“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?”