Miser Farebrother (Vol. 1-3). B. L. Farjeon
at all, father. You do what you think is best, I dare say. I only mention it out of justice to Aunt Leth, of whom you have not a good opinion."
"How do you know that? Have I ever troubled myself about her at all? Did I commence this, or you? Am I in the habit of dragging her name into our conversations for the purpose of speaking ill of her?"
"Neither of speaking ill or well, father. That is what I complain of. After what she has done for me you might have acted differently toward her."
"Ah, it's coming now. She has egged you on!"
"She has not," said Phœbe, stamping her foot; her loyal nature was deeply wounded by those shafts aimed at one she loved so well. "She hasn't the slightest idea that I had it in my mind to speak to you at all about her, and I have had it in my mind for a long time past."
"I remember now what I was going to say a minute ago. We will go upon sure ground, you, I, and your precious aunt and uncle. We will have no delusions. They think I am rich—eh?"
"They have never said a word about your money; they are too high-minded."
"But they do think I am rich. Now I will let you into a secret, and you can let them into it if you like. I am not rich; I am a pauper; and when I die you will find yourself a beggar."
"Aunt Leth will give me a home, father, when it comes to that."
"That's your affection!—taking the idea of my death so coolly. But I am not going to die yet, my girl—not yet, not yet. Why, there was a man who grew to be old, much older than I am, and who was suddenly made young and handsome and well-formed, with any amount of money at his command——"
"Oh, hush, father! These are wicked thoughts. You make me tremble."
"Why do you provoke me, then?" he cried, raising his crutch stick as though he would like to strike her. "You see how I am suffering, and you haven't a spark of feeling in you. Haven't I enough to put up with already, without being irritated by my own flesh and blood? There was such a man, and there's no harm in speaking of him. What was his name? This infernal rheumatism drives everything out of my head. What was his name?"
"Faust."
"You have read about him?"
"Yes; and I went to the theatre and saw the most lovely opera about it. I can play nearly all the music in it."
"You can play, eh? How did you manage that? Who gave you lessons?"
"Aunt Leth. She has a beautiful piano."
"You never told me you had been to the theatre."
"I have told you often that I have been with Aunt and Uncle Leth to different theatres."
"But to this particular one, where the opera was played?"
"Yes, I told you, father. You must have forgotten it."
"The opera! An expensive amusement which only rich people can afford. Your aunt took you, of course?"
"Yes."
"And she is poor, eh?—so very, very poor that it is quite wonderful how she manages!"
"She had a ticket given to her for a box that almost touched the ceiling. She could not afford to pay for it. Every time she has taken me to a theatre it was with a ticket given to her by Uncle Leth's relations. She is poor."
"And I am poorer. If you have read about Faust—if you go to the theatre and see him, why do you call me wicked for simply speaking of him? Is there really any truth in it, I wonder? There are strange things in the world. Could life and youth be bought? If it could—if it could——" He paused, and looked around with trembling eagerness.
Phœbe was too much frightened to speak for a little while; her father's eager looks and words terrified her. In a few minutes he recovered himself, and said, coldly,
"Finish about your aunt and uncle."
"Yes, father, I will. It isn't much I want. Next Saturday is my birthday, and Uncle Leth comes home early from his bank. He has never been to Parksides; and Aunt Leth hasn't been here for years. May I ask them to come in the evening?"
"Is that all—you are sure that is all?"
"Yes, that is all."
Miser Farebrother felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his heart. He had been apprehensive that Phœbe intended to ask him to lend them a sum of money.
"They wished me," said Phœbe, "to spend my birthday at their house; but I thought I should like them to come here instead. They made a party for me last year, and the year before last too; and it is so mean to be always taking and never giving."
"I don't agree with you. If people like to give, it shows they get a pleasure out of it, and it is folly to prevent them. But if you've set your heart upon it, Phœbe——"
"Yes, I have, father."
"Well, you can ask them; unless," he added, with a sudden suspicion, "you have already arranged everything."
"Nothing is arranged. Thank you, father."
"They will come after tea, I suppose?"
"No," said Phœbe, blushing for shame; "they will come before tea."
"Will they bring it with them?"
"Oh, father!"
"What do you mean by 'Oh, father!'? I can't afford to give parties. I can't afford to go to the theatres. If people have orders given to them, they have to pay for them somehow."
"I can give them a cup of tea, surely, father?"
"I suppose you must," he grumbled. "We shall have to make up for it afterward. What are you looking at me so strangely for?"
"I should like to buy a cake for tea," said Phœbe, piteously; she was almost ready to cry, but she tried to force a smile as she added, "and I have just twopence for my fortune. Look, father: here is my purse. That won't pay for a cake, will it? Give me something for a birthday present."
"To waste in cakes," he said, with a wry face. "Where should I have been if I had been so reckless? But you'll worry me to death, I suppose, if I refuse." He unlocked a drawer, and took out a little packet, which he untied. There were ten two-shilling pieces in it, and he gave Phœbe one of them, weighing them first in his hand, and selecting the lightest and oldest. "There. Never tell anybody that I am not generous to you."
Phœbe turned the florin over in the palm of her hand, and eyed it dubiously; but she brightened up presently, and kissing her father, left the room with a cheerful face.
CHAPTER VIII.
A DAY-DREAMER IN LONDON STREETS.
Now as to the Lethbridges, concerning whose characters and peculiarities it is necessary to say something more.
There was Mrs. Lethbridge, whom we already know, affectionately called Aunt Leth, not only by Phœbe, but by a great many young people who were on terms of friendship with her. And to be on such terms with such a woman was worth while, for she was not only a magnet that attracted love, she was a sun that bestowed it. There was Mr. Lethbridge, for the same reason called Uncle Leth by his young friends, and delighted in being so called. There was Fanny Lethbridge, their only daughter, between whom and Phœbe passed, under the seal of sacred secrecy, the most delicious confidences. Lastly, there was Robert Lethbridge, their only son, a young gentleman of vague and unlimited views, just entering into the serious business of life, and who, when things were perfectly smooth between him and his cousin Phœbe, was addressed as Bob, and at other times, according to the measure of dignity deemed necessary, as Robert or Cousin Robert. But it was generally Bob.
Mrs. Lethbridge, on her last birthday, forty-four; Mr. Lethbridge, on