"To-night we sit together here,
To-morrow night shall come--ah, where?"
_Robert Lord Lytton_.
"There! Didn't I tell you, now?" ejaculated Mrs Jane Talbot.
"I am sure I don't know, Jane," responded her sister, in querulous
tones. "You are always talking about something. I never can tell how
you manage to keep continually talking, in the way you do. I could not
bear it. I never was a talker; I haven't breath for it, with my poor
chest,--such a perpetual rattle,--I don't know how you stand it, I'm
sure. And to think what a beautiful singer I was once! Young Sir
Samuel Dennis once said I entranced him, when he had heard my singing to
Mrs Lucy's spinnet--positively entranced him! And Lord James
Morehurst--"
"An unmitigated donkey!" slid in Mrs Jane.
"Jane, how you do talk! One can't get in a word for you. What was I
saying, Clarissa?"
"You were speaking of Lord James Morehurst, dear Marcella. 'Tis all
very well for Jane to run him down," said Mrs Vane in a languishing
style, fanning herself as she spoke, "but I am sure he was the most
charming black man I ever saw. He once paid me such a compliment on my
fine eyes!"
"More jackanapes he!" came from Mrs Jane.
"Well, I don't believe he ever paid you such an one," said Mrs
Clarissa, pettishly.
"He'd have got his ears boxed if he had," returned Mrs Jane. "The
impudence of some of those fellows!"
"Poor dear Jane! she never had any taste," sighed Mrs Marcella. "I
protest, Clarissa, I am quite pleased to hear this news. As much
pleased, you know, as a poor suffering creature like me can be. But I
think Mrs Rhoda has done extreme well. Mr Welles is of a good stock
and an easy fortune, and he has the sweetest taste in dress."
"Birds of a feather!" muttered Mrs Jane. "Ay, I knew what Mark-Me-Well
was after. Told you so from the first. I marked him, be sure."
"I suppose he has three thousand a year?" inquired Mrs Clarissa.
"Guineas--very like. Not brains--trust me!" said Mrs Jane.
"And an estate?" pursued Mrs Clarissa, with languid interest.
"Oh dear, yes!" chimed in the invalid; "I would have told you about it,
if Jane could ever hold her tongue. Such a--"
"I've done," observed Mrs Jane, marching off.
"Oh, my dear Clarissa, you can have no conception of what I suffer!"
resumed Mrs Marcella, sinking down to a confidential tone. "I love
quiet above all things, and Jane's tongue is never still. Ah! if I
could go to the wedding, as I used to do! I was at all the grand
weddings in the county when I was a young maid. I couldn't tell you how
many times I was bridesmaid. When Sir Samuel was married--and really,
after all the fine things he had said, and the way he used to ogle me
through his glass, I _did_ think!--but, however, that's neither here nor
there. The creature he married had plenty of money, but absolutely no
complexion, and she painted--oh, how she did paint! and a turn-up
nose,--the ugliest thing you ever saw. And with all that, the airs she
used to give herself! It really was disgusting."
"O, my dear! I can't bear people that give themselves airs," observed
Mrs Clarissa, with a toss of her head, and "grounding" her fan.
"No, nor I," echoed Mrs Marcella, quite as unconscious as her friend of
the covert satire in her words. "I wonder what Mrs Rhoda will be
married in. I always used to say I would be married in white and
silver. And really, if my wretched health had not stood in the way, I
might have been, my dear, ever so many times. I am sure it would have
come to something, that evening when Lord James and I were sitting in
the balcony, after I had been singing,--and there, that stupid Jane must
needs come in the way! I always liked a pretty wedding. I should think
it would be white and silver. And what do you suppose Madam will give
her?"
"Oh, a set of pearls, I should say, if not diamonds," answered Mrs
Clarissa.
"She will do something handsome, of course."
"Suppose you do something handsome, and swallow your medicine without a
lozenge," suggested Mrs Jane, walking in and presenting a glass to her
sister. "'Tis time."
"I am sure it can't be, Jane! You are always making me swallow some
nasty stuff. And as to taking it without a lozenge, I couldn't do such
a thing!"
"Stuff! You could, if you did," said Mrs Jane. "Come, then,--here it
is. I shouldn't want one."
"Oh, you!--you have not my fine feelings!" responded Mrs Marcella,
sitting with the glass in her hand, and looking askance at its
reddish-brown contents.
"Come, sup it up, and get it over," said her sister. "O Jane!--you
unfeeling creature!"
"'Twill be no better five minutes hence, I'm sure."
