‘Well, but who is the fellow? Let me look,’ said Mervyn.
‘It is too foolish,’ said Phœbe, guarding it, in the midst of her cold chills of dismay. ‘There is no surname—only John. Ah! here’s J. H. Oh! Mervyn, could it be Mr. Hastings?’
‘No such thing! John! Why, my name’s John—everybody’s name is John! That’s nothing.’
‘But, Mervyn, I was warned,’ said Phœbe, her eyes again dilating with dismay, ‘that Mr. Hastings never was received into a house with women without there being cause to repent it.’
‘Experience might have taught you how much slanderous gossip to believe by this time! I believe it is some trumpery curate she has been meeting at Miss Charlecote’s school feasts.’
‘For shame, Mervyn,’ cried Phœbe, in real anger.
‘Curates like thirty thousand as much as other men,’ said Mervyn, sulkily.
‘After all,’ said Phœbe, controlling herself, ‘what signifies most is, that poor Bertha should have been led to do such a dreadful thing.’
‘If ever I take charge of a pack of women again! But let’s hear what the rascal says to her.’
‘I do not think it is fair to read it all,’ said Phœbe, glancing over the tender passages. ‘Poor child, how ashamed she will be! But listen—’ and she read a portion, as if meant to restrain the girl’s impatience, promising to offer a visit to Beauchamp, or, if that were refused till the captives were carried off, assuring her there would be ways and means at Acton Manor, where a little coldness from the baronet always secured the lady’s good graces.