Chapter Eight.
Rhoda is taken in the trap.
“That busy hive, the world,
And all its thousand stings.”
Phoebe sat still for a while in her corner, watching the various members of the party as they flitted in and out: for the scene was now becoming diversified by the addition of elder persons. Ere long, two gentlemen in evening costume, engaged in conversation, came and stood close by her. One of them, as she soon discovered, was Sir Richard Delawarr.
“’Tis really true, then,” demanded the other—a round-faced man, with brilliant eyes, who was attired as a dignitary of the Church—“’tis really true, Sir, that the Queen did forbid the visit of the Elector?”
“I had it from an excellent hand, I assure you,” returned Sir Richard. “Nor only that, but the Princess Sophia so laid it to heart, that ’twas the main cause of her sudden death.”
“It really was so?”
“Upon honour, my Lord; my Lady Delawarr had it from Mrs Rosamond Harley.”
“Ha! then ’tis like to be true. You heard, I doubt not, Sir, of D’Urfey’s jest on the Princess Sophia?—ha, ha, ha!” and the Bishop laughed, as if the recollection amused him exceedingly.
“No, I scarce think I did, my Lord.”
“Not? Ah, then, give me leave to tell it you. I hear it gave the Queen extreme diversion.
“‘The crown is too weighty
For shoulders of eighty—
She could not sustain such a trophy:
Her hand, too, already
Has grown so unsteady,
She can’t hold a sceptre:
So Providence kept her
Away—poor old dowager Sophy!’”
Sir Richard threw his head back, and indulged in unfeigned merriment. Phoebe, in her corner, felt rather indignant. Why should the Princess Sophia, or any other woman, be laughed at solely for growing old?
“Capital good jest!” said the Baronet, his amusement over. “I heard from a friend that I met at the Bath, that the Queen is looking vastly well this summer—quite rid of her gout.”
“So do I hear,” returned the Bishop. “What think you of the price set on the Pretender’s head?”
Sir Richard whistled.
“The Queen’s own sole act, without any concurrence of her Ministers,” continued the Bishop.
“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Sir Richard. “Five thousand, I was told?”
“Five thousand. An excellent notion, I take it.”
“Well—I—don’t—know!” slowly answered Sir Richard. “I cannot but feel very doubtful of the mischievous consequence that may ensue. A price on the head of the Prince of Wales! Sounds bad, my Lord—sounds bad! Though, indeed, he be not truly the Queen’s brother, yet ’tis unnatural for his sister to set a price on his head.”
By which remark it will be seen that Sir Richard’s intellect was not of the first order. The intellect of Bishop Atterbury was: and a slightly contemptuous smile played on his lips for a moment.
“‘The Prince of Wales!’” repeated he. “Surely, Sir, you have more wit than to credit that baseless tale? Why not set a price on the Pretender?”
Be it known to the reader, though it was not to Sir Richard, that on that very morning Bishop Atterbury had forwarded a long letter to the Palace of Saint Germain, in which he addressed the aforesaid Pretender as “your Majesty,” and assured him of his entire devotion to his interests.
“Oh, come, I leave the whys and wherefores to yon gentlemen of the black robe!” answered Sir Richard, laughing. “By the way, talking of prices, have you heard the prodigious price Sir Nathaniel Fowler hath given for his seat in the Commons? Six thousand pounds, ’pon my honour!”
“Surely, Sir, you have been misinformed. Six thousand! ’Tis amazing.”
“Your Lordship may well say so. Why, I gave but eight hundred for mine. By the way, there is another point I intended to acquaint you of, my Lord. Did you hear, ever, that there should be a little ill-humour with my Lord Oxford, on account of—you know?”
“On account? Oh!” and the Bishop’s right hand was elevated to his lips, in the attitude of a person drinking. “Yes, yes. Well, I cannot say I am entirely ignorant of that affair. Sir Jeremy’s lady assured me she knew, beyond contradiction, that my Lord Oxford once waited on her, somewhat foxed.”
