The Maidens' Lodge; or, None of Self and All of Thee

by Emily Sarah Holt

  CHAPTER SEVEN.

  DELAWARR COURT.

  "Le coeur humain a beaucoup de plis et de replis."

  _Madame de Motteville_.

  "And how goes it, my dear, with Madam and Mrs Rhoda?" inquired littleMrs Dorothy as she handed a cup to Phoebe.

  "They are well, I thank you. Mrs Dolly, I have come to ask yourcounsel."

  "Surely, dear child. Thou shalt have the best I can give. What is thytrouble?"

  "I have two or three troubles," said Phoebe, sighing. "You know Rhodais going to-morrow to Delawarr Court; and I am to go with her. I wish Ineed not!"

  "Why, dear child?"

  "Well, I am afraid it must sound silly," answered Phoebe, with a littlelaugh at herself; "but really, I can scarce tell why. Do you never feelthus unwilling to do a thing, Mrs Dorothy, almost without reason?"

  "Ah, there is a reason," said the old lady: "and it comes either fromyour body or your mind, Phoebe. If 'tis from your body, let your mindgovern it in any matter you _must_ do. If it come from your mind,either you see a clear cause for it, or you do not."

  "I do not, Mrs Dolly. I reckon 'tis but the spleen."

  Everything we call nervous then fell under the head of spleen.

  "There is an older name for that, Phoebe, without it arise from somedisorder of the body."

  "What, Mrs Dorothy?"

  "Discontent, my child."

  "But that is sin!" said Phoebe, looking up, as if startled.

  "Ay. `Whatsoever is not of faith is sin.'"

  "Then should I be willing to go, Mrs Dolly?"

  "What hast thou asked, my dear? Should God's child be willing to do herFather's will?"

  Phoebe's face became grave.

  "Dear Phoebe, `when the people murmured, it displeased the Lord.' Havea care!--Well, what is your next trouble?"

  "I have had a letter from mother," said Phoebe, colouring and lookinguncomfortable.

  "Is that a trouble, child?"

  "No,--not that. Oh no! But--"

  "But a trouble sticks to it. Well,--what?"

  "She says I ought to--to get married, Mrs Dorothy; and she looks for meto do it while I tarry at White-Ladies, for she reckons that will be thebest chance."

  Mrs Dorothy was silent. If her thoughts were not complimentary to MrsLatrobe, she gave no hint of it to Phoebe.

  "I don't think I should like it, please, Mrs Dorothy," said Phoebeuneasily. "And ought I?"

  "I suppose somebody had better ask you first," was Mrs Dorothy's dryanswer.

  "I would rather live with Mother," continued Phoebe. And suddenly a crybroke out which had been repressed till then. "I wish--oh, I wishMother loved me! She never seemed to do it but once, when I was ill ofthe fever. I do so wish Mother could love me!"

  Mrs Dorothy busied herself for a moment in putting the cups together onher little tea-tray. Then she came over to Phoebe.

  "Little maid!" she said, lovingly, "there are some of us women for whomno love is safe, saving the love of Him that died for us. If we have itotherwise, we go wrong and set up idols in our hearts. Art thou one ofthose, Phoebe?"

  "I don't know!" sobbed Phoebe. "How can I know?"

  "Dear child, He knows. Canst thou not trust Him? `Dieu est tonBerger.' The Shepherd takes more care of the sheep, Phoebe, than thesheep take care of themselves. Poor, blundering creatures that we are!always apt to think, in the depth of our hearts, that God would rathernot save us, and that we shall have to take a great deal of trouble topersuade Him to do it. Nay! it is the Shepherd that longs to have thelamb safe folded, and the poor silly lamb that is always straying away.Phoebe, `the Father Himself loveth thee.'"

  "Oh, I know! But I can't see Him, Mrs Dorothy."

  "I suppose He knows that, too," answered her old friend, softly. "Heknows how much easier it would be to believe if we could see and feel.Maybe 'tis therefore He hath pronounced so special a blessing upon suchas have not seen, and yet have believed."

  "Mrs Dorothy,"--and Phoebe looked up earnestly,--"don't you thinkliving is hard work?"

