CHAPTER ELEVEN.
PHOEBE IN A NEW CHARACTER.
"We mend broken china, torn lace we repair; But we sell broken hearts cheap in Vanity Fair."
"Did _she_ ever love anybody?" came in a low voice from Rhoda, when MrsLatrobe had withdrawn, "Oh, I don't know!" sobbed Phoebe, who was cryingviolently, and might have seemed to a surface observer the more unhappyof the two.
"Don't weep so," said Rhoda. "I'm sure you don't need. Aunt Anne willnever be angry long--she does not care enough about anything to keep itup."
"Oh, it is not for myself, Rhoda--poor Rhoda!"
"For me? Surely not, Phoebe. I have never been so good to you as towarrant that."
"I don't know whether you have been good to me or you have not, Cousin;but I am so sorry for you!"
Phoebe was kneeling beside the bed. Rhoda came over to her, and kissedher forehead, and said--what was very much for Rhoda to say--"I scarcethink I deserve you should weep for me, Phoebe."
"But I can't help it!" said Phoebe.
"Well! I reckon I should have known it," said Rhoda, in a rather hardtone. "I suppose that is what all men are like. But I did think he wastrue--I did!"
"I never did," responded Phoebe.
"Well!" sighed Rhoda again. "Let it pass. Perhaps Mrs Dorothy isright--'tis best to trust none of them."
"I don't think Mrs Dorothy said that," replied Phoebe, heaving a longsigh, as she sat up and pushed back her ruffled hair. "I do hope Iwasn't rude to Mother."
"Nothing she'll care about," said Rhoda. "I wondered he did not come,Phoebe."
"So did I, and I told him as much. But--Rhoda, I think perhaps we shallforgive him sooner if we don't talk about it."
"Ah! I have not come to forgiving yet," was Rhoda's answer. "Perhaps Ishall some time. Well! I shall be an old maid now, Phoebe, like MrsDorothy, I suppose you'll be the one to marry."
"Thank you, I'd rather not!" said Phoebe, quickly. "I am not sure Ishould like it at all; and I am quite sure I don't want to be marriedfor my money, or for what people expect me to have."
"Oh, there's nothing else in this world!" answered Rhoda, with an air ofimmense experience. "Don't you expect it. Every man you come across isan avaricious, designing creature. Oh dear! 'tis a weary weary world,and 'tis no good living!"
"Yes, Rhoda dear, there is one good in living, and 'tis always left tous, whatever we may lose," said Phoebe, earnestly. "Don't you rememberwhat the Lord Jesus said to His disciples--`My meat is to do the will ofHim that sent Me?' There is always that, Rhoda."
"Ah, that is something I don't know anything about," said Rhoda,wearily. "And I always think 'tis right down shabby of people to turnreligious, just because they have lost the world, and are disappointedand tired. And I was never cut out for a saint, Phoebe--'tis no use!"
"Rhoda, dear, when people give all their days to Satan, and then turnreligious, as you say, just at last, when they are going to die, orthink they are--don't you think that right down shabby? The longer youkeep away from God, the less you have to give Him when you come. Andas--"
"I thought you Puritans always said we hadn't anything to give to God,but He gave everything to us," objected Rhoda, pettishly.
Phoebe passed the tone by, and answered the words, "I think there aretwo things we can give to God, Cousin: our sins, that He may cast theminto the depths of the sea; and ourselves, that He may save and trainus. And the longer you stay away, the more sin you will have to bring;and the less time there will be for loving and serving Him. You will besorry, when you do come, that you were not sooner."
"How do you know I shall? I tell you, I wasn't cut out for a saint."
"I think you will, Cousin, because I have asked Him to bring you," saidPhoebe, simply; "and it must be His will to hear that; because Hewilleth not the death of a sinner."
"So you count me a sinner! I am sure I'm very much obliged to you!"said Rhoda, more in her old style than before.
"Yes, dear Cousin, I count you a sinner; and so do I myself, and everybody else," said Phoebe, gently.
"Oh, well, I suppose we are all sinners," admitted Rhoda. "Don't I keeptelling you I am not made for a saint?"
"But you were, Rhoda; God made you for Himself," said Phoebe.
"Oh, well 'tis no use talking!" and Rhoda got up, and began to pull downher elaborately-dressed hair, with hasty, uncareful fingers. "We'dbetter go to bed."
"Perhaps it isn't much use talking," said Phoebe, as she rose to helpher. "But it is sure to be some praying, so I shall go on."
It was a few days later, and Phoebe was crossing the Park on her way tothe Maidens' Lodge, carrying a basket of fruit sent by Mrs Latrobe toLady Betty. From all the Maidens, except Lady Betty, Mrs Latrobe heldaloof. Mrs Jane was too sharp for her, Mrs Marcella too querulous,and Mrs Dorothy too dull. Mrs Clarissa she denounced as "poor vainflirt that could not see her time was passed," and Mrs Eleanor, shedeclared, gave her the horrors only to look at. But Lady Betty shediligently cultivated. How much of her regard was due to her Ladyship'stitle, Mrs Latrobe did not explain.
Phoebe was nearing the Maidens' Lodge, and had just entered the lastglade on her way thither, when--very much to her disapprobation anddismay--from a belt of trees on her left hand, Mr Marcus Welles steppedout and stood before her.
"Your most humble servant, Mrs Phoebe! I was very desirous to have thehonour of waiting on you this fine morning; and thinking that I saw youat a little distance, I took the great liberty of accosting you."
If Phoebe had said just what she thought, she would have informed MrWelles that he had taken a wholly unwarrantable liberty in so doing; forwhile she sagely counselled Rhoda to forgive the offender, she had by nomeans forgiven him herself. But being mindful of conventionalities,Phoebe courtesied stiffly, and left Mr Welles to explain himself at hisleisure. Now, Mr Welles had come to that glade in the Park for thespecial purpose of making a communication, which he felt rather anawkward one to make with that amount of grace which beseemed him:nevertheless, being a very adroit young man, and much given to turningcorners in a rapid and elegant manner, he determined to go through withthe matter. If it had only been anyone but Phoebe!
"Mrs Phoebe," he began, "I cannot but flatter myself that you are notwholly ignorant of the high esteem I have long had for your deep merit."
"Cannot you, Sir?" responded Phoebe, by no means in a promising manner.
Mr Welles felt the manner. He thought his web was scarcely fine-spunenough. He must begin again.
"I trust that Madam is in good health, Mrs Phoebe?"
"My mother is very well, I thank you, Sir."
"You are yourself in good health, I venture to hope, Madam?"
"I am, Sir, I thank you."
The task which Mr Welles had set himself, as he perceived with chagrin,was proving harder than he had anticipated. Phoebe evidently intendedto waste no more time on him than she could help.
"The state of affairs at White-Ladies is of infinite concern to me,Madam."
