‘Very hard,’ he said, ‘that when there are but two women in the world that that poor child likes, she can have neither!’ and then, gaining hope from something in her face, he exclaimed, ‘After all, I do believe you will take pity on her!’
‘I thought you in joke yesterday.’
‘I thought it too good to be true! I am not so cool as Phœbe
thought me. But really,’ he said, assuming an earnest, rational, gentlemanly manner, ‘you have done so much for us that perhaps it makes us presume, and though I know it is preposterous, yet if it were possible to you to be long enough with poor Bertha to bring her round again, I do believe it would make an infinite difference.’
‘What does Phœbe say?’ asked Honor.
‘Phœbe, poor child, she does not know I am come. She looks as white as death, and got up a smile that was enough to make one cry, but she told me not to mind, for something would be sure to bring it right; and so it will, if you will come.’
‘But, Mervyn, you don’t consider what a nuisance I shall be to you.’
Mervyn looked more gallant than Robert ever could have done, and said something rather foolish; but anxiety quickly made him natural again, and he proceeded, ‘After all, they need not bother you much. Phœbe is of your own sort, and Maria is inoffensive, and Bertha will have Lieschen, and I—I’ll take my own line, and be as little of a bore as I can. You’ll go?’
‘If—if it will do.’
That odd answer was enough. Mervyn, already leaning forward with his arms on his knees, held out one hand, and shaded his eyes with the other, as, half with a sob, he said, ‘There, then, it is all right! Miss Charlecote, you can’t guess what it is to a man not to be trusted with his own sisters!’