Yes, Mr. Copperhead was quite well—she was quite well—her son was quite well. She hoped Mr. Beecham was well. She had heard that most people were pleased with the ball, thank you. Oh, Miss Beecham was going away—indeed! She hoped the weather would be good; and then Mrs. Copperhead sat erect upon her sofa, and did not try to say any more. Though she had not the heart of a mouse, she too could play the great lady when occasion served. Clarence, however, was much more hospitable than his mother. He liked Phoebe, who could talk almost as if she was in society, as girls talk in novels. He knew, of course, that she was not in society, but she was a girl whom a fellow could get on with, who had plenty to say for herself, who was not a lay figure like many young ladies; and then she was pretty, pink, and golden, “a piece of colour” which was attractive to the eye. He soon found out where she was going, and let her know that he himself intended a visit to the neighbourhood.
“The Dorsets live near,” he said. “Relations of my mother. You saw them at the ball. I dare say you will meet them somewhere about.” This, it is to be feared, Clarence said in something of his mother’s spirit, with a warm sense of superiority, for he knew that the pastor’s daughter was very unlikely to meet the Dorsets. Phoebe, however, was equal to the occasion.
“I am not at all likely to meet them,” she said with a gracious smile. “For one thing, I am not going to enjoy myself, but to nurse a sick person. And sick people don’t go to parties. Besides, you know the foolish prejudices of society, properly so called. I think them foolish because they affect me,” said Phoebe, with engaging frankness. “If they did not affect me, probably I should think them all right.”
“What foolish prejudices?” said Clarence, thinking she was about to say something about her inferior position, and already feeling flattered before she spoke.
“About Dissenters, you know,” she said; “of course, you must be aware that we are looked down upon in society. It does not matter, for when people have any sense, as soon as they know us they do us justice; but of course you must be aware that the prejudice exists.”
Clarence did know, and with some bitterness; for Mr. Copperhead, though he did not care much, perhaps, about religion, cared for his chapel, and stood by it with unswerving strictness. His son, who was an Oxford man, and respectful of all the prejudices of society, did not like this. But what could he do against the obstinate dissentership of his father? This, as much as anything else, had acted upon the crowd the night of the ball, and made them all nobodies. He hesitated to make any reply, and his face flushed with shame and displeasure. Phoebe felt that she had avenged upon Clarence his mother’s haughty politeness. She had brought home to him a sense of the social inferiority which was common to them both. Having done this, she was satisfied, and proceeded to soften the blow.
“It cannot fall upon you, who are in so much better a position, as it does upon us,” said Phoebe. “We are the very head and front of the offending, a Dissenting minister’s family!—Society and its charms are not for us. And I hope we know our place,” she said, with mock humility; “when people have any sense and come to know us it is different; and for the foolish ones I don’t care. But you see from that, I am not likely to meet your cousins, am I?” she added with a laugh.
“If you mean that they are among the foolish ones—”
“Oh, no; I don’t. But you can’t suppose they will take the trouble to find me out. Why should they? People entirely out of my range, and that have nothing to do with me. So you may be quite sure I am right when I say we shan’t meet.”
“Well,” said Clarence, piqued, “I am going to Easton, and I shall see you, if Mrs. Beecham will give me permission to call.”
“She will give you the address along with that; but till then, goodbye,” said Phoebe. To tell the truth, she had no desire to see Clarence Copperhead in Carlingford. Perhaps he meant something, perhaps he did not—at this stage of the proceedings it was a matter of indifference to Phoebe, who certainly had not allowed “her affections” to become engaged. If he did mean anything, was it likely that he could support unmoved the grandfather and grandmother who were, or had been, “in trade?” On the other hand, was it not better that he should know the worst? Phoebe was no husband-hunter. She contemplated the issue with calm and composure, however it might turn out.
“He asked me if he might call,” said Mrs. Beecham, in some excitement. “I don’t care much to have you seen, my darling, out of your own father’s house.”
“Just as you please, mamma—just as it suits best,” said Phoebe, dismissing the subject. She was not anxious. A good deal depended on whether he meant anything or nothing, but even that did not conclude the subject, for she had not made