"You see what I suffer, Clarissa!" wailed Mrs Marcella, gulping down
the medicine, and pulling a terrible face. "Jane has no feeling for me.
She never had. I am a poor despised creature whom nobody cares for.
Well, I suppose I must bear it. 'Tis my fate. But what I ever did to
be afflicted in this way! Oh, the world's a hard place, and life's a
very, very dreary thing. Oh dear, dear!"
Phoebe Latrobe, who had been sent by Madam to tell the news at the
Maidens' Lodge, sat quietly listening in a corner. But when Mrs
Marcella began thus to play her favourite tune, Phoebe rose and took her
leave. She called on Lady Betty, who expressed her gratification in the
style of measured propriety which characterised her. Lastly, with a
slow and rather tired step, she entered the gate of Number One. She had
left her friend Mrs Dorothy to the last.
"Just in time for a dish of tea, child!" said little Mrs Dorothy, with
a beaming smile. "Sit you down, my dear, and take off your hood, and I
will have the kettle boiling in another minute. Well, and how have you
enjoyed your visit? You look tired, child."
"Yes, I feel tired," answered Phoebe. "I scarce know how I enjoyed the
visit, Mrs Dorothy--there were things I liked, and there were things I
didn't like."
"That is generally the case, my dear."
"Yes," said Phoebe, abstractedly. "Mrs Dorothy, did you know Mrs
Marcella Talbot when she was young?"
"A little, my dear. Not so well as I know her now."
"Was she always as discontented as she is now?"
"That is a spirit that grows on us, Phoebe," said Mrs Dorothy, gravely.
Phoebe blushed. "I know you think I have it," she replied. "But I
should not wish to be like Mrs Marcella."
"I think thy temptation lies that way, dear child. But thy disposition
is not so light and frivolous as hers. However, we will not talk of our
neighbours without we praise them."
"Mrs Dorothy, Rhoda has engaged herself to Mr Marcus Welles. Madam
sent me down to tell all of you."
"She has, has she?" responded Mrs Dorothy, as if it were quite what she
expected. "Well, I trust it may be for her good."
"Aren't you sorry, Mrs Dorothy?"
"Scarce, my dear. We hardly know what are the right things to grieve
over. You and I might have thought it a very mournful thing when the
prodigal son was sent into the field to feed swine: yet--speaking after
the manner of men--if that had not happened, he would not have arisen
and have gone to his father."
"Do you think Rhoda will have to go through trouble before she can find
peace, Mrs Dorothy?"
"`Before she can--' I don't know, my dear. Before she will--I am
afraid, yes."
"I am so sorry," said Phoebe.
"Dear child, the last thing the prodigal will do is to arise and go to
the Father. He will try every sort of swine's husks first. He doth not
value the delicates of the Father's house--he hath no taste for them.
The husks are better, to his palate. What wonder, then, if he tarry yet
in the far country?"
"But how are you to get him to change his taste, Mrs Dorothy?"
"Neither you nor he can do that, my dear. Most times, either the husks
run short, or he gets cloyed with them. That is, if he ever go back to
the Father. For some never do, Phoebe--they stay on in the far country,
and find the husks sweet to the end."
"That must be saddest of all," said Phoebe, sorrowfully.
"It is saddest of all. Ah, child!--thank thy Father, if He have made
thy husks taste bitter."
"But all things are not husks, Mrs Dorothy!"
"Certainly not, my dear. Delight in the Lord's works in nature, or in
the pleasures of the intellect such things as these are right enough in
their place, Phoebe. The danger is of putting them into God's place."
"Mrs Dolly," asked Phoebe, gravely, "do you think that when we care
very much for a person or a thing, we put it into God's place?"
"If you care more for it than you do for Him. Not otherwise."
"How is one to know that?"
"Ask your own heart how you would feel if God demanded it from you."
"How ought I to feel?"
"Sorry, perhaps; but not resentful. Not as though the Lord had no right
to ask this at your hands. Grief is allowed; 'tis murmuring that
displeases Him."
When Mrs Dorothy said this, Phoebe felt conscious of a dim conviction,
buried somewhere very deep down, that there was something which she
hoped God would not demand from her. She did not know herself what it
was. It was not exactly that she would refuse to give it up; but rather
that she hoped she would never be called upon to do it--that if she were
it would be a very hard thing to do.
Phoebe left the Maidens' Lodge, and walked slowly across the Park to
White-Ladies. She was feeling for the unknown cause of this sentiment
of vague soreness at her heart. She had not found it, when a voice
broke in upon her meditations.
"Mrs Latrobe?"
