_PHEBE._
While Rose was making discoveries and having experiences, Phebe was
doing the same in a quieter way: but, though they usually compared
notes during the bedtime _tête-à-tête_ which always ended their day,
certain topics were never mentioned; so each had a little world of her
own into which even the eye of friendship did not peep.
Rose's life just now was the gayest, but Phebe's the happiest. Both
went out a good deal; for the beautiful voice was welcomed everywhere,
and many were ready to patronize the singer who would have been slow
to recognize the woman. Phebe knew this, and made no attempt to assert
herself; content to know that those whose regard she valued felt her
worth, and hopeful of a time when she could gracefully take the place
she was meant to fill.
Proud as a princess was Phebe about some things, though in most as
humble as a child; therefore, when each year lessened the service she
loved to give, and increased the obligations she would have refused
from any other source, dependence became a burden which even the most
fervent gratitude could not lighten. Hitherto the children had gone on
together, finding no obstacles to their companionship in the secluded
world in which they lived: now that they were women their paths
inevitably diverged, and both reluctantly felt that they must part
before long.
It had been settled, when they went abroad, that on their return Phebe
should take her one gift in her hand, and try her fortunes. On no
other terms would she accept the teaching which was to fit her for the
independence she desired. Faithfully had she used the facilities so
generously afforded both at home and abroad, and now was ready to
prove that they had not been in vain. Much encouraged by the small
successes she won in drawing-rooms, and the praise bestowed by
interested friends, she began to feel that she might venture on a
larger field, and begin her career as a concert singer; for she aimed
no higher.
Just at this time, much interest was felt in a new asylum for orphan
girls, which could not be completed for want of funds. The Campbells
"well had borne their part," and still labored to accomplish the
much-needed charity. Several fairs had been given for this purpose,
followed by a series of concerts. Rose had thrown herself into the
work with all her heart, and now proposed that Phebe should make her
_début_ at the last concert which was to be a peculiarly interesting
one, as all the orphans were to be present, and were expected to plead
their own cause by the sight of their innocent helplessness, as well
as touch hearts by the simple airs they were to sing.
Some of the family thought Phebe would object to so humble a
beginning: but Rose knew her better, and was not disappointed; for,
when she made her proposal, Phebe answered readily,--
"Where could I find a fitter time and place to come before the public
than here among my little sisters in misfortune? I'll sing for them
with all my heart: only I must be one of them, and have no flourish
made about me."
"You shall arrange it as you like; and, as there is to be little vocal
music but yours and the children's, I'll see that you have every thing
as you please," promised Rose.
It was well she did; for the family got much excited over the prospect
of "our Phebe's _début_," and _would_ have made a flourish if the
girls had not resisted. Aunt Clara was in despair about the dress;
because Phebe decided to wear a plain claret-colored merino with
frills at neck and wrists, so that she might look as much as possible,
like the other orphans in their stuff gowns and white aprons. Aunt
Plenty wanted to have a little supper afterward in honor of the
occasion; but Phebe begged her to change it to a Christmas dinner for
the poor children. The boys planned to throw bushels of flowers, and
Charlie claimed the honor of leading the singer in. But Phebe, with
tears in her eyes, declined their kindly offers, saying earnestly,--
"I had better begin as I am to go on, and depend upon myself entirely.
Indeed, Mr. Charlie, I'd rather walk in alone; for you'd be out of
place among us, and spoil the pathetic effect we wish to produce,"
and a smile sparkled through the tears, as Phebe looked at the piece
of elegance before her, and thought of the brown gowns and pinafores.
So, after much discussion, it was decided that she should have her way
in all things, and the family content themselves with applauding from
the front.
"We'll blister our hands every man of us, and carry you home in a
chariot and four: see if we don't, you perverse prima donna!"
threatened Steve, not at all satisfied with the simplicity of the
affair.
"A chariot and two will be very acceptable as soon as I'm done. I
shall be quite steady till my part is all over, and then I may feel a
little upset; so I'd like to get away before the confusion begins.
