"Her glorious line has passed away--
The wild dream of a by-gone day!
We know not from what throne she sprang,
Britain is silent in her song--"
"What's the matter?" asked Rhoda, interrupting herself.
"I ask your pardon," said Phoebe again. "But--will _song_ do with
_sprang_? And if Ursula was a real person, as I thought she had been,
she wasn't a wild dream, was she?"
"Phoebe, I do believe you haven't a bit of taste!" said Rhoda. "I'll
try you with one more verse, and then--
"O wake her not! Ages have passed
Since her fair eyelids closed at last."
"I should think, then, you would find it difficult to wake her,"
remarked Phoebe: but Rhoda went on as if she had not heard it,--
"For twice six hundred years, 'tis said,
Hath rested 'neath yon tomb her head,--
That head which soft reposed of old
On couch of satin and of gold."
"Dear!" was Phoebe's comment. "I didn't know they had satin sofas
twelve hundred years ago."
"'Tis no earthly use reading poetry to you!" exclaimed Rhoda, throwing
down the book. "You haven't one bit of feeling for it, no more than if
it were a sermon I was reading! Tie your hood on, and make haste, and
we'll go and see the Maidens."
Phoebe seemed rather troubled to have annoyed her cousin, though she
evidently did not perceive how it had been effected. The girls tied on
their hoods, and Rhoda, who was not really ill-natured, soon recovered
herself when she got into the fresh air.
"Now, while we are going across the Park," she said, "I will tell you
something about the old gentlewomen. I couldn't this morning, you know,
more than their names, because there was Madam listening. But now,
hark! Mrs Dolly Jennings--the one who came in first, you know, and sat
over against Lady Betty--I don't know what kin she is, but there is some
kin between her and the Duchess of Marlborough. She is the oldest of
the Maidens, and the best one to tell a story--except she falls to
preaching, and then 'tis tiresome. Do you like sermons, Phoebe?"
"It all depends who preaches them," said Phoebe.
"Well, of course it does," said Rhoda. "I don't like anyone but Dr
Harris--he has such white hands!"
"He does not preach about them, does he?" said Phoebe, apparently
puzzled as to the connection.
"Oh, he nourishes them about, and discovers so many elegancies!"
answered Rhoda.
"But how does that make him preach better?"
"Why, Phoebe, how stupid you are! But you must not interrupt me in that
way, or I shall never be done. Mrs Dolly, you see, is seventy or more;
and in her youth she was in the great world. So she has all manner of
stories, and she'll always tell them when you ask her. I only wish she
did not preach! Well, then, Mrs Jane Talbot--that one with the high
nose, that sat next Mrs Dolly in the coach--she has lively parts
enough, and that turn makes her very agreeable. I don't care for her
sister, Mrs Marcella, that lives next her--she's always having some
distemper, and I don't like sick people. Mrs Clarissa Vane is the
least well-born of all of them; but she's been a toast, you see, and she
fancies herself charming, poor old thing! As for Lady Betty--weren't
you surprised? I believe Madam pays her a good lot to live there; it
gives the place an air, you know. She is Sir Richard Delawarr's aunt,
and he is the great man all about here--all the land that way belongs to
him, as far as you can see. He is of very good family--an old Norman
house. They are thought a great deal of, you know."
"But isn't that strange?" said Phoebe, meditatively. "If Sir Richard is
thought more of because his forefathers came from France six hundred
years ago, why is my grandfather thought less of because he came from
France thirty years ago?"
"O Phoebe! It is not the same thing at all!"
"But why is it not the same thing?" gently persisted Phoebe.
"Oh, nonsense!" said Rhoda, cutting the knot peremptorily. "Phoebe, can
you speak French?"
"Yes."
"Have a care you don't let Madam hear you! Who taught you?--your
father?"
"Yes. He said it was our own language."
"Why, you don't mean to say he was _proud_ of being a Frenchman?" cried
Rhoda, in amazement.
"I think he was, if he was proud of anything," answered Phoebe. "He
loved France very dearly. He thought it the grandest country in the
world."
And Phoebe's voice trembled a little. Evidently her father was in her
eyes a hero, and all that he had loved was sacred.
"But, Phoebe! not greater than England? He couldn't!" cried Rhoda, to
whom such an idea seemed an impossibility.
"He was fond of England, too," said Phoebe. "He said she had sheltered
us when our own country cast us off, and we should love her and be very
thankful to her. But he loved France the best."
