Ida Glenwood - Lily Pearl and The Mistress of Rosedale

"Well, I guess you will ," retorted Fanny. "I'd just like to know how you expect to get a living if you are going to do nothing except what you want to do. You are no better than I am, and I want you to do this every day; so keep to work at it, and not be looking out of the window."

Phebe turned, but caught sight of Willie's uplifted hand of warning just as a bitter retort darted to her lips, and for his sake she smothered her rage and resumed her hated labor. She did not enjoy any kind of work, and never hesitated to express her dislike for it. Perhaps, had circumstances altogether different from those that had surrounded her brightened up each compulsory service; or a word of love or praise been dropped now and then over the little burdens, it would have been otherwise. But she was a dreamer, a child with inborn fancies, possessing a soul where poetry and beauty reigned as twin sisters, growing and thriving upon each other's life, but she knew it not. She was only sure that her heart bounded in the sunshine of genial associations, and sank with equal velocity beneath the clouds of depressing influences. A cold word, a frown, would fill her soul with gloomy shadows for many hours, unless a warm sunbeam from some loving heart came to drive it away. Kind and cheerful as our little heroine usually was, there lay coiled up in her nature a demon of anger which sprang forth at every provocation with the fury of ungoverned passion. Poor child! It had goaded her long for one so young, and many times she had struggled to resist its power, but it proved stronger than her will. Love alone can subdue such natures, while opposition only feeds and nourishes their faults.

"Get out of my way!" exclaimed Fanny, as Rover was leisurely crossing her path, while a sudden movement of her substantial shoe gave a new impetus to his velocity. Phebe saw it, and her heart bounded with indignation. Dropping her work she darted forward, and throwing her arms around the neck of the noble dog exclaimed vehemently: "Why didn't you bite her, Rover? she shall not kick you!" A blow from the enraged Fanny, and a command to return to her work silenced her for a moment, then with the fierceness of a tiger she sprang upon her antagonist and dealt blow after blow upon the astonished Fanny before she had time to recover from her surprise, or to use her powers of defence. In a moment more, pale with anger and fright, the child was torn from her position by superior strength, and forced into her own little chamber with the command "not to leave it until she received permission." Here was a new feature in home affairs.

"This child, this pauper , shall go where she belongs! The poor-house is good enough for such as she! At any rate I shall not have such a wild-cat beneath my roof a great while!"

Willie listened to the ravings of his sister, while his heart throbbed with unconcealed emotion.

"Yes, and you uphold her no doubt! You pity her and think she has been greatly wronged – but it makes no difference!"

"I do think, Sister, that had you sought for love you would have found it, and love worketh no ill to his neighbor."

"Love! I don't want her love or her either! To confess the truth I am worn out with her and she must leave – that is all!"

"I know very well that you do not like to have me advocate Phebe's cause, but did you ever notice that her exhibitions of anger only seemed to be the echo of your own? I have watched her, Sister, with the most intense interest when laboring under personal difficulties and perplexities, and I have seldom seen her lose her patience under any trial. In all the years we have spent together she has never grieved me by an ill-tempered word or gesture, because I never gave her one."

"So it is all me , of course! I must of necessity stand sponsor for my own sins and her's too!"

"No Fanny, but I would be plain. You are too stern and cold, and at times unjust! You forget that she is a child."

"I have heard enough – she must leave the house!" So saying the enraged Fanny left the room, the door closing behind her with a prophetic firmness which Willie well understood.

Phebe sat alone in her chamber until the golden twilight settled down upon the waters of the little lake and tinted the tree tops that cast their long shadows out over its bosom, and watched the "lights and shades" which chased each other down the hillside and over the meadow until they rested on two graves just beyond the garden wall.

"My mother! O, my mother!" gushed up from the overflowing heart. "Would that I were beside you! You did not hate me – you did not make me so wicked!" Tears choked her utterance and blinded her vision. Hours passed and then a gentle tap was heard on her door, but she did not move. There had been no steps on the stairs and well did she know who was pleading outside to share her sorrows.

"Phebe, may I come in? It is your own Willie – come and open the door if I may enter!" That voice never pleaded in vain. Now it sank down into the wildly throbbing heart as a soft lullaby, soothing every angry passion and illuminating the dark chambers of her soul with the sweet promises of peace.

The door was opened and Phebe returned to her low seat by the window without a word. Willie was soon beside her, sitting, on account of his infirmity, at her feet; his calm blue eyes swimming with tears were fixed intently upon her face, but she apparently did not heed him.

"Will you not speak to me, Phebe? Let me look into your eyes – there is no anger there for me ! Nothing but love, I am sure of it! I have read it there so many times, but let me read it there once more – may I not?" The arms of the child were thrown about the suppliant's neck and her tears fell fast as she kissed his pale cheek.

"I am so wicked, Willie! I wish I were good like you and loved everybody. You never make me angry, but Fanny always does. I can't help it!"

"Phebe, I love you. What would my life be if you were away? Think how long the days would be with no one to talk to and no one to say 'I am so sorry' when sad. In a few years at most Willie will be out there by the side of Mother, and until then I must creep about just as I always have done; but I can bear it if I have you to cheer me," and clasping her to his heart he was not ashamed that his tears mingled with hers.

"I am so sorry, Willie!" she sobbed at length. "I heard Fanny say that 'I should not stay here.' I did not care then, but O, I cannot leave you. O – I will be very good! If Mother was only here I think I could do anything – but I am so wicked!"

Darkness had settled down upon the occupants of that little chamber when Fanny called: "Willie, your supper is ready! Come down immediately and let Phebe stay where she is!" The child darted to her feet and hastened to open the door.

"Fanny," she said, with a slight hesitation; "I want to stay here, but won't you let me ask you to forgive me? I know I am very wicked but I will try to do better!" The stern, cold Fanny hesitated only a moment, and then without a smile of encouragement or a cheering caress agreed to the proposition and promised to let her remain for a while until she had tried her once more. "Now come down to supper," she continued, "for I am in a hurry to get my work done!" Was this forgiveness? A balm to heal the wounds of injury? Poor, sin-sick soul! Did thy heavenly friend ever look so coldly upon thy penitence? When did He ever pour the "gall of bitterness" into the wounds of a humiliated heart? Small would be the reward of "human justice" if the intercessor did not continually stand between us and our petition, "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us."