“Just what is there for Rhoda?” gasped Phoebe, apparently not at all elated by her change of position.
“A poor, beggarly two thousand pounds!” burst out Rhoda. “’Tis a shame! And I always thought I was to have White-Ladies! I shall just be nobody now! Nobody will respect me, and I can never cut any figure. Well! I’m glad I am engaged to be married. That’s safe, at any rate.”
The elevation of Mr Dawson’s eyebrows, and the pursing of his lips, might have implied a query on that score.
“I’m so sorry, dear!” said Phoebe, gently. “For you, of course, I mean. I could not be sorry that there was something for Mother, because she is not well off; but I am very sorry you are disappointed.”
“You can’t help it!” was Rhoda’s rather repelling answer. Still, through all her anger, she remembered to be just.
“Certainly not, my dear Mrs Phoebe,” said the lawyer. “’Tis nobody’s fault—not even Madam Furnival’s, for the new will would have given White-Ladies to Mrs Rhoda, and five thousand pounds to Mrs Anne Latrobe. Undoubtedly she intended, Mrs Rhoda, you should have it.”
“Then why can’t I?” demanded Rhoda, fiercely.
Mr Dawson shook his head, with a pitying smile. “The law knows nothing of intentions,” said he: “only of deeds fully performed. Still, it may be a comfort in your disappointment, to remember that this was meant for you.”
“Thank you for your comfort!” said Rhoda, bitterly. “Why, it makes it all the worse.”
“I wish—” but Phoebe stopped short.