"'Tis not very pleasant, Phoebe, to have everybody bewailing you, and
telling all their neighbours how cruelly you are changed, but I could
have stood that. Nor is it delightful to have Molly for ever at one's
elbow, calling one Mrs Baboon, and my Lady Venus, and such like; but I
could have stood that, though I don't like it. But 'tis hard to be told
I have disappointed my mother's dearest hopes, and that she will never
take any more pleasure in me; that she would to Heaven I had died in my
cradle. That stings sometimes. Then, to know that if one makes the
least slip, it will be directly, `Oh, your saints are no better than
other folks!' Phoebe, I wish sometimes that I had not recovered."
"Oh, but you must not do that, Mrs Gatty!--well, Gatty, then, as you
are so kind. The Lord wanted you for something, I suppose."
"I wonder for what!" said Gatty.
"Well, we can't tell yet, you see," replied Phoebe, simply. "I suppose
you will find out by and bye."
"I wish I could find out," said Gatty, sighing.
"I think He will show you, when He is ready," said Phoebe. "Father used
to say that it took a good deal longer to make a fine microscope than it
did to make a common chisel or hammer; and he thought it was the same
with us. I mean, you know, that if the Lord intends us to do very nice
work, He will be nice in getting us ready for it, and it may take a good
while. And father used to say that we seldom know what God is doing
with us while He does it, but only when He has finished."
"Nice," at that time, had not the sense of pleasant, but only that of
delicately particular.
"I am glad you have told me that, Phoebe. I wish your father had been
living now."
"Oh!" very deep-drawn, from Phoebe, echoed the wish.
"Phoebe, I want you to tell me where you get your patience?"
"My patience!" repeated astonished Phoebe.
"Yes; I think you are the most patient maid I know."
"I can't tell you, I am sure!" answered Phoebe, in a rather puzzled
tone. "I didn't know I was patient. I don't think I have often asked
for that, specially. Very often, I ask God to give me what He sees I
need; and if that be as you say, I suppose He saw I wanted it, and gave
it me."
The admiring look in Gatty's eyes was happily unintelligible to Phoebe.
"Now then!" said Molly's not particularly welcome voice, close by them.
"Here's old Edmundson. Clasp your hands in ecstasy, Phoebe. Mum says
you and he have got to fall in love and marry one another; so make haste
about it. He's not an ill piece, only you'll find he won't get up
before noon unless you squirt water in his face. Now then, fall to, and
say some pretty things to one another!"
Of course Molly had taken the most effectual way possible to prevent any
such occurrence. Phoebe did not dare to lift her eyes; and the chaplain
was, if possible, the shyer of the two, and had been dragged there
against his will by invincible Molly. Neither would have known what to
do, if Gatty had not kindly come to the rescue.
"Pray sit down, Mr Edmundson," she said, in a quiet, natural way, as if
nothing had happened. "I thought I had seen you riding forth, half an
hour ago; I suppose it must have been some one else."
"I--ah--yes--no, I have not been riding to-day," stammered the perturbed
divine.
"Twas a very pleasant morning for a ride," said mediating Gatty.
"Very pleasant, Madam," answered the chaplain.
"Have you quite lost your catarrh, Mr Edmundson?"
"Quite, I thank you, Madam."
"I believe my mother wishes to talk with you of Jack Flint, Mr
Edmundson."
"Yes, Madam?"
"The lad hath been well spoken of to her for the under-gardener's boy's
place. I think she wished to have your opinion of him."
"Yes, Madam."
"Is the boy of a choleric disposition?"
"Possibly, Madam."
"But what think you, Mr Edmundson?"
"Madam, I--ah--I cannot say, Madam."
"I think I see Mr Lamb beckoning to you," observed Gatty, wishful to
relieve the poor _gauche_ chaplain from his uncomfortable position.
"Madam, I thank you--ah--very much, Madam." And Mr Edmundson made a
dive into the throng, and disappeared behind a quantity of silk brocade
and Brussels lace. Phoebe ventured to steal a glance at him as he
departed. She found that the person to whom she had been so
unceremoniously handed over, alike by Madam, Lady Delawarr, and Molly,
was a thickset man of fifty years, partially bald, with small,
expressionless features. He was not more fascinating to look at than to
talk to, and Phoebe could only entertain a faint hope that his preaching
might be an improvement upon both looks and conversation.
