CHAPTER XII.
THE READING OF THE NEW PLAY.
It was the merriest tea-party imaginable; and Aunt Leth's mind was at ease, in consequence of the time which had been afforded her to make suitable preparations for so eminent a guest as the dramatic author. In pouring out the tea, she helped him last, saying gaily,
"The first of the coffee, Mr. Linton, the last of the tea."
"A good homely saying," he observed. "I used to hear it from my mother. Though, really, I do not deserve such attention."
"Don't believe him, Aunt Leth," said Kiss. "Your dramatic author is as fond of the best as any common mortal."
The idea of comparing a dramatic author to a common mortal was certainly not to be lightly accepted by the young folk round the tea-table, who regarded Mr. Linton as a being far above and removed from the general run of people. It was to them almost a surprise that he spoke and ate in exactly the same way as their other acquaintances; and out of the depths of their admiration, everything he did seemed to be invested with a certain superiority which raised him above his fellows. They cast timid and covert looks upon him, and noted his movements, so as to be able to give a faithful description of him, by-and-by, to their friends. It was fortunate for him that their observance was not too obtrusive, or it might have spoilt his appetite. As it was, he made an excellent tea, and tucked away the bread and butter and ham and eggs with a zest which delighted Aunt Leth. He declared that he had never tasted such tea, nor such eggs, nor such bacon, nor such bread and butter, nor such gooseberry jam; and, if appearances were to be trusted, and there was any value in words, never did mortal enjoy himself more than this poor author, who had been lifted from despair by the generous kindness of Uncle Leth. Kiss had imparted, hastily and confidentially, to Aunt Leth some particulars of Mr. Linton's circumstances, and had found time to descant upon his friend's virtues as a domestic man, of his love for his wife and children, and of his brave struggles against fortune. Aunt Leth's heart went out to Mr. Linton, and she said how proud she would be if he would bring his wife and little ones to see them. He replied that the honour would be on his side; but that, with his hostess's permission, he would wait until his new piece was produced at the Star Theatre. This temporizing reply was dictated by his sensitive spirit. He and his wife lived in two rooms, in a not very distinguished neighbourhood, and he was afraid of a return visit and its consequent humiliation. When his play was produced he would be able to remove to better quarters, and his wife would buy a new dress; then the acquaintanceship with this charming family could commence, and he would be in a position to return their hospitality.
"A new play!" exclaimed Aunt Leth. "Do you appear in it, Mr. Kiss?"
"Yes," said Kiss. "We hope to see you in the theatre on the first night. Uncle Leth has promised to supply each of you with a big stick, so that you may lead the applause."
"But there will be no getting in," said Aunt Leth.
"Linton will reserve a private box for you," said Kiss.
Eager heads turned to the poor author, eager eyes gazed at him.
"Madam," said Mr. Linton, "I shall be honoured if you will accept it. If you do not, I feel that my play will meet with failure."
"You are very good," said Aunt Leth. "We have never been to a first night, and have read so much about them. I am sure your play will be a great success; there can be no doubt of that."
The thoughts of Fanny and Phœbe instantly flew to the question of dress. A private box on a first night! An event to be always remembered, especially with a play which was certain to be the talk of the town. It must be properly honoured.
"Mr. Linton has the manuscript of the play with him," said Kiss, "and if you have nothing better to occupy your time to-night I propose to read it to you, in order that you may form an opinion of it. What do you say?"
What did they say?—there was a question! If they had nothing better to occupy their time?—whatcouldbe better? Why, the girls would be ready to throw over even a dance for such a treat! They glowed with excitement, and Mr. Lethbridge, looking round upon the happy faces, was glad to think that he had signed the bill which Kiss had in his pocket at that moment, and which to-morrow would be in the possession of Jeremiah Pamflett.
"There's an audience for you," said Kiss to the author, pointing to the young people.
"A good augury," said the proud author. "I feel more hopeful than I have done for a long time past."
The females of the party presently left in a body to prepare the drawing-room for the promised reading, and then it was that Phœbe said to Aunt Leth:
"Oh, Aunt Leth, I have something to say, and I'm in that state of excitement that I'd better say it at once, before I forget it. Next Saturday is my birthday, you know."
"Yes, dear, I know," said Aunt Leth, giving the young girl a tender caress; "and we shall keep it up by a little dance at home here. I intended to speak to you about it to-night before you went to bed."
"You are so good to me, dear aunt," said Phœbe, "that I don't know how ever I can repay you. It would, I think, be impossible, whatever it might be in my power to do."
"My dear child," said Aunt Leth, "don't talk of repayment. You are as one of our own. What we do comes from our hearts. So you will manage to come here early on Saturday, and remain till Tuesday or Wednesday."
"No, aunt," said Phœbe, with many kisses, "I can't do that. You must all come to me."
"To you, dear! Where?"
"To Parksides, aunt."
Aunt Leth looked grave. "Have you your father's permission, Phœbe?"
"Yes, aunt; he gave it willingly. I don't mean to say it was his idea; it was mine, and he consented at once when I asked him. I can only ask you to a poor little tea," said Phœbe, her lips slightly trembling, "but I hope you won't mind. I should so like it! Uncle Leth and Fanny and Bob have never been to Parksides, and though I can't give them a grand entertainment, I don't think it will make any difference."
"Nothing can make any difference in our love for you, my dear."
"Then youwillcome, all of you!"
"Yes, dear, we will come, because I see it will be a pleasure to you, and that will make it a pleasure to us."
Aunt Leth pressed her hand fondly over the young girl's head, and just for one moment there were tears in both their eyes; but they were instantly dried, and with a smile and a kiss they busied themselves preparing for the reading of the play. These were soon completed, and the gentlemen were called in.
"Capital! capital!" exclaimed Kiss, as he contemplated the arrangements—the lights on the table, the chairs ranged round, the place of honour for himself so disposed that he could either sit or stand. "As good as a green-room, Linton."
"A great deal better," said the author, thinking of the various vain interests comprised in a company of actors, each listening to the lines of the character he was to play, and calling the piece good or bad according to the strength or weakness of that special part of it. He took his manuscript from his pocket and handed it to Kiss. The actor gazed with calm and impressive dignity at his audience. His movements were few and quiet and stately. He knew the value of repose. He was in his glory, master of the situation, and equal to the occasion. He opened the manuscript and was about to commence, when a diversion occurred. There was a sound at the door as of some person outside. Aunt Leth went to the door, opened it, glided into the passage, and returned.
"It is our servant," she whispered to Kiss. "She has heard of the reading, and implores to be allowed to be present. She is a very good girl. May she?"
"By all means," said Kiss. "A theatre is a packet of all sorts. Admit her."
In came 'Melia Jane, who, with awe on her features, seated herself at the back of the room, and fixed her eyes upon Kiss, who was to her a greater than Jove.
