"Thy virtues lost, thou would'st not look
Me in thy chains to hold?
Know, friend, thou verily hast lost
Thy chiefest virtue--gold."
Nine o'clock on the Monday morning was the hour appointed for reading
Madam's will. When Rhoda and Phoebe, in their deep mourning, entered
the parlour, they were startled to find the number of persons already
assembled. Not only all the household and outdoor servants, but all the
inmates of the Maidens' Lodge, excepting Mrs Marcella, and several
others, stood up to receive the young ladies as they passed on to the
place reserved for them.
Mr Dawson handed the girls to their places, and then seated himself at
the table, and proceeded to unfold a large parchment.
"It will be well that I should remark," said he, looking up over his
spectacles, "that the late Madam Furnival had intended, at the time of
her death, to execute a fresh will. I am sorry to say it was not
signed. This, therefore, is her last will, as duly executed. It bears
date the fourteenth of November, in the year 1691--"
An ejaculation of dismay, though under her breath, came from Rhoda, the
lawyer went on:--
"--When Mrs Catherine Peveril, mother of Mrs Rhoda here, was just
married, and before the marriage of Mrs Anne Furnival, mother to Mrs
Phoebe Latrobe, who is also present. The intended will would have made
provision for both of these young gentlewomen, grand-daughters to Madam
Furnival. By the provisions of the present one, one of them is
worsened, and the other bettered."
Rhoda's alarm was over. The last sentence reassured her.
Mr Dawson cleared his voice, and began to read. The will commenced
with the preamble then usual, in which the testatrix declared her
religious views as a member of the Church of England; and went on to
state that she wished to be buried with her ancestors, in the family
vault, in the nave of Tewkesbury Abbey. One hundred pounds was
bequeathed to the Vicar of Tewkesbury, for the time being; twenty pounds
and a suit of mourning to every servant who should have been in her
employ for five years at the date of her death; six months' wages to
those who should have been with her for a shorter time; a piece of black
satin sufficient to make a gown, mantua, and hood, and forty pounds in
money, to each inmate of the Maidens' Lodge. Mourning rings were left
to the Maidens, the Vicar. Dr Saunders, Mr Dawson, and several
friends mentioned by name, of whom Sir Richard Delawarr was one. Then
the testatrix gave, devised, and bequeathed to her "dear daughter
Catherine, wife of Francis Peveril, Esquire, with remainder to the heirs
of her body, the sum of two thousand pounds of lawful money."
Rhoda's face grew eager, as she listened for the next sentence.
"Lastly, I give, devise, and bequeath the Abbey of Cressingham, commonly
called White-Ladies, and all other my real and personal estate
whatsoever, not hereinbefore excepted, to my dear daughter Anne
Furnival, her heirs, assigns, administrators, and executors for ever."
The effect was crushing. That one sentence had changed everything. Not
Rhoda, but Phoebe, was the heiress of White-Ladies.
Mr Dawson calmly finished reading the signatures and attestation
clause, and then folded up the will, and once more looked over his
spectacles.
"Mrs Phoebe, as your mother's representative, give me leave to wish you
joy. Shall you wish to write to her? I must, of course. The letters
could go together."
Phoebe looked up, half-bewildered.
"I scarcely understand," she said. "There is something left to Mother,
is there not?"
"My dear young gentlewoman, there is everything left to her. She is the
lady of the manor."
"Just what is there for Rhoda?" gasped Phoebe, apparently not at all
elated by her change of position.
"A poor, beggarly two thousand pounds!" burst out Rhoda. "'Tis a shame!
And I always thought I was to have White-Ladies! I shall just be
nobody now! Nobody will respect me, and I can never cut any figure.
Well! I'm glad I am engaged to be married. That's safe, at any rate."
The elevation of Mr Dawson's eyebrows, and the pursing of his lips,
might have implied a query on that score.
"I'm so sorry, dear!" said Phoebe, gently. "For you, of course, I mean.
I could not be sorry that there was something for Mother, because she
is not well off; but I am very sorry you are disappointed."
"You can't help it!" was Rhoda's rather repelling answer. Still,
through all her anger, she remembered to be just.
"Certainly not, my dear Mrs Phoebe," said the lawyer. "'Tis nobody's
fault--not even Madam Furnival's, for the new will would have given
White-Ladies to Mrs Rhoda, and five thousand pounds to Mrs Anne
Latrobe. Undoubtedly she intended, Mrs Rhoda, you should have it."