A little later in the evening, as Phoebe sat alone in her corner,
looking on, "I say!" came from behind her. Her heart fluttered, for the
voice was Molly's.
"I say!" repeated Molly. "You look here. I'm not all bad, you know. I
didn't want old Edmundson to have you. And I knew the way to keep him
from it was to tell him he must. I think 'tis a burning shame to treat
a maid like that. They were all set on it--the old woman, and Mum, and
everybody. He's an old block of firewood. You're fit for something
better. I tease folks, but I'm not quite a black witch. Ta-ta.
_He'll_ not tease you now."
And Molly disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared. There was no
opportunity for Phoebe to edge in a word. But, for once in her life,
she felt obliged to Molly.
The next invader of Phoebe's peace was Lady Delawarr herself. She sat
down on an ottoman, fanned herself languidly, and hoped dear Mrs Rhoda
was enjoying herself.
Phoebe innocently replied that she hoped so too.
"'Twill be a pretty sight, all the young maids in white, to meet the
Queen at Berkeley," resumed Lady Delawarr. "There are fourteen going
from this house. My three daughters, of course, and Lady Diana--she is
to hand the nosegay--and Mrs Rhoda, and Mrs Kitty Mainwaring, and Mrs
Sophia Rich, and several more. Those that do not go must have some
little pleasure to engage them whilst the others are away. I thought
they might drink a dish of chocolate in yon little ivy-covered tower in
the park, and have the young gentlemen to wait on them and divert them.
The four gentlemen of the best families and fortunes will wait on the
gentlewomen to Berkeley: that is, Mr Otway, Mr Seymour, my nephew Mr
George Merton, and Mr Welles. I shall charge Mr Derwent yonder to
wait specially on you, Mrs Phoebe, while Mrs Rhoda is away."
Phoebe perceived that she was not one of the fourteen favoured ones. A
little flutter of anxiety disturbed her anticipations. What would go on
with Rhoda and Mr Welles?
Lady Delawarr sat for a few minutes, talking of nothing in particular,
and then rose and sailed away. It was evident that the main object of
her coming had been to give Phoebe a hint that she must not expect to
join the expedition to Berkeley.
As Phoebe went upstairs that evening, feeling rather heavy-hearted, she
saw something gleam and fall, and discovered, on investigation, that a
tassel had dropped from Rhoda's purse, which that young lady had desired
her to carry up for her. She set to work to hunt for it, but for some
seconds in vain. She had almost given up the search in despair, when a
strange voice said behind her, "Le voici, Mademoiselle."
Phoebe turned and faced her countrywoman--for so she considered her--
with an exclamation of delight.
"Ah! you speak French, Mademoiselle?" said the girl. "It is a pleasure,
a pleasure, to hear it!"
"I am French," responded Phoebe, warmly. "My father was a Frenchman.
My name is Phoebe Latrobe: what is yours?"
"Louise Dupret. I am Lady Delawarr's woman. I have been here two long,
long years; and nobody speaks French but Madame and Mesdemoiselles her
daughters. And Mademoiselle Marie will not, though she can. She will
talk to me in English, and laughs at me when I understand her not. Ah,
it is dreadful!"
"From what part of France do you come?"
"From the mountains of the Cevennes. And you?"
"The same. Then you are of the religion?"
This was the Huguenot form of inquiry whether a stranger belonged to
them. Louise's eyes lighted up.
"We are daughters of the Church of the Desert," she said. "And we are
sisters in Jesus Christ."
