And indeed Phoebe did not wonder at her grandmother’s pride when she walked up with her to High Street, supporting her on her arm. She recognised frankly that there were not many people like herself about, few who had so much the air of good society, and not one who was so well dressed. There were excuses to be made then for the anxiety of the old people to produce her in the little world which was everything to them, and with her usual candour and good sense she acknowledged this, though she winced a little when an occasional acquaintance drifted across Mrs. Tozer’s path, and was introduced with pride to “my granddaughter,” and thrust forth an ungloved hand, with an exclamation of, “Lord bless us, Phoebe’s eldest! I hope I see you well, Miss.” Phoebe continued urbane, though it cost her many a pang. She had to keep on a perpetual argument with herself as she went along slowly, holding up her poor grandmother’s tottering steps. “If this is what we have really sprung from, this is my own class, and I ought to like it; if I don’t like it, it must be my fault. I have no right to feel myself better than they are. It is not position that makes any difference, but individual character,” Phoebe said to herself. She got as much consolation out of this as is to be extracted from such rueful arguments in general; but it was after all indifferent comfort, and had not her temperament given her a strong hold of herself, and power of subduing her impulses, it is much to be feared that Phoebe would have dropped her grandmother’s arm as they approached the station, and run away. She did waver for a moment as she came in sight of it. On that side lay freedom, comfort, the life she had been used to, which was not very elevated indeed, but felt like high rank in comparison with this. And she knew her parents would forgive her and defend her if she went back to them, unable to support the martyrdom which she had rashly taken upon herself. But then how weak that would be, Phoebe thought to herself, drawing Mrs. Tozer’s arm more tightly within her own—how small! how it would hurt the feelings of the old people, how it would vex and embarrass her father and mother! Lastly, it might peril her brother’s interests and her own, which, to do her justice, was the last thing she thought of, and yet was not undeserving of notice in its way.
“Lean on me more heavily, grandmamma,” she said at last, finally concluding and throwing off this self-discussion. She could not prolong it further. It was unworthy of her. Henceforward she had made up her mind to set her face like a flint, and no longer leave the question of her persistence in her domestic mission an open question. Whatever she might have “to put up with,” it was now decided once for all.
“Bless us all, if this ain’t grandmamma,” said Mrs. Tom. It was not often, as she herself said with pride, that she required to be in the shop, which was very much improved now from its old aspect. Ill luck, however, brought her here today. She stood at the door which led from the shop to the house, dividing the counter, talking to a lady who was making a complaint upon the quality of cheese or butter. Mrs. Tozer had led Phoebe that way in order to point out to her the plate-glass windows and marble slabs for the cheese, of which, though they were one of her grievances against Mrs. Tom, she was secretly proud.
“I don’t deny but what they’ve done a deal,” said the old woman, “show and vanity as I call it. I wish they may do as well for themselves with all their plate-glass as me and Tozer did without it; but it ain’t often as you’ll see a handsomer shop,” she added, contemplating fondly the scene of her early labours. If a squire looks fondly at his land, and a sailor at his ship (when ships were worth looking at), why should not a shopkeeper regard his shop with the same affectionate feelings? Mrs. Tom Tozer had just taken leave of her remonstrant customer with a curtsey, and an assurance that the faults complained of should be remedied, when she caught sight of the infirm old woman leaning on Phoebe’s arm, and made the exclamation already quoted.
“Lord bless us all! if it ain’t grandmamma, and Phoebe’s daughter along o’ her, I’ll lay you sixpence,” said Mrs. Tom in the extremity of her surprise, and at the highest pitch of her voice. The lady customer was still in the shop, and when she heard this she turned round and gave the newcomers a stare. (It was not very wonderful, Phoebe allowed to herself with secret anguish.) She gave old Mrs. Tozer a familiar nod. “This is quite a long walk for you nowadays,” she said, gazing at Phoebe, though she addressed the old woman.
“Thank ye, ma’am, I am a deal better,” said Mrs. Tozer, “especially as I’ve got my granddaughter to take care of me.”
“Oh! is this young—person your granddaughter,” said the customer with another stare, and then she nodded again and went away wondering. “Well,” Phoebe said to herself, “one little sting more or less what did it matter?” and she went on through the shop supporting her grandmother, keenly sensible of the looks that encountered her on every side. Mrs. Tom stood leaning against the counter, waiting for them without making any advance. She was smart and good-looking, with a malicious gleam in a pair of bright black beady eyes.
“How are you, granny?” she said, “I declare you’re looking quite young again, and as spry as twenty. Come in and
