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

by Emily Sarah Holt

  CHAPTER NINE.

  SOMETHING ALTERS EVERYTHING.

  "To-night we sit together here, To-morrow night shall come--ah, where?"

  _Robert Lord Lytton_.

  "There! Didn't I tell you, now?" ejaculated Mrs Jane Talbot.

  "I am sure I don't know, Jane," responded her sister, in queruloustones. "You are always talking about something. I never can tell howyou manage to keep continually talking, in the way you do. I could notbear it. I never was a talker; I haven't breath for it, with my poorchest,--such a perpetual rattle,--I don't know how you stand it, I'msure. And to think what a beautiful singer I was once! Young SirSamuel Dennis once said I entranced him, when he had heard my singing toMrs Lucy's spinnet--positively entranced him! And Lord JamesMorehurst--"

  "An unmitigated donkey!" slid in Mrs Jane.

  "Jane, how you do talk! One can't get in a word for you. What was Isaying, Clarissa?"

  "You were speaking of Lord James Morehurst, dear Marcella. 'Tis allvery well for Jane to run him down," said Mrs Vane in a languishingstyle, fanning herself as she spoke, "but I am sure he was the mostcharming black man I ever saw. He once paid me such a compliment on myfine eyes!"

  "More jackanapes he!" came from Mrs Jane.

  "Well, I don't believe he ever paid you such an one," said MrsClarissa, pettishly.

  "He'd have got his ears boxed if he had," returned Mrs Jane. "Theimpudence of some of those fellows!"

  "Poor dear Jane! she never had any taste," sighed Mrs Marcella. "Iprotest, Clarissa, I am quite pleased to hear this news. As muchpleased, you know, as a poor suffering creature like me can be. But Ithink Mrs Rhoda has done extreme well. Mr Welles is of a good stockand an easy fortune, and he has the sweetest taste in dress."

  "Birds of a feather!" muttered Mrs Jane. "Ay, I knew what Mark-Me-Wellwas after. Told you so from the first. I marked him, be sure."

  "I suppose he has three thousand a year?" inquired Mrs Clarissa.

  "Guineas--very like. Not brains--trust me!" said Mrs Jane.

  "And an estate?" pursued Mrs Clarissa, with languid interest.

  "Oh dear, yes!" chimed in the invalid; "I would have told you about it,if Jane could ever hold her tongue. Such a--"

  "I've done," observed Mrs Jane, marching off.

  "Oh, my dear Clarissa, you can have no conception of what I suffer!"resumed Mrs Marcella, sinking down to a confidential tone. "I lovequiet above all things, and Jane's tongue is never still. Ah! if Icould go to the wedding, as I used to do! I was at all the grandweddings in the county when I was a young maid. I couldn't tell you howmany times I was bridesmaid. When Sir Samuel was married--and really,after all the fine things he had said, and the way he used to ogle methrough his glass, I _did_ think!--but, however, that's neither here northere. The creature he married had plenty of money, but absolutely nocomplexion, and she painted--oh, how she did paint! and a turn-upnose,--the ugliest thing you ever saw. And with all that, the airs sheused to give herself! It really was disgusting."

  "O, my dear! I can't bear people that give themselves airs," observedMrs Clarissa, with a toss of her head, and "grounding" her fan.

  "No, nor I," echoed Mrs Marcella, quite as unconscious as her friend ofthe covert satire in her words. "I wonder what Mrs Rhoda will bemarried in. I always used to say I would be married in white andsilver. And really, if my wretched health had not stood in the way, Imight have been, my dear, ever so many times. I am sure it would havecome to something, that evening when Lord James and I were sitting inthe balcony, after I had been singing,--and there, that stupid Jane mustneeds come in the way! I always liked a pretty wedding. I should thinkit would be white and silver. And what do you suppose Madam will giveher?"

  "Oh, a set of pearls, I should say, if not diamonds," answered MrsClarissa.