Then Kiss commenced in earnest, and quickly held his audience in thrall. He moved them to tears; he moved them to laughter. He so individualized each character, male and female, that there was no difficulty in following the course of the story. It contained tender and comic episodes, to which he gave full and distinctive weight, "bringing down the house," as he afterwards said, again and again. There was a song in the play, which he rendered amidst great applause; and as the author heard it, and saw the delighted appreciation of the little company, he hugged himself, as it were, and whispered inly: "It must be a success. It cannot, cannot fail!" Although the reading occupied two hours, there was not the least sign of weariness; and when it was finished, author and actor were overwhelmed with congratulations. As for 'Melia Jane, she so laughed, and cried, and clapped her hands, and stamped her feet, that the happy author, poor as he was, slyly slipped a shilling into her hand.
"It is," said Uncle Leth, "the very finest play that was ever written."
Upon this they were all agreed; and everyone prophesied a glorious success. Incidentally, Aunt Leth remarked, "And how beautifully you sang that song, Mr. Kiss."
"Did I?" said Kiss. "Shall I sing you another?"
The proposal was received with clapping of hands; and Kiss sang "Tom Bowline" with such tender effect that he was called upon for another.
"No," he said; "ask Linton. He knows a splendid song in another vein. Sing 'Little Billee,' Linton."
In the joy of his heart Mr. Linton could not refuse, and he began to sing Thackeray's "astonishing piece of nonsense." He had a thin quavering voice which suited the air; but somehow or other the song was not a success with this particular audience. Upon 'Melia Jane the effect was alarming. When the singer came to the lines,
"There's little Bill is young and tender,We're old and tough, so let's eat he,"
"There's little Bill is young and tender,We're old and tough, so let's eat he,"
"There's little Bill is young and tender,
We're old and tough, so let's eat he,"
she slowly rose from her chair, with horror depicted on her face. The singer went on:
"'O Bill, we're going to kill and eat you,So undo the collar of your chemie.'"When Bill received this infumationHe used his pocket-handkerchie."'O let me say my catechism,As my poor mammy taught to me!'"
"'O Bill, we're going to kill and eat you,So undo the collar of your chemie.'
"'O Bill, we're going to kill and eat you,
So undo the collar of your chemie.'
"When Bill received this infumationHe used his pocket-handkerchie.
"When Bill received this infumation
He used his pocket-handkerchie.
"'O let me say my catechism,As my poor mammy taught to me!'"
"'O let me say my catechism,
As my poor mammy taught to me!'"
Here 'Melia Jane burst out blubbering so violently that she had to be conducted from the room. Mr. Linton concluded the song, however; but the applause which attended his effort was rather faint, and Kiss found it necessary to explain that the lines were really only nonsense lines. He himself soon restored the equilibrium by a sweet rendering of "Sally in our Alley"; and then followed other songs, by Phœbe and Fanny, and an old-fashioned duet by Aunt and Uncle Leth. Then there was a little bit of supper, at which Uncle Leth proposed the toast of "Success to Mr. Linton's delightful play," to which the author responded in feeling terms, and spoke of the happy evening he had spent. After actor and author were gone, Phœbe and the Lethbridges stopped up for an hour talking over the incidents of this remarkable night; but Uncle Leth said nothing of the bill for three hundred pounds to which he had put his name.
CHAPTER XIII.
CURL-PAPER CONFIDENCES.
When two young women are closeted in their bedchamber after a pleasant day, and preparing for repose, then is the time for the interchange of sacred confidences. The events of the last few hours are touched upon with significant emphasis, the gentlemen are discussed and judged, and their personal peculiarities and excellencies commented upon with approval or otherwise. However quiet, demure, and comparatively unobservant the young ladies may have been, depend upon it not the smallest detail of the gentlemen's dress and manners has escaped their penetrating eyes. Especially is this the case upon the occasion of the introduction of a new male acquaintance. Everything appertaining to him is recalled, from the parting of his hair to the tying of his shoestrings. It would much astonish him to hear the pretty girls (all girls are pretty in their spring-time), who seemed to scarcely have courage to glance at him, speak of the colour of his eyes, of the cut of his clothes, of the quality of his moustache, of the size of his hands and feet, and the shape of his finger-nails. No learned judge in his summing up was ever so precise and correct, and the beauty or the despair of it is that these gossiping damsels are not only judges but juries, from whose verdict there is absolutely no appeal. Of course such sacred confidences are all the more interesting when the subjects for dissection are young unmarried men.
Many such conversations had Phœbe and Fanny held, and now, according to their wont, they proceeded to discuss the incidents of the evening, as they made their preparations for bed.
"I have often thought it a pity," said Phœbe, "that Mr. Kiss is not married."
"Itisa pity," assented Fanny; "he is so good-natured and jolly that he deserves a good wife."
"And so clever," remarked Phœbe.
"And so good-looking. Phœbe, depend upon it, he has been crossed in love."
Phœbe sighed, and Fanny echoed the sigh. To these young hearts the very idea of being crossed in love was terribly sad.
"Idohope Mr. Linton's play will be a success," said Fanny, after a little pause. "Isn't it wonderful how a person can think of it all?"
"It is certain to be a success," said Phœbe, taking the last hair-pin out of her beautiful hair, which fell in waves over her shoulders.
Fanny gazed at her admiringly, and a charming picture indeed did the young girl present at that moment.
"If I envy you anything, Phœbe," said Fanny, "it is your hair. No one would think you had half as much."
"That's because it's so fine," said Phœbe, with a pleased smile.
"It's as fine as the finest silk," said Fanny, lifting bunches of it, and giving her cousin a quick affectionate kiss. "But you mustn't think I really envy you, Phœbe."
"I don't. I would change with you if I could."
"No, you wouldn't; no, you wouldn't," cried Fanny, with a merry laugh, "any more than I would with you."
"I am sure your hair is lovely, Fanny."
"It is altogether too coarse," said Fanny, with pretended pettishness. "But, there!—whoever gets me will have to make the best of it."
"Whoever gets you, Fanny, will have the dearest little wife in the world, and if he doesn't love every hair in your head he will be the most ungrateful of men—and I shall tell him so."
"I wonder who he will be," said Fanny, "and whether he knows that I've been growing up for him?"
It was quite a natural remark for a light-hearted, innocent girl to make. Why, therefore, should it cause both the cousins to fall straightway into the mood ruminative—a mood which entails silence while it lasts.
"One thing I am determined upon," said Fanny, waking up, as it were; "I won't have him unless he can waltz."
"If he can't," said Phœbe, with an arch smile, "you can teach him."
"Well, yes; thatwouldbe nice." And Fanny, brush in hand, commenced to hum a favourite waltz, and took a few turns to it, saying, when she was again before the glass, "What were we speaking of, Phœbe, before my young man popped in?"
