‘Maria! And why are you to be saddled with Maria?’
‘Because I promised my mother—I promised myself—I promised Mervyn, that she should be my care. I have told him of that promise, and he accepts it most kindly.’
‘You cannot leave her to me? Oh! Phœbe, do you still think me as hateful as I used to be?’
‘Dear, dear Bertha, I have full trust in your affection for her; but I undertook the charge, and I cannot thrust it on to another, who might—’
‘Don’t say that, Phœbe,’ cried Bertha, impetuously; ‘I am the one to have her! I who certainly never can, never shall, marry—I who am good for nothing but to look after her. Say you do not think me unworthy of her, Phœbe.’
‘I say no such thing,’ said Phœbe, affectionately, ‘but there is no use in discussing the matter. Dear Bertha, leave me, and compose yourself.’
Truly, during that evening Bertha was the agitated one, her speech much affected, and her gestures restless, while Phœbe sat over her work, her needle going swiftly and evenly, and her eyes beaming with her quiet depth of thankful bliss.
In the morning, again, it was Bertha who betrayed an uneasy restlessness, and irrepressible desire to banish Miss Fennimore and Maria from the drawing-room, till the governess, in perplexity, began to think of consulting Phœbe whether a Jack Hastings affair could be coming over again.
Phœbe simply trusted to the promise, and went about her morning’s avocations with a heart at rest, and when at last Humfrey Randolf did hurry in for a few moments, before he must rush back to the Holt, her greeting was so full of reliance and composure that Miss Fennimore perceived nothing. Bertha, however, rested not. As well as she could, under a fearful access of stammering, she insisted that Mr. Randolf should come into the dining-room to look at a—a—a—a—a—’
‘Ah, well!’ thought Miss Fennimore, ‘Phœbe is gone, too, so she will keep guard.’