A BEAUTIFUL BIRTHDAY.
Miser Farebrother did not keep his promise of taking tea with Phoebe
and her friends--he had matter more serious to occupy him--but to some
extent he made atonement for it. He sent for Phoebe, and told her that
he did not feel equal to the excitement, but that, before the evening
was over, he would welcome Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge and her cousins to
Parksides. This, to Phoebe, was almost as good as the keeping of his
promise; he spoke in a feeble voice, as though he was ill, and his
unexpected kindness and consideration touched her. She put her hand
timidly upon his shoulder, moved thereto by sweet pity for his
condition, and he did not repulse her; she was even bold enough to
lower her face to his and kiss him more than once, and he bore it
contentedly. A new feeling stirred her heart, new hopes were born
within her. That this unexpected change in her father's bearing toward
her should take place on her birthday was a happy omen, and she was
deeply grateful for it. From this time forth her home life would bring
her joy instead of sorrow. She went from her father's room with a light
step, ready to burst forth into song.
The feeble voice in which Miser Farebrother had spoken to Phoebe was
assumed; his weakness was assumed; all the time she was with him he was
watching her keenly and warily. He had never thought of her but as a
child; the idea of her marrying had never entered his head; but now
that it was presented to him he seized upon it and turned it about to
the light. The only friends his daughter had were the Lethbridges; they
had a son, who doubtless would be only too ready to snap at such a bait
as Phoebe. For her sake?--because he loved her?--not at all. Because
her father was supposed to be rich; because of the money he would
calculate upon getting with her. And thereafter there would ever and
eternally be but one cry--money, money, money! All their arts, all
their endeavours, their only object, would be to bleed his money-bags
bare. "No, no, Mr. Lethbridge," thought Miser Farebrother, "not a penny
shall ever pass from my pockets to yours." But the danger might not
present itself through the Lethbridges. Phoebe might fall in love with
a spendthrift or a cunning rogue. That would be as bad--worse, perhaps.
Despite his aversion to the Lethbridges, his experience of them had
taught him that they were proud, and that in the event of Phoebe
marrying into their family there would be a chance of respite for him
after a time, a chance that they would make up their minds to submit to
poverty, and trouble him no more. With a spendthrift it would be
different. There would be no peace for him; the appeals for money would
be incessant; he would be torn to pieces with worry. Then came the
cunning rogue on to the scene, in the shape which was most
objectionable to Miser Farebrother, in that of a scheming lawyer. There
was more to fear from that than from any other aspect of the subject.
Miser Farebrother knew the power of the law when he invoked it on his
side--which he never did without being prepared with stamped deeds and
witnessed signatures--but he knew also the power of the law if, in
certain cases which he could call to mind, it were invoked against him.
Plaintiff and defendant were different things, had different chances.
He himself never prosecuted without weighing the minutest chance,
without being absolutely certain that he was standing on sure legal
ground. He had submitted to losses rather than run a risk. There was
one instance in which a disreputable, out-at-elbows, dissipated lawyer
had defied him to his teeth--had unblushingly defrauded him by
threatening exposure. Miser Farebrother, knowing that certain
transactions in which he was principal would not bear the light, had
submitted to be robbed rather than be dragged into the witness-box and
cross-examined. Such inquiries often commence tamely, but there is no
saying where they lead to; a man's smallest peccadilloes are
shamelessly dragged forth, his very soul is turned inside out. Then
there are judges who, the moment a money-lending case comes before
them, set to work on the debtor's side to defraud the creditor. Miser
Farebrother, therefore, was wise in his generation in the tactics he
pursued. Some low-minded scheming limb of the law might pay court to
Phoebe, with but one end in view. The thought of it sent a shiver
through his nerves.
His reflections were not agreeable, but he had a large amount of
common-sense, and he knew they might be serviceable. He was not
displeased with Mrs. Pamflett for suggesting them. She was a useful
woman; truly, as he had said, he would not have known what to do
without her. She had made the same admission on her side; that was
honest of her. There were conditions of life which a sensible man must
accept and make the best of, and his was one. Not being able to
purchase a new set of bones and nerves, he felt that to a great extent
he was at the mercy of Mrs. Pamflett and Jeremiah. As difficult to
replace the loss of Jeremiah in his London office as to replace the
loss of Mrs. Pamflett in his house at Parksides. It was a wretched
state of things, but it must be borne, and as much profit as possible
made out of it. "Phoebe had only herself to blame," he thought, with
monstrous mental distortion. "If she had been a boy instead of a girl,
it would all have been different."
