THE NEW TENANTS ARRIVE, AND ONE DEPARTS.
At the appointed hour a cart drew up at the gates of Parksides, in
which, in addition to the driver, were Miser Farebrother and his wife
and child. Tom Barley was waiting for them, and he darted forward to
assist. Miser Farebrother alighted first, and receiving the child from
his wife, looked rather helplessly about him, Mrs. Farebrother not
being strong enough to alight without help.
"Can you hold a child?" asked Miser Farebrother of Tom Barley.
"Yes, your honour," replied Tom, eagerly; and he took the child, a
little girl scarcely two years old, and cuddled it close to him.
The mother looked anxiously at the lad, and the moment her feet touched
the ground she relieved him of the charge. The moonlight shone upon the
group, and Tom Barley gazed in wonder at the lady's beautiful face and
the pretty babe. Desiring Tom to assist the driver in the removal of
the necessary household articles he had brought with him in the cart,
Miser Farebrother led the way into the house, which they entered
through the door at the back. As he was lighting a candle, Mrs.
Farebrother sighed and shivered.
"It is very lonely," she murmured.
"It is very comfortable," he retorted; "a palace compared to the place
we have left. You will get well and strong here."
She shook her head, and said, in a tone so low that the words did not
reach her husband's ears, "I shall never get well."
"What is that you say?" he cried, sharply. She did not reply. "Instead
of grumbling and trying not to make the best of things," he continued,
"it would be more sensible of you to light the fire and make me a cup
of tea. Here's plenty of wood, and here's a fireplace large enough to
burn a ton of coals a day. I must see to that. Now bustle about a bit;
it will do you good. I am always telling you that you ought to be more
energetic and active."
"Is there no servant in the house?" she asked, wearily. She had taken
off her mantle, and having wrapped her child in it and laid her down,
was endeavouring to obey her husband's orders. "You said you had one."
"So I have, a man-servant. I engaged him expressly for you."
"The boy at the gate?"
"Yes; and here he is, loaded. That's right, Tom; be sharp and willing,
and you'll die a rich man."
Tom Barley was sharp enough to perceive that Mrs. Farebrother was too
weak for the work she was endeavouring to perform, and willing enough
to step to her assistance.
"May I light the fire?" he asked, timidly.
She nodded, and sinking into a chair, lifted her child from the floor
and nursed her. Seeing her thus engaged, and Tom busy on his knees,
Miser Farebrother ran out, and he and the driver between them carried
in the rest of the things, the most important being the miser's desk,
which he had conveyed at once to the bedroom above. His mind was easier
when he saw that precious depository in a place of safety.
Meanwhile Tom Barley was proving himself a most cheerful and capable
servant.
"When his honour told me," he whispered, "that he was coming here late
at night with you and the baby--a little girl, ain't it?--I thought it
would be chilly without a fire, so I cleaned out the fireplace and the
chimbley, and got a lot of wood together. There's plenty of it--enough
to last a lifetime. Don't you move, now; I can make tea. Used to make
mother's. Where's the things? In the basket? Yes; here they are. Here's
the kittle, and here's the tea, in a bloo' paper; and here's the
teapot; and here's two cups; and here's a bottle of milk and some
sugar. It's a blazing fire--ain't it? That's the best of dry wood. The
kittle'll bile in a minute--it's biling already!"
From time to time the delicate woman gave him a grateful look, which
more than repaid him, and caused him to double his exertions to make
her comfortable. By the time the tea was made, Miser Farebrother had
completed the removal of the goods, and had settled with the driver,
after a good deal of grumbling at the extortionate demand.
"You can go, Tom," he said to the lad. "Be up early in the morning and
make the fire."
"Good-night, your honour."
"Did you hear me tell you to go?" exclaimed Miser Farebrother.
Tom Barley received a kind look from Mrs. Farebrother as he left the
room, and he went away perfectly happy.
