"I have seen no one but you," said he, gravely.
They walked up to the house together, but there Phoebe left him and
sought refuge in her bed-chamber.
"Phoebe, my dear, are you here?" said Mrs Latrobe, entering the room
half an hour later. "Child, did you not hear me call? I could not
think where you were, and I wished to have you come down. Why, only
think!--all is changed about Rhoda, and she will not go to Lady Kitty.
I am a little chagrined, I confess, on your account, my dear; however,
it may be all for the best. 'Tis that same Mr Derwent I had heard of,
and thought to obtain for you. Well! I am very pleased for Rhoda; 'tis
quite as good, or better, than any thing she could expect; and I shall
easily meet with something else for you. So now, my dear Phoebe, when
she is married, and all settled--for of course, now, I shall let her
stay till she marries--then, child, the coast will be clear for you. By
the way, you did not care any thing for him, I suppose?--and if you had,
you would soon have got over it--all good girls do. Fetch me my
knotting, Phoebe--'tis above in my chamber; or, if you meet Rhoda, send
her."
It was a subject of congratulation to Phoebe that one of Mrs Latrobe's
peculiarities was to ask questions, and assume, without waiting for it,
that the answer was according to her wishes. So she escaped a reply.
But there was one thing yet for Phoebe to bear, even worse than this.
"Phoebe, dear, dear Phoebe! I am so happy!" and Rhoda twined her arms
round her cousin, and hid her bright face on Phoebe's shoulder. "He
says he has loved me ever since we were at Delawarr. And I think I must
have loved him, just a little bit, without knowing it, or I could not
love him so much all at once now. I was trying very hard to make up my
mind to Lady Kitty's service--that seemed to be what God had ordered for
me; and I did ask Him, Phoebe, to give me patience, and make me willing
to do His will. And only think--all the while He was preparing this for
me! And I don't think, Phoebe, I should have cared for that--you know
what I mean--but for you--the patient, loving way you bore with me; and
I haven't been kind to you, Fib--you know I haven't. Then I dare say
the troubles I've had helped a little. And Mr Derwent says he should
not have dared to come but for a little letter that you writ him. I owe
you all my happiness--my dear, good little Fib!"
Was it all pain she had to bear? Phoebe gave thanks that night.
Ten years had passed since Madam Furnival's death, and over White-Ladies
was a cloudless summer day. In the park, under the care of a governess
and nurse, half a dozen children were playing; and under a spreading
tree on the lawn, with a book in her hand, sat a lady, whose likeness to
the children indicated her as their mother. In two of the cottages of
the Maidens' Lodge that evening, tea-parties were the order of the day.
In Number Four, Mrs Eleanor Darcy was entertaining Mrs Marcella Talbot
and Mrs Clarissa Vane.
Mrs Marcella's health had somewhat improved of late, but her
disposition had not sustained a corresponding change. She was holding
forth now to her two listeners on matters public and private, to the
great satisfaction of Mrs Clarissa, but not altogether to that of Mrs
Eleanor.
"Well, so far as such a poor creature as I am can take any pleasure in
any thing, I am glad to see Mrs Derwent back at White-Ladies. Mrs
Phoebe would never have kept up the place properly. She hasn't her poor
mother's spirit and working power--not a bit. The place would just have
gone to wreck if she had remained mistress there; and I cannot but think
she was sensible of it."
"Well, for my part," put in Mrs Clarissa, "I feel absolutely certain
something must have come to light about Madam's will, you know--which
positively obliged Mrs Phoebe to give up everything to Madam Derwent.
'Tis monstrous to suppose that she would have done any such thing
without being obliged. I feel as sure as if I had _seen_ it."
"O my dear!" came in a gently deprecating tone from Mrs Eleanor.
"Oh, I am positive!" repeated Mrs Clarissa, whose mind possessed the
odd power of forcing conviction on itself by simple familiarity with an
idea. "Everything discovers so many symptoms of it. I cannot but be
infinitely certain. Down, Pug, down!" as Cupid's successor, which was
not a dog, but a very small monkey, endeavoured to jump into her lap.
"Well, till I know the truth is otherwise, I shall give Mrs Phoebe
credit for all," observed Mrs Eleanor.
"Indeed, I apprehend Clarissa has guessed rightly," said Mrs Marcella,
fanning herself. "'Tis so unlikely, you know, for any one to do such a
thing as this, without it were either an obligation or a trick to win
praise. And I can't think _that_,--'tis too much."
"Nay, but surely there is some love and generosity left in the world,"
urged Mrs Eleanor.
"Oh, if you had had my experience, my dear," returned Mrs Marcella,
working her fan more vigorously, "you would know there were no such
things to be looked for in _this_ world. I've looked for gratitude, I
can assure you, till I am tired."
"Gratitude for what?" inquired Mrs Darcy, rather pertinently.
"Oh, for all the things one does for people, you know. They are never
thankful for them--not one bit."
Mrs Darcy felt and looked rather puzzled. During the fifty years of
their acquaintance, she never could remember to have seen Marcella
Talbot do one disinterested kindness to any mortal being.
"They take all you give them," pursued the last-named lady, "and then
they just go and slander you behind your back. Oh, 'tis a miserable
world, this!--full of malice, envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness, as
the Prayer-Book says."