Indeed I don't mean to be perverse: but you are all so kind to me, my
heart is full whenever I think of it; and that wouldn't do if I'm to
sing," said Phebe, dropping one of the tears on the little frill she
was making.
No diamond could have adorned it better Archie thought, as he watched
it shine there for a moment; and felt like shaking Steve for daring to
pat the dark head with an encouraging,--
"All right. I'll be on hand, and whisk you away while the rest are
splitting their gloves. No fear of your breaking down. If you feel the
least bit like it, though, just look at me; and I'll glare at you and
shake my fist, since kindness upsets you."
"I wish you would, because one of my ballads is rather touching, and
I always want to cry when I sing it. The sight of you trying to glare
will make me want to laugh, and that will steady me nicely: so sit in
front, please, ready to slip out when I come off the last time."
"Depend upon me!" And the little man departed, taking great credit to
himself for his influence over tall, handsome Phebe.
If he had known what was going on in the mind of the silent young
gentleman behind the newspaper, Steve would have been much astonished;
for Archie, though apparently engrossed by business, was fathoms deep
in love by this time. No one suspected this but Rose; for he did his
wooing with his eyes, and only Phebe knew how eloquent they could be.
He had discovered what the matter was long ago,--had made many
attempts to reason himself out of it; but, finding it a hopeless task,
had given up trying, and let himself drift deliciously. The knowledge
that the family would not approve only seemed to add ardor to his love
and strength to his purpose: for the same energy and persistence which
he brought to business went into every thing he did; and, having once
made up his mind to marry Phebe, nothing could change his plan except
a word from her.
He watched and waited for three months, so that he might not be
accused of precipitation, though it did not take him one to decide
that this was the woman to make him happy. Her steadfast nature;
quiet, busy ways; and the reserved power and passion betrayed
sometimes by a flash of the black eyes, a quiver of the firm
lips,--suited Archie, who possessed many of the same attributes
himself: while the obscurity of her birth and isolation of her lot,
which would have deterred some lovers, not only appealed to his kindly
heart, but touched the hidden romance which ran like a vein of gold
through his strong common-sense, and made practical, steady-going
Archie a poet when he fell in love. If Uncle Mac had guessed what
dreams and fancies went on in the head bent over his ledgers, and what
emotions were fermenting in the bosom of his staid "right-hand man,"
he would have tapped his forehead, and suggested a lunatic asylum. The
boys thought Archie had sobered down too soon. His mother began to
fear that the air of the counting-room did not suit him: and Dr. Alec
was deluded into the belief that the fellow really began to "think of
Rose;" he came so often in the evening, seeming quite contented to sit
beside her work-table, and snip tape, or draw patterns, while they
chatted.
No one observed that, though he talked to Rose on these occasions, he
looked at Phebe, in her low chair close by, busy but silent; for she
always tried to efface herself when Rose was near, and often mourned
that she was too big to keep out of sight. No matter what he talked
about, Archie always saw the glossy black braids on the other side of
the table, the damask cheek curving down into the firm white throat,
and the dark lashes, lifted now and then, showing eyes so deep and
soft he dared not look into them long. Even the swift needle charmed
him, the little brooch which rose and fell with her quiet breath, the
plain work she did, and the tidy way she gathered her bits of thread
into a tiny bag. He seldom spoke to her; never touched her basket,
though he ravaged Rose's if he wanted string or scissors; very rarely
ventured to bring her some curious or pretty thing when ships came in
from China: only sat and thought of her; imagined that this was _his_
parlor, this _her_ work-table, and they two sitting there alone a
happy man and wife.
At this stage of the little evening drama, he would be conscious of
such a strong desire to do something rash that he took refuge in a new
form of intoxication, and proposed music, sometimes so abruptly that
Rose would pause in the middle of a sentence and look at him,
surprised to meet a curiously excited look in the usually cool, gray
eyes.
