to be cooler, and walked slowly down under the moonlight, her head all throbbing and rustling with thought. The paths were bordered with primroses, which made a pale glimmer in the moon, and shed a soft fragrance about. Phoebe had nothing to appeal to Heaven about, or to seek counsel from Nature upon, as sentimental people might do. She took counsel with herself, the person most interested. What was the thing she ought to do? Clarence Copperhead was going to propose to her. She did not even take the trouble of saying to herself that he loved her; it was Reginald who did that, a totally different person, but yet the other was more urgent. What was Phoebe to do? She did not dislike Clarence Copperhead, and it was no horror to her to think of marrying him. She had felt for years that this might be on the cards, and there were a great many things in it which demanded consideration. He was not very wise, nor a man to be enthusiastic about, but he would be a career to Phoebe. She did not think of it humbly like this, but with a big capital—a Career. Yes; she could put him into parliament, and keep him there. She could thrust him forward (she believed) to the front of affairs. He would be as good as a profession, a position, a great work to Phoebe. He meant wealth (which she dismissed in its superficial aspect as something meaningless and vulgar, but accepted in its higher aspect as an almost necessary condition of influence), and he meant all the possibilities of future power. Who can say that she was not as romantic as any girl of twenty could be? only her romance took an unusual form. It was her head that was full of throbbings and pulses, not her heart. No doubt there would be difficulties and disagreeables. His father would oppose it, and Phoebe felt with a slight shiver that his father’s opposition was nothing to be laughed at, and that
Mr. Copperhead had it in him to crush rebellion with a ferocious hand. And would Clarence have strength of mind or spirit to hold out? This was a very serious question, and one which included all the rest. If she accepted his proposal, would he have the heart to stand to it against his father? or would her consent simply involve her in a humiliating struggle which would end in defeat? That was the great question. If this should be the case, what use would there be in any sacrifice that Phoebe might make? A struggle with
Mr. Copperhead would affect her father’s position as much or more than her own, and she knew that a great many of the congregation would infallibly side with
Mr. Copperhead, feeling it a most dangerous precedent that a pastor’s daughter should be encouraged to think herself eligible for promotion so great, and thus interfere with the more suitable matrimonial prospects of wealthy young men who might happen to attend her father’s chapel. Such a thing the conscript fathers of the connection would feel ought to be put a stop to with a high hand. So it may be supposed that Phoebe had enough to think of, as she strolled about in the moonlight alone, between the two borders of primroses. Tozer thought she had gone upstairs to take off her “things,” and it was natural that when a girl got before a looking-glass she should forget the progress of time; so that he merely wondered at her nonappearance until the little chill of air stole in from the open door, and made
Mrs. Tozer cough.
“If it ain’t our Phoebe a-walking about in the moonlight like a play-actor!” said Tozer, in consternation, drawing aside the curtain to look out. “I’ll tell you what, old woman, the girl’s in love; and that’s what it is.” He thought this was a capital joke, and followed his witticism with a laugh.
“Not much wonder, neither, with all them young fellows about,” said the old lady. “You may laugh; but, Tozer, I ain’t so easy in my mind as you. If it’s him as they call Northcote, that don’t matter; but if it’s that big gabby of a Copperhead, there’s troubles a-coming; though he’s as rich, they do say, as Creases, whoever Creases might be, and it would be a credit to have the girl make a match like that out of our house.”
Whereat Tozer again laughed loud and long.
“Well,” he said, “if Mister Creases himself was here, I wouldn’t say as he was a bit too good for our Phoebe. Don’t you trouble your head, old woman; Copperhead or t’other one, let her make her choice. Phoebe junior’s the girl as’ll be their match, and you may take my word for that. Phoebe’s the one as will keep them in their right place, whoever they may be.”
Phoebe heard this laugh echo out into the quiet of the night. Of course, she did not know the cause of it, but it disturbed her in her thoughts. Poor, kind, excellent grandpapa, she said to herself, how would he get on with Mr. Copperhead? He would touch his forelock to so rich a man. He would go down metaphorically upon his knees before so much wealth; and what a fool Clarence would be thought on every side for wanting to marry her! Even his mother, who was a romantic woman, would not see any romance in it if it was she, Phoebe, who was the poor girl whom he wanted to marry. Ursula might have been different, who was a clergyman’s daughter, and consequently a lady by prescriptive right. But herself, Tozer’s granddaughter, Tom Tozer’s niece, fresh from the butter-shop, as it were, and redolent of that petty trade which big trade ignores, as much as the greatest aristocrat does! Phoebe was too sensible by far to vex or distress herself on this point, but she recognised it without any
