A SACRED PROMISE--WON BY GUILE.
Upon the happy musings of the lovers came a harsh interruption. They
turned and saw Miser Farebrother and Jeremiah.
"I have been looking for you, Phoebe," said the miser; "and so has
Jeremiah."
"Your flowers, miss," said Jeremiah, offering them.
With her father's eye upon her, she could not choose but take them.
"You sent me back for them, you know," said Jeremiah. "I should have
brought them before, but for--"
"But for my calling to him," interrupted Miser Farebrother, "upon a
matter of business. I am pleased that your friends have enjoyed
themselves. You have had a pleasant birthday, Phoebe?"
"Very pleasant, father; I shall never forget it. Father, this is Mr.
Cornwall, who brought me the presents I showed you."
"I trust you will excuse me," said Fred, gazing with interest at
Phoebe's father, "for intruding myself. But Miss Farebrother and I
have met so often at Mrs. Lethbridge's house that I thought I might
venture."
"All my daughter's friends," said Miser Farebrother, in his blandest
tone, "are welcome here. A very charming family, the Lethbridges."
"Indeed they are," said Fred, warmly.
"We have met but seldom," said Miser Farebrother, "and I was just
expressing my regret that we did not see each other oftener."
"Oh, father!" said Phoebe, in a grateful voice, gliding to his side.
There was no discordant note in his speech; he looked kindly upon her;
and he had met Fred Cornwall in a spirit of friendliness. Her cup of
happiness was full to overflowing.
"Perhaps Mr. Cornwall will give me his address," said Miser Farebrother.
"I may ask him to decide some knotty point of law for me."
Fred Cornwall drew forth his card-case with alacrity, and handed a card
to the miser.
"You will excuse me now," said Miser Farebrother; "I am by no means
well, and I must go in-doors and rest. Remain with your friends,
Phoebe; Jeremiah will assist me to my room. Come in and wish me
good-night, Phoebe, before you retire."
"Yes, father, I will."
He smiled amiably, and saying "Good evening, Mr. Cornwall," departed,
clinging to Jeremiah's arm. Jeremiah was not at all in a good humour; he
would have preferred to be left behind with Phoebe, and he said as
much to his master.
"Be wise, be wise, Jeremiah," said Miser Farebrother, in response to
this complaint. "You are but a novice with these people. Take a lesson
from me, and learn to wait with patience. Before a good general strikes
a blow, he lays his plans, and satisfies himself that everything is in
order. Do I know how to act, eh? Have I already entangled and confused
them, or have I not? I shall be a subject of discussion among them. 'He
was flinging stones at us all the time he was speaking,' the Lethbridges
will say. 'He said the most sarcastic things.' Who will defend me? The
sharp lawyer, Mr. Cornwall, and, better than all, my daughter Phoebe.
'You are mistaken,' she will say; 'I am sure you are mistaken. He has
been kindness itself; you do not understand him.' Then she will appeal
to Mr. Cornwall, and ask him whether I did not speak in the most
beautiful way of her aunt and uncle, and he will be able to make but one
answer. That will silence them; they won't have a word to say for
themselves. Ha, ha! I am really enjoying the game."
He kept Jeremiah with him until the Lethbridges and Fred Cornwall were
gone, and then sent him back to London, bidding him not to take the same
train as Phoebe's relatives.
It was between ten and eleven o'clock when Phoebe received a message
from her father, through Mrs. Pamflett, bidding her come to him and wish
him good-night. Phoebe had been sitting at the open window of her
bedroom, musing upon the happy day fast drawing to an end. A tender
light bathed the grounds of Parksides, and seemed to the happy girl to
be an omen of the future--a future of love and peace. The soft breeze
kissed her, and whispered to her of love; the silence of nature was
eloquent with the immortal song; a tremulous joy possessed her soul. "He
loves me! he loves me! he loves me!" This was the song sung by her
heart, bringing light to her eyes, blushes to her cheeks, and causing
her, from a very excess of joy, to hide her face in her hands. "How
sweet, how beautiful is the world!" she said only to herself. "How good
everybody is to me!" She rose from these musings to attend her father.
Mrs. Pamflett accompanied her to the door of his apartment.
"Good-night," she said to the young girl.
"Good-night, Mrs. Pamflett," said Phoebe; "and thank you for all you
have done to-day."
"I am glad you are pleased with me. May I call you Phoebe?"
"Yes, if you like."
"May I kiss you?"
