Gatty paused a moment, and drew a long sigh.
“And then, there came another on the scene, and I suppose the play grew more entertaining to Mother, and Betty, and Molly, in the boxes. People don’t think, you know, when they look down at the prima donna, painted, and smiling, and decked with flowers,—they don’t think if she has a husband who ill-uses her, or a child dying at home. She has come there to make them sport. Well, there came an old lord,—a man of sixty or seventy,—who has led a wild rakish life all these years, and now he thinks ’tis time to settle down, and he wants me to help him to make people think he’s become respectable. And they say I shall marry him. Phoebe, they say I must,—there is to be no help for it. And I can’t bear him to look at me. If he touches my glove, I want to fling it into the fire when it comes off. And this one month, here, at White-Ladies, is my last quiet time. When I go home—if Betty be recovered of her distemper—I am to be married to this old man in a week’s time. I am tied hand and foot, like a captive or a slave; and I have not even the poor relief of tears. They make my eyes red, and I must not make, my eyes red, if it would save my life. But nothing will save me. The lambs that used to be led to the altar are not more helpless than I. The rope is round my neck; and I must trot on beside the executioner, and find what comfort I can in the garland of roses on my head.”
There was a silence of a few seconds after Gatty finished her miserable tale. And then Phoebe’s voice asked softly,—
“Dear Mrs Gatty, have you asked God to save you?”
“What’s the use?” answered Gatty, in a hopeless tone.
“Because He would do it,” said Phoebe. “I don’t know how. It might be by changing my Lady Delawarr’s mind, or the old lord’s, or yours; or many another way; I don’t know how. But I do know that He has promised to bring no temptation on those that fear Him, beyond what they shall be able to bear.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” said Gatty, in that tone which makes the word sound like a cry of pain.
“Have you tried entreating my Lady Delawarr?”
“Tried! I should think so. And what do you think I get by it? ‘Gatty, my dear, ’tis so unmodish to be thus warm over anything! Compose yourself, and control your feelings. Love!—no, of course you do not love my Lord Polesworth, while you are yet a maid; ’twould be highly indecorous for you to do any such thing. But when you are his wife, you’ll be perfectly content; and that is all you can expect. My dear, do compose yourself, or your face will be quite wrinkled; and let me hear no more of this nonsense, I beg of you. Maids cannot look to choose for themselves, ’tis not reasonable.’ That is what I get, Phoebe.”
“And your father, Mrs Gatty?”