Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Maidens' LodgeNone of Self and All of Thee, (in the Reign of Queen Anne)
By Emily Sarah Holt________________________________________________________________________The story opens in 1712, and is a story of the habits, customs, lovesand hates of a gentle family of those days. We pay particular attentionto two young women, Rhoda and Phoebe. Of course your reviewer never didlive in those days, but the style of life of these minor grandees seemsto ring true, as one would expect of this skilled author. As with herother historical novels, the reader seems to feel pulled into thecontemporary scene of those days and that class: their foolish airs andgraces, their ambition, in most cases, to marry at or above their"station".
Amid a welter of other minor grandees appears one Mr Welles, who issaid to be well placed with an income of three thousand pounds a year,to be compared with one of the players in the story, a curate with 21pounds a year with which to bring up his large brood. But he turns outto be greedy, and makes a bid for one of the two young women, who, heimagines, is to inherit a large and valuable estate. But he has made amistake, and much of the latter part of the book deals with the way inwhich he tries to recover his position, and is, of course, rebuffed.NH________________________________________________________________________
THE MAIDENS' LODGENONE OF SELF AND ALL OF THEE, (IN THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE)
BY EMILY SARAH HOLT
CHAPTER ONE.
PHOEBE ARRIVES AT WHITE-LADIES.
"The sailing of a cloud hath Providence to its pilot."
_Martin Farquhar Tupper_.
In the handsome parlour of Cressingham Abbey, commonly calledWhite-Ladies, on a dull afternoon in January, 1712, sat Madam and hergranddaughter, Rhoda, sipping tea.
Madam--and nothing else, her dependants would have thought it animpertinence to call her Mrs Furnival. Never was Empress of all theRussias more despotic in her wide domain than Madam in her narrow one.
As to Mr Furnival--for there had been such a person, though it was agood while since--he was a mere appendage to Madam's greatness--usefulin the way of collecting rents and seeing to repairs, and capable ofbeing put away when done with. He was a little, meek, unobtrusive man,fully (and happily) convinced of his own insignificance, and ready tosink himself in his superb wife as he might receive orders. He had beenrequired to change his name as a condition of alliance with the heiressof Cressingham, and had done so with as much readiness as he would insimilar circumstances have changed his coat. It was about fourteenyears since this humble individual had ceased to be the head servant ofMadam; and it was Madam's wont to hint, when she condescended to referto him at all, that her marriage with him had been the one occasion inher life wherein she had failed to act with her usual infallibility.
It had been a supreme disappointment to Madam that both her childrenwere of the inferior sex. Mrs Catherine to some extent resembled herfather, having no thoughts nor opinions of her own, but being capable ofmoulding like wax; and like wax her mother moulded her. She married,under Madam's orders, at the age of twenty, the heir of the neighbouringestate--a young gentleman of blood and fortune, with few brains andfewer principles--and died two years thereafter, leaving behind her ababy daughter only a week old, whom her careless father was glad enoughto resign to Madam, in order to get her out of his way.
The younger of Madam's daughters, despite her sister's passiveobedience, had been the mother's favourite. Her obedience was by nomeans passive. She inherited all her mother's self-will, and more thanher mother's impulsiveness. Much the handsomer of the two, she wasdressed up, flattered, indulged, and petted in every way. Nothing wastoo good for Anne, until one winter day, shortly after Catherine'smarriage, when the family assembled round the breakfast table, and Annewas found missing. A note was brought to Madam that evening by one ofMr Peveril's under-gardeners, in which Anne gaily confessed that shehad taken her destiny into her own hands, and had that morning beenmarried to the Reverend Charles Latrobe, family chaplain to herbrother-in-law, Mr Peveril. She hoped that her mother would not beannoyed, and would receive her and her bridegroom with the usualcordiality exhibited at weddings.
Madam's, face was a study for a painter. Had Anne Furnival searchedthrough her whole acquaintance, and selected that one man who would beleast acceptable at Cressingham, she could not have succeeded better.
