CHAPTER FOUR.
THROUGH THORNY PATHS.
"I do repent me now too late of each impatient thought, That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought."
_Caroline Bowles_.
"Is it long since Madam woke, Baxter?" cried Rhoda in a breathlesswhisper, as she came in at the side door.
"But this minute, Mrs Rhoda," answered he.
"That's good!" said Rhoda aside to Phoebe, and slipping off her shoes,she ran lightly and silently upstairs, beckoning her cousin to follow.
Phoebe, having no idea of the course of Rhoda's thoughts, obeyed, andfollowed her example in doffing her hood and smoothing her hair.
"Be quick!" said Rhoda, her own rapid movements over, and putting on hershoes again.
They found Madam looking barely awake, and staring hard at her book, asif wishful to persuade herself that she had been reading.
"I hope, child, you were not out all this time," said she to Rhoda.
"Oh no, Madam!" glibly answered that trustworthy young lady. "We onlyhad a dish of tea with Mrs Dolly, and I made my compliments to theother gentlewomen."
"And where were you since, child?"
"We have been upstairs, Madam," said Rhoda, unblushingly.
"Not diverting yourselves, I hope?" was Madam's next question.
"Oh no, not at all, Madam. We were not doing anything particular."
"Talking, I suppose, as maids will," responded Madam. "Phoebe,to-morrow after breakfast bring all your clothes to my chamber. I musthave you new apparelled."
"Oh, Madam, give me leave to come also!" exclaimed Rhoda, with as mucheagerness as she ever dared to show in her grandmother's presence. "Iwould so dearly like to hear what Phoebe is to have! Only, please, nota musk-coloured damask--you promised me that."
"My dear," answered Madam, "you forget yourself. I cannot talk of suchthings to-day. You may come if you like."
Supper was finished in silence. After supper, a pale-faced,tired-looking young man, who had been previously invisible, came intothe parlour, and made a low reverence to Madam, which she returned witha queenly bend of her head. His black cassock and scarf showed him tobe in holy orders. Madam rang the hand-bell, the servants filed in, andevening prayers were read by the young chaplain, in a thin, monotonousvoice, with a manner which indicated that he was not interested himself,and did not expect interest in any one else. Then the servants filedout again; the chaplain kissed Madam's hand, and wished her good-night,bowed distantly to Rhoda, half bowed to Phoebe, instantly drew himselfup as if he thought he was making a mistake, and finally disappeared.
"'Tis time you were abed, maids," said Madam.
Rhoda somewhat slowly rose, knelt before her grandmother, and kissed herhand.
"Good-night, my dear. God bless thee, and make thee a good maid!" wasMadam's response.
Phoebe had risen, and stood, rather hesitatingly, behind her cousin.She was doubtful whether Madam would be pleased or displeased if shefollowed Rhoda's example. In her new life it seemed probable that shewould not be short of opportunities for the exercise of meekness,forbearance, and humility. Madam's quick eyes detected Phoebe'sdifficulty in an instant.
"Good-night, Phoebe," she said, rising.
"Good-night, Madam," replied Phoebe in a low voice, as she followedRhoda. It was evident that no relationship was to be recognised.
"Here, you carry the candle," said Rhoda, nodding towards the hall tableon which the candlesticks stood. "That's what you are here for, Isuppose,--to save me trouble. Dear, I forgot my cloak,--see where itis! Bring it with you, Phoebe."
Demurely enough Rhoda preceded Phoebe upstairs. But no sooner was thebedroom door closed behind them, than Rhoda threw herself into the largeinvalid chair, and laughed with hearty amusement.
"Oh, didn't I take her in? Wasn't it neatly done, now? Didn't youadmire me, Phoebe?"
"You told her a lie!" retorted Phoebe, indignantly.
"'Sh!--that's not a pretty word," said Rhoda, pursing her lips. "Say afib, next time.--Nonsense! Not a bit of it, Phoebe. We had beenupstairs since we came in."
"Only a minute," answered Phoebe. "You made her think what was nottrue. Father called that a lie,--I don't know what you call it."
"Now, Phoebe," said Rhoda severely, "don't you be a little Puritan. Ifyou set up for a saint at White-Ladies, I can just tell you, you'll pullyour own nest about your ears. You are mightily mistaken if you thinkMadam has any turn for saints. She reckons them designing persons--every soul of 'em. You'll just get into a scrape if you don't have acare."
