JEREMIAH PAMFLETT'S OPINIONS OF GIRLS.
No more chivalrous knight than Tom Barley ever drew breath, but
notwithstanding his devotion to Phoebe, certain incontrovertible
conclusions had for some time past forced themselves upon him. A number
of men live to eat; a much larger number eat to live. Without reference
to his inclinations, Tom Barley's circumstances did not enable him to
do the former, and he found it exceedingly hard to do the latter.
Between him and Mrs. Pamflett existed an unconquerable antipathy. Being
of an independent order of mind, he was barely civil to her; and, as
she kept the key of the cupboard, she repaid him in full by either
throwing food to him as she would to a dog, or giving him none at all.
She tolerated him because he was useful to her in the way of chopping
wood and doing various odd jobs of a rough nature; but for this, she
would long ago have had him dismissed. Her son Jeremiah, who came
regularly to Parksides on Miser Farebrother's business, never failed to
put a spoke in Tom's wheel as he termed it; but his mother was
successful in mollifying him by recounting the hardships to which Tom
had to submit.
"He's little better than starved," she said to her son, "and he hasn't
a rag to his back."
"Serve him right," growled Jeremiah; "I'd like to see him hanged!"
He never forgot the beating he had received in the village, by the
instigation of Tom Barley, on the occasion of his first visit to
Parksides; and with him, never to forget was never to forgive. With
prudent care of his bones he steered clear of a collision with Tom, who
was strong enough to tackle half a dozen men such as he; but he would
gladly have seized an opportunity to do Tom an ill turn. Tom, the least
vindictive being that ever wore rags, had forgotten the incident years
ago, and would have met with civility any advances which Jeremiah might
have made to him; but as Miser Farebrother's managing clerk invariably
scowled at him when they happened to meet, he took refuge in silence
and avoidance. Jeremiah had made great strides since he first entered
the miser's service. He had mastered the intricacies and the rogueries
of the money-lending business, and was the sharpest of sharp
knaves--without feeling, without a heart, intent only upon his own
interests and the gratification of his own pleasures. It has already
been shown that he was lending money upon his own account; but this was
done without the cognizance of the miser, who would have strongly
resented such an encroachment upon his domain. Miser Farebrother would
have found it difficult--indeed, almost impossible--to get along now
without Jeremiah; the constant cramp in his bones, which had kept him
so frequently and for so long a time together a prisoner in Parksides,
grew worse instead of better, and Jeremiah had taken the fullest
advantage which these absences had offered to him. There were matters
of business which Jeremiah, and Jeremiah alone, could explain: sums of
money were owing which, without Jeremiah, could never have been
recovered; certain of the questionable transactions by means of which
Miser Farebrother had amassed wealth were entered and recorded in a
manner so peculiar that Jeremiah and no other person understood them.
He had played his cards apparently well. The question to be decided
was, where the game was going to lead him.
On the Friday upon which Fred Cornwall was expected home, two or three
pregnant circumstances took place affecting our heroine. It was the day
previous to her birthday, on which she had obtained her father's
consent to the visit of the Lethbridges to Parksides. Phoebe had
returned home on Thursday evening, intent upon making preparations for
the visit of her dearest friends. Before she left Camden Town a little
conversation took place between her and her aunt with respect to this
birthday celebration.
"You must not expect much," Phoebe said; "I cannot afford to do as I
would wish."
"Whatever it is," said Aunt Leth, "it will be as welcome as the best. I
should say, a cup of tea and some nice thin bread and butter."
"Yes," said poor Phoebe; "that will be all, I am afraid."
"But even that," said Aunt Leth, "will entail a small expense. Let me
see your purse."
"No, aunt; it is all right; and I must go at once."
"There is no hurry, my dear; you have at least half an hour to spare.
Fanny is going with you to the station, and she will not be ready for
the next twenty minutes. Show me your purse, Phoebe."
"Aunt dear----"
"My dear child, I insist, or I shall think you do not love me."