  "She will do something handsome, of course."

  "Suppose you do something handsome, and swallow your medicine without alozenge," suggested Mrs Jane, walking in and presenting a glass to hersister. "'Tis time."

  "I am sure it can't be, Jane! You are always making me swallow somenasty stuff. And as to taking it without a lozenge, I couldn't do sucha thing!"

  "Stuff! You could, if you did," said Mrs Jane. "Come, then,--here itis. I shouldn't want one."

  "Oh, you!--you have not my fine feelings!" responded Mrs Marcella,sitting with the glass in her hand, and looking askance at itsreddish-brown contents.

  "Come, sup it up, and get it over," said her sister. "O Jane!--youunfeeling creature!"

  "'Twill be no better five minutes hence, I'm sure."

  "You see what I suffer, Clarissa!" wailed Mrs Marcella, gulping downthe medicine, and pulling a terrible face. "Jane has no feeling for me.She never had. I am a poor despised creature whom nobody cares for.Well, I suppose I must bear it. 'Tis my fate. But what I ever did tobe afflicted in this way! Oh, the world's a hard place, and life's avery, very dreary thing. Oh dear, dear!"

  Phoebe Latrobe, who had been sent by Madam to tell the news at theMaidens' Lodge, sat quietly listening in a corner. But when MrsMarcella began thus to play her favourite tune, Phoebe rose and took herleave. She called on Lady Betty, who expressed her gratification in thestyle of measured propriety which characterised her. Lastly, with aslow and rather tired step, she entered the gate of Number One. She hadleft her friend Mrs Dorothy to the last.

  "Just in time for a dish of tea, child!" said little Mrs Dorothy, witha beaming smile. "Sit you down, my dear, and take off your hood, and Iwill have the kettle boiling in another minute. Well, and how have youenjoyed your visit? You look tired, child."

  "Yes, I feel tired," answered Phoebe. "I scarce know how I enjoyed thevisit, Mrs Dorothy--there were things I liked, and there were things Ididn't like."

  "That is generally the case, my dear."

  "Yes," said Phoebe, abstractedly. "Mrs Dorothy, did you know MrsMarcella Talbot when she was young?"

  "A little, my dear. Not so well as I know her now."

  "Was she always as discontented as she is now?"

  "That is a spirit that grows on us, Phoebe," said Mrs Dorothy, gravely.

  Phoebe blushed. "I know you think I have it," she replied. "But Ishould not wish to be like Mrs Marcella."

  "I think thy temptation lies that way, dear child. But thy dispositionis not so light and frivolous as hers. However, we will not talk of ourneighbours without we praise them."

  "Mrs Dorothy, Rhoda has engaged herself to Mr Marcus Welles. Madamsent me down to tell all of you."

  "She has, has she?" responded Mrs Dorothy, as if it were quite what sheexpected. "Well, I trust it may be for her good."

  "Aren't you sorry, Mrs Dorothy?"

  "Scarce, my dear. We hardly know what are the right things to grieveover. You and I might have thought it a very mournful thing when theprodigal son was sent into the field to feed swine: yet--speaking afterthe manner of men--if that had not happened, he would not have arisenand have gone to his father."

  "Do you think Rhoda will have to go through trouble before she can findpeace, Mrs Dorothy?"

  "`Before she can--' I don't know, my dear. Before she will--I amafraid, yes."

  "I am so sorry," said Phoebe.

  "Dear child, the last thing the prodigal will do is to arise and go tothe Father. He will try every sort of swine's husks first. He doth notvalue the delicates of the Father's house--he hath no taste for them.The husks are better, to his palate. What wonder, then, if he tarry yetin the far country?"

  "But how are you to get him to change his taste, Mrs Dorothy?"

  "Neither you nor he can do that, my dear. Most times, either the husksrun short, or he gets cloyed with them. That is, if he ever go back tothe Father. For some never do, Phoebe--they stay on in the far country,and find the husks sweet to the end."