Phoebe made no reply. She was standing by the window, looking up intothe darkened sky. There were no blinds at White-Ladies.
It was well for Rhoda--or was it well?--that she could not just then seeinto Phoebe's heart. The cry that "shivered to the tingling stars" wasunheard by her. "O Father, Father," said the cry. "Why did you die andleave your poor little Phoebe, whom nobody loves, whose love nobodywants, with whom nobody here has one feeling in common?" And then allat once came as it were a vision before her eyes, of a scene whereof shehad heard very frequently from her father,--a midnight meeting of theDesert Church, in a hollow of the Cevennes mountains, guarded bysentinels posted on the summit,--a meeting which to attend was to bravethe gallows or the galleys,--and Phoebe fancied she could hear the wordsof the opening hymn, as the familiar tune floated past her:--
"Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger."
It was a quiet, peaceful face which was turned back to Rhoda.
"Did you hear?" rather sharply demanded that young lady.
"Yes, I heard what you said," calmly replied Phoebe. "But I have been agood way since."
"A good way!--where?" rejoined her cousin.
"To France and back," said Phoebe, with a smile.
"What are you talking about?" stared Rhoda. "I said nothing aboutFrance; I was telling you not to be a prig and a saint, and make Madamangry."
"I won't vex her if I can help it," answered Phoebe.
"Well, but you will, if you set up to be better than your neighbours,--that's pos.! Take the pins out of my commode."
"Why should not I be better than my neighbours?" asked Phoebe, as shepulled out the pins.
"Because they'll all hate you--that's why. I must have clean ruffles--they are in that top drawer."
"Aren't you better than your neighbours?" innocently suggested Phoebe,coming back with the clean ruffles.
Rhoda paused to consider how she should deal with the subject. Thequestion was not an easy one to answer. She believed herself very muchbetter, in every respect: to say No, therefore, would belie her wishesand convictions; yet to say Yes, would spoil the effect of her lecture.There was moreover, a dim impression on her mind that Phoebe wasincapable of perceiving the delicate distinction between them, whichmade it inevitable that Rhoda should be better than Phoebe, and highlyindecorous that Phoebe should attempt to be better than Rhoda. On thewhole, it seemed desirable to turn the conversation.
"Oh, not these ruffles, Phoebe! These are some of my best. Bring apair of common ones--those with the box plaits.--What were you thinkingabout France?"
"Oh, nothing particular. I was only--"
"Never mind, if you don't want to tell," said Rhoda, graciously, nowthat her object was attained. "I wonder what new clothes Madam willgive you. A camlet for best, I dare say, and duffel for every day.Don't you want to know?"
"No, not very much."
"I should, if I were you. I like to go fine. Not that she'll give_you_ fine things, you know--not likely. There! put my shoes out toclean, and tuck me up nicely, and then if you like you can go to bed. Ishan't want anything more."
Phoebe did as she was requested, and then knelt down.
"I vow!" exclaimed her cousin, when she rose. "Do you say your prayerson Sunday nights? I never do. Why, we've only just been at itdownstairs. And what a time you are! I'
m never more than five minuteswith mine!"
"I couldn't say all I want in five minutes," replied Phoebe.
"Want! why, what do you want?" said Rhoda. "I want nothing. I've gotto do it--that's all."
"Well, I dare say five minutes is enough for that," was the quiet replyfrom Phoebe. "But when people get into trouble, then they do wantthings."
"Trouble! Oh, you don't know!" said Rhoda, loftily. "I've had heaps oftrouble."
"Have you?" innocently demanded Phoebe, in an interested tone.
"Well, I should think so! More than ever you had."
"What were they?" said Phoebe, in the same manner.
"Why, first, my mother died when I was only a week old," explainedRhoda. "I suppose, you call that a trouble?"
"Not when you were a week old," said Phoebe; "it would be afterwards--with some people. But I should not think it was, much, with you. Youhave had Madam."
"Well, then my father went off to London, and spent all his estate, thatI should have had, and there was nothing left for me. That was atrouble, I suppose?"
"If you had plenty beside, I should not think it was."
