Poor Maria was in such terror that she could hardly keep her footing, and the hands both of Bertha and the unknown friend were needed to keep her from affording still more diversion to the peasants by falling prostrate. The lady seemed intuitively to understand what was best for both, and between them they contrived to hush her sobs, and repress her inclination to scream for Phœbe, and thus to lead her on, each holding a hand till they were at a safe distance; and Bertha, whose terror had been far greater than at the robbery at home, felt that she could let herself speak, when she quivered out an agony of trembling thanks. ‘I am glad you are safe from these vile men,’ said the lady, kindly, ‘though they could hardly have done anything really to hurt you!’
‘Frenchmen should not laugh at English girls,’ cried Bertha. ‘Oh, I wish my brothers were here,’ and she turned round with a fierce gesture.
‘Phœbe, Phœbe; I want Phœbe and Lieschen!’ was Maria’s cry.
‘Can I help you find your party?’ was the next question; and the voice had a gentle, winning tone that reassured Maria, who clung tight to her hand, exclaiming, ‘Don’t go away;’ and though for months past the bare proposal of encountering a stranger would have made Bertha almost speechless, she felt a soothing influence that enabled her to reply with scarcely a hesitation. On comparing notes, it was discovered that the girls had wandered so far away from their sister that they could only rejoin her by re-entering the town and mounting again; and their new friend, seeing how nervous and agitated both still were, offered to escort them, only giving notice to her own party what had become of her.
She had come up with some sketching acquaintance, and not drawing herself, had, like the sisters, been exploring among the rocks, when she had suddenly come on them in the distress which had so much shaken them, that, reluctant to lose sight of their guardian, they accompanied her till she saw one of her friends, and then waited while she ran down with the announcement. ‘How ridiculous it is in me,’ muttered Bertha to herself, discontentedly; ‘she will think us wild creatures. I wish we were not both so tall.’
And embarrassment, together with the desire to explain, deprived her so entirely of utterance, that Maria volunteered, ‘Bertha always speaks so funnily since she was ill.’ Rather a perplexing speech for the lady to hear; but instead of replying, she asked which was their hotel; and Bertha answering, she turned with a start of surprise and interest, as if to see their
faces better, adding, ‘I have not seen you at the table d’hôte;’ and under the strange influence of her voice and face, Bertha was able to answer, ‘No. As Maria says, I have been very silly since my illness in the winter, and—and they have given way to me, and let me see no one.’
‘But we shall see you; you are in our hotel,’ cried Maria. ‘Do come and let me show you all my Swiss costumes.’
‘Thank you; if—’ and she paused, perhaps a little perplexed by Maria; and Bertha added, in the most womanly voice that she could muster, ‘My sister and Miss Charlecote will be very glad to see you—very much obliged to you.’
Then Maria, who was unusually demonstrative, put another question—