A chaplain! the son of a French Huguenot refugee, concerned in trade!--every item, in Madam's eyes, was a lower deep beyond the previous one.It was considered in those days that the natural wife for a familychaplain was the lady's maid. That so mean a creature should presume tolift his eyes to the sister of his patroness, was monstrous beyondendurance. And a Frenchman!--when Madam looked upon all foreigners asnuisances whose removal served for practice to the British fleet, andboasted that she could _not_ speak a word of French, with as muchcomplacency as would have answered for laying claim to a perfectknowledge of all the European tongues. And a tradesman's son! Atradesman, and a gentleman, in her eyes, were terms as incompatible as ablue rose or a vermilion cat. For a man to soil his fingers with sale,barter or manufacture, was destructive of all pretension not only tobirth, but to manners.
On the head of her innocent spouse Madam's fury had been outpoured in nomeasured terms. Receive the hussy, she vehemently declared, she wouldnot! She should never set foot in that house again. From this momentshe had but one daughter.
Two years afterwards, on the evening of Catherine's funeral, and of thetransference of baby Rhoda to the care of her grandmother, a youngwoman, shabbily dressed, carrying an infant, and looking tired andcareworn, made her way to the back door of the Abbey. She asked for aninterview with Madam.
"I cannot disturb Madam," said the grey-haired servant, not unkindly;"her daughter was buried this morning. You must come again, my goodwoman."
"Must I so, Baxter?" replied the applicant. "Tell her she has onedaughter left. Surely, if ever she will see me, it were to-night."
"Eh, Mrs Anne!" exclaimed the man, who remembered her as a baby inarms. "Your pardon, Madam, that I knew you not sooner. Well, I cannottell! but come what will, it shall never be said that I turned my youngmistress from her mother's door. If I lose my place by it, I'll take inyour name to Madam."
The answer he received was short and stern. "_My daughter_ was buriedthis morning. I will not see the woman."
Baxter softened it a little in repeating it to Mrs Latrobe. But hecould not soften the hard fact that her mother refused to see her. Shewas turning away, when suddenly she lifted her head and held out herchild to him.
"Take it to her! 'Tis a boy."
Mrs Latrobe knew Madam. If a grandchild of the nobler sex produced noeffect upon her, no more could be hoped. Baxter carried the child in,but he shook his grey head when he brought it back. He did not repeatthe message this time.
"I'll have nought to do with that beggar tradesfellow's brats!" saidMadam, in a fury.
"Mrs Anne, there's one bit of comfort," said old Baxter, in a whisper."Master slipped out as soon as I told of you, and I saw him cross thefield towards the church. Go you that way, and meet him."
She did not speak another word, but she clasped the child tight to herbosom, and hurried away. As she passed a narrow outlet at the end ofthe Abbey Church, close to the road, Mr Furnival shambled out and mether.
"Eh, Nancy, poor soul, God bless thee!" faltered the poor father, whowas nearly as much to be pitied as his child. "She'll not see thee, mygirl. And she'll blow me up for coming. But that's nothing--it comesevery day for something. Look here, child," and Mr Furnival e
mptiedall his pockets, and poured gold and silver into Anne's thin hand. "Ican do no more. Poor child! poor child! But if thou art in trouble, mygirl, send to me at any time, and I'll pawn my coat for thee if I can dono better."
"Father," said Mrs Latrobe, in an unsteady voice, "I am sorry I wasever an undutiful child to _you_."
The emphasis was terribly significant.
So they parted, with much admiration of the grandson, and Mr Furnivaltrotted back to his penance; for Madam kept him very short of money, andrequired from him an account of every shilling. The storm which heanticipated broke even a little more severely than he expected; but hebore it quietly, and went to bed when it was over.
Since that night nothing whatever had been heard of Mrs Latrobe untilfour months before the story opens. When Mr Furnival was on hisdeath-bed, he braved his wife's anger by naming the disowned daughter.His last words were, "Perpetua, seek out Anne!"
Madam sat listening to him with lips firmly set, and without words. Itwas not till he was past speech that she gave him any answer.