"About the play."
"We are all going on the first night—think of that! And in a private box—think ofthat! The observed of all observers, as Mr. Kiss would say. I shall feel so excited—almost as if I were the author—though such a thing is impossible."
"Why impossible, Fanny? You wrote a story when you were nine years old."
"Yes, and it commenced, "They were born in India without any father or mother." Was there anything ever so absurd?"
"The success of Mr. Linton's play will mean a great deal to him. He is not rich, I am afraid."
"If he isn't he ought to be," said Fanny, brushing with great care the tresses she pretended to despise; "wearing his brains out in the way he does. Hedidlook anxious, didn't he, while Mr. Kiss was reading it? And how beautifully he read! I felt like kissing him when he was going through the love scenes. Theydokiss a good deal on the stage, don't they?"
"Yes," said Phœbe, speaking with difficulty, her mouth being full of hair-pins; "but then they don't mean it."
Fanny made a face. "I shouldn't care for it that way," she said, and then she laughed, as though she had said something funny.
"Do you think Bob meant it," asked Phœbe, "when he said he was going to be an actor?"
"Bob's a riddle," replied Fanny. "I give him up."
"He might do worse. It's quite a fashionable profession."
"It isn't a profession. Didn't Mr. Kiss tell us that an actor was a rogue and vagabond by Act of Parliament."
"That was only a joke. Mr. Kiss is a gentleman."
"Of course he is. The Prince of Wales once shook hands with him, andhewouldn't shake hands with any onebuta gentleman. Do you wish you were a man, Phœbe?"
"No."
"Ido!" said Fanny, with a decided nod of her head, the hair of which was by this time elaborately done up in curl-papers. Phœbe had also completed her preparations for bed. "And now, Phœbe, let us have a chat." She made this proposition with a feminine obliviousness of having spoken a single word since she had locked the bedroom door.
"What about, Fanny?"
"Open your mouth and shut your eyes, and see what God will send you," said Fanny.
"Nonsense, Fanny."
"Very well—nonsense. Then we won't have a chat. Only"—and Fanny pursed up her lips and shook her paper-covered little head wisely.
"Only what?"
"That you'll be sorry for it—that's all."
"What a tease you are! There!" Phœbe opened her mouth and shut her eyes.
"Don't move—don't stir!" cried Fanny, and she took from her dress an envelope, the edge of which she placed between Phœbe's teeth. "What is this?"
"A piece of paper. I'd sooner have a chocolate cream."
"You would, eh? Well, here's your chocolate cream—here's a packet of them—and if I don't tell him when he comes home, my name isn't Fanny Lethbridge."
This remark caused Phœbe to open her eyes very quickly, and the colour on her face to come and go. Fanny's right hand was behind her back.
"Tell whom, Fanny?"
"'Tell whom, Fanny?'" mimicked Fanny. "Nowisthere more than one Frederick Cornwall, Esq., in the world?"
"There may be—in the London Directory."
"But they don't all write letters from Switzerland to Camden Town, do they?"
"Have you received another letter from Mr. Cornwall, Fanny?"
"Yes, I have; and here it is. It came this morning."
"And you kept it to yourself all this time!"
"How could I show it to you before? You had hardly been in the house two minutes when papa came home with Mr. Kiss and Mr. Linton. Then there was Bob hanging about, and you know how he scowls when I speak lovingly of Fred—I beg his pardon, Mr. Frederick Cornwall. Then there was helping mother with the tea. Then there was the reading of the play. Then there were the songs. With all that excitement, the letter went clean out of my head—except that I thought you would like it all the better if we read it together quietly here, where nobody can disturb us."
"You are a dear, good girl!"
"Of course I am, and you're another." Whereupon the cousins, with their arms round each other's necks, fondly embraced. They were sitting now on the bed very cosily, side by side. "Phœbe, I have something very horrifying to tell you."
"He hasn't met with an accident—he isn't ill?" exclaimed Phœbe, turning pale.
"Not a bit of it. He is as well as five feet eleven, aged six-and-twenty, should be. No, it isn't that; but it is about him, though."
"Tell me, Fanny."
"For a long time I have had my suspicions, but I wouldn't venture to breathe them to you. I watched mamma; I watched papa. When we were talking of him—it was always I who brought up his name—I set traps for them, and they fell into them unsuspiciously. And then there was what mamma said, in a pretended off-hand way, this morning, when she gave me the letter from Fred. It amounts to this, Phœbe"—she dropped her voice, and said in a whisper—"they think he comes afterme!"
"Why shouldn't he, dear?"
"Why should he, dear?"
Phœbe stroked her cousin's face fondly, and rested her head on Fanny's shoulder.
"I hope," said Fanny, "that they won't be disappointed when they find out that he doesn't meanme, after all. But I don't think they will be when they know it is you, darling."
"Oh, Fanny! And he has never said one word to me!"
"What of that, sly puss? I can speak with my eyes quite as well as I can with my tongue; and Fred Cornwall is a great deal cleverer than I am. I don't positively hate him, you know."
"It would be very wrong of you to do so."
"And I don't positively love him. I like him, just a little, in a so-soish way. How it might have been if I didn't happen to have the dearest, sweetest, prettiest cousin that a foolish girl could ever boast of, isn't for me to say." (More hugs and embraces here.) "Imighthave fallen a victim to his lordship's charms; I don't say I should, but I might."
"But, Fanny," said Phœbe, in a low tone, her lips slightly trembling, "it is foolish, it is wrong, to speak like this."
"Now, Phœbe!" said Fanny, holding up a warning forefinger.
"Well, I won't say a word."
"That's a good, sensible, sweet-hearted cousin."
"You are not sorry, Fanny?"
"That he is not made for me? Well, it gives me a pang here to say no"—she placed her hand on her heart, and emitted a comically pathetic sigh—"because, you know, heisthe very loveliest waltzer that ever put his arm round a girl's waist. You said so yourself. Now confess, Phœbe, if Freddid—eh?—you wouldn't run away, would you?" Phœbe's silence was the most eloquent answer she could give to her cousin's question, which, enigmatical as it may sound in the ears of unsentimental persons, was as clear and as sweet to the young girls as the sound of wedding bells. "If he doesn't," added Fanny, energetically, "I shall call him out!"
"Would Aunt and Uncle Leth be very angry?" murmured Phœbe.
"Why, Phœbe," replied Fanny, reproachfully, "they love you as much as they love me. I should feel dreadful if I wasn't sure of that. We are more than cousins, dear; we are sisters. Just put your ear to my heart: don't you hear it beat, 'Phœbe, Phœbe'? It is a good job for Fred Cornwall that I amnota man.Heshouldn't have you, if I were; no—not if he were fifty Fred Cornwalls. I would run away with you, just as Young Lochinvar did with—I forget her name, but it doesn't matter; I'd do it. Isn't it strange that elderly people can't see half as well as young?—they don't look at what is under their noses; they are always looking over their spectacles."
