Читать книгу The Maidens' Lodge; or, None of Self and All of Thee (In the Reign of Queen Anne) - Emily Sarah Holt - Страница 6

“The sailing of a cloud hath Providence to its pilot.”

Martin Farquhar Tupper.

In the handsome parlour of Cressingham Abbey, commonly called White-Ladies, on a dull afternoon in January, 1712, sat Madam and her granddaughter, Rhoda, sipping tea.

Madam—and nothing else, her dependants would have thought it an impertinence to call her Mrs. Furnival. Never was Empress of all the Russias 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 a good while since—he was a mere appendage to Madam’s greatness—useful in the way of collecting rents and seeing to repairs, and capable of being put away when done with. He was a little, meek, unobtrusive man, fully (and happily) convinced of his own insignificance, and ready to sink himself in his superb wife as he might receive orders. He had been required to change his name as a condition of alliance with the heiress of Cressingham, and had done so with as much readiness as he would in similar circumstances have changed his coat. It was about fourteen years since this humble individual had ceased to be the head servant of Madam; and it was Madam’s wont to hint, when she condescended to refer to him at all, that her marriage with him had been the one occasion in her life wherein she had failed to act with her usual infallibility.

It had been a supreme disappointment to Madam that both her children were of the inferior sex. Mrs. Catherine to some extent resembled her father, having no thoughts nor opinions of her own, but being capable of moulding like wax; and like wax her mother moulded her. She married, under Madam’s orders, at the age of twenty, the heir of the neighbouring estate—a young gentleman of blood and fortune, with few brains and fewer principles—and died two years thereafter, leaving behind her a baby daughter only a week old, whom her careless father was glad enough to resign to Madam, in order to get her out of his way.

The younger of Madam’s daughters, despite her sister’s passive obedience, had been the mother’s favourite. Her obedience was by no means passive. She inherited all her mother’s self-will, and more than her mother’s impulsiveness. Much the handsomer of the two, she was dressed up, flattered, indulged, and petted in every way. Nothing was too good for Anne, until one winter day, shortly after Catherine’s marriage, when the family assembled round the breakfast table, and Anne was found missing. A note was brought to Madam that evening by one of Mr. Peveril’s under-gardeners, in which Anne gaily confessed that she had taken her destiny into her own hands, and had that morning been married to the Reverend Charles Latrobe, family chaplain to her brother-in-law, Mr. Peveril. She hoped that her mother would not be annoyed, and would receive her and her bridegroom with the usual cordiality exhibited at weddings.

Madam’s, face was a study for a painter. Had Anne Furnival searched through her whole acquaintance, and selected that one man who would be least 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 family chaplain was the lady’s maid. That so mean a creature should presume to lift his eyes to the sister of his patroness, was monstrous beyond endurance. And a Frenchman!—when Madam looked upon all foreigners as nuisances whose removal served for practice to the British fleet, and boasted that she could not speak a word of French, with as much complacency as would have answered for laying claim to a perfect knowledge of all the European tongues. And a tradesman’s son! A tradesman, and a gentleman, in her eyes, were terms as incompatible as a blue rose or a vermilion cat. For a man to soil his fingers with sale, barter or manufacture, was destructive of all pretension not only to birth, but to manners.

On the head of her innocent spouse Madam’s fury had been outpoured in no measured terms. Receive the hussy, she vehemently declared, she would not! She should never set foot in that house again. From this moment she had but one daughter.

Two years afterwards, on the evening of Catherine’s funeral, and of the transference of baby Rhoda to the care of her grandmother, a young woman, shabbily dressed, carrying an infant, and looking tired and careworn, made her way to the back door of the Abbey. She asked for an interview with Madam.

“I cannot disturb Madam,” said the grey-haired servant, not unkindly; “her daughter was buried this morning. You must come again, my good woman.”

“Must I so, Baxter?” replied the applicant. “Tell her she has one daughter left. Surely, if ever she will see me, it were to-night.”

“Eh, Mrs. Anne!” exclaimed the man, who remembered her as a baby in arms. “Your pardon, Madam, that I knew you not sooner. Well, I cannot tell! but come what will, it shall never be said that I turned my young mistress from her mother’s door. If I lose my place by it, I’ll take in your name to Madam.”

The answer he received was short and stern. “My daughter was buried this morning. I will not see the woman.”

Baxter softened it a little in repeating it to Mrs. Latrobe. But he could not soften the hard fact that her mother refused to see her. She was turning away, when suddenly she lifted her head and held out her child to him.

“Take it to her! ’Tis a boy.”