  "That must be saddest of all," said Phoebe, sorrowfully.

  "It is saddest of all. Ah, child!--thank thy Father, if He have madethy husk
s taste bitter."

  "But all things are not husks, Mrs Dorothy!"

  "Certainly not, my dear. Delight in the Lord's works in nature, or inthe pleasures of the intellect such things as these are right enough intheir place, Phoebe. The danger is of putting them into God's place."

  "Mrs Dolly," asked Phoebe, gravely, "do you think that when we carevery much for a person or a thing, we put it into God's place?"

  "If you care more for it than you do for Him. Not otherwise."

  "How is one to know that?"

  "Ask your own heart how you would feel if God demanded it from you."

  "How ought I to feel?"

  "Sorry, perhaps; but not resentful. Not as though the Lord had no rightto ask this at your hands. Grief is allowed; 'tis murmuring thatdispleases Him."

  When Mrs Dorothy said this, Phoebe felt conscious of a dim conviction,buried somewhere very deep down, that there was something which shehoped God would not demand from her. She did not know herself what itwas. It was not exactly that she would refuse to give it up; but ratherthat she hoped she would never be called upon to do it--that if she wereit would be a very hard thing to do.

  Phoebe left the Maidens' Lodge, and walked slowly across the Park toWhite-Ladies. She was feeling for the unknown cause of this sentimentof vague soreness at her heart. She had not found it, when a voicebroke in upon her meditations.

  "Mrs Latrobe?"

  Phoebe came to a sudden stop, and with her heart heating wildly, lookedup into the face of Osmund Derwent.

  "I am too happy to have met with you," said he. "I was on my way toWhite-Ladies. May I presume to ask your good offices, Mrs Phoebe, tofavour me so far as to present me to Madam Furnival!"

  Phoebe courtesied her assent.

  "Mrs Rhoda, I trust, is well?"

  "She is very well, I thank you."

  "I am rejoiced to hear it. You will not, I apprehend, Mrs Phoebe,suffer any surprise, if I tell you of my hopes with regard to MrsRhoda. You must, surely, have seen, when at Delawarr Court, what was myambition. Think you there is any chance for me with Madam Furnival?"

  It was well for Osmund Derwent that he had not the faintest idea of whatwas going on beneath the still, white face of the girl who walked besidehim so quietly. She understood now. She knew, revealed as by a flashof lightning, what it was which it would be hard work to resign at God'scall.

  It was Rhoda for whom he cared--not Phoebe. Phoebe was interesting tohim, simply as being in his mind associated with Rhoda. And Rhoda didnot want him: and Phoebe had to tell him so.

  So she told him. "I am sure Madam would receive you with a welcome,"she said. "But as for Mrs Rhoda, 'tis best you should know she standspromised already."

  Mr Derwent thought Phoebe particularly unsympathising. People often dothink so of those whose "hands are clasped above a hidden pain," and whohave to speak with forced calmness, as the only way in which they darespeak at all. He felt a little hurt; he had thought Phoebe so friendlyat Delawarr Court.

  "To whom?" he asked, almost angrily.

  "Mr Marcus Welles."

  "That painted fop!" cried Derwent.

  Phoebe was silent.

  "You really mean that? She is positively promised to him?"

  "She is promised to him."

  Phoebe spoke in a dull, low, dreamy tone. She felt as though she werein a dream: all these events which were passing around her never couldbe real. She heard Osmund Derwent's bitter comments, as though sheheard them not. She was conscious of only one wish for the future--tobe left alone with God.

  Osmund Derwent was extremely disappointed in Phoebe. He had expectedmuch more sympathy and consideration from her. He said to himself, inthe moments which he could spare from the main subject, that Phoebe didnot understand him, and did not feel for him in the least. She hadnever loved anybody--that was plain!