Then Phebe, folding up her work, would go to the piano, as if glad to
find a vent for the inner life which she seemed to have no power of
expressing except in song. Rose would follow to accompany her; and
Archie, moving to a certain shady corner whence he could see Phebe's
face as she sang, would give himself up to unmitigated rapture for
half an hour. Phebe never sang so well as at such times: for the
kindly atmosphere was like sunshine to a bird, criticisms were few
and gentle, praises hearty and abundant; and she poured out her soul
as freely as a spring gushes up when its hidden source is full.
Always comely, with a large and wholesome growth, in moments such as
these Phebe was beautiful with the beauty that makes a man's eye
brighten with honest admiration, and thrills his heart with a sense of
womanly nobility and sweetness. Little wonder, then, that the chief
spectator of this agreeable tableau grew nightly more enamoured; and,
while the elders were deep in whist, the young people were playing
that still more absorbing game in which hearts are always trumps.
Rose, having Dummy for a partner, soon discovered the fact, and lately
had begun to feel as she fancied Wall must have done when Pyramus
wooed Thisbe through its chinks. She was a little startled at first,
then amused, then anxious, then heartily interested, as every woman is
in such affairs, and willingly continued to be a medium, though
sometimes she quite tingled with the electricity which seemed to
pervade the air. She said nothing, waiting for Phebe to speak; but
Phebe was silent, seeming to doubt the truth, till doubt became
impossible, then to shrink as if suddenly conscious of wrong-doing,
and seize every possible pretext for absenting herself from the
"girls' corner," as the pretty recess was called.
The concert plan afforded excellent opportunities for doing this; and
evening after evening she slipped away to practise her songs
upstairs, while Archie sat staring disconsolately at the neglected
work-basket and mute piano. Rose pitied him, and longed to say a word
of comfort, but felt shy,--he was such a reserved fellow,--so left him
to conduct his quiet wooing in his own way, feeling that the crisis
would soon arrive.
She was sure of this, as she sat beside him on the evening of the
concert; for while the rest of the family nodded and smiled, chatted
and laughed in great spirits, Archie was as mute as a fish, and sat
with his arms tightly folded, as if to keep in any unruly emotions
which might attempt to escape. He never looked at the programme; but
Rose knew when Phebe's turn came by the quick breath he drew, and the
intent look that came into his eyes so absent before.
But her own excitement prevented much notice of his; for Rose was in a
flutter of hope and fear, sympathy and delight, about Phebe and her
success. The house was crowded; the audience sufficiently mixed to
make the general opinion impartial; and the stage full of little
orphans with shining faces, a most effective reminder of the object in
view.
"Little dears, how nice they look!" "Poor things, so young to be
fatherless and motherless." "It will be a disgrace to the city, if
those girls are not taken proper care of." "Subscriptions are always
in order, you know; and pretty Miss Campbell will give you her
sweetest smile if you hand her a handsome check." "I've heard this
Phebe Moore, and she really has a delicious voice: such a pity she
won't fit herself for opera!" "Only sings three times to-night; that's
modest I'm sure, when she is the chief attraction; so we must give her
an encore after the Italian piece." "The orphans lead off, I see: stop
your ears if you like; but don't fail to applaud, or the ladies will
never forgive you."
Chat of this sort went on briskly, while fans waved, programmes
rustled, and ushers flew about distractedly; till an important
gentleman appeared, made his bow, skipped upon the leader's stand, and
with a wave of his bâton caused a general uprising of white pinafores,
as the orphans led off with that much-enduring melody, "America," in
shrill small voices, but with creditable attention to time and tune.
Pity and patriotism produced a generous round of applause; and the
little girls sat down, beaming with innocent satisfaction.
An instrumental piece followed, and then a youthful gentleman, with
his hair in picturesque confusion, and what his friends called a
"musical brow," bounded up the steps, and, clutching a roll of music
with a pair of tightly gloved hands, proceeded to inform the audience,
in a husky tenor voice, that
"It was a lovely violet."
What else the song contained in the way of sense or sentiment it was
impossible to discover; as the three pages of music appeared to
consist of variations upon that one line, ending with a prolonged
quaver, which flushed the musical brow, and left the youth quite
breathless when he made his bow.