"Jack," she said at last, to the pleading eyes which were more eloquentthan the hushed voice had been, "look you here. I will not seek thegirl out. She has made her bed, and let her lie on it! But I will dothis for you--and I should never have done that without your asking andpraying me now. If she comes or sends to me, I will not refuse her somehelp. I shall please myself what sort. But I won't turn her quiteaway, for your sake."
The pleading eyes turned to grateful ones. An hour later, and Madam wasa widow.
Fourteen years passed, during which Rhoda grew up into a maiden ofnineteen years, always in the custody of her grandmother. Her fatherhad fallen in one of the Duke of Marlborough's battles, and before hisdeath had been compelled to sell Peveril Manor to liquidate his gamblingdebts. He left nothing for Rhoda beyond his exquisite wardrobe andjewellery, a service of gold plate, and a number of unpaid bills, whichMadam flatly refused to take upon herself, and defied the unhappytradesmen to impose upon Rhoda. She did, however, keep the plate andjewels; and by way of a sop to Cerberus, allowed the "beggarlycraftsmen," whom she so heartily despised, to sell and divide theproceeds of the wardrobe.
When the fourteen years were at an end, on an afternoon in September, aletter was brought to the Abbey for Madam. Its bearer was arespectable, looking middle-aged woman. Madam ordered her to have somerefreshment, while she read the letter. Rhoda noticed that her handshook as she held it, and wondered what it could be about. Letters wereunusual and important documents in those days. But it was the signaturethat had startled Madam--"Anne Latrobe."
Mrs Latrobe wrote in a strain of suffering, penitence, and entreaty.She was in sore trouble. Her husband was dead; of her five childrenonly one was living. She herself was capable of taking a situation aslady's maid--a higher position then than now--and she knew of one ladywho was willing to engage her, if she could provide otherwise forPhoebe. Phoebe was the second of her children, and was now seventeen.She expressed her sorrow for the undutiful behaviour of which she hadbeen guilty towards both parents; and she besought in all ignorance thefather who had been dead for fourteen years, to plead with Madam, tohelp her, in any way she pleased, to put Phoebe into some respectableplace where she could earn her own living. Mrs Latrobe described heras a "quiet, meek, good girl,--far better than ever I was,"--and saidthat she would be satisfied with any arrangement which would effect theend proposed.
For some minutes Madam sat gazing out of the window, yet seeing nothing,with the letter lying open before her. Her promise to her dead husbandbound her to answer favourably. What should she do with Phoebe? Aftersome time of absolute silence, she startled Rhoda with the question,--
"Child, how old are you?"
"Nineteen, Madam," answered Rhoda, in much surprise.
"Two years!" responded Madam,--which words were an enigma to hergranddaughter.
But as Rhoda was of a romantic temperament, and the central luminary ofher sphere was Rhoda Peveril, visions began to dance before her of someeligible suitor, whom Madam was going to put off for two years. She wasmore perplexed than ever with the next question.
"Would you like a companion, child?"
"Very much, Madam." Anything which was a change was welcome to Rhoda.
"I think I will," said Madam. "Ring the bell."
I have already stated that Madam was impulsive. When her old butlercame in--a man who looked the embodiment of awful respectability--shesaid, "Send that woman here."
The woman appeared accordingly, and stood courtesying just within thedoor.
"Your name, my good woman?" asked Madam, condescendingly.
"An't please you, Molly Bell, Madam."
"Whence come you, Molly?"
"An't please you, from Bristol, Madam."
"How came you?"
"An't please you, on foot, Madam; but I got a lift in a carrier's cartfor a matter of ten miles."
"Do you know the gentlewoman that writ the letter you brought?"
"Oh, ay, Mistress Latrobe! The Lord be thanked, Madam, that ever I didknow her, and her good master, the Reverend, that's gone to the goodplace."
"You are sure of that?" demanded Madam; but the covert satire was loston Molly Bell.
"Sure!" exclaimed she; adding, very innocently, "You can never haveknown Mr Latrobe, Madam, to ask that; not of late years, leastwise."
"I never did," said Madam, rather grimly. "And do you know MrsPhoebe?"
