A DAUGHTER'S DUTIES.
Upon that day Jeremiah Pamflett, arrayed in a brand-new suit of clothes,
with a flower in his button-hole (copying Captain Ablewhite as the pink
of fashion), and carrying a bouquet of flowers for the girl whom he was
now to commence wooing openly, had the satisfaction, while sitting in
the railway carriage which was to convey him to Parksides, of seeing her
and her friends hurry on to the platform just as the signal was given
for the departure of the train. They had had the misfortune to get into
a growler, the driver of which, in addition to crawling to the railway
station at the rate of three miles an hour, stopped on the road to
exchange the reverse of urbanities with a rival cabby who had excited
his ire. Fred's urgent requests to the driver to get along quickly, so
that they might catch the train, were received with supreme
indifference; he was an old hand, and insisted upon having his little
joke, the consequence of which was that they arrived too late, and had
to wait three-quarters of an hour for the next train. It was no serious
trouble to Fred. A house, a railway station, a barn, England,
Timbuctoo--they were all the same to him so long as Phoebe was with
him.
Jeremiah rushed to his mother with the news.
"What does it mean?" he asked.
"Don't trouble yourself," said Mrs. Pamflett. "Perhaps it is all for the
best."
"You talk like a fool," snarled Jeremiah, who was never happier than
when he had some one to bully. "How can it be all for the best?"
"It will bring matters to a head, Jeremiah. It is much better for our
enemies to work in the light than in the dark. You have nothing to fear.
Miser Farebrother and I had a conversation to-day about you. He told me
that everything was settled, and that you and Phoebe were to be
married. He is very ill and frightened. The doctor told him if he wasn't
very careful he would die. He has been moaning and groaning ever since.
'You mustn't think,' the doctor said to him, 'of stirring out of the
house.'"
"Ah!" said Jeremiah, with a sigh of relief, "that is good. Anything
more? And was there any special reason for the doctor giving him that
caution?"
"It came," said Mrs. Pamflett, "through his expressing a wish to go to
London."
"What for?" said Jeremiah, his face growing very white.
"I can't tell you," replied Mrs. Pamflett; "except it was to look after
the business."
"To pry into what I am doing! Let him be careful, or it will be the
worse for him!"
"Jeremiah!"
"Don't 'Jeremiah' me! I won't stand it! What do I care for that--that
image? Do you think I will have him come spying into my affairs? Let him
look to himself--that's all I've got to say."
"At any rate," said Mrs. Pamflett, whose face had grown as white as her
son's, "he can't leave Parksides."
"You take care that he doesn't--that's what you've got to see to. If he
gets any better, make it impossible for him to leave."
"Jere--!" But a warning look from her son prevented her from getting
farther with his name. Then she wrung her hands, and cried, "Oh! what
are you doing--what are you doing?"
From fever-heat he went down to zero. "What do you think I am doing?"
"I don't know what to think, Jeremiah. You frighten me!"
He did not speak for a moment or two, and in her agony of impatience she
cried, "Why don't you answer me?"
"I am puzzling my head to find out," he said, frigidly, "why I have
frightened you." He suddenly changed his tone, and spoke with warmth.
"Just you mind what I say, mother. What I choose to tell you, I'll tell
you; what I choose to keep to myself, I'll keep to myself. I'm on the
road to a great fortune--a glorious fortune; and I'm not going to miss
it. I've made a discovery, and if I'm idiot enough to blurt it out,
everything will be spoiled. Besides, you wouldn't understand it. Can't
you be satisfied? I'm working for you as well as for myself. Do you want
to go on slaving here all your life, instead of being mistress of a fine
house of your own, with servants and horses and carriages, and the best
people in the country bowing down to you? Take your choice. But mind, if
anything's got to be done to bring this all about--I don't care whether
it is you or I who's got to do it--done it must be. If I'm lucky, you
shall share my luck. If I'm unlucky--Well, now, what have you got to say
to that?"
"Jeremiah," she answered, and he did not reprove her, because he was too
intent upon her response, "there's nothing in the world I wouldn't do
for you."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing. What should I be but for you? What would the world be to me
but for you? If you were in danger, and I could save you by--"
He put his fingers upon her lips, and looked fearsomely around.
"That will do," he said.
Then he kissed her, and she threw her arms passionately around his neck,
and pressed him close to her breast.
Half an hour afterward she went up to Miser Farebrother's room.
"Are you any better? Do you feel any stronger?"
"No. Why do you ask? Why do you intrude when you're not wanted?"
"Your daughter has come home."
"What of that?"
"Her aunt is with her."