"Is it, Sir?"
"Undoubtedly, Madam. Your health and happiness--all of you--are extremedear to me."
"Really, Sir!"
"Especially _yours_, Madam."
Phoebe made no answer to this. Her silence encouraged Mr Welles toproceed. He thought his tactics had succeeded, and the creature wascoming round by degrees. The only point now requiring care was not tostartle her away again.
"Allow me to assure you, Madam, that your welfare is in my eyes a matterof infinite concern."
"So you said, Sir," was Phoebe's cool reply, Mr Welles was veryuncomfortable. Had he made any mistake? Was it possible that, afterall, the creature was not coming round in an orthodox manner?
"Madam, give me leave to assure you, moreover, that I am infinitelyattached to you, and desire no higher happiness than to be permitted tooffer you my service."
It was an instant before Phoebe recognised that Mr Marcus Welles wasactually making her an offer. When she
did, her answer was immediateand unmistakable.
"Don't you, Mr Welles?" said Phoebe. "Then I do!"
"Madam, have you misapprehended me?" demanded her suitor, to whom theidea of any woman refusing him was an impossibility not to beentertained for a moment.
"I should be glad if I had," said Phoebe.
"You must be labouring under some mistake, Madam. I have an estatewhich brings me in three thousand a year, and I am my own master. 'Tisnot an opportunity a maid can look to meet with every day, nor is itevery gentlewoman that I would ask to be my wife."
"No--only a golden one!" said Phoebe.
"Madam!"
Phoebe turned, and their eyes met.
"Mr Welles, give me leave to tell you the truth: you do not hear itoften. You do not wish to marry me. You wish to obtain White-Ladies.'Tis of no consequence to you whether the woman that must needs comewith it be Phoebe Latrobe or Rhoda Peveril. My cousin would please youbetter than I; but you really care not a straw for either of us. Youonly want the estate. Allow me in my turn to assure you that, so far asI am concerned, you will not get it. The man who could use my cousin asyou have done may keep away from endeavouring my favour. I wish you avery good morning, Mr Welles."
"I beg, Madam, that you will permit me to explain--" stammered MrWelles, whose grace and tactics alike forsook him under the treatment towhich he was subjected by Phoebe.
"Sir, there is nothing to explain."
And with a courtesy which could be construed into nothing but finaldismissal, Phoebe left her astonished suitor to stand and look after herwith the air of a beaten general, while she turned the corner of theMaidens' Lodge, and made her way to Lady Betty's door.
Lady Betty was at that moment giving an "at home" on the very minutescale permitted by the diminutive appointments of the Maidens' Lodge.Mrs Jane Talbot and Mrs Dorothy Jennings were seated at her littletea-table.
"Why, my dear Mrs Phoebe! what an unlooked-for pleasure!" exclaimedLady Betty, coming forward cordially.
If her cordiality had been a shade more distinct since Phoebe becameheiress of Cressingham--well, she was only human. The other ladiespresent had sustained no such change.
"The Lord bless thee, dear child!" was the warm greeting of Mrs Dolly;but it had been quite as warm long before.
"Evening!" said Mrs Jane, with a sarcastic grin. "Got it over, has he?Saw you through the side window. Bless you, child, I know all aboutit--I expected that all along. Hope you let him catch it--thejackanapes!"
"I did not let him catch me, Mrs Jane," answered Phoebe, with somedignity.
"That's right!" said Mrs Jane, decidedly. "That bundle of velvet andbraid would never have made any way with me, when I was your age, mydear. Why, any mantua-maker could cut him out of snips, and have somestuff left over."
"He is of very good family, my dear Mrs Jane," observed Lady Betty; "atleast, if I take you rightly in supposing you allude to Mr Welles."
"More pity for the family!" answered Mrs Jane. "Glad I'm not hismother. Ruin me to keep, him in order. Cost a fortune in whip-leather.How's Mrs Rhoda?"
"She is very well, I thank you, Madam."
"Is she crying out her eyes over that piece of fiddle-faddle?"
"I think she has finished for the present," replied Phoebe, ratherdrily.
"Just you tell her he's been making up to you. Best thing you can do.Cure her sooner than anything else."
"Mrs Phoebe, my dear, may I beg of you to do me the favour to let Madamknow that my niece, my Lady Delawarr, is much disordered in her health?"
"Certainly, my Lady Betty; I am grieved to hear it."
"Very much so, as 'tis feared; and Sir Richard hath asked me thither tovisit her, and see after matters a little while she is laid by. Ipurpose to go thither this next week, but I would not do so withoutpaying my respects to Madam, for which honour I trust to wait on herto-morrow. Indeed, my dear--and if you will mention it to Madam, youwill do me a service--Sir Richard's letter is not without someimportunity that should my niece be laid aside for any time, as herphysician fears, I would remove altogether, and make my home with them."
"Indeed, Madam, I will tell my mother all about it."
"I thank you, my dear; 'twill be a kindness. Of course, I would notlike to leave without Madam's concurrence."
"That you will have," quietly said Mrs Dorothy.
"Indeed, so I hope," returned Lady Betty. "I dare say Mrs Phoebe hereat least does not know that when my nephew Sir Richard was young, afterhis mother died--my poor sister Penelope--he was bred up wholly in mycare, so that he looks on me rather as his mother than his aunt, and'tis but natural that his thoughts should turn to me in this trouble."
"You must have been a young aunt, my Lady Betty," remarked Mrs Dorothy.
"Truly, but twelve years elder than my nephew," said Lady Betty, with asmile.
"Clarissa would have told us that, without waiting to be asked," laughedMrs Jane. "How are the girls, my Lady Betty?"
"Very well, as I hear. You know, I guess, that Betty is engaged inmarriage?"
"So we heard. To Sir Charles Rich, is it not?"
"The same. But maybe you have not heard of Molly's conquest?" askedLady Betty, with an amused little laugh.
"What, is Mrs Molly in any body's chains?"
"Indeed, I guess not, Mrs Jane," replied Lady Betty, still laughing."I expect my friend Mr Thomas Mainwaring is in Molly's chains, ifchains there be."
"Eh, she'll lead him a weary life!" said Mrs Jane.
"Let us hope she will sober down," answered Lady Betty. "I am notunwilling to allow there hath of late been room for improvement. Yet isthere some good in Molly, as I think."
Phoebe remembered Molly's assistance in the matter of Mr Edmundson, andthought it might be so.
"Well, and what of Mrs Gatty?"
"Ah, poor maid! She, at least, can scarce hope to be happy, herdisfigurement is so unfortunate."
"I must needs ask your pardon, my Lady Betty, but I trust that is notthe case," said Mrs Dorothy, with a gentle smile. "Sure, happinessdoth not depend on face nor figure?"
"The world mostly reckons so, I believe," answered Lady Betty, with aresponsive smile. "Maybe, we pick up such words, and use them, insomething too heedless a manner."