"Now she's coming! O uncle, my heart beats as if it was myself!"
whispered Rose, clutching Dr. Alec's arm with a little gasp, as the
piano was rolled forward, the leader's stand pushed back, and all eyes
turned toward the anteroom door.
She forgot to glance at Archie, and it was as well perhaps; for his
heart was thumping almost audibly, as he waited for his Phebe. Not
from the anteroom, but out from among the children, where she had sat
unseen in the shadow of the organ, came stately Phebe in her
wine-colored dress, with no ornament but her fine hair and a white
flower at her throat. Very pale, but quite composed, apparently; for
she stepped slowly through the narrow lane of upturned faces, holding
back her skirts, lest they should rudely brush against some little
head. Straight to the front she went, bowed hastily, and, with a
gesture to the accompanist, stood waiting to begin, her eyes fixed on
the great gilt clock at the opposite end of the hall.
They never wandered from that point while she sung; but, as she ended,
they dropped for an instant on an eager, girlish countenance, bending
from a front seat; then, with her hasty little bow, she went quickly
back among the children, who clapped and nodded as she passed, well
pleased with the ballad she had sung.
Every one courteously followed their example; but there was no
enthusiasm, and it was evident that Phebe had not produced a
particularly favorable impression.
"Never sang so badly in her life," muttered Charlie, irefully.
"She was frightened, poor thing. Give her time, give her time," said
Uncle Mac, kindly.
"I saw she was, and I glared like a gorgon, but she never looked at
me," added Steve, smoothing his gloves and his brows at the same time.
"That first song was the hardest, and she got through much better than
I expected," put in Dr. Alec, bound not to show the disappointment he
felt.
"Don't be troubled. Phebe has courage enough for any thing, and she'll
astonish you before the evening's over," prophesied Mac, with unabated
confidence; for he knew something that the rest did not.
Rose said nothing, but, under cover of her burnous, gave Archie's hand
a sympathetic squeeze; for his arms were unfolded now, as if the
strain was over, and one lay on his knee, while with the other he
wiped his hot forehead with an air of relief.
Friends about them murmured complimentary fibs, and affected great
delight and surprise at Miss Moore's "charming style," "exquisite
simplicity," and "undoubted talent." But strangers freely criticised,
and Rose was so indignant at some of their remarks she could not
listen to any thing upon the stage, though a fine overture was played,
a man with a remarkable bass voice growled and roared melodiously,
and the orphans sang a lively air with a chorus of "Tra, la, la,"
which was a great relief to little tongues unused to long silence.
"I've often heard that women's tongues were hung in the middle and
went at both ends: now I'm sure of it," whispered Charlie, trying to
cheer her up by pointing out the comical effect of some seventy-five
open mouths, in each of which the unruly member was wagging briskly.
Rose laughed and let him fan her, leaning from his seat behind with
the devoted air he always assumed in public; but her wounded feelings
were not soothed, and she continued to frown at the stout man on the
left, who had dared to say with a shrug and a glance at Phebe's next
piece, "That young woman can no more sing this Italian thing than she
can fly, and they ought not to let her attempt it."
Phebe did, however; and suddenly changed the stout man's opinion by
singing it grandly; for the consciousness of her first failure pricked
her pride and spurred her to do her best with the calm sort of
determination which conquers fear, fires ambition, and changes defeat
to success. She looked steadily at Rose now, or the flushed, intent
face beside her; and throwing all her soul into the task let her voice
ring out like a silver clarion, filling the great hall and setting the
hearers' blood a-tingle with the exulting strain.
That settled Phebe's fate as cantatrice; for the applause was genuine
and spontaneous this time, and broke out again and again with the
generous desire to atone for former coldness. But she would not
return, and the shadow of the great organ seemed to have swallowed her
up; for no eye could find her, no pleasant clamor win her back.
"Now I can die content," said Rose, beaming with heart-felt
satisfaction; while Archie looked steadfastly at his programme, trying
to keep his face in order, and the rest of the family assumed a
triumphant air, as if _they_ had never doubted from the first.
