FANNY CONFIDES A SECRET TO HER MOTHER.
The visit of the Lethbridges to Parksides was an event of great
importance. Neither Uncle Leth, Fanny nor Bob had ever been there, and
it was five or six years since Aunt Leth had set foot in it. Of all the
family she was the only one who would have been able to recognize Miser
Farebrother, and to say, "That is Phoebe's father." Nearly twenty years
had elapsed since Uncle Leth had seen the miser, and he was rather
doubtful as to how he would be received, their last meeting not having
been a pleasant one. Fanny was very curious and very nervous; Phoebe's
father was a solemn mysterious personage, a being apart, whose
acquaintance she was now for the first time to make. What kind of
looking gentleman was he? Their albums contained the portraits of all
their friends and relations, near and distant, some from infancy
upward; but the portrait of Miser Farebrother found no place therein.
It is doubtful, indeed, whether he had ever had his portrait taken;
certainly there was none extant. Even Phoebe did not possess one. It
had been a tacit arrangement among the Lethbridge's not to refer in
general conversation to Phoebe's father, and to Bob and Fanny he was an
utter stranger in fact and sentiment. But now that they were to be
brought into contact with him, he became an object of immediate
interest to them.
"What shall we call him?" said Fanny to Bob. "Of course he is our
uncle, and we ought to call him Uncle Farebrother."
Bob professed not to care--in which he was not ingenuous. "All that
I've heard about him," he said, "is that he is known as Miser
Farebrother."
"It won't do to call him that," said Fanny; "he would be offended, and
might fly out at us. Ought I to kiss him?"
"Wait till you're asked," replied Bob. "He must be immensely rich."
"More shame for him," said Fanny indignantly, "to keep Phoebe as short
as he does. What does he do with all his money?"
"Wraps it up in old stockings, buries it, hides it in the chimneys,
carries it in bags round his waist, stuffs his mattress with it. There
was a miser found dead in a garret in Lambeth the other day, and though
there wasn't a crust of bread in the room, they found four thousand
pounds hidden away in teapots, mouse-traps, nightcaps, old boots and
all sorts of rum places. He used to go about begging, and would snatch
a bone from a dog."
"Miserable wretch!" cried Fanny. "I hope Uncle Farebrother isn't like
that."
"Not exactly, I should say; but quite bad enough. He hasn't treated us
very handsomely."
"Well, never mind," said Fanny. "We don't go to see him; we are going
for Phoebe's sake."
Their anticipations of their uncle were not very glowing; but as they
had been warned by their mother, what passed between them respecting
him was regarded as confidential. To Phoebe they said not a word.
On the Saturday morning Mr. Lethbridge, on his way to the bank, had a
little day-dream. He and his wife and children had arrived at the
railway station which led to Parksides, and had beguiled the journey by
discussing how they should get to Miser Farebrother's house. Should
they ride? Should they walk? Would Phoebe meet them? The question was
settled for them immediately they alighted from the train. There was
Phoebe, all smiles, and dressed most beautifully, even elegantly. And
who should be by her side but her father, all smiles also, and
elegantly dressed? He came forward in the pleasantest manner, and shook
hands with every one of them, and Phoebe whispered to Uncle Leth, "It
is all nonsense about father being a miser. It was only fun on his
part. He has been saving up for me, and you, and Aunt Leth, and all of
us. You have no idea how good and kind he is." There was actually a
carriage waiting for them, and they all got into it, and rode in
jubilant spirits to Parksides: a mansion fit for a nobleman. Gables,
turrets, mullioned windows, walls covered with old ivy, grounds and
gardens most tastefully laid out--everything perfect. Footmen about,
and pretty maids neatly dressed, music playing somewhere. There was a
sumptuous dinner provided for them: wonderful dishes, the best of wine.
