“God loves me,” said Phoebe, simply. “I am not sure that any one else does.”
“I like you,” said Gatty. “You let me be. That’s what nobody ever does.”
“I am not sure that I understand you,” responded Phoebe.
“I’ll tell you,” replied Gatty, “for I think you can hold your tongue, and not be always chatter, chatter, chatter, like—like some people. You think there’s only one Gatty Delawarr; and I’ll be bound you think her a very dull, stupid creature. Well, you’re about right there. But there are two: there’s me, and there’s the thing people want to make me. Now, you haven’t seen me,—you’ve only seen the woman into whom I am being pinched and pulled. This is me that talks to you to-night, and perhaps you’ll never see me again,—only that other girl,—so you had better make the most of me now that you have me. I’m sure, if you dislike her as much as I do—! You see, Phoebe, there are three of us—Betty, and me, and Molly: and Mother’s set her heart on our all making a noise in the world. Well, perhaps we could have managed better if we might have made our own noise; but we have to make it to order, and we don’t do it well at all. Betty’s the best off, because Mother hit on something that went with her nature,—she’s the notable housewife. So she plays her play well. But when she set up Molly for a wit, and me for a beauty, she made a great blunder. Molly hasn’t a bit of wit, so she falls back on rude speeches, and they go through me just as if she ran a knife into me. You did not think so, did you?”
“No,” said Phoebe, wonderingly; “I thought you did not seem to care.”
“That’s the other Gatty. She does not care. She’s been told,—oh, a hundred times over!—to compose herself and keep her features calm, and not let her voice be ruffled; and move slowly, so that her elbows are not square, and all on in that way; and she has about learned it by this time. I know how to sit still and look unconcerned, if my heart be breaking. And it is breaking, Phoebe.”
“Dear Mrs Gatty, what can I do for you?”
“You can’t do anything but listen to me. Let me pour it out this once, and don’t scold me. I don’t mean anything wrong, Phoebe. I don’t wish to complain of Mother, or Molly, or any one. I only want to tell somebody what I have to bear, and then I’ll compose myself again to my part in the world’s big theatre, and go away and bear it, like other girls do. And you are the only person I have acquaintance with, that I feel as if I could tell.”
“Pray go on, Mrs Gatty; I can feel sorry, if I can do nothing else.”
“Well,—at home somebody is at me from morning to night. There’s a posture-master comes once a week; and Mother’s maid looks to my carriage at all times, ’tis an endless round of—‘Gatty, hold your head up,’—‘Gatty, put that plate down, and take it up with your arm rounded,’—‘Gatty, you must not laugh,’—‘Gatty, you must not sneeze,’—‘Gatty, walk slower,’—come, that’s enough. Then there’s Molly on the top of it. And there’s Betty on the top of Molly,—who can’t conceive why anybody should ruffle her mind about anything. And there’s Mother above all, for ever telling me she looks to have me cut a dash, and make a good match; and if I had played my cards rightly I ought to have caught a husband ere I was seventeen,—’tis disgraceful that I should thus throw away my advantages. And, Phoebe, I want nothing but to creep into some little, far-away corner, and be me, and throw away my patches and love-locks, and powder and pomatum, and never see that other Gatty any more. That’s how it was up to last month.”