'After all,' said Phoebe, controlling herself, 'what signifies most is,
that poor Bertha should have been led to do such a dreadful thing.'

'If ever I take charge of a pack of women again! But let's hear what the
rascal says to her.'

'I do not think it is fair to read it all,' said Phoebe, glancing over
the tender passages. 'Poor child, how ashamed she will be! But
listen--' and she read a portion, as if meant to restrain the girl's
impatience, promising to offer a visit to Beauchamp, or, if that were
refused till the captives were carried off, assuring her there would be
ways and means at Acton Manor, where a little coldness from the baronet
always secured the lady's good graces.

Acton Manor was in Mr. Hastings' neighbourhood, and Mervyn struck his own
knee several times.

'Hum! ha! Was not some chaff going on one day about the heiresses boxed
up in the west wing? Some one set you all down at a monstrous figure--a
hundred thousand apiece. I wonder if he were green enough to believe it!
Hastings! No, it can't be! Here, we'll have the impudent child down,
and frighten it out of her. But first, how are we to put off that fellow
Fenton? Make up something to tell him.'

'Making up would be of no use,' said Phoebe; 'he is too clever. Tell him
it is a family matter.'

Mervyn left the room, and Phoebe hid her face in her hands,
thunderstruck, and endeavouring to disentangle her thoughts, perturbed
between shame, indignation, and the longing to shield and protect her
sister. She had not fully realized her sister's offence, so new to her
imagination, when she was roused by Mervyn's return, saying that he had
sent for Bertha to have it over.

Starting up, she begged to go and prepare her sister, but he peremptorily
detained her, and, 'Oh, be kind to her,' was all that she could say,
before in tripped Bertha, looking restless and amazed, but her
_retrousse_ nose, round features, and wavy hair so childish that the
accusation seemed absurd.

So Mervyn felt it, and in vain drew in his feet, made himself upright,
and tried to look magisterial. 'Bertha,' he began, 'Bertha, I have sent
for you, Bertha--it is not possible--What's that?' pointing to the
letter, as though it had been a stain of ink which she had just
perpetrated.

Alarmed perhaps, but certainly not confounded, Bertha put her hands
before her, and demurely said--'What do you mean?'

'What do you mean, Bertha, by such a correspondence as this?