Hard work, hard fare, and harder words had been her portion from her orphaned childhood upward, at the old “Guy of Warwick,” with its dubious customers, failing business, and bitter and grumbling old hostess. Shrewd, hard, and not over-nice had Miss Phœbe grown up in that godless school.
But she had taken a fancy, as the phrase is, to the looks of the young lady, and still more to her voice and words, that in her ears sounded so new and strange. There was not an unpleasant sense, too, of the superiority of rank and refinement which inspires an admiring awe in her kind; and so, in a voice that was rather sweet and very cheery, she offered, when the young lady was better, to sit by the bed and tell her a story, or sing her a song.
Everyone knows how his view of his own case may vary within an hour. Alice was now of opinion that there was no reason to reject her brother's version of the terrifying situation. A man who could act like Mr. Longcluse, could, of course, say anything. She had begun to grow more cheerful, and in a little while she accepted the offer of her companion, and heard, first a story, and then a song; and, after all, she talked with her for some time.
“Tell me, now, what servants there are in the house,” asked Alice.
“Only two women and myself, please, Miss.”
“Is there anyone else in the house, besides ourselves?”
The girl looked down, and up again, in Alice's eyes, and then away to the floor at the other end of the room.
“I was told, Ma'am, not to talk of nothing here, Miss, except my own business, please, my lady.”
“My God! This girl mayn't speak truth to me,” exclaimed Alice, clasping her hands aghast.
The girl looked up uneasily.