‘You excellent Phœbe; what have you done to keep that bonny honest face all this time to refresh weary eyes—being a little heroine, too. Well, but the Honor—the old sweet Honey—is she her very self?’
‘Indeed, I hope so; she has been so very kind to us.’
‘And found subjects in you not too cross-grained for her kindness to be palatable! Ah! a good hard plunge into the world teaches one what one left in the friendly ship! Not that mine has been a hard one. I am not one of the pathetic governesses of fiction. Every one has been kinder to me than I am worth—But, oh! to hear myself called Lucy again!’—and she hid her face on Phœbe’s shoulder in another access of emotion.
‘You used not to like it.’
‘My Cilly days were over long ago. Only one person ever used to call me Cilla;’ and she paused, and went on afresh—‘So it was for Bertha’s sake and Mervyn’s that Honor escorted you abroad. So much Robert told me; but I don’t understand it yet. It had haunted me the whole winter that Robert was the only Mr. Fulmort she could nurse; and if he told you I was upset, it was that I did not quite know whether he were ghost or body when I saw him there in the old place.’
‘No, he only told me you were looking very ill; and indeed—’
‘I could not ask him what concatenation made Honor take Mervyn under her wing, like a hen hovering a vulture.’
‘It would be a long story,’ said Phœbe; ‘but Bertha was very ill, and Mervyn much out of health; and we were in great distress for an escort. I think it was the kindest thing ever done, and the most successful.’
‘Has it been a comfort to her? Owen’s letters must be, I am sure. He will come home this autumn, as soon as he has done laying out his railway, and then I shall get him to beg
leave for me to make a little visit to Hiltonbury before we go out to Canada. I could not go out without a good word from her. She and Mr. Prendergast are all that remains of the old life. I say, Phœbe, did you hear of those cousins of mine!’