Phoebe came to a sudden stop, and with her heart heating wildly, looked
up into the face of Osmund Derwent.
"I am too happy to have met with you," said he. "I was on my way to
White-Ladies. May I presume to ask your good offices, Mrs Phoebe, to
favour me so far as to present me to Madam Furnival!"
Phoebe courtesied her assent.
"Mrs Rhoda, I trust, is well?"
"She is very well, I thank you."
"I am rejoiced to hear it. You will not, I apprehend, Mrs Phoebe,
suffer any surprise, if I tell you of my hopes with regard to Mrs
Rhoda. You must, surely, have seen, when at Delawarr Court, what was my
ambition. Think you there is any chance for me with Madam Furnival?"
It was well for Osmund Derwent that he had not the faintest idea of what
was going on beneath the still, white face of the girl who walked beside
him so quietly. She understood now. She knew, revealed as by a flash
of lightning, what it was which it would be hard work to resign at God's
call.
It was Rhoda for whom he cared--not Phoebe. Phoebe was interesting to
him, simply as being in his mind associated with Rhoda. And Rhoda did
not want him: and Phoebe had to tell him so.
So she told him. "I am sure Madam would receive you with a welcome,"
she said. "But as for Mrs Rhoda, 'tis best you should know she stands
promised already."
Mr Derwent thought Phoebe particularly unsympathising. People often do
think so of those whose "hands are clasped above a hidden pain," and who
have to speak with forced calmness, as the only way in which they dare
speak at all. He felt a little hurt; he had thought Phoebe so friendly
at Delawarr Court.
"To whom?" he asked, almost angrily.
"Mr Marcus Welles."
"That painted fop!" cried Derwent.
Phoebe was silent.
"You really mean that? She is positively promised to him?"
"She is promised to him."
Phoebe spoke in a dull, low, dreamy tone. She felt as though she were
in a dream: all these events which were passing around her never could
be real. She heard Osmund Derwent's bitter comments, as though she
heard them not. She was conscious of only one wish for the future--to
be left alone with God.
Osmund Derwent was extremely disappointed in Phoebe. He had expected
much more sympathy and consideration from her. He said to himself, in
the moments which he could spare from the main subject, that Phoebe did
not understand him, and did not feel for him in the least. She had
never loved anybody--that was plain!
And meantime, simply to bear and wait, until he chose to leave her,
taxed all Phoebe's powers to her uttermost.
She was left alone at last. But instead of going back to the house,
where she had no certainty of privacy, Phoebe plunged into the shade of
a clump of cedars and cypresses, and sat down at the foot of one of
them.
It was a lovely, cloudless day. Through the bright feathery green of a
Syrian cypress she looked up into the clear blue sky above. Her love
for Osmund Derwent--for she gave it the right name now--was a hopeless
thing. His heart was gone from her beyond recall.
"But Thou remainest!"
The words flashed on her, accompanied by the well-remembered tones of
her father's voice. She recollected that they had formed the text of
the last sermon he had preached. She heard him say again, as he had
said to her on his death-bed, "Dear little Phoebe, remember always,
there is no way out of any sin or sorrow except Christ." The tears came
now. There was relief and healing in them.
"But Thou remainest!"
"Can I suffice for Heaven, and not for earth?"
Phoebe's face showed no sign, when she reached home, of the tempest
which had swept over her heart.
"Phoebe, I desire you would wait a moment," said Madam that evening
after prayers, when Phoebe, candle in hand, was about to follow Rhoda.
"Yes, Madam." Phoebe put down the candle, and stood waiting.
Madam did not continue till the last of the servants had left the room.
Then she said, "Child, I have writ a letter to your mother."
"I thank you, Madam," replied Phoebe.
"And I have sent her ten guineas."
"I thank you very much, Madam."
"I will not disguise from you, my dear, that I cannot but be sensible of
the propriety and discretion of your conduct since you came. I think
myself obliged to tell you, child, that 'tis on your account I have done
so much as this."
"I am sure, Madam, I am infinitely grateful to you."
"And now for another matter. Child, I wish to know your opinion of Mr
Edmundson."
"If you please, Madam, I did not like him," said Phoebe, honestly; "nor
I think he did not me."
"That would not much matter, my dear," observed Madam, referring to the
last clause. "But 'tis a pity you do not like him, for while I would be
sorry to force your inclinations, yet you cannot hope to do better."
"If you would allow me to say so, Madam," answered Phoebe, modestly, yet
decidedly, "I cannot but think I should do better to be as I am."