Rhoda tried to accept this incredible proposition.
"Well! 'tis queer!" she said at last. "Proud of being a Frenchman!
What would Madam say?"
"'Tis only like Sir Richard Delawarr, is it?"
"Phoebe, you've no sense!"
"Well, perhaps I haven't," said Phoebe meekly, as they turned in at the
gate of Number One.
Mrs Dolly Jennings was ready for her guests, in her little parlour,
with the most delicate and transparent china set out upon the little
tea-table, and the smallest and brightest of copper kettles singing on
the hob.
"Well, you thought I meant it, Mrs Dolly!" exclaimed Rhoda laughingly,
as the girls entered.
"I always think people mean what they say, child, until I find they
don't," said Mrs Dorothy. "Welcome, Miss Phoebe, my dear!"
"Oh, would you please to call me Phoebe?" said the owner of that name,
blushing.
"So I will, my dear," replied Mrs Dorothy, who was busy now pouring out
the tea. "Mrs Rhoda, take a chair, child, and help yourself to bread
and butter."
Rhoda obeyed, and did not pass the plate to Phoebe.
"Mrs Dolly," she said, interspersing her words with occasional bites,
"I am really concerned about Phoebe. She hasn't the least bit of
sense."
"Indeed, child," quietly responded Mrs Dorothy, while Phoebe coloured
painfully. "How doth she show it?"
"Why, she doesn't care a straw for poetry?"
"Is it poetry you engaged her with?"
"What do you mean?" said Rhoda, rather pettishly. "It was my poetry."
"Eh, dear!" said Mrs Dorothy, but there was a little indication of fun
about her mouth. "Perhaps, my dear, you write lyrics, and your cousin
hath more fancy for epical poetry."
"She doesn't care for any sort, I'm sure," said Rhoda.
"What say you to this heavy charge, Phoebe?" inquired little Mrs
Dorothy, with a cheery smile.
"I like some poetry," replied Phoebe, bashfully.
"What kind?" blurted out Rhoda, apparently rather affronted.
Phoebe coloured, and hesitated. "I like the old hymns the Huguenots
used to sing," she said, "such us dear father taught me."
"Hymns aren't poetry!" said Rhoda, contemptuously.
"That is true enough of some hymns, child," answered Mrs Dorothy.
"But, Phoebe, my dear, will you let us hear one of your hymns?"
"They are in French," whispered Phoebe.
"They will do for me in French, my dear," replied Mrs Dorothy.
Rhoda stared in manifest astonishment. Phoebe struggled for a moment
with her natural shyness, and then she began:--
"Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre,
Il est a desirer;
Je n'ai plus rien a craindre,
Car Dieu est mon Berger."
"My lot asks no complaining,
But joy and confidence;
I have no fear remaining,
For God is my Defence."
But the familiar words evidently brought with them a rush of
associations which was too much for Phoebe. She burst in tears, and
covered her face with her hands.
"What on earth are you crying for?" asked Rhoda.
"Thank you, my dear," said Mrs Dorothy. "The verse is enough for a
day, and the truth which is in it is enough for a life."
"I ask your pardon!" sobbed Phoebe, when she could speak at all. "But I
used to sing it--to dear father, and when he was gone I said it to poor
mother. And they are all gone now!"
"Oh, don't bother!" said Rhoda. "My papa's dead, and my mamma too; but
you'll not see me crying over it."
Rhoda pronounced the words "Pappa," and "Mamma," as is done in America
to this day.
"You never knew your parents, Mrs Rhoda," said the little old lady,
ever ready to cast oil on the troubled waters. "Phoebe, dear child,
wouldst thou wish them all back again?"
"No; oh, no! I could not be so unkind," said Phoebe, wiping her eyes.
"But only a year ago, there were seven of us. It seems so hard!"
"I say, Phoebe, if you mean to cry and take on," said Rhoda, springing
up and drinking off her tea, "you'll give me the spleen. I hate to be
hipped. I shall be off to Mrs Jane. Come along!"
"Go yourself, Mrs Rhoda, my dear, and leave your cousin to recover, if
tears be your aversion."
"Why, aren't they all our aversions?" said Rhoda, outraging grammar.
"You don't need to pretend, Mrs Dolly! I never saw you cry in my
life."
