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.