Miser Farebrother Volume I Part 24

"But I kept you on out of charity, and I told you that you were at liberty to earn money elsewhere whenever you could pick up an odd job."

"My experience is," he said, "that there's about five million evens to one odd."

"The result of my kindness and liberality is that you are as you are, an idle, skulking, thieving vagabond."

"Have you done?" asked Tom.

"Not yet. I have had a serious complaint made against you, and I intend to take notice of it in a practical way. You have threatened the life of my clerk, Mr. Jeremiah Pamflett, a most estimable young man, in whom I place implicit confidence. You lie in ambush for him, and he goes in terror of you."

"That's the best thing I've heard yet," said Tom Barley, rubbing his hands gleefully.

"Such a state of things is no longer to be endured, and I shall put an end to it. Tom Barley, I discharge you from my service."

"Is that all?"

"That is all. I wash my hands of you. As to your conduct toward my clerk, I warn you to be very careful. A watch will be set upon you, and if you repeat your threats you will have to put up with the consequences."

"I'll do that; it's a matter between this Jeremiah of yours and me. As to threatening his life, that I've never done. A long while ago I got him thrashed--I didn't do it myself; I was too big--for insulting your daughter, and if ever he insults her again, and I get to know it, he'll be thrashed again. As to being turned from your service, I'll put up with it. Whatever I do I can't be worse off than I am. But you said something else. You said I've got money rolled up in bundles somewhere, and that I've robbed you of it. Now out with it like a man; you did say it!"

"Yes, I did," snarled Miser Farebrother.

"What I've got to say to that is, that you're a liar! I ain't given to hard words, but when I'm drove to it I use 'em; and my answer to your charge is, you're a liar! Straight from the shoulder, master: you're a liar!"

Upon that Tom marched out of the room, with erect head and angry eye; but when he got half-way down the staircase his look softened and his head drooped, for Phoebe stood before him. While he was in the presence of Miser Farebrother, a.s.serting his manhood, he had not thought of her.

She had heard the angry voices of her father and Tom, and she had waited to learn the cause. She beckoned Tom to follow her, and they were presently in the little room which she could call her own.

"Oh, Tom," she said, "what is it?"

"Well, miss," he replied, "I hardly like to say, but you'd get to know it if I didn't tell you. Your father and me's had a difference, all along of that clerk of his, Jeremiah, Mrs. Pamflett's white-livered son. He's been telling your father stories about me which ain't true.

Don't believe 'em when you hear 'em--don't!"

"I won't, Tom."

"Thank you, miss. I'm going to leave Parksides, miss."

"Oh, Tom!"

"Your father's discharged me. If he hadn't, I don't know what I should have done, because--look at me, miss--I ain't fit to be seen."

"Oh, Tom, I am so sorry! How I shall miss you!"

"I feel that bad over it, because of you, that I can't express. But it ain't my fault."

"I am sure it is not, Tom. Have you thought what you shall do?"

"Well, miss, I'm going to London, to be a policeman, if they'll take me on. It ain't my idea: it's somebody else's. And perhaps if I get to be a policeman, I'll be put on somewhere near Camden Town. I don't ask for anything better, miss; for then I shall be near where you will be sometimes, and I can look after you. Don't speak to me, miss, don't look at me, for I feel like breaking down. Good-bye, Miss Phoebe, good-bye, and G.o.d bless you!"

And, choking with tears, the honest fellow rushed away.

CHAPTER XVII.

f.a.n.n.y CONFIDES A SECRET TO HER MOTHER.

The visit of the Lethbridges to Parksides was an event of great importance. Neither Uncle Leth, f.a.n.n.y nor Bob had ever been there, and it was five or six years since Aunt Leth had set foot in it. Of all the family she was the only one who would have been able to recognize Miser Farebrother, and to say, "That is Phoebe's father." Nearly twenty years had elapsed since Uncle Leth had seen the miser, and he was rather doubtful as to how he would be received, their last meeting not having been a pleasant one. f.a.n.n.y was very curious and very nervous; Phoebe's father was a solemn mysterious personage, a being apart, whose acquaintance she was now for the first time to make. What kind of looking gentleman was he? Their alb.u.ms contained the portraits of all their friends and relations, near and distant, some from infancy upward; but the portrait of Miser Farebrother found no place therein.

It is doubtful, indeed, whether he had ever had his portrait taken; certainly there was none extant. Even Phoebe did not possess one. It had been a tacit arrangement among the Lethbridge's not to refer in general conversation to Phoebe's father, and to Bob and f.a.n.n.y he was an utter stranger in fact and sentiment. But now that they were to be brought into contact with him, he became an object of immediate interest to them.

"What shall we call him?" said f.a.n.n.y to Bob. "Of course he is our uncle, and we ought to call him Uncle Farebrother."

Bob professed not to care--in which he was not ingenuous. "All that I've heard about him," he said, "is that he is known as Miser Farebrother."