"Very well, indeed," said the stout man, with an approving nod. "Quite
promising for a beginner. Shouldn't wonder if in time they made a
second Cary or Kellogg of her."
"Now you'll forgive him, won't you?" murmured Charlie, in his cousin's
ear.
"Yes; and I'd like to pat him on the head. But take warning and never
judge by first appearances again," whispered Rose, at peace now with
all mankind.
Phebe's last song was another ballad; for she meant to devote her
talent to that much neglected but always attractive branch of her art.
It was a great surprise, therefore, to all but one person in the hall,
when, instead of singing "Auld Robin Grey," she placed herself at the
piano, and, with a smiling glance over her shoulder at the children,
broke out in the old bird-song which first won Rose. But the
chirping, twittering, and cooing were now the burden to three verses
of a charming little song, full of spring-time and the awakening life
that makes it lovely. A rippling accompaniment flowed through it all,
and a burst of delighted laughter from the children filled up the
first pause with a fitting answer to the voices that seemed calling to
them from the vernal woods.
It was very beautiful, and novelty lent its charm to the surprise; for
art and nature worked a pretty miracle, and the clever imitation,
first heard from a kitchen hearth, now became the favorite in a
crowded concert room. Phebe was quite herself again; color in the
cheeks now; eyes that wandered smiling to and fro; and lips that sang
as gaily and far more sweetly than when she kept time to her blithe
music with a scrubbing brush.
This song was evidently intended for the children, and they
appreciated the kindly thought; for, as Phebe went back among them,
they clapped ecstatically, flapped their pinafores, and some caught
her by the skirts with audible requests to "do it again, please; do it
again."
But Phebe shook her head and vanished; for it was getting late for
such small people, several of whom "lay sweetly slumbering there,"
till roused by the clamor round them. The elders, however, were not to
be denied, and applauded persistently, especially Aunt Plenty, who
seized Uncle Mac's cane and pounded with it as vigorously as "Mrs.
Nubbles" at the play.
"Never mind your gloves, Steve; keep it up till she comes," cried
Charlie, enjoying the fun like a boy; while Jamie lost his head with
excitement, and standing up called "Phebe! Phebe!" in spite of his
mother's attempts to silence him.
Even the stout man clapped, and Rose could only laugh delightedly as
she turned to look at Archie, who seemed to have let himself loose at
last, and was stamping with a dogged energy funny to see.
So Phebe had to come, and stood there meekly bowing, with a moved look
on her face, that showed how glad and grateful she was, till a sudden
hush came; then, as if inspired by the memory of the cause that
brought her there, she looked down into the sea of friendly faces
before her, with no trace of fear in her own, and sung the song that
never will grow old.
That went straight to the hearts of those who heard her: for there was
something inexpressibly touching in the sight of this sweet-voiced
woman singing of home for the little creatures who were homeless; and
Phebe made her tuneful plea irresistible by an almost involuntary
gesture of the hands which had hung loosely clasped before her; till,
with the last echo of the beloved word, they fell apart and were
half-out-stretched as if pleading to be filled.
It was the touch of nature that works wonders; for it made full purses
suddenly weigh heavily in pockets slow to open, brought tears to eyes
unused to weep, and caused that group of red-gowned girls to grow
very pathetic in the sight of fathers and mothers who had left little
daughters safe asleep at home. This was evident from the stillness
that remained unbroken for an instant after Phebe ended; and before
people could get rid of their handkerchiefs she would have been gone,
if the sudden appearance of a mite in a pinafore, climbing up the
stairs from the anteroom, with a great bouquet grasped in both hands,
had not arrested her.
Up came the little creature, intent on performing the mission for
which rich bribes of sugar-plums had been promised, and trotting
bravely across the stage, she held up the lovely nosegay, saying in
her baby voice, "Dis for you, ma'am;" then, startled by the sudden
outburst of applause, she hid her face in Phebe's gown, and began to
sob with fright.
An awkward minute for poor Phebe; but she showed unexpected presence
of mind, and left behind her a pretty picture of the oldest and the
youngest orphan, as she went quickly down the step, smiling over the
great bouquet with the baby on her arm.
