Phœbe was forced to attend to Maria, whose imagination had been a good deal impressed, and who was anxious to make another attempt on a pilgrimage to castle and cross.
‘When Mervyn comes back, Maria, we may try.’
The guest, who was speaking, stopped short in the midst. Had she been infected by Bertha’s hesitation? She began again, and seemed to have forgotten what she meant to have said. However, she recovered herself; and there was nothing remarkable through the rest of the walk, but, on coming indoors, she managed to detain Phœbe behind the others, saying, lightly, ‘Miss Fulmort, you have not seen the view from my window.’ Phœbe followed to her little bed-room, and gazed out at the lovely isles, bathed in light so as to be almost transparent, and the ship of war in the bay, all shadowy and phantom-like. She spoke her admiration warmly, but met with but a half assent. The owner of the room was leaning her head against the glass, and, with an effort for indifference said, ‘Did I hear that—that you were expecting your brother?’
‘You are Cecily!’ exclaimed Phœbe, instead of answering.
And Cecily, turning away from the window, leant against the wall for support, and her pale face crimsoning, said, ‘I thought you did not know.’
‘My sisters do not,’ said Phœbe; ‘but he told me, when—when he hoped—’
‘And now you will help me?’ said Cecily, hurrying out her words, as if overpowering one of her wills. ‘You will, I know! I have promised my father and uncle to have nothing to do with him. Do not let me be taken by surprise. Give me notice, that I may get Aunt Holmby away before he comes.’
‘Oh! must it be so?’ cried Phœbe. ‘He is not like what he used to be.’
‘I have promised,’ repeated Cecily; and grasping Phœbe’s wrist, she added, ‘you will help me to keep my promise.’
‘I will,’ said Phœbe, in her grave, reliable voice, and Cecily drew a long breath.