begged, as a kindness to an invalid, for a visit to Bertha.
It was granted most readily, as if equally pleasant to the giver of the kindness and to the receiver, and the two young maidens walked home together. Phoebe could not but explain their gratitude to any one who could rouse Bertha, saying that her spirits had received a great shock, and that the effects of her illness on her speech and her eyes had made her painfully bashful.
'I am so glad,' was the hurried, rather quivering answer. 'I am glad if I can be of any use.'
Phoebe was surprised, while gratified, by the eager tenderness of her meeting with Bertha, who, quite revived, was in the sitting-room to greet her, and seemed to expand like a plant in the sunshine, under the influence of those sweet brown eyes. Her liveliness and drollery awoke, and her sister was proud that her new friend should see her cleverness and intelligence; but all the time the likeness to that photograph continued to haunt Phoebe's mind, as she continued to discover more resemblances, and to decide that if such were impressed by the Christian name, Bertha was a little witch to detect it.
Afternoon came, and as usual they all walked seawards. As Bertha said, they had had enough of the heights, and tried going towards the sea, as their new friend wished, although warned by the Fulmorts that it was a long walk, the
And Honor told a veritable legend of Hyeres:-A Moorish princess, who had been secretly baptized and educated as a Christian by her nurse, a Christian slave, was beloved by a genie. She regarded him with horror, pined away, and grew thin and pale. Her father thought to raise her spirits by marrying her, and bestowed her on the son of a neighbouring king, sending her off in full procession to his dominions. On the way, however, lay a desert, where the genie had power to raise a sand-storm, with which he overwhelmed the suite, and flew away with the princess. But he could not approach her; she kept him at bay with the sign of the cross, until, enraged, he drove her about on a whirlwind for three days, and finally dashed her dead upon this coast. There she lay, fair as an almond blossom, and royally robed, and the people of Hyeres took her up and gave her honourable burial. When the king her father heard of it, he offered to reward them with a cross of gold of the same weight as his daughter; but, said the townsmen, 'Oh, king, if we have a cross of gold, the Moors will come and slay us for its sake, therefore give us the gold in coin, and let the cross be of iron.'
'And there it stands,' said the guest, looking up.
'I hope it does,' said Honor, confronting, as usual, the common-sense led pupils of Miss Fennimore, with her willing demi-credulity.
'It is a beautiful story!' was the comment; 'and, like other traditions, full of unconscious meaning.'
A speech this, as if it had been made to delight Honor, whose eyes were met by a congratulatory glance from Phoebe. At the farther words, 'It is very striking-the evil spirit's power ending with the slaying the body, never harming the soul, nor bending the will-'
'Bending the will is harming the soul,' said Phoebe.
'Nay,' was her companion's answer, 'the fatal evil is, when both wills are bent.'
Phoebe was too single-minded, too single-willed, at once to understand this, till Miss Charlecote whispered a reference to St. Paul's words of deep experience, 'To will is present with me.'
'I see,' she said; 'she might even have preferred the genie, but as long as her principle and better will resisted, she was safe from herself as well as from him.'
'Liked the nasty genie?' said Maria, who had listened only as to a fairy tale. 'Why, Phoebe, genies come out of bottles, and go away in smoke, Lieschen told me.'
'No, indeed,' said Bertha, in a low voice of feeling, piteous in one of her years, 'if so, it needed no outward whirlwind to fling her dead on the coast!'
'And there she found peace,' answered the guest, with a suppressed, but still visible sign of weariness. 'Oh! it was worth the whirlwind!'
Phoebe 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 Phoebe behind the others, saying, lightly, 'Miss Fulmort, you have not seen the view from my window.' Phoebe 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 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe; '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 Phoebe. 'He is not like what he used to be.'
'I have promised,' repeated Cecily; and grasping Phoebe's wrist, she added, 'you will help me to keep my promise.'
'I will,' said Phoebe, in her grave, reliable voice, and Cecily drew a long breath.
There were five minutes of silence, while Phoebe stood studying Cecily, and thinking how much injustice she had done to her, how little she had expected a being so soft and feeling in her firmness, and grieving the more at Mervyn's loss. Cecily at last spoke, 'When will he come?'
'We cannot tell; most likely not for a week, perhaps not for a fortnight. It depends on how he likes Corsica.'
'I think my aunt will be willing to go,' said Cecily. 'My uncle has been talking of Nice.'
'Then must we lose you,' said Phoebe, 'when you are doing Bertha so much good?'
'I should like to be with you while I can, if I may,' said Cecily, her eyes full of tears.
'Did you know us at first?' said Phoebe.
'I knew you were in this hotel; and after your sisters had spoken, and I saw Bertha's face, I was sure who she was. I thought no one was with you but Miss Charlecote, and that no one knew, so that I might safely indulge myself.' The word was out before she could recall it, and trying, as it were, to hide it, she said, 'But how, if you knew what had passed, did you not sooner know it was I?'
'Because we thought your name was Holmby.'
'Did you, indeed. You did not know that my aunt Holmby is my mother's sister? She kindly took me when my uncle was ordered to spend this winter abroad.'
'You were ill and tried. Bertha read that in your face. Oh! when you see how much difference-'
'I must not see. Do not talk of it, or we must not be together; and indeed it is very precious to me.' She rested her head on Phoebe's shoulder, and put an arm round her waist. 'Only one thing I must ask,' she said, presently; 'is he well?'
'Quite well,' said Phoebe. 'He has been getting better ever since we left home. Then you did not know he was with us?'
'No. It is not right for me to dwell on those things, and they never mention any of you to me.'
'But you will write to us now? You will not desert Bertha? You do not know how much you are doing for her.'
'Dear child! She is so like what he was when first he came.'
'If you could guess what she has suffered, and how fond he is of her, you would not turn away from her. You will let her be your friend?'