Mrs. Latrobe knew Madam. If a grandchild of the nobler sex produced no effect 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 repeat the message this time.

“I’ll have nought to do with that beggar tradesfellow’s brats!” said Madam, 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 the field towards the church. Go you that way, and meet him.”

She did not speak another word, but she clasped the child tight to her bosom, and hurried away. As she passed a narrow outlet at the end of the Abbey Church, close to the road, Mr. Furnival shambled out and met her.

“Eh, Nancy, poor soul, God bless thee!” faltered the poor father, who was nearly as much to be pitied as his child. “She’ll not see thee, my girl. And she’ll blow me up for coming. But that’s nothing—it comes every day for something. Look here, child,” and Mr. Furnival emptied all his pockets, and poured gold and silver into Anne’s thin hand. “I can do no more. Poor child! poor child! But if thou art in trouble, my girl, send to me at any time, and I’ll pawn my coat for thee if I can do no better.”

“Father,” said Mrs. Latrobe, in an unsteady voice, “I am sorry I was ever an undutiful child to you.”

The emphasis was terribly significant.

So they parted, with much admiration of the grandson, and Mr. Furnival trotted back to his penance; for Madam kept him very short of money, and required from him an account of every shilling. The storm which he anticipated broke even a little more severely than he expected; but he bore it quietly, and went to bed when it was over.

Since that night nothing whatever had been heard of Mrs. Latrobe until four months before the story opens. When Mr. Furnival was on his death-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. It was not till he was past speech that she gave him any answer.

“Jack,” she said at last, to the pleading eyes which were more eloquent than the hushed voice had been, “look you here. I will not seek the girl out. She has made her bed, and let her lie on it! But I will do this for you—and I should never have done that without your asking and praying me now. If she comes or sends to me, I will not refuse her some help. I shall please myself what sort. But I won’t turn her quite away, for your sake.”

The pleading eyes turned to grateful ones. An hour later, and Madam was a widow.

Fourteen years passed, during which Rhoda grew up into a maiden of nineteen years, always in the custody of her grandmother. Her father had fallen in one of the Duke of Marlborough’s battles, and before his death had been compelled to sell Peveril Manor to liquidate his gambling debts. He left nothing for Rhoda beyond his exquisite wardrobe and jewellery, a service of gold plate, and a number of unpaid bills, which Madam flatly refused to take upon herself, and defied the unhappy tradesmen to impose upon Rhoda. She did, however, keep the plate and jewels; and by way of a sop to Cerberus, allowed the “beggarly craftsmen,” whom she so heartily despised, to sell and divide the proceeds of the wardrobe.

When the fourteen years were at an end, on an afternoon in September, a letter was brought to the Abbey for Madam. Its bearer was a respectable, looking middle-aged woman. Madam ordered her to have some refreshment, while she read the letter. Rhoda noticed that her hand shook as she held it, and wondered what it could be about. Letters were unusual and important documents in those days. But it was the signature that 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 children only one was living. She herself was capable of taking a situation as lady’s maid—a higher position then than now—and she knew of one lady who was willing to engage her, if she could provide otherwise for Phoebe. Phoebe was the second of her children, and was now seventeen. She expressed her sorrow for the undutiful behaviour of which she had been guilty towards both parents; and she besought in all ignorance the father who had been dead for fourteen years, to plead with Madam, to help her, in any way she pleased, to put Phoebe into some respectable place where she could earn her own living. Mrs. Latrobe described her as a “quiet, meek, good girl—far better than ever I was,”—and said that she would be satisfied with any arrangement which would effect the end 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 husband bound her to answer favourably. What should she do with Phoebe? After some 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 her granddaughter.

But as Rhoda was of a romantic temperament, and the central luminary of her sphere was Rhoda Peveril, visions began to dance before her of some eligible suitor, whom Madam was going to put off for two years. She was more 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 butler came in—a man who looked the embodiment of awful respectability—she said, “Send that woman here.”

The woman appeared accordingly, and stood courtesying just within the door.

“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 cart for 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 did know her, and her good master, the Reverend, that’s gone to the good place.”

“You are sure of that?” demanded Madam; but the covert satire was lost on Molly Bell.

“Sure!” exclaimed she; adding, very innocently, “You can never have known Mr. Latrobe, Madam, to ask that; not of late years, leastwise.”

“I never did,” said Madam, rather grimly. “And do you know Mrs. Phoebe?”

