My property’s my respectability. I said that at the beginning, and I say it now. But, I’ll tell you what, brother William John, it’s an emotion when you’ve got bags of thousands of pounds in your arms.”
Ordinarily, the farmer was a sensible man, as straight on the level of dull intelligence as other men; but so credulous was he in regard to the riches possessed by his wife’s brother, that a very little tempted him to childish exaggeration of the probable amount. Now that Anthony himself furnished the incitement, he was quite lifted from the earth. He had, besides, taken more of the strong mixture than he was ever accustomed to take in the middle of the day; and as it seemed to him that Anthony was really about to be seduced into a particular statement of the extent of the property which formed his respectability (as Anthony had chosen to put it), he got up a little game in his head by guessing how much the amount might positively be, so that he could subsequently compare his shrewd reckoning with the avowed fact. He tamed his wild ideas as much as possible; thought over what his wife used to say of Anthony’s saving ways from boyhood, thought of the dark hints of the Funds, of many bold strokes for money made by sagacious persons; of Anthony’s close style of living, and of the lives of celebrated misers; this done, he resolved to make a sure guess, and therefore aimed below the mark.
Money, when the imagination deals with it thus, has no substantial relation to mortal affairs. It is a tricksy thing, distending and contracting as it dances in the mind, like sunlight on the ceiling cast from a morning tea-cup, if a forced simile will aid the conception. The farmer struck on thirty thousand and some odd hundred pounds—outlying debts, or so, excluded—as what Anthony’s will, in all likelihood, would be sworn under: say, thirty thousand, or, safer, say, twenty thousand. Bequeathed—how? To him and to his children. But to the children in reversion after his decease? Or how? In any case, they might make capital marriages; and the farm estate should go to whichever of the two young husbands he liked the best. Farmer Fleming asked not for any life of ease and splendour, though thirty thousand pounds was a fortune; or even twenty thousand. Noblemen have stooped to marry heiresses owning no more than that! The idea of their having done so actually shot across him, and his heart sent up a warm spring of tenderness toward the patient, good, grubbing old fellow, sitting beside him, who had lived and died to enrich and elevate the family. At the same time, he could not refrain from thinking that Anthony, broad-shouldered as he was, though bent, sound on his legs, and well-coloured for a Londoner, would be accepted by any Life Insurance office, at a moderate rate, considering his age. The farmer thought of his own health, and it was with a pang that he fancied himself being probed by the civil-speaking Life Insurance doctor (a gentleman who seems to issue upon us applicants from out the muffled folding doors of Hades; taps us on the chest, once, twice, and forthwith writes down our fateful dates). Probably, Anthony would not have to pay a higher rate of interest than he.
“Are you insured, brother Tony?” the question escaped him.
“No, I ain’t, brother William John;” Anthony went on nodding like an automaton set in motion. “There’s two sides to that. I’m a long-lived man. Long-lived men don’t insure; that is, unless they’re fools. That’s how the Offices thrive.”
“Case of accident?” the farmer suggested.
“Oh! nothing happens to me,” replied Anthony.
The farmer jumped on his legs, and yawned.
“Shall we take a turn in the garden, brother Tony?”
“With all my heart, brother William John.”
The farmer had conscience to be ashamed of the fit of irritable vexation which had seized on him; and it was not till Anthony being asked the date of his birth, had declared himself twelve years his senior, that the farmer felt his speculations to be justified. Anthony was nearly a generation ahead. They walked about, and were seen from the windows touching one another on the shoulder in a brotherly way. When they came back to the women, and tea, the farmer’s mind was cooler, and all his reckonings had gone to mist. He was dejected over his tea.
“What is the matter, father?” said Rhoda.
“I’ll tell you, my dear,” Anthony replied for him. “He’s envying me some one I want to ask me that question when I’m at my tea in London.”
CHAPTER IV
Mr. Fleming kept his forehead from his daughter’s good-night kiss until the room was cleared, after supper, and then embracing her very heartily, he informed her that her uncle had offered to pay her expenses on a visit to London, by which he contrived to hint that a golden path had opened to his girl, and at the same time entreated her to think nothing of it; to dismiss all expectations and dreams of impossible sums from her mind, and simply to endeavour to please her uncle, who had a right to his own, and a right to do what he liked with his own, though it were forty, fifty times as much as he possessed—and what that might amount to no one knew. In fact, as is the way with many experienced persons, in his attempt to give advice to another, he was very impressive in lecturing himself, and warned that other not to succumb to a temptation principally by indicating the natural basis of the allurement. Happily for young and for old, the intense insight of the young has much to distract or soften it. Rhoda thanked her father, and chose to think that she had listened to good and wise things.
“Your sister,” he said—“but we won’t speak of her. If I could part with you, my lass, I’d rather she was the one to come back.”
“Dahlia would be killed by our quiet life now,” said Rhoda.
“Ay,” the farmer mused. “If she’d got to pay six men every Saturday night, she wouldn’t complain o’ the quiet. But, there—you neither of you ever took to farming or to housekeeping; but any gentleman might be proud to have one of you for a wife. I said so when you was girls. And if, you’ve been dull, my dear, what’s the good o’ society? Tea-cakes mayn’t seem to cost money, nor a glass o’ grog to neighbours; but once open the door to that sort o’ thing and your reckoning goes. And what I said to your poor mother’s true. I said: Our girls, they’re mayhap not equals of the Hollands, the Nashaws, the Perrets, and the others about here—no; they’re not equals, because the others are not equals o’ them, maybe.”
The yeoman’s pride struggled out in this obscure way to vindicate his unneighbourliness and the seclusion of his daughters from the society of girls of their age and condition; nor was it hard for Rhoda to assure him, as she earnestly did, that he had acted rightly.
Rhoda, assisted by Mrs. Sumfit, was late in the night looking up what poor decorations she possessed wherewith to enter London, and be worthy of her sister’s embrace, so that she might not shock the lady Dahlia had become.
“Depend you on it, my dear,” said Mrs. Sumfit, “my Dahly’s grown above him. That’s nettles to your uncle, my dear. He can’t abide it. Don’t you see he can’t? Some men’s like that. Others ‘d see you dressed like a princess, and not be satisfied. They vary so, the teasin’ creatures! But one and all, whether they likes it or not, owns a woman’s the better for bein’ dressed in the fashion. What do grieve me to my insidest heart, it is your bonnet. What a bonnet that was lying beside her dear round arm in the po’trait, and her finger up making a dimple in her cheek, as if she was thinking of us in a sorrowful way. That’s the arts o’ being lady-like—look sad-like. How could we get a bonnet for you?”
“My own must do,” said Rhoda.
“Yes, and you to look like lady and servant-gal a-goin’ out for an airin’; and she to feel it! Pretty, that’d be!”
“She won’t be ashamed of me,” Rhoda faltered; and then hummed a little tune, and said firmly—“It’s no use my trying to look like what I’m not.”
“No,
