"Le coeur humain a beaucoup de plis et de replis."
_Madame de Motteville_.
"And how goes it, my dear, with Madam and Mrs Rhoda?" inquired little
Mrs Dorothy as she handed a cup to Phoebe.
"They are well, I thank you. Mrs Dolly, I have come to ask your
counsel."
"Surely, dear child. Thou shalt have the best I can give. What is thy
trouble?"
"I have two or three troubles," said Phoebe, sighing. "You know Rhoda
is going to-morrow to Delawarr Court; and I am to go with her. I wish I
need not!"
"Why, dear child?"
"Well, I am afraid it must sound silly," answered Phoebe, with a little
laugh at herself; "but really, I can scarce tell why. Do you never feel
thus unwilling to do a thing, Mrs Dorothy, almost without reason?"
"Ah, there is a reason," said the old lady: "and it comes either from
your body or your mind, Phoebe. If 'tis from your body, let your mind
govern it in any matter you _must_ do. If it come from your mind,
either you see a clear cause for it, or you do not."
"I do not, Mrs Dolly. I reckon 'tis but the spleen."
Everything we call nervous then fell under the head of spleen.
"There is an older name for that, Phoebe, without it arise from some
disorder of the body."
"What, Mrs Dorothy?"
"Discontent, my child."
"But that is sin!" said Phoebe, looking up, as if startled.
"Ay. `Whatsoever is not of faith is sin.'"
"Then should I be willing to go, Mrs Dolly?"
"What hast thou asked, my dear? Should God's child be willing to do her
Father's will?"
Phoebe's face became grave.
"Dear Phoebe, `when the people murmured, it displeased the Lord.' Have
a care!--Well, what is your next trouble?"
"I have had a letter from mother," said Phoebe, colouring and looking
uncomfortable.
"Is that a trouble, child?"
"No,--not that. Oh no! But--"
"But a trouble sticks to it. Well,--what?"
"She says I ought to--to get married, Mrs Dorothy; and she looks for me
to do it while I tarry at White-Ladies, for she reckons that will be the
best chance."
Mrs Dorothy was silent. If her thoughts were not complimentary to Mrs
Latrobe, she gave no hint of it to Phoebe.
"I don't think I should like it, please, Mrs Dorothy," said Phoebe
uneasily. "And ought I?"
"I suppose somebody had better ask you first," was Mrs Dorothy's dry
answer.
"I would rather live with Mother," continued Phoebe. And suddenly a cry
broke out which had been repressed till then. "I wish--oh, I wish
Mother loved me! She never seemed to do it but once, when I was ill of
the fever. I do so wish Mother could love me!"
Mrs Dorothy busied herself for a moment in putting the cups together on
her little tea-tray. Then she came over to Phoebe.
"Little maid!" she said, lovingly, "there are some of us women for whom
no love is safe, saving the love of Him that died for us. If we have it
otherwise, we go wrong and set up idols in our hearts. Art thou one of
those, Phoebe?"
"I don't know!" sobbed Phoebe. "How can I know?"
"Dear child, He knows. Canst thou not trust Him? `Dieu est ton
Berger.' The Shepherd takes more care of the sheep, Phoebe, than the
sheep take care of themselves. Poor, blundering creatures that we are!
always apt to think, in the depth of our hearts, that God would rather
not save us, and that we shall have to take a great deal of trouble to
persuade Him to do it. Nay! it is the Shepherd that longs to have the
lamb safe folded, and the poor silly lamb that is always straying away.
Phoebe, `the Father Himself loveth thee.'"
"Oh, I know! But I can't see Him, Mrs Dorothy."
"I suppose He knows that, too," answered her old friend, softly. "He
knows how much easier it would be to believe if we could see and feel.
Maybe 'tis therefore He hath pronounced so special a blessing upon such
as have not seen, and yet have believed."
"Mrs Dorothy,"--and Phoebe looked up earnestly,--"don't you think
living is hard work?"
