“Well, old gentleman,” he said, “you ain’t far wrong there. She is a clever one. We shall have a bad time of it with the governor at first; for, of course, when there’s no money and no connections, a man like the governor, that has made himself, ain’t likely to be too well pleased.”
“As for money, Mr. Copperhead, sir,” said Tozer with modest pride, “I don’t see as there’s anything to be said against Phoebe on that point. Her mother before her had a pretty bit of money, though I say it, as shouldn’t—”
“Ah, yes—yes,” said Clarence. “To be sure; but a little bit of coin like that don’t count with us. The governor deals in hundreds of thousands; he don’t think much of your little bits of fortunes. But I don’t mind. She suits me down to the ground, does Phoebe; and I don’t give that for the governor!” cried the young man valiantly. As for Phoebe herself, it is impossible to imagine anyone more entirely put out of her place, and out of all the comfort and satisfaction in her own initiative which she generally possessed, than this young woman was, while these two men talked over her so calmly. It is doubtful whether she had ever been so set aside out of her proper position in her life, and her nerves were overstrained and her bodily strength worn out, which added to the sense of downfall. With almost a touch of anger in her tone she, who was never out of temper, interrupted this talk.
“I think breakfast is ready, grandpapa. Mr. Clarence Copperhead wants some refreshment after his exertions, and in preparation for the exertions to come. For I suppose your papa is very likely to follow you to Carlingford,” she added, with a low laugh, turning to her lover. “I know Mr. Copperhead very well, and I should not like my first meeting with him after I had thwarted all his views.”
“Phoebe! you don’t mean to desert me? By Jove! I’ll face him and twenty like him if you’ll only stand by me,” he cried; which was a speech that made amends.
She suffered him to lead her into breakfast less formally than is the ordinary fashion, and his hand on her trim waist did not displease the girl. No; she understood him, knew that he was no great things; but yet he was hers, and she had always meant him to be hers, and Phoebe was ready to maintain his cause in the face of all the world.
The breakfast was to Clarence’s taste, and so was the company—even old Tozer, who sat with his mouth agape in admiration of the young potentate, while he recounted his many grandeurs. Clarence gave a great deal of information as to prices he had paid for various things, and the expenses of his living at Oxford and elsewhere, as he ate the kidneys, eggs, and sausages with which Phoebe’s care had heaped the table. They had no pâté de foie gras, it is true, but the simple fare was of the best quality, as Tozer had boasted. Mrs. Tozer did not come downstairs to breakfast, and thus Phoebe was alone with the two men, who suited each other so much better than she could have hoped. The girl sat by them languidly, though with a beating heart, wondering, as girls will wonder sometimes, if all men were like these, braggards and believers in brag, worshippers of money and price. No doubt, young men too marvel when they hear the women about them talking across them of chiffons, or of little quarrels and little vanities. Phoebe had more brains than both of her interlocutors put together, and half-a-dozen more added on; but she was put down and silenced by the talk. Her lover for the moment had escaped from her. She could generally keep him from exposing himself in this way, and turn the better side of him to the light; but the presence of a believer in him turned the head of Clarence. She could not control him any more.
“A good horse is a deuced expensive thing,” he said; “the governor gave a cool hundred and fifty for that mare that brought me over this morning. He bought her from Sir Robert; but he didn’t know, Phoebe, the use I was going to put her to. If he’d known, he’d have put that hundred and fifty in the sea rather than have his beast rattled over the country on such an errand.” Here he stopped in the midst of his breakfast, and looked at her admiringly. “But I don’t repent,” he added. “I’d do it again tomorrow if it wasn’t done already. If you stand by me, I’ll face him, and twenty like him, by Jove!”
“You don’t say nothing,” said her grandfather. “I wouldn’t be so ungrateful. Gentlemen like Mr. Copperhead ain’t picked up at every roadside.”
“They ain’t, by Jove!” said Clarence; “but she’s shy, that’s all about it,” he added, tenderly; “when we’re by ourselves, I don’t complain.”
Poor Phoebe! She smiled a dismal smile, and was very glad when breakfast was over. After that she took him into the garden, into the bright morning air, which kept her up, and where she could keep her Clarence in hand and amuse him, without allowing this revelation of the worst side of him. While they were there, Martha admitted the visitor of yesterday, Mr. Simpson from the Bank, bringing back to Phoebe’s mind all the other matter of which it had been full.
“Don’t you think you ought to go and see about the horse and the dogcart?” she said suddenly, turning to her lover with one of those sudden changes which kept the dull young man amused. “You don’t know what they may be about.”
“They can’t be up to much,” said Clarence. “Thank you, Miss Phoebe, I like you better than the mare.”
“But you can’t be here all day, and I can’t be here all
