The Maidens' Lodge Part 44

"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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 gra.s.s.

"Mrs Phoebe, I owe you thanks unutterable," said a voice that Phoebe knew only too well.

Phoebe sprang up. "Have you seen her, Mr Derwent?"

"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 a.s.sume, 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 grat.i.tude, I can a.s.sure you, till I am tired."

"Grat.i.tude 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 pa.s.sions."

"I am sure I wish people were preserved from them!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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."