"I did once, my maid. But I am beyond the burden and the heat of the
day now. My tools are gathered together and put away, and I am waiting
for the Master to call me in home to my rest. Thou too wilt come to
that, child, if thy life be long enough. And to some, even here,--to
all, afterward,--it is given to see where the turns were taken in the
path, and whereto the road should have led that we took not. Ah, child,
one day thy heaviest cause of thankfulness may be that in this or that
matter--perchance in the matter that most closely engaged thee in this
life--thy Father did not give thee the desire of thine heart."
"Yet that is promised as a blessing?" said Phoebe, interrogatively,
looking up.
"As a blessing, dear child, when thy will is God's will. Can it be any
blessing, when thy will and His run contrary the one to the other?"
"Then you think I should not wish to be loved!" said Phoebe, with a
heavy sigh.
"I think God's child will do well to leave the choice of all things to
her Father."
"I must leave it. He will have it."
"He will have it," repeated Mrs Dorothy solemnly; "but, Phoebe, you can
leave it in loving submission, or you can have it wrenched from you in
judgment. Though it may be that you must loose your hold on a gem, yet
you please yourself whether you yield it as a gift, or wait to have it
torn away."
"I see," said Phoebe.
"Was there any further trouble, my dear?"
"Only that," replied Phoebe. "Life seems hard. I get so tired!"
"Thou art young to know that, child," said Mrs Dorothy, with a rather
sad smile.
"Well, I don't know," answered Phoebe, doubtfully. "I think I have
always been tired. And don't you know some people rest you, and some
people don't? When there is nobody that rests one-- Father used--
but--"
Mrs Dorothy thought there was not much difficulty in reading the story
hidden behind Phoebe's broken sentences.
"So life is hard?" she echoed. "Poor child! Dear, it was harder to Him
that sat on the well at Sychar, wearied with His journey. He has not
forgotten it, Phoebe. Couldst thou not go and remind Him of it, and ask
Him to bless and rest thee?"
"Mrs Dolly, do you feel tired like that?"
A little amused laugh was Mrs Dolly's answer.
"Thou hast not all the sorrows of life in thine own portion, little
Phoebe. I have felt it. I do not often now. The journey is too near
at an end to fret much over the hard fare or the rough road. When there
be only a few days to pass ere you leave school, your mind is more set
on the coming holidays than on the length or hardness of the lessons
that lie betwixt."
"I wish I hadn't to go to Delawarr Court!" sighed Phoebe. "There will
be a great parcel of people, and not one I know but Rhoda, and Mrs
Gatty, and Mrs Molly; and Rhoda always snubs me when Mrs Molly's
there."
"Molly is trying," admitted the old lady. "But I think, dear child, you
might make a friend of Gatty."
"Perhaps," said Phoebe.
"And, Phoebe, strive against discontent," said Mrs Dorothy; adding,
with a smile, "and call it discontent, and not vapours. There is a
great deal in giving names to things. So long as you call your pride
self-respect and high spirit, you will reckon yourself much better than
you are; and so long as you call your discontent low spirits or vapours,
you will reckon yourself worse used than you are. Don't split on that
rock, Phoebe. The worst thing you can do with wounds is to keep pulling
off the bandage to see how they are getting on; and the worst thing you
can do with griefs and wrongs is to nurse them and brood over them.
Carry them to the Lord and show them to Him, and ask His help to bear
them or right them, as He chooses; and then forget all about them as
fast as you can. Dear old Scots Davie gave me that counsel, and through
fifty years I have proved how good it was."
"You never finished your story, Mrs Dolly," suggested Phoebe.
"I did not, my dear. Yet there was little to finish. I did but tarry
at Court till the great plague-time, when all was broke up, and I went
home to nurse my mother, who took the plague and died of it. After that
I continued to dwell with my father. For a while after my mother's
death, he was very low and melancholical, saying that God had now met
with him and was visiting his old sins upon him. And then, the very
next year, came the fire, and we were burned out and left homeless.
Then he was worse than ever. 'Twas like the curse pronounced on David,
said he, that the sword should never depart from his house: he could
never look to know rest nor peace any more; God hated him, and pursued
him to the death. No word of mine, though I strove to find many from
the Word of God, seemed to bring him any comfort at all. They were not
for him, he said, but for them toward whom God had purposes of mercy,
and there was none for him. He had sinned against light and knowledge;
and God would none of him any more.
