Chapter Twelve.

Ends in the Maidens’ Lodge.

“Mother, Mother, up in Heaven,
Stand up on the jasper sea,
And be witness I have given
All the gifts required of me.”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

“Before these young gentlewomen come, Rhoda, I want a word with you.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“I am sure, my dear, that you have too much wit to object to what I am about to say.”

Rhoda had learned to dread this beginning, as it was generally the prelude to something disagreeable. But she was learning, also, to submit to disagreeable things. She only said, meekly, “Yes, Madam.”

“I suppose, my dear, you will have felt, like a maid of some parts and spirit as you are, that your dwelling any longer with me and Phoebe in this house would not be proper.”

“Not be proper!” Rhoda’s cheek blanched. She had never recognised anything of the kind. Was she not only to lose her fortune, but to be turned out of her home? When would her calamities come to an end? “Not proper, Aunt Anne!—why not?”

This was not altogether an easy question to answer with any reason but the real one, which last must not be told to Rhoda. Mrs Latrobe put on an air of injured astonishment.

“My dear!—sure, you would not have me tell you that? No, no!—your own good parts, I am certain, must have assured you. Now, Rhoda, I wish, so far as is possible, to spare you all mortification. If you consider that it would be easier to you to support your altered fortunes elsewhere, I am very willing to put myself to some trouble to obtain for you a suitable service; or if, on the other hand, you have not this sensibility, then my Lady Betty’s cottage is at your disposal when she leaves it. The time that these young gentlewomen are here will be enough to think over the matter. When they go, I shall expect your answer.”

Had Phoebe wished to tell out to Rhoda a recompense of distress equivalent to every annoyance which she had ever received from her, she could have wished for no revenge superior to that of this moment. For her, who had all her life, until lately, looked forward to dispensing her favours as the Queen of Cressingham, to be offered apartments in the Maidens’ Lodge as an indigent gentlewoman, was in her eyes about the last insult and degradation which could be inflicted on her. She went white and red by turns; she took up the hem of her apron, and began to plait it in folds, with as much diligence as though it had been a matter of serious importance that there should be a given number of plaits to an inch, and all of the same width to a thread. Still she did not speak.

Mrs Latrobe required no words to inform her of what was passing in Rhoda’s mind. But she forestalled any words which might have come, by an affectation of misunderstanding her.

“You see, my dear Rhoda,” she said, in a would-be affectionate tone, “I am bound to do all I can for my only sister’s only child. I would not do you so much injury as to suppose you insensible to the kindness I have shown you. Indeed, if you had been something younger, and had wished to learn any trade, I would willingly have paid the premium with you. And ’tis no slight matter, I can assure you. Eighty pounds would have been the least for which I could have put you with a milliner or mantua-maker, to learn her trade. But, however, ’tis no good talking of that, for you are a good nine years too old. So there is nothing before you but service, without you marry, or to take my Lady Betty’s house. Now, my dear, you may go and divert yourself; we will not talk of this matter again till the young gentlewomen have ended their visit.”

And with a nod of dismissal, Mrs Latrobe rose and passed out of the room, evidently considering her duties exceeded by her merits, and leaving Rhoda too stunned for words.

Trade, indeed! If there could be a deeper depth than the Maidens’ Lodge, it was trade, in Rhoda’s eyes. Domestic service was incomparably more respectable and honourable. As to matrimony, which her aunt had, as it were, flung into the scales as she passed, Rhoda’s heart was still too sore to think of it.

An hour later brought Betty and Molly.

“How do you, Rhoda, dear?” inquired the former, kindly.

“Well!—got over it, Red Currants?” interrogated Molly.

“Over what, I beg?” said Rhoda, rather haughtily.

Molly sang her answer:—

“‘I lost my looks, I lost my health,
I lost my wit—my love kept true;
But one fine day I lost my wealth,
And, presto! off my lover flew.’

“Isn’t that about it, old Tadpole?”

“Your’s hasn’t,” retorted Rhoda, carrying the attack into the enemy’s country.

“No; I haven’t lost my wealth yet,” said Molly, gravely for her.

“Who told you?” whispered Phoebe.

“O Gemini! isn’t that a good jest?” responded Molly, not at all in a whisper. “‘Who told me?’—just as if three hundred and sixty-five people hadn’t told me. Told me more jokes than one, too, Mrs Phoebe Latrobe; told me how you sent off Master Marcus with all the starch washed out of him. Got-up Marcus in the rough dry—O Gemini!” and Molly almost shrieked with laughter. “Poor wretch! Hasn’t had the heart to powder himself since. And she told him to his face he wanted the guineas.—Oh how jolly! Wouldn’t I have given a pretty penny to see his face! Phoebe, you’re tip-top.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Rhoda, with something of her old sharp manner.

“Talking about your true and constant lover, my charmer,” said Molly. “His heart was broken to bits by losing—your money; so he picked up the pieces, and pasted them together, and offered the pretty little thing to your cousin, as the nearest person to you. But she, O cruel creature! instead of giving him an etiquet of admission to her heart, what does she but come down on the wretch’s corns with a blunderbuss, and crush his poor pasted heart into dust. Really—”

“Molly, my dear!” said Betty, laughing. “Does a man’s heart lie in his corns?”

“If you wish to know, Mrs Betty Delawarr, the conclusions to which I have come on that subject,” replied Molly, in her gravest mock manner, “they are these. Most men haven’t any hearts. They have pretty little ornaments, made of French paste, which do instead. They get smashed about once in six months, then they are pasted up, and nobody ever knows the difference. There isn’t much, when ’tis nicely done.”

“Pray, Molly, how many women have hearts?”

“Not one among ’em, present company excepted.”

