While Rose was making discoveries and having experiences, Phebe was
doing the same in a quieter way, but though they usually compared notes
during the bedtime tete-a-tete which always ended their day, certain
topics were never mentioned, so each had a little world of her own into
which even the eye of friendship did not peep.
Rose's life just now was the gaiest but Phebe's the happiest. Both went
out a good deal, for the beautiful voice was welcomed everywhere, and
many were ready to patronize the singer who would have been slow to
recognize the woman. Phebe knew this and made no attempt to assert
herself, content to know that those whose regard she valued felt her
worth and hopeful of a time when she could gracefully take the place she
was meant to fill.
Proud as a princess was Phebe about some things, though in most as
humble as a child; therefore, when each year lessened the service she
loved to give and increased the obligations she would have refused from
any other source, dependence became a burden which even the most fervent
gratitude could not lighten. Hitherto the children had gone on together,
finding no obstacles to their companionship in the secluded world
in which they lived. Now that they were women their paths inevitably
diverged, and both reluctantly felt that they must part before long.
It had been settled, when they were abroad, that on their return Phebe
should take her one gift in her hand and try her fortunes. On no
other terms would she accept the teaching which was to fit her for the
independence she desired. Faithfully had she used the facilities so
generously afforded both at home and abroad and now was ready to prove
that they had not been in vain. Much encouraged by the small successes
she won in drawing rooms, and the praise bestowed by interested friends,
she began to feel that she might venture on a larger field and begin her
career as a concert singer, for she aimed no higher.
Just at this time much interest was felt in a new asylum for orphan
girls, which could not be completed for want of funds. The Campbells
well had borne their part and still labored to accomplish the
much-needed charity. Several fairs had been given for this purpose,
followed by a series of concerts. Rose had thrown herself into the work
with all her heart and now proposed that Phebe should make her debut at
the last concert, which was to be a peculiarly interesting one, as all
the orphans were to be present and were expected to plead their own
cause by the sight of their innocent helplessness as well as touch
hearts by the simple airs they were to sing.
Some of the family thought Phebe would object to so humble a beginning,
but Rose knew her better and was not disappointed, for when she made her
proposal Phebe answered readily: “Where could I find a fitter time and
place to come before the public than here among my little sisters in
misfortune? I'll sing for them with all my heart only I must be one of
them and have no flourish made about me.”
“You shall arrange it as you like, and as there is to be little vocal
music but yours and the children's, I'll see that you have everything as
you please,” promised Rose.
It was well she did, for the family got much excited over the prospect
of “our Phebe's debut” and would have made a flourish if the girls had
not resisted. Aunt Clara was in despair about the dress because Phebe
decided to wear a plain claret-colored merino with frills at neck and
wrists so that she might look, as much as possible, like the other
orphans in their stuff gowns and white aprons. Aunt Plenty wanted to
have a little supper afterward in honor of the occasion, but Phebe
begged her to change it to a Christmas dinner for the poor children. The
boys planned to throw bushels of flowers, and Charlie claimed the honor
of leading the singer in. But Phebe, with tears in her eyes, declined
their kindly offers, saying earnestly: “I had better begin as I am to go
on and depend upon myself entirely. Indeed, Mr. Charlie, I'd rather
walk in alone, for you'd be out of place among us and spoil the pathetic
effect we wish to produce.” And a smile sparkled through the tears as
Phebe looked at the piece of elegance before her and thought of the
brown gowns and pinafores.
So, after much discussion, it was decided that she should have her way
in all things and the family content themselves with applauding from the
front.
“We'll blister our hands every man of us, and carry you home in a
chariot and four see if we don't, you perverse prima donna!” threatened
Steve, not at all satisfied with the simplicity of the affair.
“A chariot and two will be very acceptable as soon as I'm done. I shall
be quite steady till my part is all over, and then I may feel a little
upset, so I'd like to get away before the confusion begins. Indeed, I
don't mean to be perverse, but you are all so kind to me, my heart is
full whenever I think of it, and that wouldn't do if I'm to sing,” said
Phebe, dropping one of the tears on the little frill she was making.