"One morning, about a week after the fire, as I was coming back from my
marketing to the little mean lodging where we had took shelter, and was
just going in at the door, I was sorely started to feel a great warm
hand on my shoulder, and a loud, cheery voice saith, `Dolly Jennings,
whither away so fast thou canst not see an old friend?' I looked up,
and there was dear old Farmer Ingham, in his thick boots and country
homespun; but I declare to you, child, that in my trouble his face was
to me as that of an angel of God. I brake down, and sobbed aloud.
`Come, come, now!' saith he, comfortably; `not so bad as that, is it?
I've been seeking thee these four days, Dolly, child. I knew I could
find thee if I came myself, though the Missis said I never should; and
I've asked at one, and asked at another, and looked up streets and down
streets, till this morning I saw a young maid, with her back to me,
a-going down an alley; and says I, right out loud, "That's Dolly's back,
or else I'm a Dutchman!" So I ran after thee, and only just catched
thee up. I'm not so lissome as thou; nay, nor so lissome as I was at
thy years. However, here I am, and here thou art; so that's all right.
And there's a good bed and a warm welcome for everyone of you at Ingle
Nook'--that was the name of his farm, my dear--`and I've brought up a
cart and the old tit to drag it, and we'll see if we can't make thee
laugh and be rosy again.' Dear old man! no nay would he take, nor
suffer so much as a word from father about our being any cost and
trouble to him. `Stuff and nonsense!' said he; `I've got money saved,
and the farm's doing well, and only my two bits of maids to leave it to;
and who should I desire to help in this big trouble, if not my own
foster-child, and hers?' So father yielded, and we went down to Ingle
Nook.
"Farmer Ingham very soon found what was wrong with father. `Eh, poor
soul!' said he to me, `he's the hundredth sheep that's got lost out on
the moor, and he reckons the Shepherd'll bide warm in the fold with the
ninety and nine, and never give a thought to him, poor, starved,
straying thing! Dear, dear!--and as if _I'd_ do such a thing, sinner
that I am!--as if I could eat a crust in peace till I'd been after my
sheep, poor wretch!--and to think the good Lord'd do it!--and the poor
thing a-bleating out there, and wanting to get home! Dear, dear! how we
poor sinners do wrong the good Lord!' I said, `Won't you say a word to
him, daddy?' That was what I had always called him, my dear, since I
was a little child. `Eh, child!' says he, `what canst thou be thinking
on? The like of me to preach to a parson, all regular done up, bands
and cassock and shovel hat and all! But I'll tell thee what--there's
Dr Bates a-coming to bide with me a night this next week, on his way
from the North into Sussex, and I'll ask him to edge in a word. He's a
grand man, Dolly! "Silver-tongued Bates." Thou'lt hear.'
"Well, I knew, for I had heard talk of it at the time, that Dr Bates
was one of them that gave up their livings when the Act of Uniformity
came in, so that he was regarded as no better than a conventicler; and I
wondered how father should like to be spoke to by Dr Bates any more
than by Farmer Ingham, because to him they would both be laymen alike.
But at that time I was learning to tarry the Lord's leisure--ah! that's
a grand word, Phoebe! For His leisure runs side by side with our
profit, and He'll be at leisure to attend to you the minute that you
really need attending to. So I waited quietly to see what would come.
Dr Bates came, and he proved to be no common hedge-preacher, but a
learned man that had been to the University, and had Greek and Hebrew
pat at his tongue's end. I could see that it was pleasant to father to
talk with such a man; and maybe he took to him the rather because he had
the look of one that had known sorrow. When a man is suffering, he will
converse more readily with a fellow-sufferer than with a hale man. So
they talked away of their young days, when they were at school and
college, and father was much pleased, as I could see, to find that Dr
Bates and he were of the same college, though not there at the same
time: and a deal they had to say about this and that man, that both
knew, but of course all strangers to me. I thought I had never seen
Father seem to talk with the like interest and pleasure since my
mother's death.