Of course, “she” was the Queen. But why a fox, usually as sober a beast as others, should have been compelled to lend its name to the vocabulary of intoxication, is not so apparent.
“Absolutely drunk, I heard,” responded Sir Richard; “and she was prodigiously angered. Said to my Lady Masham, that if it were ever repeated, she would take his stick from him that moment. Odd, if the ministry were to fall for such a nothing as that.”
“Well, ’twas not altogether reverential to the sovereign,” said the Bishop; “and the Queen is extreme nice, you know.”
The threat of taking the stick from a minister was less figurative in Queen Anne’s days than now. The white wand of office was carried before every Cabinet Minister, not only in his public life, but even in private.
At this point a third gentleman joined the others, and they moved away, leaving Phoebe in her corner.
Phoebe sat meditating, for nobody had spoken to her, when she felt a soft gloved hand laid upon her arm. She turned, suddenly, to look up into a face which she thought at first was the face of a stranger. Then, in a moment, she knew Gatty Delawarr.
The small-pox had changed her terribly—far more than her sister. No one could think of setting her up for a beauty now. The soft, peach-like complexion, which had been Gatty’s best point, was replaced by a sickly white, pitifully seamed with the scars of the dread disease.
“You did not know me at first,” said Gatty, quietly, as if stating a fact, not making an inquiry.
“I do now,” answered Phoebe, returning Gatty’s smile.
“Well, you see the Lord made a way for me. But it is rather a rough one, Phoebe.”
“I am afraid you must have suffered very much, Mrs Gatty.”
“Won’t you drop the Mistress? I would rather. Well, yes, I suffered, Phoebe; but it was worse since than just then.”
Phoebe’s face, not her tongue, said, “In what manner?”
“’Tis not very pleasant, Phoebe, to have everybody bewailing you, and telling all their neighbours how cruelly you are changed, but I could have stood that. Nor is it delightful to have Molly for ever at one’s elbow, calling one Mrs Baboon, and my Lady Venus, and such like; but I could have stood that, though I don’t like it. But ’tis hard to be told I have disappointed my mother’s dearest hopes, and that she will never take any more pleasure in me; that she would to Heaven I had died in my cradle. That stings sometimes. Then, to know that if one makes the least slip, it will be directly, ‘Oh, your saints are no better than other folks!’ Phoebe, I wish sometimes that I had not recovered.”
“Oh, but you must not do that, Mrs Gatty!—well, Gatty, then, as you are so kind. The Lord wanted you for something, I suppose.”
“I wonder for what!” said Gatty.
“Well, we can’t tell yet, you see,” replied Phoebe, simply. “I suppose you will find out by and bye.”
“I wish I could find out,” said Gatty, sighing.
“I think He will show you, when He is ready,” said Phoebe. “Father used to say that it took a good deal longer to make a fine microscope than it did to make a common chisel or hammer; and he thought it was the same with us. I mean, you know, that if the Lord intends us to do very nice work, He will be nice in getting us ready for it, and it may take a good while. And father used to say that we seldom know what God is doing with us while He does it, but only when He has finished.”
“Nice,” at that time, had not the sense of pleasant, but only that of delicately particular.
“I am glad you have told me that, Phoebe. I wish your father had been living now.”
“Oh!” very deep-drawn, from Phoebe, echoed the wish.
“Phoebe, I want you to tell me where you get your patience?”
“My patience!” repeated astonished Phoebe.
“Yes; I think you are the most patient maid I know.”
“I can’t tell you, I am sure!” answered Phoebe, in a rather puzzled tone. “I didn’t know I was patient. I don’t think I have often asked for that, specially. Very often, I ask God to give me what He sees I need; and if that be as you say, I suppose He saw I wanted it, and gave it me.”
The admiring look in Gatty’s eyes was happily unintelligible to Phoebe.
“Now then!” said Molly’s not particularly welcome voice, close by them. “Here’s old Edmundson. Clasp your hands in ecstasy, Phoebe. Mum says you and he have got to fall in love and marry one another; so make haste about it. He’s not an ill piece, only you’ll find he won’t get up before noon unless you squirt water in his face. Now then, fall to, and say some pretty things to one another!”