The day-dreamer made a speech, in which he dilated upon the happiness
which Miser Farebrother had shed upon them, and how it was all the
greater because of the delightful surprise which Phoebe's father had
been for so many years preparing for them. Mr. Lethbridge's mental
speeches were always marvels of oratory--not a word out of place, the
turns most felicitous--and this speech at Miser Farebrother's
dinner-table was even happier than usual. Then Miser Farebrother
responded, and came out in a light so unexpected and agreeable that the
place rang with cheers, and the music struck up "For he's a jolly good
fellow," in which they all joined at the top of their voices. When the
feast was ended Miser Farebrother asked him to step into his private
room, and there, over a bottle of rare old port, he produced his will,
which he read to the dreamer, and in which every member of the
dreamer's family was handsomely provided for. He would not listen to
the dreamer's expressions of gratitude. "Not a word: not a word," he
said. "It has been a whim of mine to allow you to suppose I was mean
and miserly and cruel, when all the time I have been overflowing with
the milk of human kindness. Now we are all going to live happily
together." Then they joined the young people in the grounds, where
there was a marquee erected for the guests to dance in. There was quite
a gathering; numbers of ladies and gentlemen had been invited, and
among them Fred Cornwall, who had returned from his holiday trip. The
young lawyer was dancing now with Fanny, and Miser Farebrother said: "I
shouldn't wonder if that was to be a match. When it is arranged, look
out for a splendid wedding present from me;" and Fanny coming up, the
miser pinched her cheek, and said something which made her blush. It
was altogether a most exhilarating entertainment, and the union of the
relations most harmonious. Of course it was a lovely night, and as the
dreamer arrived at the bank, he said to himself, "I have passed the
pleasantest day in my remembrance."
While he was at his desk a conversation took place at home between
Fanny and her mother respecting Fred Cornwall. He had called upon the
Lethbridges on the previous evening, and although he was full of
agreeable chat, he seemed disappointed at not finding Phoebe at her
aunt's house. As he had said in his last letter to Fanny, he had
brought presents home for all of them, and when Fanny twitted him
privately with having nothing for Phoebe, he answered,
"Oh, yes, I have; but I must give them to her personally."
"To-morrow will be a capital time to give her a present," said Fanny.
"Is she coming here to-morrow?" asked Fred, eagerly.
"No," replied Fanny; "we are all going to her at Parksides. It is her
birthday."
"She did not leave me an invitation, I suppose?" said Fred.
"No," said Fanny; "but if I were a young gentleman I shouldn't wait for
one."
"Wouldn't you?"
"No. I should make my way to Parksides, and take my presents with me,
and give her a delightful surprise."
"Do you really think I might venture?"
"_I_ shouldn't think twice about it," said Fanny, vivaciously. "But you
mustn't come with us, because, of course, we don't know anything about
it. We shall be quite astonished when you make your appearance with a
flourish of trumpets."
There and then the affectionate conspiracy was discussed and planned,
and Fred said that Fanny was the dearest girl living, which Fanny
disputed, asking how could she be when Phoebe stopped the way.
It was about noon on the Saturday that Fanny said to her mother, "I am
going to let you into a secret."
Aunt Leth's thoughts immediately travelled to Fred Cornwall. She had
observed the whispered conference which had taken place on the previous
night between the young man and her daughter, with their heads very
close together, and she had formed her own conclusions; and now the
secret was about to be revealed. Fred had been making serious love to
Fanny; there could not be a doubt that this was Fanny's secret.
"Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Lethbridge, tenderly.
"It is about Mr. Cornwall," said Fanny.
"Yes, Fanny."
Despite her joy, a pang went right through her heart; it is always so
with affectionate parents when the bolt really falls, and the
contemplation of a beloved daughter leaving the happy home becomes a
certainty.
"And Phoebe," said Fanny.
Mrs. Lethbridge's face underwent a change. In matters of the heart a
woman's instincts are lightning-tipped.
"I have an idea," said Fanny, "that they are fond of each other."
Mrs. Lethbridge looked apprehensively at her daughter, but she saw in
Fanny's face no despondency, no disappointment. On the contrary, it was
radiant. The fond mother smiled.
"Only an idea, Fanny?" she asked.
"Only an idea, mother," said Fanny. "There has been nothing really
serious said, but I am certain I am not mistaken. Now confess, mother;
you thought I was the magnet?"
"Well, my dear, I did have a suspicion, and it has been proved to be
wrong."
"You are not sorry, mother?"
"No, my dear, so long as you are happy. That is my only care."
"I am perfectly happy, and I mean to die an old maid. Dear Phoebe! I do
hope everything will turn out right."
"We all hope so, Fanny. I suppose I must not say anything to her?"
"Not for worlds, mother. You must wait till she speaks to you."
"I am not so sure, Fanny. She has no mother to confide in, and to whom
she can unreservedly open her heart. I must think over it, for her
sake."
"If you thought Mr. Cornwall was good enough for me," said Fanny, "he
is good enough for Phoebe."
"My dear, the cases are different."
"How different?"
