V
Self-Devotion
“Mr. Copperhead’s manner is not pleasant sometimes, that is quite true. We must make allowances, my dear. Great wealth, you know, has its temptations. You can’t expect a man with so much money and so many people under him to have the same consideration for other people’s feelings. He says to this man go and he goeth, and to that man come and he cometh.”
“That is all very well,” said Phoebe; “but he has no right, that I can think of, to be rude to mamma and me.”
“He was not exactly rude, my dear,” said Mrs. Beecham. “We must not say he was rude. Clarence ought to have divided his attentions more equally, we must admit, and his father was annoyed—for the moment. I have no doubt he has forgotten all about it long ago, and will be as pleasant as ever next time we meet.”
“I am quite sure of it,” said the pastor, “and at the worst it was but his manner—only his manner. In short, at the committee meeting yesterday nothing could have been nicer. He went even out of his way to send, as it were, a kind message to Phoebe. ‘I needn’t ask if Miss Phoebe enjoyed herself,’ he said. Depend upon it, my dear, if there was a temporary annoyance it is both forgotten and forgiven, so far as Mr. Copperhead is concerned.”
“Forgiven!” Phoebe said to herself; but she thought it wiser to say nothing audible on the subject. Her father and mother, it was evident, were both disposed to extend any amount of toleration to the leading member. It was he who was the best judge as to what he had a right to be annoyed about. The family party were in Mr. Beecham’s study, where the large bust of Mr. Copperhead stood on the mantelpiece, the chief decoration. How could anyone be so wicked as to rebel against the influence of so great a personage? Phoebe had her own ideas, but she was wise and kept them to herself.
“And now,” said Mrs. Beecham, solemnly, “what is to be done, my dear, about this letter from my good papa?”
Phoebe was standing in front of a bookcase, apparently looking for a book. She said nothing; but it was easy to perceive by the erectness of her shoulders, and the slight movement that ran through her, that her attention was fully engaged.
“Ah, yes indeed, what about it?” the pastor said. He put down the pen, which he had been holding in his hand by way of symbol that, amiable as he was, his attention to his womankind was an encroachment upon time which might be more usefully employed. But this was a serious question; he had no suggestion to offer, but he sat and twiddled his thumbs, and looked at his wife with interest suddenly aroused.
“There is a great deal to be thought of,” said Mrs. Beecham, “it is not a simple matter of family devotion. Of course if I had no other ties, nor other duties, everything would be easy. I should go at once to my poor suffering mamma.”
Mrs. Beecham was a clever woman, but she had not been able to get it out of her mind, owing to the imperfections of her education in youth, that it was a vulgar thing to say father and mother. “But in the present circumstances,” she continued, her husband having given his assent to this speech, “it is clear that I cannot do what I wish. I have you to think of, my dear, and the children, and the duties of my position. On the other hand, of course I could not wish, as poor mamma’s only daughter, to have my sister-in-law called in. She is not the kind of person; she is underbred, uneducated. Of course she would be thinking of her own children, and what would be best for them. My parents have done all that ought to be expected from them for Tom. Considering all things, what they have to dispose of ought to go to Phoebe and Tozer. But Mrs. Tom would not see that.”
“It is very true, my dear; I don’t suppose she would,” said Mr. Beecham, with an anxious air.
“Mrs. Tom,” said his wife, with some heat, “would think her own had the first claim. She maintained it to my very face, and after that what have we to expect? It’s us that are Tozers,” she said; “as for you, Phoebe, you belong to another family. I put it in my own language of course, not in her vulgar way.”
“It is a very serious question altogether,” said the pastor, with some solemnity. “I don’t see how you can get away, and I don’t know what is to be done.”
“Whatever is to be done, I won’t leave poor mamma in the hands of Mrs. Tom,” cries Mrs. Beecham, “not whatever it costs me. She’s capable of anything, that woman is. To have her in the same town is bad enough, but in the same house nursing poor mamma! You and I would never see a penny of the money, Henery, nor our children—not a penny! besides the vexation of seeing one’s own parents turned against one. I know very well how it would be.”
Mr. Beecham ceased twiddling his thumbs. The crisis was too serious for that indulgence. “The position is most difficult,” he said, “I see it all. It is easy to see it for that matter, but to decide what are we to do is not easy. To go back to Carlingford after so many changes, would it be good for you?”
“It would kill me,” said Mrs. Beecham, with energy, “you know it
