Phoebe obeyed the order with a mixture of wonder and trepidation.

"My dear, I have good news for you. I have chosen your husband."

"Mother!"

"Pray, why not, my dear? 'Tis an ingenious young man, reasonable handsome, and very suitable for age and conditions. I have not yet broke the matter to him, but I cannot doubt of a favourable answer, for he hath no fortune to speak of, and is like to be the more manageable, seeing all the money will come from you. You met with him, I believe, at Delawarr Court. His name is Derwent. I shall not write to him while these young gentlewomen are here, but directly they are gone: yet I wish to give you time to become used to it, and I name it thus early."

Phoebe felt any reply impossible.

"Good-night, my dear. I am sure you will like Mr Dement."

Phoebe went back along the gallery like one walking in a dream. How was this tangled skein ever to be unravelled? Had she any right to speak?

had she any to keep silence? And a cry of "Teach me to do _Thy_ will!"

went up beyond the stars. "I don't know what is right," said Phoebe, plaintively, to her own heart. "Lord, Thou knowest! Make Thy way plain before my face," It seemed to her that, knowing what she did, there would be one thing more terrible than a refusal from Mr Derwent, and that would be acceptance. It seemed impossible to pray for either. She could only put the case into G.o.d's hands, with the entreaty of Hezekiah: "O Lord, I am oppressed: undertake for me."

It did not make the matter any easier that, a few days later, Rhoda said suddenly, when she and Phoebe were alone, "Do you remember that Mr Derwent who was at Delawarr Court?"

"Yes," said Phoebe, and said no more.

"Betty tells me she thought he had a liking for me."

Phoebe was silent. Would the actual question come?

"I wonder if it was true," said Rhoda.

Still Phoebe went on knitting in silence, with downcast eyes.

"I almost begin, Phoebe, to wish it had been, do you know? I liked him very well. And--I want somebody to care for _me_."

"Yes, poor dear," said Phoebe, rising hurriedly. "Excuse me, I must fetch more wool."

And she did not seem to hear Rhoda call after her--

"Why, Phoebe, here's your wool--a whole ball!"

"Pretty kettle of fish!" screamed the parrot.

Betty and Molly had gone home. Mr Onslow had read prayers, the servants were filing out of the room, and Rhoda was lighting the candles.

"Well, my dear," asked Mrs Latrobe, looking up rather suddenly, "is your decision taken?"

"It is, Madam," readily answered her niece.

"So much the better. What is it, my dear?"

"I should prefer to go to service, if you please, Madam."

"You would!" Mrs Latrobe's tone showed surprise. "Very well: I promised you your choice. As lady's woman, I suppose?"

"If you please, Madam."

"Certainly, my dear. It shall be as you wish. Then to-morrow I will begin to look out for you. I should think I shall hear of a place in a week or two."

Rhoda made no answer, but took up her candle, and departed with merely, "Good-night, Madam."

But as Phoebe went upstairs behind her, she noted Rhoda's bowed head, her hand tightly grasping the banisters, her drowning, farewell look at the family portraits, as she pa.s.sed them on her way up the corridor. At length she paused before three which hung together.

In the midst stood their grandmother, a handsome, haughty figure, taken at about the age of thirty; and on either side a daughter, at about eighteen years of age. Rhoda lifted her light first to Madam's face.

She said nothing to indicate her thoughts there, but pa.s.sed on, and paused for another minute before the pretty, sparkling face of Anne Latrobe. Then she came back, and raised the light, for a longer time than either, to the pale, regular, unexpressive features of Catherine Peveril. Phoebe waited for her to speak. It came at last.

"I never knew her," said Rhoda, in a choked voice. "I wonder if _they_ know what is happening on earth."

"I should not think so," answered Phoebe, softly.

"Well,--I hope not!"

The hand which held the lifted light came down, and Rhoda pa.s.sed into her own room, and at once knelt down to her prayers. Phoebe stood irresolute, her heart beating like a hammer. An idea had occurred to her which, if it could be carried into effect, would help Rhoda out of all her trouble. But in order to be so, it was necessary that she herself must commit--in her own eyes--an act of unparalleled audacity.

Could she do it? The minute seemed an hour. Phoebe heard her mother go upstairs, and shut her door. A rapid prayer went to G.o.d for wisdom.

Her resolution grew stronger. She took up her candle, stole softly downstairs, found the silver inkstand and the box of perfumed letter-paper. There were only a few words written when Phoebe had done.

"Sir,--If you were now to come hither. I thinke you wou'd win my cosen.

A verie few dayes may be too late. Forgive the liberty I take.

"Yours to serve you, Phoebe Latrobe."

The letter was folded and directed to "_Mr_. Osmund Derwent, Esquire."

And then, for one minute, human nature had its way, and Phoebe's head was bowed over the folded note. There was no one to see her, and she let her heart relieve itself in tears. Ay, there was One, who took note of the self-abnegation which had been learned from Him. Phoebe knew that Osmund Derwent did not love her. Yet was it the less hard on that account to resign him to Rhoda? For time and circ.u.mstances might have shown him the comparatively alloyed metal of the one, and the pure gold of the other. He might have loved Phoebe, even yet, as matters stood now. But Phoebe's love was true. She was ready to secure his happiness at the cost of her own. It was not of that false, selfish kind which seeks merely its own happiness in the beloved one, and will give him leave to be happy only in its own way. Yet, after all, Phoebe was human; and some very sorrowful tears were shed, for a few minutes, over that gift laid on the altar. Though the drops were salt, they would not tarnish the gold.

It was but for a few minutes that Phoebe dared to remain there. She wiped her eyes and forced back her tears. Then she went upstairs and tapped at Betty's door.

"There's that worriting Sue," she heard Betty say inside; and then the door was opened. "Mrs Phoebe, my dear, I ask twenty pardons; I thought 'twas that Sukey,--she always comes a-worriting. What can I do for you, my dear?"

"I want you to get that letter off first thing in the morning, Betty."

Betty turned the letter all ways, scanned the address, and inspected the seal.

"Mrs Phoebe, you'll not bear me malice, I hope. You know you're only young, my dear. Are you quite certain you'll never be sorry for this here letter?"

"'Tis not what you think, Betty," said Phoebe with a smile on her pale lips which had a good deal of sadness in it. "You are sorry for my cousin, I know. 'Twill be a kind act towards her, Betty, if you will send that letter."

Betty looked into Phoebe's face so earnestly that she dropped her eyes.

"I see," said Mrs Latrobe's maid. "I'm not quiet a blind bat, Mrs Phoebe. The letter shall go, my dear. Make your mind easy."

Yet Betty did not see all there was to be seen.

"Why, Phoebe!" exclaimed Rhoda, when she got back to the bedroom, "where have you been?"

"Downstairs."