"Dear heart, Madam!" said Molly, laughing softly, "but how queer it dosound, for sure, to hear you say Mrs Phoebe! She's always been MissPhoebe with us all these years; and we hadn't begun like to think shewas growing up. Oh, dear, yes, Madam, I knew them all--Master Charles,and Miss Phoebe, and Master Jack, and Miss Perry, and Miss Kitty."
"Miss Perry?" said Madam, in an interrogative tone.
"Miss Perpetua, Madam--we always called her Miss Perry for short. Adear little blessed child she was!"
Rhoda saw the kind which held the letter tremble again.
"And they are all dead but Miss Phoebe?"
"It's a mercy Miss Phoebe wasn't taken too," said Molly, shaking herhead. "They died of the fever, in one fortnight's time--Miss Perry wentthe first; and then Master Jack, and then Master Charles, and theReverend himself, and Miss Kitty last of all. Miss Phoebe was down likeall of 'em, and the doctor did say he couldn't ha' pulled her throughbut for her dear good mother. She never had her gown off, Madam, nightnor day, just a-going from one sick bed to another; and they all died inher arms. I wonder she didn't lie down and die herself at last. I dothink it was Miss Phoebe beginning to get better as kept her in life."
"Poor Anne!"
If anything could have startled Rhoda, it was those two words. Sherecognised her aunt's name, and knew now of whom they were speaking.
Had Molly been retained as counsel for Mrs Latrobe, she could hardlyhave spoken more judiciously than she did. She went on now,--
"And, O Madam! when all was done, and the five coffins carried out, shesays to me, Mrs Latrobe says, `Molly,' she says, `I'd ought to be verythankful. I haven't been a good child,' she says, `to my father andmother. But _they'll_ never pay me back my bitter ways,' she says. AndI'm right sure, Madam, as Miss Phoebe never will, for she's that sweetand good, she is! So you see, Madam, Mrs Latrobe, she's had hertroubles, and if so be she's sent to you for comfort, Madam, I take theliberty to hope as you'll give her a bit."
"You can go back to the kitchen, Molly," said Madam, in what was for hera very gracious tone. "I will order you a night's lodging here, andto-morrow one of my carters, who is going to Gloucester, shall take youso far on your way. I will give you a letter to carry."
"Thank you kindly, Madam!"
And with half a dozen courtesies, one for Rhoda, and the rest for Madam,Molly retreated, well pleased. Madam sat down and wrote her letter.This was Madam's letter, written in an amiable frame of mind:--
"Daughter,--I have yowr leter. Your father is
ded thise foreteen yeres. I promissed him as he lay a dyeing yt wou'd doe some thing for you. You have nott desarv'd itt, but I am sory to here of your troble. If you will sende youre childe to mee, I will doe so mutch for yow as too brede her upp with my granedor Roda, yowr sistar Catterin's child. I wou'd not have yow mistak my meaneing, wch is nott that shee shou'd be plac'd on a levell with her cosin, for Roada is a jantlewoman, and yt is moar than she can say. But to be Rodes wating mayd, and serve her in her chamber, and bere her cumpany when she hath need. I will give the girle too sutes of close by the yere, and some tims a shillinge in her pockit, and good lodgeing and enow of victle. And if shee be obediant and humbel, and order her self as I wou'd she may, I will besyde al this give her if shee mary her weding close and her weddying diner,--yt is, if she mary to my minde,--and if noe, thenn shee may go whissel for anie thing I will doe for her. It is moar than she cou'd look for anie whear els. You will bee a foole to say Noe.
"P. Furnival.
"Lett the girle come when you goe to your place. There is a carrer goes from Bristoll to Teukesburry, and a mann with an horse shal mete her at the Bell."
Be not horrified, accomplished modern reader, at Madam's orthography.She spelt fairly well--for a lady in 1712.
An interval of about two months followed, and then came another letterfrom Mrs Latrobe. She wrote in a most grateful strain; she wasevidently even more surprised than pleased with the offer for Phoebe.There was a reference of penitent love to her father; a promise thatPhoebe should be at Cressingham on or as near as possible to thetwenty-ninth of January; and warm thanks for her mother's undeservedkindness, more especially for the consideration which had prompted thepromise that Phoebe should be met at Tewkesbury, instead of being leftto find her way alone in the dark through the two miles which laybetween that town and Cressingham.