Madam shook her head, but did not answer in words. She occupied herself
for a little while in settling her mittens to her satisfaction, though
she was just going to pull them off. Then she said, "'Tis pity. Well!
go to bed, child; we must talk more of it to-morrow. Bid Betty come to
me at once, as you pass; I am drowsy to-night."
"I say, Fib," said Rhoda, who had adopted (from Molly) this not very
complimentary diminutive for her cousin's name, but only used it when
she was in a good humour--"I say, Fib, what did Madam want of you?"
"To know what I thought of Mr Edmundson."
"What fun! Well, what did you?"
"Why, I hoped his sermons would be better than himself: and they
weren't."
"Did you tell Madam that?" inquired Rhoda, convulsed with laughter.
"No, not exactly that; I said--"
"O Fib, I wish you had! She thinks it tip-top impertinence in any woman
to presume to have an opinion about a sermon. My word! wouldn't you
have caught it!"
"Well, I simply told her the truth," replied Phoebe; "that I didn't like
him, and I didn't think he liked me."
Rhoda went off into another convulsion.
"O Fib, you are good--nobody better! What did she say to that?"
"She said his not fancying me wouldn't signify. But I think it would
signify a good deal to me, if I had to be his wife."
"Well, she wouldn't think so, not a bit," said Rhoda, still laughing.
"She'd just be thunderstruck if Mr Edmundson, or anybody else in his
place, refused the honour of marrying anybody related to her. Shouldn't
I like to see him do it! It would take her down a peg, I reckon."
This last elegant expression was caught from Molly.
"Well, I am sure I would rather be refused than taken unwillingly."
"Where did you get your notions. Fib? They are not the mode at all.
You were born on the wrong side of fifty, I do think."
"Which is the wrong side of fifty?" suggestively asked Phoebe.
"I wish you wouldn't murder me with laughing," said Rhoda. "Look here
now: what shall I be married in?"
"White and silver, Mrs Marcella said, this morning."
("This morning!" Phoebe's words came back no her. Was it only this
morning?)
"Thank you! nothing so insipid for me. I think I'll have pink and
dove-colour. What do you say?"
"I don't think I would have pink," said Phoebe, mentally comparing that
colour with Rhoda's red and white complexion. "Blue would suit you
better."
"Well, blue does become me," answered Rhoda, contemplating herself in
the glass. "But then, would blue and dove-colour do? I think it should
be blue and cold. Or blue and silver? What do you think, Phoebe? I
say!"--and suddenly Rhoda turned round and faced Phoebe--"what does
Madam mean by having Mr Dawson here? Betty says he was here twice
while we were visiting, and he is coming again to-morrow. What can it
mean? Is she altering her will, do you suppose?"
"I am sure I don't know, Cousin," said Phoebe.
"I shouldn't wonder if she is. I dare say she'll leave you one or two
hundred pounds," said Rhoda, with extreme benignity. "Really, I wish
she would. You're a good little thing, Fib, for all your whims."
"Thank you, Cousin," said Phoebe, meekly.
And the cousins went to sleep with amiable feelings towards each other.
The dawn was just creeping over the earth when something awoke Phoebe.
Something like the faint tingle of a bell seemed to linger in her ears.
"Rhoda!--did you hear that?" she asked.
"Hear what?" demanded Rhoda, in a very sleepy voice.
"I fancied I heard a bell," said Phoebe, trying to listen.
"Oh, nonsense!" answered Rhoda, rather more awake. "Go to sleep.
You've been dreaming."
And Phoebe, accepting the solution, took the advice. She was scarcely
asleep again, as it seemed to her, when the door was softly opened, and
Betty came in.
"Mrs Rhoda, my dear, you'd better get up."
"What time is it?" sleepily murmured Rhoda.
"You'd better get up," repeated Betty. "Never mind the time."
"Betty, is there something the matter?"
Betty ignored Phoebe's question.
"Come, my dear, jump up!" she said, still addressing Rhoda. "You'll be
wanted by-and-bye."
"Who wants me?" inquired Rhoda, making no effort to rise.
"Well, Mr Dawson, the lawyer, is coming presently, and you'll have to
see him."
"I!" Rhoda's eyes opened pretty wide. "Why should I see him? 'Tis
Madam wants him, not me."
To the astonishment of both the girls, Betty burst out crying.
"Betty, I am sure something has happened," said Phoebe, springing up.
"What is the matter?"
"O, my dear, Madam's gone!" sobbed Betty. "Poor dear gentlewoman!
She'll never see anybody again. Mrs Rhoda, she's died in the night."
There was a moment of silent horror, as the eyes of the cousins met.
Then Phoebe said under her breath--
"That bell!"
