"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.