So, on the afternoon of that twenty-ninth of January, an hour after theman and horses had started, Madam and Rhoda sat in the Abbey parlour,sipping their tea, and both meditating on the subject of Phoebe.
Madam, as became a widow, was attired in black. A stiff black bombazinepetticoat was surmounted by a black silk gown adorned with flowers inraised embroidery, and the train of the gown was pulled through thepocket-hole of the petticoat. At that time, ladies of all ages woretheir dresses low and square at the neck, edged with a tucker of nett orlace; the sleeves ended at the elbows with a little white ruffle ofsimilar material to the tucker. In London, the low head-dress wascoming into fashion; but country ladies still wore the high commode, asuperb erection of lace and muslin, from one to three feet in height.Long black silk mittens were drawn up to _meet_ the sleeves. The shoesreached nearly to the ankles, and were finished with large silverbuckles.
Rhoda was much smarter. She wore a cotton gown--for when all cottongowns were imported from India, they were rare and costly articles--ofan involved shawl-like pattern, in which the prevailing colour was red.Underneath was a petticoat of dark blue quilted silk. Her commode wasbrightened by blue ribbons; she wore no mittens; and her shoe-bucklesrivalled those of her grandmother. Rhoda's figure was good, but herface was commonplace. She was neither pretty nor ugly, neitherintellectual nor stupid-looking. Of course she wore powder (as also didMadam); but if her hair had been released from its influence, it wouldhave been perceived that there was about it a slight, very slight, tingeof red.
The coming of her cousin was an event of the deepest interest to Rhoda,for she had been ever since her birth absolutely without any society ofher own age. Never having had an opportunity of measuring herself byother girls, Rhoda imagined herself a most learned and accomplishedyoung person. It would be such a triumph to see Phoebe find it out, andsuch a pleasure to receive--with a becoming deprecation which meantnothing--the admiration of one so far her inferior. Rhoda had dippedinto a score or two of her grandfather's books, had picked up sundryfine words and technical phrases, with a smattering of knowledge, orwhat would pass for it; and she sat radiant in the contemplation of thedelightful future which was to exalt herself and overawe Phoebe.
So lost was she in her own imaginations, that she neither heard Madamring her little hand-bell, nor was conscious that the horses had trottedpast the window, until Sukey, one of Madam's maids, came in answer tothe bell, and courtesying, said, "An it please you, Madam, Mrs PhoebeLatrobe."
Rhoda lifted her eyes eagerly, and saw her cousin. The first item whichshe noticed was that Phoebe's figure was by no means so good as her own,her shoulders being so high as almost to reach deformity; the next pointwas that the expression of Phoebe's face was remarkably sweet; the thirdwas that Phoebe's dress was particularly shabby. It was a brown stuff,worn threadbare, too short for the fashion, and without any of theflounces and furbelows then common. Over it was tied a plain whitelinen apron--aprons were then worn both in and out of doors--andPhoebe's walking costume consisted of a worn black mantua or pelisse,and a hood, brown like the dress, which was the shabbiest of all. Themanner of the wearer, however, while extremely modest and void ofself-assertion, was not at all awkward nor disconcerted. Shecourtesied, first to her grandmother, then to her cousin, and stoodwaiting within the door till she was called forward.
"Come hither, child!" said Madam.
Phoebe walked forward to her, and dropped another courtesy. Madam puttwo fingers under Phoebe's chin, and lifting up the young face, studiedit intently. What she saw there seemed to please her.
"You'll do, child," she said, letting Phoebe go. "Be a good maid, andobedient, and you shall find me your friend. Sit down, and loose yourhood. Rhode, pour her a dish of tea."
And this was Madam's welcome to her granddaughter.
Phoebe obeyed her instructions with no words but "Thank you, Madam."Her voice was gentle and low. If the tears burned under her eyelids, noone knew it but herself.