"Yes, poor dear Madam, she rang her bell," said Betty; "but she could
not speak when I got to her. I don't think she was above ten minutes
after. I've sent off sharp for Dr Saunders, and Mr Dawson too; but
'tis too late--eh, poor dear gentlewoman!"
"Did you send for Mr Leighton?" asked Rhoda, in an awe-struck voice.
"Oh dear, yes, I sent for him too; but la! what can he do?" answered
Betty, wiping her eyes.
They all came in due order: Dr Saunders to pronounce that Madam had
been dead three hours--"of a cardial malady," said he, in a
professionally mysterious manner; Mr Leighton, the Vicar of Tewkesbury,
to murmur a few platitudes about the virtues and charity to the poor
which had distinguished the deceased lady, and to express his firm
conviction that so exalted a character would be at once enrolled among
the angelic host, even though she had not been so happy as to receive
the Holy Sacrament. Mr Dawson came last, and his concern appeared to
be awakened rather for the living than the dead.
"Sad business this!" said he, as he entered the parlour, where the
cousins sat, close together, drawn to one another by the fellowship of
suffering, in a manner they had never been before. "Sad business! Was
to have seen me to-day--important matter. Humph!"
The girls looked at him, but neither spoke.
"Do you know," he pursued, apparently addressing himself to both, "how
your grandmother had arranged her affairs?"
"No," said Rhoda and Phoebe together.
"Humph! Pity! Been a good deal better for you, my dear young
gentlewoman, if she had lived another four-and-twenty hours."
Neither said "Which?" for both thought they knew.
"Poor Phoebe!" said Rhoda, pressing her hand. "But never mind, dear;
I'll give it you, just right, what she meant you to have. We'll see
about it before I'm married. Oh dear!--that will have to be put off, I
suppose."
"You are going to be married?" asked the lawyer.
"Yes," said Rhoda, bridling.
"Humph!--good thing for you."
Mr Dawson marched to the window, with his hands in his pockets, and
stood there softly whistling for some seconds.
"Got any money?" he abruptly inquired.
"I? No," said Rhoda.
"No, no; your intended."
"Oh! Yes--three thousand a year."
"Humph!" Mr Dawson whistled again. Then, making as if he meant to
leave the room, he suddenly brought up before Phoebe.
"Are _you_ going to be married?"
"No, Sir," said Phoebe, blushing.
"Humph!" ejaculated the lawyer, once again.
Silence followed for a few seconds.
"Funeral on Sunday, I suppose? Read the will on Monday morning--eh?"
"Yes, if you please," said Rhoda, who was very much subdued.
"Good. Well!--good morning! Poor girl!" The last words were in an
undertone.
"I am so sorry for it, Phoebe, dear," said Rhoda, who was always at her
best under the pressure of trial. "But never you mind--you shall have
it. I'll make it up to you."
Rhoda now naturally assumed the responsibility of mistress, and gave
orders that no visitor should be admitted excepting the Vicar and Mr
Welles. The evening brought the latter gentleman, who had apparently
spent the interval in arraying himself in faultless mourning.
"I am so grieved, my charmer!" exclaimed Mr Marcus Welles, dropping on
one knee, and lifting Rhoda's hand to his lips. "Words cannot paint my
distress on hearing of your sorrow. Had I been a bird, I would have
flown to offer you consolation. Pray do not dim your bright eyes, my
fair. 'Tis but what happens to all, and specially in old age. Old
folks must die, you know, dearest Madam; and, after all, did they not,
young folks would find them very often troublesome. But you have now no
one over you, and you see your slave at your feet."
And with a most unexceptionable bow, Mr Marcus gently possessed himself
of Rhoda's fan, wherewith he began fanning her in the most approved
manner. It occurred to Phoebe that if the gentleman's grief had been
really genuine, it was doubtful whether his periods would have been
quite so polished. Rhoda's sorrow, while it might prove evanescent, was
honest while it lasted: and had been much increased by the extreme
suddenness of the calamity.
"I thank you, Sir," she said quietly. "And I am sure you will be
grieved to hear that my grandmother died just too soon to make that
provision she intended for my cousin. So the lawyer has told us this
morning. You will not, I cannot but think, oppose my wish to give her
what it was meant that she should have."
"Dearest Madam!" and Mr Welles' hand went to his heart, "you cannot
have so little confidence in me as to account it possible that I could
oppose any wish of yours!"
Engaged persons did not, at that time, call each other by the Christian
name. It would have been considered indecorous.
"I was sure, Sir, you would say no less," answered Rhoda.