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

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.

Chapter Two.

       Table of Contents

      Making acquaintances.

      “Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a distant waste: No shepherds’ tents within thy view appear, Yet the Chief Shepherd is for ever near.”

      Cowper.

      The Abbey Church of White-Ladies, to which allusion has already been made, was not in any condition for Divine Service, being only a beautiful ruin. When Madam went to church, therefore, she drove two miles to Tewkesbury.

      At nine o’clock punctually, the great lumbering coach was drawn to the door by the two heavy Flanders mares, with long black tails which almost touched the ground. Madam, in a superb costume of black satin, trimmed with dark fur and white lace, took her seat in the place of honour. Rhoda, in a satin gown and hood, with a silk petticoat, all black, as became the day, sat on the small seat at one side of the door. But Rhoda sat with her face to the horses, while the yet lower place opposite was reserved for Phoebe, in her unpretending mourning. The great coach rumbled off, out of the grand gates, always opened when Madam was present, past the ruins of the Abbey Church, and drew up before a row of six little houses, fronted by six little gardens. They were built on a very minute scale, exactly alike, each containing four small rooms—kitchen, parlour, and two bedrooms over, with a little lean-to scullery at the back. On the mid-most coping-stone appeared a lofty inscription to the effect that—

      “The Maidens’ Lodge was built to the Praise and Glory of God, by the pious care of Mistress Perpetua Furnival, Widow, for the lodging of six decayed gentlewomen, Spinsters, of Good Birth and Quality—A.D. 1702.”

      It occurred to Phoebe, as she sat reading the inscription, that it might have been pleasanter to the decayed gentlewomen in question not to have their indigence quite so openly proclaimed to the world, even though coupled with good birth and quality, and redounding to the fame of Mistress Perpetua Furnival. But Phoebe had not much time to meditate; for the door of the first little house opened, and down the gravel walk, towards the carriage, came the neatest and nicest of little old ladies, attired, like everybody that day, in black, and carrying a silver-headed cane, on which she leaned as if it really were needed to support her. She was one of those rare persons, a pretty old woman. Her complexion was still as fair and delicate as a painting on china, her blue eyes clear and expressive. Of course, in days when everyone wore powder, hair was of one colour—white.

      “This is Mrs. Dolly Jennings,” whispered Rhoda to Phoebe; “she is the eldest of the maidens, and she is about seventy. I believe she is some manner of cousin to the Duke—not very near, you know.”

      The Duke, in 1712, of course, meant the Duke of Marlborough.

      “Good morning, Madam,” said Mrs. Jennings, in a cheerful yet gentle voice, when she reached the carriage.

      “Good morning, Mrs. Dorothy. I am glad I see you well enough to accompany me to church.”

      “You are very good, Madam,” was the reply, as Mrs. Dorothy clambered up into the lumbering vehicle; “I thank God my rheumatic pains are as few and easy to-day as an old woman of threescore and ten need look for.”

      “You are a great age, Mrs. Dorothy,” observed Madam.

      “Yes, Madam, I thank God,” returned Mrs. Dorothy, as cheerfully as before.

      While Phoebe was meditating on this last answer, the second Maiden appeared from Number Two. She was an entire contrast to the first, being tall, sharp, featured, florid, high-nosed, and generally angular.

      “Mrs. Jane Talbot,” whispered Rhoda.

      Mrs. Jane, having offered her civilities to Madam, climbed also into the coach, and placed herself beside Mrs. Dorothy.

      “Marcella begs you will allow her excuses, Madam, for she is indisposed this morning,” said Mrs. Jane, in a quick, sharp voice, which made Phoebe doubt if all her angularity were outside.

      While Madam was expressing her regret at this news, the doors of Numbers Five and Six opened simultaneously, and two ladies emerged, who were, in their way, as much a contrast as Mrs. Jane and Mrs. Dorothy. Number Six reached the carriage first. She was a pleasant, comfortable looking woman of about fifty years of age, with a round face and healthy complexion, and a manner which, while kindly, was dignified and self-possessed.

      “Good morning, my Lady Betty!” said the three voices.

      Phoebe then perceived that the seat of honour, beside Madam, had been reserved for Lady Betty. But Number Five followed, and she was so singular a figure that Phoebe’s attention was at once diverted to her.

      She looked about the age of Lady Betty, but having evidently been a beauty in her younger days she was greatly indisposed to resign that character. Though it was a sharp January morning, her neck was unprotected by the warm tippet which all the other ladies wore. There was nothing to keep her warm in that quarter except a necklace. Large ear-rings depended from her ears, half a dozen rings were worn outside her gloves, a long chatelaine hung from her neck to her waist, to which were attached a bunch of trinkets of all shapes and sizes. She was laced very tight, and her poor nose was conscious of it, as it showed by blushing at the enormity. Under her left arm was a very small, very fat, very blunt-nosed Dutch pug. Phoebe at once guessed that the lady was Mrs. Vane, and that the pug was Cupid.

      “Well, Clarissa!” said Mrs. Jane, as the new-comer