will lend the money, won't he? If he doesn't, or if you have any doubt of it, I can take the diamonds somewhere else."
"I don't think," said Jeremiah, slowly, "that there is any doubt he will lend the money."
"Very well, then. Carry it through, and keep it dark. See the governor to-morrow and arrange it. You'll do it?"
"Yes."
"There's nothing more to say, then. Just see the confidence I have in you, leaving you this treasure without so much as a receipt for it. But I know you can be trusted just now, because of the fix you're in. I must see you to-morrow night to hear what you have to tell. Best not to meet at my place or yours till this little matter is concluded. Say at ten o'clock, just outside Whitechapel Church."
"You will be punctual?" said Jeremiah.
"Oh yes," said Captain Ablewhite, laughing; "I will be punctual. Ta-ta! Call to the driver to stop."
He jumped from the cab as the driver was pulling up, leaving Jeremiah to make his way back to London alone.
On the following night, at ten o'clock, they met outside Whitechapel Church, and Jeremiah informed Captain Ablewhite that Miser Farebrother had consented to lend the money. On Tuesday evening Captain Ablewhite received four thousand pounds from Jeremiah, and the gallant Captain walked off with a very peculiar smile on his face. A few hours afterward he was whirling away in the night train to Dover, bound for Italy.
CHAPTER III
SISTER AND BROTHER
For a fortnight after Phœbe reached the haven of love in Camden Town she lay between life and death. It was only when she felt herself out of danger that her strength gave way. The strain of the last few months in Parksides produced a dangerous illness, and for many days her life was despaired of. How tenderly was she nursed! What treasures of love surrounded her! She was not left alone a minute by day and night. Now it was Aunt Leth who watched by her bedside, now it was Fanny, now it was Uncle Leth. In some dim way she was conscious of this spiritual comfort, and it helped her recovery. On the twelfth day the doctors proclaimed her to be out of danger.
The Lethbridges could ill afford the expenses of her sickness. There was the regular family doctor to be paid; there were the fees of the celebrated physician who was called in, and who came in a carriage and pair with two footmen; there were the prescribed delicacies to be provided for. It was all done cheerfully and with full-hearted affection. Sacrifices were made; money was raised upon such small articles of jewelry as they possessed, even Uncle Leth's old-fashioned watch went, and not a murmur passed their lips, not a regretful thought at the loss of these treasures crossed their minds. They had but one hope, but one desire – that they might succeed in saving their beloved girl. It was granted them, and she sat in a dressing-gown in the dear little parlour, the very walls of which were sanctified in her eyes.
They did not dare to speak to her of her father, nor did she refer to him; but it needed no words from her to make them understand the cruel torture and oppression which, prolonged for a few weeks longer, would have brought death or madness to her. When she was convalescent her actions were pitiful: she clung to her friends; her hands were for ever seeking theirs; her eyes constantly travelled to the dear ones who were ministering to her, and whose eyes never rested on her pale face without a tender, cheery smile.
Fred Cornwall came daily, morning and evening, with flowers and jellies and things which it was not possible for her to eat. He had not been allowed to see her yet; but he always left his constant love for his dear girl, and messages which it would have occupied an hour to deliver. When Phœbe was sensible and strong enough, these messages, in a reasonable form, were conveyed to her, and her relatives were surprised at the grave pleasure with which she received them. The heavenly delight which fills a young girl's heart when, in a time of bitter trouble, she is assured that her lover is true to her was not expressed in her face. Pleasure she felt; but it was a thoughtful pleasure in which there seemed to be an element of pain.
"He is true to you! he is true to you!" whispered Fanny to her. "Oh! you should see him, Phœbe. Except my dear father, there is not a better man in the whole wide world."
"I am sure," said Phœbe, quietly, "that Mr. Cornwall is a good man, and my earnest hope is that he will be happy."
"Phœbe!"
"Yes, dear."
"Not Mr. Cornwall – Fred – your own dear Fred!" Phœbe did not reply, and Fanny continued: "He is certain to be happy, with you!"
And still Phœbe made no reply. Fanny was greatly disturbed, and she told her mother privately that she was convinced there was something on Phœbe's mind with respect to Fred.
"Do not worry her or argue with her," Aunt Leth said. "Remember the sufferings she has endured, and leave it to herself to confide in us. Time will bring happiness to her bruised heart."
"Ask her to see Fred, mamma."
"She will see him this evening, my dear; she told me so; and I have written a note to him desiring him to come early."
"Then everything will be right," said Fanny. "Mamma, is it not strange that we do not hear from her father? He must know that Phœbe is with us."
"He does know, Fanny. I wrote to him, but I have not received a reply."
"I am glad of it. Phœbe is now entirely ours, and will live with us all her life – that is, till she marries Fred."
Fred Cornwall arrived early in the afternoon, and Aunt Leth opened the door for him.
"She will see me, Aunt Leth?" he said, eagerly.
"Yes, Fred. She wishes to see you alone. You must be very gentle and quiet with her."
"Indeed I will be that. Here is some jelly, the kind she likes best."
"Thank you, Fred. Wait a moment in the dining-room. Fanny is with her, and I must call her away."
Presently Fred Cornwall entered the room in which Phœbe was sitting. She looked at him gratefully and tenderly; an angelic spirit of resolution was depicted in her face.
"Phœbe, my darling Phœbe!" he murmured, as he sat by her side and took her hand; and then he was overcome by her delicate, fragile appearance, and it was as much as he could do to prevent the tears running down his face.
She gently disengaged her hand.
"Why do you take your hand away, Phœbe? Let me hold it. Give it to me of your own free-will."
"No, Mr. Cornwall," she said, in a low, sweet tone. "I cannot – I must not."
Again "Mr. Cornwall"! He looked at her reproachfully.
"Do you no longer love me, Phœbe, that you are so changed toward me?"
She was compelled to pause before she could answer him.
"You must not ask me to reply to that question," she then said – "for pity's sake!"
"I must ask you," he said, impetuously. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Phœbe! Aunt Leth enjoined upon me to be gentle with you, and here am I forgetting! But Phœbe, dear Phœbe, my Phœbe – consider! I implore you to consider! You gave me your heart, as I have given you mine. Have I done anything to forfeit your love?"
"Nothing," she said.
"Why,
