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—