"Then why can't I?" demanded Rhoda, fiercely.
Mr Dawson shook his head, with a pitying smile. "The law knows nothing
of intentions," said he: "only of deeds fully performed. Still, it may
be a comfort in your disappointment, to remember that this was meant for
you."
"Thank you for your comfort!" said Rhoda, bitterly. "Why, it makes it
all the worse."
"I wish--" but Phoebe stopped short.
"Oh, I don't blame you," said Rhoda, impetuously. "'Tis no fault of
yours. If she'd done it now, lately, I might have thought so. But a
will that was made before either you or me was born--" Rhoda's grammar
always suffered from her excitement--"can't be your fault, nor anybody
else's. But 'tis a shame, for all that. She'd no business to let me go
on all these years, expecting to have everything, and knew all the while
her will wasn't right made. 'Tis too bad! My Lady Betty!--Mrs
Dorothy!--don't you think so?"
"My dear," said Lady Betty, "I am indeed grieved for your
disappointment. But there is decorum, my dear Mrs Rhoda--there is
decorum!"
"No, my dear," was Mrs Dorothy's answer. "I dare not call anything bad
that the Lord doth. Had it been His will you should have White-Ladies,
be sure you would have had it."
"Well, you know," said Rhoda, in a subdued tone, and folding one of her
black gauze ribbons into minute plaits, "of course, one can't complain
of God."
"Ah, child!" sighed Mrs Dorothy, "I wish one could not!"
"O my dear Mrs Rhoda, I feel for you so dreadfully!" accompanied the
tragically clasped hands of Mrs Clarissa. "My feelings are so keen,
and run away with me so--"
"Then let 'em!" said Mrs Jane Talbot's voice behind. "Mine won't. My
dears, I'm sorry you've lost Madam. But as to the money and that, I'll
wait ten years, and then I'll tell you which I'm sorry for."
"Well, I'm sorry for both of you," added Mrs Eleanor Darcy. "I don't
think, Mrs Phoebe, my dear, you'll lie on roses."
No one was more certain of that than Phoebe herself.
She wrote a few lines to her mother, which went inside Mr Dawson's
letter. Mrs Latrobe was in service near Reading. Her daughter felt
sure that she would lose no time in taking possession. The event proved
that she was right. The special messenger whom Mr Dawson sent with the
letters returned with an answer to each. Phoebe's mother wrote to her
thus:--
"Child,--Mr Dawson hath advertized me of the deth of Madam Furnivall,
my mother. I would have you, on rect of this, to lett your cousen
know that shee need not lieve the house afore I come, wich will be as
soon as euer I can winde all upp and bee wth you. I would like to
make aquaintance wth her ere anything be settled. I here from the
layer [by which Mrs Latrobe meant _lawyer_] that she is to be maried,
and it will be soe much ye better for you. I trust you may now make a
good match yrself. But I shal see to all yt when I com.
"Yr mother, A. Latrobe."
Phoebe studied every word of this letter, and the more she studied it,
the less she liked it. First, it looked as if Mrs Latrobe did mean
Rhoda to leave the house, though she graciously intimated her intention
of making acquaintance with her before she did so. Secondly, she was
evidently in a hurry to come. Thirdly, she congratulated herself on
Rhoda's approaching marriage, because it would get rid of her, and leave
the way open for Phoebe. And lastly, she threatened Phoebe with "a good
match." Phoebe thought, with a sigh, that "the time was out of joint,"
and heartily wished that the stars would go back into their courses.
Mrs Latrobe managed to wind all up in a surprisingly short time. She
reached her early home in the cool of a summer evening, Rhoda having
sent the family coach to meet her at Tewkesbury. Phoebe had said
nothing to her cousin of any approaching change, which she thought it
best to leave to her mother; so she contented herself by saying that
Mrs Latrobe wished to make the acquaintance of her niece. Lady Betty
kindly came up to help the inexperienced girls in making due preparation
for the arrival of the lady of the manor. When the coach rolled up to
the front door, Phoebe was standing on the steps, Lady Betty and Rhoda
further back in the hall.
Mrs Latrobe was attired in new and stylish mourning.
"Ah, child, here you are!" was her first greeting to Phoebe. "The old
place is grown greyer. Those trees come too near the windows; I shall
cut some of them down. Where is your cousin?"
Rhoda heard the inquiry, and she stepped forward.