In another hour the house was quiet and the light extinguished. Miser
Farebrother was in secure possession of Parksides, and he fell asleep
in the midst of a calculation of how much money he would save in rent
in the course of the next twenty years. Other calculations also ran
through his head in the midst of his fitful slumbers--calculations of
figures and money, and interest, and sharp bargains with needy men,
clients he was bleeding to his own profit. No thought in which figures
and money did not find a place did he bestow upon the more human aspect
of his life, in which there was to be almost immediately an important
change.
Within a fort-night of her entrance into the desolate house Mrs.
Farebrother lay upon her death-bed. She had been weak and ailing for
months past, and the night's journey from London, no less than the deep
unhappiness which, since her marriage, had drawn the roses from her
cheeks and made her heart heavy and sad, now hastened her end. As she
lay upon the ancient stately bed from which she was never to rise, a
terrible loneliness fell upon her. Her darling child was by her side,
mercifully asleep; her husband was moving about the apartment; the
sunbeams falling through the window brought no comfort to the weary
heart--all was so desolate, so desolate! In a trembling voice she
called her husband to her.
"Well?" he asked.
"I must see my sister," she said.
"I will not have her," he cried. "You are well enough without her. I
will not have her here!"
"I am well enough--to die!" she murmured. "I must see my sister before
I go."
"You are frightening yourself unnecessarily," said Miser Farebrother,
fretfully. "You are always full of fancies, and putting me to expense.
You never had the slightest consideration for me--not the slightest.
You think of nobody but yourself."
"I am frightened of this place," she found strength to say. "I cannot,
I will not, die here alone! I must see my sister, I must see my
sister!"
Still he made no movement to comply with her request.
"If you do not send for her at once," said his wife, "I will get up and
go from the house and die in the roadway. God will give me strength to
do it. I must see my sister, I must see my sister!"
Awed, if not convinced, and fearful, too, lest any disturbance which it
was in his power to avoid might bring him into unfavourable notice, and
interfere with his cherished plans, he said, reluctantly, "I will send
for her."
"You are not deceiving me? You are not promising what you do not intend
to perform?"
"I will send for her, I tell you."
"If you do not," she said--and there was a firmness in her weak tones
which was not without its effect upon him--"misfortune will attend you
all the days of your life. Nothing you do will prosper."
He was superstitious, and believed in omens; and this sounded like a
prophecy, the warning of which he dared not neglect. His wife's eyes
followed him as he stepped to his desk and sat down and wrote.
Presently he left the room, and went in search of Tom Barley, to whom
he gave a letter, bidding him to post it in the village. Grumbling at
what he had done, he returned to his wife.
"Is my sister coming?" she asked.
"I have written to her," he replied. "Go to sleep and rest. You will be
better in the morning."
"Yes," she sighed, as she pressed her child close to her bosom, "I
shall be better in the morning. Oh, my sweet flower! my heart's
treasure! Guard her, gracious Lord! Make her life bright and happy--as
mine once promised to be! I could have given love for love; but it was
denied to me. Not mine the fault--not mine, not mine!"
The day waned, the evening shadows fell, and night came on. Upon a
table at some distance from the bed was one thin tallow candle, the
feeble flame of which flickered dismally. During the long weary hours
Mrs. Farebrother did not sleep; she dozed occasionally; but the
slightest sound aroused her. In her light slumbers she dreamt of
incidents in her happy girlhood before she was married--incidents
apparently trivial, but not really so because of the sweet evidences of
affection which made them memorable: a song, a dance, a visit to the
sea-side, a ramble in fragrant woods; innocent enjoyments from which
sprang fond imaginings never to be realized. Betweenwhiles, when she
was awake, the gloom of the room and the monstrous shadows thrown by
the dim light upon portions of the walls and ceilings distressed her
terribly, and she needed all her strength of mind to battle against
them. In these transitions of sensation were expressed all the
harmonies and discordances of mortal life. Bitter to her had been their
fruit!
An hour before midnight she heard the sound of carriage wheels without,
and she sat straight up in her bed from excitement, and then fell back
exhausted.
