"A little, my dear. Not so well as I know her now."

"Was she always as discontented as she is now?"

"That is a spirit that grows on us, Phoebe," said Mrs Dorothy, gravely.

Phoebe blushed. "I know you think I have it," she replied. "But I should not wish to be like Mrs Marcella."

"I think thy temptation lies that way, dear child. But thy disposition is not so light and frivolous as hers. However, we will not talk of our neighbours without we praise them."

"Mrs Dorothy, Rhoda has engaged herself to Mr Marcus Welles. Madam sent me down to tell all of you."

"She has, has she?" responded Mrs Dorothy, as if it were quite what she expected. "Well, I trust it may be for her good."

"Aren't you sorry, Mrs Dorothy?"

"Scarce, my dear. We hardly know what are the right things to grieve over. You and I might have thought it a very mournful thing when the prodigal son was sent into the field to feed swine: yet--speaking after the manner of men--if that had not happened, he would not have arisen and have gone to his father."

"Do you think Rhoda will have to go through trouble before she can find peace, Mrs Dorothy?"

"'Before she can--' I don't know, my dear. Before she will--I am afraid, yes."

"I am so sorry," said Phoebe.

"Dear child, the last thing the prodigal will do is to arise and go to the Father. He will try every sort of swine's husks first. He doth not value the delicates of the Father's house--he hath no taste for them.

The husks are better, to his palate. What wonder, then, if he tarry yet in the far country?"

"But how are you to get him to change his taste, Mrs Dorothy?"

"Neither you nor he can do that, my dear. Most times, either the husks run short, or he gets cloyed with them. That is, if he ever go back to the Father. For some never do, Phoebe--they stay on in the far country, and find the husks sweet to the end."

"That must be saddest of all," said Phoebe, sorrowfully.

"It is saddest of all. Ah, child!--thank thy Father, if He have made thy husks taste bitter."

"But all things are not husks, Mrs Dorothy!"

"Certainly not, my dear. Delight in the Lord's works in nature, or in the pleasures of the intellect such things as these are right enough in their place, Phoebe. The danger is of putting them into G.o.d's place."

"Mrs Dolly," asked Phoebe, gravely, "do you think that when we care very much for a person or a thing, we put it into G.o.d's place?"

"If you care more for it than you do for Him. Not otherwise."

"How is one to know that?"

"Ask your own heart how you would feel if G.o.d demanded it from you."

"How ought I to feel?"

"Sorry, perhaps; but not resentful. Not as though the Lord had no right to ask this at your hands. Grief is allowed; 'tis murmuring that displeases Him."

When Mrs Dorothy said this, Phoebe felt conscious of a dim conviction, buried somewhere very deep down, that there was something which she hoped G.o.d would not demand from her. She did not know herself what it was. It was not exactly that she would refuse to give it up; but rather that she hoped she would never be called upon to do it--that if she were it would be a very hard thing to do.

Phoebe left the Maidens' Lodge, and walked slowly across the Park to White-Ladies. She was feeling for the unknown cause of this sentiment of vague soreness at her heart. She had not found it, when a voice broke in upon her meditations.

"Mrs Latrobe?"

Phoebe came to a sudden stop, and with her heart heating wildly, looked up into the face of Osmund Derwent.

"I am too happy to have met with you," said he. "I was on my way to White-Ladies. May I presume to ask your good offices, Mrs Phoebe, to favour me so far as to present me to Madam Furnival!"

Phoebe courtesied her a.s.sent.

"Mrs Rhoda, I trust, is well?"

"She is very well, I thank you."

"I am rejoiced to hear it. You will not, I apprehend, Mrs Phoebe, suffer any surprise, if I tell you of my hopes with regard to Mrs Rhoda. You must, surely, have seen, when at Delawarr Court, what was my ambition. Think you there is any chance for me with Madam Furnival?"

It was well for Osmund Derwent that he had not the faintest idea of what was going on beneath the still, white face of the girl who walked beside him so quietly. She understood now. She knew, revealed as by a flash of lightning, what it was which it would be hard work to resign at G.o.d's call.

It was Rhoda for whom he cared--not Phoebe. Phoebe was interesting to him, simply as being in his mind a.s.sociated with Rhoda. And Rhoda did not want him: and Phoebe had to tell him so.

So she told him. "I am sure Madam would receive you with a welcome,"

she said. "But as for Mrs Rhoda, 'tis best you should know she stands promised already."

Mr Derwent thought Phoebe particularly unsympathising. People often do think so of those whose "hands are clasped above a hidden pain," and who have to speak with forced calmness, as the only way in which they dare speak at all. He felt a little hurt; he had thought Phoebe so friendly at Delawarr Court.

"To whom?" he asked, almost angrily.

"Mr Marcus Welles."

"That painted fop!" cried Derwent.

Phoebe was silent.

"You really mean that? She is positively promised to him?"

"She is promised to him."

Phoebe spoke in a dull, low, dreamy tone. She felt as though she were in a dream: all these events which were pa.s.sing around her never could be real. She heard Osmund Derwent's bitter comments, as though she heard them not. She was conscious of only one wish for the future--to be left alone with G.o.d.

Osmund Derwent was extremely disappointed in Phoebe. He had expected much more sympathy and consideration from her. He said to himself, in the moments which he could spare from the main subject, that Phoebe did not understand him, and did not feel for him in the least. She had never loved anybody--that was plain!

And meantime, simply to bear and wait, until he chose to leave her, taxed all Phoebe's powers to her uttermost.

She was left alone at last. But instead of going back to the house, where she had no certainty of privacy, Phoebe plunged into the shade of a clump of cedars and cypresses, and sat down at the foot of one of them.

It was a lovely, cloudless day. Through the bright feathery green of a Syrian cypress she looked up into the clear blue sky above. Her love for Osmund Derwent--for she gave it the right name now--was a hopeless thing. His heart was gone from her beyond recall.