Mervyn could hardly attend to Phœbe’s mention of the cart, but as soon as it reached his senses, he redoubled his hot commands to keepers and stablemen to set off in pursuit, and called for his horse to ride to Elverslope, to give information at the police station and telegraph office. Phœbe implored him to rest and send a messenger, but he roughly bade her not to be so absurd, commanded again that nothing should be disturbed, or, if she would be busy, that she should make out a list of all that was missing.
‘Grateful!’ indignantly thought Miss Fennimore, as Phœbe was left leaning on a pillar in the portico, watching him ride away, the pale light of the yellow setting moon giving an almost ghostly appearance to her white drapery and wistful attitude. Putting an arm round her, the governess found her shivering from head to foot, and pale and cold as marble; her knees knocked together when she walked, and her teeth chattered as she strove to smile, but her quietness still showed itself in all her movements, as she returned into the hall, and reached the welcome support of a chair beside the rekindled fire.
Miss Fennimore chafed her hands, and she looked up, smiled, and said, ‘Thank you.’
‘Then you were frightened, after all, Phœbe,’ cried Bertha, triumphantly.
‘Was I?—I don’t know,’ said Phœbe, as in a dream.
‘What, when you don’t know what you are talking of, and are still trembling all over?’
‘I can’t tell. I think what came on me then was thankfulness.’
‘I am sure we may be thankful that our jewels are the only things safe!’
‘Oh! Bertha, you don’t know, then, that the man was taking aim at Mervyn!’ and the shudder returned.
‘There, Phœbe, for the sake of candour and psychology, confess your terror.’