"Mr. Cornwall knows her position. If it had been you instead of Phoebe,
he would not have expected money with you. When people have arrived at
the time of life which your father and I have reached, and have
children whom they love as we love ours, they cannot help feeling a
little disturbed at their want of fortune. Young men nowadays look out
for money; it is not as it used to be."
"It is with me, mother. I am an old-fashioned girl, and if a young man
casts sheeps' eyes at me it will be a satisfaction to know that it
isn't my dowry that attracts him. And for my part, mother, I mean to
marry for love--if I ever _do_ marry."
"I am glad to hear you say so, my dear; they are the happiest
marriages. Our life has been a happy one: never for one moment have I
regretted marrying your father."
"I should think not, mother! Who is there in the world to compare with
him?"
"There is not one, my dear. It would be difficult indeed to meet with a
man so good, so unselfish, so devoted. But we were speaking of Phoebe.
The cases are different, I said. Mr. Cornwall would have had no
difficulty in obtaining our consent, had it been you instead of Phoebe.
Have you forgotten that Phoebe has a father?"
"I did not think of him," said Fanny, a little depressed by the
allusion. "But what objection could he have to Mr. Cornwall?"
"That is not for us to say. Phoebe's father is a peculiar man, and he
may have views for Phoebe of which we are ignorant. Mr. Cornwall's suit
will rest with him, not with us."
"Mr. Cornwall is a gentleman."
"Undoubtedly; and, so far as I can judge, calculated to make a girl
happy. But that is not the question."
"What is the question, mother?"
"Money. Fanny, what I am about to say must not pass out of this room."
"Very well, mother."
"Phoebe's father may say to Mr. Cornwall: 'You ask me for my daughter's
hand. How much money have you got?'"
"What a coarse way of putting it!" exclaimed Fanny disdainfully.
"I am aware of it, but for Phoebe's sake I am trying to think it out in
the way it will happen. I have never inquired into Mr. Cornwall's
circumstances; but they are not very flourishing at present, are they?"
"I don't think they are."
"I know they are not. He and your father have had conversations which
lead me to the belief that he earns just a sufficient income to keep
himself comfortably."
"He is very clever in his profession; and there is the future."
"That is one of the things I am thinking of," said Mrs. Lethbridge,
gravely: "the future. 'How much money have you got?' Phoebe's father
will ask him; and when the young man answers honestly--as Mr. Cornwall
is sure to do--Phoebe's father will say, 'As you have no money of your
own, you come after my daughter's.' I am very much afraid of it, Fanny.
I pray that there is no trouble in store for her."
"Mother, you frighten me." Fanny experienced at that moment a feeling
of terror at the conspiracy into which she and Fred Cornwall had
entered, which was to result in Fred's unexpected appearance at
Parksides with birthday presents for Phoebe. She did not dare to refer
to it, so she kept the secret locked in her breast.
"I do not wish to frighten you, my dear," said Mrs. Lethbridge, "and
perhaps, after all, I am only raising bug-bears. Let us hope for the
best."
"We will," said Fanny, brightening up instantly. She was like an April
day; the least glimpse of sunshine brought gladness to her. "And now,
mother, just one word."
"Well, my dear?"
"If Mr. Cornwall proposes to Phoebe--which he will--and if she accepts
him--which she will--and if he speaks to Phoebe's father, and Phoebe's
father will not hear of it, what is to be done?"
"My dear child, you are putting a riddle to me."
"What I want to know is," said Fanny, very determinedly, "whether, if
Phoebe's father refuses his consent, Phoebe ought to marry without it."
She felt that she had achieved a triumph in putting it so clearly.
"Would you marry without ours?" asked Mrs. Lethbridge.
"Mother, be logical, as Fred Cornwall says. Did you not say yourself
that the cases are different?"
"Yes, I did," replied the perplexed mother.
"Well, there it is, then," said Fanny; and as her mother did not speak,
she relentlessly opened another broadside.
"If an honourable gentleman really and truly loves a young lady, and if
a young lady really and truly loves him in return, and if they are
worthy of each other, and if there is a fair prospect of his getting
along in the world in an honourable profession, and of their being
truly happy together, ought they not to marry in spite of a miserly
hunks of a father?"
"My dear," said Mrs. Lethbridge, "let us drop the subject, and hope for
the best."
"Thank you, mother. _We_ know that Phoebe is not happy at home."
"It is so, unfortunately."
"And _we_ know that our home is hers if she should ever be without
one."
"Yes, my dear."
"Then, my own dearest mother," said Fanny, putting her arms round the
good mother's neck and showering kisses upon her, "there is nothing
more to be said."