"`I lost my looks, I lost my health,
I lost my wit--my love kept true;
But one fine day I lost my wealth,
And, presto! off my lover flew.'
"Isn't that about it, old Tadpole?"
"Your's hasn't," retorted Rhoda, carrying the attack into the enemy's
country.
"No; I haven't lost my wealth yet," said Molly, gravely for her.
"Who told you?" whispered Phoebe.
"O Gemini! isn't that a good jest?" responded Molly, not at all in a
whisper. "`Who told me?'--just as if three hundred and sixty-five
people hadn't told me. Told me more jokes than one, too, Mrs Phoebe
Latrobe; told me how _you_ sent off Master Marcus with all the starch
washed out of him. Got-up Marcus in the rough dry--O Gemini!" and Molly
almost shrieked with laughter. "Poor wretch! Hasn't had the heart to
powder himself since. And she told him to his face he wanted the
guineas.--Oh how jolly! Wouldn't I have given a pretty penny to see his
face! Phoebe, you're tip-top."
"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Rhoda, with something of
her old sharp manner.
"Talking about your true and constant lover, my charmer," said Molly.
"His heart was broken to bits by losing--your money; so he picked up the
pieces, and pasted them together, and offered the pretty little thing to
your cousin, as the nearest person to you. But she, O cruel creature!
instead of giving him an etiquet of admission to her heart, what does
she but come down on the wretch's corns with a blunderbuss, and crush
his poor pasted heart into dust. Really--"
"Molly, my dear!" said Betty, laughing. "Does a man's heart lie in his
corns?"
"If you wish to know, Mrs Betty Delawarr, the conclusions to which I
have come on that subject," replied Molly, in her gravest mock manner,
"they are these. Most men haven't any hearts. They have pretty little
ornaments, made of French paste, which do instead. They get smashed
about once in six months, then they are pasted up, and nobody ever knows
the difference. There isn't much, when 'tis nicely done."
"Pray, Molly, how many women have hearts?"
"Not one among 'em, present company excepted."
"Oh, Molly, Molly!" said Betty, still laughing. "I thank you, in the
name of present company," added Rhoda; but there was a glitter in her
eyes which was not mirth.
"Now, Red Gooseberries (rather sour just now), you listen to me," said
Molly. "If you have got a heart (leave that to you!) don't you let it
waste away for that piece of flummery. There's Osmund Derwent breaking
his for you, and I believe he has one. Take him--you'll never do
better; and if I tell you lies for the rest of my life, I've spoken
truth this time.--Now, Fib, aren't you going to show such distinguished
visitors into the parlour?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Phoebe; "I was listening to you."
"Madam, I thank you for the compliment," and, with a low courtesy, Molly
gave her sister a push before her into the presence of Mrs Latrobe.
"Phoebe, come here!" cried Rhoda, in a hoarse whisper, drawing her
cousin aside into one of the deep recessed windows of the old hall, once
the refectory of the Abbey. "Tell me, did Marcus Welles offer to you?"
"Yes," said Phoebe, and said no more. "And you refused him?"
"Why, Rhoda, dear! Yes, of course."
"Not for my sake, I hope. Phoebe, I would not marry him now, if he came
with his hat full of diamonds."
"Make your mind easy, dear. I never would have done."
"Do you know, Phoebe, Aunt Anne has offered to put me in the Maidens'
Lodge?"
"She talked of it," said Phoebe, pitifully.
"I am not going there," responded Rhoda, in a decisive tone. "I'll go
to service first. Perhaps, I can come down so much, away from here; but
to do it here, where I thought to be mistress!--no, I could not stand
that, Phoebe."
"I am sorry you have to stand any of it, dear Rhoda."
"You are a good little thing, Fib; I could not bear you to pity me if
you were not. If Aunt Anne had but half your--"
"Phoebe, where are you? Really, my dear, I am quite shocked at your
negligence! Carry the young gentlewomen up to their chambers, and let
Rhoda wait on them. I take it extreme ill you should have left them so
long. Do, my dear, remember your position!"
Remember her position! Phoebe was beginning to wish heartily that she
might now and then be permitted to forget it.
The four girls went upstairs together.
"I say, Fib, did you ever shoot a waterfall in a coble?" inquired Molly.
Phoebe felt safe in a negative.
"Because I've heard folks say who have, that 'tis infinitely pleasant,
when you come alive out of it; but then, you see, there's a little doubt
about that."
"I don't understand you, Mrs Molly."
"No, my dear, very like you don't. Well, you'll find out when you've
shot 'em. You're only a passenger; no blame to you if you don't come
out alive."
"Who's rowing, Molly?" asked Rhoda.
"Somebody that isn't used to handling the oars," said Molly. "And if
she don't get a hole stove in--Glad 'tis no concern of mine!"
"How does Gatty now?" asked Rhoda.
"O she is very well, I thank you," replied Betty.
"Is she promised yet?"
"Dear, no," said Betty, in a pitying tone.
"Rank cruelty, only to think on it," said Molly. "She'll just come in,
as pat as vinegar to lettuce, to keep you company in the Maidens' Lodge,
my beloved Rhoda."