"But time went on, and their talk, and not a word from Dr Bates of the
fashion I desired. I went to bed somewhat heavy. The next morning,
however, as I was sat at my sewing by the parlour window--which was
open, the weather being very sultry--came Dr Bates and father, and
stood just beyond the window. The horse was then saddling for Dr Bates
to be gone. All at once, they standing silent a moment, he laid his
hand on father's shoulder, and saith very softly, `"I will hearken what
the Lord God will say concerning me."' Father turns and stares at him,
as started. But he goes on, and saith, `"For the iniquity of his
covetousness was I wroth, and smote him: I hid Me and was wroth, and he
went on frowardly in the way of his heart. I have seen his ways, and
will heal him; I will lead him also, and restore comforts unto him and
to his mourners. I create the fruit of the lips. Peace, peace to him
that is far off"'--he said it twice--`"peace to him that is far off, and
to him that is near, saith the Lord, and I will heal him."' He did not
add one word, but went and mounted his horse, and when he had bid
farewell to all else, just as he was turning away from the door, he
calls out, in a cheerful voice, `Good morning, Brother Jennings.' Then,
as it were, Father seemed to awake, and he runs after, and puts his hand
in Dr Bates's, who drew bridle, and for a minute they were busy in
earnest discourse. Then they clasped hands again, and father saith,
`God bless you!' and away rode Dr Bates. But after that Father was
different. He said to me--it was some weeks later--`Dolly, if it please
God, I shall never speak another word against the men that turned out in
Sixty-Two. They may have made blunders, but some at least of them were
holy men of God, for all that.'"
"I was always sorry for them," said Phoebe. "And Father said so too."
"True, my dear. Yet 'tis not well we should forget that the parsons
were turned out the first, and the conventiclers afterward. There were
faults on both sides."
"But, Mrs Dolly, why can't good men agree?"
"Ah, child! `They shall see eye to eye, when the Lord shall bring again
Zion.' No sooner. Thank God that He looketh on the heart. I believe
there may be two men in arms against each other, bitter opposers of each
other, and yet each of them acting with a single eye to the honour of
their Lord. He knows it, and He only, now. But how sorry they will be
for their hard thoughts and speeches when they come to understand each
other in the clear light of Heaven!"
"It always seems to me," said Phoebe, diffidently, "that there are a
great many things we shall be sorry for then. But can anybody be sorry
in Heaven?"
Mrs Dorothy smiled. "We know very little about Heaven, my dear. Less
than Madam's parrot or Mrs Clarissa's dog understands about anyone
writing a letter."
"Dogs do understand a great deal," remarked Phoebe. "Our Flossie did."
"My dear, I have learned no end of lessons from dogs. I only wish we
Christians minded the word of our Master half as well as they do theirs.
I wish men would take pattern from them, instead of starving and
kicking them, or tormenting them with a view to win knowledge. We may
be the higher creatures, but we are far from being the better. You may
take note, too, that your dog will often resist an unpleasant thing--a
dose of medicine, say--just because he does not understand why you want
to give it to him, and does not know the worse thing that would
otherwise befall him. Didst thou never serve thy Master like that,
dear?"
"I am afraid so," said Phoebe, softly.
"We don't trust Him enough, Phoebe. It does seem as if the hardest
thing in all the world was for man to trust God. You would not think I
paid you much of a compliment if you heard me say, `I'll trust Phoebe
Latrobe as far as I can see her.' Yet that is what we are always doing
to God. The minute we lose sight of His footsteps, we begin to murmur
and question where He is taking us. But, my dear, I must not let you
tarry longer; 'tis nigh sundown."
"Oh, dear!" and Phoebe looked up and rose hurriedly. "I trust Madam
will not be angry. 'Tis much later than I thought."