“No diamond could have adorned it better,” Archie thought as he watched
it shine there for a moment, and felt like shaking Steve for daring to
pat the dark head with an encouraging “All right. I'll be on hand and
whisk you away while the rest are splitting their gloves. No fear of
your breaking down. If you feel the least bit like it, though, just look
at me and I'll glare at you and shake my fist, since kindness upsets
you.”
“I wish you would, because one of my ballads is rather touching and I
always want to cry when I sing it. The sight of you trying to glare will
make me want to laugh and that will steady me nicely, so sit in front,
please, ready to slip out when I come off the last time.”
“Depend upon me!” And the little man departed, taking great credit to
himself for his influence over tall, handsome Phebe.
If he had known what was going on in the mind of the silent young
gentleman behind the newspaper, Steve would have been much astonished,
for Archie, though apparently engrossed by business, was fathoms deep in
love by this time. No one suspected this but Rose, for he did his wooing
with his eyes, and only Phebe knew how eloquent they could be. He had
discovered what the matter was long ago had made many attempts to reason
himself out of it, but, finding it a hopeless task, had given up trying
and let himself drift deliciously. The knowledge that the family would
not approve only seemed to add ardor to his love and strength to
his purpose, for the same energy and persistence which he brought to
business went into everything he did, and having once made up his mind
to marry Phebe, nothing could change this plan except a word from her.
He watched and waited for three months, so that he might not be accused
of precipitation, though it did not take him one to decide that this was
the woman to make him happy. Her steadfast nature, quiet, busy ways,
and the reserved power and passion betrayed sometimes by a flash of the
black eyes, a quiver of the firm lips, suited Archie, who possessed many
of the same attributes himself. The obscurity of her birth and isolation
of her lot, which would have deterred some lovers, not only appealed to
his kindly heart, but touched the hidden romance which ran like a vein
of gold through his strong common sense and made practical, steady-going
Archie a poet when he fell in love. If Uncle Mac had guessed what dreams
and fancies went on in the head bent over his ledgers, and what emotions
were fermenting in the bosom of his staid “right-hand man,” he would
have tapped his forehead and suggested a lunatic asylum. The boys
thought Archie had sobered down too soon. His mother began to fear that
the air of the counting room did not suit him, and Dr. Alec was deluded
into the belief that the fellow really began to “think of Rose,” he
came so often in the evening, seeming quite content to sit beside her
worktable and snip tape or draw patterns while they chatted.
No one observed that, though he talked to Rose on these occasions, he
looked at Phebe, in her low chair close by, busy but silent, for she
always tried to efface herself when Rose was near and often mourned that
she was too big to keep out of sight. No matter what he talked about,
Archie always saw the glossy black braids on the other side of the
table, the damask cheek curving down into the firm white throat, and the
dark lashes, lifted now and then, showing eyes so deep and soft he dared
not look into them long. Even the swift needle charmed him, the little
brooch which rose and fell with her quiet breath, the plain work she
did, and the tidy way she gathered her bits of thread into a tiny bag.
He seldom spoke to her; never touched her basket, though he ravaged
Rose's if he wanted string or scissors; very rarely ventured to bring
her some curious or pretty thing when ships came in from China only
sat and thought of her, imagined that this was his parlor, this her
worktable, and they two sitting there alone a happy man and wife.
At this stage of the little evening drama he would be conscious of such
a strong desire to do something rash that he took refuge in a new form
of intoxication and proposed music, sometimes so abruptly that Rose
would pause in the middle of a sentence and look at him, surprised to
meet a curiously excited look in the usually cool gray eyes.