There was no mistaking the meaning of Mrs. Pamflett's references to her
son. Well, Phoebe might do worse; and if, as Mrs. Pamflett had said, he
could so bind Jeremiah to him as to make him an absolute slave to his
interests, such a marriage might be altogether the best thing that
could happen. It would be an additional protection to Miser
Farebrother's money-bags. "I will bind him tight," thought the
miser--"tight! Clever lad, Jeremiah; but I shall be a match for him."
Not a thought of his daughter's happiness; she would have to do as he
ordered. Thus, in the secrecy of Miser Farebrother's room, the web was
forming in which Phoebe was to be entangled and her happiness wrecked.
Outside this room everything was bright. Phoebe had told Aunt and Uncle
Leth of her father's goodness, and they, simple-minded and guileless as
herself, rejoiced with her. "Upon my word," said Uncle Leth, "it almost
makes my dream true." Phoebe moved about, singing, smiling, laughing to
herself now and then, and scattering flowers of gladness all around
her. "I never saw our dear Phoebe so bright," said Aunt Leth. "Our
visit to Parksides is a most beautiful surprise, quite different from
what I expected."
It was not the only surprise; there was another, even more subtly sweet
to Phoebe. This was the appearance of Fred Cornwall, who, finding no
bell at the gates by which he could announce his arrival, walked boldly
through, and suddenly presented himself. They were all outside the
house, awaiting Mrs. Pamflett's summons to tea.
"Why," exclaimed the arch-conspirator Fanny, calling astonishment into
her features, "if there isn't Mr. Cornwall coming up the walk! Who
would have thought it? and how ever did he find us out?"
Phoebe turned toward the young man, blushing, and with a palpitating
heart.
"I hope you will pardon the liberty I have taken," said he; "but as it
is your birthday I thought I might venture."
"How did you know?" asked Phoebe, her hand in his.
"A little bird told me," was his reply. "How do you do, Aunt Leth? How
do you do, Miss Fanny?"
He exchanged pleasant words of greeting with his friends and looked
very handsome, and by no means ill at ease, though an uninvited guest.
Well dressed, well mannered, a gentleman every inch of him.
At the door of the house, unseen by anyone of the happy group, Mrs.
Pamflett appeared. She saw the meeting, and noted Phoebe's blushing
face. She partly closed the door, and, retreating a step, stood there,
watching and debating within herself.
Fred Cornwall held in his hand a bunch of flowers, very choice
specimens, loosely tied, and arranged with charming grace. Not in the
shape of a regulation bouquet, but infinitely more beautiful in their
apparently careless form. He offered them to Phoebe, and she accepted
them. Mrs. Pamflett set her thin white lips close.
Then the young gentleman presented, as birthday gifts, the presents he
had bought for Phoebe on his Continental trip, accompanying them with
heart-felt wishes. Phoebe, trembling, thrilling, was in the seventh
heaven of joy.
When, however, she recovered her self-possession, she felt herself in a
difficulty. Would her father be angry? Aunt Leth, seeing the light
shadow on her face, moved aside with her.
"You are thinking of your father, Phoebe?" she said.
"Yes, aunt."
"You would like Mr. Cornwall to stop to tea?" Enlightened by Fanny's
confession in the early part of the day, she regarded Mr. Cornwall and
her niece as lovers, and her sympathies were already enlisted on their
side.
"Yes, aunt," replied Phoebe. "But it is a little awkward, is it not?
What shall I do?"
"Go and ask your father," said Aunt Leth. "Say that Mr. Cornwall is a
friend of ours, and that you have often met him at our house. Go at
once; Mr. Cornwall need not know; I will keep him engaged while you are
away."
Phoebe nodded, and started for the house. Mrs. Pamflett, seeing her
coming, beat a retreat, not desiring to meet the young girl just at
that moment.