"Yes," said Phoebe, with a bright look; and she received and returned
the kiss.
"This is the commencement of a happy time for you, Phoebe." She had
heard from her son all the particulars of the agreement entered into by
him and Miser Farebrother.
Phoebe glanced shyly at her, and thought, "Does she know about Mr.
Cornwall? Does everybody know?" She answered Mrs. Pamflett's remark
aloud: "I am sure it is. Oh, Mrs. Pamflett, I _am_ happy--very, very
happy!"
"I am delighted to hear you say so. Good-night again, Phoebe."
"Good-night, Mrs. Pamflett."
When she was in her father's room, with the door closed, what reason had
Phoebe to suppose that Mrs. Pamflett was crouching down outside, to
catch what passed between Miser Farebrother and his daughter?
"Come and sit beside me, Phoebe," said Miser Farebrother. "So--the
birthday is over?"
"Nearly over, father."
"And your friends have gone away contented?"
"Yes, father."
"Those flowers look well in your dress. What flowers are they? Ah, I
see--white daisies and roses. Who gave you the daisies?"
"A poor friend in the village sent them to me." Knowing that her father
was incensed against Tom Barley, she did not dare to mention his name.
"And the roses, Phoebe?"
"Mr. Cornwall gave them to me," said Phoebe, timidly.
"Can you spare me one?"
She gave it to him gladly, and he stuck it in his coat. Phoebe's heart
beat quick. Every sign that came to her was in harmony with its
throbbing.
"I am sorry for your sake, Phoebe, that I am not younger and
stronger."
"Dear father! I grieve that you suffer so! If I only knew what to do to
make you well!"
"That is spoken like a dutiful child. All that you can do is not to
worry me--not to give me pain."
"Indeed, indeed, father," said Phoebe, earnestly, "I will never do
that!"
"You are a good girl. It is strange that it was only the other day I
suddenly discovered you were a woman. The change brings other changes;
and I, your father, must not be blind to the fact. Why, Phoebe," he
said, gaily, "it is more than likely that one day you will marry!"
Phoebe hung her head. "You blush!--as your dear mother used to blush
when she and I were talking of love. I did my best to make her happy.
She died too soon for you and me!" He sighed, and paused a moment. "And
now, Phoebe, I am both mother and father to you."
"Yes, dear father."
"I have only one wish in life, Phoebe--your happiness: and we must
bring it about. It has happened sometimes that you have not seen me in a
right light; I have said things which may have laid me open to
misconstruction. They have not really come from my heart; I have been so
tortured with pain that I scarcely knew what I was saying. Will you
forgive me, Phoebe?"
"Dear father, I love you!"
"You are my own child, your sainted mother's child! Before she died she
spoke to me of the time when you would be a woman, and when changes were
before you. The duty you owed to her, you owe also to me."
"I shall never be wanting in it, father."
"You will marry--of course you will marry. You will ask for my consent,
like a dutiful, loving child?"
"I could not be happy without it, father," said Phoebe, in a low tone.
His voice was so benevolent, so imbued with concern for her happiness,
that her heart went out to him.
"That is a promise, my dear child?"
"Yes, dear father, it is a promise."
"That you will not marry without my consent. Phoebe, this loving
conversation is doing me good; it is better than all the doctors in the
world: I am feeling almost well." He folded her in his arms and kissed
her. "Why, what is this? A Prayer-book. Your mother's, my dear, which we
read together when we went to church. She is looking down upon us now;
she will guard you in your dreams to-night. Kiss this sacred book, my
child, and repeat what you have promised--that you will not marry
without my consent."
Without hesitation Phoebe took the book in her hand and kissed it,
saying, as she did so, "Dear father, I will never marry without your
consent." She laid the book upon the table, and burst into a flood of
happy tears.
"Good child, good child!" said Miser Farebrother--"your sainted mother's
child. Now go; I am exhausted. Good-night, Phoebe. May you have happy
dreams."
Phoebe tenderly embraced him, and went to her room, the happiest of
happy girls. While Miser Farebrother rubbed his hands, and muttered
gleefully, "Mr. Cornwall, my cunning lawyer, and my dear sister and
brother-in-law, I think I have scotched your little scheme." He went to
bed in a perfectly happy frame of mind. He had done a good night's work.
On a little table by Phoebe's bed were Fred Cornwall's and Tom
Barley's flowers. She kissed Fred's flowers before she blew out the
light, and even in the dark she drew them to her lips, and so fell
asleep with the roses at her breast.