"Let us look at you, child," said Mrs Latrobe, turning to her. "Ah,
you are like Kitty--not so good-looking, though."
"Mother," said Phoebe, gently, "this is my Lady Betty Morehurst. She
was so kind as to help us in getting ready for you."
Mrs Latrobe appraised Lady Betty by means of one rapid glance. Then
she thanked her with an amount of effulgence which betrayed either
subservience or contempt. Lady Betty received her thanks with a quiet
dignity which refused to be ruffled, kissed Rhoda and Phoebe, and took
her leave, declining to remain even for the customary dish of tea. Mrs
Latrobe drew off her gloves, sat down in Madam's cushioned chair, and
desired Phoebe to give her some tea.
"Let me see, child!" she said, looking at Rhoda. "You are near
one-and-twenty, I suppose?"
Rhoda admitted the fact.
"And what do you think of doing?"
Rhoda looked blankly first at her aunt, then at her cousin. Phoebe came
hastily to the rescue.
"She is shortly to be married, Mother; did you forget?"
"Ah!" said Mrs Latrobe, still contemplating Rhoda. "Well--if it hold--
you may as well be married from hence, I suppose. Is the day fixed?"
"No, Aunt Anne."
"I think, my dear," remarked Mrs Latrobe, sipping her tea, "'twould be
better if you said Madam.--Why, Phoebe, what old-fashioned china! Sure
it cannot have been new these forty years. I shall sweep away all that
rubbish.--Whom are you going to marry? Is he well off?--Phoebe, those
shoe-buckles of yours are quite shabby. I cannot have you wear such
trumpery. You must remember what is due to you.--Well, my dear?"
Rhoda had much less practice in the school of patience than Phoebe, and
she found the virtue difficult just then. But she restrained herself as
well as she could.
"I am engaged in marriage with Mr Marcus Welles; and he has an estate,
and spends three thousand pounds by the year."
"Welles! A Welles of Buckinghamshire?"
"His estate is in this shire," said Rhoda.
"Three thousand! That's not much. Could you have done no better? He
expected you would have White-Ladies, I suppose?"
"I suppose so. I did," said Rhoda, shortly.
"My dear, you have some bad habits," said Mrs Latrobe, "which Phoebe
should have broken you of before I came. 'Tis very rude to answer
without giving a name."
"You told me not to give you one, Aunt Anne."
"You are slow at catching meanings, my dear," replied Mrs Latrobe, with
that calm nonchalance so provoking to an angry person. "I desired you
to call me Madam, as 'tis proper you should."
"Phoebe doesn't," burst from Rhoda.
"Then she ought," answered Mrs Latrobe, coolly examining the crest on a
tea-spoon.
"Oh, I will, Rhoda, if Mother wishes it," put in Phoebe, anxious above
all things to keep the peace.
Rhoda vouchsafed no reply to either.
"Well!" said the lady of the manor, rising, "you will carry me to my
chamber, child," addressing Rhoda. "You can stay here, Phoebe. Your
cousin will wait on me."
It was something new for Rhoda to wait on anyone. She swallowed her
pride with the best grace she could, and turned to open the door.
"I suppose you have had the best room made ready for me?" inquired Mrs
Latrobe, as she passed out.
"Madam's chamber," replied Rhoda.
"Oh, but--not the one in which she died?"
"Yes," answered Rhoda; adding, after a momentary struggle with herself,
"Madam."
"Oh, but that will never do!" said Mrs Latrobe, hastily. "I couldn't
sleep there! A room in which someone died scarce a month ago! Where is
my woman? Call her. I must have that changed."
Rhoda summoned Betty, who came, courtesying. Her mistress was too much
preoccupied in mind to notice the civility.
"Why, what could you all be thinking of, to put me in this chamber? I
must have another. This is the best, I know; but I cannot think of
sleeping here. Show me the next best--that long one in the south wing."
"That is the young gentlewomen's chamber, Madam," objected Betty.
"Well, what does that matter?" demanded Mrs Latrobe, sharply. "Can't
they have another? I suppose I come first!"
"Yes, of course, Madam," said subdued Betty.
Rhoda looked dismayed, but kept silence. She was learning her lesson.
Mrs Latrobe looked into the girls' room, rapidly decided on it, and
ordered it to be got ready for her.
"Then which must the young gentlewomen have, Madam?" inquired Betty.
"Oh, any," said Mrs Latrobe, carelessly. "There are enough."
"Which would you like, Mrs Rhoda?" incautiously asked Betty.