"Father," said Phoebe, "I am in a difficulty. I hope you will not
mind."
"Not at all," said Miser Farebrother. She had never heard him speak in
a voice so kind and gentle.
"A friend of Aunt Leth's has just arrived, and has brought me these."
She showed him the flowers and the presents, and he pretended to take
interest in them. "He has been on the Continent, father; and he
purchased presents for all of us."
"Very generous, very generous," said Miser Farebrother. "Did you invite
him here?"
"No, father; I would not have dared without asking your consent. I
can't make out how he found his way here, and how he knew it was my
birthday. I did not tell him."
"Perhaps your aunt did."
"I think not, father."
"What is your difficulty, Phoebe?"
"I should like to ask him to stop to tea, if you have no objection."
"You may ask him," said Miser Farebrother. He had a direct motive in
giving his consent so readily. The nature of his late reflections had
inspired an interest in all Phoebe's acquaintances, and he wished to
see this friend of her aunt's.
"Oh, father, how can I thank you?"
"By obeying me, Phoebe."
"Yes, father; I will."
"I hope you will keep your word. What is the name of this new friend?"
"Not new, father--old."
"New to me. What is his name?"
"Mr. Cornwall. He is a gentleman, father."
"Young?"
"Yes, father."
"What is he besides being a gentleman?"
"He is a barrister."
"A lawyer? Ah! A clever one?"
"They say so, father."
"Ah! Is he a great friend of your aunt's?"
"A very great friend, father. They think the world of him."
He nodded, and dismissed her, and then gave himself up again to
contemplation of the incident in connection with what had preceded it.
He, as well as Mrs. Pamflett, had noted his daughter's blushes, her
eagerness, her excitement of delight, and he placed his own
construction upon her manner. It seemed to him as if he had been drawn
into some game which it was vitally necessary he should win. It was
strange how things appeared to fit in with one another! He had been
thinking of lawyers, and here was one in his house, an unmistakable
intruder, with flowers and presents for Phoebe, the daughter of rich
Miser Farebrother. A clever lawyer too, and a great friend of the
Lethbridges, whom he hated from the bottom of his heart. Bold schemers
they, and a bold ally this Mr. Cornwall, to presume to come, uninvited,
to his house, regarding him, its owner, as a person of no importance,
whose wishes it was unnecessary to consult! What had passed between
this unwelcome guest and Phoebe? How far had they gone? and what was
being hidden from him? He did not doubt now that the presence of the
Lethbridges in Parksides on his daughter's birthday was part of a
cunning plot, in which their lawyer friend was a principal actor. "They
are all in a league against me," he thought; "but I shall be equal with
them. If Phoebe disobeys me, she must take the consequences. I will
wring a promise from her to-night before I go to bed."
"Mr. Cornwall," said Phoebe, when she rejoined her friends in the open,
"will you stop and have a cup of tea with us."
"Would it be possible," he said, turning with smiles to Fanny, "for me
to refuse?"
"How should I know?" said Fanny, tossing her head.
"It will be a great pleasure to me," said Fred Cornwall to Phoebe. "I
almost feared that I should be looked upon as an intruder."
"Of course you did," said Fanny, making a face at him behind her
cousin's back; "that is why you came."
"We can all go back to London together," said Aunt Leth.
"Yes," said Fanny, "and you can make love to me in the train."
"You must not mind her, Mr. Cornwall," said Aunt Leth; "her high
spirits sometimes run away with her."
"I wish some nice young gentleman would," whispered Fanny to Phoebe.
"Why doesn't a fairy godmother take me in hand?"
"Aunt," said Phoebe, aside, to Mrs. Lethbridge, "I think I was never
quite so happy as I am to-day. You have no idea how kind papa has been
to me."
Aunt Leth pressed Phoebe's arm affectionately, and at that moment Mrs.
Pamflett appeared and said that tea was ready. She had delayed it till
the last minute in the hope that Jeremiah would arrive, and she was
vexed and disappointed at his absence. Outwardly, however, she was all
graciousness, and she took especial pains to put on her most amiable
manners.
"No girl ever had a more beautiful birthday," thought Phoebe, as they
all trooped into the house.
END OF VOL. I.
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