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The autumn before last, that is to say, above a year ago, the boast and glory of my little garden was a dahlia called the Phoebus. How it came there, nobody very distinctly knew, nor where it came from, nor how we came by it, nor how it came by its own most appropriate name.
Hulloa!" Anthony sang out. "Cash is down in the mouth at home, is it? Tell me that, now?" Dahlia dropped her eyelids, and then entreated him once more to conduct her to a quiet place where they might sit together, away from noise. She was very earnest and very sad, not seeming to have much strength. "Do you mind taking my arm?" said Anthony.
"Ah! if I meant to be nothing but a lawyer!" Edward stopped the flow of this current in Dahlia's favour. His passion for her was silent. Was it dead? It was certainly silent. Since Robert had come down to play his wild game of persecution at Fairly, the simple idea of Dahlia had been Edward's fever.
The struggle, we will assume, was severe, for he thought so; he thought of going to Dahlia and speaking the word of separation; of going to her family and stating his offence, without personal exculpation; thus masculine in baseness, he was in idea; but poltroonery triumphed, the picture of himself facing his sin and its victims dismayed him, and his struggle ended in his considering as to the fit employment of one thousand pounds in his possession, the remainder of a small legacy, hitherto much cherished.
She talked reasonably; and Rhoda, hearing her question and answer at meal-times like a sane woman, was in doubt whether her sister wilfully simulated a partial insanity when they were alone together. Now, in the garden, Dahlia said: "All those flowers, my dear, have roots in mother and me. She can't feel them, for her soul's in heaven. But mine is down there.
William Fleming grew impatient. "Let her have her letter, father," said Rhoda. "You have no right to withhold it." I've puzzled out the meaning of it. That letter's in her husband's possession." Dahlia, with her ears stretching for all that might be uttered, heard this. Passing round the door, she fronted her father. "My letter gone to him!" she cried. "Shameful old man! Can you look on me?
Rhoda uttered. "Because I'm not a gentleman?" "You are not." "So, if I could make you a lady eh? the lips 'd be ready in a trice. You think of being made a lady a lady!" His arm relaxed in the clutch of her figure. She got herself free, and said: "We saw Mr. Blancove at the theatre with Dahlia." It was her way of meeting his accusation that she had cherished an ambitious feminine dream.
At all events, on the morning after her arrival she appeared, coming through the hedge, down the garden path and across the lawn, a fresh and attractive figure in a pink muslin with ruffles, and one of those coquettish, white-frilled sunbonnets summer-girls wear in the country. Dahlia is very pretty, very good company, and likable from many points of view. If only
Meanwhile, Lucinda, serenely unconscious that her love story was being mouthed over by Mrs. Frederick in the dahlia garden, was dressing for the wedding. Lucinda still enjoyed dressing for a festivity, since the mirror still dealt gently with her. Moreover, she had a new dress.
She had no will either way, and suffered herself to be led out of the box, supported by the two young men. "Run for a cab," said Edward; and Algernon went ahead. He had one waiting for them as they came out. They placed Dahlia on a seat with care, and Edward, jumping in, drew an arm tightly about her. "I can't cry," she moaned.
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