"It is my sister," she said, faintly, to her husband. "Let her come up
at once. Thank God, she is here in time!"
Her sister bent fondly and in great grief over her. Between these two
existed a firm and faithful affection, but the circumstances of Mrs.
Farebrother's marriage had caused them to see very little of each other
of late years.
"Attend to my darling Phoebe," whispered Mrs. Farebrother; "there is no
female servant in the house. Oh, I am so glad you have come before it
was too late!"
"Do not say too late, my dearest," said her sister; but her heart was
faint within her as she gazed upon the pallid face and the thin wasted
hands; "there are happy years before you."
"Not one, not one!" murmured Mrs. Farebrother.
"Why did you not send for me before?"
The dying woman made no reply, and her sister undressed little Phoebe,
and placed her in a cot by the mother's bedside. Then she smoothed the
sheets and pillows, and sat quietly, with her sister's hand in hers.
"It is like old times," murmured Mrs. Farebrother, wistfully. "You were
always good to me. Tell me, my dear--put your head close to mine--oh,
how sweet, how sweet! Were it not for my darling child I should think
that Heaven was shining upon me!"
"What is it you want to know, dear? You were about to ask me
something."
"Yes, yes. Tell me--are you happy at home?"
"Very happy."
"Truly and indeed?"
"Truly and indeed. We are not rich, but that does not matter."
"Your husband is good to you?"
"There is no one in the world like him; he is the best, the noblest,
the most unselfish of men!" But here, with a sudden feeling of remorse,
she stopped. The contrast between her bright home and the gloomy home
of her sister struck her with painful force; to speak of the joys of
the one seemed to accentuate the miseries of the other.
"Go on, dear," said Mrs. Farebrother, gently; "it does not hurt me,
indeed it does not; I have grown so used, in other homes, to what you
see around you here that custom has made it less bitter than it once
was. It makes me happy to hear of your happiness, and it holds out a
glad prospect that my dear child, when she grows up, may have a little
share in it."
"She shall, she shall; I promise it solemnly."
"Thank you, dear. So you must go on telling me of your good husband. He
is still in his bank?"
"Yes, dear; and hopes for a rise before long. He is always full of
hope, and that is worth a great deal--it means so much! He thinks of
nothing but his home, and those in it. He dotes upon the children."
"The dear children! Are they well and strong?"
"Yes, dear; and they grow prettier and prettier every day."
"You must kiss them fondly for me, and give them my dear love."
"I will be sure to. You must not talk any more just now; you are tired
out. Try and sleep."
"I think I shall be able. God bless you, dear!"
"God bless you, dearest!"
In a few moments, the tension of anxious watching and waiting being
over, Mrs. Farebrother slept. Her sister gazed at her solicitously and
mournfully. At such a time the cherished memories of old are burdened
with a sadness which weighs heavily upon the heart.
"She is not so ill as she fancies, is she?"
It was Miser Farebrother who spoke to her. She rose softly, and led him
from the bed, so that their conversation should not disturb the
sufferer.
"Why did you not send me a telegram instead of a letter?"
"A telegram!" he cried. "Do you think I am made of money?"
"I am not thinking of your money: I am thinking of my sister. What does
the doctor say?"
"The doctor!" he exclaimed. "I have none."
Gentle-natured as she was, she looked at him in horror.
"You have none--and my sister dying!"
"It is not true," he whined, thinking of the inconvenience such an
event would cause him; "it cannot be true. She was well a few days ago.
I cannot afford doctors. You are all in a conspiracy to rob me!"
"I was told as I came along that this great house is yours."
"Yes, it is--my property, my own."
"And a great deal of land around, and everything in the place."
"Yes, it is--all mine, all mine!" And then, with a sudden suspicion,
"Do you intend to dispute it?"
"Heaven forbid! What is it to do with me--except that when you speak of
ruin to me, and of not being able to afford a doctor, you are speaking
what is false. Why did you marry?"
