Phœbe could not imagine her ever recovering the being thus cast off by her first love.
‘My dear, believe me, it was not love at all, only mystery and the rights of woman. Her very demonstrativeness shows that it was not the heart, but the vanity.’
Phœbe tried to believe, and at least was refreshed by the sympathy, so as to be able, to her own surprise, to be pleased and happy at Moorcroft, where Sir John and his wife were full of kindness, and the bright household mirth of the sons and daughters showed Phœbe some of the benefit Miss Fennimore expected for Bertha from girl friends. One of the younger ones showed her a present in preparation for ‘cousin Cecily,’ and
embarked in a list of the names of the cousinhood at Sutton; and though an elder sister decidedly closed young Harriet’s mouth, yet afterwards Phœbe was favoured with a sight of a photograph of the dear cousin, and inferred from it that the young lady’s looks were quite severe enough to account for her cruelty.
The having been plunged into a new atmosphere was good for Phœbe, and she brought home so cheerful a face, that even the news of Bertha’s continued obstinacy could not long sadden it, in the enjoyment of the sight of Robert making himself necessary to Mervyn, and Mervyn accepting his services as if there had never been anything but brotherly love between them. She could have blessed Bertha for having thus brought them together, and felt as if it were a dream too happy to last.
‘What an accountant Robert is!’ said Mervyn. ‘It is a real sacrifice not to have him in the business! What a thing we should have made of it, and he would have taken all the bother!’
‘We have done very well to-day,’ was Robert’s account; ‘I don’t know what can have been the matter before, except my propensity for making myself disagreeable.’
Phœbe went to bed revolving plans for softening Bertha, and was fast asleep when the lock of her door was turned. As she awoke, the terrors of the robbery were upon her far more strongly than at the actual moment of its occurrence; but the voice was familiar, though thin, weak, and gasping. ‘O Phœbe, I’ve done it! I’ve starved myself. I am dying;’ and the sound became a shrill cry. ‘The dark! O save me!’ There was a heavy fall, and Phœbe, springing to the spot where the white vision had sunk down, strove to lift a weight, cold as marble, without pulse or motion. She contrived to raise it, and drag it with her into her own bed, though in deadly terror at the icy touch and prone helplessness, and she was feeling in desperation for the bell-rope, when to her great relief, light and steps approached, and Robert spoke. Alas! his candle only served to show the ghastly, senseless face.
‘She has starved herself!’ said Phœbe, with affright.
‘A swoon, don’t be afraid,’ said Robert, who was dressed, and had evidently been watching. ‘Try to warm her; I will fetch something for her; we shall soon bring her round.’