"`Plenty beside!' Phoebe, you are the silliest creature! Why, don'tyou see that I should have been a great fortune, if I had had Peveril aswell as White-Ladies? I should have set my cap at a lord, I can tellyou. Only think, Phoebe, I should have had sixty thousand pounds. Whatdo you say to that? Sixty thousand pounds!"
"I should think it is more than you could ever spend."
"Oh, I don't know about that," said Rhoda. "When White-Ladies is mine,I shall have a riding-horse and a glass coach; and I will have asplendid set of diamonds, and pearls too. They cost something, I cantell you. Oh, 'tis easy spending money. You'll see, when it comes tome."
"Are you sure it will come to you?"
"Why, of course it will!" exclaimed Rhoda, sitting up, and leaning onher elbow. "To whom else would Madam leave it, I should like to know!Why, you never expect her to give it to _you_, poor little white-facedthing? I vow, but that is a good jest!"
Rhoda's laugh had more bitterness than mirth in it. Phoebe's smile wasone of more unmixed amusement.
"Pray make yourself easy," said Phoebe. "I never expect anything, andthen I am not disappointed."
"Well, I'll just tell you what!" rejoined her cousin. "If I catch youmaking up to Madam, trying to please all her whims, and chime in withher vapours, and that--fancying she'll leave you White-Ladies--I tellyou, Phoebe Latrobe, I'll never forgive you as long as I live! There!"
Rhoda was very nearly, if not quite, in a passion. Phoebe turned andlooked at her.
"Cousin," she said, gently, "you will see me try to please Madam, since'tis my duty: but if you suppose 'tis with any further object, such aswhat she might give me, you very ill know Phoebe Latrobe."
"Well, mind your business!" said Rhoda, rather fiercely.
A few minutes later she was asleep. But sleep did not visit Phoebe'seyes that night.
When the morning came, Rhoda seemed quite to have forgotten hervexation. She chattered away while she was dressing, on various topics,but chiefly respecting the new clothes which Madam had promised toPhoebe. If words might be considered a criterion, Rhoda appeared totake far more interest in these than Phoebe herself.
Breakfast was a solemn and silent ceremony. When it was over, Madamdesired Phoebe to attend her in her own chamber, and to bring herwardrobe with her. Rhoda followed, unasked, and sat down on the form atthe foot of the bed to await her cousin. Phoebe came in with her armsfull of dresses and cloaks. She was haunted by a secret apprehensionwhich she would not on any account have put into words--that she mightno longer be allowed to wear mourning for her dead father. But Phoebe'sfears were superfluous. Madam thought far too much of the proprietiesof life to commit such an indecorum. However little she had liked orrespected the Rev. Charles Latrobe, she would never have thought ofrequiring his child to lay aside her mourning until the conventional twoyears had elapsed from the period of his decease.
Phoebe's common attire was very quickly discarded, as past further wear;and she was desired to wear her best clothes every day, until new oneswere ready for her. This decided, Rhoda was ordered to ring for Betty,Madam's own maid, and Betty was in her turn required to fetch thosestuffs which she had been bidden to lay aside till needed. Bettyaccordingly brought a piece of black camlet, another of black bombazine,and a third of black satin, with various trimmings. The two girls alikewatched in silence, while Betty measured lengths and cut off pieces ofcamlet and bombazine, from which it appeared that Phoebe was to have twonew dresses, and a mantua and hood of the camlet: but when Rhoda heardBetty desired to cut off satin for another mantua, her hithertoconcealed chagrin broke forth.
"Why, Madam!--she'll be as fine as me!"
"My dear, she will be as I choose," answered Madam, in a tone whichwould have silenced any one but Rhoda. "And now, satin for a hood,Betty--"
"'Tis a shame!" said Rhoda, under her breath, which was as much as shedared venture; but Madam took no notice.
"You will line the hoods and mantuas warm, Betty," pursued Madam, in hermost amiable tone. "Guard the satin with fur, and the camlet with thatstrong gimp. And a muff she must have, Betty."
"A muff!" came in a vexed whisper from Rhoda.