"It won't do to call him that," said f.a.n.n.y; "he would be offended, and might fly out at us. Ought I to kiss him?"

"Wait till you're asked," replied Bob. "He must be immensely rich."

"More shame for him," said f.a.n.n.y indignantly, "to keep Phoebe as short as he does. What does he do with all his money?"

"Wraps it up in old stockings, buries it, hides it in the chimneys, carries it in bags round his waist, stuffs his mattress with it. There was a miser found dead in a garret in Lambeth the other day, and though there wasn't a crust of bread in the room, they found four thousand pounds hidden away in teapots, mouse-traps, nightcaps, old boots and all sorts of rum places. He used to go about begging, and would s.n.a.t.c.h a bone from a dog."

"Miserable wretch!" cried f.a.n.n.y. "I hope Uncle Farebrother isn't like that."

"Not exactly, I should say; but quite bad enough. He hasn't treated us very handsomely."

"Well, never mind," said f.a.n.n.y. "We don't go to see him; we are going for Phoebe's sake."

Their antic.i.p.ations of their uncle were not very glowing; but as they had been warned by their mother, what pa.s.sed between them respecting him was regarded as confidential. To Phoebe they said not a word.

On the Sat.u.r.day morning Mr. Lethbridge, on his way to the bank, had a little day-dream. He and his wife and children had arrived at the railway station which led to Parksides, and had beguiled the journey by discussing how they should get to Miser Farebrother's house. Should they ride? Should they walk? Would Phoebe meet them? The question was settled for them immediately they alighted from the train. There was Phoebe, all smiles, and dressed most beautifully, even elegantly. And who should be by her side but her father, all smiles also, and elegantly dressed? He came forward in the pleasantest manner, and shook hands with every one of them, and Phoebe whispered to Uncle Leth, "It is all nonsense about father being a miser. It was only fun on his part. He has been saving up for me, and you, and Aunt Leth, and all of us. You have no idea how good and kind he is." There was actually a carriage waiting for them, and they all got into it, and rode in jubilant spirits to Parksides: a mansion fit for a n.o.bleman. Gables, turrets, mullioned windows, walls covered with old ivy, grounds and gardens most tastefully laid out--everything perfect. Footmen about, and pretty maids neatly dressed, music playing somewhere. There was a sumptuous dinner provided for them: wonderful dishes, the best of wine.

The day-dreamer made a speech, in which he dilated upon the happiness which Miser Farebrother had shed upon them, and how it was all the greater because of the delightful surprise which Phoebe's father had been for so many years preparing for them. Mr. Lethbridge's mental speeches were always marvels of oratory--not a word out of place, the turns most felicitous--and this speech at Miser Farebrother's dinner-table was even happier than usual. Then Miser Farebrother responded, and came out in a light so unexpected and agreeable that the place rang with cheers, and the music struck up "For he's a jolly good fellow," in which they all joined at the top of their voices. When the feast was ended Miser Farebrother asked him to step into his private room, and there, over a bottle of rare old port, he produced his will, which he read to the dreamer, and in which every member of the dreamer's family was handsomely provided for. He would not listen to the dreamer's expressions of grat.i.tude. "Not a word: not a word," he said. "It has been a whim of mine to allow you to suppose I was mean and miserly and cruel, when all the time I have been overflowing with the milk of human kindness. Now we are all going to live happily together." Then they joined the young people in the grounds, where there was a marquee erected for the guests to dance in. There was quite a gathering; numbers of ladies and gentlemen had been invited, and among them Fred Cornwall, who had returned from his holiday trip. The young lawyer was dancing now with f.a.n.n.y, and Miser Farebrother said: "I shouldn't wonder if that was to be a match. When it is arranged, look out for a splendid wedding present from me;" and f.a.n.n.y coming up, the miser pinched her cheek, and said something which made her blush. It was altogether a most exhilarating entertainment, and the union of the relations most harmonious. Of course it was a lovely night, and as the dreamer arrived at the bank, he said to himself, "I have pa.s.sed the pleasantest day in my remembrance."

While he was at his desk a conversation took place at home between f.a.n.n.y and her mother respecting Fred Cornwall. He had called upon the Lethbridges on the previous evening, and although he was full of agreeable chat, he seemed disappointed at not finding Phoebe at her aunt's house. As he had said in his last letter to f.a.n.n.y, he had brought presents home for all of them, and when f.a.n.n.y twitted him privately with having nothing for Phoebe, he answered,

"Oh, yes, I have; but I must give them to her personally."

"To-morrow will be a capital time to give her a present," said f.a.n.n.y.

"Is she coming here to-morrow?" asked Fred, eagerly.

"No," replied f.a.n.n.y; "we are all going to her at Parksides. It is her birthday."

"She did not leave me an invitation, I suppose?" said Fred.

"No," said f.a.n.n.y; "but if I were a young gentleman I shouldn't wait for one."

"Wouldn't you?"