"Send her away. I will not see her. Tell her I am too ill to see
anybody."
"Mr. Cornwall is with her."
His fretfulness vanished; he became calm and cool and collected.
"Mr. Cornwall the lawyer?"
"Yes."
"Has he asked to see me?"
"He has come for that purpose."
"And Phoebe's aunt too?"
"Yes."
"Did you tell them I am ill?"
"Yes."
"And they insist upon seeing me?"
"Yes." It was not the truth, but she did not hesitate. She had said
nothing to Mrs. Lethbridge and Fred Cornwall about Miser Farebrother's
illness.
He considered awhile before he spoke again.
"Your son knew that my daughter was coming home to-day?"
"Yes, he did; and he is here to see her, as you wished. He obeys your
lightest word."
"Send him to me; and five minutes afterward show my daughter and her
fine friends into the room."
Jeremiah entered with his usual obsequiousness and deference. It
afforded him inward satisfaction to note how ill the miser looked, but
he did not allow the expression of this feeling to appear on his face.
On the contrary, he said, "I am glad to see you looking so much better,
sir."
"Am I really looking better, Jeremiah?" asked Miser Farebrother, eager
to seize the slenderest hope. "Really better?"
"Indeed you are, sir. Be careful, and in a short time you'll be quite
your old self again."
"Never that; never that, I'm afraid," groaned Miser Farebrother. "It has
gone too far--too far!"
"Not at all, sir," said Jeremiah, with lugubrious cheerfulness. "You are
frightening yourself unnecessarily. We all do when the least thing ails
us. If my little finger aches, I think I am going to die."
"It is hard, it is wicked, that a man should have to die. I have read of
an elixir a few drops of which would make an old man young. If I only
knew where it was to be obtained--where it was to be bought!"
"I wish I knew where, sir," said Jeremiah. "I would get you a bottle."
"And one for yourself, eh, Jeremiah?"
"Yes, sir! I shouldn't object. The idea of death isn't pleasant."
"Then don't let us think of it," said the miser, with a doleful shake of
his head; and then, more briskly, "at all events, while I live I will do
what I have set my mind to. I may live fifty years yet. There's old
Parr: why shouldn't I be such another? Those people down-stairs, who are
waiting and longing for me to go--it would drive them to frenzy if they
thought there was any chance of my out-living them."
"Miss Phoebe's friends, sir?"
"Yes, my daughter's friends. I have sent for them here. Did you bring
those flowers for her?"
"Yes, sir."
"Put them on the table. Take your seat there. Open the books, and seem
as if you are doing the accounts. And speak no word till I give you the
cue."
Mrs. Pamflett, delaying longer than she was instructed to do, had
allowed ample time for this conversation to take place. Ten or twelve
minutes elapsed before she conducted Phoebe and her friends to Miser
Farebrother's room. They were somewhat discomposed to discover Jeremiah
Pamflett at the table; he took no notice of them, however, but with his
head bent down, pretended to be very busy with his accounts.
Undoubtedly there was a great change in Miser Farebrother's appearance.
Traces of sickness and suffering were plainly visible in his cadaverous
face; and Phoebe, whose heart was beating with love and hope and fear,
glided to his side and put her lips to his.
"Good child, good child!" he said, passing his arm round her, and
holding her tight to him. "My only child, the only tie that binds me to
life!"
"Dear father!" exclaimed Phoebe, softly, embracing him again. His
voice was so kind and so charged with pain that the fear which had
troubled her that he might not approve of Fred vanished, and loving
sympathy took its place.
"You will not leave me, Phoebe?"
"No, father."
"I have missed you sadly, my child! You see how ill I am. I need your
care and help--you can do so much for me. My own child! All others are
strangers."
"I will do what lies in my power, father."
"You put new life into me. Don't stir from my side. Your arm round my
neck like this; it strengthens me, gives me courage, infuses vigour into
my weak frame." Had she wished to move away from him she could not have
done so, he held her so tight. All this time he had taken no notice of
Aunt Leth or Fred Cornwall; he had purposely prolonged the little scene
out of pure maliciousness toward them. But now he looked up and fixed
his eye upon them.
"Sister-in-law, it is kind and unselfish of you to bring my daughter
back to me. Had you known I was ill you would have brought her home
earlier."
"Certainly I should," said Aunt Leth, gently.
"Suffering as I am, sister-in-law, this is my daughter's proper place."
"Yes."
But her heart sank as she spoke the word.
"You are the happy mother of children," continued Miser Farebrother,
"and should be able to set me right--if by chance I should happen to be
wrong--in the views I have formed of certain matters. I rely upon your
judgment. What is a daughter's first duty to her parents?"