"And when the time comes, one of the broidered India scarves that werehad of Staveley, for summer wear; but that anon. Then--"
"But, Madam!" put in Rhoda, in a troubled voice, "you have never givenme one of those scarves yet! I asked you for one a year ago." To judgefrom her tone, Rhoda was very near tears.
"My dear!" replied Madam, "'tis becoming in maids to wait till they arespoken to. Had you listened with proper respect, you would have heardme bid Betty lay out one also for you. You cannot use them at thisseason."
Rhoda subsided, somewhat discontentedly.
"Two pairs of black Spanish gloves, Betty; and a black fan, and blackvelvet stays. (When the year is out she must have a silver lace.) Andbid Dobbins send up shoes to fit on, with black buckles--two pairs; andlay out black stockings--two pairs of silk, and two of worsted; andplain cambric aprons--they may be laced when the year is out. I thinkthat is all. Oh!--a fur tippet, Betty."
And with this last order Madam marched away.
"Oh, shocking!" cried Rhoda, the instant she thought her grandmother outof hearing. "I vow, but she's going to have you as fine as me. Everybit of it. Betty, isn't it a shame?"
"Well, no, Mrs Rhoda, I don't see as how 'tis," returned Betty,bluntly. "Mrs Phoebe, she's just the same to Madam as you are."
"But she isn't!" exclaimed Rhoda, blazing up. "I'm her eldestdaughter's child, and she's only the youngest. And she hasn't done itbefore, neither. Last night she didn't let her kiss her hand. I say,Betty, 'tis a crying shame!"
"Maybe Madam thought better of it this morning," suggested Betty,speaking with a pin in her mouth.
"Well, 'tis a burning shame!" growled Rhoda.
"Perhaps, Mrs Betty," said Phoebe's low voice, "you could leave thesatin things for a little while?"
"Mrs Phoebe, I durstn't, my dear!" rejoined Betty; "nay, not if 'twasever so! Madam, she's used to have folk do as she bids 'em; and she'llmake 'em, too! Never you lay Mrs Rhoda's black looks to heart, mydear, she'll have forgot all about it by this time to-morrow."
Rhoda had walked away.
"But I shall not!" answered Phoebe, softly.
"Deary me, child!" said Betty, turning to look at her, "don't you go forto fret over that. Why, if a bit of a thing like that'll trouble you,you'll have plenty to fret about at White-Ladies. Mrs Rhoda, she's onand off with you twenty times a day; and you'd best take no notice. Shedon't mean anything ill, my dear; 'tis only her phantasies."
"Oh, Mrs Betty! I wish--"
"Phoebe!" came up from below. "Fetch my cloak and hood, and bring yourown--quick, now! We are about to drive out with Madam."
"Come, dry your eyes, child, and I'l
l fetch the things," said Betty,soothingly. "You'll be the better of a drive."
Rhoda's annoyance seemed to have vanished from her mind as well as fromher countenance; and Madam took no notice of Phoebe's disturbed looks.The Maidens' Lodge, was first visited, and a messenger sent in to askLady Betty if she were inclined to take the air. Lady Betty acceptedthe offer, and was so considerate as not to keep Madam wailing more thanten minutes. No further invitation was offered, and the coach rumbledaway in the direction of Gloucester.
For a time Phoebe heard little of the conversation between the elderladies, and Rhoda, as usual in her grandmother's presence, was almostsilent. At length she woke up to a remark made by Lady Betty.
"Then you think, Madam, to send for Gatty and Molly?"
"That is my design, my Lady Betty. 'Twill be a diversion for Rhoda; andSir Richard was so good as to say they should come if I would."
"Indeed, I think he would be easy to have them from home, Madam, tillthey may see if Betty's disorder be the small-pox or no."
"When did Betty return home, my Lady?"
"But last Tuesday. 'Tis not possible that her sisters have taken aughtof her, for she had been ailing some days ere she set forth, and theyhave bidden at home all the time. You will be quite safe, Madam."
"So I think, my Lady Betty," replied Madam. "Rhoda, have you beenlistening?"
"No, Madam," answered Rhoda, demurely.
"Then 'tis time you should, my dear," said Madam, graciously. "I willacquaint you of the affair. I think to write to Lady Delawarr, and askthe favour of Mrs Gatty and Mrs Molly to visit me. Their sister MrsBetty, as I hear, is come home from the Bath, extreme distempered; and'tis therefore wise to send away Mrs Gatty and little Mrs Molly untilMrs Betty be recovered of her disorder. I would have you be very nicetoward them, that they shall find their visit agreeable."