“Dear heart, Madam!” said Molly, laughing softly, “but how queer it do sound, for sure, to hear you say Mrs. Phoebe! She’s always been Miss Phoebe with us all these years; and we hadn’t begun like to think she was 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. A dear 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 her head. “They died of the fever, in one fortnight’s time—Miss Perry went the first; and then Master Jack, and then Master Charles, and the Reverend himself, and Miss Kitty last of all. Miss Phoebe was down like all of ’em, and the doctor did say he couldn’t ha’ pulled her through but for her dear good mother. She never had her gown off, Madam, night nor day, just a-going from one sick bed to another; and they all died in her arms. I wonder she didn’t lie down and die herself at last. I do think 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. She recognised her aunt’s name, and knew now of whom they were speaking.

Had Molly been retained as counsel for Mrs. Latrobe, she could hardly have spoken more judiciously than she did. She went on now—

“And, O Madam! when all was done, and the five coffins carried out, she says to me, Mrs. Latrobe says, ‘Molly,’ she says, ‘I’d ought to be very thankful. I haven’t been a good child,’ she says, ‘to my father and mother. But they’ll never pay me back my bitter ways,’ she says. And I’m right sure, Madam, as Miss Phoebe never will, for she’s that sweet and good, she is! So you see, Madam, Mrs. Latrobe, she’s had her troubles, and if so be she’s sent to you for comfort, Madam, I take the liberty to hope as you’ll give her a bit.”

“You can go back to the kitchen, Molly,” said Madam, in what was for her a very gracious tone. “I will order you a night’s lodging here, and to-morrow one of my carters, who is going to Gloucester, shall take you so 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 letter from Mrs. Latrobe. She wrote in a most grateful strain; she was evidently even more surprised than pleased with the offer for Phoebe. There was a reference of penitent love to her father; a promise that Phoebe should be at Cressingham on or as near as possible to the twenty-ninth of January; and warm thanks for her mother’s undeserved kindness, more especially for the consideration which had prompted the promise that Phoebe should be met at Tewkesbury, instead of being left to find her way alone in the dark through the two miles which lay between that town and Cressingham.

So, on the afternoon of that twenty-ninth of January, an hour after the man 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 bombazine petticoat was surmounted by a black silk gown adorned with flowers in raised embroidery, and the train of the gown was pulled through the pocket-hole of the petticoat. At that time, ladies of all ages wore their dresses low and square at the neck, edged with a tucker of nett or lace; the sleeves ended at the elbows with a little white ruffle of similar material to the tucker. In London, the low head-dress was coming into fashion; but country ladies still wore the high commode, a superb erection of lace and muslin, from one to three feet in height. Long black silk mittens were drawn up to meet the sleeves. The shoes reached nearly to the ankles, and were finished with large silver buckles.

Rhoda was much smarter. She wore a cotton gown—for when all cotton gowns were imported from India, they were rare and costly articles—of an involved shawl-like pattern, in which the prevailing colour was red. Underneath was a petticoat of dark blue quilted silk. Her commode was brightened by blue ribbons; she wore no mittens; and her shoe-buckles rivalled those of her grandmother. Rhoda’s figure was good, but her face was commonplace. She was neither pretty nor ugly, neither intellectual nor stupid-looking. Of course she wore powder (as also did Madam); but if her hair had been released from its influence, it would have been perceived that there was about it a slight, very slight, tinge of 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 of her own age. Never having had an opportunity of measuring herself by other girls, Rhoda imagined herself a most learned and accomplished young person. It would be such a triumph to see Phoebe find it out, and such a pleasure to receive—with a becoming deprecation which meant nothing—the admiration of one so far her inferior. Rhoda had dipped into a score or two of her grandfather’s books, had picked up sundry fine words and technical phrases, with a smattering of knowledge, or what would pass for it; and she sat radiant in the contemplation of the delightful future which was to exalt herself and overawe Phoebe.

So lost was she in her own imaginations, that she neither heard Madam ring her little hand-bell, nor was conscious that the horses had trotted past the window, until Sukey, one of Madam’s maids, came in answer to the bell, and courtesying, said, “An it please you, Madam, Mrs. Phoebe Latrobe.”

Rhoda lifted her eyes eagerly, and saw her cousin. The first item which she 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 point was that the expression of Phoebe’s face was remarkably sweet; the third was that Phoebe’s dress was particularly shabby. It was a brown stuff, worn threadbare, too short for the fashion, and without any of the flounces and furbelows then common. Over it was tied a plain white linen apron—aprons were then worn both in and out of doors—and Phoebe’s walking costume consisted of a worn black mantua or pelisse, and a hood, brown like the dress, which was the shabbiest of all. The manner of the wearer, however, while extremely modest and void of self-assertion, was not at all awkward nor disconcerted. She courtesied, first to her grandmother, then to her cousin, and stood waiting within the door till she was called forward.

