MRS. PAMFLETT DEVELOPS A SUDDEN AFFECTION FOR PHOEBE.
Uncle Leth's day-dream was not realized--but then his day-dreams never
were. When he and his family, travelling third-class, reached the
station for Parksides, there was no Miser Farebrother to receive them
with open arms and a carriage. Phoebe was there, and that was quite as
good--almost more than they expected. She was a favourite with the
station-master and ticket-takers, who always admitted her to the
platform, whether the gates were closed or not; and the Lethbridges,
looking out of the window, saw her waving her handkerchief to them, and
running along the platform, the moment they were in sight. Then there
was such a kissing and hugging as made the hearts of the unenvious ones
glad to witness, and the mouths of the envious ones to water, wishing
they had a free ticket to participate in an entertainment so
delightful.
"It _is_ good of you to come and meet us," said Fanny. "I was wondering
all the way whether you would."
"I did not know whether I should be able," said Phoebe, in a flutter of
excitement; "but Mrs. Pamflett has been very kind. I hardly liked to
ask her to help me with the tea; but she came and offered of her own
accord, and said perhaps I would like to go and meet my friends. So
here I am."
Mr. Lethbridge opened his ears upon mention of Mrs. Pamflett, and he
was glad to hear so good an account of her. An act of thoughtfulness
and good-nature from her was a guarantee for her son, who had
discounted his acceptance for three hundred pounds for the dramatic
author and Kiss.
They had all brought modest birthday presents for Phoebe, which they
handed to her at once, with flowers and kisses and the best of
affectionate wishes. Bob was in the seventh heaven in consequence of
being allowed a share in the kissing business.
"I did not have time to write to you last night," whispered Fanny to
Phoebe. "He has come home, and had tea with us. He is looking so well!
brown, and handsomer than ever. What a perfectly lovely day!"
They walked to Parksides, expressing pleasure at everything--at the
weather, at the scenery, at the pretty village, at the children, at the
cottages, at the church--all of which, it seemed to the little party,
had put on a holiday garb in honour of Phoebe. The flowers were
brighter, the sunlight clearer, the birds sang more sweetly, as they
walked and talked, each of the Lethbridges claiming a share in Phoebe's
society, and each obtaining it. Now with Bob, now with Fanny, now with
Aunt Leth, now with Uncle--she ran from one to another, chatting gaily,
and bursting out into snatches of song. It was her day, her very own--a
day of sunshine without and within.
Mrs. Pamflett's amiability needs a word of explanation. The
conversation she had had with her son Jeremiah had opened her eyes as
to his intentions; and both to please him and to win Phoebe's favour
she had offered to assist the young girl. But for Jeremiah's sake she
would not have dreamt of such a thing. She had lain awake half the
night thinking of the conversation, and she had come to the conclusion
that it would be a fine match for Jeremiah. Much as she had disliked
Phoebe, she admired her son for his ambition. Miser Farebrother's
"aching of bones" was growing worse every week, every day; suffering as
he did, it would soon be impossible for him to give any personal
attention to his business in London. No one understood it, no one could
attend to it, but Jeremiah. What, then, was more feasible than
Jeremiah's scheme of becoming Miser Farebrother's son-in-law? "To
think," she mused in the night, "that it never entered my mind! But
Jeremiah's got a head on him. He will be a millionaire, and I shall be
a lady!" The idea of a repulse--that Phoebe would not think Jeremiah
good enough for her--never occurred to Mrs. Pamflett; if it had, she
would have rejected it with scorn. What! her son, her bright
boy--handsome, shrewd, and clever--not good enough for the best lady in
the land! A little chit like Phoebe might consider herself lucky that
such a man as Jeremiah should condescend to her. "I can't, for the life
of me, see," she mused, "why Jeremiah should be so taken with her; but
there's no accounting for a man's fancies. And then he said he wasn't
particular. Ah! Jeremiah knows what he's about." All her hopes, all her
desires, all her ambitions, being centred in her bright boy, she
determined to assist him by every means in her power. She commenced the
next morning, on this happy birthday, and, to Phoebe's surprise, wished
her a happy birthday and many returns of them, and offered to relieve
the young girl of all responsibility in the preparing of the tea for
her friends. Phoebe met her advances gladly. On such a day no suspicion
of sinister motives could occur to a nature so sweet, so pure, so
innocent; and when Mrs. Pamflett asked her to accept a brooch, she
received it with a pleasant feeling of gratitude. "It is an old
brooch," Mrs. Pamflett said, "a memento; and although it is not very
valuable, it comes from my heart." There was a certain literal truth in
this, because the brooch was one which Mrs. Pamflett was in the habit
of wearing; it might not have been considered a very suitable gift for
a young girl like Phoebe, as it contained a lock of some dead-and-gone
person's hair, arranged as a feather or a curl over a tombstone. Once
upon a time it doubtless had a meaning, and might have brought a light
of joy or sorrow to special human eyes; but the memories which
sanctified it being deader than the deadest ghost that superstition
could conjure up, it certainly could not be considered a suitable gift
for Phoebe. Its fatal meaning for her lay in the future.