"How long will they stay, Madam?" inquired Rhoda.
"Why, child, that must hang somewhat on Mrs Betty's recovering. I takeit, it shall be about a month; but should her distemper be tardy ofdisappearing, it shall then be something longer."
"Jolly!" was the sound which seemed to Phoebe to issue in an undertonefrom the lips of Rhoda. But the answer which reached her grandmother'sears was merely a sedate "Yes, Madam."
"I take it, my Lady Betty," observed Madam, turning to her companion,"that the sooner the young gentlewomen are away, the better shall itbe."
"Oh, surely, Madam!" answered Lady Betty. "'Tis truly very good of youto ask it; but you are always a general undertaker for your friends."
"We were sent into this world to do good, my Lady Betty," returnedMadam, sententiously.
Unless Phoebe's ears were deceived, a whisper very like "Fudge!" camefrom Rhoda.
The somewhat solemn drive was finished at last; Lady Betty was set downat the Maidens' Lodge; inquiries were made as to the health of MrsMarcella, who returned a reply intimating that she was a sufferingmartyr; and Rhoda and Phoebe at last found themselves free fromsuperveillance, and safe in their bedroom.
"Now that's just jolly!" was Rhoda's first remark, with nothing inparticular to precede it. "Molly Delawarr's a darling! I don't muchcare for Gatty, and Betty I just hate. She's a prig and a fid-fad both.But Molly--oh, Phoebe, she's as smart as can be. Such parts she has!You know, she's really--not quite you understand--but really she'salmost as clever as I am!"
Phoebe did not seem overwhelmed by this information; she only said, "Isshe?"
"Well, nearly," said Rhoda. "She knows fourteen Latin words, Mollydoes; and she always brings them in."
"Into what?" asked Phoebe, with the little amused laugh which was veryrare with her.
"Into her discourse, to be sure, child!" said Rhoda, loftily, "You don'tknow fourteen Latin words; how should you?"
"How should I, indeed," rejoined Phoebe, meekly, "if father had nottaught me?"
"Taught you--taught you Latin?" gasped Rhoda.
"Just a little Latin and Greek; there wasn't time for much," humblyresponded Phoebe.
"Greek!" shrieked Rhoda.
"Very little, please," deprecated Phoebe.
"Phoebe, you dear sweet darling love of a Phoebe!" cried Rhoda, kissingher cousin, to the intense astonishment of the latter; "now won't you,like a dear as you are, just tell me one or two Greek words? I wouldgive anything to outshine Molly and make her look foolish, I would! Shedoesn't know one word of Greek--only Latin. Do, for pity's sake, tellme, if 'tis only one Greek word! and I won't say another syllable, notif Madam gives you a diamond necklace!"
Phoebe was laughing more than she had yet ever done at White-Ladies.She was far too innocent and amiable to think of playing Rhoda the trickof which Melanie's father was guilty, in _Contes a ma Fille_, when,under the impression that she was saying in Latin, "Knowledge gives theright to laugh at everything," he cruelly caused her to remark inpublic, "I am a very ridiculous donkey." Phoebe bore no malice. Sheonly said, still smiling, "I don't know what words to tell you."
"Oh, any!" answered Rhoda, accommodatingly. "What's the Greek forugly?"
"I don't know," said Phoebe, dubiously. "Kakos means _bad_."
"And what is _good_ and _pretty_?"
"Agathos is _good_," replied Phoebe, laughing; "and _beautiful_ iskallios."
"That'll do!" said Rhoda, triumphantly. "'Tis plenty,--I couldn'tremember more. Let me see,--kaks, and agathos, and kallius--is thatright?"
Phoebe laughingly offered the necessary corrections. "All right!" saidRhoda. "I've no more to wish for. I'll take the shine out of Molly!"
At supper that evening, Madam announced that she had sent her note toLady Delawarr by a mounted messenger, and had received an answer,according to which Gatty and Molly might be expected to arrive atWhite-Ladies on Wednesday evening. Madam appeared to be in one of hermost gracious moods, for she even condescended to inform Phoebe thatMrs Gatty was two months older than Rhoda, and Mrs Molly four yearsher junior,--"two years younger than you, my dear," said Madam, veryaffably.