"Aunt and Uncle Leth don't wear them," said Phœbe smiling.
"I am speaking—metaphorically. That's not my word; it's Fred's—rather a favourite with him, you know. Of course, if they asked me plainly, I should tell them; but it wouldn't do for me to start it—would it?—till things are properly settled. They will be overjoyed, Phœbe; and so shall I be; for, don't you see, my dear, when you are disposed of, there will be a chance forme, and if a young gentleman comes to the house there will be no mistake the next time, because I shall be the only disposable young lady in view. To that young gentleman, whoever he is, wherever he may be, I extend an invitation—I say, with a courtesy, 'Come!' Oh! but I must tell you, Phœbe, it was so funny. You remember the last time Fred Cornwall had tea with us here—before he went on his holiday trip?"
"Yes."
"Iinvited him, and perhaps you may remember that I wrote to you and told you to be sure and come and spend two or three days with us. I didn't mention Fred's name in my letter to you, for you would have kept away." It was delightful to hear Fanny's laugh at this innocent badinage. "Well, you came—and Fred came—and I sent Bob off to the theatre, with an order. Now what does mamma pride herself especially upon in the way of jams?"
"Her gooseberry jam."
"Yes, and it really is very fine; I never tasted any half as good. Well, all the while we were at tea I saw it was you Fred was feeding on."
"Fanny, Fanny! You are incorrigible!"
"Am I? Nevertheless, I am right. When he wasn't looking at you, he was thinking of you; when he wasn't thinking of you, he was looking at you. I am quite an experienced person in love matters. 'Mr. Cornwall,' said mamma, 'this is home-made gooseberry jam—my own making. What do you think of it?' 'It is a dream,' replied Fred. He was gazing at you when he passed that very remarkable opinion upon mamma's gooseberry jam. Afterward I heard mamma say to papa, 'Did you hear what Mr. Cornwall said of my gooseberry jam? He said it was a dream. Depend upon it, he means something by it.' And I happening to pop into the room just then, mamma looked at papa significantly; and papa looked at mamma significantly; and then both of them kissed me. I couldn't help laughing to myself and thinking, 'Mamma will have to try her gooseberry jam on some other young man.' And now, Phœbe, we will read Fred's letter."
"How is it, Fanny, that Mr. Cornwall has written you so many letters?" asked Phœbe.
"Jealous?" inquired Fanny.
"No, I have no right to be; Mr. Cornwall is really nothing to me."
"You should have ended that sentence with 'yet.' 'Mr. Cornwall is really nothing to me—yet!' Quite right for you to call himMr.Cornwall; I shall call him Fred, to his face. He will like it—so shall I."
"How you rattle on, Fanny!"
"Yes," said Fanny, composedly; "papa used to call me a regular little chatterbox."
"You have not answered my question, Fanny."
"Oh, about the letters. How is it Fred has written me so many? I have received one, two, three, and this is the fourth. A famous correspondence, isn't it? The fact is," said Fanny unblushingly, "I asked him to write to me, and he, being such a polite young fellow, couldn't very well refuse. I did it quite openly; mamma was present. 'You might write me a nice chatty letter or two, Mr. Cornwall,' said I, 'while you are away.' 'I shall be very happy,' said he, looking at mamma, 'if I may be allowed.' 'Ihave no objection,' said mamma. His asking mamma was almost like a declaration, wasn't it? Many a man has been had up for breach of promise for less than that. And to think of a lawyer so committing himself! But I don't believe they are a bit cleverer than other people; they only pretend to be. 'But I shall stipulate,' said Fred, 'that you answer my letters.' 'Of course I will,' said I, without asking mamma; and I have. In the last one I wrote to him I said that you sent him your dearest love."
"I hope you did not say that, Fanny."
"If I didn't, I meant it; so that it amounts to the same thing. Don't be ungrateful, Phœbe. I inveigled him into writing to me for your sake, not for mine, though Idowear his letters next to my heart. He is supposed to be addressing me in his correspondence, but he is really writing to you, and he knows that you read every word. Is there one of his letters without a lot about you in it?"
"He is always thoughtful."
"A model young man; when he comes home we'll put him in a glass case. And now we must really get to sleep, or we shall have mamma crying outside in the passage, 'Girls, girls, put out the light!' Don't you feel tired, Phœbe?"
"But the letter, Fanny!"
"Oh, the letter! Well, if I wasn't almost forgetting it! I suppose itmustbe read. See, it is addressed from the Grimsel Hospice. That's where the monks are. What a splendid monk Fred would make! He really ought to become one. What doyouthink, Phœbe?"
Then Fanny kissed her cousin half a dozen times, and proceeded to read Fred Cornwall's letter.
CHAPTER XIV.
A BIT OF EDELWEISS.
