‘I feel it all,’ sighed Miss Fennimore; ‘but it would not justify me in letting myself be thrust on a family whose confidence in me has been deceived. Nobody could go with them but you, Miss Charlecote.’
‘Me! how much obliged Mervyn would be,’ laughed Honora.
‘It was a wild wish, such as crosses the mind in moments of perplexity and distress; but no one else could be so welcome to my poor Bertha, nor be the motherly friend they all require. Forgive me, Miss Charlecote; but I have seen what you made of Phœbe, in spite of me and my system.’
So Honor returned to announce the ill-success of her mission.
‘There!’ said Mervyn; ‘goodness knows what will become of us! Bertha would go into fits at the sight of any stranger; and such a hideous old catamaran as Juliana will be sure to have in pickle, will be the death of her outright. I think Miss Charlecote had better take pity on us!’
‘Oh, Mervyn, impossible!’ cried Phœbe, shocked at his audacity.
‘I protest,’ said Mervyn, ‘nothing else can save you from some nasty, half-bred companion! Faugh! Now, Miss Charlecote would enjoy the trip, put Maria and Bertha to bed, and take you to operas, and pictures, and churches, and you would all be off my hands!’
‘For shame, Mervyn,’ cried Phœbe, crimson at his cavalier manner.
‘It is the second such compliment I have received, Phœbe,’ said Honor. ‘Miss Fennimore does me the honour to tell me to be her substitute.’
‘Then if she says so,’ said Mervyn, ‘it is our only rescue!’