"Now, Phoebe, I'll tell you what we'll do," asserted Rhoda, as she satdown before the glass that night to have her hair undressed by hercousin. "I'm not going to have Molly teasing about the old gentlewomendown yonder. I'll soon shut her mouth if she begins; and if Gatty wantsto go down there, well, she can go by herself. So I'll tell you what:you and I will drink a dish of tea with Mrs Dolly to-morrow, and we'llmake her finish her story. I only do wish the dear old tiresome thingwouldn't preach! Then I'll take you in to see Mrs Marcella, and we'llget that done. Then in the morning, you must just set out all my gownson the bed, and I'll have both you and Betty to sew awhile I must havesome lace on that blue. I'll make Madam give me a pair of new silverbuckles, too. I can't do unless I cut out those creatures somehow. Andthe only way to cut out Gatty is by dress, because she hasn't anythingin her,--'tis all on her. I cut out Molly in brains. But my LadyDelawarr likes to dress Gatty up, because she fancies the awkwardthing's pretty. She isn't, you know,--not a speck; but _she_ thinksso."
Whether the last pronoun referred to Lady Delawarr or to Gatty, Rhodawas not sufficiently perspicuous to indicate. Phoebe went ondisentangling her hair in silence, and Rhoda likewise fell into a brownstudy.
Of the nature of her thoughts that young lady gave but two intimations:the first, as she tied up her hair in the loose bag which then servedfor a night-cap,--
"I cannot abide that Betty!"
The second came a long while afterwards, just as Phoebe was dropping tosleep.
"I say, Phoebe!"
"Yes?"
"Did you say `kakios?'"
Phoebe had to collect her thoughts. "Kakos," she said.
"Oh, all right; _they_ won't know. But won't I take the shine out ofthat Molly!"
Phoebe's arrested sleep came back to her as she was reflecting on thecurious idea which her cousin seemed to have of friendship.
"Come along, Phoebe! This is the shortest way."
"Oh, couldn't we go by the road?" asked Phoeb
e, drawing backapprehensively, as Rhoda sprang lightly from the top of the stile whichled into the meadow.
"Of course we could, but 'tis ever so much further round, and not halfso pleasant. Why?"
"There are--cows!" said Phoebe, under her breath.
Rhoda laughed more decidedly than civilly.
"Cows! Did you never see cows before? I say, Phoebe, come along!Don't be so silly!"
Phoebe obeyed, but in evident trepidation, and casting many nervousglances at the dreaded cows, until the girls had passed the next stile.
"Cows don't bite, silly Phoebe!" said Rhoda, rather patronisingly, fromthe height of her two years' superiority in age.
"But they toss sometimes, don't they?" tremblingly demanded Phoebe.
"What nonsense!" said Rhoda, as they rounded the Maidens' Lodge.
Little Mrs Dorothy sat sewing at her window, and she nodded cheerily toher young guests as they came in.
"What do you think, Mrs Dolly?--good evening!" said Rhoda,parenthetically. "If this foolish Phoebe isn't frighted of a cow!"
"Sure, my dear, that is no wonder, for one bred in in the town," gentlydeprecated Mrs Dorothy.
"So stupid and nonsensical!" said Rhoda. "I say, Mrs Dolly, are youafraid of anything?"
"Yes, my dear," was the quiet answer.
"Oh!" said Rhoda. "Cows?"
"No, not cows," returned Mrs Dorothy, smiling.
"Frogs? Beetles?" suggested Rhoda.
"I do not think I am afraid of any animal, at least in this country,without it be vipers," said Mrs Dorothy. "But--well, I dare say I ambut a foolish old woman in many regards. I oft fear things which I noteothers not to fear at all."
"But what sort of things, Mrs Dolly?" inquired Rhoda, who had madeherself extremely comfortable with a large chair and sundry cushions.
"I will tell you of three things, my dear, of which I have always feltafraid, at the least since I came to years of discretion. And mostfolks are not afraid of any of them. I am afraid of getting rich. I amafraid of being married. And I am afraid of judging my neighbours."
