SELF-DEVOTION.
"Mr. Copperhead's manner is not pleasant sometimes, that is quite true.
We must make allowances, my dear. Great wealth, you know, has its
temptations. You can't expect a man with so much money and so many
people under him to have the same consideration for other people's
feelings. He says to this man go and he goeth, and to that man come and
he cometh."
"That is all very well," said Phoebe; "but he has no right, that I can
think of, to be rude to mamma and me."
"He was not exactly rude, my dear," said Mrs. Beecham. "We must not say
he was rude. Clarence ought to have divided his attentions more equally,
we must admit, and his father was annoyed--for the moment. I have no
doubt he has forgotten all about it long ago, and will be as pleasant as
ever next time we meet."
"I am quite sure of it," said the pastor, "and at the worst it was but
his manner--only his manner. In short, at the committee meeting
yesterday nothing could have been nicer. He went even out of his way to
send, as it were, a kind message to Phoebe. 'I needn't ask if Miss Phoebe
enjoyed herself,' he said. Depend upon it, my dear, if there was a
temporary annoyance it is both forgotten and forgiven, so far as Mr.
Copperhead is concerned."
"Forgiven!" Phoebe said to herself; but she thought it wiser to say
nothing audible on the subject. Her father and mother, it was evident,
were both disposed to extend any amount of toleration to the leading
member. It was he who was the best judge as to what he had a right to be
annoyed about. The family party were in Mr. Beecham's study, where the
large bust of Mr. Copperhead stood on the mantelpiece, the chief
decoration. How could any one be so wicked as to rebel against the
influence of so great a personage? Phoebe had her own ideas, but she was
wise and kept them to herself.
"And now," said Mrs. Beecham, solemnly, "what is to be done, my dear,
about this letter from my good papa?"
Phoebe was standing in front of a book-case, apparently looking for a
book. She said nothing; but it was easy to perceive by the erectness of
her shoulders, and the slight movement that ran through her, that her
attention was fully engaged.
"Ah, yes indeed, what about it?" the pastor said. He put down the pen,
which he had been holding in his hand by way of symbol that, amiable as
he was, his attention to his woman-kind was an encroachment upon time
which might be more usefully employed. But this was a serious question;
he had no suggestion to offer, but he sat and twiddled his thumbs, and
looked at his wife with interest suddenly aroused.
"There is a great deal to be thought of," said Mrs. Beecham, "it is not
a simple matter of family devotion. Of course if I had no other ties,
nor other duties, everything would be easy. I should go at once to my
poor suffering mamma."
Mrs. Beecham was a clever woman, but she had not been able to get it out
of her mind, owing to the imperfections of her education in youth, that
it was a vulgar thing to say father and mother. "But in the present
circumstances," she continued, her husband having given his assent to
this speech, "it is clear that I cannot do what I wish. I have you to
think of, my dear, and the children, and the duties of my position. On
the other hand, of course I could not wish, as poor mamma's only
daughter, to have my sister-in-law called in. She is not the kind of
person; she is underbred, uneducated. Of course she would be thinking of
her own children, and what would be best for them. My parents have done
all that ought to be expected from them for Tom. Considering all things,
what they have to dispose of ought to go to Phoebe and Tozer. But Mrs.
Tom would not see that."
"It is very true, my dear; I don't suppose she would," said Mr. Beecham,
with an anxious air.
"Mrs. Tom," said his wife, with some heat, "would think her own had the
first claim. She maintained it to my very face, and after that what have
we to expect? It's us that are Tozers," she said; "as for you, Phoebe,
you belong to another family. I put it in my own language of course, not
in her vulgar way."
"It is a very serious question altogether," said the pastor, with some
solemnity. "I don't see how you can get away, and I don't know what is
to be done."
"Whatever is to be done, I won't leave poor mamma in the hands of Mrs.
Tom," cries Mrs. Beecham, "not whatever it costs me. She's capable of
anything, that woman is. To have her in the same town is bad enough, but
in the same house nursing poor mamma! You and I would never see a penny
of the money, Henery, nor our children--not a penny! besides the
vexation of seeing one's own parents turned against one. I know very
well how it would be."
Mr. Beecham ceased twiddling his thumbs. The crisis was too serious for
that indulgence. "The position is most difficult," he said, "I see it
all. It is easy to see it for that matter, but to decide what are we to
do is not easy. To go back to Carlingford after so many changes, would
it be good for you?"