  "I did once, my maid. But I am beyond the burden and the heat of theday now. My tools are gathered together and put away, and I am waitingfor the Master to call me in home to my rest. Thou too wilt come tothat, child, if thy life be long enough. And to some, even here,--toall, afterward,--it is given to see where the turns were taken in thepath, and whereto the road should have led that we took not. Ah, child,one day thy heaviest cause of thankfulness may be that in this or thatmatter--perchance in the matter that most closely engaged thee in thislife--thy Father did not give thee the desire of thine heart."

  "Yet that is promised as a blessing?" said Phoebe, interrogatively,looking up.

  "As a blessing, dear child, when thy will is God's will. Can it be anyblessing, when thy will and His run contrary the one to the other?"

  "Then you think I should not wish to be loved!" said Phoebe, with aheavy sigh.

  "I think God's child will do well to leave the choice of all things toher Father."

  "I must leave it. He will have it."

  "He will have it," repeated Mrs Dorothy solemnly; "but, Phoebe, you canleave it in loving submission, or you can have it wrenched from you injudgment. Though it may be that you must loose your hold on a gem, yetyou please yourself whether you yield it as a gift, or wait to have ittorn away."

  "I see," said Phoebe.

  "Was there any further trouble, my dear?"

  "Only that," replied Phoebe. "Life seems hard. I get so tired!"

  "Thou art young to know that, child," said Mrs Dorothy, with a rathersad smile.

  "Well, I don't know," answered Phoebe, doubtfully. "I think I havealways been tired. And don't you know some people rest you, and somepeople don't? When there is nobody that rests one-- Father used--but--"

  Mrs Dorothy thought there was not much difficulty in reading the storyhidden behind Phoebe's broken sentences.

  "So life is hard?" she echoed. "Poor child! Dear, it was harder to Himthat sat on the well at Sychar, wearied with His journey. He has notforgotten it, Phoebe. Couldst thou not go and remind Him of it, and askHim to bless and rest thee?"

  "Mrs Dolly, do you feel tired like that?"

  A little amused laugh was Mrs Dolly's answer.

  "Thou hast not all the sorrows of life in thine own portion, littlePhoebe. I have felt it. I do not often now. The journey is too nearat an end to fret much over the hard fare or the rough road. When therebe only a few days to pass ere you leave school, your mind is more seton the coming holidays than on the length or hardness of the lessonsthat lie betwixt."

  "I wish I hadn't to go to Delawarr Court!" sighed Phoebe. "There willbe a great parcel of people, and not one I know but Rhoda, and MrsGatty, and Mrs Molly; and Rhoda always snubs me when Mrs Molly'sthere."

  "Molly is trying," admitted the old lady. "But I think, dear child, youmight make a friend of Gatty."

  "Perhaps," said Phoebe.

  "And, Phoebe, strive against discontent," said Mrs Dorothy; adding,with a smile, "and call it discontent, and not vapours. There is agreat deal in giving names to things. So long as you call your prideself-respect and high spirit, you will reckon yourself much better thanyou are; and so long as you call your discontent low spirits or vapours,you will reckon yourself worse used than you are. Don't split on thatrock, Phoebe. The worst thing you can do with wounds is to keep pullingoff the bandage to see how they are getting on; and the worst thing youcan do with griefs and wrongs is to nurse them and brood over them.Carry them to the Lord and show them to Him, and ask His help to bearthem or right them, as He chooses; and then forget all about them asfast as you can. Dear old Scots Davie gave me that counsel, and throughfifty years I have proved how good it was."

  "You never finished your story, Mrs Dolly," suggested Phoebe.

  "I did not, my dear. Yet there was little to finish. I did but tarryat Court till the great plague-time, when all was broke up, and I wenthome to nurse m
y mother, who took the plague and died of it. After thatI continued to dwell with my father. For a while after my mother'sdeath, he was very low and melancholical, saying that God had now metwith him and was visiting his old sins upon him. And then, the verynext year, came the fire, and we were burned out and left homeless.Then he was worse than ever. 'Twas like the curse pronounced on David,said he, that the sword should never depart from his house: he couldnever look to know rest nor peace any more; God hated him, and pursuedhim to the death. No word of mine, though I strove to find many fromthe Word of God, seemed to bring him any comfort at all. They were notfor him, he said, but for them toward whom God had purposes of mercy,and there was none for him. He had sinned against light and knowledge;and God would none of him any more.