When Mrs. Pamflett said to Phoebe that perhaps she would like to go and
meet her friends at the railway station, she thought it likely that
Jeremiah would be in the train. He had not told her by which train he
was coming, and her desire was to give him an opportunity of walking
home with Phoebe. She did not betray herself when she saw Phoebe return
in the company of the Lethbridges and without Jeremiah. She possessed a
gift invaluable to sly, secretive natures--the gift of absolute
self-repression. Phoebe introduced Mrs. Pamflett to her friends. Aunt
Leth was already acquainted with her, and was astonished at the
graciousness and amiability of the housekeeper, her previous experience
of her having been quite the reverse. Uncle Leth nodded and said, "How
d'ye do?" but Fanny was rather stiff--"uppish," as Mrs. Pamflett
subsequently told her son.
"Tea will not be ready for half an hour or so," said Mrs. Pamflett,
aside, to Phoebe. "I have set it upstairs in your favourite room."
"O," was Phoebe's delighted rejoinder, "how kind of you!"
"I want you to love me," said Mrs. Pamflett. "If you find that my only
wish is to please you, perhaps you will."
"Indeed I will," said Phoebe; and thought, "Perhaps my father will love
me too."
She asked the Lethbridges to wait a moment or two, and she went to her
father's room.
"Aunt and uncle are here, and my cousins."
"What has that to do with me?" he asked.
"May they come up and see you, father?"
"No," he replied; "I can't be bothered. They wish to see me as little
as I wish to see them."
While this last question was being asked and answered, Mrs. Pamflett
entered the room.
"I think you should see them, sir," she said.
"Why?" he asked.
"As a mark of politeness," said Mrs. Pamflett. "Mr. Lethbridge and your
nephew and niece have never been here before, and they might think it
rude of you."
"Do I care if they do?" he snarled.
"It is not that," she answered, calmly, "but it is Miss Phoebe's
birthday."
"Mrs. Pamflett is very kind," said Phoebe, nervously, "but if you don't
wish, father----"
"I wish to do what is right," he said, very coolly, as was his habit
when he was opposed.
"We all know that," said Mrs. Pamflett, in a voice as composed as his
own. "You always do what is right. Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge and their
children are going to have tea with Miss Phoebe in honour of her
birthday, and I have been getting it ready, and am going to wait on
them. You ought to join them. I have set a chair for you at the head of
the table."
"Oh, father, if you would!" implored Phoebe, clasping her hands.
"You wish it?" he asked of her, but not removing his eyes from Mrs.
Pamflett's face.
"Yes, father. If you would only be so good!"
"And _you_ wish it?" he asked of Mrs. Pamflett.
"For Miss Phoebe's sake I do," replied Mrs. Pamflett, without so much
as winking an eyelid.
"Not for your own?"
"I have told you what I think."
"Let it be so," said Miser Farebrother. "Phoebe, I will take tea with
you and your friends."
"Oh, papa!" In her gratitude the affectionate girl--only too ready to
give love for love--threw her arms round her father's neck and kissed
him.
"There! there!" he said, pushing her away; "go down to your friends.
You can stop, Mrs. Pamflett."