"My dear Miss Lethbridge—"("That's altogether too formal, isn't it?" said Fanny, looking up from the letter. "Why doesn't the stupid fellow commence with, 'My own dearest Fanny'? It would be very much nicer, wouldn't it?")"My dear Miss Lethbridge,—Since my last we have had glorious weather, and I have been to no end of places, enjoying myself thoroughly. The only drawback is that I am without a companion, and that I sometimes feel rather lonely—"("If there everwasa young fellow," said Fanny, "cut out for a family man, it is Fred.")"And that I sometimes feel rather lonely. But we cannot have everything we wish for in this world, and I shall soon be home. One satisfaction is that I am making myself well acquainted with the route I have taken—as delightful a track as can be imagined—and that it will be a great pleasure by-and-by to guide some one who has never been to the beauty-land of Switzerland over the ground I have traversed—"("I wonder," said Fanny, "if he has anybody in his eye, and whether he is thinking of a honey-moon!")"Over the ground I have traversed. I received your pleasant, chatty letter, telling me all the news, and I cannot thank you enough for it. You are a model of a correspondent. So you all went to hearFaustat Covent Garden; I can imagine how you enjoyed yourselves, loving music as you do. When I was at Milan I went to La Scala, about which everybody who hasn't seen it raves. It isn't a patch on Covent Garden. You say it would have done my heart good if I had seen how beautiful Miss Farebrother looked—"("I gave him," said Fanny, "a most elaborate description of our dresses.")"To see how beautiful Miss Farebrother looked. You need scarcely have told me that; she always looks beautiful—and so do you—"("Icome in," said Fanny, tossing her head, "as a kind of make-weight. Out of common politeness he could not have said less.")"And so do you. On my way to the Grimsel this afternoon I stopped at Handek to see the Falls. I am not sure that I do not admire them more than any I have yet passed. They are truly grand; and I wish I could have gathered some of the wonderful ferns low down the ravine to have inclosed in this letter. Before I reached the Falls I stopped at a hut, and there was a girl shelling peas. Quite a young girl, not more than seventeen, I should say; but there was something about her that reminded me of Miss Farebrother. Nothing like so pretty and sweet; but her hair was the same colour, and she was about the same height. She got me some milk, and I stopped a few minutes to rest, and helped her to pick her peas—"("It has been my opinion," said Fanny, "ever since I had the pleasure of Fred's acquaintance, that he was little better than a flirt. He ought to be ashamed of himself. The least he could do was to keep these things to himself.")"Helped her to pick her peas. We had an agreeable chat, although she spoke a patois of which I did not understand a single word. It was very comical—"("Very," said Fanny, with a fine touch of sarcasm.)"Comical. Then I went on my way rejoicing, and it was quite dark when I reached the Grimsel. The monks are very hospitable; they gave me a good dinner and a good bottle of wine, for which they charge nothing; only one is expected to put something in the box for the poor before he leaves the hospice. I am up here in the mountains, nearly seven thousand feet above the level of the sea; out side there is a melancholy, sombre sheet of water called the Todten-See, or the Dead Lake. It is said to contain no living thing, only ghosts. Before I go to bed I shall go and see them. I am sorry to hear that the firm in which Bob was employed has failed, and that he is out of a situation. Hope he will soon get another, and that his career will shed lustre and renown on the name of Lethbridge. And I am truly sorry to hear that Miss Farebrother has sprained her wrist—"("Oh, Fanny!" cried Phœbe, "I didn't." "I told him you did," said Fanny, calmly. "When a man is away, things mustnotbe allowed to languish. The interestmustbe kept up somehow.")"Sprained her wrist. She must take the greatest care of it. Of course you do not allow her to touch the piano. You ask me how she would look with her hair cut short—"("Well!" gasped Phœbe. "It is really too bad of you. Nothing could induce me to have my hair cut off. I have never mentioned such a thing." "Imentioned it," said Fanny, with a little laugh. "Trust me for managing these affairs. He will be overjoyed when he comes home and finds your hair just as beautiful as when he left. He will say something about it, to which you will reply—exposing me, of course—and then he will pay you no end of compliments.")"With her hair cut short. Are you serious? I know what a quiz you are, and I suspect you are amusing yourself at my expense. I can hardly believe that Miss Farebrother has any such intention. I never saw such beautiful hair as hers—"("Thank you, sir," said Fanny.)"Such beautiful hair as hers, and she will be doing very wrong if she allows herself to be persuaded to adopt what I consider an odious fashion. You know my opinion about mannish women; I would banish them to some distant island if I had my way, where, as there would be no men among them, there might be a chance of their recovering their right senses. When I was in Milan I bought three lace handkerchiefs: one for Miss Farebrother, one for yourself, and one for your kind mother. I have something also for Uncle Leth and Bob. Please give them all my very kindest regards, and tell Aunt Leth I am longing to have tea with her, and to taste her wonderful gooseberry jam again."(Fanny had to stop here to laugh, and then she said: "Look, Phœbe, here are a lot of dots. His recollection of the gooseberry jam overcame him, and he went out to the Dead Lake to see the ghosts.")"I threw down my pen, and went out for a stroll. It is a beautiful night. The Dead Lake does not sustain its reputation when the stars are shining on it. I tried to conjure up the ghosts, but they would not come. Instead of ghosts, all sorts of pleasant memories took shape, for the chief of which I have to thank your happy home. I thought of you all, and of the many acts of hospitality for which I am indebted to you. There is in such scenes as this a spirit of peace inexpressibly soothing, forming a reminiscence to be long remembered. The reflection of the stars in the still waters rendered it impossible to credit their evil reputation. The lake was a fairy lake, and as such I shall always think of it. Upon entering the hospice I heard the monks praying in low voices. Now I must to bed. Convey my kindest remembrances to Miss Farebrother, and receive the same yourself, from"Yours very sincerely,Frederick Cornwall."
"My dear Miss Lethbridge—"
("That's altogether too formal, isn't it?" said Fanny, looking up from the letter. "Why doesn't the stupid fellow commence with, 'My own dearest Fanny'? It would be very much nicer, wouldn't it?")
"My dear Miss Lethbridge,—Since my last we have had glorious weather, and I have been to no end of places, enjoying myself thoroughly. The only drawback is that I am without a companion, and that I sometimes feel rather lonely—"
("If there everwasa young fellow," said Fanny, "cut out for a family man, it is Fred.")
"And that I sometimes feel rather lonely. But we cannot have everything we wish for in this world, and I shall soon be home. One satisfaction is that I am making myself well acquainted with the route I have taken—as delightful a track as can be imagined—and that it will be a great pleasure by-and-by to guide some one who has never been to the beauty-land of Switzerland over the ground I have traversed—"
("I wonder," said Fanny, "if he has anybody in his eye, and whether he is thinking of a honey-moon!")
"Over the ground I have traversed. I received your pleasant, chatty letter, telling me all the news, and I cannot thank you enough for it. You are a model of a correspondent. So you all went to hearFaustat Covent Garden; I can imagine how you enjoyed yourselves, loving music as you do. When I was at Milan I went to La Scala, about which everybody who hasn't seen it raves. It isn't a patch on Covent Garden. You say it would have done my heart good if I had seen how beautiful Miss Farebrother looked—"
("I gave him," said Fanny, "a most elaborate description of our dresses.")
"To see how beautiful Miss Farebrother looked. You need scarcely have told me that; she always looks beautiful—and so do you—"
("Icome in," said Fanny, tossing her head, "as a kind of make-weight. Out of common politeness he could not have said less.")
"And so do you. On my way to the Grimsel this afternoon I stopped at Handek to see the Falls. I am not sure that I do not admire them more than any I have yet passed. They are truly grand; and I wish I could have gathered some of the wonderful ferns low down the ravine to have inclosed in this letter. Before I reached the Falls I stopped at a hut, and there was a girl shelling peas. Quite a young girl, not more than seventeen, I should say; but there was something about her that reminded me of Miss Farebrother. Nothing like so pretty and sweet; but her hair was the same colour, and she was about the same height. She got me some milk, and I stopped a few minutes to rest, and helped her to pick her peas—"
("It has been my opinion," said Fanny, "ever since I had the pleasure of Fred's acquaintance, that he was little better than a flirt. He ought to be ashamed of himself. The least he could do was to keep these things to himself.")
"Helped her to pick her peas. We had an agreeable chat, although she spoke a patois of which I did not understand a single word. It was very comical—"
("Very," said Fanny, with a fine touch of sarcasm.)
