public-house in
the next village the night before the hunt, and had there met both
Smithson and the poacher. This, however, he reserved for Mervyn's
private ear, still watching his victim, in the hope that she might
unconsciously give some clue to the whereabouts of her lover. The
espionage diverted Mervyn, and gave him the occupation for his thoughts
that he sorely needed; but it oppressed Phoebe, and she shrank from the
sight of the housemaid, as though she herself were dealing treacherously
by her.

'Phoebe,' said Mervyn, mysteriously, coming into the library, where his
tardy breakfast was spread, 'that villain Smithson has been taken up at
Liverpool; and here's a letter for you to look at. Fenton has captured a
letter to that woman Hart, who, he found, was always wanting to go to the
post--but he can't make it out; and I thought it was German, so I brought
it to you. It looks as if old Lieschen--

'No! no! it can't be,' cried Phoebe. 'I'll clear it up in a moment.'

But as she glanced at the letter the colour fled from her cheek.

'Well, what is it?' said Mervyn, impatiently.

'Oh, Mervyn!' and she put her hands before her face.

'Come, the fewer words the better. Out with it at once!'

'Mervyn! It is to Bertha!' She stood transfixed.

'What?' cried Mervyn.

'To Bertha,' repeated Phoebe, looking as if she could never shut her
eyes.

'Bertha? What, a billet-doux; the little precocious pussycat!' and he
laughed, to Phoebe's increased horror.

'If it could only be a mistake!' said she; 'but here is her name! It is
not German, only English in German writing. Oh, Bertha! Bertha!'

'Well, but who is the fellow? Let me look,' said Mervyn.

'It is too foolish,' said Phoebe, guarding it, in the midst of her cold
chills of dismay. 'There is no surname--only John. Ah! here's J. H.
Oh! Mervyn, could it be Mr. Hastings?'

'No such thing! John! Why, my name's John--everybody's name is John!
That's nothing.'

'But, Mervyn, I was warned,' said Phoebe, her eyes again dilating with
dismay, 'that Mr. Hastings never was received into a house with women
without there being cause to repent it.'

'Experience might have taught you how much slanderous gossip to believe
by this time! I believe it is some trumpery curate she has been meeting
at Miss Charlecote's school feasts.'

'For shame, Mervyn,' cried Phoebe, in real anger.

'Curates like thirty thousand as much as other men,' said Mervyn,
sulkily.