  "One morning, about a week after the fire, as I was coming back from mymarketing to the little mean lodging where we had took shelter, and wasjust going in at the door, I was sorely started to feel a great warmhand on my shoulder, and a loud, cheery voice saith, `Dolly Jennings,whither away so fast thou canst not see an old friend?' I looked up,and there was dear old Farmer Ingham, in his thick boots and countryhomespun; but I declare to you, child, that in my trouble his face wasto me as that of an angel of God. I brake down, and sobbed aloud.`Come, come, now!' saith he, comfortably; `not so bad as that, is it?I've been seeking thee these four days, Dolly, child. I knew I couldfind thee if I came myself, though the Missis said I never should; andI've asked at one, and asked at another, and looked up streets and downstreets, till this morning I saw a young maid, with her back to me,a-going down an alley; and says I, right out loud, "That's Dolly's back,or else I'm a Dutchman!" So I ran after thee, and only just catchedthee up. I'm not so lissome as thou; nay, nor so lissome as I was atthy years. However, here I am, and here thou art; so that's all right.And there's a good bed and a warm welcome for everyone of you at IngleNook'--that was the name of his farm, my dear--`and I've brought up acart and the old tit to drag it, and we'll see if we can't make theelaugh and be rosy again.' Dear old man! no nay would he take, norsuffer so much as a word from father about our being any cost andtrouble to him. `Stuff and nonsense!' said he; `I've got money saved,and the farm's doing well, and only my two bits of maids to leave it to;and who should I desire to help in this big trouble, if not my ownfoster-child, and hers?' So father yielded, and we went down to IngleNook.

  "Farmer Ingham very soon found what was wrong with father. `Eh, poorsoul!' said he to me, `he's the hundredth sheep that's got lost out onthe moor, and he reckons the Shepherd'll bide warm in the fold with theninety and nine, and never give a thought to him, poor, starved,straying thing! Dear, dear!--and as if _I'd_ do such a thing, sinnerthat I am!--as if I could eat a crust in peace till I'd been after mysheep, poor wretch!--and to think the good Lord'd do it!--and the poorthing a-bleating out there, and wanting to get home! Dear, dear! how wepoor sinners do wrong the good Lord!' I said, `Won't you say a word tohim, daddy?' That was what I had always called him, my dear, since Iwas a little child. `Eh, child!' says he, `what canst thou be thinkingon? The like of me to preach to a parson, all regular done up, bandsand cassock and shovel hat and all! But I'll tell thee what--there'sDr Bates a-coming to bide with me a night this next week, on his wayfrom the North into Sussex, and I'll ask him to edge in a word. He's agrand man, Dolly! "Silver-tongued Bates." Thou'lt hear.'

  "Well, I knew, for I had heard talk of it at the time, that Dr Bateswas one of them that gave up their livings when the Act of Uniformitycame in, so that he was regarded as no better than a conventicler; and Iwondered how father should like to be spoke to by Dr Bates any morethan by Farmer Ingham, because to him they would both be laymen alike.But at that time I was learning to tarry the Lord's leisure--ah! that'sa grand word, Phoebe! For His leisure runs side by side with ourprofit, and He'll be at leisure to attend to you the minute that youreally need attending to. So I waited quietly to see what would come.Dr Bates came, and he proved to be no common hedge-preacher, but alearned man that had been to the University, and had Greek and Hebrewpat at his tongue's end. I could see that it was pleasant to father totalk with such a man; and maybe he took to him the rather because he hadthe look of one that had known sorrow. When a man is suffering, he willconverse more readily with a fellow-sufferer than with a hale man. Sothey talked away of their young days, when they were at school andcollege, and father was much pleased, as I could see, to find that DrBates and he were of the same college, though not there at the sametime: and a deal they had to say about this and that man, that bothknew, but of course all strangers to me. I thought I had never seenFather seem to talk with the like interest and pleasure since mymother's death.

