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!”