,—­

“Is she an honest woman?”

“She is,” said Rhoda.

The farmer was looking on Robert.

Robert said it likewise in a murmur, but with steadfast look.

Bending his eyes now upon Dahlia, a mist of affection grew in them.  He threw up his head, and with a choking, infantine cry, uttered, “Come.”

Robert placed her against her father’s bosom.

He moved to the window beside Rhoda, and whispered, and she answered, and they knew not what they said.  The joint moans of father and daughter—­the unutterable communion of such a meeting—­filled their ears.  Grief held aloof as much as joy.  Neither joy nor grief were in those two hearts of parent and child; but the senseless contentment of hard, of infinite hard human craving.

The old man released her, and Rhoda undid her hands from him, and led the pale Sacrifice to another room.

“Where’s...?” Mr. Fleming asked.

Robert understood him.

“Her husband will not come.”

It was interpreted by the farmer as her husband’s pride.  Or, may be, the man who was her husband now had righted her at last, and then flung her off in spite for what he had been made to do.

“I’m not being deceived, Robert?”

“No, sir; upon my soul!”

“I’ve got that here,” the farmer struck his ribs.

Rhoda came back.  “Sister is tired,” she said.  “Dahlia is going down home with you, for...I hope, for a long stay.”

“All the better, while home we’ve got.  We mayn’t lose time, my girl.  Gammon’s on ’s way to the station now.  He’ll wait.  He’ll wait till midnight.  You may always reckon on a slow man like Gammon for waitin’.  Robert comes too?”