Phoebe ran down-stairs to convey the good news to the Lethbridges, and
Mrs. Pamflett and the miser were left together.
"Now, Mrs. Pamflett," he said abruptly, "what is all this about?"
"I do not understand you," was her reply.
"You understand me thoroughly," he said. "I can't see through a
millstone, but I can see through you."
"Then why do you ask me to explain anything?" she retorted.
"You have lived here sixteen years," he said, "and you think you know
me as well as I am sure I know you. Because I have never interfered
with you, because I have allowed you to do as you like----"
She interrupted him here. "Have I ever wasted a penny of your money?"
"To my knowledge, no. If you had, you would have heard of it."
"Yes, that is very certain. Every farthing spent in this house has been
accounted for in the book which you look over every week. You would
find it hard to get anybody in my place."
"Oh, that is it! You threaten to leave me!"
"You are not only mistaken, you know you are stating an untruth. Yes,
an untruth." The words denoted indignation, but it was not expressed in
her voice or manner.
"Is that a proper way to speak to me?" he cried.
"I pass no opinion," was her unimpassioned reply. "If you are tired of
me, or if I do not please you, you can send me away."
"You would go?"
"I should be bound to go. What else could I do? If I refused, you could
call in the police."
"You are bent upon exasperating me, I see. You know I could not do
without you."
"I know it."
"And that is why you are impudent to me."
"You have never found me so."
"Because I am bound to you hand and foot, because you know my ways,
having grown into them, because I depend upon you and trust you,
because I am weak and ill and dependent, you think you can twist me
about as you like. You shall find that you are mistaken."
"Do you wish me to leave Parksides to-night? I will go and get ready."
He glared at her. "Well, why don't you go?"
"I am waiting for orders. Give them, and I will obey you--as I have
obeyed you in everything else."
"You have no more wish to leave me," he said, laughing scornfully,
"than I have that you should. You could no more do without me than I
could do without you."
"There may be a balance," she said, "and it may be to my credit. You
seem to be angry because I have made an endeavour to please your
daughter."
"Have you ever endeavoured to please her before to-day?" he asked
slyly.
"Have you," she retorted, "ever taken the trouble to ascertain?"
He paused awhile before he spoke. "Having been imprisoned up here, out
of sight of things, with no eyes for anything beyond this room, you may
think I haven't known what is going on in my house. You are
mistaken--egregiously mistaken--as mistaken as your son Jeremiah, who
perhaps has an idea that I do not know when I am absent what is going
on in my office in London."
"Do you wish _him_ to leave as well as me?" said Mrs. Pamflett. The
conspicuous and amazing feature of her speech was that she made these
propositions as though they did not in the slightest degree affect her,
or any person in whom she was interested. "With his talents for
business, he will not have the least difficulty in obtaining a position
of trust elsewhere."
"I have unmasked you," said Miser Farebrother; "you have a design. Out
with it."
"I have no design," said Mrs. Pamflett, "except your interests; and if
it happens that your interests and ours----"
"And ours!" he cried.
"And ours," she repeated. "If it happens that our interests are
identical, it should rather please than anger you. You say that you are
bound hand and foot to me. That is a compliment, and I am obliged to
you; but supposing it to be true, I am as much bound hand and foot to
you, and so is my son Jeremiah. It may be in your power to so chain him
to you that he would become an absolute slave to your interests."
"Interests again!" he exclaimed, impatiently. "Always
interests--nothing but interests."
"Well," said Mrs. Pamflett, "what do we live for? What do _you_ live
for?"
This was a home thrust indeed, and Miser Farebrother accepted it in
good part. Despite the outward aspect of this singular conversation, it
was not entirely disagreeable to him. He appreciated the services of
Mrs. Pamflett and her son; he knew that he could not replace them; he
had not left it to the present hour to reckon up their monetary value.
"To come back to Phoebe," he said; "what is all this about? No beating
about the bush--plain speaking."
"I love her," said Mrs. Pamflett, "as a daughter."
"And Jeremiah is your only son?"
"My only son. The best, the brightest, the cleverest man in England!
And devoted to you, body and soul."
"I am infinitely obliged to you," said Miser Farebrother, with a
malicious grin; "I will think about it."