“Not in Old England? I'm sorry for that. But—well! Things must be as they're ordered. Heigho! I've got to learn it.”
Dahlia smiled kindly.
“Rhoda will love you. She is firm when she loves.”
“When she loves. Where's the consolation to me?”
“Do you think she loves me as much—as much”
“As much as ever? She loves her sister with all her heart—all, for I haven't a bit of it.”
“It is because,” said Dahlia slowly, “it is because she thinks I am—”
Here the poor creature's bosom heaved piteously.
“What has she said of me? I wish her to have blamed me—it is less pain.”
“Listen,” said Robert. “She does not, and couldn't blame you, for it's a sort of religion with her to believe no wrong of you. And the reason why she hates me is, that I, knowing something more of the world, suspected, and chose to let her know it—I said it, in fact—that you had been deceived by a—But this isn't the time to abuse others. She would have had me, if I had thought proper to think as she thinks, or play hypocrite, and pretend to. I'll tell you openly, Dahlia; your father thinks the worst. Ah! you look the ghost again. It's hard for you to hear, but you give me a notion of having got strength to hear it. It's your father's way to think the worst. Now, when you can show him your husband, my dear, he'll lift his head. He's old English. He won't dream of asking questions. He'll see a brave and honest young man who must love you, or—he does love you, that's settled. Your father'll shake his hand, and as for Rhoda, she'll triumph. The only person to speak out to, is the man who marries you, and that you've done.”