  "But time went on, and their talk, and not a word from Dr Bates of thefashion I desired. I went to bed somewhat heavy. The next morning,however, as I was sat at my sewing by the parlour window--which wasopen, the weather being very sultry--came Dr Bates and father, andstood just beyond the window. The horse was then saddling for Dr Batesto be gone. All at once, they standing silent a moment, he laid hishand on father's shoulder, and saith very softly, `"I will hearken whatthe Lord God will say concerning me."' Father turns and stares at him,as started. But he goes on, and saith, `"For the iniquity of hiscovetousness was I wroth, and smote him: I hid Me and was wroth, and hewent on frowardly in the way of his heart. I have seen his ways, andwill heal him; I will lead him also, and restore comforts unto him andto his mourners. I create the fruit of the lips. Peace, peace to himthat is far off"'--he said it twice--`"peace to him that is far off, andto him that is near, saith the Lord, and I will heal him."' He did notadd one word, but went and mounted his horse, and when he had bidfarewell to all else, just as he was turning away from the door, hecalls out, in a cheerful voice, `Good morning, Brother Jennings.' Then,as it were, Father seemed to awake, and he runs after, and puts his handin Dr Bates's, who drew bridle, and for a minute they were busy inearnest discourse. Then they clasped hands again, and father saith,`God bless you!' and away rode Dr Bates. But after that Father wasdifferent. He said to me--it was some weeks later--`Dolly, if it pleaseGod, I shall never speak another word against the men that turned out inSixty-Two. They may have made blunders, but some at least of them wereholy men of God, for all that.'"

  "I was always sorry for them," said Phoebe. "And Father said so too."

  "True, my dear. Yet 'tis not well we should forget that the parsonswere turned out the first, and the conventiclers afterward. There werefaults on both sides."

  "But, Mrs Dolly, why can't good men agree?"

  "Ah, child! `They shall see eye to eye, when the Lord shall bring againZion.' No sooner. Thank God that He looketh on the heart. I believethere may be two men in arms against each other, bitter opposers of eachother, and yet each of them acting with a single eye to the honour oftheir Lord. He knows it, and He only, now. But how sorry they will befor their hard thoughts and speeches when they come to understand eachother in the clear light of Heaven!"

  "It always seems to me," said Phoebe, diffidently, "that there are agreat many things we shall be sorry for then. But can anybody be sorryin Heaven?"

  Mrs Dorothy smiled. "We know very little about Heaven, my dear. Lessthan Madam's parrot or Mrs Clarissa's dog understands about anyonewriting a letter."

  "Dogs do understand a great deal," remarked Phoebe. "Our Flossie did."

  "My dear, I have learned no end of lessons from dogs. I only wish weChristians minded the word of our Master half as well as they do theirs.I wish men would take pattern from them, instead of starving andkicking them, or tormenting them with a view to win knowledge. We maybe the higher creatures, but we are far from being the better. You maytake note, too, that your dog will often resist an unpleasant thing--adose of medicine, say--just because he does not understand why you wantto give it to him, and does not know the worse thing that wouldotherwise befall him. Didst thou never serve thy Master like that,dear?"

  "I am afraid so," said Phoebe, softly
.

  "We don't trust Him enough, Phoebe. It does seem as if the hardestthing in all the world was for man to trust God. You would not think Ipaid you much of a compliment if you heard me say, `I'll trust PhoebeLatrobe as far as I can see her.' Yet that is what we are always doingto God. The minute we lose sight of His footsteps, we begin to murmurand question where He is taking us. But, my dear, I must not let youtarry longer; 'tis nigh sundown."

  "Oh, dear!" and Phoebe looked up and rose hurriedly. "I trust Madamwill not be angry. 'Tis much later than I thought."