"Take Phoebe upstairs, Rhoda, to your chamber," said Madam, when thenew-comer had finished her tea. "I see, child, your new clothes hadbetter not be long a-coming."
"I have a better gown than this, Madam, in my trunk," she answered.
"Well, I am glad of it," said Madam shortly.
Rhoda led her cousin up the wide stone staircase, and into a prettyroom, low but comfortable, fitted with a large bed, a washstand, awardrobe, and a dressing-table. The two girls were to occupy ittogether. And here Rhoda's tongue, always restrained in hergrandmother's presence, felt itself at liberty, and behaved accordingly.A new cousin to catechise was a happiness that did not occur every day.
"Have you no black gown?" was the first thing which Rhoda demanded ofPhoebe.
"Oh, yes," said Phoebe. "I wear black for my father, and all of them."
Heedless of what she might have noticed--the tremor of Phoebe's voice--Rhoda went on with her catechism.
"How long has your father been dead?"
"Eight months."
"Did you like him?"
"_Like_ him!" Phoebe seemed to have no words to answer.
"I never knew anything about mine," went on Rhoda. "He lived till I wasthirteen; and I never saw him. Only think!"
Phoebe gave a little shake of her head, as if _her_ thoughts were toomuch for her.
"And my mother died when I was a week old; and I never had any brotheror sister," pursued Rhoda.
"Then you never had any one to love? Poor Cousin!" said Phoebe, lookingat Rhoda with deep compassion.
"Love! Oh, I don't know that I want it," said Rhoda lightly. "How isAunt Anne, and where is she?"
"Mother?" Phoebe's voice shook again. "She is going to live with agentlewoman at the Bath. She stayed till I was gone."
"Well, you know," was the next remark of Rhoda, whose ideas were not atall neatly put in order, "you'll have to wear a black gown to-morrow.It is King Charles."
"Yes, I know," said Phoebe.
"Was your father a Dissenter?" queried Rhoda.
"No," said Phoebe, looking rather surprised.
"Because I can tell you, Madam hate
s Dissenters," said Rhoda. "Shewould as soon have a crocodile to dinner. Why didn't you come in yourblack gown?"
"It is my best," answered Phoebe. "I cannot afford to spoil it."
"What do you think of Madam?"
Phoebe shrank from this question. "I can hardly think anything yet."
"Oh dear, I wish to-morrow were over!" said Rhoda with an artificialshiver. "I do hate the thirtieth of January. I wish it never came. Wehave to go to church, and there is only tea and bread and butter fordinner, and we must not divert ourselves with anything. I'll show youthe ruins, and read you some of my poetry. Did you not know I writpoetry?"
"No," replied Phoebe. "But will that not be diverting ourselves?"
"Oh, but we can't always be miserable!" said Rhoda. "Besides, what gooddoes it do? It is none to King Charles: and I'm sure it never does megood. Oh, and we will go and see the Maidens' Lodge, and makeacquaintance with the old gentlewomen."
"The Maidens' Lodge, what is that?"
"Why, about ten years ago Madam built six little houses, and called itthe Maidens' Lodge; a sort of better-most kind of alms-houses, you know,for six old gentlewomen--at least, I dare say they are not all old, butsome of them are. (Mrs Vane does not think she is, at any rate.) Youcan't see them from this window; they are on the other side of thechurch."
"And are they all filled?"
"All but one, just now. I protest I don't know why Madam built them. Iguess she thought it was good works. I should have thought it wouldhave been better works to have sent for Aunt Anne, as well as you; butdon't you tell her I said so!"
"Don't be afraid," said Phoebe, smiling. "I trust I am not apick-thank. But don't you think, when you would not have a thing saidagain, it were better not to say it at the first?"
[Note: A meddlesome mischief-maker.]
"Oh, stuff! I can't always be such a prig as that!"
Phoebe was unpacking a trunk of very modest dimensions, and Rhoda,perched on a corner of the bed, sat and watched her.
"Is _that_ your best gown?"
"Yes," said Phoebe, lifting it carefully out.
"How many have you?"
"This and that."
"Only two? How poor Aunt Anne must be!"
"We have always been poor."
"Have you always lived in Bristol?"