Then Phebe, folding up her work, would go to the piano, as if glad to
find a vent for the inner life which she seemed to have no power of
expressing except in song. Rose would follow to accompany her, and
Archie, moving to a certain shady corner whence he could see Phebe's
face as she sang, would give himself up to unmitigated rapture for
half an hour. Phebe never sang so well as at such times, for the kindly
atmosphere was like sunshine to a bird, criticisms were few and gentle,
praises hearty and abundant, and she poured out her soul as freely as a
spring gushes up when its hidden source is full.
In moments such as these Phebe was beautiful with the beauty that makes
a man's eye brighten with honest admiration and fills his heart with a
sense of womanly nobility and sweetness. Little wonder, then, that the
chief spectator of this agreeable tableau grew nightly more enamored,
and while the elders were deep in whist, the young people were playing
that still more absorbing game in which hearts are always trumps.
Rose, having Dummy for a partner, soon discovered the fact and lately
had begun to feel as she fancied Wall must have done when Pyramus wooed
Thisbe through its chinks. She was a little startled at first, then
amused, then anxious, then heartily interested, as every woman is in
such affairs, and willingly continued to be a medium, though sometimes
she quite tingled with the electricity which seemed to pervade the air.
She said nothing, waiting for Phebe to speak, but Phebe was silent,
seeming to doubt the truth till doubt became impossible, then to shrink
as if suddenly conscious of wrongdoing and seize every possible pretext
for absenting herself from the “girls' corner,” as the pretty recess was
called.
The concert plan afforded excellent opportunities for doing this, and
evening after evening she slipped away to practice her songs upstairs
while Archie sat staring disconsolately at the neglected work basket
and mute piano. Rose pitied him and longed to say a word of comfort, but
felt shy he was such a reserved fellow so left him to conduct his quiet
wooing in his own way, feeling that the crisis would soon arrive.
She was sure of this as she sat beside him on the evening of the
concert, for while the rest of the family nodded and smiled, chatted and
laughed in great spirits, Archie was as mute as a fish and sat with his
arms tightly folded, as if to keep in any unruly emotions which might
attempt to escape. He never looked at the program, but Rose knew when
Phebe's turn came by the quick breath he drew and the intent look, so
absent before, that came into his eyes.
But her own excitement prevented much notice of his, for Rose was in
a flutter of hope and fear, sympathy and delight, about Phebe and her
success. The house was crowded; the audience sufficiently mixed to make
the general opinion impartial; and the stage full of little orphans with
shining faces, a most effective reminder of the object in view.
“Little dears, how nice they look!” “Poor things, so young to be
fatherless and motherless.” “It will be a disgrace to the city if those
girls are not taken proper care of.” “Subscriptions are always in order,
you know, and pretty Miss Campbell will give you her sweetest smile if
you hand her a handsome check.” “I've heard this Phebe Moore, and she
really has a delicious voice such a pity she won't fit herself for
opera!” “Only sings three times tonight; that's modest, I'm sure, when
she's the chief attraction, so we must give her an encore after the
Italian piece.” “The orphans lead off, I see. Stop your ears if you
like, but don't fail to applaud or the ladies will never forgive you.”
Chat of this sort went on briskly while fans waved, programs rustled,
and ushers flew about distractedly, till an important gentleman
appeared, made his bow, skipped upon the leader's stand, and with a wave
of his baton caused a general uprising of white pinafores as the orphans
led off with that much-enduring melody “America” in shrill small voices,
but with creditable attention to time and tune. Pity and patriotism
produced a generous round of applause, and the little girls sat down,
beaming with innocent satisfaction.
An instrumental piece followed, and then a youthful gentleman, with his
hair in picturesque confusion, and what his friends called a “musical
brow,” bounded up the steps and, clutching a roll of music with a pair
of tightly gloved hands, proceed to inform the audience, in a husky
tenor voice, that “It was a lovely violet.”
What else the song contained in the way of sense or sentiment it was
impossible to discover as the three pages of music appeared to consist
of variations upon that one line, ending with a prolonged quaver which
flushed the musical brow and left the youth quite breathless when he
made his bow.