"Comical. Then I went on my way rejoicing, and it was quite dark when I reached the Grimsel. The monks are very hospitable; they gave me a good dinner and a good bottle of wine, for which they charge nothing; only one is expected to put something in the box for the poor before he leaves the hospice. I am up here in the mountains, nearly seven thousand feet above the level of the sea; out side there is a melancholy, sombre sheet of water called the Todten-See, or the Dead Lake. It is said to contain no living thing, only ghosts. Before I go to bed I shall go and see them. I am sorry to hear that the firm in which Bob was employed has failed, and that he is out of a situation. Hope he will soon get another, and that his career will shed lustre and renown on the name of Lethbridge. And I am truly sorry to hear that Miss Farebrother has sprained her wrist—"
("Oh, Fanny!" cried Phœbe, "I didn't." "I told him you did," said Fanny, calmly. "When a man is away, things mustnotbe allowed to languish. The interestmustbe kept up somehow.")
"Sprained her wrist. She must take the greatest care of it. Of course you do not allow her to touch the piano. You ask me how she would look with her hair cut short—"
("Well!" gasped Phœbe. "It is really too bad of you. Nothing could induce me to have my hair cut off. I have never mentioned such a thing." "Imentioned it," said Fanny, with a little laugh. "Trust me for managing these affairs. He will be overjoyed when he comes home and finds your hair just as beautiful as when he left. He will say something about it, to which you will reply—exposing me, of course—and then he will pay you no end of compliments.")
"With her hair cut short. Are you serious? I know what a quiz you are, and I suspect you are amusing yourself at my expense. I can hardly believe that Miss Farebrother has any such intention. I never saw such beautiful hair as hers—"
("Thank you, sir," said Fanny.)
"Such beautiful hair as hers, and she will be doing very wrong if she allows herself to be persuaded to adopt what I consider an odious fashion. You know my opinion about mannish women; I would banish them to some distant island if I had my way, where, as there would be no men among them, there might be a chance of their recovering their right senses. When I was in Milan I bought three lace handkerchiefs: one for Miss Farebrother, one for yourself, and one for your kind mother. I have something also for Uncle Leth and Bob. Please give them all my very kindest regards, and tell Aunt Leth I am longing to have tea with her, and to taste her wonderful gooseberry jam again."
(Fanny had to stop here to laugh, and then she said: "Look, Phœbe, here are a lot of dots. His recollection of the gooseberry jam overcame him, and he went out to the Dead Lake to see the ghosts.")
"I threw down my pen, and went out for a stroll. It is a beautiful night. The Dead Lake does not sustain its reputation when the stars are shining on it. I tried to conjure up the ghosts, but they would not come. Instead of ghosts, all sorts of pleasant memories took shape, for the chief of which I have to thank your happy home. I thought of you all, and of the many acts of hospitality for which I am indebted to you. There is in such scenes as this a spirit of peace inexpressibly soothing, forming a reminiscence to be long remembered. The reflection of the stars in the still waters rendered it impossible to credit their evil reputation. The lake was a fairy lake, and as such I shall always think of it. Upon entering the hospice I heard the monks praying in low voices. Now I must to bed. Convey my kindest remembrances to Miss Farebrother, and receive the same yourself, from
"Yours very sincerely,
Frederick Cornwall."
"That is something like a letter," said Fanny. "Fred is quite a poet. Don't you think so?"
"He writes beautifully," replied Phœbe.
"Lace handkerchiefs," said Fanny. "I wonder whose will be the prettiest? Mine, I should say."
"You deserve the best."
"There can be no doubt of that; but then men are so ungrateful. I must confess I can't quite get over that girl at Handek. The idea of his helping her to shell peas!"
"It was very kind of him."
"It was nothing of the sort; it was a downright shameless piece of flirtation, and I shall take him to task for it. I shouldn't so much have minded it ifIhad been the girl; would you? Oh, how foolish of me!—there is a postscript to the letter. Just think of a young woman forgetting a 'P.S.'!"
"As if you did not know it was there!" said Phœbe, with a tender smile. "What does it say?"
"Well, I never! Just listen. 'P.S.—My own dearest girl——'"
"Eh?" cried Phœbe.
"No; it is a mistake of mine. He has left that out. 'P.S.—I have kept this letter by me four days, and it is time I posted it, or I shall be home before you receive it. I expect to reach London on Friday morning.' What do you think of that, Phœbe? How many to the minute is your heart going? Friday morning. The day after to-morrow. I shan't be able to sleep a wink. But there is something more, Phœbe; that is not the end of the postscript. It goes on: 'Enclosed are two small packets, one with your name outside, one with Miss Farebrother's. I dare say you have not seen the flower they contain. It is the edelweiss, a flower which, always worn, brings luck and good fortune. If you will give me the opportunity, when I come home, I shall regard it as a great favour if you will allow me to put a piece of edelweiss in lockets for you both. With constant regards, Fred C.' Here is your packet, Phœbe."
Phœbe opened the paper, and gazed at the white flower, around which the traveller had arranged a few forget-me-nots.
"He calls it," said Fanny, "a flower of luck and good fortune.Iknow the right name for it, if he doesn't."
"What is its right name?" asked Phœbe.
"It is a love flower—nothing less. I shall put mine under my pillow, and shall dream of My Own. Not yours—mine; I am not a poacher. I will tell you what he is like in the morning. Good-night, dear Phœbe."
"Good-night, darling," said Phœbe.
Both the girls put their flowers of love under their pillows, and had happy dreams.
CHAPTER XV.
JEREMIAH PAMFLETT'S OPINIONS OF GIRLS.
No more chivalrous knight than Tom Barley ever drew breath, but notwithstanding his devotion to Phœbe, certain incontrovertible conclusions had for some time past forced themselves upon him. A number of men live to eat; a much larger number eat to live. Without reference to his inclinations, Tom Barley's circumstances did not enable him to do the former, and he found it exceedingly hard to do the latter. Between him and Mrs. Pamflett existed an unconquerable antipathy. Being of an independent order of mind, he was barely civil to her; and, as she kept the key of the cupboard, she repaid him in full by either throwing food to him as she would to a dog, or giving him none at all. She tolerated him because he was useful to her in the way of chopping wood and doing various odd jobs of a rough nature; but for this, she would long ago have had him dismissed. Her son Jeremiah, who came regularly to Parksides on Miser Farebrother's business, never failed to put a spoke in Tom's wheel as he termed it; but his mother was successful in mollifying him by recounting the hardships to which Tom had to submit.
"He's little better than starved," she said to her son, "and he hasn't a rag to his back."
"Serve him right," growled Jeremiah; "I'd like to see him hanged!"
