CHIEFLY CONCERNING FANNY.
Of all Phoebe's friends and well-wishers there was only one who did
not openly share in the joy occasioned by her release. Congratulations
poured in from all sides, even from strangers at a distance, whose
letters of sympathy were delivered by smiling postmen at Aunt Leth's
house at least half a dozen times a day. Phoebe's escape from her
dread peril was, indeed, universally hailed with thankfulness and
gratitude. Everybody was glad; the newspapers found in it a fruitful
theme for grave disquisition; and Phoebe became a heroine in the best
and sweetest sense of the term. As for Uncle Leth's day-dreams, as he
walked to his bank in the morning and home from his day's labours in the
evening, imagination could not excel them in delightfulness. Sunshine
reigned in his home and in the hearts of all he loved.
The one friend who held aloof was Tom Barley. No person was more
profoundly grateful than he at the proclamation of Phoebe's innocence;
but he contracted a horror of himself as being the principal cause of
his dear young mistress's sufferings. All appeals to him to soften this
hard judgment were vain; he would scarcely listen to them, and when,
against his will, he was compelled to do so, they had no effect upon
him.
"It ain't a bit of good speaking to me," he said, moodily; "I don't
deserve to live. And I shouldn't care to but for one thing."
That one thing was a fierce burning desire to bring Jeremiah Pamflett
and his wicked mother to justice. For, strange to say, all the vigilance
of the police had proved fruitless; the wretches were still at liberty,
and not the slightest clue to their hiding-place had been discovered. A
month had passed since Phoebe's release, and they had successfully
evaded pursuit. It was believed by some that they had escaped from the
country; but Tom Barley held a different opinion. He was still in the
force--a capable, faithful public servant, zealous and judicious in the
performance of his duties, and regarded with esteem by his superiors;
but a blight had fallen upon his life--a blight which he felt would not
be removed until, through him, and through him alone, justice was
satisfied. This idea grew into a kind of disease in him. It seemed as if
he could exist without sleep. When not on duty he was indefatigable in
hunting up clues, in making secret inquiries, in keeping watch in
out-of-the-way places for the monsters of iniquity at whose door a
double murder lay. He took no person into his confidence; he would
accept no assistance; and he devoted every spare minute to the design
upon which he had set his heart. His friends did not relinquish their
efforts to woo him to a more peaceful and better frame of mind.
Accompanied by Fred Cornwall, Phoebe went to him, and begged him not
to torment himself with self-reproach. He listened to her in silence,
with head bent down.
"Will you not speak to me, Tom?" she asked, imploringly.
"What can I say?" was his humble response. "How can I hope that you will
ever forgive me?"
"But there is nothing to forgive, Tom," she said, sweetly, holding out
her hand.
"It is like you to say so," he replied, "and it makes it all the worse
for me."
"I never knew you to be unkind to me before, Tom," she said.
He turned away from her, and would not accept her hand. Fred Cornwall
followed him, and said,
"You should not make her suffer, Tom; you are inflicting great pain upon
the sweetest lady in the world."
"She is that, sir," said Tom, "and more. If I could die at her feet to
save her a minute's pain I'd be glad to do it. Look here, sir; when I
bring two devils to justice I'll ask her to forgive me; but not till
then!"
'Melia Jane tried her arts upon him, and even waylaid him one night in a
quiet corner, with a pack of cards in her hands, with which she begged
to be allowed to tell his fortune; but he was adamant. Nevertheless, his
friends would not desert him.
"He is too good a fellow to be lost sight of," said Fred Cornwall;
"we'll win him back to us yet."
There was a bright future before Fred and his dear girl. Miser
Farebrother had died without a will, and Phoebe came into possession
of the property he left behind him. Investigation proved that it had
been tampered with by Jeremiah Pamflett, but a competence was saved from
the wreck. The greatest happiness Phoebe derived from this was that it
enabled her to assist Aunt and Uncle Leth out of their difficulties.
Happy were the evenings spent in the old home in Camden Town. Affairs
were prospering with Fred Cornwall in the exercise of his profession.
Events had brought his name into prominence, and briefs were flowing in.