Phoebe's purse was out in a moment; but she repented when it was in
Aunt Leth's hand.
"You foolish girl!" said Aunt Leth, looking into the purse, and
pinching Phoebe's cheek; "there is next to nothing in it. Come, now--it
is too late, I hope, for secrets between us--tell me all."
Phoebe, in a low voice, told of the conversation between her father and
herself, and of his giving her a florin for a birthday present. Aunt
Leth did not look grave as she listened; on the contrary, she nodded
and smiled brightly. It was not in her nature to do the slightest thing
to aggravate the gloomy surroundings of the young girl's home. Her
heart was filled with sweet pity for her niece's lot, and it was for
her to shed light on Phoebe's life.
"My dear child," she said, "do you look upon me as a mother?"
"Indeed I do, dear aunt."
"Would you wish to vex me?"
"No, aunt; no."
"Then you must let me have my way. I know what is right and what is
best. I have a little treasure-box, which I find very useful often when
I am in a wilful mood. It is sometimes filled with saved pennies, and
you have no idea how they mount up. Don't oppose me, Phoebe, or I will
not kiss you." In proof of which she gave her niece a number of
affectionate kisses at once. "I am going to my treasure-box now."
She produced it from her desk, and put fifteen shillings into Phoebe's
purse. Then she closed the purse, and pressed it into the girl's hand.
"What can I say, aunt?" murmured Phoebe, her eyes filled with tears.
"Say, my dear, 'I am glad my aunt treats me as she would treat her own
child.' I have served you just as I would serve Fanny."
"I shall never be able to repay you, dear aunt."
"You are repaying me, Phoebe, every day of your life."
The gratitude which filled Phoebe's heart had something sacred in it.
But, indeed, that happy house was more than a home to the young
girl--it was a sanctuary.
Therefore Phoebe, unloved and neglected as she was in Parksides, was
perfectly happy on the day before her birthday. She would be able to
make her tea-table quite gay, and she went to the village and laid out
to great advantage the money her aunt had put in her purse.
"Good afternoon, Miss Phoebe."
It was Jeremiah Pamflett who accosted her. He was on a visit to the
miser, with books and papers under his arm.
"Good afternoon," said Phoebe, who was also carrying parcels. She would
have hurried on and left him, after these salutations, but he was too
quick for her.
"Won't you shake hands with me, Miss Phoebe?"
"I can't; they are full."
"Where there's a will there's a way. You had better shake hands with
me, or your father will be angry when I tell him."
This threat served him. Phoebe managed to extend her hand, which he
took and held in his for a longer time than was necessary.
"What a pretty hand you have, Miss Phoebe?"
She shrank at the compliment, and snatched her hand from his grasp. He
did not take umbrage at this action, pretending not to notice it.
"We are both going home, Miss Phoebe. May I offer you my arm?"
"I can do quite well without, thank you," said Phoebe.
"And as well with. I always like to be polite to ladies; a gentleman
can't do less. Let me carry a parcel or two for you. I shall tell your
father that I assisted you, and he will be pleased. I do all his
business for him, you know, and he has the greatest confidence in me. I
do all I can to deserve it, I am sure. Thank you. Don't you feel more
comfortable now? I should if I was a young lady, and a gentleman had
insisted upon helping me."
Had it not been that she was fearful of angering her father, Phoebe
would on no account have accepted his assistance; but he forced it upon
her, and compelled her to take his arm. He walked proudly through the
village with his lovely charge, tilting his hat a little on one side of
his head to show his quality. Sometimes he dropped one of Phoebe's
parcels, and when she once stooped to pick it up and their heads
touched, he became quite merry, and asked her which was the hardest.
