“You shan’t go,” cried her lover, “not a step. Look here, sir. If that’s what it comes to, her before you. What you’ve made of me ain’t much, is it? but I don’t mind what I go in for, as long as she’s to the fore. Her before you.”
“Is that your last word?” said Mr. Copperhead.
“Yes.” His son faced him with a face as set and cloudy as his own. The mouth, shut close and sullen, was the same in both; but those brown eyes which Clarence got from his mother, and which were usually mild in their expression, looking out gently from the ruder face to which they did not seem to belong, were now, not clear, but muddy with resolution, glimmering with dogged obstinacy from under the drooping eyelids. He was not like himself; he was as he had been that day when Mr. May saw him at the Dorsets, determined, more than a match for his father, who had only the obstinacy of his own nature, not that dead resisting force of two people to bring to the battle. Clarence had all the pertinacity that was not in his mother, to reinforce his own. Mr. Copperhead stared at his son with that look of authority, half-imperious, half-brutal, with which he was in the habit of crushing all who resisted him; but Clarence did not quail. He stood dull and immovable, his eyes contracted, his face stolid, and void of all expression but that of resistance. He was not much more than a fool, but just by so much as his father was more reasonable, more clear-sighted than himself, was Clarence stronger than his father. He held Phoebe by the sleeve, that she might not escape him; but he faced Mr. Copperhead with a dull determination that all the powers of earth could not shake.
For the moment the father lost his self-control.
“Then I’ll go,” he said, “and when you’ve changed your mind, you can come to me; but—” here he swore a big oath, “mind what you’re about. There never was a man yet but repented when he set himself against me.”
Clarence made no answer. Talking was not in his way. And Mr. Copperhead showed his wondering apprehension of a power superior to his own, by making a pause after he had said this, and not going away directly. He stopped and tried once more to influence the rebel with that stare. “Phoebe—Phoebe—for God’s sake make him give in, and don’t go against Mr. Copperhead!” cried Tozer’s tremulous voice, shaken with weakness and anxiety. But Phoebe did not say anything. She felt in the hesitation, the pause, the despairing last effort to conquer, that the time of her triumph had nearly come. When he went away, they all stood still and listened to his footsteps going along the passage and through the garden. When he was outside he paused again, evidently with the idea of returning, but changed his mind and went on. To be left like this, the victors on a field of domestic conflict, is very often not at all a triumphant feeling, and involves a sense of defeat about as bad as the reality experienced by the vanquished. Phoebe, who was imaginative, and had lively feeling, felt a cold shiver go over her as the steps went away one by one, and began to cry softly, not knowing quite why it was; but Clarence, who had no imagination, nor any feelings to speak of, was at his ease and perfectly calm.
“What are you crying for?” he said, “the governor can do what he likes. I’d marry you in spite of a hundred like him. He didn’t know what he was about, didn’t the governor, when he tackled me.”
“But, Clarence, you must not break with your father, you must not quarrel on my account—”
“That’s as it may be,” he said, “never you mind. When it’s cleverness that’s wanted, it’s you that’s wanted to back me up—but I can stick to my own way without you; and my way is this,” he said, suddenly lifting her from the ground, holding her waist between his two big hands, and giving her an emphatic kiss. Phoebe was silenced altogether when this had happened. He was a blockhead, but he was a man, and could stand up for his love, and for his own rights as a man, independent of the world. She felt a genuine admiration for her lout at that moment; but this admiration was accompanied by a very chill sense of all that might be forfeited if Mr. Copperhead stood out. Clarence, poor and disowned by his father, would be a very different person from the Clarence Copperhead who was going into parliament, and had “a fine position” in prospect. She did not form any resolutions as to what she would do in that case, for she was incapable of anything dishonourable; but it made her shiver as with a cold icy current running over; and as for poor old Tozer he was all but whimpering in his chair.
“Oh, Lord!” he cried. “A great man like Mr. Copperhead affronted in my ’umble ’ouse. It’s what I never thought to see. A friend of the connection like that—your father’s leading member. Oh, Phoebe, it was an evil day as brought you here to make all this mischief! and if I had known what was going on!” cried Tozer, almost weeping in his despair.
“You are tired, grandpapa,” said Phoebe. “Don’t be frightened about us. Mr. Copperhead is very fond of Clarence, and he will give in; or if he doesn’t give in, still we shall not be worse off than many other people.” But she said this with a secret panic devouring her soul, wondering