"I am mightily mistaken if Mrs Gatty do not prove the happiest of thethree," was Mrs Dorothy's reply.
Mrs Dorothy rose to go home, and Phoebe took leave at the same time.She felt tired and harassed, and longed for the rest of a little quiettalk with her old friend.
"And how doth Mrs Rhoda take this, my dear?" was the old lady's firstquestion, when Phoebe had poured out her story.
"She seemed very much troubled at first, and angry; but I fancy she isgetting over it now."
"Which most?--troubled or angry?"
"I think--after a few minutes, at least--more angry."
"Then she will quickly recover. I do not think she loved him, Phoebe.She liked him, I have no doubt: and she flattered herself that he lovedher; but if she be more angry than hurt, that shows that her pridesuffers rather than her love. At least," said Mrs Dorothy, correctingherself, "I mean it looks so. Who am I, that I should judge her?"
"I wanted it to do her some good, Mrs Dolly. It seems hard to have thesuffering, and not get the good."
"'Tis not easy for men to tell what does good, and when. We cannot asconcerns ourselves; how then shall we judge for others?"
"I wonder what Rhoda will do now?" suggested Phoebe, after a minute'ssilence.
She looked up, and saw an expression, which was the mixture of pity andamusement, on Mrs Dorothy's lips. The amusement died away, but thepity remained and grew deeper.
"Can you guess, Mrs Dolly?"
"`Lord, and what shall this man do?' You know the answer, Phoebe."
"Yes, I know: but-- Mrs Dorothy, would you not like to know thefuture?"
"Certainly not, dear child. I am very thankful for the mist which myFather hath cast as a veil over my
eyes."
"But if you could see what would come, is it not very likely that therewould not be some things which you would be glad and relieved to findabsent?"
"Very likely. The things of which we stand especially in fear oftenfail to come at all. But there would be other things, which I should bevery sorry to find, and much astonished too."
"I wonder sometimes, what will be in my life," said Phoebe, dreamily.
"That which thou needest," was the quiet answer.
"What do I need?" asked Phoebe.
"To have thy will moulded after God's will."
"Do you think I don't wish God's will to be done, Mrs Dorothy?"
Mrs Dorothy smiled. "I quite believe, dear child, thou art willing Heshould have His way with respect to all the things thou dost not careabout."
"Mrs Dorothy!"
"My dear, that is what most folks call being resigned to the will ofGod."
"Mrs Dolly, why do people always talk as though God's will must besomething dreadful? If somebody die, or if some accident happen, theysay, `Ah, 'tis God's will, and we must submit.' But when somethingpleasant comes, they never say it then. Don't you think the pleasantthings are God's will, as well as the disagreeable ones?"
"More so, Phoebe. `In all our affliction, He is afflicted.' `He dothnot afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men.' Pleasant thingsare what He loves to give us; bitter things, what He needs must."
"Then why do people talk so?" repeated Phoebe.
"Ah, why do they?" said Mrs Dorothy. "Man is always wronging God. Notone of us all is so cruelly misunderstood of his fellows as all of usmisunderstand Him."
"Yet He forgives," said Phoebe softly: "and sometimes we don't."
"He is always forgiving, Phoebe. The inscription is graven not lessover the throne in Heaven than over the cross on earth,--`This Manreceiveth sinners.'"
There was a pause of some minutes; and as Phoebe rose to go, MrsDorothy said,--
"I will tell you one thing I have noted, child, as I have gone throughlife. Very often there has been something looming, as it were, beforeme that I had to do, or thought I should have to bear,--and in thedistance and the darkness it took a dread shape, and I looked forward toit with terror. And when it has come at last, it has often--I say notalways, but often--proved to be at times a light and easy cross, even attimes an absolute pleasure. Again, there hath often been something inthe future that I have looked forward to as a great good and delight,which on its coming hath turned out a positive pain and evil. 'Tisbetter we should not know the future, dear Phoebe. Our Father knowsevery step of the way: is not that enough? Our Elder Brother hathtrodden every step, and will go with us through the wilderness. Perfectwisdom and perfect love have prepared all things. Ah, child, thyfathers were wise men to sing as they sang--
"`Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger.'"
"But, Mrs Dolly-- I suppose it can't be so, yet--it does seem as ifthere were some things in life which the Lord Jesus did not go through."
"What things, my dear?"
"Well, we never read of His having any kind of sickness for one thing."
"Are you sure of that? `Himself took our infirmities, and bare oursicknesses,' looks very like the opposite. You and I have no idea,Phoebe, how He spent thirty out of thirty-three years of His mortallife. He may--mind, I don't say it was so, for I don't know--but He mayhave spent much of them in a sick chamber. He was `in _all_ pointstempted like as we are.' My father used to tell me that the word thererendered `tempted' signifies not only temptations of Satan, but trialssent of God."
"But--He was never a woman, Mrs Dolly."
"And therefore cannot feel for a woman as though He had been,--is thatthy meaning, dear? Nay, Phoebe, I believe He was the only creature thatever dwelt on earth in whom were the essential elements both of man andwoman. He took His flesh of the woman only. The best part of each wasin Him,--the strength and intelligence of the man, the love andtenderness of the woman. 'Tis modish to say women are tender, Phoebe;more modish than true. Many are soft, but few are tender. But He wastenderness itself."
"I don't think women always are tender," said Phoebe.
"My dear," said Mrs Dorothy, "you may laugh at me, but I am very muchout of conceit with my own sex. A good woman is a very precious thing,Phoebe; the rather since 'tis so rare. But an empty, foolish, frivolouswoman is a sad, sad sight to see. Methinks I could scarce bear withsuch, but for four words that I see, as it were, graven on theirbrows,--`For whom Christ died.'"
"Very good!" said Mrs Latrobe. "I will not conceal from you, Phoebe,that I am extreme gratified with this decision of Lady Betty. I trustshe will carry it out."
Phoebe felt a good deal surprised. Lady Betty had been the only inmateof the Lodge whose society her mother had apparently cared to cultivate,and yet she expressed herself much pleased to hear of her probabledeparture. She remembered, too, that Mrs Dorothy had expected MrsLatrobe's assent. To herself it was a mystery.
Mrs Latrobe gave no explanation at the time. She went at once toanother part of the subject, informing Phoebe that she had asked Bettyand Molly Delawarr on a visit. Gatty had been invited also, but haddeclined to leave her mother in her present condition. Phoebe receivedthis news with some trepidation. Had it been Betty alone, she would nothave minded; for she thought her very good-natured, and could notunderstand Rhoda's expressed dislike to her. But Molly!--Phoebe triedto remember that Molly had done one kind action, and hoped she would beon her best behaviour at White-Ladies. Mrs Latrobe went on to say thatshe wished Phoebe to share her room with Betty, and would put Rhoda andMolly in another. But when Phoebe ventured to ask if Rhoda might notretain the room which she knew her to prefer, and Phoebe herself be theone to change, Mrs Latrobe refused to entertain the proposition.
