The tide of his harshness failed him here, and he began to pick his words, now feeble, now emphatic, but alike wanting in natural expression, for he had reached a point of emotion upon the limits of his nature, and he was now wilfully forcing for misery and humiliation right and left, in part to show what a black star Providence had been over him.

“She’ll be grateful.  I shall be gone.  What disgrace I bring to their union, as father of the other one also, will, I’m bound to hope, be buried with me in my grave; so that this girl’s husband shan’t have to complain that her character and her working for him ain’t enough to cover any harm he’s like to think o’ the connexion.  And he won’t be troubled by relationships after that.

“I used to think Pride a bad thing.  I thank God we’ve all got it in our blood—­the Flemings.  I thank God for that now, I do.  We don’t face again them as we offend.  Not, that is, with the hand out.  We go.  We’re seen no more.  And she’ll be seen no more.  On that, rely.

“I want my girl here not to keep me in the fear of death.  For I fear death while she’s not safe in somebody’s hands—­kind, if I can get him for her.  Somebody—­young or old!”

The farmer lifted his head for the first time, and stared vacantly at Robert.

“I’d marry her,” he said, “if I was knowing myself dying now or to-morrow morning, I’d marry her, rather than leave her alone—­I’d marry her to that old man, old Gammon.”

The farmer pointed to the ceiling.  His sombre seriousness cloaked and carried even that suggestive indication to the possible bridegroom’s age and habits, and all things associated with him, through the gates of ridicule; and there was no laughter, and no thought of it.

“It stands to reason for me to prefer a young man for her husband.  He’ll farm the estate, and won’t sell it; so that it goes to our blood, if not to a Fleming.  If, I mean, he’s content to farm soberly, and not play Jack o’ Lantern tricks across his own acres.  Right in one thing’s right, I grant; but don’t argue right in all.  It’s right only in one thing.  Young men, when they’ve made a true hit or so, they’re ready to think it’s themselves that’s right.”

This was of course a reminder of the old feud with Robert, and sufficiently showed whom the farmer had in view for a husband to Rhoda, if any doubt existed previously.

Having raised his eyes, his unwonted power of speech abandoned him, and he concluded, wavering in look and in tone,—­

“I’d half forgotten her uncle.  I’ve reckoned his riches when I cared for riches.  I can’t say th’ amount; but, all—­I’ve had his word for it—­all goes to this—­God knows how much!—­girl.  And he don’t hesitate to say she’s worth a young man’s fancying.  May be so.  It depends upon ideas mainly, that does.  All goes to her.  And this farm.—­I wish ye good-night.”

He gave them no other sign, but walked in his oppressed way quietly to the inner door, and forth, leaving the rest to them.