Nobody minded the closing piece; for people began to go, sleepy
children to be carried off, and whispers grew into a buzz of
conversation. In the general confusion, Rose looked to see if Steve
had remembered his promise to help Phebe slip away before the rush
began. No, there he was putting on Kitty's cloak, quite oblivious of
any other duty; and, fuming to ask Archie to hurry out, Rose found
that he had already vanished, leaving his gloves behind him.
"Have you lost any thing?" asked Dr. Alec, catching a glimpse of her
face.
"No, sir, I've found something," she whispered back, giving him the
gloves to pocket along with her fan and glass, adding hastily as the
concert ended, "Please, uncle, tell them all not to come with us.
Phebe has had enough excitement, and ought to rest."
Rose's word was law to the family in all things concerning Phebe. So
word was passed that there were to be no congratulations till
to-morrow, and Dr. Alec got his party off as soon as possible. But all
the way home, while he and Aunt Plenty were prophesying a brilliant
future for the singer, Rose sat rejoicing over the happy present of
the woman. She was sure that Archie had spoken, and imagined the whole
scene with feminine delight,--how tenderly he had asked the momentous
question, how gratefully Phebe had given the desired reply, and now
how both were enjoying that delicious hour which Rose had been given
to understand never came but once. Such a pity to shorten it, she
thought; and begged her uncle to go home the longest way: the night
was so mild, the moonlight so clear, and herself so in need of fresh
air after the excitement of the evening.
"I thought you would want to rush into Phebe's arms the instant she
got done," said Aunt Plenty, innocently wondering at the whims girls
took into their heads.
"So I should if I consulted my own wishes; but as Phebe asked to be
let alone I want to gratify her," answered Rose, making the best
excuse she could.
"A little piqued," thought the doctor, fancying he understood the
case.
As the old lady's rheumatism forbade their driving about till
midnight, home was reached much too soon, Rose thought, and tripped
away to warn the lovers the instant she entered the house. But study,
parlor, and boudoir were empty; and, when Jane appeared with cake and
wine, she reported that "Miss Phebe went right upstairs, and wished to
be excused, please, being very tired."
"That isn't at all like Phebe: I hope she isn't ill," began Aunt
Plenty, sitting down to toast her feet.
"She may be a little hysterical; for she is a proud thing, and
represses her emotions as long as she can. I'll step up and see if she
doesn't need a soothing draught of some sort," and Dr. Alec threw off
his coat as he spoke.
"No, no, she's only tired. I'll run up to her: she won't mind me; and
I'll report if any thing is amiss."
Away went Rose, quite trembling with suspense; but Phebe's door was
shut, no light shone underneath, and no sound came from the room
within. She tapped, and, receiving no answer, went on to her own
chamber, thinking to herself,--
"Love always makes people queer, I've heard; so I suppose they settled
it all in the carriage, and the dear thing ran away to think about her
happiness alone. I'll not disturb her. Why, Phebe!" added Rose,
surprised; for, entering her room, there was the cantatrice, busy
about the nightly services she always rendered her little mistress.
"I'm waiting for you, dear. Where have you been so long?" asked Phebe,
poking the fire as if anxious to get some color into cheeks that were
unnaturally pale.
The instant she spoke, Rose knew that something was wrong, and a
glance at her face confirmed the fear. It was like a dash of cold
water, and quenched her happy fancies in a moment; but being a
delicate-minded girl she respected Phebe's mood, and asked no
questions, made no comments, and left her friend to speak or be silent
as she chose.
"I was so excited I would take a turn in the moonlight to calm my
nerves. O dearest Phebe, I am _so_ glad, so proud, so full of wonder
at your courage and skill and sweet ways altogether, that I cannot
half tell you how I love and honor you!" she cried, kissing the white
cheeks with such tender warmth they could not help glowing faintly, as
Phebe held her little mistress close, sure that nothing could disturb
this innocent affection.