  She found Madam too busy to notice what time she returned. Rhoda'swardrobe was being packed for her visit, under the supervision of hergrandmother, by the careful hands of Betty. The musk-coloured damask,which she had coveted, was the first article provided, and acherry-coloured velvet mantle, lined with squirrel-skins, was to be wornwith it. A blue satin hood completed this rather showy costume. Awadded calico wrapper, for morning wear; a hoop petticoat wider thanRhoda had ever worn before; the white dress stipulated by Molly; smalllace head-dresses, instead of the old-fashioned commode; aprons ofvarious colours, silk and satin; muslin and lace ruffles; a blue camletriding-habit, laced with silver (ladies rode at this time dressedexactly like gentlemen, with the addition of a long skirt); and anevening dress of cinnamon-colour, brocaded with large green leaves andsilver stems, with a white and gold petticoat under it--were the chiefitems of Rhoda's wardrobe. A new set of body-linen was also added, madeof striped muslin. Since our fair ancestresses made their night-dressesof "muslin," it would appear that they extended the term to some stoutermaterial than the thin and flimsy manufacture to which we restrict it.Rhoda's boots were of white kid, goloshed with black velvet. There werealso "jessamy" gloves--namely, kid gloves perfumed with jessamine; ablack velvet mask; a superb painted fan; a box of patches, another ofviolet powder, another of rouge, and a fourth of pomatum; one of theIndia scarves before alluded to; a stomacher set with garnet, a pearlnecklace, and a silver box full of cachou and can-away comfits, to betaken to church for amusement during long sermons. The enamelledpicture on the lid Rhoda would have done well to lay to heart, as itrepresented Cupid fishing for human beings, with a golden guinea on hishook. Rhoda was determined to be the finest dressed girl at DelawarrCourt, and Madam had allowed her to order very much what she pleased.Phoebe's quiet mourning, new though it was, looked very mean incomparison--in her cousin's eyes.

  No definite time was fixed for Rhoda's return home. She was to stay aslong as Lady Delawarr wished to keep her.

  "Phoebe, my dear!" said Madam.

  "Madam?" responded Phoebe, with a courtesy.

  "Come into my chamber; I would have a few words with you."

  Phoebe followed, her heart feeling as if it would jump into her mouth.Madam shut the door, and took her seat on the cushioned settle whichstretched along the foot of her bed.

  "Child," she said to Phoebe, who stood modestly before her, "I thinkmyself obliged to tell you that I expect Rhoda to settle in life on theoccasion of this visit. I apprehend that she will meet with diversyoung gentlemen, with any of whom she might make a good match; and shecan then make selection of him that will be most agreeable to her."

  Phoebe privately wondered how the gentleman whom Rhoda selected was tobe induced to select Rhoda.

  "Then," pursued Madam, "when she returns, she will tell me her design;and if on seeing the young man, and making inquiries of such as areacquainted with him, I approve of the match myself, I shall endeavourthe favour of his friends, and doubt not to obtain it. Rhoda will havean excellent fortune, and she is of an agreeable turn enough. Now, mydear, at the same time, I wish you to look round you, and see if you canlight on some decent man, fit for your station, that would not bedisagreeable to you. I have apprised myself that Sir Richard's chaplainhath entered into no engagements, and if he were to your taste, I woulddo my best to settle you in that quarter, I cannot think he would proveuneasy to me, should I do him the honour; at the same time, if you findhim unpleasant to you, I do not press the affair. But 'tis high timeyou should look out, for you have no fortune but yourself, and what Imay choose to give with you: and if you order yourself after my wish, Iengage myself to undertake for you--in reason, my dear, of course. Thechaplain is very well paid, for Sir Richard finds him in board and ahorse, and gives him beside thirty-five pound by the year, which is morethan many have. He is, I learn, a good, easy man, that would not belikely to give his wife any trouble. Not very smart, but that can wellbe got over; and of good family, but indigent--otherwise it may well bereckoned he would not be a chaplain. So I bid you consider him well, mydear, and let me know your thoughts when you return hither."

  Phoebe's thoughts just then were chasing each other in wild confusion:the principal one being that she was a victim led to the sacrifice witha rope round her neck.

  "I ask your pardon, Madam; but--"

  "Well, my dear, if you have something you wish to say, I am ready tolisten to it," said Madam, with an air of extreme benignity.

  Phoebe felt her position the more difficult because of her grandmother'sgraciousness. She so evidently thought herself conferring a favour on aportionless and unattractive girl, that it became hard to say anopposing word.