  And meantime, simply to bear and wait, until he chose to leave her,taxed all Phoebe's powers to her uttermost.

  She was left alone at last. But instead of going back to the house,where she had no certainty of privacy, Phoebe plunged into the shade ofa clump of cedars and cypresses, and sat down at the foot of one ofthem.

  It was a lovely, cloudless day. Through the bright feathery green of aSyrian cypress she looked up into the clear blue sky above. Her lovefor Osmund Derwent--for she gave it the right name now--was a hopelessthing. His heart was gone from her beyond recall.

  "But Thou remainest!"

  The words flashed on her, accompanied by the well-remembered tones ofher father's voice. She recollected that they had formed the text ofthe last sermon he had preached. She heard him say again, as he hadsaid to her on his death-bed, "Dear little Phoebe, remember always,there is no way out of any sin or sorrow except Christ." The tears camenow. There was relief and healing in them.

  "But Thou remainest!"

  "Can I suffice for Heaven, and not for earth?"

  Phoebe's face showed no sign, when she reached home, of the tempestwhich had swept over her heart.

  "Phoebe, I desire you would wait a moment," said Madam that eveningafter prayers, when Phoebe, candle in hand, was about to follow Rhoda.

  "Yes, Madam." Phoebe put down the candle, and stood waiting.

  Madam did not continue till the last of the servants had left the room.Then she said, "Child, I have writ a letter to your mother."

  "I thank you, Madam," replied Phoebe.

  "And I have sent her ten guineas."

  "I thank you very much, Madam."

  "I will not disguise from you, my dear, that I cannot but be sensible ofthe propriety and discretion of your conduct since you came. I thinkmyself obliged to tell you, child, that 'tis on your account I have doneso much as this."

  "I am sure, Madam, I am infinitely grateful to you."

  "And now for another matter. Child, I wish to know your opinion of MrEdmundson."

  "If you please, Madam, I did not like him," said Phoebe, honestly; "norI think he did not me."

  "That would not much matter, my dear," observed Madam, referring to thelast clause. "But 'tis a pity you do not like him, for while I would besorry to force your inclinations, yet you cannot hope to do better."

  "If you would allow me to say so, Madam," answered Phoebe, modestly, yetdecidedly, "I cannot but think I should do better to be as I am."

  Madam shook her head, but did not answer in words. She occupied herselffor a little while in settling her mittens to her satisfaction, thoughshe was just going to pull them off. Then she said, "'Tis pity. Well!go to bed, child; we must talk more of it to-morrow. Bid Betty come tome at once, as you pass; I am drowsy to-night."

  "I say, Fib," said Rhoda, who had adopted (from Molly) this not verycomplimentary diminutive for her cousin's name, but only used it whenshe was in a good humour--"I say, Fib, what did Madam want of you?"

  "To know what I thought of Mr Edmundson."

  "What fun! Well, what did you?"

  "Why, I hoped his sermons would be better than himself: and theyweren't."

  "Did you tell Madam that?" inquired Rhoda, convulsed with laughter.

  "No, not exactly that; I said--"

  "O Fib, I wish you had! She thinks it tip-top impertinence in any womanto presume to have an opinion about a sermon. My word! wouldn't youhave caught it!"

  "Well, I simply told her the truth," replied Phoebe; "that I didn't likehim, and I didn't think he liked me."

  Rhoda went off into another convulsion.

  "O Fib, you are good--nobody better! What did she say to that?"

  "She said his not fancying me wouldn't signify. But I think it wouldsignify a good deal to me, if I had to be his wife."

  "Well, she wouldn't think so, not a bit," said Rhoda, still laughing."She'd just be thunderstruck if Mr Edmundson, or anybody else in hisplace, refused the honour of marrying anybody related to her. Shouldn'tI like to see him do it! It would take her down a peg, I reckon."

  This last elegant expression was caught
from Molly.

  "Well, I am sure I would rather be refused than taken unwillingly."