She spoke scarcely a word; but he beguiled the way with anecdote and
jest, and, when they reached Parksides, declared it was the pleasantest
walk he had ever taken. She ran up to her room and left him alone. For
himself, though he was at the door of the house, he did not enter it;
he turned back, and walked about the grounds in thought, saying more
than once to himself, "Upon my soul it wouldn't be half a bad move!"
emphasizing his remark by slapping his leg smartly. On his way back to
the house he encountered Tom Barley, and, elated by his reflections, he
cried out:
"Hallo, you beggar! How are _you_ getting on? Making your fortune?"
"No," said Tom Barley; "are you?"
"Yes," said Jeremiah, exultantly. "_I'm_ getting on like a house on
fire. Here's a penny--no, a ha'penny for you."
Tom Barley threw it back savagely, and it grazed Jeremiah's forehead.
"I could have you up for that," said Jeremiah, edging away from Tom.
"Assault and battery, you know. If you give me any of your cheek I'll
land you at the station-house."
"Give me any of yours," retorted Tom, "and I'll break every bone in
your body!"
Jeremiah deemed it best to walk away, which he did rather swiftly, and
with decided nervousness. Upon making his appearance before his mother
he worked himself up into a great passion, and said that Tom Barley had
set upon him with a knife, and had threatened his life. She soothed
him, and advised him to inform Miser Farebrother, which he promised to
do; and being further mollified by a draught of ale and a plate of cold
meat and pickles, he condescended to be in a better humour.
"You haven't kissed me, Jeremiah," said Mrs. Pamflett.
"Oh, bother!" he said, brushing her cheek with his lips. "I like to
kiss girls. I say, mother, how pretty Phoebe's grown!"
"Miss Farebrother?" asked his mother, somewhat startled.
"I said 'Phoebe,' didn't I? She's about as pretty as they make 'em. I
met her in the village, and she took my arm. A little stuck-up at
first, but I soon brought her to her senses. Mother, what do you think
of me?"
"You are the best son in the world," she replied, readily, "and the
cleverest man in England."
"Yes, I think I can show them a trick or two. Are you proud of me,
mother?"
"Indeed I am, Jeremiah?"
"Am I a handsome man, mother?"
"A handsomer couldn't be found, Jeremiah."
"Am I good enough for any girl?"
"Indeed you are. She'll be a lucky girl you set your heart on, my boy."
"Oh, come, now! I don't know so much about hearts. I know which side I
want my bread buttered--eh, mother?"
"Certainly, Jeremiah."
"Well, then, why shouldn't it be?"
"Why shouldn't what be?" asked Mrs. Pamflett, very much mystified.
Jeremiah put his forefinger to the side of his nose. "When I tell you,
mother, you'll be as wise as I am."
"But do tell me, Jeremiah," the fond mother pleaded.
"Still tongue, wise head," said he. "No; I'll have a good think over it
first."
He went up to Miser Farebrother with his books and papers, and when the
interview was over he returned to his mother, who by that time had a
hot meal prepared for him. Before she dished it up he asked her whether
she could find Tom Barley.
"The old skinflint wants to see him," said Jeremiah, with an upward
jerk of his head, in the direction of the room occupied by Miser
Farebrother. "He has something very particular to say to the beggar,
which will open his eyes a bit. Go and find him, mother, and send him
up. I'll wait. Pleasure first, business afterward."
Tom Barley happened to be within hail, and Mrs. Pamflett sent him up to
the miser, and then attended to her son. She waited till he was well
primed, and presumably therefore in a more complaisant humour, and then
she said, coaxingly, "Won't you tell me, Jeremiah, what you meant by
saying 'Why shouldn't it be?'"
"No, I won't, and that's flat," replied Jeremiah; "at least, I won't
till I've a mind to. But Phoebe _is_ a pretty girl, isn't she, mother?"
"I was pretty once," sighed Mrs. Pamflett.
"Shouldn't have thought it. But women go off so. I don't know that I've
ever seen a much prettier girl than Phoebe."
Mrs. Pamflett opened her eyes wide; she began to have a glimmering of
her son's meaning.
