“I shan’t mind anything, grandpapa,” said Phoebe, sweetly, “so long as I can be of use.”
And these were, indeed, the dutiful sentiments with which she made her entry upon this passage in her life, not minding anything but to be of use. The first glimpse of old Tozer, indeed, made it quite evident to Phoebe that nothing but duty could be within her reach. Pleasure, friends, society, the thought of all such delights must be abandoned. And as for Clarence Copperhead and the Miss Dorsets, the notion of meeting or receiving them was too absurd. But Duty remained, and Phoebe felt herself capable of the sacrifice demanded from her. That confidence in herself which we have already indicated as a marked feature in her character, gave her the consoling certainty that she could not suffer from association with her humble relations. Whosoever saw her must do her justice, and that serene conviction preserved her from all the throes of uneasy pride which afflict inferior minds in similar circumstances. She had no wish to exhibit her grandfather and grandmother in their lowliness, nor to be ostentatious of her homely origin, as some people are in the very soreness of wounded pride; but if hazard produced the butterman in the midst of the finest of her acquaintances, Phoebe would still have been perfectly at her ease. She would be herself, whatever happened.
In the meantime, however, it was apparent that Duty was what she had to look to; Duty, and that alone. She had come here, not to amuse herself, not to please herself, but to do her duty; and having thus concluded upon her object, she felt comparatively happy, and at her ease.
Mrs. Tozer had put on her best cap, which was a very gorgeous creation. She had dressed herself as if for a party, with a large brooch, enclosing a curl of various coloured hair cut from the heads of her children in early life, which fastened a large worked collar over a dress of copper-coloured silk, and she rustled and shook a good deal as she came downstairs into the garden to meet her grandchild, with some excitement and sense of the “difference” which could not but be felt on one side as well as on the other. She, too, was somewhat frightened by the appearance of the young lady, who was her Phoebe’s child, yet was so unlike any other scion of the Tozer race; and felt greatly disposed to curtsey and say “Ma’am” to her.
“You’ve grown a deal and changed a deal since I saw you last,” she said, restraining this impression, and receiving Phoebe’s kiss with gratified, yet awestruck feeling; and then her respectful alarm getting too much for her, she added, faltering, “You’ll find us but humble folks; perhaps not altogether what you’ve been used to—”
Phoebe did not think it expedient to make any reply to this outburst of humility.
“Grandmamma, I am afraid you have overexerted yourself, coming downstairs to meet me,” she said, taking the old lady’s hand, and drawing it within her arm. “Yes, I have grown; I am tall enough to be of some use; but you must not treat me as if I were a stranger. No, no; never mind my room. I am not tired; the journey is nothing. Let me take you back to your chair and make you comfortable. I feel myself quite at home already. The only odd thing is that I have never been here before.”
“Ah, my dear, your mother thought too much of you to send you to the likes of us; that’s the secret of it. She was always fond of fine folks, was my Phoebe; and I don’t blame her, bringing you up quite the lady as she’s done.”
“You must not find fault with mamma,” said Phoebe, smiling. “What a nice cozy room! This is the dining-room, I suppose; and here is your cushion, and your footstool at this nice window. How pleasant it is, with the crocuses in all the borders already! I am not at all tired; but I am sure it must be teatime, and I should so like a cup of tea.”
“We thought,” said Mrs. Tozer, “as perhaps you mightn’t be used to tea at this time of day.”
“Oh, it is the right time; it is the fashionable hour,” said Phoebe; “everybody has tea at five. I will run upstairs first, and take off my hat, and make myself tidy. Jane—is that her name?—don’t trouble, grandmamma; Jane will show me the way.”
“Well?” said Mr. Tozer to Mrs. Tozer, as Phoebe disappeared. The two old people looked at each other with a little awe; but she, as was her nature, took the most depressing view. She shook her head.
“She is a deal too fine for us, Tozer,” she said. “She’ll never make herself ’appy in our quiet way. Phoebe’s been and brought her up quite the lady. It ain’t as her dress is much matter. I’d have given her a silk myself, and never thought of it twice; and something lively like for a young person, ’stead of that gray stuff, as her mother might wear. But all the same, she ain’t one of our sort. She’ll never make herself ’appy with you and me.”
“Well,” said Tozer, who was more cheerful, “she ain’t proud, not a bit; and as for manners, you don’t pay no more for manners. She came up and give me a kiss in the station, as affectionate as possible. All I can say for her is as she ain’t proud.”
Mrs. Tozer shook her head; but even while she did so, pleasanter dreams stole into her soul.
“I hope I’ll be well enough to get to chapel on Sunday,” she said, “just to see the folk’s looks. The minister needn’t expect much attention to his sermon. ‘There’s Phoebe Tozer’s daughter!’ they’ll all be saying, and a-staring, and a-whispering. It ain’t often as