  "Where did you get your notions. Fib? They are not the mode at all.You were born on the wrong side of fifty, I do think."

  "Which is the wrong side of fifty?" suggestively asked Phoebe.

  "I wish you wouldn't murder me with laughing," said Rhoda. "Look herenow: what shall I be married in?"

  "White and silver, Mrs Marcella said, this morning."

  ("This morning!" Phoebe's words came back no her. Was it only thismorning?)

  "Thank you! nothing so insipid for me. I think I'll have pink anddove-colour. What do you say?"

  "I don't think I would have pink," said Phoebe, mentally comparing thatcolour with Rhoda's red and white complexion. "Blue would suit youbetter."

  "Well, blue does become me," answered Rhoda, contemplating herself inthe glass. "But then, would blue and dove-colour do? I think it shouldbe blue and cold. Or blue and silver? What do you think, Phoebe? Isay!"--and suddenly Rhoda turned round and faced Phoebe--"what doesMadam mean by having Mr Dawson here? Betty says he was here twicewhile we were visiting, and he is coming again to-morrow. What can itmean? Is she altering her will, do you suppose?"

  "I am sure I don't know, Cousin," said Phoebe.

  "I shouldn't wonder if she is. I dare say she'll leave you one or twohundred pounds," said Rhoda, with extreme benignity. "Really, I wishshe would. You're a good little thing, Fib, for all your whims."

  "Thank you, Cousin," said Phoebe, meekly.

  And the cousins went to sleep with amiable feelings towards each other.

  The dawn was just creeping over the earth when something awoke Phoebe.Something like the faint tingle of a bell seemed to linger in her ears.

  "Rhoda!--did you hear that?" she asked.

  "Hear what?" demanded Rhoda, in a very sleepy voice.

  "I fancied I heard a bell," said Phoebe, trying to listen.

  "Oh, nonsense!" answered Rhoda, rather more awake. "Go to sleep.You've been dreaming."

  And Phoebe, accepting the solution, took the advice. She was scarcelyasleep again, as it seemed to her, when the door was softly opened, andBetty came in.

  "Mrs Rhoda, my dear, you'd better get up."

  "What time is it?" sleepily murmured Rhoda.

  "You'd better get up," repeated Betty. "Never mind the time."

  "Betty, is there something the matter?"

  Betty ignored Phoebe's question.

  "Come, my dear, jump up!" she said, still addressing Rhoda. "You'll bewanted by-and-bye."

  "Who wants me?" inquired Rhoda, making no effort to rise.

  "Well, Mr Dawson, the lawyer, is coming presently, and you'll have tosee him."

  "I!" Rhoda's eyes opened pretty wide. "Why should I see him? 'TisMadam wants him, not me."

  To the astonishment of both the girls, Betty burst out crying.

  "Betty, I am sure something has happened," said Phoebe, springing up."What is the matter?"

  "O, my dear, Madam's gone!" sobbed Betty. "Poor dear gentlewoman!She'll never see anybody again. Mrs Rhoda, she's died in the night."

  There was a moment of silent horror, as the eyes of the cousins met.Then Phoebe said under her breath--

  "That bell!"

  "Yes, poor dear Madam, she rang her bell," said Betty; "but she couldnot speak when I got to her. I don't think she was above ten minutesafter. I've sent off sharp for Dr Saunders, and Mr Dawson too; but'tis too late--eh, poor dear gentlewoman!"

  "Did you send for Mr Leighton?" asked Rhoda, in an awe-struck voice.

  "Oh dear, yes, I sent for him too; but la! what can he do?" answeredBetty, wiping her eyes.

  They all came in due order: Dr Saunders to pronounce that Madam hadbeen dead three hours--"of a cardial malady," said he, in aprofessionally mysterious manner; Mr Leighton, the Vicar of Tewkesbury,to murmur a few platitudes about the virtues and charity to the poorwhich had distinguished the deceased lady, and to express his firmconviction that so exalted a character would be at once enrolled amongthe angelic host, even though she had not been so happy as to receivethe Holy Sacrament. Mr Dawson came last, and his concern appeared tobe awakened rather for the living than the dead.