“Oh, Molly, Molly!” said Betty, still laughing. “I thank you, in the name of present company,” added Rhoda; but there was a glitter in her eyes which was not mirth.

“Now, Red Gooseberries (rather sour just now), you listen to me,” said Molly. “If you have got a heart (leave that to you!) don’t you let it waste away for that piece of flummery. There’s Osmund Derwent breaking his for you, and I believe he has one. Take him—you’ll never do better; and if I tell you lies for the rest of my life, I’ve spoken truth this time.—Now, Fib, aren’t you going to show such distinguished visitors into the parlour?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” exclaimed Phoebe; “I was listening to you.”

“Madam, I thank you for the compliment,” and, with a low courtesy, Molly gave her sister a push before her into the presence of Mrs Latrobe.

“Phoebe, come here!” cried Rhoda, in a hoarse whisper, drawing her cousin aside into one of the deep recessed windows of the old hall, once the refectory of the Abbey. “Tell me, did Marcus Welles offer to you?”

“Yes,” said Phoebe, and said no more. “And you refused him?”

“Why, Rhoda, dear! Yes, of course.”

“Not for my sake, I hope. Phoebe, I would not marry him now, if he came with his hat full of diamonds.”

“Make your mind easy, dear. I never would have done.”

“Do you know, Phoebe, Aunt Anne has offered to put me in the Maidens’ Lodge?”

“She talked of it,” said Phoebe, pitifully.

“I am not going there,” responded Rhoda, in a decisive tone. “I’ll go to service first. Perhaps, I can come down so much, away from here; but to do it here, where I thought to be mistress!—no, I could not stand that, Phoebe.”

“I am sorry you have to stand any of it, dear Rhoda.”

“You are a good little thing, Fib; I could not bear you to pity me if you were not. If Aunt Anne had but half your—”

“Phoebe, where are you? Really, my dear, I am quite shocked at your negligence! Carry the young gentlewomen up to their chambers, and let Rhoda wait on them. I take it extreme ill you should have left them so long. Do, my dear, remember your position!”

Remember her position! Phoebe was beginning to wish heartily that she might now and then be permitted to forget it.

The four girls went upstairs together.

“I say, Fib, did you ever shoot a waterfall in a coble?” inquired Molly.

Phoebe felt safe in a negative.

“Because I’ve heard folks say who have, that ’tis infinitely pleasant, when you come alive out of it; but then, you see, there’s a little doubt about that.”

“I don’t understand you, Mrs Molly.”

“No, my dear, very like you don’t. Well, you’ll find out when you’ve shot ’em. You’re only a passenger; no blame to you if you don’t come out alive.”

“Who’s rowing, Molly?” asked Rhoda.

“Somebody that isn’t used to handling the oars,” said Molly. “And if she don’t get a hole stove in—Glad ’tis no concern of mine!”

“How does Gatty now?” asked Rhoda.

“O she is very well, I thank you,” replied Betty.

“Is she promised yet?”

“Dear, no,” said Betty, in a pitying tone.

“Rank cruelty, only to think on it,” said Molly. “She’ll just come in, as pat as vinegar to lettuce, to keep you company in the Maidens’ Lodge, my beloved Rhoda.”

Rhoda’s lip trembled slightly, but she asked, quietly enough—

“Which is the vinegar?”

Molly stood for a moment with her head on one side, contemplating Rhoda.

“Been putting sugar to it, Fib, haven’t you? Well, ’tis mighty good stuff to cure a cough.”

“Phoebe,” said her mother that evening, when prayers were over, “I wish to speak with you in my chamber before you go to yours.”

Phoebe obeyed the order with a mixture of wonder and trepidation.

“My dear, I have good news for you. I have chosen your husband.”

“Mother!”

“Pray, why not, my dear? ’Tis an ingenious young man, reasonable handsome, and very suitable for age and conditions. I have not yet broke the matter to him, but I cannot doubt of a favourable answer, for he hath no fortune to speak of, and is like to be the more manageable, seeing all the money will come from you. You met with him, I believe, at Delawarr Court. His name is Derwent. I shall not write to him while these young gentlewomen are here, but directly they are gone: yet I wish to give you time to become used to it, and I name it thus early.”

Phoebe felt any reply impossible.

“Good-night, my dear. I am sure you will like Mr Dement.”

Phoebe went back along the gallery like one walking in a dream. How was this tangled skein ever to be unravelled? Had she any right to speak? had she any to keep silence? And a cry of “Teach me to do Thy will!” went up beyond the stars. “I don’t know what is right,” said Phoebe, plaintively, to her own heart. “Lord, Thou knowest! Make Thy way plain before my face,” It seemed to her that, knowing what she did, there would be one thing more terrible than a refusal from Mr Derwent, and that would be acceptance. It seemed impossible to pray for either. She could only put the case into God’s hands, with the entreaty of Hezekiah: “O Lord, I am oppressed: undertake for me.”

It did not make the matter any easier that, a few days later, Rhoda said suddenly, when she and Phoebe were alone, “Do you remember that Mr Derwent who was at Delawarr Court?”

“Yes,” said Phoebe, and said no more.

“Betty tells me she thought he had a liking for me.”

Phoebe was silent. Would the actual question come?

“I wonder if it was true,” said Rhoda.

Still Phoebe went on knitting in silence, with downcast eyes.

“I almost begin, Phoebe, to wish it had been, do you know? I liked him very well. And—I want somebody to care for me.”

“Yes, poor dear,” said Phoebe, rising hurriedly. “Excuse me, I must fetch more wool.”

And she did not seem to hear Rhoda call after her—

“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.

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 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 à plaindre,
Il est à désirer;
Je n’ai plus rien à craindre,
Car Dieu est mon Berger.’”

The End.