Of course Molly had taken the most effectual way possible to prevent any such occurrence. Phoebe did not dare to lift her eyes; and the chaplain was, if possible, the shyer of the two, and had been dragged there against his will by invincible Molly. Neither would have known what to do, if Gatty had not kindly come to the rescue.
“Pray sit down, Mr Edmundson,” she said, in a quiet, natural way, as if nothing had happened. “I thought I had seen you riding forth, half an hour ago; I suppose it must have been some one else.”
“I—ah—yes—no, I have not been riding to-day,” stammered the perturbed divine.
“Twas a very pleasant morning for a ride,” said mediating Gatty.
“Very pleasant, Madam,” answered the chaplain.
“Have you quite lost your catarrh, Mr Edmundson?”
“Quite, I thank you, Madam.”
“I believe my mother wishes to talk with you of Jack Flint, Mr Edmundson.”
“Yes, Madam?”
“The lad hath been well spoken of to her for the under-gardener’s boy’s place. I think she wished to have your opinion of him.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Is the boy of a choleric disposition?”
“Possibly, Madam.”
“But what think you, Mr Edmundson?”
“Madam, I—ah—I cannot say, Madam.”
“I think I see Mr Lamb beckoning to you,” observed Gatty, wishful to relieve the poor gauche chaplain from his uncomfortable position.
“Madam, I thank you—ah—very much, Madam.” And Mr Edmundson made a dive into the throng, and disappeared behind a quantity of silk brocade and Brussels lace. Phoebe ventured to steal a glance at him as he departed. She found that the person to whom she had been so unceremoniously handed over, alike by Madam, Lady Delawarr, and Molly, was a thickset man of fifty years, partially bald, with small, expressionless features. He was not more fascinating to look at than to talk to, and Phoebe could only entertain a faint hope that his preaching might be an improvement upon both looks and conversation.
A little later in the evening, as Phoebe sat alone in her corner, looking on, “I say!” came from behind her. Her heart fluttered, for the voice was Molly’s.
“I say!” repeated Molly. “You look here. I’m not all bad, you know. I didn’t want old Edmundson to have you. And I knew the way to keep him from it was to tell him he must. I think ’tis a burning shame to treat a maid like that. They were all set on it—the old woman, and Mum, and everybody. He’s an old block of firewood. You’re fit for something better. I tease folks, but I’m not quite a black witch. Ta-ta. He’ll not tease you now.”
And Molly disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared. There was no opportunity for Phoebe to edge in a word. But, for once in her life, she felt obliged to Molly.
The next invader of Phoebe’s peace was Lady Delawarr herself. She sat down on an ottoman, fanned herself languidly, and hoped dear Mrs Rhoda was enjoying herself.
Phoebe innocently replied that she hoped so too.
“’Twill be a pretty sight, all the young maids in white, to meet the Queen at Berkeley,” resumed Lady Delawarr. “There are fourteen going from this house. My three daughters, of course, and Lady Diana—she is to hand the nosegay—and Mrs Rhoda, and Mrs Kitty Mainwaring, and Mrs Sophia Rich, and several more. Those that do not go must have some little pleasure to engage them whilst the others are away. I thought they might drink a dish of chocolate in yon little ivy-covered tower in the park, and have the young gentlemen to wait on them and divert them. The four gentlemen of the best families and fortunes will wait on the gentlewomen to Berkeley: that is, Mr Otway, Mr Seymour, my nephew Mr George Merton, and Mr Welles. I shall charge Mr Derwent yonder to wait specially on you, Mrs Phoebe, while Mrs Rhoda is away.”
Phoebe perceived that she was not one of the fourteen favoured ones. A little flutter of anxiety disturbed her anticipations. What would go on with Rhoda and Mr Welles?
Lady Delawarr sat for a few minutes, talking of nothing in particular, and then rose and sailed away. It was evident that the main object of her coming had been to give Phoebe a hint that she must not expect to join the expedition to Berkeley.
