“But—was every woman made for some man, if you please, Madam?” asked poor Phoebe, struggling against destiny in the person of her grandmother.
“Of course, child—no doubt of it,” said Madam.
“Then, if you please, Madam, might I not wait till I find the man I was made for?” entreated Phoebe with unconscious humour.
“When you marry a man, my dear, he is the man you were made for,” oracularly replied Madam.
Phoebe was silenced, but not at all convinced, which is a very different thing. She could remember a good many husbands and wives with whom she had met who so far as she could judge, did not appear to have been created for the benefit of one another.
“And I trust you will find him at Delawarr Court. At all events, you will look out. As to waiting, my dear, at your age, and in your station, you cannot afford to wait. One or two years is no matter for Rhoda; but ’twill not serve for you. I was married before I was your age, Phoebe.”
Phoebe sighed, but did not venture to speak. She felt more than ever as if she were being led to the slaughter. There was just this uncomfortable difference, that the sacrificed sheep or goat did not feel anything when once it was over, and the parallel would not hold good there. She felt utterly helpless. Phoebe knew her mother too well to venture on any appeal to her, even had she fondly imagined that representations from Mrs Latrobe would have weight with Madam. Mrs Latrobe would have been totally unable to comprehend her. So Phoebe did what was better,—carried her trial and perplexity to her Father in Heaven, and asked Him to undertake for her. Naturally shy and timid, it was a terrible idea to Phoebe that she was to be handed over bodily in this style to some stranger. Rhoda would not have cared; a change was always welcome to her, and she thought a great deal about the superior position of a matron. But in Phoebe’s eyes the position presented superior responsibility, a thing she dreaded; and superior notoriety, a thing she detested. She was a violet, born to blush unseen, yet believing that perfume shed upon the desert air is not necessarily wasted.
“Here you are, old Rattle-trap!” cried Molly, from the head of the stairs, as Rhoda and Phoebe were mounting them. “Brought that white rag? We’re going. Mum says so. Turn your toes out,—here’s Betty.”
Rhoda’s hand was clasped, and her cheek kissed, by a pleasant-spoken, rather good-looking girl, very little scarred from her recent illness.
“Phoebe Latrobe?” said Betty, turning kindly to her. “I know your name, you see. I trust you will be happy here. Your chamber is this way, Rhoda.”