  "If you please, Madam, and asking your pardon, must I be married?"

  "Must you be married, child!" repeated Madam in astonished tones, "Why,of course you must. The woman is created for the man. You would notdie a maid?"

  "I would rather, if you would allow me, Madam," faltered Phoebe.

  "But, my dear, I cannot allow it. I should not be doing my duty by youif I did. The woman is made for the man," repeated Madam,sententiously.

  "But--was every woman made for some man, if you please, Madam?" askedpoor Phoebe, struggling against destiny in the person of hergrandmother.

  "Of course, child--no doubt of it," said Madam.

  "Then, if you please, Madam, might I not wait till I find the man I wasmade for?" entreated Phoebe with unconscious humour.

  "When you marry a man, my dear, he is the man you were made for,"oracularly replied Madam.

  Phoebe was silenced, but not at all convinced, which is a very differentthing. She could remember a good many husbands and wives with whom shehad met who so far as she could judge, did not appear to have beencreated for the benefit of one another.

  "And I trust you will find him at Delawarr Court. At all events, youwill look out. As to waiting, my dear, at your age, and in yourstation, you cannot afford to wait. One or two years is no matter forRhoda; but 'twill not serve for you. I was married before I was yourage, Phoebe."

  Phoebe sighed, but did not venture to speak. She felt more than ever asif she were being led to the slaughter. There was just thisuncomfortable difference, that the sacrificed sheep or goat did not feelanything when once it was over, and the parallel would not hold goodthere. She felt utterly helpless. Phoebe knew her mother too well toventure on any appeal to her, even had she fondly imagined thatrepresentations from Mrs Latrobe would have weight with Madam. MrsLatrobe would have been totally unable to comprehend her. So Phoebe didwhat was better,--carried her trial and perplexity to her Father inHeaven, and asked Him to undertake for her. Naturally shy and timid, itwas a terrible idea to Phoebe that she was to be handed over bodily inthis style to some stranger. Rhoda would not have cared; a change wasalways welcome to her, and she thought a great deal about the superiorposition of a matron. But in Phoebe's eyes the position presentedsuperior responsibility, a thing she dreaded; and superior notoriety, athing she detested. She was a violet, born to blush unseen, yetbelieving that perfume shed upon the desert air is not necessarilywasted.

  "Here you are, old Rattle-trap!" cried Molly, from the head of thestairs, as Rhoda and Phoebe were mounting them. "Brought that whiterag? We're going. Mum says so. Turn your toes out,--here's Betty."

  Rhoda's hand was clasped, and her cheek kissed, by a pleasant-spoken,rather good-looking girl, very little scarred f
rom her recent illness.

  "Phoebe Latrobe?" said Betty, turning kindly to her. "I know your name,you see. I trust you will be happy here. Your chamber is this way,Rhoda."

  It was a long, narrow room, with a low whitewashed ceiling, across whichran two beams. A pot-pourri stood on the little table in the centre,and there were two beds, one single and one double.

  "Who's to be here beside me?" inquired Rhoda.

  "Oh, Mother would have given you and Phoebe a chamber to yourselves,"replied Betty, "but we are so full of company, she felt herself obligedto put in some one, so Gatty is coming to you."

  "Can't it be Molly?" rather uncivilly suggested Rhoda.

  Phoebe privately hoped it could not.

  "Will, I think not," answered Betty, smiling. "Lady Diana Middlehamwants Molly. She's in great request."

  "Who is,--me?" demanded Molly, appearing as if by magic in the doorway."Of course. I'm not going to sleep with you, Pug-nose. Not going tosleep at all. Spend the night in tickling the people I like, andrunning pins into those I don't. Fair warning!"

  "I wonder whether it is better to be one you like, Molly, or one youdon't like," said Rhoda, laughing.

  "I hope you don't like me in that regard," said Betty, laughing too.

  "Well, I don't particularly," was Molly's frank answer, "so you'll getthe pins. Right about face! Stand--at--ease! Here comes Mum."

  A very gorgeously dressed woman, all flounces and feathers as it seemedto Phoebe, sailed into the room, kissed Rhoda, told her that she waswelcome, in a languishing voice, desired Betty to see her madecomfortable, informed Molly that her hair was out of curl, took nonotice of Phoebe, and sailed away again.