"No, my dear, certainly not. You forget your station, Phoebe. You arethe daughter of this house, not your cousin. You must not be thinkingof how things were. They have changed. I could not think of allowingRhoda to have the best chamber. Besides, she has got to come down, andshe had best know it at once."
"What do you mean, Madam, if you please?"
"What do I mean? Why, surely you have some sense of what is proper.You don't fancy she could continue to live here, do you? If she hadmarried Mr Welles, I should have said nothing against her staying heretill her marriage--of course, if it were a reasonable time; but now thatis all over. She must go."
"Go!" gasped Phoebe. "Go whither, Madam?"
"I shall offer her the choice of two things, my clear. She can eithergo to service, in which case I will not refuse to take the trouble tolook out a service for her--I am wishful to let her down gently, and bevery good to her; or, if she prefer that, she may have my Lady Betty'shouse as soon as she is gone. Have you any idea which she will choose?"
"Service! The Maidens' Lodge! Rhoda!"
"My dear Phoebe, how very absurd you are. What do you mean by suchfoolish ejaculations? Rhoda will be uncommonly well off. You forgetshe has the interest of her money, and she has some good jewellery; shemay make a decent match yet, if she is wise. But in the meantime, shemust live somehow. Of course I could not keep her here--it would spoilyour prospects, simpleton! She has a better figure than you, and shehas more to say for herself. You must not expect any body to look atyou while she is here."
"Oh, never mind that!" came from the depth of Phoebe's heart.
"But, my dear, I do mind it. I must mind it. You do not understandthese things, Phoebe. Why, I do believe, with a very littleencouragement--which I mean him to have--Mr Welles himself would offerfor you."
"That is over, Madam."
"What is over? Phoebe! what do you mean? Has Mr Welles really spokento you?"
"Yes, Madam."
"When, my dear?" asked Mrs Latrobe, in a tone of deep interest.
"This afternoon, Madam!"
"That is right! I am so pleas
ed. I was afraid he would want a gooddeal of management. And you've no more notion how to manage a man thanthat parrot. I should have to do it all myself."
"I beg your pardon, Madam," said Phoebe, with some dignity; "I gave himan answer."
"Of course, you did, my dear. I am only afraid--sometimes, my dearPhoebe, you let your shyness get the better of you till you seem quitesilly--I am afraid, I say, that you would hardly speak with becomingwarmth. Still--"
"I think, Madam, I was as warm as you would have wished me," saidPhoebe, drily.
"Oh, of course, there is a limit, my dear," said Mrs Latrobe, bridling."Well, I am so glad that it is settled. 'Tis just what I was wishingfor you."
"I fear, Madam, you misconceive me," said Phoebe, looking up, "and 'tissettled the other way from what you wished."
"Child, what can you mean?" asked Mrs Latrobe, with sudden sharpness."You never can have refused such an excellent offer? What did you sayto Mr Welles?"
"I sent him away, and told him never to come near me again." Phoebespoke with warmth enough now.
"Phoebe, you must be a lunatic!" burst from her mother. "I could nothave believed you would be guilty of such supreme, unpardonable folly!"
"Sure," said Phoebe, looking up, "you would never have had me marry aman whom I despised in my heart?"
"Despised! I protest, Phoebe, you are worse and worse. What do youmean by saying you despise Mr Welles? A man of excellent manners andfaultless taste, of good family, with an estate of three thousand ayear, and admirable prospects when his old uncle dies, who is nearlyseventy now--why, Phoebe, you must be a perfect fool! I am amazed atyou beyond words."
There was a light in Phoebe's eyes which was beyond Mrs Latrobe'scomprehension.
"Mother!" came from the girl's lips, with a soft intonation--"Fatherwould not have asked me to do that!"
"Really, my dear, if you expect that I am to rule myself by yourfather's notions, you expect a great deal too much. He was not a man ofthe world at all--"
"He was not!"
"Not in the least!--and he had not the faintest idea what would berequired of you when you came to your present position. Don't quotehim, I beg of you!--Well, really, Phoebe--I don't know what to do now.I wish I had known of it! Still I don't see, if he were determined tospeak to you, how I could have prevented you from making such a goose ofyourself. I do wish he had asked me! I should have accepted him atonce for you, and not given you the chance to refuse. What did you sayto him? Is it quite hopeless to try and win him back?"
"Quite," said Phoebe, shortly.
"But I want to know exactly what you said."
"I told him I believed he wanted the estate, and not me; and that afterbehaving to my cousin as he did, he did not need to expect to get eitherit or me."
"Phoebe! what preposterous folly!" said Mrs Latrobe. "Well, child, youare a fool--that's as plain as a pikestaff; but--"
"You're a fool!" came in a screech from the parrot's cage, followed by aburst of laughter.
"But 'tis no use crying over spilt milk. If we have lost Mr Welles, wehave lost him; and we must try for some one else. Oh dear, how hot itis! Phoebe, I wonder when you will have any sense. I do beseech you,my dear, never to play the same game with anyone else."
"I hope, Mother," said Phoebe, gravely, "that I shall never haveoccasion."
"What a lot of geese!" said the parrot.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
ENDS IN THE MAIDENS' LODGE.
"Mother, Mother, up in Heaven, Stand up on the jasper sea, And be witness I have given All the gifts required of me."
_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_.
"Before these young gentlewomen come, Rhoda, I want a word with you."
"Yes, Madam."
"I am sure, my dear, that you have too much wit to object to what I amabout to say."
Rhoda had learned to dread this beginning, as it was generally theprelude to something disagreeable. But she was learning, also, tosubmit to disagreeable things. She only said, meekly, "Yes, Madam."
"I suppose, my dear, you will have felt, like a maid of some parts andspirit as you are, that your dwelling any longer with me and Phoebe inthis house would not be proper."
"Not be proper!" Rhoda's cheek blanched. She had never recognisedanything of the kind. Was she not only to lose her fortune, but to beturned out of her home? When would her calamities come to an end? "Notproper, Aunt Anne!--why not?"
This was not altogether an easy question to answer with any reason butthe real one, which last must not be told to Rhoda. Mrs Latrobe put onan air of injured astonishment.
"My dear!--sure, you would not have me tell you that? No, no!--your owngood parts, I am certain, must have assured you. Now, Rhoda, I wish, sofar as is possible, to spare you all mortification. If you considerthat it would be easier to you to support your altered fortuneselsewhere, I am very willing to put myself to some trouble to obtain foryou a suitable service; or if, on the other hand, you have not thissensibility, then my Lady Betty's cottage is at your disposal when sheleaves it. The time that these young gentlewomen are here will beenough to think over the matter. When they go, I shall expect youranswer."
