Volume Ii Part 13 (1/2)
”I will give it to you, sir, as I have always done.”
”And faithfulness. No tampering with me or what belongs to me.” He looked up with a sour smile. ”This little storm has cleared the air, Jeremiah.”
”I hope so, sir. Everything stands as it did?”
”Everything stands, son-in-law that is to be. Be gentle in your wooing.”
”I will, sir; I can never be grateful enough to you.”
”Never mind grat.i.tude. Be honest, obedient, and faithful. That is all I require of you.”
In Jeremiah's heart, as he left Parksides that day, reigned a very cordial hatred toward Miser Farebrother. This feeling was intensified by genuine fear, for the miser's random shot, ”I am not in such complete ignorance of your doings as you suppose me to be,” had struck home. That he was guilty of acts in the conduct of the business intrusted to him, the discovery of which would place him in the criminal dock, no person, he believed, was aware but himself. But if the miser were to recover his health and strength so completely as to enable him to come to London and undertake the management of his own affairs for a few weeks, there would be scarcely any escape for the dishonest clerk. Account-books had been tampered with, money misappropriated, borrowed for a time, and never replaced; forgery even could be traced to his hand. ”What does he know?”
thought Jeremiah. ”What does he really know--and how much? Or is it mere guess-work, suspecting me and everybody, as I dare say I should do in his place? Yes, it must be that, or he would not have waited so long before he had his fling at me.” He began to feel more composed. His mother had informed him before he bade her good-by that it was absolutely impossible for Miser Farebrother to come to London unless he was carried there, and that but for her constant care and attention he could hardly be expected to live. It was a marvel to her, she said, how he had contrived to leave the house on the previous night to fetch his treasure, and to return una.s.sisted. As it was, he had been compelled, much against his will, to call in a doctor, who had said that it required but slight exertion on the miser's part to bring on inflammation of the stomach, in which case, the doctor added, he would be very likely to die.
”He is too fond of his precious life,” said Mrs. Pamflett to her son, ”and too frightened of death, to run a risk. The doctor has ordered him to keep his room, and not to attempt to stir out of it for a fortnight at least. There is no fear of his pouncing upon you, as he threatened; but, oh, Jeremiah, what makes you in such a pucker at the thought of it?”
To which Jeremiah had replied that he did not care a bra.s.s farthing whether the miser came or kept away, but that he did not intend to be taken unawares, and to be interfered with without proper notice. He instructed his mother to write to him twice a day, morning and evening, informing him how the miser was. ”And look here, mother,” said Jeremiah; ”it won't do you or me any harm if you are not quite so careful of him.
Keep him prisoner till I am married to Phoebe, and everything will be right. After that he may go to the devil as soon as he likes!”
By the time he reached London, Jeremiah had recovered his composure, and had flattered himself into the belief that there was nothing to fear from the miser's threats. At all events, he would take care of himself.
”He warned me to be careful,” thought Jeremiah. ”Let _him_ be careful, or it will be the worse for him!”
Meanwhile Phoebe was enjoying a very heaven upon earth. There comes such a time to many, when life is sweet and beautiful, and all things are fair. Was there ever such a lover as Fred--so manly, so thoughtful, so devoted? Her heart throbbed with profound grat.i.tude to the Giver of all good for the great happiness which had fallen to her lot.
”And, oh, dear aunt!” she said to Aunt Leth, ”I have you to thank for it all.”
”You have only yourself to thank,” said Aunt Leth; ”and Fred is the luckiest man in the world.”
But with affectionate persistence Phoebe adhered to her belief that Aunt Leth was the ministering angel who had brought such light into her life.
”If you had not been so good to me, I should never have seen him. To be able to prove my grat.i.tude to you, that is my most earnest wish--and Fred's. He never tires of speaking of you, aunt. I think he loves you almost as much as Bob does.”
”It delights me to hear it, my dear child. He is a good man, and there is nothing but happiness before you.”
At such a joyful spring-time she would not cast a cloud upon the young girl's heart by giving expression to the fear which filled her own, that Phoebe's father might place an obstacle in the way of the fair future which her union with Fred Cornwall would insure for her; but she never gazed upon Phoebe's sunny face without inward agitation and anxiety.
At such a joyful spring-time all that is woeful and sordid in surrounding aspect is touched with tender light; charity, that might have slept, dispenses blessings; the sight of suffering suffices for the exercise of practical sympathy. At such a joyful spring-time a pure maiden walks in paths of fairy colour, and her heart is a holy of holies. Into the prayers breathed by the bedside comes the beloved name, comes infinite wors.h.i.+p, come sacred visions, comes grat.i.tude for life and life's blessings. When daylight s.h.i.+nes, for him this bit of ribbon at her throat, for him this rose at her breast--slight things, made wondrous and strangely beautiful by the ineffable sweetness of love's young dream! Truly, life's spring-time.
”If you had your dearest wish,” said Fred, ”what would it be?”
”That this day might last for ever,” she whispered; ”that we might never change.”
”Darling!”
Thus pa.s.sed the happy holiday, all too quickly. Then came a rude awakening.
”Our last night,” said Fred, ”for a little while. How shall I live when you are not with me?”
”Think of me,” Phoebe murmured.