The Maidens' Lodge Part 32

"But Thou remainest!"

The words flashed on her, accompanied by the well-remembered tones of her father's voice. She recollected that they had formed the text of the last sermon he had preached. She heard him say again, as he had said to her on his death-bed, "Dear little Phoebe, remember always, there is no way out of any sin or sorrow except Christ." The tears came now. There was relief and healing in them.

"But Thou remainest!"

"Can I suffice for Heaven, and not for earth?"

Phoebe's face showed no sign, when she reached home, of the tempest which had swept over her heart.

"Phoebe, I desire you would wait a moment," said Madam that evening after prayers, when Phoebe, candle in hand, was about to follow Rhoda.

"Yes, Madam." Phoebe put down the candle, and stood waiting.

Madam did not continue till the last of the servants had left the room.

Then she said, "Child, I have writ a letter to your mother."

"I thank you, Madam," replied Phoebe.

"And I have sent her ten guineas."

"I thank you very much, Madam."

"I will not disguise from you, my dear, that I cannot but be sensible of the propriety and discretion of your conduct since you came. I think myself obliged to tell you, child, that 'tis on your account I have done so much as this."

"I am sure, Madam, I am infinitely grateful to you."

"And now for another matter. Child, I wish to know your opinion of Mr Edmundson."

"If you please, Madam, I did not like him," said Phoebe, honestly; "nor I think he did not me."

"That would not much matter, my dear," observed Madam, referring to the last clause. "But 'tis a pity you do not like him, for while I would be sorry to force your inclinations, yet you cannot hope to do better."

"If you would allow me to say so, Madam," answered Phoebe, modestly, yet decidedly, "I cannot but think I should do better to be as I am."

Madam shook her head, but did not answer in words. She occupied herself for a little while in settling her mittens to her satisfaction, though she was just going to pull them off. Then she said, "'Tis pity. Well!

go to bed, child; we must talk more of it to-morrow. Bid Betty come to me at once, as you pa.s.s; I am drowsy to-night."

"I say, Fib," said Rhoda, who had adopted (from Molly) this not very complimentary diminutive for her cousin's name, but only used it when she was in a good humour--"I say, Fib, what did Madam want of you?"

"To know what I thought of Mr Edmundson."

"What fun! Well, what did you?"

"Why, I hoped his sermons would be better than himself: and they weren't."

"Did you tell Madam that?" inquired Rhoda, convulsed with laughter.

"No, not exactly that; I said--"

"O Fib, I wish you had! She thinks it tip-top impertinence in any woman to presume to have an opinion about a sermon. My word! wouldn't you have caught it!"

"Well, I simply told her the truth," replied Phoebe; "that I didn't like him, and I didn't think he liked me."

Rhoda went off into another convulsion.

"O Fib, you are good--n.o.body better! What did she say to that?"

"She said his not fancying me wouldn't signify. But I think it would signify a good deal to me, if I had to be his wife."

"Well, she wouldn't think so, not a bit," said Rhoda, still laughing.

"She'd just be thunderstruck if Mr Edmundson, or anybody else in his place, refused the honour of marrying anybody related to her. Shouldn't I like to see him do it! It would take her down a peg, I reckon."

This last elegant expression was caught from Molly.

"Well, I am sure I would rather be refused than taken unwillingly."

"Where did you get your notions. Fib? They are not the mode at all.

You were born on the wrong side of fifty, I do think."

"Which is the wrong side of fifty?" suggestively asked Phoebe.

"I wish you wouldn't murder me with laughing," said Rhoda. "Look here now: what shall I be married in?"

"White and silver, Mrs Marcella said, this morning."

("This morning!" Phoebe's words came back no her. Was it only this morning?)

"Thank you! nothing so insipid for me. I think I'll have pink and dove-colour. What do you say?"

"I don't think I would have pink," said Phoebe, mentally comparing that colour with Rhoda's red and white complexion. "Blue would suit you better."

"Well, blue does become me," answered Rhoda, contemplating herself in the gla.s.s. "But then, would blue and dove-colour do? I think it should be blue and cold. Or blue and silver? What do you think, Phoebe? I say!"--and suddenly Rhoda turned round and faced Phoebe--"what does Madam mean by having Mr Dawson here? Betty says he was here twice while we were visiting, and he is coming again to-morrow. What can it mean? Is she altering her will, do you suppose?"

"I am sure I don't know, Cousin," said Phoebe.

"I shouldn't wonder if she is. I dare say she'll leave you one or two hundred pounds," said Rhoda, with extreme benignity. "Really, I wish she would. You're a good little thing, Fib, for all your whims."

"Thank you, Cousin," said Phoebe, meekly.

And the cousins went to sleep with amiable feelings towards each other.

The dawn was just creeping over the earth when something awoke Phoebe.

Something like the faint tingle of a bell seemed to linger in her ears.

"Rhoda!--did you hear that?" she asked.

"Hear what?" demanded Rhoda, in a very sleepy voice.

"I fancied I heard a bell," said Phoebe, trying to listen.