The Maidens' Lodge Part 34

"Dearest Madam!" and Mr Welles' hand went to his heart, "you cannot have so little confidence in me as to account it possible that I could oppose any wish of yours!"

Engaged persons did not, at that time, call each other by the Christian name. It would have been considered indecorous.

"I was sure, Sir, you would say no less," answered Rhoda.

CHAPTER TEN.

MR. WELLES DOES IT BEAUTIFULLY.

"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 a.s.sembled. 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 pa.s.sed 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n 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 rea.s.sured 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, a.s.signs, administrators, and executors for ever."

The effect was crus.h.i.+ng. 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 n.o.body now! n.o.body 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 n.o.body'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 G.o.d."

"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.