“In my own house!” exclaimed Mrs Rowland, in a tone of subdued rage.
“We should have been in the house over the way,” replied her brother; “and we act as if we were there. Come, my Margaret, we are doing right.”
“We are,” replied Margaret; but yet she trembled.
“I must go in first, and tell her that I have brought you,” said Philip. “And yet I do not like to leave you, even for a moment.”
“Oh, never mind! I am not to be shaken now.”
Mrs Rowland did not appear during the two long minutes that Margaret was left by herself in the dressing-room. When Philip came for her, he said:
“You must not leave her again. You will stay, will not you? You shall be protected: but you must stay. I shall tell her how we stand to each other,—we will tell her,—carefully, for she cannot bear much emotion.—You are tired,—you must be tired,” he continued, looking at her with anxiety: “but—”
“Do not speak of it. I did sleep last night, and there will be time enough for sleep when duty is done,—the duty for which I have longed ever since I knew what duty was.” And her eyes swam in tears.
Phoebe’s face was a dismal sight,—too dismal for the sickroom, for so many hours had she been in tears. She was dismissed to refresh herself with a turn in the garden. It was Philip’s doing that she was at hand at all. Mrs Rowland had ordained that she should go; but Philip had supported the girl in her resolution to bear anything, rather than leave her mistress while it was essential to her mistress’s comfort that she should stay.
Mrs Enderby was in great pain; but yet not suffering too much to be comforted by finding that all were safe and well in the corner-house. She even smiled when the others laughed at the ridiculous stories with which the children had assaulted her imagination. She thought it was very wrong for people to fabricate such things, and tell them to children:—they might chance to put some extremely old ladies into a terrible fright.—She was soothed in the very midst of a spasm, by hearing that Margaret would stay with her as long as she liked, if it would be of any comfort to her. In answer to her surprise and almost alarm at such a blessing, Philip said that Margaret wished it as a pleasure, and asked it as a sort of right. Now, could she not guess any reason why it was a sort of right of Margaret’s to attend upon her like a daughter? Yes,—it was so indeed! Margaret was to be her daughter—some time or other,—when her big boy should have learned all his lessons, as little George would say.