The Maidens Lodge | Page 5

wore a cotton gown--for when all cotton
gowns were imported from India, they were rare and costly articles--of
an involved shawl-like pattern, in which the prevailing colour was red.
Underneath was a petticoat of dark blue quilted silk. Her commode was
brightened by blue ribbons; she wore no mittens; and her shoe-buckles
rivalled those of her grandmother. Rhoda's figure was good, but her
face was commonplace. She was neither pretty nor ugly, neither
intellectual nor stupid-looking. Of course she wore powder (as also did
Madam); but if her hair had been released from its influence, it would
have been perceived that there was about it a slight, very slight, tinge of
red.
The coming of her cousin was an event of the deepest interest to Rhoda,
for she had been ever since her birth absolutely without any society of
her own age. Never having had an opportunity of measuring herself by
other girls, Rhoda imagined herself a most learned and accomplished
young person. It would be such a triumph to see Phoebe find it out, and
such a pleasure to receive--with a becoming deprecation which meant
nothing--the admiration of one so far her inferior. Rhoda had dipped
into a score or two of her grandfather's books, had picked up sundry
fine words and technical phrases, with a smattering of knowledge, or
what would pass for it; and she sat radiant in the contemplation of the
delightful future which was to exalt herself and overawe Phoebe.
So lost was she in her own imaginations, that she neither heard Madam
ring her little hand-bell, nor was conscious that the horses had trotted
past the window, until Sukey, one of Madam's maids, came in answer
to the bell, and courtesying, said, "An it please you, Madam, Mrs
Phoebe Latrobe."
Rhoda lifted her eyes eagerly, and saw her cousin. The first item which
she noticed was that Phoebe's figure was by no means so good as her
own, her shoulders being so high as almost to reach deformity; the next
point was that the expression of Phoebe's face was remarkably sweet;
the third was that Phoebe's dress was particularly shabby. It was a
brown stuff, worn threadbare, too short for the fashion, and without any
of the flounces and furbelows then common. Over it was tied a plain

white linen apron--aprons were then worn both in and out of doors--and
Phoebe's walking costume consisted of a worn black mantua or pelisse,
and a hood, brown like the dress, which was the shabbiest of all. The
manner of the wearer, however, while extremely modest and void of
self-assertion, was not at all awkward nor disconcerted. She courtesied,
first to her grandmother, then to her cousin, and stood waiting within
the door till she was called forward.
"Come hither, child!" said Madam.
Phoebe walked forward to her, and dropped another courtesy. Madam
put two fingers under Phoebe's chin, and lifting up the young face,
studied it intently. What she saw there seemed to please her.
"You'll do, child," she said, letting Phoebe go. "Be a good maid, and
obedient, and you shall find me your friend. Sit down, and loose your
hood. Rhode, pour her a dish of tea."
And this was Madam's welcome to her granddaughter.
Phoebe obeyed her instructions with no words but "Thank you,
Madam." Her voice was gentle and low. If the tears burned under her
eyelids, no one knew it but herself.
"Take Phoebe upstairs, Rhoda, to your chamber," said Madam, when
the new-comer had finished her tea. "I see, child, your new clothes had
better not be long a-coming."
"I have a better gown than this, Madam, in my trunk," she answered.
"Well, I am glad of it," said Madam shortly.
Rhoda led her cousin 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