FRED CORNWALL TO THE RESCUE.
So overwhelming was Aunt Leth's despair after Mr. Beeminster's departure
that she almost lost her senses. She could not think coherently, but she
had a vague consciousness that something--she knew not what--must be
immediately done, and she put her hands over her face and pressed her
forehead hard in the endeavour to recall her wandering thoughts. She was
not successful; her mind grew more confused, and she might have remained
for a long time in this most terrible bewilderment had it not been for a
loud and rapid knocking at the street door. The interruption had a
salutary effect upon her; it caused her to start to her feet, and to
become sensible to what was actually occurring. What did that knocking
portend? Some fresh calamity?
"Fred! Fred!" she cried.
He hastened into the room, and she fell into his arms, and sobbed there
hysterically.
"Aunt Leth! Aunt Leth!" said Fred, in a soothing tone. "There, there, be
calm! You have heard the dreadful news, then?"
"And you," whispered Aunt Leth, amazed that he should be so cool: his
voice was solemn, it is true, but there was in it no note of despair:
"you know all?"
"All," he replied. "I bought a newspaper, and came here at once. Has
Phoebe been told?"
"No."
"My poor girl!" said Fred. "How will she bear it?"
"What paper did you buy?" asked Aunt Leth, bewildered by his manner.
He gave it to her, and wiping the tears from her eyes and looking at the
column he pointed out, she saw that it was a different newspaper from
that which Mr. Beeminster had brought with him. Fred's newspaper
contained the simple announcement that Miser Farebrother had been found
dead in his grounds at Parksides under such circumstances as would lead
to the belief that he had been murdered.
"You do not know the worst," said Aunt Leth; and then, in as calm a
voice as she could command, she related what had occurred.
He listened in horror and amazement. Until this moment he had been
ignorant of Phoebe's visit to Parksides on the previous night, and of
her return to Camden Town at ten o'clock that morning; and he instantly
saw that his darling girl was in peril. The name of the paper from which
Mr. Beeminster had read the account of the murder was being called in
the street by a newspaper boy, and Fred darted out and purchased a copy.
After perusing the report he remained quiet for a minute or two, with
his head resting in his hand. "We must be calm, Aunt Leth," he said.
"There is in this paper the first notes of a terrible accusation against
our dear girl. It is due to Mrs. Pamflett's malice. She shall be
punished for it--she and her infamous son!"
"You will protect Phoebe!" implored Aunt Leth, laying her hand on
Fred's arm. "You will save her!"
"I will protect and save her. My poor Phoebe! my poor Phoebe! But
she will be able to clear up the mystery, although she may not lead us
immediately to the discovery of the actual murderer. She can give us an
explanation of her own movements. What has she told you, Aunt Leth?"
"I have not got one sensible word from her, Fred, since she came home."
"What does the doctor say?"
"That she must be kept quiet. He is coming again this evening."
"I must see her, if only for a moment. I will not agitate her, but it is
imperative that we learn something from her which will enable us to act.
Take me to her, Aunt Leth."
Aunt Leth recognized the reasonableness of Fred's request, and she led
him upstairs to the bedroom. Fanny was there, her eyes red with weeping.
"Has she spoken, Fanny?" asked Aunt Leth. "Has she said anything?"
"Only one word, mamma. Oh, Fred, isn't this dreadful! There, mamma, that
is all she says--'Father! father!'"
"Go out of the room for a little while, Fanny," said Fred Cornwall.
"You can return when we leave." And then to Aunt Leth, when Fanny was
gone, "Does Fanny know of Mr. Beeminster's visit?"
"She knows nothing, Fred," replied Aunt Leth.
It required a supreme effort on Fred's part to control his agitation as
he gazed upon the white pitiful face of his dear girl. Her body was
quite still, but her head tossed from side to side on the pillow, and in
her distressful moans there could be distinguished but one
word--"Father! father! father!" repeated incessantly.
"Phoebe!" whispered Fred, bending over her.
"She recognizes no one, Fred," whispered Aunt Leth; "not even me or
Fanny."
They remained with the suffering girl for a quarter of an hour, and then
they stole softly from her bedside and went down-stairs. Fred was very
grave; he realized that his dear one was in no light peril.
"Mr. Beeminster set a man to watch the house," said Aunt Leth, pointing
to the window.
Fred looked out, and then, saying he would not be gone a minute, left
the house.
"There is a man watching also at the back of the house," he said, when
he returned.
"Oh, Fred," cried Aunt Leth, "what does it all really mean?"
"The meaning is clear enough," replied Fred, and the concentrated
expression on his face showed how busily his mind was employed; "there
has been a suspicion of the horrible crime thrown upon the suffering
angel upstairs. If I were only Phoebe's lover, Aunt Leth, I should be
in a fury of rage at the wicked accusation; but I am her champion and
her defender, and I must keep my feelings well under control, or I shall
not be able to serve her. Some devilish plot has been invented, and we
must meet it. Phoebe, by her actions last night and this morning, even
by the state in which she now lies, unfortunately gives some colour to
the vile, infernal accusation. Everything depends upon coolness. Such
strange cases are being daily brought to light that the public are ready
to believe anything. Now tell me: what was Phoebe's motive in leaving
last night for Parksides without first letting you know?"