Had Phoebe wished to tell out to Rhoda a recompense of distressequivalent to every annoyance which she had ever received from her, shecould have wished for no revenge superior to that of this moment. Forher, who had all her life, until lately, looked forward to dispensingher favours as the Queen of Cressingham, to be offered apartments in theMaidens' Lodge as an indigent gentlewoman, was in her eyes about thelast insult and degradation which could be inflicted on her. She wentwhite and red by turns; she took up the hem of her apron, and began toplait it in folds, with as much diligence as though it had been a matterof serious importance that there should be a given number of plaits toan inch, and all of the same width to a thread. Still she did notspeak.
Mrs Latrobe required no words to inform her of what was passing inRhoda's mind. But she forestalled any words which might have come, byan affectation of misunderstanding her.
"You see, my dear Rhoda," she said, in a would-be affectionate tone, "Iam bound to do all I can for my only sister's only child. I would notdo you so much injury as to suppose you insensible to the kindness Ihave shown you. Indeed, if you had been something younger, and hadwished to learn any trade, I would willingly have paid the premium withyou. And 'tis no slight matter, I can assure you. Eighty pounds wouldhave been the least for which I could have put you with a milliner ormantua-maker, to learn her trade. But, however, 'tis no good talking ofthat, for you are a good nine years too old. So there is nothing beforeyou but service, without you marry, or to take my Lady Betty's house.Now, my dear, you may go and divert yourself; we will not talk of thismatter again till the young gentlewomen have ended their visit."
And with a nod of dismissal, Mrs Latrobe rose and passed out of theroom, evidently considering her duties exceeded by her merits, andleaving Rhoda too stunned for words.
Trade, indeed! If there could be a deeper depth than the Maidens'Lodge, it was trade, in Rhoda's eyes. Domestic service was incomparablymore respectable and honourable. As to matrimony, which her aunt had,as it were, flung into the scales as she passed, Rhoda's heart was stilltoo sore to think of it.
An hour later brought Betty and Molly.
"How do you, Rhoda, dear?" inquired the former, kindly.
"Well!--got over it, Red Currants?" interrogated Molly.
"Over what, I beg?" said Rhoda, rather haughtily.
Molly sang her answer:--
"`I lost my looks, I lost my health, I lost my wit--my love kept true; But one fine day I lost my wealth, And, presto! off my lover flew.'
"Isn't that about it, old Tadpole?"
"Your's hasn't," retorted Rhoda, carrying the attack into the enemy'scountry.
"No; I haven't lost my wealth yet," said Molly, gravely for her.
"Who told you?" whispered Phoebe.
"O Gemini! isn't that a goo
d jest?" responded Molly, not at all in awhisper. "`Who told me?'--just as if three hundred and sixty-fivepeople hadn't told me. Told me more jokes than one, too, Mrs PhoebeLatrobe; told me how _you_ sent off Master Marcus with all the starchwashed out of him. Got-up Marcus in the rough dry--O Gemini!" and Mollyalmost shrieked with laughter. "Poor wretch! Hasn't had the heart topowder himself since. And she told him to his face he wanted theguineas.--Oh how jolly! Wouldn't I have given a pretty penny to see hisface! Phoebe, you're tip-top."
"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Rhoda, with something ofher old sharp manner.
"Talking about your true and constant lover, my charmer," said Molly."His heart was broken to bits by losing--your money; so he picked up thepieces, and pasted them together, and offered the pretty little thing toyour cousin, as the nearest person to you. But she, O cruel creature!instead of giving him an etiquet of admission to her heart, what doesshe but come down on the wretch's corns with a blunderbuss, and crushhis poor pasted heart into dust. Really--"
"Molly, my dear!" said Betty, laughing. "Does a man's heart lie in hiscorns?"
"If you wish to know, Mrs Betty Delawarr, the conclusions to which Ihave come on that subject," replied Molly, in her gravest mock manner,"they are these. Most men haven't any hearts. They have pretty littleornaments, made of French paste, which do instead. They get smashedabout once in six months, then they are pasted up, and nobody ever knowsthe difference. There isn't much, when 'tis nicely done."
"Pray, Molly, how many women have hearts?"
"Not one among 'em, present company excepted."
"Oh, Molly, Molly!" said Betty, still laughing. "I thank you, in thename of present company," added Rhoda; but there was a glitter in hereyes which was not mirth.
"Now, Red Gooseberries (rather sour just now), you listen to me," saidMolly. "If you have got a heart (leave that to you!) don't you let itwaste away for that piece of flummery. There's Osmund Derwent breakinghis for you, and I believe he has one. Take him--you'll never dobetter; and if I tell you lies for the rest of my life, I've spokentruth this time.--Now, Fib, aren't you going to show such distinguishedvisitors into the parlour?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Phoebe; "I was listening to you."
"Madam, I thank you for the compliment," and, with a low courtesy, Mollygave her sister a push before her into the presence of Mrs Latrobe.
"Phoebe, come here!" cried Rhoda, in a hoarse whisper, drawing hercousin aside into one of the deep recessed windows of the old hall, oncethe refectory of the Abbey. "Tell me, did Marcus Welles offer to you?"
"Yes," said Phoebe, and said no more. "And you refused him?"
"Why, Rhoda, dear! Yes, of course."
"Not for my sake, I hope. Phoebe, I would not marry him now, if he camewith his hat full of diamonds."
"Make your mind easy, dear. I never would have done."
"Do you know, Phoebe, Aunt Anne has offered to put me in the Maidens'Lodge?"
"She talked of it," said Phoebe, pitifully.
"I am not going there," responded Rhoda, in a decisive tone. "I'll goto service first. Perhaps, I can come down so much, away from here; butto do it here, where I thought to be mistress!--no, I could not standthat, Phoebe."
"I am sorry you have to stand any of it, dear Rhoda."
"You are a good little thing, Fib; I could not bear you to pity me ifyou were not. If Aunt Anne had but half your--"
"Phoebe, where are you? Really, my dear, I am quite shocked at yournegligence! Carry the young gentlewomen up to their chambers, and letRhoda wait on them. I take it extreme ill you should have left them solong. Do, my dear, remember your position!"
Remember her position! Phoebe was beginning to wish heartily that shemight now and then be permitted to forget it.
The four girls went upstairs together.
"I say, Fib, did you ever shoot a waterfall in a coble?" inquired Molly.
Phoebe felt safe in a negative.
"Because I've heard folks say who have, that 'tis infinitely pleasant,when you come alive out of it; but then, you see, there's a little doubtabout that."
"I don't understand you, Mrs Molly."
"No, my dear, very like you don't. Well, you'll find out when you'veshot 'em. You're only a passenger; no blame to you if you don't comeout alive."
"Who's rowing, Molly?" asked Rhoda.