"It is all your work, dear; because but for you I might still be
scrubbing floors, and hardly dare to dream of any thing like this,"
she said, in her old grateful way; but in her voice there was a thrill
of something deeper than gratitude, and at the last two words her
head went up with a gesture of soft pride as if it had been newly
crowned.
Rose heard and saw and guessed the meaning of both tone and gesture;
feeling that her Phebe deserved both the singer's laurel and the
bride's myrtle wreath. But she only looked up, saying very
wistfully,--
"Then it _has_ been a happy night for you as well as for us."
"The happiest of my life, and the hardest," answered Phebe briefly, as
she looked away from the questioning eyes.
"You should have let us come nearer and help you through. I'm afraid
you are very proud, my Jenny Lind."
"I have to be; for sometimes I feel as if I had nothing else to keep
me up." She stopped short there, fearing that her voice would prove
traitorous if she went on. In a moment, she asked in a tone that was
almost hard,--
"You think I did well to-night?"
"They all think so, and were so delighted they wanted to come in a
body and tell you so; but I sent them home, because I knew you'd be
tired out. Perhaps I ought not to have done it, and you'd rather have
had a crowd about you than just me?"
"It was the kindest thing you ever did, and what could I like better
than 'just you,' my darling?"
Phebe seldom called her that, and when she did her heart was in the
little word, making it so tender that Rose thought it the sweetest in
the world, next to Uncle Alec's "my little girl." Now it was almost
passionate, and Phebe's face grew rather tragical as she looked down
at Rose. It was impossible to seem unconscious any longer, and Rose
said, caressing Phebe's cheek, which burned with a feverish color
now,--
"Then don't shut me out if you have a trouble; but let me share it as
I let you share all mine."
"I will! Little mistress, I've got to go away, sooner even than we
planned."
"Why, Phebe?"
"Because--Archie loves me."
"That's the very reason you should stay and make him happy."
"Not if it caused dissension in the family, and you know it would."
Rose opened her lips to deny this impetuously, but checked herself and
answered honestly,--
"Uncle and I would be heartily glad; and I'm sure Aunt Jessie never
could object, if you loved Archie as he does you."
"She has other hopes, I think; and kind as she is it _would_ be a
disappointment if he brought me home. She is right; they all are, and
I alone am to blame. I should have gone long ago: I knew I should; but
it was so pleasant I couldn't bear to go away alone."
"I kept you, and I am to blame if any one; but indeed, dear Phebe, I
cannot see why you should care even if Aunt Myra croaks, and Aunt
Clara exclaims, or Aunt Jane makes disagreeable remarks. Be happy,
and never mind them," cried Rose; so much excited by all this that she
felt the spirit of revolt rise up within her, and was ready to defy
even that awe-inspiring institution "the family" for her friend's
sake.
But Phebe shook her head with a sad smile; and answered, still with
the hard tone in her voice as if forcing back all emotion that she
might see her duty clearly,--
"_You_ could do that, but _I_ never can. Answer me this, Rose, and
answer truly as you love me. If you had been taken into a house, a
friendless, penniless, forlorn girl, and for years been heaped with
benefits, trusted, taught, loved, and made, oh, so happy! could you
think it right to steal away something that these good people valued
very much? To have them feel that you had been ungrateful, had
deceived them, and meant to thrust yourself into a high place not fit
for you; when they had been generously helping you in other ways, far
more than you deserved. Could you then say as you do now, 'Be happy
and never mind them'?"
Phebe held Rose by the shoulders now, and searched her face so keenly
that the other shrunk a little; for the black eyes were full of fire,
and there was something almost grand about this girl who seemed
suddenly to have become a woman. There was no need of words to answer
the questions so swiftly asked; for Rose put herself in Phebe's place
in the drawing of a breath, and her own pride made her truthfully
reply,--
"No: I could not!"
"I knew you'd say that, and help me do my duty;" and all the coldness
melted out of Phebe's manner, as she hugged her little mistress close,
feeling the comfort of sympathy even through the blunt sincerity of
Rose's words.