He never forgot the beating he had received in the village, by the instigation of Tom Barley, on the occasion of his first visit to Parksides; and with him, never to forget was never to forgive. With prudent care of his bones he steered clear of a collision with Tom, who was strong enough to tackle half a dozen men such as he; but he would gladly have seized an opportunity to do Tom an ill turn. Tom, the least vindictive being that ever wore rags, had forgotten the incident years ago, and would have met with civility any advances which Jeremiah might have made to him; but as Miser Farebrother's managing clerk invariably scowled at him when they happened to meet, he took refuge in silence and avoidance. Jeremiah had made great strides since he first entered the miser's service. He had mastered the intricacies and the rogueries of the money-lending business, and was the sharpest of sharp knaves—without feeling, without a heart, intent only upon his own interests and the gratification of his own pleasures. It has already been shown that he was lending money upon his own account; but this was done without the cognizance of the miser, who would have strongly resented such an encroachment upon his domain. Miser Farebrother would have found it difficult—indeed, almost impossible—to get along now without Jeremiah; the constant cramp in his bones, which had kept him so frequently and for so long a time together a prisoner in Parksides, grew worse instead of better, and Jeremiah had taken the fullest advantage which these absences had offered to him. There were matters of business which Jeremiah, and Jeremiah alone, could explain: sums of money were owing which, without Jeremiah, could never have been recovered; certain of the questionable transactions by means of which Miser Farebrother had amassed wealth were entered and recorded in a manner so peculiar that Jeremiah and no other person understood them. He had played his cards apparently well. The question to be decided was, where the game was going to lead him.
On the Friday upon which Fred Cornwall was expected home, two or three pregnant circumstances took place affecting our heroine. It was the day previous to her birthday, on which she had obtained her father's consent to the visit of the Lethbridges to Parksides. Phœbe had returned home on Thursday evening, intent upon making preparations for the visit of her dearest friends. Before she left Camden Town a little conversation took place between her and her aunt with respect to this birthday celebration.
"You must not expect much," Phœbe said; "I cannot afford to do as I would wish."
"Whatever it is," said Aunt Leth, "it will be as welcome as the best. I should say, a cup of tea and some nice thin bread and butter."
"Yes," said poor Phœbe; "that will be all, I am afraid."
"But even that," said Aunt Leth, "will entail a small expense. Let me see your purse."
"No, aunt; it is all right; and I must go at once."
"There is no hurry, my dear; you have at least half an hour to spare. Fanny is going with you to the station, and she will not be ready for the next twenty minutes. Show me your purse, Phœbe."
"Aunt dear——"
"My dear child, I insist, or I shall think you do not love me."
Phœbe's purse was out in a moment; but she repented when it was in Aunt Leth's hand.
"You foolish girl!" said Aunt Leth, looking into the purse, and pinching Phœbe's cheek; "there is next to nothing in it. Come, now—it is too late, I hope, for secrets between us—tell me all."
Phœbe, in a low voice, told of the conversation between her father and herself, and of his giving her a florin for a birthday present. Aunt Leth did not look grave as she listened; on the contrary, she nodded and smiled brightly. It was not in her nature to do the slightest thing to aggravate the gloomy surroundings of the young girl's home. Her heart was filled with sweet pity for her niece's lot, and it was for her to shed light on Phœbe's life.
"My dear child," she said, "do you look upon me as a mother?"
"Indeed I do, dear aunt."
"Would you wish to vex me?"
"No, aunt; no."
"Then you must let me have my way. I know what is right and what is best. I have a little treasure-box, which I find very useful often when I am in a wilful mood. It is sometimes filled with saved pennies, and you have no idea how they mount up. Don't oppose me, Phœbe, or I will not kiss you." In proof of which she gave her niece a number of affectionate kisses at once. "I am going to my treasure-box now."
She produced it from her desk, and put fifteen shillings into Phœbe's purse. Then she closed the purse, and pressed it into the girl's hand.
"What can I say, aunt?" murmured Phœbe, her eyes filled with tears.
"Say, my dear, 'I am glad my aunt treats me as she would treat her own child.' I have served you just as I would serve Fanny."
"I shall never be able to repay you, dear aunt."
"You are repaying me, Phœbe, every day of your life."
The gratitude which filled Phœbe's heart had something sacred in it. But, indeed, that happy house was more than a home to the young girl—it was a sanctuary.
Therefore Phœbe, unloved and neglected as she was in Parksides, was perfectly happy on the day before her birthday. She would be able to make her tea-table quite gay, and she went to the village and laid out to great advantage the money her aunt had put in her purse.
"Good afternoon, Miss Phœbe."
It was Jeremiah Pamflett who accosted her. He was on a visit to the miser, with books and papers under his arm.
"Good afternoon," said Phœbe, who was also carrying parcels. She would have hurried on and left him, after these salutations, but he was too quick for her.
"Won't you shake hands with me, Miss Phœbe?"
"I can't; they are full."
"Where there's a will there's a way. You had better shake hands with me, or your father will be angry when I tell him."
This threat served him. Phœbe managed to extend her hand, which he took and held in his for a longer time than was necessary.
"What a pretty hand you have, Miss Phœbe?"
She shrank at the compliment, and snatched her hand from his grasp. He did not take umbrage at this action, pretending not to notice it.
"We are both going home, Miss Phœbe. May I offer you my arm?"
"I can do quite well without, thank you," said Phœbe.
"And as well with. I always like to be polite to ladies; a gentleman can't do less. Let me carry a parcel or two for you. I shall tell your father that I assisted you, and he will be pleased. I do all his business for him, you know, and he has the greatest confidence in me. I do all I can to deserve it, I am sure. Thank you. Don't you feel more comfortable now? I should if I was a young lady, and a gentleman had insisted upon helping me."
Had it not been that she was fearful of angering her father, Phœbe would on no account have accepted his assistance; but he forced it upon her, and compelled her to take his arm. He walked proudly through the village with his lovely charge, tilting his hat a little on one side of his head to show his quality. Sometimes he dropped one of Phœbe's parcels, and when she once stooped to pick it up and their heads touched, he became quite merry, and asked her which was the hardest. She spoke scarcely a word; but he beguiled the way with anecdote and jest, and, when they reached Parksides, declared it was the pleasantest walk he had ever taken. She ran up to her room and left him alone. For himself, though he was at the door of the house, he did not enter it; he turned back, and walked about the grounds in thought, saying more than once to himself, "Upon my soul it wouldn't be half a bad move!" emphasizing his remark by slapping his leg smartly. On his way back to the house he encountered Tom Barley, and, elated by his reflections, he cried out:
"Hallo, you beggar! How areyougetting on? Making your fortune?"
"No," said Tom Barley; "are you?"
"Yes," said Jeremiah, exultantly. "I'mgetting on like a house on fire. Here's a penny—no, a ha'penny for you."
Tom Barley threw it back savagely, and it grazed Jeremiah's forehead.
"I could have you up for that," said Jeremiah, edging away from Tom. "Assault and battery, you know. If you give me any of your cheek I'll land you at the station-house."
