"Why, Phoebe, here's your wool--a whole ball!"
"Pretty kettle of fish!" screamed the parrot.
Betty and Molly had gone home. Mr Onslow had read prayers, the
servants were filing out of the room, and Rhoda was lighting the
candles.
"Well, my dear," asked Mrs Latrobe, looking up rather suddenly, "is
your decision taken?"
"It is, Madam," readily answered her niece.
"So much the better. What is it, my dear?"
"I should prefer to go to service, if you please, Madam."
"You would!" Mrs Latrobe's tone showed surprise. "Very well: I
promised you your choice. As lady's woman, I suppose?"
"If you please, Madam."
"Certainly, my dear. It shall be as you wish. Then to-morrow I will
begin to look out for you. I should think I shall hear of a place in a
week or two."
Rhoda made no answer, but took up her candle, and departed with merely,
"Good-night, Madam."
But as Phoebe went upstairs behind her, she noted Rhoda's bowed head,
her hand tightly grasping the banisters, her drowning, farewell look at
the family portraits, as she passed them on her way up the corridor. At
length she paused before three which hung together.
In the midst stood their grandmother, a handsome, haughty figure, taken
at about the age of thirty; and on either side a daughter, at about
eighteen years of age. Rhoda lifted her light first to Madam's face.
She said nothing to indicate her thoughts there, but passed on, and
paused for another minute before the pretty, sparkling face of Anne
Latrobe. Then she came back, and raised the light, for a longer time
than either, to the pale, regular, unexpressive features of Catherine
Peveril. Phoebe waited for her to speak. It came at last.
"I never knew her," said Rhoda, in a choked voice. "I wonder if _they_
know what is happening on earth."
"I should not think so," answered Phoebe, softly.
"Well,--I hope not!"
The hand which held the lifted light came down, and Rhoda passed into
her own room, and at once knelt down to her prayers. Phoebe stood
irresolute, her heart beating like a hammer. An idea had occurred to
her which, if it could be carried into effect, would help Rhoda out of
all her trouble. But in order to be so, it was necessary that she
herself must commit--in her own eyes--an act of unparalleled audacity.
Could she do it? The minute seemed an hour. Phoebe heard her mother go
upstairs, and shut her door. A rapid prayer went to God for wisdom.
Her resolution grew stronger. She took up her candle, stole softly
downstairs, found the silver inkstand and the box of perfumed
letter-paper. There were only a few words written when Phoebe had done.
"Sir,--If you were now to come hither. I thinke you wou'd win my cosen.
A verie few dayes may be too late. Forgive the liberty I take.
"Yours to serve you, Phoebe Latrobe."
The letter was folded and directed to "_Mr_. Osmund Derwent, Esquire."
And then, for one minute, human nature had its way, and Phoebe's head
was bowed over the folded note. There was no one to see her, and she
let her heart relieve itself in tears. Ay, there was One, who took note
of the self-abnegation which had been learned from Him. Phoebe knew
that Osmund Derwent did not love her. Yet was it the less hard on that
account to resign him to Rhoda? For time and circumstances might have
shown him the comparatively alloyed metal of the one, and the pure gold
of the other. He might have loved Phoebe, even yet, as matters stood
now. But Phoebe's love was true. She was ready to secure his happiness
at the cost of her own. It was not of that false, selfish kind which
seeks merely its own happiness in the beloved one, and will give him
leave to be happy only in its own way. Yet, after all, Phoebe was
human; and some very sorrowful tears were shed, for a few minutes, over
that gift laid on the altar. Though the drops were salt, they would not
tarnish the gold.
It was but for a few minutes that Phoebe dared to remain there. She
wiped her eyes and forced back her tears. Then she went upstairs and
tapped at Betty's door.
"There's that worriting Sue," she heard Betty say inside; and then the
door was opened. "Mrs Phoebe, my dear, I ask twenty pardons; I thought
'twas that Sukey,--she always comes a-worriting. What can I do for you,
my dear?"
"I want you to get that letter off first thing in the morning, Betty."
Betty turned the letter all ways, scanned the address, and inspected the
seal.
"Mrs Phoebe, you'll not bear me malice, I hope. You know you're only
young, my dear. Are you quite certain you'll never be sorry for this
here letter?"
"'Tis not what you think, Betty," said Phoebe with a smile on her pale
lips which had a good deal of sadness in it. "You are sorry for my
cousin, I know. 'Twill be a kind act towards her, Betty, if you will
send that letter."
Betty looked into Phoebe's face so earnestly that she dropped her eyes.
"I see," said Mrs Latrobe's maid. "I'm not quiet a blind bat, Mrs
Phoebe. The letter shall go, my dear. Make your mind easy."
Yet Betty did not see all there was to be seen.
"Why, Phoebe!" exclaimed Rhoda, when she got back to the bedroom, "where
have you been?"
"Downstairs."
"What had you to go down for? You forgot something, I suppose. But
what is the matter with your eyes?"
"They burn a little to-night, dear," said Phoebe, quietly.
The days went on, and there was no reply to Phoebe's audacious note, and
there was a reply to Mrs Latrobe's situation-hunting. She announced to
Rhoda on the ninth morning at breakfast that she had heard of an
excellent place for her. Lady Kitty Mainwaring the mother of Molly
Delawarr's future husband, was on the look-out for a "woman." She had
three daughters, the eldest of whom was the Kitty who had been at
Delawarr Court. Rhoda would have to wait on these young ladies, as well
as their mother. It was a most eligible situation. Mrs Latrobe, on
Rhoda's behalf, had accepted it at once.
Rhoda sat playing with her tea-spoon, and making careful efforts to
balance it on the edge of her cup.
"Do they know who wants it?" she asked, in a husky voice.
"Of course, my dear! You did not look I should make any secret of it,
sure?"
Rhoda's colour grew deeper. It was evident that she was engaged in a
most severe struggle with herself. She looked up at last.
"Very good, Aunt Anne. I will go to Lady Kitty," she said.
"My dear, I accepted the place. Of course you will go," returned Mrs
Latrobe, in a voice of some astonishment.
Rhoda got out of the room at the earliest opportunity, and Phoebe
followed her as soon as she could. But she found her kneeling by her
bed, and stole away again. Was chastening working the peaceable fruit
of righteousness in Rhoda Peveril?
Phoebe wandered out into the park, and bent her steps towards the ruins
of the old church. She sat down at the foot of Saint Ursula's image,
and tried to disentangle her bewildered thoughts. Had she made a
mistake in sending that letter, and did the Lord intend Rhoda to go to
Lady Kitty Mainwaring? Phoebe had been trying to lift her cousin out of
trouble. Was it God's plan to plunge Rhoda more deeply into it, in
order that she might learn her lesson the more thoroughly, and be the
more truly happy afterwards? If so, Phoebe had made a stupid blunder.
When would she learn that God did not need her bungling help? Yet, poor
Rhoda! How miserable she was likely to be! Phoebe buried her face in
her hands, and did not see that some one had come in by a ruined window,
and was standing close beside her on the grass.
"Mrs Phoebe, I owe you thanks unutterable," said a voice that Phoebe
knew only too well.