She found Madam too busy to notice what time she returned. Rhoda's
wardrobe was being packed for her visit, under the supervision of her
grandmother, by the careful hands of Betty. The musk-coloured damask,
which she had coveted, was the first article provided, and a
cherry-coloured velvet mantle, lined with squirrel-skins, was to be worn
with it. A blue satin hood completed this rather showy costume. A
wadded calico wrapper, for morning wear; a hoop petticoat wider than
Rhoda had ever worn before; the white dress stipulated by Molly; small
lace head-dresses, instead of the old-fashioned commode; aprons of
various colours, silk and satin; muslin and lace ruffles; a blue camlet
riding-habit, laced with silver (ladies rode at this time dressed
exactly like gentlemen, with the addition of a long skirt); and an
evening dress of cinnamon-colour, brocaded with large green leaves and
silver stems, with a white and gold petticoat under it--were the chief
items of Rhoda's wardrobe. A new set of body-linen was also added, made
of striped muslin. Since our fair ancestresses made their night-dresses
of "muslin," it would appear that they extended the term to some stouter
material than the thin and flimsy manufacture to which we restrict it.
Rhoda's boots were of white kid, goloshed with black velvet. There were
also "jessamy" gloves--namely, kid gloves perfumed with jessamine; a
black velvet mask; a superb painted fan; a box of patches, another of
violet powder, another of rouge, and a fourth of pomatum; one of the
India scarves before alluded to; a stomacher set with garnet, a pearl
necklace, and a silver box full of cachou and can-away comfits, to be
taken to church for amusement during long sermons. The enamelled
picture on the lid Rhoda would have done well to lay to heart, as it
represented Cupid fishing for human beings, with a golden guinea on his
hook. Rhoda was determined to be the finest dressed girl at Delawarr
Court, and Madam had allowed her to order very much what she pleased.
Phoebe's quiet mourning, new though it was, looked very mean in
comparison--in her cousin's eyes.
No definite time was fixed for Rhoda's return home. She was to stay as
long as Lady Delawarr wished to keep her.
"Phoebe, my dear!" said Madam.
"Madam?" responded Phoebe, with a courtesy.
"Come into my chamber; I would have a few words with you."
Phoebe followed, her heart feeling as if it would jump into her mouth.
Madam shut the door, and took her seat on the cushioned settle which
stretched along the foot of her bed.
"Child," she said to Phoebe, who stood modestly before her, "I think
myself obliged to tell you that I expect Rhoda to settle in life on the
occasion of this visit. I apprehend that she will meet with divers
young gentlemen, with any of whom she might make a good match; and she
can then make selection of him that will be most agreeable to her."
Phoebe privately wondered how the gentleman whom Rhoda selected was to
be induced to select Rhoda.
"Then," pursued Madam, "when she returns, she will tell me her design;
and if on seeing the young man, and making inquiries of such as are
acquainted with him, I approve of the match myself, I shall endeavour
the favour of his friends, and doubt not to obtain it. Rhoda will have
an excellent fortune, and she is of an agreeable turn enough. Now, my
dear, at the same time, I wish you to look round you, and see if you can
light on some decent man, fit for your station, that would not be
disagreeable to you. I have apprised myself that Sir Richard's chaplain
hath entered into no engagements, and if he were to your taste, I would
do my best to settle you in that quarter, I cannot think he would prove
uneasy to me, should I do him the honour; at the same time, if you find
him unpleasant to you, I do not press the affair. But 'tis high time
you should look out, for you have no fortune but yourself, and what I
may choose to give with you: and if you order yourself after my wish, I
engage myself to undertake for you--in reason, my dear, of course. The
chaplain is very well paid, for Sir Richard finds him in board and a
horse, and gives him beside thirty-five pound by the year, which is more
than many have. He is, I learn, a good, easy man, that would not be
likely to give his wife any trouble. Not very smart, but that can well
be got over; and of good family, but indigent--otherwise it may well be
reckoned he would not be a chaplain. So I bid you consider him well, my
dear, and let me know your thoughts when you return hither."
Phoebe's thoughts just then were chasing each other in wild confusion:
the principal one being that she was a victim led to the sacrifice with
a rope round her neck.
"I ask your pardon, Madam; but--"
"Well, my dear, if you have something you wish to say, I am ready to
listen to it," said Madam, with an air of extreme benignity.
Phoebe felt her position the more difficult because of her grandmother's
graciousness. She so evidently thought herself conferring a favour on a
portionless and unattractive girl, that it became hard to say an
opposing word.
"If you please, Madam, and asking your pardon, must I be married?"