"There's styles," continued Jeremiah. "Some like one style, some like
another. For my part, I'm not particular, so long as a girl's nice
looking. It don't matter to me much whether they're dark or fair, or
long or short, so long as they're that. Mother, you're not a bad sort,
and I'll be open with you."
"You're my own boy!" exclaimed the fond mother, pressing her son's head
to her bosom.
"I wish you wouldn't!" cried Jeremiah. "I don't care to have your
buttons grinding into my nose. When you've recovered yourself, perhaps
you'll sit down."
Mrs. Pamflett obeyed meekly, murmuring, "I couldn't help it, Jeremiah."
"Well, do help it. I tell you once for all, do help it. I don't want to
have my nose skinned. I've a good mind now not to tell you."
"Do tell me, Jeremiah," implored Mrs. Pamflett--"do! And I'll never
take you sudden again."
"Very well, then; but mind you keep your word. You're always at it,
hugging and pressing me as if I was a bit of wood! Yes; I say there's
styles, and what I say on the top of that is that I ain't particular so
long as everything else is O.K."
"What's O.K.?" inquired Mrs. Pamflett, anxiously.
"All correct, of course. You don't know much, and that's a fact. Trust
me for seeing to things being right. You would have to get up very
early in the morning to get ahead of _me_. Now don't exasperate me by
asking too many questions. Everything in time, so don't you be in a
hurry. A spider ain't, when he's got a bluebottle in his web. Take a
lesson from him."
"I will, Jeremiah," said Mrs. Pamflett, humbly; "but who's the
bluebottle, and who's the spider?"
"There you are, asking questions again. You rile a fellow, that's what
you do. Mother, what do you think of Phoebe?"
"I don't think much of her," replied Mrs. Pamflett, shortly. She would
not have answered so candidly had she not been taken off her guard. Her
opinion of Phoebe, however, did not seem to disturb Jeremiah, who said:
"Women never hit it, somehow. Is she proud?"
"Yes."
"I thought she was; but if any man can bring her to book, I can. Does
she sauce you?"
"She seldom speaks to me."
"Women are the crookedest creatures going; they never answer straight.
Does she sauce you?"
"No."
"Has she got a sweetheart?"
"Not that I know of."
"Does she receive letters?"
"Only from her relations in Camden Town."
"Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge," said Jeremiah, chuckling, and feeling his
pocket, in which an acceptance for three hundred pounds with Mr.
Lethbridge's name to it was safely secured. "I know something of
_them_. Do you think she's in love?"
"No."
"It wouldn't matter if she was." And here Jeremiah paused, and gave
himself up to thought, with his fingers stretched across his brows.
Mrs. Pamflett observed him earnestly, but did not disturb him. "Mother,
would you like to see me ride in my carriage--my own carriage?"
"I should be the proudest woman in England, Jeremiah--my own Jeremiah!"
"Stow that!" cried Jeremiah, holding her off. "No more buttons! You'd
like to see me ride, in my carriage, would you? There are more unlikely
things. You said I was good enough for any girl. Am I good enough for
Phoebe?"
"A million times too good, my boy," said Mrs. Pamflett,
enthusiastically.
"That's a blessing. She ought to be grateful. When I met her in the
village she had a lot of parcels. Does she go shopping for you?"
"Not she. Perhaps she's been buying some things for her birthday. She's
going to give her aunt and uncle tea here."
"Oho! And when _is_ Phoebe's birthday, mother?"
"To-morrow."
Jeremiah grinned, his eyes glittered. "I'm in luck's way," he said.
"And now, mother, give me a glass of brandy and water, and I'll cut my
lucky."
"When shall I see you again, Jeremiah?" she asked, after mixing the
beverage, which he tossed off with a relish.
"Sooner than you expect. Oh, well, I don't mind telling you. I'm coming
here to-morrow to wish Phoebe many happy returns. Ta-ta! Well, if you
must kiss me--there you are, hugging me again! Why can't you do it
gently?"