‘I always knew Jack to be a clever dog,’ said Mervyn, when this was reported to him, ‘but his soft sawder to a priggish metaphysical baby must have been the best fun in the world?’
Mervyn’s great desire was to keep Bertha’s folly as great a secret as possible; and, by his decision, she was told that grace should be granted her till Mr. Crabbe’s arrival, when, unless she had renounced what he called her silly child’s fancy, stringent measures would be taken, and she would be exposed to the family censure.
‘So,’ said Bertha, ‘you expect to destroy the attraction of souls by physical force!’
And Phœbe wrote to Robert a sorrowful letter, chiefly consisting of the utmost pleadings for Mervyn and Bertha that her loving heart could frame. She was happier when she had poured out her troubles, but grieved when no answer came by the next post. Robert’s displeasure must be great—and indeed but too justly so—since all this mischief was the consequence of the disregard of his wishes. Yet justice was hard between brothers and sisters, especially when Mervyn was in such a suffering state, threatened constantly by attacks of his complaint, which were only warded off by severe and weakening treatment. Phœbe was so necessary to his comfort in waiting on him, and trying to while away his tedious hours of inaction and oppression, that she had little time to bestow upon Bertha, nor, indeed, was talking of any use, as it only gave the young lady an occasion for pouring forth magniloquent sentiments, utterly heedless of the answers. Sad, lonely, and helpless were
Phœbe’s feelings, but she was patient, and still went on step by step through the strange tangle, attending to Mervyn hour by hour, always with a gentle cheerful word and smile, and never trusting herself, even when alone, to think of the turmoil and break up that must ensue on her guardian’s arrival.
All was darkness and perplexity before her, but submission and trust were her refuge, and each day of waiting before the crisis was to her feelings a gain.
CHAPTER XXI
O fy gar ride and fy gar rin
And haste ye to find these traitors agen,
For shees be burnt and hees been slein,
The wearifu gaberlunzie man.
Some rade upon horse, some ran afit,
The wife was wud and out of her wit,
She couldna gang, nor yet could she sit,
But aye did curse and ban.—King James V
Mervyn and Phœbe were playing at billiards, as a means of inducing him to take exercise enough to make him sleep. The governess and the two girls were gone to the dentist’s at Elverslope. The winter’s day was closing in, when there was a knock at the door, and they beheld Miss Fennimore, deadly white, and Maria, who flew up to Phœbe, crying—‘Bertha’s gone, Phœbe!’
‘The next up-train stops at Elverslope at 8.30,’ said the governess, staring in Mervyn’s face, as though repeating a lesson. ‘A carriage will be here by seven. I will bring her home, or never return.’