"I can only guess at it, Fred; but I am sure it is the truth. We were
in the most dreadful trouble--I thought nothing worse could happen to
us, but I was mistaken; this is a thousand times more terrible!"
"Don't give way, Aunt Leth. Remember what I said: everything depends
upon coolness. I know of your trouble, and that you are, thank God! out
of it; it was a money trouble, and the money is paid."
"Yes, Fred; but how did you know?"
"Never mind; go on about Phoebe."
"We were sitting in the dark, talking and mourning over it. My husband
was in despair. There was only one way to prevent ruin, and that was to
obtain a sum of money at once--it was three hundred pounds, Fred; a
fortune--and we saw no way. So we sat talking, and trying to console
each other. Suddenly I missed Phoebe; she had left the room so quietly
that we did not observe it. A little while afterward 'Melia Jane told us
that she had met Phoebe, who had given her a message to us that she
had gone to Parksides to see her father. There was but one reason for
her doing this; it was to try and obtain the money from her father that
would prevent us being turned into the streets. She must have left us
just as my husband was saying that as he walked to the bank he had a
dream of hope, and that an angel had come forward to save us. Then, I
suppose, the idea occurred to our dear girl to go to her father and
entreat him to help us. If she had spoken to me first, I should have
convinced her of the impossibility of her errand meeting with success."
"You have placed the right construction upon her leaving unknown to you.
She felt that if you suspected her intention she would be unable to
carry it out. When you put her to bed this morning did you search her
pockets?"
"Yes, Fred; and I hoped to find something that would clear up the
mystery. I found nothing."
"You found something," said Fred. "Her handkerchief, her purse?"
"Yes, of course, those; and her gloves."
"She was not wearing them, then?"
"No."
"Was there any money in her purse?"
"Not one penny, Fred."
"I hear 'Melia Jane's step on the stairs; I must have a word with her."
He went to the door and called the girl, who entered the room. "I want
to ask you a question or two," he said to her. "In answering me do not
say a word you are not certain of."
"I won't, Mr. Cornwall," said 'Melia Jane.
"When you met Miss Phoebe last night did she seem very much agitated?"
"Very much, Mr. Cornwall. More nor I can express. She was crying, but
she didn't want me to see. She tried to keep her face from me."
"You did not attempt to stop her? You asked her no questions?"
"Lor', Mr. Cornwall, she didn't give me time to get out a single word!
She said what she had got to say, and she ran away like lightning."
"Did she wear a veil?"
"Yes, Mr. Cornwall, she did. The veil that man as come 'ere this
afternoon showed me, and arksed me whether Miss Phoebe wore it last
night when she went away. 'Owever he got 'old of it is more than I can
guess."
"When he asked you whether Miss Phoebe wore the veil, what did you
say?"
"I sed, yes, she did. And he showed me a brooch, and wanted to git me to
say that she wore that last night; but I didn't, because I ain't seen
that brooch on Miss Phoebe for a long time."
"You could swear," said Fred, eagerly, "that she did not wear a brooch
when you saw her last night?"
"No, Mr. Cornwall, I couldn't swear that. I could swear I didn't see
it--that's all. But I could swear to the veil."
Fred bit his lip. "If any man you don't know asks you any further
questions about Miss Phoebe, do not answer him."
"I won't, Mr. Cornwall; they sha'n't pump me. That feller tried to, but
he didn't git very much."
"He got enough," thought Fred, and said aloud, "That will do, 'Melia
Jane; you can go. And now, Aunt Leth, quite apart from the statement
which Mrs. Pamflett gave the reporters, it is proved that Phoebe was
at Parksides last night. How did she get there?"
"I really can't say, Fred. I think she must have been too late for the
last train."
"Have you an 'A B C' in the house?"
"No."
"I must see at what time the last train starts. Do you think she came
back to London by the train this morning?"
"I don't know, Fred. Poor child! her feet were very much blistered."
"Good God! Surely she could not have walked!" He paced the room in great
excitement. "About the brooch, Aunt Leth? Can you fix any definite
time--any particular day--on which you last saw it in Phoebe's
possession?"
"No, Fred; but I am sure I haven't seen it for a good many weeks."
"That she has not worn it for a good many weeks?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"You could not swear she has not worn it?"
"No."
"You could not swear she did not wear it last night?"
"No. But it is scarcely likely, with her feelings toward that wretch
Mrs. Pamflett, that she would ever wear it after she was turned out of
her father's house. What I am saying seems to trouble you."
"It does trouble me. I pray that I may be wrong in my impressions, but I
fear that dark days are before us."
"If we speak the truth, Fred, there is nothing to fear."
"I am not so sure," said Fred, gloomily.
"But we _must_ speak the truth, Fred!"
"Yes; it must be spoken--by us at least."
"Your fears may be groundless, Fred."
"I am afraid not."
"All we can do is to hope for the best."
"Not at all, Aunt Leth. What we have to do is to work for the best.
Hoping never yet overcame a villainous plot. I must go now. There is
much to do. I shall be here again in the evening."