As Phoebe went upstairs that evening, feeling rather heavy-hearted, she saw something gleam and fall, and discovered, on investigation, that a tassel had dropped from Rhoda’s purse, which that young lady had desired her to carry up for her. She set to work to hunt for it, but for some seconds in vain. She had almost given up the search in despair, when a strange voice said behind her, “Le voici, Mademoiselle.”
Phoebe turned and faced her countrywoman—for so she considered her—with an exclamation of delight.
“Ah! you speak French, Mademoiselle?” said the girl. “It is a pleasure, a pleasure, to hear it!”
“I am French,” responded Phoebe, warmly. “My father was a Frenchman. My name is Phoebe Latrobe: what is yours?”
“Louise Dupret. I am Lady Delawarr’s woman. I have been here two long, long years; and nobody speaks French but Madame and Mesdemoiselles her daughters. And Mademoiselle Marie will not, though she can. She will talk to me in English, and laughs at me when I understand her not. Ah, it is dreadful!”
“From what part of France do you come?”
“From the mountains of the Cevennes. And you?”
“The same. Then you are of the religion?”
This was the Huguenot form of inquiry whether a stranger belonged to them. Louise’s eyes lighted up.
“We are daughters of the Church of the Desert,” she said. “And we are sisters in Jesus Christ.”
From that hour Phoebe was not quite friendless at Delawarr Court. It was well for her: since the preparations for Berkeley absorbed Gatty, and of Rhoda she saw nothing except during the processes of dressing and undressing. Very elaborate processes they became, for Lady Delawarr kept a private hair-dresser, who came round every morning to curl, friz, puff, and powder each young lady in turn; and the unfortunate maiden who kept him waiting an instant was relegated to the last, and certain to be late for breakfast. Following in the footsteps of his superiors, he did not notice Phoebe, nor count her as one of the group; but after the meeting on the stairs, as soon as Lady Delawarr released her, Louise was at hand with a beaming face, entreating permission to arrange Mademoiselle, and she sent her downstairs looking very fresh and stylish, almost enough to provoke the envy of Rhoda.
“Ah, Mademoiselle!—if you were but a rich, rich lady, and I might be your maid!” sighed Louise. “This is a dreary world; and a dreary country, this England; and a dreary house, this Cour de la Warre! Madame is—is—ah, well, she is my mistress, and it is not right to chatter all one thinks. Still one cannot help thinking. Mademoiselle Betti—if she were in my country, we should call her Elise, which is pretty—it is ugly, Betti!—well, Mademoiselle Betti is very good-natured—very, indeed; and Mademoiselle Henriette—ah, this droll country! her name is Henriette, and they call her Gatti!—she is very good, very good and pleasant Mademoiselle Henriette. And since she had the small-pox she is nicer than before. It had spoiled her face to beautify her heart. Ah, that poor demoiselle, how she suffers! Perhaps, Mademoiselle, it is not right that I should tell you, even you; but she suffers so much, this good demoiselle, and she is so patient! But for Mademoiselle Marie—ah, there again the droll name, Molli!—does not Mademoiselle think this a strange, very strange, country?”
The great expedition was ready to set out at last. All the girls were dressed exactly alike, in white, and all the gentlemen in blue turned up with white. They were to travel in two coaches to Bristol, where all were to sleep at the house of Mrs Merton, sister-in-law to Lady Delawarr; the next day the bouquet was to be presented at Berkeley, and on the third day they were to return. By way of chaperone, the housekeeper at the Court was to travel with them to and from Bristol, out Mrs Merton herself undertook to conduct them to Berkeley.
Rhoda was in the highest spirits, and Phoebe saw her assisted into the coach by Mr Marcus Welles with no little misgiving. Molly, as she brushed past Phoebe, allowed the point of a steel scissors-sheath to peep from her pocket for an instant, accompanying it with the mysterious intimation—“You’ll see!”
“What will she see, Molly?” asked Lady Diana, who was close beside her.
“How to use a pair of scissors,” said Molly. “What’s to be cut, Molly?” Sophia Rich wished to know.