"Give me any of yours," retorted Tom, "and I'll break every bone in your body!"
Jeremiah deemed it best to walk away, which he did rather swiftly, and with decided nervousness. Upon making his appearance before his mother he worked himself up into a great passion, and said that Tom Barley had set upon him with a knife, and had threatened his life. She soothed him, and advised him to inform Miser Farebrother, which he promised to do; and being further mollified by a draught of ale and a plate of cold meat and pickles, he condescended to be in a better humour.
"You haven't kissed me, Jeremiah," said Mrs. Pamflett.
"Oh, bother!" he said, brushing her cheek with his lips. "I like to kiss girls. I say, mother, how pretty Phœbe's grown!"
"Miss Farebrother?" asked his mother, somewhat startled.
"I said 'Phœbe,' didn't I? She's about as pretty as they make 'em. I met her in the village, and she took my arm. A little stuck-up at first, but I soon brought her to her senses. Mother, what do you think of me?"
"You are the best son in the world," she replied, readily, "and the cleverest man in England."
"Yes, I think I can show them a trick or two. Are you proud of me, mother?"
"Indeed I am, Jeremiah?"
"Am I a handsome man, mother?"
"A handsomer couldn't be found, Jeremiah."
"Am I good enough for any girl?"
"Indeed you are. She'll be a lucky girl you set your heart on, my boy."
"Oh, come, now! I don't know so much about hearts. I know which side I want my bread buttered—eh, mother?"
"Certainly, Jeremiah."
"Well, then, why shouldn't it be?"
"Why shouldn't what be?" asked Mrs. Pamflett, very much mystified.
Jeremiah put his forefinger to the side of his nose. "When I tell you, mother, you'll be as wise as I am."
"But do tell me, Jeremiah," the fond mother pleaded.
"Still tongue, wise head," said he. "No; I'll have a good think over it first."
He went up to Miser Farebrother with his books and papers, and when the interview was over he returned to his mother, who by that time had a hot meal prepared for him. Before she dished it up he asked her whether she could find Tom Barley.
"The old skinflint wants to see him," said Jeremiah, with an upward jerk of his head, in the direction of the room occupied by Miser Farebrother. "He has something very particular to say to the beggar, which will open his eyes a bit. Go and find him, mother, and send him up. I'll wait. Pleasure first, business afterward."
Tom Barley happened to be within hail, and Mrs. Pamflett sent him up to the miser, and then attended to her son. She waited till he was well primed, and presumably therefore in a more complaisant humour, and then she said, coaxingly, "Won't you tell me, Jeremiah, what you meant by saying 'Why shouldn't it be?'"
"No, I won't, and that's flat," replied Jeremiah; "at least, I won't till I've a mind to. But Phœbeisa pretty girl, isn't she, mother?"
"I was pretty once," sighed Mrs. Pamflett.
"Shouldn't have thought it. But women go off so. I don't know that I've ever seen a much prettier girl than Phœbe."
Mrs. Pamflett opened her eyes wide; she began to have a glimmering of her son's meaning.
"There's styles," continued Jeremiah. "Some like one style, some like another. For my part, I'm not particular, so long as a girl's nice looking. It don't matter to me much whether they're dark or fair, or long or short, so long as they're that. Mother, you're not a bad sort, and I'll be open with you."
"You're my own boy!" exclaimed the fond mother, pressing her son's head to her bosom.
"I wish you wouldn't!" cried Jeremiah. "I don't care to have your buttons grinding into my nose. When you've recovered yourself, perhaps you'll sit down."
Mrs. Pamflett obeyed meekly, murmuring, "I couldn't help it, Jeremiah."
"Well, do help it. I tell you once for all, do help it. I don't want to have my nose skinned. I've a good mind now not to tell you."
"Do tell me, Jeremiah," implored Mrs. Pamflett—"do! And I'll never take you sudden again."
"Very well, then; but mind you keep your word. You're always at it, hugging and pressing me as if I was a bit of wood! Yes; I say there's styles, and what I say on the top of that is that I ain't particular so long as everything else is O.K."
"What's O.K.?" inquired Mrs. Pamflett, anxiously.
"All correct, of course. You don't know much, and that's a fact. Trust me for seeing to things being right. You would have to get up very early in the morning to get ahead ofme. Now don't exasperate me by asking too many questions. Everything in time, so don't you be in a hurry. A spider ain't, when he's got a bluebottle in his web. Take a lesson from him."
"I will, Jeremiah," said Mrs. Pamflett, humbly; "but who's the bluebottle, and who's the spider?"
"There you are, asking questions again. You rile a fellow, that's what you do. Mother, what do you think of Phœbe?"
"I don't think much of her," replied Mrs. Pamflett, shortly. She would not have answered so candidly had she not been taken off her guard. Her opinion of Phœbe, however, did not seem to disturb Jeremiah, who said:
"Women never hit it, somehow. Is she proud?"
"Yes."
"I thought she was; but if any man can bring her to book, I can. Does she sauce you?"
"She seldom speaks to me."
"Women are the crookedest creatures going; they never answer straight. Does she sauce you?"
"No."
"Has she got a sweetheart?"
"Not that I know of."
"Does she receive letters?"
"Only from her relations in Camden Town."
"Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge," said Jeremiah, chuckling, and feeling his pocket, in which an acceptance for three hundred pounds with Mr. Lethbridge's name to it was safely secured. "I know something ofthem. Do you think she's in love?"
"No."
"It wouldn't matter if she was." And here Jeremiah paused, and gave himself up to thought, with his fingers stretched across his brows. Mrs. Pamflett observed him earnestly, but did not disturb him. "Mother, would you like to see me ride in my carriage—my own carriage?"
"I should be the proudest woman in England, Jeremiah—my own Jeremiah!"
"Stow that!" cried Jeremiah, holding her off. "No more buttons! You'd like to see me ride, in my carriage, would you? There are more unlikely things. You said I was good enough for any girl. Am I good enough for Phœbe?"
"A million times too good, my boy," said Mrs. Pamflett, enthusiastically.
"That's a blessing. She ought to be grateful. When I met her in the village she had a lot of parcels. Does she go shopping for you?"
"Not she. Perhaps she's been buying some things for her birthday. She's going to give her aunt and uncle tea here."
"Oho! And whenisPhœbe's birthday, mother?"
"To-morrow."
Jeremiah grinned, his eyes glittered. "I'm in luck's way," he said. "And now, mother, give me a glass of brandy and water, and I'll cut my lucky."
"When shall I see you again, Jeremiah?" she asked, after mixing the beverage, which he tossed off with a relish.
"Sooner than you expect. Oh, well, I don't mind telling you. I'm coming here to-morrow to wish Phœbe many happy returns. Ta-ta! Well, if you must kiss me—there you are, hugging me again! Why can't you do it gently?"