Miser Farebrother (Vol. 1-3). B. L. Farjeon

see my sister, I must see my sister!"

      Still he made no movement to comply with her request.

      "If you do not send for her at once," said his wife, "I will get up and go from the house and die in the roadway. God will give me strength to do it. I must see my sister, I must see my sister!"

      Awed, if not convinced, and fearful, too, lest any disturbance which it was in his power to avoid might bring him into unfavourable notice, and interfere with his cherished plans, he said, reluctantly, "I will send for her."

      "You are not deceiving me? You are not promising what you do not intend to perform?"

      "I will send for her, I tell you."

      "If you do not," she said—and there was a firmness in her weak tones which was not without its effect upon him—"misfortune will attend you all the days of your life. Nothing you do will prosper."

      He was superstitious, and believed in omens; and this sounded like a prophecy, the warning of which he dared not neglect. His wife's eyes followed him as he stepped to his desk and sat down and wrote. Presently he left the room, and went in search of Tom Barley, to whom he gave a letter, bidding him to post it in the village. Grumbling at what he had done, he returned to his wife.

      "Is my sister coming?" she asked.

      "I have written to her," he replied. "Go to sleep and rest. You will be better in the morning."

      "Yes," she sighed, as she pressed her child close to her bosom, "I shall be better in the morning. Oh, my sweet flower! my heart's treasure! Guard her, gracious Lord! Make her life bright and happy—as mine once promised to be! I could have given love for love; but it was denied to me. Not mine the fault—not mine, not mine!"

      The day waned, the evening shadows fell, and night came on. Upon a table at some distance from the bed was one thin tallow candle, the feeble flame of which flickered dismally. During the long weary hours Mrs. Farebrother did not sleep; she dozed occasionally; but the slightest sound aroused her. In her light slumbers she dreamt of incidents in her happy girlhood before she was married—incidents apparently trivial, but not really so because of the sweet evidences of affection which made them memorable: a song, a dance, a visit to the sea-side, a ramble in fragrant woods; innocent enjoyments from which sprang fond imaginings never to be realized. Betweenwhiles, when she was awake, the gloom of the room and the monstrous shadows thrown by the dim light upon portions of the walls and ceilings distressed her terribly, and she needed all her strength of mind to battle against them. In these transitions of sensation were expressed all the harmonies and discordances of mortal life. Bitter to her had been their fruit!

      An hour before midnight she heard the sound of carriage wheels without, and she sat straight up in her bed from excitement, and then fell back exhausted.

      "It is my sister," she said, faintly, to her husband. "Let her come up at once. Thank God, she is here in time!"

      Her sister bent fondly and in great grief over her. Between these two existed a firm and faithful affection, but the circumstances of Mrs. Farebrother's marriage had caused them to see very little of each other of late years.

      "Attend to my darling Phœbe," whispered Mrs. Farebrother; "there is no female servant in the house. Oh, I am so glad you have come before it was too late!"

      "Do not say too late, my dearest," said her sister; but her heart was faint within her as she gazed upon the pallid face and the thin wasted hands; "there are happy years before you."

      "Not one, not one!" murmured Mrs. Farebrother.

      "Why did you not send for me before?"

      The dying woman made no reply, and her sister undressed little Phœbe, and placed her in a cot by the mother's bedside. Then she smoothed the sheets and pillows, and sat quietly, with her sister's hand in hers.

      "It is like old times," murmured Mrs. Farebrother, wistfully. "You were always good to me. Tell me, my dear—put your head close to mine—oh, how sweet, how sweet! Were it not for my darling child I should think that Heaven was shining upon me!"

      "What is it you want to know, dear? You were about to ask me something."

      "Yes, yes. Tell me—are you happy at home?"

      "Very happy."

      "Truly and indeed?"

      "Truly and indeed. We are not rich, but that does not matter."

      "Your husband is good to you?"

      "There is no one in the world like him; he is the best, the noblest, the most unselfish of men!" But here, with a sudden feeling of remorse, she stopped. The contrast between her bright home and the gloomy home of her sister struck her with painful force; to speak of the joys of the one seemed to accentuate the miseries of the other.

      "Go on, dear," said Mrs. Farebrother, gently; "it does not hurt me, indeed it does not; I have grown so used, in other homes, to what you see around you here that custom has made it less bitter than it once was. It makes me happy to hear of your happiness, and it holds out a glad prospect that my dear child, when she grows up, may have a little share in it."

      "She shall, she shall; I promise it solemnly."

      "Thank you, dear. So you must go on telling me of your good husband. He is still in his bank?"

      "Yes, dear; and hopes for a rise before long. He is always full of hope, and that is worth a great deal—it means so much! He thinks of nothing but his home, and those in it. He dotes upon the children."

      "The dear children! Are they well and strong?"

      "Yes, dear; and they grow prettier and prettier every day."

      "You must kiss them fondly for me, and give them my dear love."

      "I will be sure to. You must not talk any more just now; you are tired out. Try and sleep."

      "I think I shall be able. God bless you, dear!"

      "God bless you, dearest!"

      In a few moments, the tension of anxious watching and waiting being over, Mrs. Farebrother slept. Her sister gazed at her solicitously and mournfully. At such a time the cherished memories of old are burdened with a sadness which weighs heavily upon the heart.

      "She is not so ill as she fancies, is she?"

      It was Miser Farebrother who spoke to her. She rose softly, and led him from the bed, so that their conversation should not disturb the sufferer.

      "Why did you not send me a telegram instead of a letter?"

      "A telegram!" he cried. "Do you think I am made of money?"

      "I am not thinking of your money: I am thinking of my sister. What does the doctor say?"

      "The doctor!" he exclaimed. "I have none."

      Gentle-natured as she was, she looked at him in horror.

      "You have none—and my sister dying!"

      "It is not true," he whined, thinking of the inconvenience such an event would cause him; "it cannot be true. She was well a few days ago. I cannot afford doctors. You are all in a conspiracy to rob me!"

      "I was told as I came along that this great house is yours."

      "Yes, it is—my property, my own."

      "And a great deal of land around, and everything in the place."

      "Yes, it is—all mine, all mine!" And then, with a sudden suspicion, "Do you intend to dispute it?"

      "Heaven forbid! What is it to do with me—except that when you speak of ruin to me, and of not being able to afford a doctor, you are speaking what is false. Why did you marry?"

      "I don't know," he replied, wringing his hands, "I don't know. I ought never to have done it. I ought to have lived alone, with nobody to keep but myself."

      "It would have been better for my poor sister. But she is your wife, and I shall not allow her to suffer as she is suffering