"Must you be married, child!" repeated Madam in astonished tones, "Why,
of course you must. The woman is created for the man. You would not
die a maid?"
"I would rather, if you would allow me, Madam," faltered Phoebe.
"But, my dear, I cannot allow it. I should not be doing my duty by you
if I did. The woman is made for the man," repeated Madam,
sententiously.
"But--was every woman made for some man, if you please, Madam?" asked
poor Phoebe, struggling against destiny in the person of her
grandmother.
"Of course, child--no doubt of it," said Madam.
"Then, if you please, Madam, might I not wait till I find the man I was
made for?" entreated Phoebe with unconscious humour.
"When you marry a man, my dear, he is the man you were made for,"
oracularly replied Madam.
Phoebe was silenced, but not at all convinced, which is a very different
thing. She could remember a good many husbands and wives with whom she
had met who so far as she could judge, did not appear to have been
created for the benefit of one another.
"And I trust you will find him at Delawarr Court. At all events, you
will look out. As to waiting, my dear, at your age, and in your
station, you cannot afford to wait. One or two years is no matter for
Rhoda; but 'twill not serve for you. I was married before I was your
age, Phoebe."
Phoebe sighed, but did not venture to speak. She felt more than ever as
if she were being led to the slaughter. There was just this
uncomfortable difference, that the sacrificed sheep or goat did not feel
anything when once it was over, and the parallel would not hold good
there. She felt utterly helpless. Phoebe knew her mother too well to
venture on any appeal to her, even had she fondly imagined that
representations from Mrs Latrobe would have weight with Madam. Mrs
Latrobe would have been totally unable to comprehend her. So Phoebe did
what was better,--carried her trial and perplexity to her Father in
Heaven, and asked Him to undertake for her. Naturally shy and timid, it
was a terrible idea to Phoebe that she was to be handed over bodily in
this style to some stranger. Rhoda would not have cared; a change was
always welcome to her, and she thought a great deal about the superior
position of a matron. But in Phoebe's eyes the position presented
superior responsibility, a thing she dreaded; and superior notoriety, a
thing she detested. She was a violet, born to blush unseen, yet
believing that perfume shed upon the desert air is not necessarily
wasted.
"Here you are, old Rattle-trap!" cried Molly, from the head of the
stairs, as Rhoda and Phoebe were mounting them. "Brought that white
rag? We're going. Mum says so. Turn your toes out,--here's Betty."
Rhoda's hand was clasped, and her cheek kissed, by a pleasant-spoken,
rather good-looking girl, very little scarred from her recent illness.
"Phoebe Latrobe?" said Betty, turning kindly to her. "I know your name,
you see. I trust you will be happy here. Your chamber is this way,
Rhoda."
It was a long, narrow room, with a low whitewashed ceiling, across which
ran two beams. A pot-pourri stood on the little table in the centre,
and there were two beds, one single and one double.
"Who's to be here beside me?" inquired Rhoda.
"Oh, Mother would have given you and Phoebe a chamber to yourselves,"
replied Betty, "but we are so full of company, she felt herself obliged
to put in some one, so Gatty is coming to you."
"Can't it be Molly?" rather uncivilly suggested Rhoda.
Phoebe privately hoped it could not.
"Will, I think not," answered Betty, smiling. "Lady Diana Middleham
wants Molly. She's in great request."
"Who is,--me?" demanded Molly, appearing as if by magic in the doorway.
"Of course. I'm not going to sleep with you, Pug-nose. Not going to
sleep at all. Spend the night in tickling the people I like, and
running pins into those I don't. Fair warning!"
"I wonder whether it is better to be one you like, Molly, or one you
don't like," said Rhoda, laughing.
"I hope you don't like me in that regard," said Betty, laughing too.
"Well, I don't particularly," was Molly's frank answer, "so you'll get
the pins. Right about face! Stand--at--ease! Here comes Mum."
A very gorgeously dressed woman, all flounces and feathers as it seemed
to Phoebe, sailed into the room, kissed Rhoda, told her that she was
welcome, in a languishing voice, desired Betty to see her made
comfortable, informed Molly that her hair was out of curl, took no
notice of Phoebe, and sailed away again.