“Now she's coming! Oh, Uncle, my heart beats as if it were myself!”
whispered Rose, clutching Dr. Alec's arm with a little gasp as the piano
was rolled forward, the leader's stand pushed back, and all eyes turned
toward the anteroom door.
She forgot to glance at Archie, and it was as well perhaps, for his
heart was thumping almost audibly as he waited for his Phebe. Not from
the anteroom, but out among the children, where she had sat unseen in
the shadow of the organ, came stately Phebe in her wine-colored dress,
with no ornament but her fine hair and a white flower at her throat.
Very pale, but quite composed, apparently, for she stepped slowly
through the narrow lane of upturned faces, holding back her skirts lest
they should rudely brush against some little head. Straight to the front
she went, bowed hastily, and, with a gesture to the accompanist, stood
waiting to begin, her eyes fixed on the great gilt clock at the opposite
end of the hall.
They never wandered from that point while she sang, but as she ended
they dropped for an instant on an eager, girlish countenance bending
from a front seat; then, with her hasty little bow, she went quickly
back among the children, who clapped and nodded as she passed, well
pleased with the ballad she had sung.
Everyone courteously followed their example, but there was no
enthusiasm, and it was evident that Phebe had not produced a
particularly favorable impression.
“Never sang so badly in her life,” muttered Charlie irefully.
“She was frightened, poor thing. Give her time, give her time,” said
Uncle Mac kindly.
“I know she was, and I glared like a gorgon, but she never looked at
me,” added Steve, smoothing his gloves and his brows at the same time.
“That first song was the hardest, and she got through much better than
I expected,” put in Dr. Alec, bound not to show the disappointment he
felt.
“Don't be troubled. Phebe has courage enough for anything, and she'll
astonish you before the evening's over,” prophesied Mac with unabated
confidence, for he knew something the rest did not.
Rose said nothing, but under cover of her burnous gave Archie's hand a
sympathetic squeeze, for his arms were unfolded now, as if the strain
was over, and one lay on his knee while with the other he wiped his hot
forehead with an air of relief.
Friends about them murmured complimentary fibs and affected great
delight and surprise at Miss Moore's “charming style,” “exquisite
simplicity,” and “undoubted talent.” But strangers freely criticized,
and Rose was so indignant at some of their remarks, she could not listen
to anything on the stage, though a fine overture was played, a man with
a remarkable bass voice growled and roared melodiously, and the orphans
sang a lively air with a chorus of “Tra, la, la,” which was a great
relief to little tongues unused to long silence.
“I've often heard that women's tongues were hung in the middle and went
at both ends now I'm sure of it,” whispered Charlie, trying to cheer her
up by pointing out the comical effect of some seventy-five open mouths
in each of which the unruly member was wagging briskly.
Rose laughed and let him fan her, leaning from his seat behind with the
devoted air he always assumed in public, but her wounded feelings were
not soothed and she continued to frown at the stout man on the left who
had dared to say with a shrug and a glance at Phebe's next piece, “That
young woman can no more sing this Italian thing than she can fly, and
they ought not to let her attempt it.”
Phebe did, however, and suddenly changed the stout man's opinion by
singing it grandly, for the consciousness of her first failure
pricked her pride and spurred her to do her best with the calm sort of
determination which conquers fear, fires ambition, and changes defeat
to success. She looked steadily at Rose now, or the flushed, intent face
beside her, and throwing all her soul into the task, let her voice
ring out like a silver clarion, filling the great hall and setting the
hearers' blood a-tingle with the exulting strain.
That settled Phebe's fate as a cantatrice. The applause was genuine and
spontaneous this time and broke out again and again with the generous
desire to atone for former coldness. But she would not return, and the
shadow of the great organ seemed to have swallowed her up, for no eye
could find her, no pleasant clamor win her back.
“Now I can die content,” said Rose, beaming with heartfelt satisfaction
while Archie looked steadfastly at his program, trying to keep his face
in order, and the rest of the family assumed a triumphant air, as if
they had never doubted from the first.