"Love."
"Good! Thus love becomes a duty--a duty to be performed even though it
clash with other feelings. You hear, Phoebe. You are ready to perform
a daughter's duty?"
"I love you, father," said Phoebe; but her voice was troubled; a vague
fear oppressed her once more--a fear she could not define or explain.
"Dear child! I have no doubt of that. Your sainted mother lives again in
you. Sister-in-law, there is another duty which a daughter owes to her
parents."
"There are many others," responded Aunt Leth.
"But one especially, which I will name, in case it may not occur to you.
Obedience."
"Yes," said Aunt Leth, faintly; "obedience."
"These duties, which are your due from your children, are not neglected
by them?"
"No, they are not."
"What a happy home must yours be!" exclaimed Miser Farebrother, with
enthusiasm. "And how glad I am to think that my child has learned from
you the lessons which you have taught your own bright children. You hear
what your aunt says, Phoebe? Love and obedience are a child's first
duties to her parents. Your sainted mother, from celestial
spheres"--there was a subtle mockery in his voice and eyes as he raised
the latter to the ceiling--"looks down and approves. And now, sir," he
said, turning to Fred Cornwall, "to what am I indebted for the favour of
a visit from you? It is the second time you have paid me the unsolicited
honour."
"I wish to have a few minutes' private conversation with you, sir," said
Fred. Hope was slipping from him, but he was prepared to play a manly
part.
"I cannot give you a private interview," said Miser Farebrother. "If you
have anything to say to me, you can say it now and here. I'll wager you
will not be in want of words."
"Father!" whispered Phoebe, entreatingly, but he purposely ignored
her.
Fred Cornwall pointed to Jeremiah Pamflett. "As it is your wish, sir, I
will say what I have to say before your daughter and her aunt. Perhaps
you will ask this gentleman to retire."
"Perhaps I will do nothing of the kind. This young gentleman, Mr.
Jeremiah Pamflett, is an old and trusted friend; you are neither one nor
the other. Proceed to your business at once, or leave me."
"Let me beg of you--" said Aunt Leth.
He interrupted her with a touch of his caustic humour. "Do not beg of
me, sister-in-law; it will be useless; I have nothing to give. Do you
intend to speak, sir? You perceive I am not in a fit state to be
harassed."
"You leave me no choice, sir. I love your daughter, and she--"
"Stop!" cried Miser Farebrother. "My daughter will speak for herself
when she and I are alone. I will not allow you to refer to her."
"But it is necessary, sir," said Fred, respectfully and firmly, "because
I am here with her permission."
"Necessary or not, according to your thinking--which is not mine--I will
not allow you to refer to her. My house is my own, and I am master in
it; let me remind you of that."
"I will do as you wish, sir," said Fred, not daring to look at Phoebe,
whose head, bowed upon her breast, was an indication of the agony she
was suffering. "I love your daughter, and I come to ask you for her
hand. I will do all that a man--"
"Yes, yes," interrupted the miser, testily, "we know all that: the old
formula. Is that all you have come here for?"
"Is not that enough, sir?"
"Too much. My daughter has other views--I also. I forbid you to speak,
Phoebe. Remember the oath you swore upon your dead mother's Bible! Mr.
Cornwall, I refuse what you ask. With my permission you will never marry
my daughter. Without it, she well knows such an event is impossible,
unless she commits perjury. You have not a deep acquaintance with me,
sir; but the knowledge of human nature you must have gained as a lawyer
will convince you that nothing can turn me from a resolution I have
formed, more especially from a resolution in which vital interests are
involved--_my_ vital interests! My daughter's hand is promised to my
manager, Mr. Jeremiah Pamflett."
"Oh, Phoebe!" cried Aunt Leth, with quivering lips and overbrimming
eyes. "My poor, poor Phoebe!"
"Spare your heroics," said Miser Farebrother; "we know the value of
them. My daughter will give me what she owes me--love and obedience." He
rang the bell, and Mrs. Pamflett instantly appeared. "Show these people
the door," he said to her; "and if they venture to present themselves
here again, send for a policeman and have them locked up. Jeremiah, give
my daughter your love-offering."
With a face of triumph Jeremiah started from his chair, and advanced
toward Phoebe, holding the flowers for her acceptance.
"Look up, Phoebe," said Miser Farebrother, sternly.
She raised her head, and with a blind look of anguish at her aunt and
Fred, stretched forth her trembling arms, as though imploring them to
save her. Then her strength gave way, and she fell senseless to the
ground.