“A dash!” said Molly, significantly. And away rolled the coaches towards Bristol. Phoebe turned back into the house with a rather desolate feeling. For three days everybody would be gone. Those who were left behind were all strangers to her except Mr Edmundson, and she wanted to get as far from him as she could. True, there was Louise; but Louise could hardly be a companion for her, even had her work for Lady Delawarr allowed it, for she was not her equal in education. The other girls were engaged, as usual, in idle chatter, and fluttering of fans. Lady Delawarr, passing through the room, saw Phoebe sitting rather disconsolately in a corner.
“Mrs Phoebe, my dear, come and help me to make things ready for to-morrow,” she said, good-naturedly; and Phoebe followed her very willingly.
The picnic was a success. The weather was beautiful, and the young people in good temper—two important points. Lady Delawarr herself, in the absence of her housekeeper, superintended the packing of the light van which carried the provisions to the old tower. There was to be a gipsy fire to boil the kettle, with three poles tied together over it, from which the kettle was slung in the orthodox manner. Phoebe, who was trying to make herself useful, stretched out her hand for the kettle, when Lady Delawarr’s voice said behind her, “My dear Mrs Phoebe, you may be relieved of that task. Mr Osmund Derwent—Mrs Phoebe Latrobe. Mrs Latrobe—Mr Derwent.”
There was one advantage, now lost, in this double introduction; if the name were not distinctly heard in the first instance, it might be caught in the second.
Phoebe looked up, and saw a rather good-looking young man, whose good looks, however, lay more in a pleasant expression than in any special beauty of feature. A little shy, yet without being awkward; and a little grave and silent, but not at all morose, he was one with whom Phoebe felt readily at home. His shyness, which arose from diffidence, not pride, wore off when the first strangeness was over. It was evident that Lady Delawarr had given him, as she had said, a hint to wait on Phoebe.
The peculiarity of Lady Delawarr’s conduct rather puzzled Phoebe. At times she was particularly gracious, whilst at others she utterly neglected her. Simple, unworldly Phoebe did not guess that while Rhoda Peveril and Phoebe Latrobe were of no consequence in the eyes of her hostess, the future possessor of White-Ladies was of very much. Lady Delawarr never felt quite certain who that was to be. She expected it to be Rhoda; yet at times the conviction smote her that, after all, there was no certainty that it might not be Phoebe. Madam was impulsive; she had already surprised people by taking up with Phoebe at all; and Rhoda might displease her. In consequence of these reflections, though Phoebe was generally left unnoticed, yet occasionally Lady Delawarr warmed into affability, and cultivated the girl who might, after all, come to be the heiress of Madam’s untold wealth. For Lady Delawarr’s mind was essentially of the earth, earthy; gold had for her a value far beyond goodness, and pleasantness of disposition or purity of mind were not for a moment to be set in comparison with a suite of pearls.
Mr Derwent took upon himself the responsibility of the kettle, and chatted pleasantly enough with Phoebe, to whom the other damsels were only too glad to leave all trouble. He walked home with her, insisting with playful persistence upon carrying her scarf and the little basket which she had brought for wild flowers; talked to her about his mother and sisters, his own future prospects as a younger son who must make his way in the world for himself, and took pains to make himself generally agreeable and interesting. Under his kindly notice Phoebe opened like a flower to the sun. It was something new to her to find a sensible, grown-up person who really seemed to take pleasure in talking with her—except Mrs Dorothy Jennings, and she and Phoebe were not on a level. In conversation with Mrs Dorothy she felt herself being taught and counselled; in conversation with Mr Derwent she was entertained and gratified.
Judging from his conduct, Mr Derwent was as much pleased with Phoebe as she was with him. During the whole time she remained at Delawarr Court, he constituted himself her cavalier. He was always at hand when she wanted anything, at times supplying the need even before she had discovered its existence. Phoebe tasted, for the first time in her life, the flattering ease of being waited on, instead of waiting on others; the delicate pleasure of being listened to, instead of snubbed and disregarded; the intellectual treat of finding one who was willing to exchange ideas with her, rather than only to impart ideas to her. Was it any wonder if Osmund Derwent began to form a nucleus in her thoughts, round which gathered a floating island of fair fancies and golden visions, all the more beautiful because they were vague?
