“I think I must let your people know of your gaieties, Miss Phoebe. If your mother sent you here, I don’t doubt it was for a purpose, eh? She knows what she’s about, and she won’t like it if she knows you are fritting away your chances and your attentions. She has an eye for business, has Mrs. Beecham,” said the leading member, with a laugh.
“You cannot tell mamma more about me than she knows already,” said Phoebe, with rising colour.
And by this time everyone else at table was uncomfortable. Even Clarence, who had a dull appreciation of his father’s jokes when they were not levelled at himself, and who was by no means indisposed to believe that “girls,” generally, were “after him,” and that even in this particular case Phoebe herself might have come to Carlingford on purpose to complete his conquest, even Clarence was moved.
“I don’t know what you mean by brilliant society,” he said. “I know I’m the dull one among you clever people. I don’t say much, but I know it all the same; and it’s awfully good of you to pull me through all that music. I don’t begrudge you your laugh after. Is my mother coming over, sir, to see the place?”
“To see what? There is not much in the place,” said Mr. Copperhead. “You’re coming back with me, my boy. I hope it won’t inconvenience you, May. I’ve other views for him. Circumstances alter cases, you know. I’ve been turning it over in my head, and I think I can see my way to another arrangement.”
“That, of course, is entirely in your own hands,” said Mr. May, with a cheerfulness he did not feel. His heart sank, but every rule of good society made it incumbent upon him to show no failure at such a moment. “Copperhead, see that your father has some wine. Well, I suppose our poor little Carlingford is not much of a place; no trade, no movement, no manufactures—”
“The sort of place that should be cleared off the face of the earth,” said the millionaire; “meaning no offence, of course. That’s my opinion in respect to country towns. What’s the good of them? Nests of gossip, places where people waste their time, and don’t even amuse themselves. Give me green fields and London, that is my sort. I don’t care if there was not another blessed brick in the country. There is always something that will grow in a field, corn or fat beasts—not that we couldn’t get all that cheaper from over the water if it was managed as it ought to be. But a place like this, what’s the good of it? Almshouses and chaplains, and that kind of rubbish, and old women; there’s old women by the score.”
“They must be somewhere, I suppose,” said Mr. May. “We cannot kill them off, if they are inoffensive, and keep the laws. So that, after all, a country town is of use.”
“Kill ’em off—no; it’s against what you benevolent humbugs call the spirit of the time, and Christianity, and all that; but there’s such a thing as carrying Christianity too far; that’s my opinion. There’s your almshouses now. What’s the principle of them? I call it encouraging those old beggars to live,” said Mr. Copperhead; “giving them permission to burden the community as long as they can manage it; a dead mistake, depend upon it, the greatest mistake in the world.”
“I think there is a great deal to be said in favour of Euthanasia,” said Phoebe, quietly stepping into the conversation; “but then it would have to be with the consent of the victims. When anyone found himself useless, unnecessary to the world, or unhappy in it—”
“Humbug and nonsense,” said Mr. Copperhead. “A likely thing for anybody to do. No, it is not a question for lawmaking. Let ’em die out naturally, that’s my opinion. Don’t do anything to hurry ’em—that is, I don’t see my way to it; but let ’em go quiet, and don’t bring ’em cordials and featherbeds, and all that middyeval nonsense, to keep ’em going as long as possible. It’s wicked, that’s what it is.”
“At all events,” said Mr. May, who, poor man, was bent on pleasing, “it is refreshing to hear opinions so bold and original. Something new is always a blessing. I cannot say I agree with you—”
“No parson would be bold enough for that. Christianity’s been a capital thing for the world,” said Mr. Copperhead, “I don’t say a word against it; but in these go-ahead days, sir, we’ve had enough of it, that’s to say when it’s carried too far. All this fuss about the poor, all the row about dragging up a lot of poor little beggars to live that had far better die, and your almshouses to keep the old ones going, past all nature! Shovel the mould over them, that’s the thing for the world; let ’em die when they ought to die; and let them live who can live—that’s my way of thinking—and what’s more, I’m right.”
“What a fine thing for you, Mr. Clarence,” cried Phoebe, “who are going into Parliament! to take up your father’s idea and work it out. What a speech you could make on the subject! I saw a hospital once in Paris that would make such a wonderful illustration. I’ll tell you about it if you like. Poor old wretched people whose life was nothing but wretchedness kept going, kept living for years and years—why, no one could tell; for I am sure it would have been better, far better for them to die and be done with it. What a speech you might make when you bring a bill into Parliament to abolish almshouses and all sorts of charities!” she added with a laugh, turning from Clarence, at whom she had been looking, to his father, who was puzzled, and did not know how to understand the young woman’s eyes.
“I’ll never