"Oh!" cried Rhoda, in genuine amazement. "Why, Mrs Dolly, what _do_you mean? As to judging one's neighbours,--well, I suppose the Biblesays something against that; but we all do it, you know."
"We do, my dear; more's the pity."
"But getting rich, and being married! Oh, Mrs Dolly! Everybody wantsthose."
"No, my dear, asking your pardon," replied the old lady, in a tone ofdecision unusual with her. "I trust every Christian does not want to berich, when the Lord hath given him so many warnings against it. Andevery man does not want to marry, nor every woman neither."
"Well, not every man, perhaps," admitted Rhoda; "but every woman does,Mrs Dolly."
"My dear, I am sorry to hear a woman say it," answered Mrs Dorothy,with as much warmth as was consonant with her nature. "I hoped that wasa man's delusion."
"Why, Mrs Dolly! I do," said Rhoda, with great candour.
"Then I wish you more wisdom, child."
"Well, upon my word!" exclaimed Rhoda. "Didn't you, when you wereyoung, Mrs Dolly?"
"No, I thank God, nor when I was old neither," replied Mrs Dorothy, inthe same tone.
"But, Mrs Dolly! A maid has no station in society!" said Rhoda, usinga phrase which she had picked up from one of her grandfather's books.
"My dear, your station is where God puts you. A maid has just as good astation as a wife; and a much pleasanter, to my thinking."
"Pleasanter!" exclaimed Rhoda. "Why, Mrs Dolly, nobody thinks anythingof an old maid, except to pity her."
"They may keep their pity to themselves," said Mrs Dorothy, with alittle laugh. "We old maids can pity them back again, and with morereason."
"Mrs Dolly, would you have all the world hermits?"
"No, my dear; nor do I at all see why people should always leap to theconclusion that an old maid must be an ill-tempered, lonely,disappointed creature. Sure, there are other relatives in this worldbeside husbands and children; and if she choose her own lot, what causehath she for disappointment? 'Tis but a few day since Mr Leightonsaid, in my hearing, `Of course we know, when a gentlewoman is unwed,'tis her misfortune rather than her fault'--and I do believe the poorman thought he paid us women a compliment in so speaking. For me, Ifelt it an insult."
"Why so, Mrs Dolly?"
"Why, think what it meant, my dear. `Of course, a woman cannot be soinsensible to the virtues and attractions of men that she should wish toremain unwed; therefore, if this calamity overtake her, it shows thatshe hath no virtues nor attractions herself.'"
"You don't think Mr Leighton meant that, Mrs Dolly?" asked Rhoda,laughing.
"No, my dear; I think he did not see the meaning of his own words. Buttell me, if it is not a piece of great vanity on the part of men, thatwhile they never think to condole with a man who is unmarried, but takeit undoubted that he prefers that life, they take it as equallyundoubted that a woman doth not prefer it, and lament over her beingleft at ease and liberty as though she had suffered some greatmisfortune?"
"I never did see such queer notions as you have, Mrs Dolly! I can'tthink where you get them," said Rhoda. "However, you may say what youwill; _I_ mean to marry, and I am going to be rich too. And I expect Ishall like both of them."
"My dear!" and Mrs Dorothy laid down her work, and looked earnestly atRhoda. "How do you know you are going to be rich?"
"Why, I shall have White-Ladies," answered Rhoda. "And of course AuntHarriet will leave me everything."
"Have Madam and Mrs Harriet told you so, my dear?"
"No," said Rhoda, rather impatiently. "But who else should they leaveit to?"
Mrs Dorothy let that part of the matter drop quietly.
"`They that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare,'" she said,taking up her work again.
"What snare?" said Rhoda, bluntly.
"They get their hearts choked up," said the old lady.
"With what, Mrs Dolly?"
"`Cares, and riches, and pleasures of this life.' O my dear, may theLord make your heart soft! Yet I am afraid--I am very sore afraid, thatthe only way of making some hearts soft is--to break them."
"Well, I don't want my heart breaking, thank you," laughed Rhoda; "and Idon't think anything would break it, unless I lost all my money, and wasleft an old maid. O Mrs Dolly, I can't think how you bear it! To comedown, now, and live in one of these little houses, and have peoplelooking down on you, instead of looking up to you--if anything of thesort would kill me, I think that would."