"Somebody that isn't used to handling the oars," said Molly. "And ifshe don't get a hole stove in--Glad 'tis no concern of mine!"
"How does Gatty now?" asked Rhoda.
"O she is very well, I thank you," replied Betty.
"Is she promised yet?"
"Dear, no," said Betty, in a pitying tone.
"Rank cruelty, only to think on it," said Molly. "She'll just come in,as pat as vinegar to lettuce, to keep you company in the Maidens' Lodge,my beloved Rhoda."
Rhoda's lip trembled slightly, but she asked, quietly enough--
"Which is the vinegar?"
Molly stood for a moment with her head on one side, contemplating Rhoda.
"Been putting sugar to it, Fib, haven't you? Well, 'tis mighty goodstuff to cure a cough."
"Phoebe," said her mother that evening, when prayers were over, "I wishto speak with you in my chamber before you go to yours."
Phoebe obeyed the order with a mixture of wonder and trepidation.
"My dear, I have good news for you. I have chosen your husband."
"Mother!"
"Pray, why not, my dear? 'Tis an ingenious young man, reasonablehandsome, and very suitable for age and conditions. I have not yetbroke the matter to him, but I cannot doubt of a favourable answer, forhe hath no fortune to speak of, and is like to be the more manageable,seeing all the money will come from you. You met with him, I believe,at Delawarr Court. His name is Derwent. I shall not write to him whilethese young gentlewomen are here, but directly they are gone: yet I wishto give you time to become used to it, and I name it thus early."
Phoebe felt any reply impossible.
"Good-night, my dear. I am sure you will like Mr Dement."
Phoebe went back along the gallery like one walking in a dream. How wasthis tangled skein ever to be unravelled? Had she any right to speak?had she any to keep silence? And a cry of "Teach me to do _Thy_ will!"went up beyond the stars. "I don't know what is right," said Phoebe,plaintively, to her own heart. "Lord, Thou knowest! Make Thy way plainbefore my face," It seemed to her that, knowing what she did, therewould be one thing more terrible than a refusal from Mr Derwent, andthat would be acceptance. It seemed impossible to pray for either. Shecould only put the case into God's hands, with the entreaty of Hezekiah:"O Lord, I am oppressed: undertake for me."
It did not make the matter any easier that, a few days later, Rhoda saidsuddenly, when she and Phoebe were alone, "Do you remember that MrDerwent who was at Delawarr Court?"
"Yes," said Phoebe, and said no more.
"Betty tells me she thought he had a liking for me."
Phoebe was silent. Would the actual question come?
"I wonder if it was true," said Rhoda.
Still Phoebe went on knitting in silence, with downcast eyes.
"I almost begin, Phoebe, to wish it had been, do you know? I liked himvery well. And--I want somebody to care for _me_."
"Yes, poor dear," said Phoebe, rising hurriedly. "Excuse me, I mustfetch more wool."
And she did not seem to hear Rhoda call after her--
"Why, Phoebe, here's your wool--a whole ball!"
"Pretty kettle of fish!" screamed the parrot.
Betty and Molly had gone home. Mr Onslow had read prayers, theservants were filing out of the room, and Rhoda was lighting thecandles.
"Well, my dear," asked Mrs Latrobe, looking up rather suddenly, "isyour decision taken?"
"It is, Madam," readily answered her niece.
"So much the better. What is it, my dear?"
"I should prefer to go to service, if you pleas
e, Madam."
"You would!" Mrs Latrobe's tone showed surprise. "Very well: Ipromised you your choice. As lady's woman, I suppose?"
"If you please, Madam."
"Certainly, my dear. It shall be as you wish. Then to-morrow I willbegin to look out for you. I should think I shall hear of a place in aweek or two."
Rhoda made no answer, but took up her candle, and departed with merely,"Good-night, Madam."
But as Phoebe went upstairs behind her, she noted Rhoda's bowed head,her hand tightly grasping the banisters, her drowning, farewell look atthe family portraits, as she passed them on her way up the corridor. Atlength she paused before three which hung together.
In the midst stood their grandmother, a handsome, haughty figure, takenat about the age of thirty; and on either side a daughter, at abouteighteen years of age. Rhoda lifted her light first to Madam's face.She said nothing to indicate her thoughts there, but passed on, andpaused for another minute before the pretty, sparkling face of AnneLatrobe. Then she came back, and raised the light, for a longer timethan either, to the pale, regular, unexpressive features of CatherinePeveril. Phoebe waited for her to speak. It came at last.
"I never knew her," said Rhoda, in a choked voice. "I wonder if _they_know what is happening on earth."
"I should not think so," answered Phoebe, softly.
"Well,--I hope not!"
The hand which held the lifted light came down, and Rhoda passed intoher own room, and at once knelt down to her prayers. Phoebe stoodirresolute, her heart beating like a hammer. An idea had occurred toher which, if it could be carried into effect, would help Rhoda out ofall her trouble. But in order to be so, it was necessary that sheherself must commit--in her own eyes--an act of unparalleled audacity.Could she do it? The minute seemed an hour. Phoebe heard her mother goupstairs, and shut her door. A rapid prayer went to God for wisdom.Her resolution grew stronger. She took up her candle, stole softlydownstairs, found the silver inkstand and the box of perfumedletter-paper. There were only a few words written when Phoebe had done.
"Sir,--If you were now to come hither. I thinke you wou'd win my cosen.A verie few dayes may be too late. Forgive the liberty I take.
"Yours to serve you, Phoebe Latrobe."
The letter was folded and directed to "_Mr_. Osmund Derwent, Esquire."And then, for one minute, human nature had its way, and Phoebe's headwas bowed over the folded note. There was no one to see her, and shelet her heart relieve itself in tears. Ay, there was One, who took noteof the self-abnegation which had been learned from Him. Phoebe knewthat Osmund Derwent did not love her. Yet was it the less hard on thataccount to resign him to Rhoda? For time and circumstances might haveshown him the comparatively alloyed metal of the one, and the pure goldof the other. He might have loved Phoebe, even yet, as matters stoodnow. But Phoebe's love was true. She was ready to secure his happinessat the cost of her own. It was not of that false, selfish kind whichseeks merely its own happiness in the beloved one, and will give himleave to be happy only in its own way. Yet, after all, Phoebe washuman; and some very sorrowful tears were shed, for a few minutes, overthat gift laid on the altar. Though the drops were salt, they would nottarnish the gold.
It was but for a few minutes that Phoebe dared to remain there. Shewiped her eyes and forced back her tears. Then she went upstairs andtapped at Betty's door.
"There's that worriting Sue," she heard Betty say inside; and then thedoor was opened. "Mrs Phoebe, my dear, I ask twenty pardons; I thought'twas that Sukey,--she always comes a-worriting. What can I do for you,my dear?"
"I want you to get that letter off first thing in the morning, Betty."