From that hour Phoebe was not quite friendless at Delawarr Court. It
was well for her: since the preparations for Berkeley absorbed Gatty,
and of Rhoda she saw nothing except during the processes of dressing and
undressing. Very elaborate processes they became, for Lady Delawarr
kept a private hair-dresser, who came round every morning to curl, friz,
puff, and powder each young lady in turn; and the unfortunate maiden who
kept him waiting an instant was relegated to the last, and certain to be
late for breakfast. Following in the footsteps of his superiors, he did
not notice Phoebe, nor count her as one of the group; but after the
meeting on the stairs, as soon as Lady Delawarr released her, Louise was
at hand with a beaming face, entreating permission to arrange
Mademoiselle, and she sent her downstairs looking very fresh and
stylish, almost enough to provoke the envy of Rhoda.
"Ah, Mademoiselle!--if you were but a rich, rich lady, and I might be
your maid!" sighed Louise. "This is a dreary world; and a dreary
country, this England; and a dreary house, this Cour de la Warre!
Madame is--is--ah, well, she is my mistress, and it is not right to
chatter all one thinks. Still one cannot help thinking. Mademoiselle
Betti--if she were in my country, we should call her Elise, which is
pretty--it is ugly, Betti!--well, Mademoiselle Betti is very
good-natured--very, indeed; and Mademoiselle Henriette--ah, this droll
country! her name is Henriette, and they call her Gatti!--she is very
good, very good and pleasant Mademoiselle Henriette. And since she had
the small-pox she is nicer than before. It had spoiled her face to
beautify her heart. Ah, that poor demoiselle, how she suffers!
Perhaps, Mademoiselle, it is not right that I should tell you, even you;
but she suffers so much, this good demoiselle, and she is so patient!
But for Mademoiselle Marie--ah, there again the droll name, Molli!--does
not Mademoiselle think this a strange, very strange, country?"
The great expedition was ready to set out at last. All the girls were
dressed exactly alike, in white, and all the gentlemen in blue turned up
with white. They were to travel in two coaches to Bristol, where all
were to sleep at the house of Mrs Merton, sister-in-law to Lady
Delawarr; the next day the bouquet was to be presented at Berkeley, and
on the third day they were to return. By way of chaperone, the
housekeeper at the Court was to travel with them to and from Bristol,
out Mrs Merton herself undertook to conduct them to Berkeley.
Rhoda was in the highest spirits, and Phoebe saw her assisted into the
coach by Mr Marcus Welles with no little misgiving. Molly, as she
brushed past Phoebe, allowed the point of a steel scissors-sheath to
peep from her pocket for an instant, accompanying it with the mysterious
intimation--"You'll see!"
"What will she see, Molly?" asked Lady Diana, who was close beside her.
"How to use a pair of scissors," said Molly. "What's to be cut, Molly?"
Sophia Rich wished to know.
"A dash!" said Molly, significantly. And away rolled the coaches
towards Bristol. Phoebe turned back into the house with a rather
desolate feeling. For three days everybody would be gone. Those who
were left behind were all strangers to her except Mr Edmundson, and she
wanted to get as far from him as she could. True, there was Louise; but
Louise could hardly be a companion for her, even had her work for Lady
Delawarr allowed it, for she was not her equal in education. The other
girls were engaged, as usual, in idle chatter, and fluttering of fans.
Lady Delawarr, passing through the room, saw Phoebe sitting rather
disconsolately in a corner.
"Mrs Phoebe, my dear, come and help me to make things ready for
to-morrow," she said, good-naturedly; and Phoebe followed her very
willingly.
The picnic was a success. The weather was beautiful, and the young
people in good temper--two important points. Lady Delawarr herself, in
the absence of her housekeeper, superintended the packing of the light
van which carried the provisions to the old tower. There was to be a
gipsy fire to boil the kettle, with three poles tied together over it,
from which the kettle was slung in the orthodox manner. Phoebe, who was
trying to make herself useful, stretched out her hand for the kettle,
when Lady Delawarr's voice said behind her, "My dear Mrs Phoebe, you
may be relieved of that task. Mr Osmund Derwent--Mrs Phoebe Latrobe.
Mrs Latrobe--Mr Derwent."
There was one advantage, now lost, in this double introduction; if the
name were not distinctly heard in the first instance, it might be caught
in the second.
