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

the part of the horses, got under way, and rumbled off towards Tewkesbury.

      “And how does Sir Richard, my Lady Betty?” inquired Madam, with much cordiality.

      “Oh, extremely well, I thank you,” answered Lady Betty. “So well, indeed, now, that he talks of a journey to London, and a month at the Bath on his way thence.”

      “What takes him to London?” asked Mrs. Jane.

      “ ’Tis for the maids he thinks to go. He would have Betty and Gatty have a season’s polishing; and for Molly—poor little soul!—he is wishful to have her touched.”

      “Is she as ill for the evil as ever, poor child?”

      “Oh, indeed, yes! ’Tis a thousand pities; and such sprightly parts as she discovers!”

      (Note: So clever as she is.)

      “ ’Tis a mercy for such as she that the Queen doth touch,” said Mrs. Jane. “King William never did.”

      “Is that no mistake?” gently suggested Lady Betty.

      “Never dared,” came rather grimly from Madam.

      “Well, maybe,” said Mrs. Jane. “But I protest I cannot see why Queen Mary should not have done it, as well as her sister.”

      “I own I cannot but very much doubt,” returned Madam, severely, “that any good consequence should follow.”

      By which it will be perceived that Madam was an uncompromising Jacobite. Mrs. Jane had no particular convictions, but she liked to talk Whig, because all around were Tories. Lady Betty was a Hanoverian Tory—that is, what would be termed an extreme Tory in the present day, but attached to the Protestant Succession. Mrs. Clarissa was whatever she found it the fashion to be. As to Mrs. Dorothy, she held private opinions, but she never allowed them to appear, well knowing that they would be far from acceptable to Madam. And since Mrs. Dorothy was sometimes constrained unwillingly to differ from Madam on points which she deemed essential, she was careful not to vex her on subjects which she considered indifferent.

      Rhoda was rather disappointed to find that Phoebe showed no astonished admiration of Tewkesbury Abbey. She forgot that the Abbey Church at Bath, and Saint Mary Redcliffe at Bristol, had been familiar to Phoebe from her infancy. The porch was lined with beggars, who showered blessings upon Madam, in grateful anticipation of shillings to come. But Madam passed grandly on, and paid no attention to them.

      The church and the service were about equally chilly. Being a fast-day, the organ was silent; but all the responding was left to the choir, the congregation seemingly supposing it as little their concern as Cupid thought it his—who curled himself up comfortably, and went to sleep. The gentlemen appeared to be amusing themselves by staring at the ladies; the ladies either returned the compliment slily behind their fans, or exchanged courtesies with each other. There was a long, long bidding prayer, and a sermon which might have been fitly prefaced by the announcement, “Let us talk to the praise and glory of Charles the First!” It was over at last. The gentlemen put down their eye-glasses, the ladies yawned and furled their fans; there was a great deal of bowing, and courtesying, and complimenting—Mr. William informing Mrs. Betty that the sun had come out solely to do her honour, and Mrs. Betty retorting with a delicate blow from her fan, and, “What a mad fellow are you!” At last these also were over; and the ladies from Cressingham remounted the family coach, nearly in the same order as they came—the variation being that Phoebe found herself seated opposite Mrs. Clarissa Vane.

      “Might I pat him?” said Phoebe, diffidently.

      “If you want to be bit, do!” snapped Mrs. Jane.

      “Oh deah, yes!” languishingly responded Mrs. Clarissa. “He neveh bites, does ’e, the pwetty deah!”

      “Heyday! Doesn’t ’e, the pwetty deah!” observed Mrs. Jane, in such exact imitation of her friend’s affected tones as sorely to try Phoebe’s gravity.

      Lady Betty laughed openly, but added, “Mind what you are about, child.”

      “Poor doggie!” softly said Phoebe.

      Cupid’s response was the slightest oscillation of the extreme point of his tail. But when Phoebe attempted to stroke him, to the surprise of all parties, instead of snapping at her, as he was expected to do, Cupid only wagged rather more decidedly; and when Phoebe proceeded to rub his head and ears, he actually gave her, not a bite of resentment, but a lick of friendliness.

      “Deah! the sweet little deah! ’E’s vewy good!” said his mistress.

      The gentle reader is requested not to suppose that the elision of Mrs. Clarissa’s poor letter H, as well as R, proceeded either from ignorance or vulgarity—except so far as vulgarity lies in blindly following fashion. Mrs. Clarissa’s only mistake was that, like most country ladies, she was rather behind the age. The dropping of H and other letters had been fashionable in the metropolis some eight years before.

      “Clarissa, what a goose are you!” said Mrs. Jane.

      “Come, Jenny, don’t you bite!” put in Lady Betty. “Cupid has set you a better example than so.”

      “I’ll not bite Clarissa, I thank you,” was Mrs. Jane’s rather spiteful answer. “It would want more than one fast-day to bring me to that. Couldn’t fancy the paint. And don’t think I could digest the patches.”

      Lady Betty appeared to enjoy Mrs. Jane’s very uncivil speeches; while Cupid’s mistress remained untouched by them, being one of those persons who affect not to hear anything to which they do not choose to respond.

      “Well, Rhoda, child,” said Lady Betty, as the coach neared home, “ ’tis no good, I guess, to bid you drink tea on a fast-day?”

      “Oh, but I am coming, my Lady Betty,” answered Rhoda, briskly. “I mean to drink a dish with every one of you.”

      “I shan’t give you anything to eat,” interpolated Mrs. Jane. “Never do to be guzzling on a fast-day. You won’t get any sugar from me, neither.”

      “Never mind, Mrs. Jane,” said Rhoda. “Mrs. Dolly will give me something, I know. And I shall visit her first.”

      Mrs. Dorothy assented by a benevolent smile.

      “I hope, child, you will not forget it is a fast-day,” said Madam, gravely, “and not go about to divert yourself in an improper manner.”

      “Oh no, Madam!” said Rhoda, drawing in her horns.

      No sooner was dinner over—and as Rhoda had predicted, there was nothing except boiled potatoes and bread and butter—than Rhoda pounced on Phoebe, and somewhat authoritatively bade her come upstairs. Madam had composed herself in her easy chair, with the “Eikon Basilike” in her hand.

      “Will Madam not be lonely?” asked Phoebe, timidly, as she followed Rhoda.

      “Lonely? Oh, no! She’ll be asleep in a minute,” said Rhoda.

      “I thought she was going to read,” suggested Phoebe.

      “She fancies so,” said Rhoda, laughing. “I never knew her try yet but she went to sleep directly.”

      Unlocking a closet door which stood in their bedroom, and climbing on a chair to reach the top shelf, Rhoda produced a small volume bound in red sheepskin, which she introduced to Phoebe’s notice with a rather grandiloquent air.

      “Now, Phoebe! There’s my Book of Poems!”

      Phoebe opened the book, and her eye fell on a few lines of faint, delicate writing, on the fly-leaf.

      “To Rhoda Peveril, with her Aunt Margaret’s love.”

      “Oh, you have an aunt!” said Phoebe.

      “I have two somewhere,” said Rhoda. “They are good for nothing. They never give me anything.”