“I’ll manage for you,” said Phoebe; “you need not stare at me like that, grandpapa—”
“Go out o’ the room this moment, Miss!” he cried furious; “you! here’s a sort of thing for me to put up with. Sam Tozer wasn’t born yesterday that a bit of an impudent girl should take upon her to do for him. Manage for me! go out o’ my sight; I’m a fool, am I, and in my dotage to have a pack of women meddling in my affairs?”
Phoebe had never met with such an outburst of coarse anger in her life before, and it gave her a shock, as such assaults naturally do to people brought up softly, and used to nothing but kindness. For a moment she wavered, doubtful whether she should not proudly abandon him and his affairs altogether; but this was to abandon her friends too. She mastered herself accordingly, and the resentment which she could not help feeling—and stood pale but quiet opposite to the infuriated old man. His grey eyes seemed to give out sparks of fire. His hair bristled up on his head like the coat of a wild animal enraged. He went up and down on the hearthrug like the same animal in a cage, shaking his fist at some imaginary culprit.
“Once I get him, see if I let him go,” he cried, his voice thick with fast-coming words and the foam of fury. “Let the bank do as it likes; I’ll have him, I will. I’ll see justice on the man as has dared to make free with my name. It ain’t nothing to you, my name; but I’ve kep’ it honest, and out of folk’s mouths, and see if I’ll stand disgrace thrown on it now. A bill on me as never had such a thing, not when I was struggling to get on! Dash him! damn him!” cried the old man, transported with rage. When he had come to this unusual and terrible length, Tozer paused dismayed. He had lost his temper before in his life; but very seldom had he been betrayed into anything so desperate as this. He stopped aghast, and cast a half-frightened look at Phoebe, who stood there so quiet, subdued out of her usual force, pale and disapproving—his own grandchild, a pastor’s daughter! and he had forgotten himself thus before her. He blushed hotly, though he was not used to blushing, and stopped all at once. After such frightful language, so unbecoming a deacon of Salem, so unlike a consistent member of the connection, what could he say?
“Grandpapa,” said Phoebe softly, “it is not good to be so angry; you are made to say things you are sorry for. Will you listen to me now? Though you don’t think it, and perhaps won’t believe it, I have found out something quite by chance—”
He went up to her and clutched her by the arm. “Then what are you a-standing there for, like a figure in stone? Can’t you out with it, and ease my mind? Out with it, I tell you! Do you want to drive me out of my senses?”
He was so much excited that he shook her in the hot paroxysm of returning rage. Phoebe was not frightened, but indignation made her pale. She stood without flinching, and looked at him, till poor old Tozer let go his hold, and dropping into a chair, covered his face with his hands. She was too generous to take advantage of him, but went on quietly, as if nothing had occurred.
“Grandpapa, as I tell you, I have found out something by chance that has to do with the thing that troubles you; but I don’t know quite what it is. Tell me first, and then—is this the thing?” said Phoebe, curiously, taking up a slip of paper from the table, a stamped piece of paper, in a handwriting which seemed horribly familiar to her, and yet strange. Tozer nodded at her gloomily, holding his head between his hands, and Phoebe read over the first few words before her with an aching heart, and eyes that seemed to ache in sympathy. Only a few words, but what evidence of guilt, what pitiful misery in them! She did not even think so much of the name on the back, which was and was not her grandfather’s name. The rest of the bill was written in a hand disguised and changed; but she had seen a great deal of similar writing lately, and she recognized it with a sickening at her heart. In the kind of fatherly flirtation which had been innocently carried on between Phoebe and her friend’s father, various productions of his in manuscript had been given to her to read. She was said, in the pleasant social jokes of the party, to be more skilled in interpreting Mr. May’s handwriting than any of his family. She stood and gazed at the paper, and her eyes filled with tears of pain and pity. The openness of this self-betrayal, veiled as it was with a shadow of disguise which could deceive no one who knew him, went to Phoebe’s heart. What could he have done it for? Mere money, the foolish expenses of every day, or, what would be more respectable, some vague mysterious claim upon him, which might make desperate expedients necessary? She stood, temporarily stupefied, with her eyes full, looking at that pitiful, terrible, guilty bit of paper, stupefied by the sudden realization of her sudden guess at the truth—though, indeed, the truth was so much more guilty and appalling than any guess of hers.
“Well,” said Tozer, “you’ve seen it, and now what do you think of it? That’s my name, mind you, my name! I hope the Almighty will grant me patience. Stuck on to what they calls a kite, an accommodation bill. What do you think of that, Miss Phoebe? A‑a‑ah! if I had hold of him—if I had him under my fists—if I
