Volume Ii Part 18 (2/2)
Phoebe, indeed, was surprised at herself, and wondered how it was that she had had strength to meet Mrs. Pamflett's lies in the way she did.
She well knew that they were the basest of calumnies, and she received them as such. Though all the world rose up against her aunt Leth, she would remain that dear woman's champion. And Fred--her own true lover--that Mrs. Pamflett should for a moment expect her to believe the false story she had invented! The fact was Mrs. Pamflett had over-reached herself. Like a great number of less skilful artists, she had laid on the colours too thick. Had she been more delicate she might have had a greater chance of success. And yet that was scarcely likely with a girl like Phoebe, the strength of whose nature appeared to have been, as it were, latent within her until the occurrence of this crisis in her young life. She did not quite realize what it meant to her; but for the present the spirit required to meet an enemy like Mrs. Pamflett had a healthy effect upon her; it had aroused her from despondency; that, and her love for Fred, and her faith in Aunt Leth, had given her strength to listen with outward calmness to Mrs. Pamflett's fabrications. If trouble were before her, she would meet it bravely.
Fred would be true to her, and she would be true to him. Aunt and Uncle Leth and her cousins would not forget her--would always love her. Her father and Mrs. Pamflett could not force her into a marriage with a man she abhorred. ”Be brave, Phoebe, be brave,” she whispered to herself as she walked to her father's room, ”for the sake of those who love you truly.”
Jeremiah Pamflett was in the miser's room when Phoebe entered. Miser Farebrother looked very ill; his face was white and pinched, his lips were drawn in. Phoebe's heart sank, and a feeling of remorse shot through her as she gazed upon his suffering face. She was his daughter--his only child--and he had a claim upon her love and obedience. Was it not her dear aunt Leth who had said as much? She knew that this plain setting forth of a child's duty to her parents was no false declaration; it was her aunt's belief. Well, she would perform her duty to the uttermost of her strength; but to one thing she was resolved.
”Sit here,” said Miser Farebrother. Phoebe took the chair he indicated; it was between him and Jeremiah Pamflett, and as she pa.s.sed her enemy she drew herself carefully from him. He noted this avoidance, but made no comment upon it. At present his case was in his master's hands. ”You are well?” asked Miser Farebrother.
”Not quite well, father,” said Phoebe.
”But well enough,” he retorted. ”You have a long life before you. Look at me. How long do you think I shall live?”
”Many years, I hope, father.”
”We shall see whether you do hope it. It must be plain to you that I am ill--seriously ill.”
”I am very sorry, father.”
”We shall see whether you are sorry. What is a man to believe in? Words?
No. Actions speak, not words. False sympathy, lying protestations--what are they worth? Those who use them ought to be trodden in the mud. You hope I shall live many years. We shall see. I have not long to live, I tell you; but you can hasten my death; you can murder me.”
”Father!” cried Phoebe, in terror. ”Murder you!”
”Murder me. You can do it. If I were to implore you to spare me--to let me live, would you grant my prayer, or would you carry out your wicked designs? We shall see--we shall see. You perceive that I am suffering, and you say you are sorry. Your dead mother knows how far you are speaking the truth; I do not--as yet. It has to be made clear to me. You are my daughter, are you not?”
”Yes, father.”
”What kind of love have you given me? What kind of care have you bestowed upon me? For years I have been groaning and suffering here, and you--what have you been doing? Have you attended to me, have you nursed me, have you shown one spark of a daughter's proper feelings? No, not one--not one. Gadding about, going to theatres, dancing, making light friends, laughing, singing, ministering to your vanities, while I, your father, have lain here, cut to the soul by your coldness and want of decent feeling. If it was not in you, you might have pretended it was, and I should have been deceived. It would have made it no better for you, but it might have been better for me. You know that I have a doctor attending me?”
”Yes, father.”
”Have you ever asked him how I was--have you ever shown, in a single conversation with him, that you have within you those solicitous feelings which a daughter should have for a suffering father? Have you ever shown--” He did not proceed. He lay back, panting, in his chair, and Jeremiah, without looking up, thought: ”What an actor he is! Oh, what an actor he is!”
”Father,” said Phoebe, in deep distress, ”you do me an injustice. It has always been my wish to attend to you, to nurse you, but you would never allow me. 'Let me alone! let me alone!' you said, and have always repulsed me.”
”Why? why?” he asked, raising himself in his chair, and bending so excitedly forward that she was frightened, and cried:
”Don't excite yourself, father; you are not strong enough to bear it.”
”I know I am not. You know it too. It is not I who am exciting myself--it is you, because you wish to kill me!” She shuddered violently, and covered her face with her hands. ”Why, when you have asked me whether you could do anything for me, have I desired you to let me alone? Because I could see plainly that you wished not to be troubled about me; that you were pretending--that you were wholly false in your advances. There are a thousand things a child can do for a parent in my condition which would bring pleasure to him. Have you done one? That I am impatient, querulous, quick-tempered--is not that natural when a man is in anguish day and night? Did you ever give that a thought? do you give it a thought now?”
”Father,” said poor Phoebe, feeling acutely the bitter injustice of her father's accusations, and yet not knowing how to combat them without plunging him into deeper excitement, ”I will nurse you if you will allow me; I will do everything in my power to restore you to health. Try me, father!”
”You do not intend to leave Parksides, then, without my permission?”
”To leave Parksides without your permission!” she echoed. ”No, father!”
”For the few weeks that remain to me you will not leave the house? You will nurse me--you will soothe my last hours?”
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