“Very well, indeed,” said the stout man with an approving nod. “Quite
promising for a beginner. Shouldn't wonder if in time they made a second
Cary or Kellogg of her.”
“Now you'll forgive him, won't you?” murmured Charlie in his cousin's
ear.
“Yes, and I'd like to pat him on the head. But take warning and never
judge by first appearances again,” whispered Rose, at peace now with all
mankind.
Phebe's last song was another ballad; she meant to devote her talent to
that much neglected but always attractive branch of her art. It was
a great surprise, therefore, to all but one person in the hall when,
instead of singing “Auld Robin Grey,” she placed herself at the piano,
and, with a smiling glance over her shoulder at the children, broke out
in the old bird song which first won Rose. But the chirping, twittering,
and cooing were now the burden to three verses of a charming little
song, full of springtime and the awakening life that makes it lovely. A
rippling accompaniment flowed through it all, and a burst of delighted
laughter from the children filled up the first pause with a fitting
answer to the voices that seemed calling to them from the vernal woods.
It was very beautiful, and novelty lent its charm to the surprise, for
art and nature worked a pretty miracle and the clever imitation, first
heard from a kitchen hearth, now became the favorite in a crowded
concert room. Phebe was quite herself again; color in the cheeks now;
eyes that wandered smiling to and fro; and lips that sang as gaily and
far more sweetly than when she kept time to her blithe music with a
scrubbing brush.
This song was evidently intended for the children, and they appreciated
the kindly thought, for as Phebe went back among them, they clapped
ecstatically, flapped their pinafores, and some caught her by the skirts
with audible requests to “Do it again, please; do it again.”
But Phebe shook her head and vanished, for it was getting late for such
small people, several of whom “lay sweetly slumbering there” till roused
by the clamor round them. The elders, however, were not to be denied and
applauded persistently, especially Aunt Plenty, who seized Uncle Mac's
cane and pounded with it as vigorously as “Mrs. Nubbles” at the play.
“Never mind your gloves, Steve; keep it up till she comes,” cried
Charlie, enjoying the fun like a boy while Jamie lost his head with
excitement and, standing up, called “Phebe! Phebe!” in spite of his
mother's attempts to silence him.
Even the stout man clapped, and Rose could only laugh delightedly as she
turned to look at Archie, who seemed to have let himself loose at last
and was stamping with a dogged energy funny to see.
So Phebe had to come, and stood there meekly bowing, with a moved look
on her face that showed how glad and grateful she was, till a sudden
hush came; then, as if inspired by the memory of the cause that brought
her there, she looked down into the sea of friendly faces before her,
with no trace of fear in her own, and sang the song that never will grow
old.
That went straight to the hearts of those who heard her, for there was
something inexpressibly touching in the sight of this sweet-voiced woman
singing of home for the little creatures who were homeless, and Phebe
made her tuneful plea irresistible by an almost involuntary gesture of
the hands which had hung loosely clasped before her till, with the last
echo of the beloved word, they fell apart and were half outstretched, as
if pleading to be filled.
It was the touch of nature that works wonders, for it made full purses
suddenly weigh heavily in pockets slow to open, brought tears to eyes
unused to weep, and caused that group of red-gowned girls to grow
very pathetic in the sight of fathers and mothers who had left little
daughters safe asleep at home. This was evident from the stillness that
remained unbroken for an instant after Phebe ended; and before people
could get rid of their handkerchiefs she would have been gone if the
sudden appearance of a mite in a pinafore, climbing up the stairs
from the anteroom with a great bouquet grasped in both hands, had not
arrested her.
Up came the little creature, intent on performing the mission for which
rich bribes of sugarplums had been promised, and trotting bravely across
the stage, she held up the lovely nosegay, saying in her baby voice,
“Dis for you, ma'am.” Then, startled by the sudden outburst of applause,
she hid her face in Phebe's gown and began to sob with fright.
An awkward minute for poor Phebe, but she showed unexpected presence
of mind and left behind her a pretty picture of the oldest and youngest
orphan as she went quickly down the step, smiling over the great bouquet
with the baby on her arm.