  "Sad business this!" said he, as he entered the parlour, where thecousins sat, close together, drawn to one another by the fellowship ofsuffering, in a manner they had never been before. "Sad business! Wasto have seen me to-day--important matter. Humph!"

  The girls looked at him, but neither spoke.

  "Do you know," he pursued, apparently addressing himself to both, "howyour grandmother had arranged her affairs?"

  "No," said Rhoda and Phoebe together.

  "Humph! Pity! Been a good deal better for you, my dear younggentlewoman, if she had lived another four-and-twenty hours."

  Neither said "Which?" for both thought they knew.

  "Poor Phoebe!" said Rhoda, pressing her hand. "But never mind, dear;I'll give it you, just right, what she meant you to have. We'll seeabout it before I'm married. Oh dear!--that will have to be put off, Isuppose."

  "You are going to be married?" asked the lawyer.

  "Yes," said Rhoda, bridling.

  "Humph!--good thing for you."

  Mr Dawson marched to the window, with his hands in his pockets, andstood there softly whistling for some seconds.

  "Got any money?" he abruptly inquired.

  "I? No," said Rhoda.

  "No, no; your intended."

  "Oh! Yes--three thousand a year."

  "Humph!" Mr Dawson whistled again. Then, making as if he meant toleave the room, he suddenly brought up before Phoebe.

  "Are _you_ going to be married?"

  "No, Sir," said Phoebe, blushing.

  "Humph!" ejaculated the lawyer, once again.

  Silence followed for a few seconds.

  "Funeral on Sunday, I suppose? Read the will on Monday morning--eh?"

  "Yes, if you please," said Rhoda, who was very much subdued.

  "Good. Well!--good morning! Poor girl!" The last words were in anundertone.

  "I am so sorry for it, Phoebe, dear," said Rhoda, who was always at herbest under the pressure of trial. "But never you mind--you shall haveit. I'll make it up to you."

  Rhoda now naturally assumed the responsibility of mistress, and gaveorders that no visitor should be admitted excepting the Vicar and MrWelles. The evening brought the latter gentleman, who had apparentlyspent the interval in arraying himself in faultless mourning.

  "I am so grieved, my charmer!" exclaimed Mr Marcus Welles, dropping onone knee, and lifting Rhoda's hand to his lips. "Words cannot paint mydistress on hearing of your sorrow. Had I been a bird, I would haveflown to offer you consolation. Pray do not dim your bright eyes, myfair. 'Tis but what happens to all, and specially in old age. Oldfolks must die, you know, dearest Madam; and, after all, did they not,young folks would find them very often troublesome. But you have now noone over you, and you see your slave at your feet."

  And with a most unexceptionable bow, Mr Marcus gently possessed himselfof Rhoda's fan, wherewith he began fanning her in the most approvedmanner. It occurred to Phoebe that if the gentleman's grief had beenreally genuine, it was doubtful whether his periods would have beenquite so polished. Rhoda's sorrow, while it might prove evanescent, washonest while it lasted: and had been much increased by the extremesuddenness of the calamity.

  "I thank you, Sir," she said quietly. "And I am sure you will begrieved to hear that my grandmother died just too soon to make thatprovision she intended for my cousin. So the lawyer has told us thismorning. You will not, I cannot but think, oppose my wish to give herwhat it was meant that she should have."

  "Dearest Madam!" and Mr Welles' hand went to his heart, "you cannothave so little confidence in me as to account it possible that I couldoppose any wish of yours!"

  Engaged persons did not, at that time, call each other by the Christianname. It would have been conside
red indecorous.

  "I was sure, Sir, you would say no less," answered Rhoda.