"Ah, child!" said Mrs Dorothy, as if she meant to indicate that there
had been more of her life than could be seen from Rhoda's
standing-point. "But you'll do well to take an old woman's counsel, my
dear. Run off to Mrs Jane, and divert yourself half an hour; and when
you return, your cousin will have passed her trouble, and I will have a
Story to tell you both. I know you like stories."
"Come, I'll go, for a story when I came back," said Rhoda; "but I meant
to take Phoebe. Can't she wipe her eyes and come?"
"Then I shall not tell you a story," responded Mrs Dorothy.
Rhoda laughed, and ran off. Mrs Dorothy let Phoebe have her cry out
for a short time. She moved softly about, putting things in order, and
then came and sat down by Phoebe on the settle.
"The world is too great for thee, poor child!" she said, tenderly,
taking Phoebe's hands in hers. "It is a long way from thy father's
grave; but, bethink thee, 'tis no long way from himself, if he is gone
to Him that is our Father."
"I know he is," whispered Phoebe.
"And is the Lord thy Shepherd, dear child?"
"I know He is," said Phoebe, again.
"`Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre,'" softly repeated Mrs Dorothy.
"Oh, it is wrong of me!" sobbed Phoebe. "But it does seem so hard.
Nobody cares for me any more."
"Nay, my child, `He careth for thee.'"
"Oh, I know it is so!" was the answer; "but I can't feel it. It all
looks so dark and cold. I can't feel it!"
"Poor little child, lost in the dark!" said Mrs Dorothy, gently.
"Dear, the Lord must know how very much easier it would be to see. But
His especial blessing is spoken on them that have not seen, and yet have
believed. 'Tis an honour to thy Father, little Phoebe, to put thine
hand in His, and let Him lead thee where He will. Thine earthly father
would have liked thee to trust him. Canst thou not trust the heavenly
Father?"
Phoebe's tears were falling more softly now.
"Phoebe, little maiden, shall I love thee?"
"Thank you, Mrs Dorothy, but people don't love me," said Phoebe, as if
it were a fact, sad, indeed, but incontrovertible. "Only dear father
and Perry."
"And thy mother," suggested Mrs Dorothy, in a soothing tone.
"Well--yes--I suppose so," doubtfully admitted Phoebe. "But, you see,
poor mother--I had better not talk about it, Mrs Dorothy, if you
please."
Mrs Dorothy let the point pass, making a note of it in her own mind.
She noticed, too, that Phoebe said, "Dear father" and "poor mother"; yet
it was the father who was dead, and the mother was living. The terms,
thought Mrs Dorothy, must have some reference to character.
"Little Phoebe," she said, "if it should comfort thee betimes to pour
out thine heart to some human creature, come across the Park, and tell
thy troubles to me. Thou art but a young traveller; and such mostly
long for some company. Yet, bethink thee, my dear, I can but be sorry
for thee, while the Lord can help thee. He is the best to trust,
child."
"Yes, I know," whispered Phoebe. "You are so good, Mrs Dorothy!"
"Now for the story!" said Rhoda, dancing into the little parlour.
"You've had oceans of time to dry your eyes. I have been to Mrs Jane,
and Mrs Clarissa, and my Lady Betty; and I've had a dish of tea with
each one. I shall turn into a tea-plant presently. Now I'm ready, Mrs
Dorothy; go on!"
"What fashion of tale should you like, Mrs Rhoda?"
"Oh, you had better begin at the beginning," said Rhoda. "I don't think
I ever heard you tell about when you were a child; you always begin with
the Revolution. Go back a little earlier, and let us have your whole
history."
Mrs Dorothy paused thoughtfully.
"It won't do me any harm," added Rhoda; "and I can't see why you should
care. You're nearly seventy, aren't you?"
Phoebe's shy glance at her cousin might have been interpreted to mean
that she did not think her very civil; but Mrs Dorothy did not resent
the question.
"Yes, my dear, I am over seventy," she said, quietly. "And I don't know
that it would do you any harm. You have to face the world, too, one of
these days. Please God, you may have a more guarded entrance into it
than I had! Here is a cushion for your back, Mrs Rhoda; and, Phoebe,
my dear, here is one for you. Let me reach my knitting, and then you
shall hear my story. But it will be a long one."
"So much the better, if 'tis agreeable," answered Rhoda. "I don't care
for stories that are over in a minute."
"This will not be over in a day," said Mrs Dorothy.
"All right," responded Rhoda, settling herself as comfortably as she
could. "I say, Phoebe, change cushions with me; I'm sure you've got the
softer."
And Phoebe obeyed in an instant.