And all the while, Phoebe never realised what was happening to her. She let herself drift onwards in a pleasant dream, and never thought of pausing to analyse her sensations.
The absentees returned home in the afternoon of the third day. And beyond the roll of the coaches, and the noise and bustle inseparable from the arrival of eighteen persons, the first intimation of it which was given in the drawing-room was caused by the entrance of Molly, who swept into the room with tragi-comic dignity, and mounting a chair, cleared her voice, and held forth, as if it had been a sceptre, a minute bow of black gauze ribbon.
“Ladies and gentlewomen!” said Molly with solemnity. ”(The gentlemen don’t count.) Ladies and gentlewomen! I engaged myself, before leaving the Court, to bring back to you in triumph a snip from the Queen’s gown. Behold it! (Never mind how I got it,—here it is.) Upon honour, as sure as my name is Mary—(’tisn’t,—I was christened Maria)—but, as sure as there is one rent and two spots of mud on this white gown which decorates my charming person,—the places whereof are best known to myself,—this bow of gauze, on which all your eyes are fixed,—now there’s a shame! Sophy Rich isn’t looking a bit—this bow was on the gown of Her Majesty Queen Anne yesterday morning! Plaudite vobis!”
And down came Miss Molly.
“If I might be excused, Mrs Maria,” hesitatingly began Mr Edmundson, who seemed almost afraid of the sound of his own voice, “vobis is, as I cannot but be sensible, not precisely the—ah—not quite the word—ah—”
“You shut up, old Bandbox,” said Molly, dropping her heroics. “None of your business. Can’t you but be sensible? First time you ever were!”
“I ask your pardon, Mrs Maria. I trust, indeed,—ah—I am not—ah—insensible, to the many—ah—many things which—”
The youthful company were convulsed with laughter. They were all aware that Molly was intentionally talking at cross purposes with her pastor; and that while he clung to the old signification of sensible, namely, to be aware of, or sensitive to, a thing, she was using it in the new, now universally accepted, sense of sagacious. The fun, of course, was enhanced by the fact that poor Mr Edmundson was totally unacquainted with the change of meaning.
“I don’t believe she cut it off a bit!” whispered Kitty Mainwaring. “She gave a guinea to some orange-girl who was cousin to some other maid in the Queen’s laundry,—some stuff of that sort. Cut it off!—how could she? Just tell me that.”
Before the last word was well out of Kitty’s lips, Molly’s small, bright scissors were snapped within an inch of Kitty’s nose.
“Perhaps you would have the goodness to say that again, Mrs Catherine Mainwaring!” observed that young person, in decidedly menacing tones.
“Thank you, no, I don’t care to do,” replied Kitty, laughing, but shrinking back from the scissors.
“When I say I will do a thing, I will do it, Madam!” retorted Molly.
“If you can, I suppose,” said Kitty, defending herself from another threatening snap.
“Say I can’t, at your peril!”
And Molly and her scissors marched away in dudgeon.
“You are very tired, I fear, Mrs Gatty,” said Phoebe, when Gatty came up to the room they shared, for the night.
“Rather,” answered Gatty, with a sad smile on her white face.
But she did not tell Phoebe what had tired her. It was not the journey, nor the ceremony, but her mother’s greeting.
“Why, Betty, you are quite blooming!” Lady Delawarr had said. “It hath done you good, child. And Molly, too, as sprightly as ever! Child, did you get touched?”
“I did, Madam,” answered Molly, with an extravagant courtesy.
“Ah!” said her mother, in a tone of great satisfaction. “Then we need apprehend no further trouble from the evil. I am extreme glad. O Gatty! you poor, scarred, wretched creature! Really, had it not been that the absence of one of my daughters would be remarked on, I vow I wish you had not gone! ’Tis such a sight to show, that dreadful face of yours. You will never give me any more comfort—that is certain.”