  "I'm off!" Molly announced to the world. "There's MrWhat-do-you-call-him downstairs. Go and have some fun with him." AndMolly vanished accordingly.

  Then Rhoda's unpacking had to be seen to by herself and Phoebe; that isto say, Phoebe did it, and Rhoda sat and watched her, Betty flittedabout, talking to Rhoda, and helping Phoebe, till her name was calledfrom below, and away she went to respond to it. Phoebe, at least,missed her, and thought her pleasant company. Whatever else she mightbe, she was good-natured. When the unpacking was finished to hersatisfaction, Rhoda declared that she was perishing for hunger, and musthave something before she could dress. Before she could make up hermind what to do, a rap came on the door, and a neat maid-servant enteredwith a tray.

  "An't please you, Madam, Mrs Betty bade me bring you a dish of tea,"said she; "for she said 'twas yet two good hours ere supper, and youshould be the better of a snack after your journey. Here is both teaand chocolate, bread and butter, and shortcake." And setting down thetray, she left them to enjoy its contents.

  "Long life to Betty!" said Rhoda. "Here, Phoebe! pour me a dish ofchocolate. I never get any at home. Madam has a notion it makes peoplefat."

  "But does she not like you to take it?" asked Phoebe, pausing, with thesilver chocolatiere in her hand.

  "Oh, pother! go on!" exclaimed Rhoda. "Give it me, if your tenderconscience won't let you. I say, Phoebe, you'll be a regular prig andprude, if you don't mind."

  "I don't know what those are," replied Phoebe, furtively engaged inrubbing her hand where Rhoda had pinched it as she seized the handle ofthe chocolate pot.

  "Oh, don't you?" answered Rhoda. "I do, for I've got you to look at. Aprig is a stuck-up silly creature, and a prude is always thinkingeverything wicked. And that's what you are."

  Phoebe wisely made no reply. Tea finished, Rhoda condescended to bedressed and have her hair curled and powdered, gave Phoebe very fewminutes for changing her own dress, and then, followed by her cousin andhandmaid, she descended to the drawing-room. To Phoebe's consternation,it seemed full of young ladies and gentlemen, in fashionable array; andthe consternation was not relieved by a glimpse of Mr Marcus Welles,radiant in blue and gold, through a vista of plumes, lace lappets, andfans. Betty was there, making herself generally useful and agreeable;and Molly, making herself the reverse of both. Phoebe scanned thebrilliant crowd earnestly for Gatty. But Gatty was nowhere to be seen.

  Rhoda went forward, and plunged into the crowd, kissing and courtesyingto all the girls she recognised. She was soon the gayest of the gayamong them. No one noticed Phoebe but Betty, and she gave her a kindlynod in passing, and said, "Pray divert yourself." Phoebe's diversionwas to retire into a corner, and from her "loop-hole of retreat, to peepat such a world."

  A very young world it was, whose oldest inhabitant at that moment wasunder twenty-five. But the boys and girls--for they were little more--put on the most courtier-like and grown-up airs. The ladies sat roundthe room, fluttering their fans, or laughing behind them: in some casesgliding about with long trains sweeping the waxed oak floor. Thegentlemen stood before them, paying compliments, cracking jokes, anduttering airy nothings. Both parties took occasional pinches of snuff.For a few minutes the scene struck Phoebe as pretty and amusing; butthis impression was quickly followed by a sensation of sadness. Anumber of rational and immortal beings were gathered together, and allthey could find to do was to look pretty and be amusing. Why, a bird, adog, or a monkey, could have done as much, and more.

  And a few words came into Phoebe's mind, practically denied by the massof mankind then as now, "Thou hast created all things, and _for Thypleasure_ they are."

  How apt man is to think that every creature and thing around him wascreated for _his_ pleasure! or, at least, for his use and benefit. Thenatural result is, that he considers himself at liberty to use them justas he pleases, quite regardless of their feelings, especially when anyparticular advantage may be expected to accrue to himself.

  But "the Lord hath made all things for Himself," and "He cometh to judgethe earth."