Phoebe looked up, and saw a rather good-looking young man, whose good
looks, however, lay more in a pleasant expression than in any special
beauty of feature. A little shy, yet without being awkward; and a
little grave and silent, but not at all morose, he was one with whom
Phoebe felt readily at home. His shyness, which arose from diffidence,
not pride, wore off when the first strangeness was over. It was evident
that Lady Delawarr had given him, as she had said, a hint to wait on
Phoebe.
The peculiarity of Lady Delawarr's conduct rather puzzled Phoebe. At
times she was particularly gracious, whilst at others she utterly
neglected her. Simple, unworldly Phoebe did not guess that while Rhoda
Peveril and Phoebe Latrobe were of no consequence in the eyes of her
hostess, the future possessor of White-Ladies was of very much. Lady
Delawarr never felt quite certain who that was to be. She expected it
to be Rhoda; yet at times the conviction smote her that, after all,
there was no certainty that it might not be Phoebe. Madam was
impulsive; she had already surprised people by taking up with Phoebe at
all; and Rhoda might displease her. In consequence of these
reflections, though Phoebe was generally left unnoticed, yet
occasionally Lady Delawarr warmed into affability, and cultivated the
girl who might, after all, come to be the heiress of Madam's untold
wealth. For Lady Delawarr's mind was essentially of the earth, earthy;
gold had for her a value far beyond goodness, and pleasantness of
disposition or purity of mind were not for a moment to be set in
comparison with a suite of pearls.
Mr Derwent took upon himself the responsibility of the kettle, and
chatted pleasantly enough with Phoebe, to whom the other damsels were
only too glad to leave all trouble. He walked home with her, insisting
with playful persistence upon carrying her scarf and the little basket
which she had brought for wild flowers; talked to her about his mother
and sisters, his own future prospects as a younger son who must make his
way in the world for himself, and took pains to make himself generally
agreeable and interesting. Under his kindly notice Phoebe opened like a
flower to the sun. It was something new to her to find a sensible,
grown-up person who really seemed to take pleasure in talking with her--
except Mrs Dorothy Jennings, and she and Phoebe were not on a level.
In conversation with Mrs Dorothy she felt herself being taught and
counselled; in conversation with Mr Derwent she was entertained and
gratified.
Judging from his conduct, Mr Derwent was as much pleased with Phoebe as
she was with him. During the whole time she remained at Delawarr Court,
he constituted himself her cavalier. He was always at hand when she
wanted anything, at times supplying the need even before she had
discovered its existence. Phoebe tasted, for the first time in her
life, the flattering ease of being waited on, instead of waiting on
others; the delicate pleasure of being listened to, instead of snubbed
and disregarded; the intellectual treat of finding one who was willing
to exchange ideas with her, rather than only to impart ideas to her.
Was it any wonder if Osmund Derwent began to form a nucleus in her
thoughts, round which gathered a floating island of fair fancies and
golden visions, all the more beautiful because they were vague?
And all the while, Phoebe never realised what was happening to her. She
let herself drift onwards in a pleasant dream, and never thought of
pausing to analyse her sensations.
The absentees returned home in the afternoon of the third day. And
beyond the roll of the coaches, and the noise and bustle inseparable
from the arrival of eighteen persons, the first intimation of it which
was given in the drawing-room was caused by the entrance of Molly, who
swept into the room with tragi-comic dignity, and mounting a chair,
cleared her voice, and held forth, as if it had been a sceptre, a minute
bow of black gauze ribbon.
"Ladies and gentlewomen!" said Molly with solemnity. "(The gentlemen
don't count.) Ladies and gentlewomen! I engaged myself, before leaving
the Court, to bring back to you in triumph a snip from the Queen's gown.
Behold it! (Never mind how I got it,--here it is.) Upon honour, as
sure as my name is Mary--('tisn't,--I was christened Maria)--but, as
sure as there is one rent and two spots of mud on this white gown which
decorates my charming person,--the places whereof are best known to
myself,--this bow of gauze, on which all your eyes are fixed,--now
there's a shame! Sophy Rich isn't looking a bit--this bow was on the
gown of Her Majesty Queen Anne yesterday morning! _Plaudite vobis_!"
And down came Miss Molly.