Nobody minded the closing piece, for people began to go, sleepy children
to be carried off, and whispers grew into a buzz of conversation. In the
general confusion Rose looked to see if Steve had remembered his promise
to help Phebe slip away before the rush began. No, there he was putting
on Kitty's cloak, quite oblivious to any other duty. Turning to ask
Archie to hurry out, Rose found that he had already vanished, leaving
his gloves behind him.
“Have you lost anything?” asked Dr. Alec, catching a glimpse of her
face.
“No, sir, I've found something,” she whispered back, giving him the
gloves to pocket along with her fan and glass, adding hastily as the
concert ended, “Please, Uncle, tell them all not to come with us. Phebe
has had enough excitement and ought to rest.”
Rose's word was law to the family in all things concerning Phebe. So
word was passed that there were to be no congratulations until tomorrow,
and Dr. Alec got his party off as soon as possible. But all the way
home, while he and Aunt Plenty were prophesying a brilliant future for
the singer, Rose sat rejoicing over the happy present of the woman.
She was sure that Archie had spoken and imagined the whole scene with
feminine delight how tenderly he had asked the momentous question, how
gratefully Phebe had given the desired reply, and now how both were
enjoying that delicious hour which Rose had been given to understand
never came but once. Such a pity to shorten it, she thought, and
begged her uncle to go home the longest way the night was so mild,
the moonlight so clear, and herself so in need of fresh air after the
excitement of the evening.
“I thought you would want to rush into Phebe's arms the instant she got
done,” said Aunt Plenty, innocently wondering at the whims girls took
into their heads.
“So I should if I consulted my own wishes, but as Phebe asked to be let
alone I want to gratify her,” answered Rose, making the best excuse she
could.
“A little piqued,” thought the doctor, fancying he understood the case.
As the old lady's rheumatism forbade their driving about till midnight,
home was reached much too soon, Rose thought, and tripped away to warn
the lovers the instant she entered the house. But study, parlor, and
boudoir were empty; and, when Jane appeared with cake and wine, she
reported that “Miss Phebe went right upstairs and wished to be excused,
please, being very tired.”
“That isn't at all like Phebe I hope she isn't ill,” began Aunt Plenty,
sitting down to toast her feet.
“She may be a little hysterical, for she is a proud thing and represses
her emotions as long as she can. I'll step up and see if she doesn't
need a soothing draft of some sort.” And Dr. Alec threw off his coat as
he spoke.
“No, no, she's only tired. I'll run up to her she won't mind me and I'll
report if anything is amiss.”
Away went Rose, quite trembling with suspense, but Phebe's door was
shut, no light shone underneath, and no sound came from the room within.
She tapped and receiving no answer, went on to her own chamber, thinking
to herself: “Love always makes people queer, I've heard, so I suppose
they settled it all in the carriage and the dear thing ran away to think
about her happiness alone. I'll not disturb her. Why, Phebe!” said Rose,
surprised, for, entering her room, there was the cantatrice, busy about
the nightly services she always rendered her little mistress.
“I'm waiting for you, dear. Where have you been so long?” asked Phebe,
poking the fire as if anxious to get some color into cheeks that were
unnaturally pale.
The instant she spoke Rose knew that something was wrong, and a glance
at her face confirmed the fear. It was like a dash of cold water and
quenched her happy fancies in a moment; but being a delicate-minded
girl, she respected Phebe's mood and asked no questions, made no
comments, and left her friend to speak or be silent as she chose.
“I was so excited I would take a turn in the moonlight to calm my
nerves. Oh, dearest Phebe, I am so glad, so proud, so full of wonder at
your courage and skill and sweet ways altogether that I cannot half tell
you how I love and honor you!” she cried, kissing the white cheeks with
such tender warmth they could not help glowing faintly as Phebe held
her little mistress close, sure that nothing could disturb this innocent
affection.
