"I love her," said Mrs. Pamflett, "as a daughter."
"And Jeremiah is your only son?"
"My only son. The best, the brightest, the cleverest man in England! And devoted to you, body and soul."
"I am infinitely obliged to you," said Miser Farebrother, with a malicious grin; "I will think about it."
CHAPTER XIX.
A BEAUTIFUL BIRTHDAY.
Miser Farebrother did not keep his promise of taking tea with Phœbe and her friends—he had matter more serious to occupy him—but to some extent he made atonement for it. He sent for Phœbe, and told her that he did not feel equal to the excitement, but that, before the evening was over, he would welcome Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge and her cousins to Parksides. This, to Phœbe, was almost as good as the keeping of his promise; he spoke in a feeble voice, as though he was ill, and his unexpected kindness and consideration touched her. She put her hand timidly upon his shoulder, moved thereto by sweet pity for his condition, and he did not repulse her; she was even bold enough to lower her face to his and kiss him more than once, and he bore it contentedly. A new feeling stirred her heart, new hopes were born within her. That this unexpected change in her father's bearing toward her should take place on her birthday was a happy omen, and she was deeply grateful for it. From this time forth her home life would bring her joy instead of sorrow. She went from her father's room with a light step, ready to burst forth into song.
The feeble voice in which Miser Farebrother had spoken to Phœbe was assumed; his weakness was assumed; all the time she was with him he was watching her keenly and warily. He had never thought of her but as a child; the idea of her marrying had never entered his head; but now that it was presented to him he seized upon it and turned it about to the light. The only friends his daughter had were the Lethbridges; they had a son, who doubtless would be only too ready to snap at such a bait as Phœbe. For her sake?—because he loved her?—not at all. Because her father was supposed to be rich; because of the money he would calculate upon getting with her. And thereafter there would ever and eternally be but one cry—money, money, money! All their arts, all their endeavours, their only object, would be to bleed his money-bags bare. "No, no, Mr. Lethbridge," thought Miser Farebrother, "not a penny shall ever pass from my pockets to yours." But the danger might not present itself through the Lethbridges. Phœbe might fall in love with a spendthrift or a cunning rogue. That would be as bad—worse, perhaps. Despite his aversion to the Lethbridges, his experience of them had taught him that they were proud, and that in the event of Phœbe marrying into their family there would be a chance of respite for him after a time, a chance that they would make up their minds to submit to poverty, and trouble him no more. With a spendthrift it would be different. There would be no peace for him; the appeals for money would be incessant; he would be torn to pieces with worry. Then came the cunning rogue on to the scene, in the shape which was most objectionable to Miser Farebrother, in that of a scheming lawyer. There was more to fear from that than from any other aspect of the subject. Miser Farebrother knew the power of the law when he invoked it on his side—which he never did without being prepared with stamped deeds and witnessed signatures—but he knew also the power of the law if, in certain cases which he could call to mind, it were invoked against him. Plaintiff and defendant were different things, had different chances. He himself never prosecuted without weighing the minutest chance, without being absolutely certain that he was standing on sure legal ground. He had submitted to losses rather than run a risk. There was one instance in which a disreputable, out-at-elbows, dissipated lawyer had defied him to his teeth—had unblushingly defrauded him by threatening exposure. Miser Farebrother, knowing that certain transactions in which he was principal would not bear the light, had submitted to be robbed rather than be dragged into the witness-box and cross-examined. Such inquiries often commence tamely, but there is no saying where they lead to; a man's smallest peccadilloes are shamelessly dragged forth, his very soul is turned inside out. Then there are judges who, the moment a money-lending case comes before them, set to work on the debtor's side to defraud the creditor. Miser Farebrother, therefore, was wise in his generation in the tactics he pursued. Some low-minded scheming limb of the law might pay court to Phœbe, with but one end in view. The thought of it sent a shiver through his nerves.
His reflections were not agreeable, but he had a large amount of common-sense, and he knew they might be serviceable. He was not displeased with Mrs. Pamflett for suggesting them. She was a useful woman; truly, as he had said, he would not have known what to do without her. She had made the same admission on her side; that was honest of her. There were conditions of life which a sensible man must accept and make the best of, and his was one. Not being able to purchase a new set of bones and nerves, he felt that to a great extent he was at the mercy of Mrs. Pamflett and Jeremiah. As difficult to replace the loss of Jeremiah in his London office as to replace the loss of Mrs. Pamflett in his house at Parksides. It was a wretched state of things, but it must be borne, and as much profit as possible made out of it. "Phœbe had only herself to blame," he thought, with monstrous mental distortion. "If she had been a boy instead of a girl, it would all have been different."