In a great measure he had Dick Garden to thank for this better turn in
his fortunes. This astute young fellow would not take all the credit to
himself of setting justice right; he made it public that it was due
equally to his friend Fred, and both of them were on the high-road to
fame. Fred seldom made his appearance in Aunt Leth's house without Dick,
who seemed to find therein some great attraction. The strange and solemn
experiences of the last few weeks had made Fanny Lethbridge quieter and
less lively than of old; but occasionally flashes of her pleasant,
saucy humour peeped out, to the delight of all, and especially to the
delight of Dick Garden, who generally contrived to obtain a seat next to
her. It was too soon for teasing to commence, else Bob, who was
suspected of having a second or third love affair on hand, might have
ventured retaliation upon his sister, and, judging from what was
stirring in Fanny's heart, he would assuredly have had the best of it.
For the present, however, she was spared; the spirit of tender, grateful
love which reigned in the happy home was too profound even for innocent
jest. Doubtless, however, the time would come when the merry equilibrium
would be restored.
"Fred," said Dick Garden, as they were walking home one night from the
Lethbridges', "when are you and Miss Farebrother going to get married?"
"Not settled yet," replied Fred; "nothing said about it. We must let
some nine or ten months pass, I suppose."
"About this time next year, perhaps?"
"Yes; or a little earlier if I can bring it about. Thinking of anything
particular, Dick?"
"Yes, old fellow."
"In connection with our wedding?"
"Well--partly."
"With weddings generally, then?"
"Not generally, Fred, specifically. Of course a fellow doesn't know
anything yet."
"Of course not," said Fred, smiling. "Shall I guess a name?"
"Try."
"Fanny?"
"Yes, Fanny," said Dick Garden, and then there was a little pause.
"Fred, you have known them a long time?"
"I have."
"Good people?"
"The best, the sweetest, the most faithful and devoted. Would to Heaven
the world was filled with such!"
"I am with you there. But what I want to ask you is about Miss
Lethbridge."
"Fanny? Yes."
"I don't wish you to betray family secrets, old fellow; but she is such
a lovely girl--"
"She is."
"With so beautiful a nature that she could not fail to have
attracted--you know what I mean, Fred; I am putting it rather lamely."
"An attachment?"
"Yes; but _you_ put it somewhat coarsely."
"Didn't mean to, Dick. Quite right that you should be sensitive.
Attracted? Rather! A dozen at least have sighed for her, and sighed in
vain."
"Why?"
"Not the right ones, Dick. If there is one quality above another which
distinguishes Fanny it is genuineness. A more genuine girl doesn't
breathe. Dick, to be admitted upon terms of intimacy with that family is
a privilege."
"I esteem it such. Not the right ones, Fred? Of course that must be the
reason."
"It is. Where she gives her hand she will give her heart. They go
together--both or none."
"Do you think--that is, have you any sort of idea--that she has met the
right one at last?"
"Seriously, Dick? In perfect faith and honour?"
"Seriously, Fred. In perfect faith and honour."
"Dick, old boy," said Fred, earnestly, "I _have_ a sort of idea that she
has."
"You are a shrewd fellow, Fred--you have a trick of observation. You
know what I mean?"
"I do, Dick."
"Well, then, good luck to us!"
The month was November; a fog was gathering; a light mist was
dissolving, and falling cold and chill; but Dick Garden was glowing from
within. As he was buttoning his coat a man brushed past them, and Fred
caught a glimpse of his face.
"A moment, Dick," he said, hurriedly, "that is Tom Barley. I must have a
word with him."
He hastened after Tom, and accosted him.
"It _is_ you, Tom. Have you any news?"
"None, sir--that is, none that I can speak of. Don't stop me, please; I
haven't a minute to spare." These words came straggling from Tom's lips,
and in his anxiety he seemed to be hardly aware of what he was saying.
"Am I mistaken in the idea that you have heard something?" asked Fred.
"No, sir, you are not mistaken. I am on their track."
"As you have been before, Tom?"
"That's true, sir," said Tom, with a sigh; "as I have been before."
"Can I assist you?"
"No, sir; nor any one. What I do I'll do single-handed." He wrenched
himself free. "Good-night, sir."
"Only another word, Tom. Have you any message for Miss Phoebe? She
told me, if I met you, to give you her love."
"Did she, sir? She's an angel of goodness. Any message, sir? Yes,
this--if I don't live to accomplish what I've set my life upon, if I
don't live to ask her forgiveness myself, to think of me kindly
sometimes as a man who would gladly have died for her!"
He darted away, and was lost in the mist. Fred gazed thoughtfully after
him, and then he rejoined Garden.
"There goes an honest, suffering man," he said; "thorough to the
backbone. He has inflicted a martyrdom upon himself, and is following a
will-o'-the-wisp."
But the events of the next few hours were destined to prove that Fred
Cornwall was in error.