"The Prayer-Book does not exactly say that, I think," suggested Mrs
Eleanor; "it asks that we ourselves may be preserved from such evil
passions."
"I am sure I wish people were preserved from them!" ejaculated Mrs
Clarissa. "The uncharitableness, and misunderstanding, and unkind words
that people will allow themselves to use! 'Tis perfectly heartrending
to hear."
"Especially when one hears it of one's self," responded Mrs Eleanor a
little drily; adding, for she wished to give a turn to the conversation,
"Did you hear the news Dr Saunders was telling yesterday? The Czar of
Muscovy offers to treat with King George, but as Elector of Hanover
only."
"What, he has come thus far, has he?" replied Mrs Marcella. "Why, 'tis
but five or six years since he was ready to marry his daughter to the
Pretender, could they but have come to terms. Sure, King George will
never accept of such a thing as that?"
"I should think not, indeed!" added Mrs Clarissa. "Well, did he want a
bit of sugar, then?"
Pug held out his paw, and very decidedly intimated that he did.
"Mrs Leighton wants Pug; I shall give him to her," observed his
mistress. "'Tis not quite so modish to keep monkeys as it was: I shall
have a squirrel."
"A bit more sugar?" asked Mrs Eleanor, addressing the monkey. "Poor
Pug!"
Next door but one, in the cottage formerly occupied by Lady Betty
Morehurst, were also seated three ladies at tea. Presiding at the
table, in mourning dress, sat our old friend Phoebe. There was an
expression of placid content upon her lips, and a peaceful light in her
eyes, which showed that whatever else she might be, she was not unhappy.
On her left sat Mrs Jane Talbot, a little older looking, a little more
sharp and angular; and on the right, apparently unchanged beyond a
slight increase of infirmity, little Mrs Dorothy Jennings.
"What a pure snug [nice] room have you here!" said Mrs Jane, looking
round.
"'Tis very pleasant," said Phoebe, "and just what I like."
"Now, my dear, do you really mean to say you like this--better than
White-Ladies?"
"Indeed I do, Mrs Jane. It may seem a strange thing to you, but I
could never feel at home at the Abbey. It all seemed too big and grand
for a little thing like me."
"Well! I don't know," responded Mrs Jane, in that tone which people
use when they make that assertion as the prelude to the declaration of a
very decisive opinion,--"_I_ don't know, but I reckon there's a pretty
deal about you that's big and grand, my dear; and I'm mightily mistaken
if Mr Derwent and Mrs Rhoda don't think the same."
"My dear Jane!" said Mrs Dorothy, with a twinkle of fun in her eyes.
"Mr and Madam Derwent Furnival, if you please."
"Oh, deary me!" ejaculated Mrs Jane. "Leave that stuff to you. She
can call herself Madam Peveril-Plantagenet, if she likes. Make no
difference to me. Mrs Rhoda she was, and Mrs Rhoda I shall call her
to the end of the chapter. Don't mean any disrespect, you know--quite
the contrary. Well, I'm sure I'm very glad to see her at White-Ladies;
but, Mrs Phoebe, if it could have been managed, I should have liked you
too."
"Thank you, Mrs Jane, but you see it couldn't."
"Well, I don't know. There was no need for you to come down to the
Maidens' Lodge, without you liked. Couldn't you have kept rooms in the
Abbey for yourself, and still have given all to your cousin?"
"I'd rather have this," said Phoebe, with a smile. "I am more
independent, you see; and I have kept what my grandmother meant me to
have, so that, please God, I trust I shall never want, and can still
help my friends when they need it. I can walk in the park, and enjoy
the gardens, just as well as ever; and Rhoda will be glad to see me, I
know, any time when I want a chat with her."
"I should think so, indeed!" cried Mrs Jane. "Most thankless woman in
the world if she wasn't."
"Oh, don't say that! You know I could not have done anything else,
knowing what Madam intended, when things came to me."
"You did the right thing, dear child," said Mrs Dorothy, quietly, "as
God's children should. He knew when to put the power in your hands. If
Madam Derwent had come to White-Ladies ten years ago, she wouldn't have
made as good use of it as she will now. She was not ready for it. And
I'm mistaken if you are not happier, Phoebe, in the Maidens' Lodge, than
you ever would have been if you had kept White-Ladies."
"I am sure of that," said Phoebe. "Well, but she didn't need have come
down thus far!" reiterated Mrs Jane.
"She is the servant of One who came down very far, dear Jane," gently
answered Mrs Dorothy, "that we through His poverty might be rich."
"Well, it looks like it," replied Mrs Jane, with a little tell-tale
huskiness in her voice. "Mrs Phoebe, my dear, do you remember my
saying, when Madam died, to you and Mrs Rhoda, that I'd tell you ten
years after, which I was sorry for?" Phoebe smiled an affirmative.
"Well, I'm not over sorry for either of you; but, at any rate, not for
_you_."
"The light has come back to thine eyes; dear child, and the peace," said
old Mrs Dorothy. "Ah, folks don't always know what is the hardest to
give up."
And Phoebe, looking up with startled eyes, saw that Mrs Dorothy had
guessed her secret. She went to the fire for fresh water from the
kettle. Her face was as calm as usual when she returned. Softly she
said,--
"`Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre,
Il est a desirer;
Je n'ai plus rien a craindre,
Car Dieu est mon Berger.'"