“Listen, mamma!” cried Phoebe, turning round suddenly; “if grandmamma is ill, and you are afraid to leave her alone, why not send me?”
Both her parents turned towards Phoebe, as she spoke; they listened to her with wonder and consternation, yet with admiring looks. Then they looked at each other consulting, alarmed. “You!” said Mrs. Beecham, and “You!” echoed the pastor, repeating in his great astonishment what his wife said.
“Yes, indeed, me—why not me? it would be only my duty,” said Phoebe, with great composure. “And there is nothing to keep me from going. I almost think I should like it—but anyhow, mamma, if you think it necessary, whether I like it or not—”
“Phoebe, my darling, you are the best child in the world,” cried her mother, rising up, and going to her hastily. She gave her a kiss of maternal enthusiasm, and then she looked at her husband. “But should we take advantage of it?” she said.
“You see, my dear,” said Mr. Beecham, hesitating, “you might find many things different from what you are used to. Your grandpapa Tozer is an excellent man—a most excellent man—”
“Yes, yes,” said his wife, with some impatience. She was as conscious as he was of the great elevation in the social scale that had occurred to both of them since they left Carlingford, and knew as well as he did that the old people had remained stationary, while the younger ones had made such advances; but still she did not like to hear her husband criticize her father. What there was to be said, she preferred to say herself. “Yes, yes,” she said, “Phoebe knows there is a difference; they are old-fashioned folks, and don’t live quite as we live. Some things would strike you very strangely, my dear, some things you would not like; and then Phoebe may be, for anything I can tell, at a turning-point in her own life.”
“If you mean about the Copperheads, mamma, dismiss that from your mind,” said Phoebe. “There is no sort of hurry. We may be thrown together in afterlife, and of course no one can tell what may happen, but in the meantime there is nothing of the sort in my mind—nor in anyone else’s. Do not think of that for a moment. I am at no turning-point. I am quite ready and quite willing to go wherever you please.”
Once more the parent pair looked at each other. They had been very careful not to bring their children into contact, since they were children, with the homelier circumstances of the life in which they themselves had both taken their origin. They had managed this really with great skill and discretion. Instead of visiting the Tozers at Carlingford, they had appointed meetings at the seaside, by means of which the children were trained in affectionate acquaintance with their grandparents, without any knowledge of the shop. And Mr. Tozer, who was only a butterman at Carlingford, presented all the appearance of an old Dissenting minister out of it—old-fashioned, not very refined perhaps, as Mrs. Beecham allowed, but very kind, and the most doting of grandfathers. The wisp of white neckcloth round his neck, and his black coat, and a certain unction of manner all favoured the idea. Theoretically, the young people knew it was not so, but the impression on their imagination was to this effect. Mrs. Tozer was only “grandmamma.” She was kind too, and if rather gorgeous in the way of ribbons, and dressing generally in a manner which Phoebe’s taste condemned, yet she came quite within the range of that affectionate contempt with which youth tolerates the disadvantages of its seniors. But the butterman’s shop! and the entire cutting off from everything superior to the grocers and poulterers of Carlingford—how would Phoebe support it? This was what Mr. and Mrs. Beecham asked each other with their eyes—and there was a pause. For the question was a tremendous one, and neither knew in what way to reply.
“Phoebe, you are a very sensible girl—” said her father at last, faltering.
“I beg your pardon, papa. I don’t think you are treating me as if I were sensible,” said Phoebe. “I know well enough that grandpapa is in business—if that is what you are afraid of—”
“Has been in business,” said Mrs. Beecham. “Your grandpapa has retired for some time. To be sure,” she added, turning to her husband, “it is only Tom that has the business, and as I consider Mrs. Tom objectionable, Phoebe need not be brought in contact—”
“If Phoebe goes to Carlingford,” said the pastor, “she must not be disagreeable to anyone. We must make up our minds to that. They must not call her stuck up and proud.”
“Henery,” said Mrs. Beecham, “I can put up with a great deal; but to think of a child of mine being exposed to the tongues of those Browns and Pigeons and Mrs. Tom, is more than I can bear. What I went through myself, you never knew, nor anyone breathing—the looks they gave me, the things they kept saying, the little nods at one another every time I passed! Was it my fault that I was better educated, and more refined like, than they were? In Mr. Vincent’s time, before you came, Henery, he was a very gentleman-like young man, and he used to come to the ⸻ High Street constantly to supper. It wasn’t my doing. I never asked him—no more than I did you!”
“Your father used to ask me,” said Mr. Beecham, doubtfully. “It was very kind. A young pastor expects it in a new place; and a great many things arise, there is no doubt, in that way.”
“Not by my doing,” said the lady; “and when we were married, Henery, the things I did to
