In the morning (that present morning), being again in attendance as
usual, the maid had found Lady Harry in a more indulgent frame of mind;
still troubled by anxieties, but willing to speak of them now.
She had begun by talking of Mr. Mountjoy: "I think you like him, Fanny: everybody likes him. You will be sorry to
hear that we have no prospect of seeing him again at the cottage."
There she had stopped; something that she had not said, yet, seemed to
be in her mind, and to trouble her. She was near to crying, poor soul,
but struggled against it. "I have no sister," she said, "and no friend
who might be like a sister to me. It isn't perhaps quite right to speak
of my sorrow to my maid. Still, there is something hard to bear in
having no kind heart near one--I mean, no other woman to speak to who
knows what women feel. It is so lonely here--oh, so lonely! I wonder
whether you understand me and pity me?" Never forgetting all that she
owed to her mistress--if she might say so without seeming to praise
herself--Fanny was truly sorry. It would have been a relief to her, if
she could have freely expressed her opinion that my lord must be to
blame, when my lady was in trouble. Being a man, he was by nature cruel
to women; the wisest thing his poor wife could do would be to expect
nothing from him. The maid was sorely tempted to offer a little good
advice to this effect; but she was afraid of her own remembrances, if
she encouraged them by speaking out boldly. It would be better to wait
for what the mistress might say next.