"If I might be excused, Mrs Maria," hesitatingly began Mr Edmundson,
who seemed almost afraid of the sound of his own voice, "_vobis_ is, as
I cannot but be sensible, not precisely the--ah--not quite the word--
ah--"
"You shut up, old Bandbox," said Molly, dropping her heroics. "None of
your business. Can't you but be sensible? First time you ever were!"
"I ask your pardon, Mrs Maria. I trust, indeed,--ah--I am not--ah--
insensible, to the many--ah--many things which--"
The youthful company were convulsed with laughter. They were all aware
that Molly was intentionally talking at cross purposes with her pastor;
and that while he clung to the old signification of sensible, namely, to
be aware of, or sensitive to, a thing, she was using it in the new, now
universally accepted, sense of sagacious. The fun, of course, was
enhanced by the fact that poor Mr Edmundson was totally unacquainted
with the change of meaning.
"I don't believe she cut it off a bit!" whispered Kitty Mainwaring.
"She gave a guinea to some orange-girl who was cousin to some other maid
in the Queen's laundry,--some stuff of that sort. Cut it off!--how
could she? Just tell me that."
Before the last word was well out of Kitty's lips, Molly's small, bright
scissors were snapped within an inch of Kitty's nose.
"Perhaps you would have the goodness to say that again, Mrs Catherine
Mainwaring!" observed that young person, in decidedly menacing tones.
"Thank you, no, I don't care to do," replied Kitty, laughing, but
shrinking back from the scissors.
"When I say I will do a thing, I will do it, Madam!" retorted Molly.
"If you can, I suppose," said Kitty, defending herself from another
threatening snap.
"Say I can't, at your peril!"
And Molly and her scissors marched away in dudgeon.
"You are very tired, I fear, Mrs Gatty," said Phoebe, when Gatty came
up to the room they shared, for the night.
"Rather," answered Gatty, with a sad smile on her white face.
But she did not tell Phoebe what had tired her. It was not the journey,
nor the ceremony, but her mother's greeting.
"Why, Betty, you are quite blooming!" Lady Delawarr had said. "It hath
done you good, child. And Molly, too, as sprightly as ever! Child, did
you get touched?"
"I did, Madam," answered Molly, with an extravagant courtesy.
"Ah!" said her mother, in a tone of great satisfaction. "Then we need
apprehend no further trouble from the evil. I am extreme glad. O
Gatty! you poor, scarred, wretched creature! Really, had it not been
that the absence of one of my daughters would be remarked on, I vow I
wish you had not gone! 'Tis such a sight to show, that dreadful face of
yours. You will never give me any more comfort--that is certain."
"Pos.!" echoed Molly, exactly in the same tone.
"I would not mind, Gatty!" was Betty's kindly remark.
"Thank you," said Gatty, meekly. "I wish I did not!"
Gatty did not repeat this to Phoebe. But Phoebe saw there was something
wrong.
Rhoda came rustling in before much more could be said. She was full of
details of the journey. What the Queen looked like,--a tall, stout
woman, with such blooming cheeks that Rhoda felt absolutely certain she
wore rouge,--how she was dressed,--all in black, with a black calash, or
high, loose hood, and adorned with diamonds--how she had been
received,--with ringing cheers from the Tory part of the population, but
ominous silence, or very faint applause, from such as were known to be
Whigs: how Sophia Rich had told Rhoda that all the Whig ladies of mark
had made up their minds to attend no drawing-rooms the next season: how
it was beginning to be dimly suspected that Lord Mar was coquetting with
the exiled members of the royal family, and more than suspected that the
Duke and Duchess of Marlborough were no longer all powerful with Queen
Anne, as they had once been: how the Queen always dined at three p.m.,
never drank French wine, held drawing-rooms on Sundays after service,
would not allow any gentleman to enter her presence without a
full-bottomed periwig: all these bits of information Rhoda dilated on,
passing from one to another with little regard to method, and wound up
with an account of the presentation of the bouquet, and how the Queen
had received it from Lady Diana with a smile, and, "I thank you all,
young gentlewomen," in that silver voice which was Anne's pre-eminent
charm.