“It is all your work, dear, because but for you I might still be
scrubbing floors and hardly dare to dream of anything like this,” she
said in her old grateful way, but in her voice there was a thrill of
something deeper than gratitude, and at the last two words her head went
up with a gesture of soft pride as if it had been newly crowned.
Rose heard and saw and guessed at the meaning of both tone and gesture,
feeling that her Phebe deserved both the singer's laurel and the bride's
myrtle wreath. But she only looked up, saying very wistfully: “Then it
has been a happy night for you as well as for us.”
“The happiest of my life, and the hardest,” answered Phebe briefly as
she looked away from the questioning eyes.
“You should have let us come nearer and help you through. I'm afraid you
are very proud, my Jenny Lind.”
“I have to be, for sometimes I feel as if I had nothing else to keep
me up.” She stopped short there, fearing that her voice would prove
traitorous if she went on. In a moment she asked in a tone that was
almost hard: “You think I did well tonight?”
“They all think so, and were so delighted they wanted to come in a body
and tell you so, but I sent them home because I knew you'd be tired out.
Perhaps I ought not to have done it and you'd rather have had a crowd
about you than just me?”
“It was the kindest thing you ever did, and what could I like better
than 'just you,' my darling?”
Phebe seldom called her that, and when she did her heart was in the
little word, making it so tender that Rose thought it the sweetest in
the world, next to Uncle Alec's “my little girl.” Now it was almost
passionate, and Phebe's face grew rather tragical as she looked down at
Rose. It was impossible to seem unconscious any longer, and Rose said,
caressing Phebe's cheek, which burned with a feverish color now: “Then
don't shut me out if you have a trouble, but let me share it as I let
you share all mine.”
“I will! Little mistress, I've got to go away, sooner even than we
planned.”
“Why, Phebe?”
“Because Archie loves me.”
“That's the very reason you should stay and make him happy.”
“Not if it caused dissension in the family, and you know it would.”
Rose opened her lips to deny this impetuously, but checked herself and
answered honestly: “Uncle and I would be heartily glad, and I'm sure
Aunt Jessie never could object if you loved Archie as he does you.”
“She has other hopes, I think, and kind as she is, it would be a
disappointment if he brought me home. She is right, they all are, and I
alone am to blame. I should have gone long ago I knew I should, but it
was so pleasant, I couldn't bear to go away alone.”
“I kept you, and I am to blame if anyone, but indeed, dear Phebe, I
cannot see why you should care even if Aunt Myra croaks and Aunt Clara
exclaims or Aunt Jane makes disagreeable remarks. Be happy, and never
mind them,” cried Rose, so much excited by all this that she felt the
spirit of revolt rise up within her and was ready to defy even that
awe-inspiring institution “the family” for her friend's sake.
But Phebe shook her head with a sad smile and answered, still with the
hard tone in her voice as if forcing back all emotion that she might see
her duty clearly: “You could do that, but I never can. Answer me this,
Rose, and answer truly as you love me. If you had been taken into a
house, a friendless, penniless, forlorn girl, and for years been heaped
with benefits, trusted, taught, loved, and made, oh, so happy! could
you think it right to steal away something that these good people valued
very much? To have them feel that you had been ungrateful, had deceived
them, and meant to thrust yourself into a high place not fit for you
when they had been generously helping you in other ways, far more than
you deserved. Could you then say as you do now, 'Be happy, and never
mind them'?”
Phebe held Rose by the shoulders now and searched her face so keenly
that the other shrank a little, for the black eyes were full of fire and
there was something almost grand about this girl who seemed suddenly to
have become a woman. There was no need for words to answer the question
so swiftly asked, for Rose put herself in Phebe's place in the drawing
of a breath, and her own pride made her truthfully reply: “No I could
not!”
“I knew you'd say that, and help me do my duty.” And all the coldness
melted out of Phebe's manner as she hugged her little mistress close,
feeling the comfort of sympathy even through the blunt sincerity of
Rose's words.