"No. We used to live at the Bath when I was a child. Father was curateat the Abbey Church."
"How much did he get?"
"Twenty-five pounds a year."
"That wasn't much for seven of you."
"It was not," returned Phoebe, significantly.
"What can you do?" asked Rhoda, suddenly. "Can you write poetry?"
"I never tried, so I cannot tell," said Phoebe.
"Can you sing?"
"Yes."
"And play on anything?"
"No. I cannot do much. I can sew pretty well, and knit in fourdifferent ways; I don't cook much--I mean, I don't know how to make manythings, but I always try to be nice in all I can do. I can read andwrite, and keep accounts."
"Can you dance a jig?--and embroider, and work tapestry?"
"No, I don't know anything of that."
"Can't work tapestry! Why, Phoebe!"
"You see, there never was any time," said Phoebe, apologetically. "Ofcourse, I helped mother with the cooking and sewing; and then there werethe children to see to, and I learned Perry and Kitty to read and sew.Then there were all the salves and physic for the poor folk. We couldnot afford much in that way, but we did what we could."
"Well, I wouldn't marry a parson; that's flat!" said Rhoda. "Fancyspending all your days a-making salves and boluses! Fiddle-faddle!"
Phoebe gave a little laugh. "I was not always making salves," she said.
"Had you any pets? We have a parrot; I believe she's near as old asMadam. I want a monkey, but Madam won't hear of it."
"We never had but one," said Phoebe, the quiver coming again into hervoice, "and--it died."
"What was it?"
"A little dog."
"I don't much care for dogs," said Rhoda. "Mrs Vane is the one forpets; that is, whenever they are modish. She carries dormice in herpocket, and keeps a lapdog and a squirrel. When the mode goes out, shegives the thing away, and gets something newer."
"Oh, dear!" said Phoebe. "I could never give my friends away."
"Oh, it is not always to friends," said Rhoda, misunderstanding her."She gave one of her cats to a tailor at Tewkesbury."
"But the creatures are your friends," said Phoebe. "How can you bear togive them away?"
"Cats, and dogs, and squirrels--friends!" answered Rhoda, laughing."Why, Phoebe, what a droll creature you are!"
"They would be my friends," responded Phoebe.
"I vow, I'd like to see you make a friend of Mrs Vane's Cupid!"exclaimed Rhoda, laughing. "He is the most spiteful little brute I everset eyes on. He thinks his teeth were made to bite everybody, and histail wasn't made to wag."
"Poor little thing! I don't wonder, if he has a mistress who would givehim away because it was not the mode to keep him."
"I never saw a maid so droll!" said Rhoda, still laughing; "'twill neverserve to be so mighty nice, that I can tell you. Why, you talk as ifthose creatures had feelings, like we have!"
"And so they have," said Phoebe, warming up a little.
"You are mightily mistaken," returned Rhoda.
"Why do they bark, and bite, and wag their tails, then?" said Phoebe,unanswerably. "It means something."
"Why, what does it signify if they have?" demanded Rhoda, not veryconsistently. "I say, Phoebe, is that your best hood? How shabby yougo!"
"Yes," answered Phoebe, quietly.
"How much pin-money do you mean to stand for?" was Rhoda's nextstartling question.
"How much what?" said astonished Phoebe, dropping the gloves she wastaking out of her trunk.
"How much pin-money will you make your husband give you?"
"I've not got one!" was Phoebe's very innocent response.
"Well, you'll have one some day, of course," said Rhoda. "I mean tohave five hundred, at least."
"Pounds?" gasped Phoebe.
"Of course!" laughed Rhoda. "I tell you, I mean to be a modishgentlewoman, as good as ever Mrs Vane; and I'll have a knight at least.Oh, you'll see, one of these days. I can manage Madam, when Idetermine on it. Phoebe, there's the supper bell. Come on."
And quite regardless of the treasonable language in which she had justbeen indulging, Rhoda danced down into the parlour, becoming suddenlysober as she crossed the threshold.
Phoebe followed, and unless her face much belied her thoughts, she was agood deal puzzled by her new cousin.