“Pos.!” echoed Molly, exactly in the same tone.
“I would not mind, Gatty!” was Betty’s kindly remark.
“Thank you,” said Gatty, meekly. “I wish I did not!”
Gatty did not repeat this to Phoebe. But Phoebe saw there was something wrong.
Rhoda came rustling in before much more could be said. She was full of details of the journey. What the Queen looked like,—a tall, stout woman, with such blooming cheeks that Rhoda felt absolutely certain she wore rouge,—how she was dressed,—all in black, with a black calash, or high, loose hood, and adorned with diamonds—how she had been received,—with ringing cheers from the Tory part of the population, but ominous silence, or very faint applause, from such as were known to be Whigs: how Sophia Rich had told Rhoda that all the Whig ladies of mark had made up their minds to attend no drawing-rooms the next season: how it was beginning to be dimly suspected that Lord Mar was coquetting with the exiled members of the royal family, and more than suspected that the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough were no longer all powerful with Queen Anne, as they had once been: how the Queen always dined at three p.m., never drank French wine, held drawing-rooms on Sundays after service, would not allow any gentleman to enter her presence without a full-bottomed periwig: all these bits of information Rhoda dilated on, passing from one to another with little regard to method, and wound up with an account of the presentation of the bouquet, and how the Queen had received it from Lady Diana with a smile, and, “I thank you all, young gentlewomen,” in that silver voice which was Anne’s pre-eminent charm.
But half an hour later, when Gatty was asleep, Rhoda said to Phoebe,—
“I have made up my mind, Phoebe.”
“Have you?” responded Phoebe. “What about?”
“I mean to marry Marcus Welles.”
“Has he asked you?” said Phoebe, rather drily.
“Yes,” was Rhoda’s short answer.
Phoebe lay silent.
“Well?” said Rhoda, rather sharply.
“I think, Cousin, I had better be quiet,” answered Phoebe; “for I am afraid I can’t say what you want me.”
“What I want you!” echoed Rhoda, more sharply than ever. “What do I want you to say, Mrs Prude, if you please?”
“Well, I suppose you would like me to say I was glad: and I am not: so I can’t.”
“I don’t suppose it signifies to us whether you are glad or sorry,” snapped Rhoda. “But why aren’t you glad?—you never thought he’d marry you, surely?”
Phoebe said “No” with a little laugh, as she thought how very far she was from any such expectation, and how very much farther from any wish for it. But Rhoda was not satisfied.
“Well, then, what’s the matter?” said she.
“Do you want me to say, Cousin?”
“Of course I do! Should I have asked you if I didn’t?”
“I am afraid he does not love you.”
Rhoda sat up on her elbow, with an ejaculation of amazement.
“If I ever heard such nonsense? What do you know about it, you poor little white-faced thing?”
“I dare say I don’t know much about it,” said Phoebe, calmly; “but I know that if a man really loves one woman with all his heart, he won’t laugh and whisper and play with the fan of another, or else he is not worth anybody’s love. And I am afraid what Mr Welles wants is just your money and not you. I beg your pardon, Cousin Rhoda.”
It was time. Rhoda was in a towering passion. What could Phoebe mean, she demanded with terrible emphasis, by telling such lies as those? Did she suppose that Rhoda was going to believe them? Did Phoebe know what the Bible said about speaking ill of your neighbour? Wasn’t she completely ashamed of herself?
“And I’ll tell you what, Phoebe Latrobe,” concluded Rhoda, “I don’t believe it, and I won’t! I’m not going to believe it,—not if you go down on your knees and swear it! ’Tis all silly, wicked, abominable nonsense!—and you know it!”
“Well, if you won’t believe it, there’s an end,” said Phoebe, quietly. “And I think, if you please, Cousin, we had better go to sleep.”
“Pugh! Sleep if you can, you false-hearted crocodile!” said Rhoda, poetically, in distant imitation of the flowers of rhetoric of her friend Molly. “I shan’t sleep to-night. Not likely!”
Yet Rhoda was asleep the first.