“I will if I know how. Now, come and tell me all about it.” And,
seating herself in the great chair which had often held them both, Rose
stretched out her hands as if glad and ready to give help of any sort.
But Phebe would not take her accustomed place, for, as if coming to
confession, she knelt down upon the rug and, leaning on the arm of the
chair, told her love story in the simplest words.
“I never thought he cared for me until a little while ago. I fancied it
was you, and even when I knew he liked to hear me sing I supposed it was
because you helped, and so I did my best and was glad you were to be
a happy girl. But his eyes told the truth. Then I saw what I had been
doing and was frightened. He did not speak, so I believed, what is quite
true, that he felt I was not a fit wife for him and would never ask me.
It was right I was glad of it, yet I was proud and, though I did not
ask or hope for anything, I did want him to see that I respected myself,
remembered my duty, and could do right as well as he. I kept away. I
planned to go as soon as possible and resolved that at this concert I
would do so well, he should not be ashamed of poor Phebe and her one
gift.”
“It was this that made you so strange, then, preferring to go alone and
refusing every little favor at our hands?” asked Rose, feeling very sure
now about the state of Phebe's heart.
“Yes, I wanted to do everything myself and not owe one jot of my
success, if I had any, to even the dearest friend I've got. It was bad
and foolish of me, and I was punished by the first dreadful failure.
I was so frightened, Rose! My breath was all gone, my eyes so dizzy I
could hardly see, and that great crowd of faces seemed so near, I dared
not look. If it had not been for the clock I never should have gotten
through, and when I did, not knowing in the least how I'd sung, one look
at your distressed face told me I'd failed.”
“But I smiled, Phebe indeed I did as sweetly as I could, for I was sure
it was only fright,” protested Rose eagerly.
“So you did, but the smile was full of pity, not of pride, as I wanted
it to be, and I rushed into a dark place behind the organ, feeling ready
to kill myself. How angry and miserable I was! I set my teeth, clenched
my hands, and vowed that I would do well next time or never sing another
note. I was quite desperate when my turn came, and felt as if I could do
almost anything, for I remembered that he was there. I'm not sure how it
was, but it seemed as if I was all voice, for I let myself go, trying
to forget everything except that two people must not be disappointed,
though I died when the song was done.”
“Oh, Phebe, it was splendid! I nearly cried, I was so proud and glad to
see you do yourself justice at last.”
“And he?” whispered Phebe, with her face half hidden on the arm of the
chair.
“Said not a word, but I saw his lips tremble and his eyes shine and I
knew he was the happiest creature there, because I was sure he did think
you fit to be his wife and did mean to speak very soon.”
Phebe made no answer for a moment, seeming to forget the small success
in the greater one which followed and to comfort her sore heart with the
knowledge that Rose was right.
“He sent the flowers, he came for me, and, on the way home, showed me
how wrong I had been to doubt him for an hour. Don't ask me to tell that
part, but be sure I was the happiest creature in the world then.”
And Phebe hid her face again, all wet with tender tears that fell soft
and sudden as a summer shower.
Rose let them flow undisturbed while she silently caressed the bent
head, wondering, with a wistful look in her own wet eyes, what this
mysterious passion was which could so move, ennoble, and beautify the
beings whom it blessed.
An impertinent little clock upon the chimneypiece striking eleven broke
the silence and reminded Phebe that she could not indulge in love dreams
there. She started up, brushed off her tears, and said resolutely: “That
is enough for tonight. Go happily to bed, and leave the troubles for
tomorrow.”
“But, Phebe, I must know what you said,” cried Rose, like a child
defrauded of half its bedtime story.
“I said, 'No.'”
“Ah! But it will change to 'yes' by and by, I'm sure of that so I'll
let you go to dream of him. The Campbells are rather proud of being
descendants of Robert the Bruce, but they have common sense and love you
dearly, as you'll see tomorrow.”
“Perhaps.” And with a good night kiss, poor Phebe went away, to lie
awake till dawn.