Betty turned the letter all ways, scanned the address, and inspected theseal.
"Mrs Phoebe, you'll not bear me malice, I hope. You know you're onlyyoung, my dear. Are you quite certain you'll never be sorry for thishere letter?"
"'Tis not what you think, Betty," said Phoebe with a smile on her palelips which had a good deal of sadness in it. "You are sorry for mycousin, I know. 'Twill be a kind act towards her, Betty, if you willsend that letter."
Betty looked into Phoebe's face so earnestly that she dropped her eyes.
"I see," said Mrs Latrobe's maid. "I'm not quiet a blind bat, MrsPhoebe. The letter shall go, my dear. Make your mind easy."
Yet Betty did not see all there was to be seen.
"Why, Phoebe!" exclaimed Rhoda, when she got back to the bedroom, "wherehave you been?"
"Downstairs."
"What had you to go down for? You forgot something, I suppose. Butwhat is the matter with your eyes?"
"They burn a little to-night, dear," said Phoebe, quietly.
The days went on, and there was no reply to Phoebe's audacious note, andthere was a reply to Mrs Latrobe's situation-hunting. She announced toRhoda on the ninth morning at breakfast that she had heard of anexcellent place for her. Lady Kitty Mainwaring the mother of MollyDelawarr's future husband, was on the look-out for a "woman." She hadthree daughters, the eldest of whom was the Kitty who had been atDelawarr Court. Rhoda would have to wait on these young ladies, as wellas their mother. It was a most eligible situation. Mrs Latrobe, onRhoda's behalf, had accepted it at once.
Rhoda sat playing with her tea-spoon, and making careful efforts tobalance it on the edge of her cup.
"Do they know who wants it?" she asked, in a husky voice.
"Of course, my dear! You did not look I should make any secret of it,sure?"
Rhoda's colour grew deeper. It was evident that she was engaged in amost severe struggle with herself. She looked up at last.
"Very good, Aunt Anne. I will go to Lady Kitty," she said.
"My dear, I accepted the place. Of course you will go," returned MrsLatrobe, in a voice of some astonishment.
Rhoda got out of the room at the earliest opportunity, and Phoebefollowed her as soon as she could. But she found her kneeling by herbed, and stole away again. Was chastening working the peaceable fruitof righteousness in Rhoda Peveril?
Phoebe wandered out into the park, and bent her steps towards the ruinsof the old church. She sat down at the foot of Saint Ursula's image,and tried to disentangle her bewildered thoughts. Had she made amistake in sending that letter, and did the Lord intend Rhoda to go toLady Kitty Mainwaring? Phoebe had been trying to lift her cousin out oftrouble. Was it God's plan to plunge Rhoda more deeply into it, inorder that she might learn her lesson the more thoroughly, and be themore truly happy afterwards? If so, Phoebe had made a stupid blunder.When would she learn that God did not need her bungling help? Yet, poorRhoda! How miserable she was likely to be! Phoebe buried her face inher hands, and did not see that some one had come in by a ruined window,and was standing close beside her on the grass.
"Mrs Phoebe, I owe you thanks unutterable," said a voice that Phoebeknew only too well.
Phoebe sprang up. "Have you seen her, Mr Derwent?"
"I have seen no one but you," said he, gravely.
They walked up to the house together, but there Phoebe left him andsought refuge in her bed-chamber.
"Phoebe, my dear, are you here?" said Mrs Latrobe, entering the roomhalf an hour later. "Child, did you not hear me call? I could notthink where you were, and I wished to have you come down. Why, onlythink!--all is changed about Rhoda, and she will not go to Lady Kitty.I am a little chagrined, I confess, on your account, my dear; however,it may be all for the best. 'Tis that same Mr Derwent I had heard of,and thought to obtain for you. Well! I am very pleased for Rhoda; 'tisquite as good, or better, than any thing she could expect; and I shalleasily meet with something else for you. So now, my dear Phoebe, whenshe is married, and all settled--for of course, now, I shall let herstay till she marries--then, child, the coast will be clear for you. Bythe way, you did not care any thing for him, I suppose?--and if you had,you would soon have got over it--all good girls do. Fetch me myknotting, Phoebe--'tis above in my chamber; or, if you meet Rhoda, sendher."
It was a subject of congratulation to Phoebe that one of Mrs Latrobe'speculiarities was to ask questions, and assume, without waiting for it,that the answer was according to her wishes. So she escaped a reply.
But there was one thing yet for Phoebe to bear, even worse than this.
"Phoebe, dear, dear Phoebe! I am so happy!" and Rhoda twined her armsround her cousin, and hid her bright face on Phoebe's shoulder. "Hesays he has loved me ever since we were at Delawarr. And I think I musthave loved him, just a little bit, without knowing it, or I could notlove him so much all at once now. I was trying very hard to make up mymind to Lady Kitty's service--that seemed to be what God had ordered forme; and I did ask Him, Phoebe, to give me patience, and make me willingto do His will. And only think--all the while He was preparing this forme! And I don't think, Phoebe, I should have cared for that--you knowwhat I mean--but for you--the patient, loving way you bore with me; andI haven't been kind to you, Fib--you know I haven't. Then I dare saythe troubles I've had helped a little. And Mr Derwent says he shouldnot have dared to come but for a little letter that you writ him. I oweyou all my happiness--my dear, good little Fib!"
Was it all pain she had to bear? Phoebe gave thanks that night.
Ten years had passed since Madam Furnival's death, and over White-Ladieswas a cloudless summer day. In the park, under the care of a governessand nurse, half a dozen children were playing; and under a spreadingtree on the lawn, with a book in her hand, sat a lady, whose likeness tothe children indicated her as their mother. In two of the cottages ofthe Maidens' Lodge that evening, tea-parties were the order of the day.In Number Four, Mrs Eleanor Darcy was entertaining Mrs Marcella Talbotand Mrs Clarissa Vane.
Mrs Marcella's health had somewhat improved of late, but herdisposition had not sustained a corresponding change. She was holdingforth now to her two listeners on matters public and private, to thegreat satisfaction of Mrs Clarissa, but not altogether to that of MrsEleanor.
"Well, so far as such a poor creature as I am can take any pleasure inany thing, I am glad to see Mrs Derwent back at White-Ladies. MrsPhoebe would never have kept up the place properly. She hasn't her poormother's spirit and working power--not a bit. The place would just havegone to wreck if she had remained mistress there; and I cannot but thinkshe was sensible of it."
"Well, for my part," put in Mrs Clarissa, "I feel absolutely certainsomething must have come to light about Madam's will, you know--whichpositively obliged Mrs Phoebe to give up everything to Madam Derwent.'Tis monstrous to suppose that she would have done any such thingwithout being obliged. I feel as sure as if I had _seen_ it."
"O my dear!" came in a gently deprecating tone from Mrs Eleanor.