"Well, it hasn't killed me, child," said Mrs Dorothy, calmly; "butthen, you see, I chose it. That makes a difference."
"But you didn't choose to be poor, Mrs Dolly?"
"Well, yes, in one sense, I did," answered the old lady, a little tingeof colour rising in her pale cheek.
"How so?" demanded Rhoda, who was not deterred from gaining informationby any delicacy in asking questions.
"There was a time once, my dear, that I might have married a gentlemanof title, with a rent-roll of six thousand a year."
"Mrs Dolly! you don't mean that?" cried Rhoda. "And why on earthdidn't you?"
"Well, my dear, I had two reasons," answered Mrs Dorothy. "One was"--with a little laugh--"that as you see, I preferred to be one of thesesame ill-conditioned, lonely, disappointed old maids. And the otherwas"--and Mrs Dorothy's voice sank to a softer and graver tone--"Icould not have taken my Master with me into that house. I saw no trackof His footsteps along that road. And His sheep follow Him."
"But God means us to be happy, Mrs Dolly?"
"Surely, my dear. But He knows better than we how empty and fleeting isall happiness other than is found in Him. 'Tis only because the Lord isour Shepherd that we shall not want."
"Mrs Dolly, that is what good people say; but it always sounds sogloomy and melancholy."
"What sounds melancholy, my dear?" inquired Mrs Dorothy, with slightsurprise in her tone.
&n
bsp; "Why, that one must find all one's happiness in reading sermons, andchanting Psalms, and thinking how soon one is going to die," said Rhoda,with an uncomfortable shrug.
"My dear!" exclaimed Mrs Dorothy, "when did you ever hear me sayanything of the kind?"
"Why, that was what you meant, wasn't it," answered Rhoda, "when youtalked about finding happiness in piety?"
"And when did I do that?"
"Just now, this minute back," said Rhoda in surprise.
"My dear child, you strangely misapprehend me. I never spoke a word offinding happiness in piety; I spoke of finding it in God. And God isnot sermons, nor chanting, nor death. He is life, and light, and love.I never think how soon I shall die. I often think how soon the Lord maycome; but there is a vast difference between looking for the coming of athing that you dread, and looking for the coming of a person whom youlong to see."
"But you will die, Mrs Dolly?"
"Perhaps, my dear. The Lord may come first; I hope so."
"Oh dear!" said Rhoda. "But that means the world may come to an end."
"Yes. The sooner the better," replied the old lady.
"But you don't _want_ the world to end, Mrs Dolly?"
"I do, my clear. I want the new heavens and the new earth, whereindwelleth righteousness."
"Oh dear!" cried Rhoda again. "Why, Mrs Dolly, I can't bear to thinkof it. It would be an end of everything I care about."
"My dear," said the old lady, gravely and yet tenderly, "if the Lord'scoming will put an end to everything you care about, that must bebecause you don't care much for Him."
"I don't know anything about Him, except what we hear in church,"answered Rhoda uneasily.
"And don't care for that?" softly responded her old friend.
Rhoda fidgeted for a moment, and then let the truth out.
"Well, no, Mrs Dolly, I _don't_. I know it sounds very wicked andshocking; but how can I, when 'tis all so far off? It doesn't feelreal, as you do, and Madam, and all the other people I know. I can'ttell how you make it real."
"_He_ makes it real, my child. 'Tis faith which sees God. How can yousee Him without it? But I am not shocked, my dear. You have only toldme what I knew before."
"I don't see how you knew," said Rhoda uncomfortably; "and I don't knowhow people get faith."
"By asking the Lord for it," said Mrs Dolly. "Phoebe, my child, is ita sorrowful thing to thee to think on Christ and His coming again?"
"Oh no!" was Phoebe's warm answer. "You see, Madam, I haven't anythingelse."
"Dear child, thank God for it!" replied Mrs Dorothy softly. "`Ton sortn'est pas a plaindre.'"
"I declare, if 'tis not four o'clock!" cried Rhoda, springing up, andperhaps not sorry for the diversion. "There, now! I meant you tofinish your story, and we haven't time left. Come along, Phoebe! Weare going to look in a minute on Mrs Marcella, and then we must hurryhome."