Mervyn gave his scoffing laugh, and again addressing Phœbe,
said, ‘If it were you, now, or any one with whom he was not in sport, it would be a serious matter. The fellow got himself expelled from Harrow, then was the proverb of even a German university, ran through his means before he was five-and-twenty, is as much at home in the Queen’s Bench as I am in this study, has been outlawed, lived on rouge et noir at Baden till he got whitewashed when his mother died, and since that has lived on betting, or making himself agreeable to whoever would ask him.’
‘Many thanks on the part of your intimate friend,’ said Bertha, with suppressed passion.
Mervyn stamped his foot, and Phœbe defended him with, ‘Men may associate with those who are no companions for their sisters, Bertha.’
‘Contracted minds always accept malignant reports,’ was the reply.
‘Report,’ said Mervyn; ‘I know it as well as I know myself!’ then recollecting himself, ‘but she does not understand, it is of no use to talk to children. Take her away, Phœbe, and keep her in the nursery till Mr. Crabbe comes to settle what is to be done with her.’
‘I insist on having my letter,’ said Bertha, with womanly grandeur.
‘Let her have it. It is not worth bothering about a mere joke,’ said Mervyn, leaning back, wearied of the struggle, in which, provoking as he was, he had received some home thrusts.
Phœbe felt bewildered, and as if she had a perfect stranger on her hands, though Bertha’s high tone was, after all, chiefly from her extremity, and by way of reply to her brother’s scornful incredulity of her exalted position. She was the first to speak on leaving the library. ‘Pray, Phœbe, how came you to tamper with people’s letters?’
Phœbe explained.