Miser Farebrother Volume Ii Part 5

"We have met but seldom," said Miser Farebrother, "and I was just expressing my regret that we did not see each other oftener."

"Oh, father!" said Phoebe, in a grateful voice, gliding to his side.

There was no discordant note in his speech; he looked kindly upon her; and he had met Fred Cornwall in a spirit of friendliness. Her cup of happiness was full to overflowing.

"Perhaps Mr. Cornwall will give me his address," said Miser Farebrother.

"I may ask him to decide some knotty point of law for me."

Fred Cornwall drew forth his card-case with alacrity, and handed a card to the miser.

"You will excuse me now," said Miser Farebrother; "I am by no means well, and I must go in-doors and rest. Remain with your friends, Phoebe; Jeremiah will a.s.sist me to my room. Come in and wish me good-night, Phoebe, before you retire."

"Yes, father, I will."

He smiled amiably, and saying "Good evening, Mr. Cornwall," departed, clinging to Jeremiah's arm. Jeremiah was not at all in a good humour; he would have preferred to be left behind with Phoebe, and he said as much to his master.

"Be wise, be wise, Jeremiah," said Miser Farebrother, in response to this complaint. "You are but a novice with these people. Take a lesson from me, and learn to wait with patience. Before a good general strikes a blow, he lays his plans, and satisfies himself that everything is in order. Do I know how to act, eh? Have I already entangled and confused them, or have I not? I shall be a subject of discussion among them. 'He was flinging stones at us all the time he was speaking,' the Lethbridges will say. 'He said the most sarcastic things.' Who will defend me? The sharp lawyer, Mr. Cornwall, and, better than all, my daughter Phoebe.

'You are mistaken,' she will say; 'I am sure you are mistaken. He has been kindness itself; you do not understand him.' Then she will appeal to Mr. Cornwall, and ask him whether I did not speak in the most beautiful way of her aunt and uncle, and he will be able to make but one answer. That will silence them; they won't have a word to say for themselves. Ha, ha! I am really enjoying the game."

He kept Jeremiah with him until the Lethbridges and Fred Cornwall were gone, and then sent him back to London, bidding him not to take the same train as Phoebe's relatives.

It was between ten and eleven o'clock when Phoebe received a message from her father, through Mrs. Pamflett, bidding her come to him and wish him good-night. Phoebe had been sitting at the open window of her bedroom, musing upon the happy day fast drawing to an end. A tender light bathed the grounds of Parksides, and seemed to the happy girl to be an omen of the future--a future of love and peace. The soft breeze kissed her, and whispered to her of love; the silence of nature was eloquent with the immortal song; a tremulous joy possessed her soul. "He loves me! he loves me! he loves me!" This was the song sung by her heart, bringing light to her eyes, blushes to her cheeks, and causing her, from a very excess of joy, to hide her face in her hands. "How sweet, how beautiful is the world!" she said only to herself. "How good everybody is to me!" She rose from these musings to attend her father.

Mrs. Pamflett accompanied her to the door of his apartment.

"Good-night," she said to the young girl.

"Good-night, Mrs. Pamflett," said Phoebe; "and thank you for all you have done to-day."

"I am glad you are pleased with me. May I call you Phoebe?"

"Yes, if you like."

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Phoebe, with a bright look; and she received and returned the kiss.

"This is the commencement of a happy time for you, Phoebe." She had heard from her son all the particulars of the agreement entered into by him and Miser Farebrother.

Phoebe glanced shyly at her, and thought, "Does she know about Mr.

Cornwall? Does everybody know?" She answered Mrs. Pamflett's remark aloud: "I am sure it is. Oh, Mrs. Pamflett, I _am_ happy--very, very happy!"

"I am delighted to hear you say so. Good-night again, Phoebe."

"Good-night, Mrs. Pamflett."

When she was in her father's room, with the door closed, what reason had Phoebe to suppose that Mrs. Pamflett was crouching down outside, to catch what pa.s.sed between Miser Farebrother and his daughter?

"Come and sit beside me, Phoebe," said Miser Farebrother. "So--the birthday is over?"

"Nearly over, father."

"And your friends have gone away contented?"

"Yes, father."

"Those flowers look well in your dress. What flowers are they? Ah, I see--white daisies and roses. Who gave you the daisies?"

"A poor friend in the village sent them to me." Knowing that her father was incensed against Tom Barley, she did not dare to mention his name.

"And the roses, Phoebe?"

"Mr. Cornwall gave them to me," said Phoebe, timidly.

"Can you spare me one?"

She gave it to him gladly, and he stuck it in his coat. Phoebe's heart beat quick. Every sign that came to her was in harmony with its throbbing.

"I am sorry for your sake, Phoebe, that I am not younger and stronger."

"Dear father! I grieve that you suffer so! If I only knew what to do to make you well!"

"That is spoken like a dutiful child. All that you can do is not to worry me--not to give me pain."

"Indeed, indeed, father," said Phoebe, earnestly, "I will never do that!"

"You are a good girl. It is strange that it was only the other day I suddenly discovered you were a woman. The change brings other changes; and I, your father, must not be blind to the fact. Why, Phoebe," he said, gaily, "it is more than likely that one day you will marry!"

Phoebe hung her head. "You blush!--as your dear mother used to blush when she and I were talking of love. I did my best to make her happy.

She died too soon for you and me!" He sighed, and paused a moment. "And now, Phoebe, I am both mother and father to you."

"Yes, dear father."

"I have only one wish in life, Phoebe--your happiness: and we must bring it about. It has happened sometimes that you have not seen me in a right light; I have said things which may have laid me open to misconstruction. They have not really come from my heart; I have been so tortured with pain that I scarcely knew what I was saying. Will you forgive me, Phoebe?"

"Dear father, I love you!"

"You are my own child, your sainted mother's child! Before she died she spoke to me of the time when you would be a woman, and when changes were before you. The duty you owed to her, you owe also to me."

"I shall never be wanting in it, father."

"You will marry--of course you will marry. You will ask for my consent, like a dutiful, loving child?"

"I could not be happy without it, father," said Phoebe, in a low tone.

His voice was so benevolent, so imbued with concern for her happiness, that her heart went out to him.

"That is a promise, my dear child?"

"Yes, dear father, it is a promise."

"That you will not marry without my consent. Phoebe, this loving conversation is doing me good; it is better than all the doctors in the world: I am feeling almost well." He folded her in his arms and kissed her. "Why, what is this? A Prayer-book. Your mother's, my dear, which we read together when we went to church. She is looking down upon us now; she will guard you in your dreams to-night. Kiss this sacred book, my child, and repeat what you have promised--that you will not marry without my consent."