"I don't know," he replied, wringing his hands, "I don't know. I ought
never to have done it. I ought to have lived alone, with nobody to keep
but myself."
"It would have been better for my poor sister. But she is your wife,
and I shall not allow her to suffer as she is suffering without seeking
medical assistance. I have never been in this neighbourhood, and know
nothing about it. Where is the nearest doctor?"
"I can't tell you; I am almost as much a stranger here as you are."
"There must be one not very far off. Who was the lad who opened the
door for me when I came to-night?"
"My servant, Tom Barley. What do you want him for? He is asleep by this
time. He has work to do the first thing in the morning."
"Where does he sleep?"
"Outside; in the stable."
"I shall find it. You must write a few words on paper for me."
"I'll do nothing of the sort. You shan't force me to put my name to
anything. Do you think I am not up to such tricks?"
"If you don't do as I say I will bring a lawyer here as well as a
doctor."
This woman possessed a sweet and gentle nature, and nothing but the
evidence of an overwhelming wrong could have so stirred it to
sternness. Miser Farebrother was terrified at the threat of bringing a
lawyer into the house; and as he had given way to his wife earlier in
the day, so now was he compelled by his fears to give way to her
sister. He wrote as she directed:
"Mr. Farebrother, of Parksides, urgently requests the doctor to come
immediately to his house to see Mrs. Farebrother, who, he fears, is
seriously ill."
He fought against two words--"urgently," because it might cause the
doctor to make a heavier charge; and "seriously," because a
construction that he had been neglectful might be placed on it. But his
sister-in-law was firm, and he wrote as she dictated.
"I will send the lad with it," said Miser Farebrother.
"I will send him myself," said his sister-in-law. "There must not be a
moment's delay."
There was no need for her to seek Tom Barley in the stable; he was
sitting up in the kitchen below.
She gave him the letter, and desired him to run as fast as he could to
the village and find a doctor, who was to come back with him. If the
doctor demurred, and wanted to put it off till the following day, he
was to be told that it was a matter of life and death.
Tom Barley was visibly disturbed when he heard this.
"Who is it, lady?" he asked. "His honour's wife, or the baby?"
"His wife. You're a kind-hearted lad, and won't waste a moment, will
you?"
"No, lady; trust me."
He was not above taking the sixpence she offered him, and he ran out of
the house like a shot.
Within the hour he was back with the doctor, whose looks were grave as
he examined his patient.
"There is hope, doctor?" said Mrs. Farebrother's sister. "Tell me there
is hope!"
He shook his head, and gently told her she must prepare for the worst.
"She is past prescribing for," he said. "I can do nothing for her. She
has been for some time in a decline."
The sentence being passed, she had no room in her heart for any other
feeling than pity for her dying sister. In the sunrise, when the sweet
air was infusing strength into fresh young life, the end came. Mrs.
Farebrother whispered to her sister that she wished to speak to her
husband alone. Thoroughly awed, he sat by her side. She made no
reference to the past; she uttered no reproaches. She spoke only of
their child, and begged him to be good to her. He promised all that she
asked of him.
"You will get some good woman into the house to take care of her?" she
said.
"Yes; I promise."
"And my sister must see her whenever she wishes to do so."
"Yes."
"And when our dear one is old enough and strong enough you will let her
go to my sister, and stop with her a little now and then? It will do
her good to mix with children of her own age."
"Yes; I promise."
"As you deal by her, so will you be dealt by. May Heaven prosper you in
all worthy undertakings! Kiss me. Let there be peace and forgiveness
between us."
He kissed her, and sat a little apart while she and her sister, their
cheeks nestling, exchanged their last words.
"Look after my treasure," whispered the mother.
"I will, dear, as tenderly and carefully as if she were one of my own."
"You must come here and see her sometimes; he has promised that you
may; and when she grows up you will let her come to you?"
"She will always be lovingly welcome. My home is hers if she should
ever need one."
"God bless you! May your life be prosperous and ever happy!"
Before noon she drew her last breath, and Parksides was without a
mistress.