"I'm off!" Molly announced to the world. "There's Mr
What-do-you-call-him downstairs. Go and have some fun with him." And
Molly vanished accordingly.
Then Rhoda's unpacking had to be seen to by herself and Phoebe; that is
to say, Phoebe did it, and Rhoda sat and watched her, Betty flitted
about, talking to Rhoda, and helping Phoebe, till her name was called
from below, and away she went to respond to it. Phoebe, at least,
missed her, and thought her pleasant company. Whatever else she might
be, she was good-natured. When the unpacking was finished to her
satisfaction, Rhoda declared that she was perishing for hunger, and must
have something before she could dress. Before she could make up her
mind what to do, a rap came on the door, and a neat maid-servant entered
with a tray.
"An't please you, Madam, Mrs Betty bade me bring you a dish of tea,"
said she; "for she said 'twas yet two good hours ere supper, and you
should be the better of a snack after your journey. Here is both tea
and chocolate, bread and butter, and shortcake." And setting down the
tray, she left them to enjoy its contents.
"Long life to Betty!" said Rhoda. "Here, Phoebe! pour me a dish of
chocolate. I never get any at home. Madam has a notion it makes people
fat."
"But does she not like you to take it?" asked Phoebe, pausing, with the
silver chocolatiere in her hand.
"Oh, pother! go on!" exclaimed Rhoda. "Give it me, if your tender
conscience won't let you. I say, Phoebe, you'll be a regular prig and
prude, if you don't mind."
"I don't know what those are," replied Phoebe, furtively engaged in
rubbing her hand where Rhoda had pinched it as she seized the handle of
the chocolate pot.
"Oh, don't you?" answered Rhoda. "I do, for I've got you to look at. A
prig is a stuck-up silly creature, and a prude is always thinking
everything wicked. And that's what you are."
Phoebe wisely made no reply. Tea finished, Rhoda condescended to be
dressed and have her hair curled and powdered, gave Phoebe very few
minutes for changing her own dress, and then, followed by her cousin and
handmaid, she descended to the drawing-room. To Phoebe's consternation,
it seemed full of young ladies and gentlemen, in fashionable array; and
the consternation was not relieved by a glimpse of Mr Marcus Welles,
radiant in blue and gold, through a vista of plumes, lace lappets, and
fans. Betty was there, making herself generally useful and agreeable;
and Molly, making herself the reverse of both. Phoebe scanned the
brilliant crowd earnestly for Gatty. But Gatty was nowhere to be seen.
Rhoda went forward, and plunged into the crowd, kissing and courtesying
to all the girls she recognised. She was soon the gayest of the gay
among them. No one noticed Phoebe but Betty, and she gave her a kindly
nod in passing, and said, "Pray divert yourself." Phoebe's diversion
was to retire into a corner, and from her "loop-hole of retreat, to peep
at such a world."
A very young world it was, whose oldest inhabitant at that moment was
under twenty-five. But the boys and girls--for they were little more--
put on the most courtier-like and grown-up airs. The ladies sat round
the room, fluttering their fans, or laughing behind them: in some cases
gliding about with long trains sweeping the waxed oak floor. The
gentlemen stood before them, paying compliments, cracking jokes, and
uttering airy nothings. Both parties took occasional pinches of snuff.
For a few minutes the scene struck Phoebe as pretty and amusing; but
this impression was quickly followed by a sensation of sadness. A
number of rational and immortal beings were gathered together, and all
they could find to do was to look pretty and be amusing. Why, a bird, a
dog, or a monkey, could have done as much, and more.
And a few words came into Phoebe's mind, practically denied by the mass
of mankind then as now, "Thou hast created all things, and _for Thy
pleasure_ they are."
How apt man is to think that every creature and thing around him was
created for _his_ pleasure! or, at least, for his use and benefit. The
natural result is, that he considers himself at liberty to use them just
as he pleases, quite regardless of their feelings, especially when any
particular advantage may be expected to accrue to himself.
But "the Lord hath made all things for Himself," and "He cometh to judge
the earth."