XI
Phoebe’s Preparations
A few days after Ursula’s return home, another arrival took place in Carlingford. Phoebe Beecham, after considering the case fully, and listening with keen interest to all the indications she could pick up as to the peculiarities of her grandfather’s house, and the many things in life at Carlingford which were “unlike what she had been used to,” had fully made up her mind to dare the difficulties of that unknown existence, and to devote herself in her mother’s place to the care of her grandmother and the confusion of Mrs. Tom. This was partly undertaken out of a sense of duty, partly out of that desire for change and the unknown, which has to content itself in many cases with the very mildest provision, and partly because Phoebe’s good sense perceived the necessity of the matter. She was by no means sure what were the special circumstances that made “Mrs. Tom” disagreeable to her mother, but she was deeply sensible of the importance of preventing Mrs. Tom from securing to herself and her family all that Mr. and Mrs. Tozer had to leave. Phoebe was not mercenary in her own person, but she had no idea of giving up any “rights,” and she felt it of the utmost importance that her brother, who was unfortunately by no means so clever as herself, should be fully provided against all the contingencies of life. She was not concerned about herself in that particular. Phoebe felt it a matter of course that she should marry, and marry well. Self-confidence of this assured and tranquil sort serves a great many excellent purposes—it made her even generous in her way. She believed in her star, in her own certain good-fortune, in herself; and therefore her mind was free to think and to work for other people. She knew very well by all her mother said, and by all the hesitations of both her parents, that she would have many disagreeable things to encounter in Carlingford, but she felt so sure that nothing could really humiliate her, or pull her down from her real eminence, that the knowledge conveyed no fears to her mind. When this confidence in her own superiority to all debasing influences is held by the spotless princess in the poem, it is the most beautiful of human sentiments, and why it should not be equally elevated when entertained by a pink and plump modern young woman, well up in all nineteenth century refinements, and the daughter of the minister of the Crescent Chapel, it would be hard to say. Phoebe held it with the strongest faith.
“Their ways of thinking, perhaps, and their ways of living, are not those which I have been used to,” she said; “but how does that affect me? I am myself whatever happens; even if poor dear grandmamma’s habits are not refined, which I suppose is what you mean, mamma, that does not make me unrefined. A lady must always be a lady wherever she is—Una,” she continued, using strangely enough the same argument which has occurred to her historian, “is not less a princess when she is living among the satyrs. Of course, I am not like Una—and neither are they like the wild people in the wood.”
Mrs. Beecham did not know much about Una, except that she was somebody in a book; but she kissed her daughter, and assured her that she was “a real comfort,” and devoted herself to her comfort for the few days that remained, doing everything that it was possible to do to show her love, and, so to speak, gratitude to the good child who was thus throwing herself into the breach. The Beechams were in no want of money to buy what pleased them, and the mother made many additions to Phoebe’s wardrobe which that young lady herself thought quite unnecessary, not reflecting that other sentiments besides that of simple love for herself were involved.
“They shall see that my daughter is not just like one of their common-looking girls,” Mrs. Beecham said to her husband; and he shared the feeling, though he could not but think within himself that her aspect was of very much more importance than the appearance of Phoebe Tozer’s child could possibly be as his daughter.
“You are quite right, my dear,” he replied, “vulgar people of that sort are but too ready to look down upon a pastor’s family. They ought to be made to see the difference.”
The consequence of this was that Phoebe was fitted out like a young princess going on her travels. Ursula May would have been out of her wits with delight, had half these fine things come her way; but Phoebe took them very calmly.
“I have never undervalued dress,” she said, “as some girls do; I think it is a very important social influence. And even without that, mamma, so long as it pleases you—” So with this mixture of philosophy and affection all went well.
“We must call on Mrs. Copperhead before you go; they would think it strange, after all the interest they have shown in us.”
“Have they shown an interest in us?” said Phoebe. “Of course we must call—and Mrs. Copperhead is a lady, but as for Mr. Copperhead, mamma—”
“Hush! he is the leading member, and very influential in the connection. A pastor’s family must not be touchy, Phoebe. We must put up with a great many things. There ought to be peace among brethren, you know, and harmony is the first thing that is essential in a church—”
“I wonder if harmony would be as essential, supposing Mr. Copperhead to come to grief, mamma.”
“Phoebe! slang from you—who have always set your face against it.”
“What can one talk but slang when one thinks of such a person?” said Phoebe gravely; and thus saying she opened the door for her mother, and they went out in their best gowns to pay their visit. Mrs. Copperhead was very