"Oh, I am positive!" repeated Mrs Clarissa, whose mind possessed theodd power of forcing conviction on itself by simple familiarity with anidea. "Everything discovers so many symptoms of it. I cannot but beinfinitely certain. Down, Pug, down!" as Cupid's successor, which wasnot a dog, but a very small monkey, endeavoured to jump into her lap.
"Well, till I know the truth is otherwise, I shall give Mrs Phoebecredit for all," observed Mrs Eleanor.
"Indeed, I apprehend Clarissa has guessed rightly," said Mrs Marcella,fanning herself. "'Tis so unlikely, you know, for any one to do such athing as this, without it were either an obligation or a trick to winpraise. And I can't think _that_,--'tis too much."
"Nay, but surely there is some love and generosity left in the world,"urged Mrs Eleanor.
"Oh, if you had had my experience, my dear," returned Mrs Marcella,working her fan more vigorously, "you would know there were no suchthings to be looked for in _this_ world. I've looked for gratitude, Ican assure you, till I am tired."
"Gratitude for what?" inquired Mrs Darcy, rather pertinently.
"Oh, for all the things one does for people, you know. They are neverthankful for them--not one bit."
Mrs Darcy felt and looked rather puzzled. During the fifty years oftheir acquaintance, she never could remember to have seen MarcellaTalbot do one disinterested kindness to any mortal being.
"They take all you give them," pursued the last-named lady, "and thenthey just go and slander you behind your back. Oh, 'tis a miserableworld, this!--full of malice, envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness, asthe Prayer-Book says."
"The Prayer-Book does not exactly say that, I think," suggested MrsEleanor; "it asks that we ourselves may be preserved from such evilpassions."
"I am sure I wish people were preserved from them!" ejaculated MrsClarissa. "The uncharitableness, and misunderstanding, and unkind wordsthat people will allow themselves to use! 'Tis perfectly heartrendingto hear."
"Especially when one hears it of one's self," responded Mrs Eleanor alittle drily; adding, for she wished to give a turn to the conversation,"Did you hear the news Dr Saunders was telling yesterday? The Czar ofMuscovy offers to treat with King George, but as Elector of Hanoveronly."
"What, he has come thus far, has he?" replied Mrs Marcella. "Why, 'tisbut five or six years since he was ready to marry his daughter to thePretender, could they but have come to terms. Sure, King George willnever accept of such a thing as that?"
"I should think not, indeed!" added Mrs Clarissa. "Well, did he want abit of sugar, then?"
Pug held out his paw, and very decidedly intimated that he did.
"Mrs Leighton wants Pug; I shall give him to her," observed hismistress. "'Tis not quite so modish to keep monkeys as it was: I shallhave a squirrel."
"A bit more sugar?" asked Mrs Eleanor, addressing the monkey. "PoorPug!"
Next door but one, in the cottage formerly occupied by Lady BettyMorehurst, were also seated three ladies at tea. Presiding at thetable, in mourning dress, sat our old friend Phoebe. There was anexpression of placid content upon her lips, and a peaceful light in hereyes, which showed that whatever else she might be, she was not unhappy.On her left sat Mrs Jane Talbot, a little older looking, a little moresharp and angular; and on the right, apparently unchanged beyond aslight increase of infirmity, little Mrs Dorothy Jennings.
"What a pure snug [nice] room have you here!" said Mrs Jane, lookinground.
"'Tis very pleasant," said Phoebe, "and just what I like."
"Now, my dear, do you really mean to say you like this--better thanWhite-Ladies?"
"Indeed I do, Mrs Jane. It may seem a strange thing to you, but Icould never feel at home at the Abbey. It all seemed too big and grandfor a little thing like me."
"Well! I don't know," responded Mrs Jane, in that tone which peopleuse when they make that assertion as the prelude to the declaration of avery decisive opinion,--"_I_ don't know, but I reckon there's a prettydeal about you that's big and grand, my dear; and I'm mightily mistakenif Mr Derwent and Mrs Rhoda don't think the same."
"My dear Jane!" said Mrs Dorothy, with a twinkle of fun in her eyes."Mr and Madam Derwent Furnival, if you please."
"Oh, deary me!" ejaculated Mrs Jane. "Leave that stuff to you. Shecan call herself Madam Peveril-Plantagenet, if she likes. Make nodifference to me. Mrs Rhoda she was, and Mrs Rhoda I shall call herto the end of the chapter. Don't mean any disrespect, you know--quitethe contrary. Well, I'm sure I'm very glad to see her at White-Ladies;but, Mrs Phoebe, if it could have been managed, I should have liked youtoo."
"Thank you, Mrs Jane, but you see it couldn't."
"Well, I don't know. There was no need for you to come down to theMaidens' Lodge, without you liked. Couldn't you have kept rooms in theAbbey for yourself, and still have given all to your cousin?"
"I'd rather have this," said Phoebe, with a smile. "I am moreindependent, you see; and I have kept what my grandmother meant me tohave, so that, please God, I trust I shall never want, and can stillhelp my friends when they need it. I can walk in the park, and enjoythe gardens, just as well as ever; and Rhoda will be glad to see me, Iknow, any time when I want a chat with her."
"I should think so, indeed!" cried Mrs Jane. "Most thankless woman inth
e world if she wasn't."
"Oh, don't say that! You know I could not have done anything else,knowing what Madam intended, when things came to me."
"You did the right thing, dear child," said Mrs Dorothy, quietly, "asGod's children should. He knew when to put the power in your hands. IfMadam Derwent had come to White-Ladies ten years ago, she wouldn't havemade as good use of it as she will now. She was not ready for it. AndI'm mistaken if you are not happier, Phoebe, in the Maidens' Lodge, thanyou ever would have been if you had kept White-Ladies."
"I am sure of that," said Phoebe. "Well, but she didn't need have comedown thus far!" reiterated Mrs Jane.
"She is the servant of One who came down very far, dear Jane," gentlyanswered Mrs Dorothy, "that we through His poverty might be rich."
"Well, it looks like it," replied Mrs Jane, with a little tell-talehuskiness in her voice. "Mrs Phoebe, my dear, do you remember mysaying, when Madam died, to you and Mrs Rhoda, that I'd tell you tenyears after, which I was sorry for?" Phoebe smiled an affirmative."Well, I'm not over sorry for either of you; but, at any rate, not for_you_."
"The light has come back to thine eyes; dear child, and the peace," saidold Mrs Dorothy. "Ah, folks don't always know what is the hardest togive up."
And Phoebe, looking up with startled eyes, saw that Mrs Dorothy hadguessed her secret. She went to the fire for fresh water from thekettle. Her face was as calm as usual when she returned. Softly shesaid,--
"`Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger.'"
THE END.
The Maidens' Lodge; or, None of Self and All of Thee Page 11