The Maidens' Lodge Part 11

THROUGH Th.o.r.n.y PATHS.

"I do repent me now too late of each impatient thought, That would not let me tarry out G.o.d's leisure as I ought."

_Caroline Bowles_.

"Is it long since Madam woke, Baxter?" cried Rhoda in a breathless whisper, as she came in at the side door.

"But this minute, Mrs Rhoda," answered he.

"That's good!" said Rhoda aside to Phoebe, and slipping off her shoes, she ran lightly and silently upstairs, beckoning her cousin to follow.

Phoebe, having no idea of the course of Rhoda's thoughts, obeyed, and followed her example in doffing her hood and smoothing her hair.

"Be quick!" said Rhoda, her own rapid movements over, and putting on her shoes again.

They found Madam looking barely awake, and staring hard at her book, as if wishful to persuade herself that she had been reading.

"I hope, child, you were not out all this time," said she to Rhoda.

"Oh no, Madam!" glibly answered that trustworthy young lady. "We only had a dish of tea with Mrs Dolly, and I made my compliments to the other gentlewomen."

"And where were you since, child?"

"We have been upstairs, Madam," said Rhoda, unblushingly.

"Not diverting yourselves, I hope?" was Madam's next question.

"Oh no, not at all, Madam. We were not doing anything particular."

"Talking, I suppose, as maids will," responded Madam. "Phoebe, to-morrow after breakfast bring all your clothes to my chamber. I must have you new apparelled."

"Oh, Madam, give me leave to come also!" exclaimed Rhoda, with as much eagerness as she ever dared to show in her grandmother's presence. "I would so dearly like to hear what Phoebe is to have! Only, please, not a musk-coloured damask--you promised me that."

"My dear," answered Madam, "you forget yourself. I cannot talk of such things to-day. You may come if you like."

Supper was finished in silence. After supper, a pale-faced, tired-looking young man, who had been previously invisible, came into the parlour, and made a low reverence to Madam, which she returned with a queenly bend of her head. His black ca.s.sock and scarf showed him to be in holy orders. Madam rang the hand-bell, the servants filed in, and evening prayers were read by the young chaplain, in a thin, monotonous voice, with a manner which indicated that he was not interested himself, and did not expect interest in any one else. Then the servants filed out again; the chaplain kissed Madam's hand, and wished her good-night, bowed distantly to Rhoda, half bowed to Phoebe, instantly drew himself up as if he thought he was making a mistake, and finally disappeared.

"'Tis time you were abed, maids," said Madam.

Rhoda somewhat slowly rose, knelt before her grandmother, and kissed her hand.

"Good-night, my dear. G.o.d bless thee, and make thee a good maid!" was Madam's response.

Phoebe had risen, and stood, rather hesitatingly, behind her cousin.

She was doubtful whether Madam would be pleased or displeased if she followed Rhoda's example. In her new life it seemed probable that she would not be short of opportunities for the exercise of meekness, forbearance, and humility. Madam's quick eyes detected Phoebe's difficulty in an instant.

"Good-night, Phoebe," she said, rising.

"Good-night, Madam," replied Phoebe in a low voice, as she followed Rhoda. It was evident that no relationship was to be recognised.

"Here, you carry the candle," said Rhoda, nodding towards the hall table on which the candlesticks stood. "That's what you are here for, I suppose,--to save me trouble. Dear, I forgot my cloak,--see where it is! Bring it with you, Phoebe."

Demurely enough Rhoda preceded Phoebe upstairs. But no sooner was the bedroom door closed behind them, than Rhoda threw herself into the large invalid chair, and laughed with hearty amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Oh, didn't I take her in? Wasn't it neatly done, now? Didn't you admire me, Phoebe?"

"You told her a lie!" retorted Phoebe, indignantly.

"'Sh!--that's not a pretty word," said Rhoda, pursing her lips. "Say a fib, next time.--Nonsense! Not a bit of it, Phoebe. We had been upstairs since we came in."

"Only a minute," answered Phoebe. "You made her think what was not true. Father called that a lie,--I don't know what you call it."

"Now, Phoebe," said Rhoda severely, "don't you be a little Puritan. If you set up for a saint at White-Ladies, I can just tell you, you'll pull your own nest about your ears. You are mightily mistaken if you think Madam has any turn for saints. She reckons them designing persons-- every soul of 'em. You'll just get into a sc.r.a.pe if you don't have a care."

Phoebe made no reply. She was standing by the window, looking up into the darkened sky. There were no blinds at White-Ladies.

It was well for Rhoda--or was it well?--that she could not just then see into Phoebe's heart. The cry that "shivered to the tingling stars" was unheard by her. "O Father, Father," said the cry. "Why did you die and leave your poor little Phoebe, whom n.o.body loves, whose love n.o.body wants, with whom n.o.body here has one feeling in common?" And then all at once came as it were a vision before her eyes, of a scene whereof she had heard very frequently from her father,--a midnight meeting of the Desert Church, in a hollow of the Cevennes mountains, guarded by sentinels posted on the summit,--a meeting which to attend was to brave the gallows or the galleys,--and Phoebe fancied she could hear the words of the opening hymn, as the familiar tune floated past her:--

"Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger."

It was a quiet, peaceful face which was turned back to Rhoda.

"Did you hear?" rather sharply demanded that young lady.

"Yes, I heard what you said," calmly replied Phoebe. "But I have been a good way since."

"A good way!--where?" rejoined her cousin.

"To France and back," said Phoebe, with a smile.

"What are you talking about?" stared Rhoda. "I said nothing about France; I was telling you not to be a prig and a saint, and make Madam angry."

"I won't vex her if I can help it," answered Phoebe.

"Well, but you will, if you set up to be better than your neighbours,-- that's pos.! Take the pins out of my commode."

"Why should not I be better than my neighbours?" asked Phoebe, as she pulled out the pins.

"Because they'll all hate you--that's why. I must have clean ruffles-- they are in that top drawer."

"Aren't you better than your neighbours?" innocently suggested Phoebe, coming back with the clean ruffles.

Rhoda paused to consider how she should deal with the subject. The question was not an easy one to answer. She believed herself very much better, in every respect: to say No, therefore, would belie her wishes and convictions; yet to say Yes, would spoil the effect of her lecture.

There was moreover, a dim impression on her mind that Phoebe was incapable of perceiving the delicate distinction between them, which made it inevitable that Rhoda should be better than Phoebe, and highly indecorous that Phoebe should attempt to be better than Rhoda. On the whole, it seemed desirable to turn the conversation.

"Oh, not these ruffles, Phoebe! These are some of my best. Bring a pair of common ones--those with the box plaits.--What were you thinking about France?"

"Oh, nothing particular. I was only--"