"Have any letters come for me?" asked Phoebe.
"None," replied her father. "Your precious friends have forgotten you.
Now that they are convinced they cannot wring any money out of me, they will have nothing more to do with you."
She did not tell him that she knew he was guilty of an untruth. She had the firmest belief in her aunt"s constancy, and this, to some extent, was a comfort to her; but the pain and the grief that lay in silence were very bitter. She never ceased thinking of her lover; that was the keenest torture of all. For when weeks had pa.s.sed in this way she argued with herself, how could any young man, how could even Fred, be faithful to one who was as dead to him? Perhaps the greatest terror she experienced during these unhappy weeks arose out of a dream. She dreamt that her father was dead, and she woke up with a strange feeling of ease. Would she, then, rejoice in his death? "Am I growing wicked and revengeful?" she asked of herself, in the silence of the night. "Cruel as he is, he is still my father. Send death to me, and end this misery!"
It was a prayer to G.o.d, and as she grew daily weaker and thinner it seemed as if her prayer would be answered.
So now when her father sent for her, and told her that it was time the plans he had formed for her future should be carried out, she answered, "Cannot things remain as they are?"
"They cannot," said Miser Farebrother. "Mr. Pamflett will come here this evening, and will sleep here to-night. To-morrow morning he will go to London to attend to the business, and in the evening he will return.
Before to-morrow night is over you will accept him for your husband."
"I will never do that," said Phoebe.
"You have sworn to obey me," he said, sternly.
"I have not," she said, in as steady a voice as she could command. "I have sworn never to marry without your consent, and I will keep my oath.
I have sworn not to leave Parksides unless you thrust me out, and I will keep my oath. There my obligation ends."
"What objection have you to Mr. Pamflett?" he asked.
"I hate and abhor him," said Phoebe, firmly. "He is not a man; he is a reptile."
The door opened, and Mrs. Pamflett appeared.
"Come in," cried Miser Farebrother, "and hear what this ungrateful child calls your son. Repeat it in her hearing," he said to Phoebe.
The girl did not speak.
"I will tell you," said Miser Farebrother, "and if she denies it she lies. I asked her what objection she had to Jeremiah, and she answered that she hated and abhorred him, and that he was not a man but a reptile."
"Did you say that?" exclaimed Mrs. Pamflett, with venom in her voice and eyes.
Phoebe was silent.
"That is the proof," said Miser Farebrother. "If she did not say it she would deny it."
"My son a reptile!" said Mrs. Pamflett; "then what am I--his mother? I shall remember it!"
"Do you want me any longer?" asked Phoebe of her father.
"No; you can go."
At tea time, Jeremiah having arrived, Miser Farebrother sent for his daughter. She sat at the table and poured out the tea. Dark rims were around her eyes, her lips were quivering; but there was no pity for her.
They talked of business matters; according to Jeremiah, money was being made fast; profitable negotiations had been entered into that day, and the miser gloated as he jotted down figures and calculated interest.
"Things are looking up, Jeremiah," he said, in a tone of exultation.
"That they are, sir," said Jeremiah. "Everything is going on swimmingly."
Could the thoughts which were hara.s.sing him have been read, could his mind have been laid bare, Miser Farebrother would have been aghast.
Jeremiah was in a sea of difficulties; he had spread nets for others, they were closing around himself. The accounts he presented to his master were false; the negotiations he had entered into were inventions; the bills he exhibited were forged. There were only two roads of safety for him--one, his speedy marriage with Phoebe; the other, his master"s death. His mother was filled with apprehension, for, having a better knowledge of his guilty nature than the others, she divined that he was in some deep trouble.
After tea the miser said, "Jeremiah, you have something in your pocket for my daughter."
Jeremiah produced it--a piece of silver tissue-paper, from which he took a ring.
"It is an engagement ring," said Miser Farebrother. "Give it to Phoebe."
He offered it to her, and she did not raise her hand.
"Take it!" cried Miser Farebrother.
Phoebe took it, and flung it away.
Miser Farebrother rose slowly to his feet. One hand rested on the table, in the other he held his crutch stick.
"Pick it up!" he said, sternly.
Phoebe did not move.
"Pick it up!" he cried again.
Still Phoebe made no motion. Trembling with pa.s.sion, he lifted his crutch stick and struck her across the neck. It was a cruel blow, and it left a long red streak upon the girl"s fair flesh. She tottered, and almost fell to the ground, but she straightened herself, and uttered no word.
"If I were dead," he said, "you could marry your gentleman lawyer."
"If he would have me," Phoebe replied, in a low, firm tone. "I should then not be bound by my oath."
"You hear!" he exclaimed, appealing to Mrs. Pamflett and Jeremiah. "She wishes for my death, and would bring it about if she could in order that she might be free to disgrace me!"
They heard; but Phoebe did not. The pain of the blow was great, and she could scarcely bear it. Blinding tears rushed into her eyes.
"Go from my sight!" said Miser Farebrother. "And bear this in mind: my word is law. You will marry the gentleman I have chosen for you, or my curse shall rest upon you till your dying day! My death alone shall accomplish your guilty desire."
Thereafter there was no peace for her. There was something devilish in the ingenuity displayed by her enemies to torture her soul. There are women, strong women, whom it would have driven to madness; but from this despair Phoebe was mercifully saved. "I will bear it; I will bear it,"
she murmured, "till the end comes. I must preserve my reason. When I am dead, Aunt Leth will drop a flower on my grave. And Mr. Cornwall, perhaps, will think with sorrow of the poor girl whose heart is his for ever and ever!" She never thought of him now as "Fred;" he was too far removed from her; all was over between them, but she would be faithful to him to the last. She intrenched herself in silence, never opening her lips to Mrs. Pamflett and Jeremiah, and never to her father unless he addressed her and compelled her to reply. From the day he struck her she did not call him "father." She did not regard him as such; her heart was a heart of tenderness, but his merciless conduct had deadened it to him.
She thought frequently of her mother, and prayed aloud to that pure spirit. "Take me, mother," she cried, "take your unhappy child from this hard world!" So months pa.s.sed, her cross becoming harder to bear with every rising sun. Then it was that Phoebe began to fear that in the cruel, unequal fight her reason might be wrecked. At length a crisis came.
During the day her father had been more than usually savage toward her.
In the evening he ordered her to her room. She went willingly, and undressing, retired to bed.
She did not know what time of the night it was when she heard her father"s voice outside her door. He had tried the handle, but Phoebe never went to bed now without turning the key in the lock.
"Answer me! answer me!" cried her father.
"What do you want?" she asked, sitting up in bed.
"You! Dress this instant, and come out!"