A DREAM OF AN ANGEL.
"Oh Aunt Leth, Aunt Leth!" cried Phoebe. "Can nothing be
done?--nothing, nothing!"
"I fear not, dear child," said Aunt Leth, in a voice of quiet despair.
"Your uncle and I have thought of every possible way in which our dear
home might be saved, but thinking and talking will not stave off
impending ruin. To-morrow we shall be beggared and disgraced."
There was no light in the room. On a stool sat Uncle Leth, with his face
buried in his hands; Aunt Leth sat on a chair by his side with her arm
upon his neck, vainly striving to console him; Fanny lay upon the sofa,
sobbing; Robert sat moodily in a corner. To-morrow the acceptance for
three hundred pounds was due, and they had not a shilling to meet it.
They had been talking in the dark for an hour, and the parents had
deemed it right that their children should be made acquainted with the
blow that was about to fall upon them. Phoebe, as one of the family,
could not be left in ignorance, although they would cheerfully have
spared her the grief into which they were plunged. All was now known,
and ruin stared them in the face.
Aunt Leth was the least demonstrative of the group, and she suffered
perhaps the most. Her trembling limbs, her quivering voice, her pitiful
glances as her eyes wandered around, denoted the agony of her soul.
Phoebe could not bear to look toward her. Dark as was the room, she
saw and understood it all, and she was racked with anguish.
Had it been any other person than Jeremiah Pamflett from whom the money
had been borrowed, they believed that some respite would have been
granted them; but he was their bitterest enemy, and they were convinced
that he was the moving spirit through whom the relentless decree had
been issued that not a day's grace would be allowed. Troubles and griefs
had fallen to the lot of Aunt Leth in the course of her happy married
life, and she had met them cheerfully; but this overwhelming stroke had
broken her down. There are shocks against which the bravest cannot
contend, and this was one.
"It is I," suddenly cried Uncle Leth, starting up, and pacing the room
in a frenzy of excitement--"It is I who have brought this ruin and
disgrace upon the beloved ones I should have shielded and protected!
This is how I have repaid them for the love which has been showered upon
me! Wretch that I am!--I do not deserve to live!"
They clung about him, and besought him to be calm. They called him by
the most endearing names. Only Phoebe did not move from her chair.
It was terrible to witness his agony; but so sweet and tender and true
were their ministerings that they succeeded in their loving endeavours.
He burst into tears, and sank upon the stool, and laid his head upon his
wife's knees.
"This morning," he said, presently, in a voice so pitiful that their
tears flowed afresh, "as I walked to the bank I had a dream of hope. It
was foolish, I know, and neither manly nor practical--for life's
troubles are not to be surmounted by dreams--but I could not help it.
These dreams have happened to me, and I should have done my duty better
to my dear ones here had I not encouraged them." He passed his hand
across his forehead with the air of a man upon whom a sudden mental
bewilderment had fallen. "What was I saying, mother?"
"You had a dream of hope," said Aunt Leth, raising his hand to her lips
and kissing it, "as you walked to the bank this morning."
"I do not remember what it was," he said, helplessly; "only that an
angel came forward and saved us."
Phoebe stole softly out of the room--so softly through the darkness
that they did not for a little while observe her absence. To a certain
extent she had kept aloof from them during the last hour.
She went up to the bedroom occupied by her and Fanny. She wanted to be
alone. What was it her uncle had said? That an angel had come forward
and saved them! The words impressed themselves upon her mind.
How kind these dear ones had been to her from her earliest remembrance!
Giving her ever of their best, eager that she should share their joys
and pleasures, making dresses for her, and bringing light into her life,
which but for them would have been utterly devoid of it. How sweet, how
good they had been!
What had she given them in return? Nothing. True, they had not asked for
anything, had not expected anything. All the more precious their tender
services of love.
Their more than love. The unselfish sacrifices they had made for her, of
which they spoke never a word. Not to be measured by a human standard.
It was only on the afternoon of this dolorous day that it had come to
her knowledge that her aunt had paid a doctor's bill for her of some
seven or eight pounds, and she knew that her illness must have
considerably increased the household expenses of the once happy home,
now on the point of being wrecked.
An angel had come forward to save them? No, not an angel, but a loving,
grateful girl! It was in her power, at least, to make an effort which by
a happy chance might be successful. She could go to her father and
appeal to him. She would humble herself to him; she would implore him
on her knees; she would promise to obey him in everything--
"In everything?" Yes, in everything. She shuddered as she thought of
Jeremiah Pamflett. But even that sacrifice she would make if all else
failed.
The effort must be made at once--this very night--and it must be made
without first consulting Aunt Leth. Full well did she know that the dear
woman would divine the sacrifice she was prepared to make, and would
endeavour to prevent it.
She put on her hat and mantle, and quietly left the house. A few doors
down the street she met 'Melia Jane.
"Why, Miss Phoebe!" cried that model servant-of-all-work. "Where are
you going all alone?"
"If my aunt or my cousin asks for me," said Phoebe, hurriedly, "tell
them I have gone to Parksides to see my father."
Before 'Melia Jane could reply, Phoebe had turned the corner of the
street, and was hastening to the railway station.