"I will if I know how. Now come and tell me all about it;" and,
seating herself in the great chair which had often held them both,
Rose stretched out her hands as if glad and ready to give help of any
sort.
But Phebe would not take her accustomed place; for, as if coming to
confession, she knelt down upon the rug, and, leaning on the arm of
the chair, told her love-story in the simplest words.
"I never thought he cared for me until a little while ago. I fancied
it was you, and even when I knew he liked to hear me sing I supposed
it was because you helped; and so I did my best, and was glad you were
to be a happy girl. But his eyes told the truth; then I saw what I had
been doing, and was frightened. He did not speak; so I believed, what
is quite true, that he felt I was not a fit wife for him, and would
never ask me. It was right: I was glad of it, yet I _was_ proud; and,
though I did not ask or hope for any thing, I did want him to see that
I respected myself, remembered my duty, and could do right as well as
he. I kept away; I planned to go as soon as possible, and resolved
that at this concert I would do so well he should not be ashamed of
poor Phebe and her one gift."
"It was this that made you so strange, then; preferring to go alone,
and refusing every little favor at our hands?" asked Rose, feeling
very sure now about the state of Phebe's heart.
"Yes; I wanted to do every thing myself, and not owe one jot of my
success, if I had any, to even the dearest friend I've got. It was bad
and foolish of me, and I was punished by that first dreadful failure.
I was so frightened, Rose! My breath was all gone, my eyes so dizzy I
could hardly see, and that great crowd of faces seemed so near I dared
not look. If it had not been for the clock, I never should have got
through; and when I did, not knowing in the least how I'd sung, one
look at your distressed face told me that I'd failed."
"But I smiled, Phebe,--indeed I did,--as sweetly as I could; for I was
sure it was only fright," protested Rose, eagerly.
"So you did: but the smile was full of pity, not of pride, as I wanted
it to be; and I rushed into a dark place behind the organ, feeling
ready to kill myself. How angry and miserable I was! I set my teeth,
clenched my hands, and vowed that I would do well next time, or never
sing another note. I was quite desperate when my turn came, and felt
as if I could do almost any thing; for I remembered that _he_ was
there. I'm not sure how it was, but it seemed as if I was all voice;
for I let myself go, trying to forget every thing except that two
people must _not_ be disappointed, though I died when the song was
done."
"O Phebe, it was splendid! I nearly cried, I was so proud and glad to
see you do yourself justice at last."
"And he?" whispered Phebe, with her face half hidden on the arm of the
chair.
"Said not a word: but I saw his lips tremble and his eyes shine; and I
knew he was the happiest creature there, because _I_ was sure he did
think you fit to be his wife, and did mean to speak very soon."
Phebe made no answer for a moment, seeming to forget the small success
in the greater one which followed, and to comfort her sore heart with
the knowledge that Rose was right.
"_He_ sent the flowers; _he_ came for me, and, on the way home, showed
me how wrong I had been to doubt him for an hour. Don't ask me to tell
that part, but be sure _I_ was the happiest creature in the world
then." And Phebe hid her face again, all wet with tender tears, that
fell soft and sudden as a summer shower.
Rose let them flow undisturbed, while she silently caressed the bent
head; wondering, with a wistful look in her own wet eyes, what this
mysterious passion was, which could so move, ennoble, and beautify the
beings whom it blessed.
An impertinent little clock upon the chimney-piece striking eleven
broke the silence, and reminded Phebe that she could not indulge in
love-dreams there. She started up, brushed off her tears, and said
resolutely,--
"That is enough for to-night. Go happily to bed, and leave the
troubles for to-morrow."
"But, Phebe, I must know what you said," cried Rose, like a child
defrauded of half its bedtime story.
"I said 'No.'"
"Ah! but it will change to 'Yes' by and by; I'm sure of that: so I'll
let you go to dream of 'him.' The Campbells _are_ rather proud of
being descendants of Robert Bruce; but they have common-sense and love
you dearly, as you'll see to-morrow."
"Perhaps." And, with a good-night kiss, poor Phebe went away, to lie
awake till dawn.