“Come hither, child!” said Madam.

Phoebe walked forward to her, and dropped another courtesy. Madam put two fingers under Phoebe’s chin, and lifting up the young face, studied it intently. What she saw there seemed to please her.

“You’ll do, child,” she said, letting Phoebe go. “Be a good maid, and obedient, and you shall find me your friend. Sit down, and loose your hood. 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, no one knew it but herself.

“Take Phoebe upstairs, Rhoda, to your chamber,” said Madam, when the new-comer had finished her tea. “I see, child, your new clothes had better 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 pretty room, low but comfortable, fitted with a large bed, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a dressing-table. The two girls were to occupy it together. And here Rhoda’s tongue, always restrained in her grandmother’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 of Phoebe.

“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 was thirteen; and I never saw him. Only think!”

Phoebe gave a little shake of her head, as if her thoughts were too much for her.

“And my mother died when I was a week old; and I never had any brother or sister,” pursued Rhoda.

“Then you never had any one to love? Poor Cousin!” said Phoebe, looking at Rhoda with deep compassion.

“Love! Oh, I don’t know that I want it,” said Rhoda lightly. “How is Aunt Anne, and where is she?”

“Mother?” Phoebe’s voice shook again. “She is going to live with a gentlewoman at the Bath. She stayed till I was gone.”

“Well, you know,” was the next remark of Rhoda, whose ideas were not at all 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 hates Dissenters,” said Rhoda. “She would as soon have a crocodile to dinner. Why didn’t you come in your black 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 artificial shiver. “I do hate the thirtieth of January. I wish it never came. We have to go to church, and there is only tea and bread and butter for dinner, and we must not divert ourselves with anything. I’ll show you the ruins, and read you some of my poetry. Did you not know I writ poetry?”

“No,” replied Phoebe. “But will that not be diverting ourselves?”

“Oh, but we can’t always be miserable!” said Rhoda. “Besides, what good does it do? It is none to King Charles: and I’m sure it never does me good. Oh, and we will go and see the Maidens’ Lodge, and make acquaintance with the old gentlewomen.”

“The Maidens’ Lodge, what is that?”

“Why, about ten years ago Madam built six little houses, and called it the 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, but some of them are. (Mrs. Vane does not think she is, at any rate.) You can’t see them from this window; they are on the other side of the church.”

“And are they all filled?”

“All but one, just now. I protest I don’t know why Madam built them. I guess she thought it was good works. I should have thought it would have been better works to have sent for Aunt Anne, as well as you; but don’t you tell her I said so!”

“Don’t be afraid,” said Phoebe, smiling. “I trust I am not a pick-thank. But don’t you think, when you would not have a thing said again, 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 curate at 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 four different ways; I don’t cook much—I mean, I don’t know how to make many things, but I always try to be nice in all I can do. I can read and write, 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. “Of course, I helped mother with the cooking and sewing; and then there were the 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 could not afford much in that way, but we did what we could.”

“Well, I wouldn’t marry a parson; that’s flat!” said Rhoda. “Fancy spending 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 as Madam. I want a monkey, but Madam won’t hear of it.”

“We never had but one,” said Phoebe, the quiver coming again into her voice, “and—it died.”

“What was it?”

“A little dog.”

“I don’t much care for dogs,” said Rhoda. “Mrs. Vane is the one for pets; that is, whenever they are modish. She carries dormice in her pocket, and keeps a lapdog and a squirrel. When the mode goes out, she gives 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 to give 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 ever set eyes on. He thinks his teeth were made to bite everybody, and his tail wasn’t made to wag.”

“Poor little thing! I don’t wonder, if he has a mistress who would give him away because it was not the mode to keep him.”

“I never saw a maid so droll!” said Rhoda, still laughing; “ ’twill never serve to be so mighty nice, that I can tell you. Why, you talk as if those 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 very consistently. “I say, Phoebe, is that your best hood? How shabby you go!”

“Yes,” answered Phoebe, quietly.

“How much pin-money do you mean to stand for?” was Rhoda’s next startling question.

“How much what?” said astonished Phoebe, dropping the gloves she was taking 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 to have five hundred, at least.”

“Pounds?” gasped Phoebe.

“Of course!” laughed Rhoda. “I tell you, I mean to be a modish gentlewoman, 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 I determine on it. Phoebe, there’s the supper bell. Come on.”

And quite regardless of the treasonable language in which she had just been indulging, Rhoda danced down into the parlour, becoming suddenly sober as she crossed the threshold.

Phoebe followed, and unless her face much belied her thoughts, she was a good deal puzzled by her new cousin.