The Maidens' Lodge; or, None of Self and All of Thee (In the Reign of Queen Anne). Emily Sarah Holt

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,