"It would kill me," said Mrs. Beecham, with energy, "you know it would
kill me. Envy drove us out, and envy would bring me to the grave. I
don't deceive myself, that is what I see before me, if I tear myself
from all my duties and go. But on the other hand----"
"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
after-life, and of course no one can tell what may happen, but in the
mean time there is nothing of the sort in my mind--nor in any one
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 sea-side, 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 any one. 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 any one 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 please them! Thank Heaven, they know the difference now;
but if they were to set themselves, as I could quite expect of them,
against my child--"
"Mamma," said Phoebe, tranquilly, "I think you forget that it is me you
are talking of. I hope I know what a pastor's daughter owes to herself.
I have had my training. I don't think you need be frightened for me."
"No; I think Phoebe could manage them if any one could," said her father,
complacently.
She smiled with a gracious response to this approval. She had a book in
her hand, which of itself was a proof of Phoebe's pretensions. It was, I
think, one of the volumes of Mr. Stuart Mill's "Dissertations." Phoebe
was not above reading novels or other light literature, but this only in
the moments dedicated to amusement, and the present hour was morning, a
time not for amusement, but for work.
"Phoebe don't know Carlingford, nor the folks there," said Mrs. Beecham,
flushed by the thought, and too much excited to think of the elegancies
of diction. She had suffered more than her husband had, and retained a
more forcible idea of the perils; and in the pause which ensued, all
these perils crowded into her mind. As her own ambition rose, she had
felt how dreadful it was to be shut in to one small circle of very small
folks. She had felt the injurious line of separation between the
shopkeepers and the rest of the world; at least she thought she had felt
it. As a matter of fact, I think it very doubtful whether Phoebe Tozer
had felt anything of the kind; but she thought so now; and then it was a
fact that she was born Phoebe Tozer, and was used to that life, whereas
Phoebe Beecham had no such knowledge. She had never been aware of the
limitations of a small Dissenting community in a small town, and though
she knew how much the Crescent congregation thought of a stray
millionnaire like Mr. Copperhead (a thing which seemed too natural to
Miss Beecham to leave any room for remark), her mother thought that it
might have a bad effect upon Phoebe's principles in every way, should she
find out the lowly place held by the connection in such an
old-fashioned, self-conceited, Tory town as Carlingford. What would
Phoebe think? how would she manage to associate with the Browns and the
Pigeons? Fortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Tozer had retired from the shop; but
the shop was still there, greasy and buttery as ever, and Mrs. Beecham's
own respected papa was still "the butterman." How would Phoebe bear it?
This was the uppermost thought in her mind.
"You know, my darling," she said afterwards, when they had left the
study, and were seated, talking it over, in the drawing-room, "there
will be a great deal to put up with. I am silly; I don't like even to
hear your papa say anything about dear old grandpapa. He is my own, and
I ought to stand up for him; but even with grandpapa, you will have a
great deal to put up with. They don't understand our ways. They are
used to have things so different. They think differently, and they talk
differently. Even with your sense, Phoebe, you will find it hard to get
on."
"I am not at all afraid, I assure you, mamma."
"You are not afraid, because you don't know. I know, and I am afraid.
You know, we are not great people, Phoebe. I have always let you know
that--and that it is far finer to elevate yourself than to be born to a
good position. But when you see really the place which poor dear
grandpapa and grandmamma think so much of, I am sure I don't know what
you will say."
"I shall not say much. I shall not say anything, mamma. I am not
prejudiced," said Phoebe. "So long as an occupation is honest and
honourable, and you can do your duty in it, what does it matter? One
kind of work is just as good as another. It is the spirit in which it is
done."
"Oh, honest!" said Mrs. Beecham, half relieved, half affronted. "Of
course, it was all that. Nothing else would have answered papa. Your
uncle Tom has the--business now. You need not go there, my dear, unless
you like. I am not fond of Mrs. Tom. We were always, so to speak, above
our station; but she is not at all above it. She is just adapted for it;
and I don't think she would suit you in the least. So except just for a
formal call, I don't think you need go there, and even that only if
grandmamma can spare you. You must be civil to everybody, I suppose; but
you need not go further; they are not society for you. You will hear
people talk of me by my Christian name, as if we were most intimate; but
don't believe it, Phoebe. I always felt aspirations towards a very
different kind of life."
"Oh, don't be afraid, mamma," said Phoebe, calmly; "I shall be able to
keep them at a distance. You need not fear."
"Yes, my dear," said the anxious mother; "but not too much at a distance
either. That is just what is so difficult. If they can find an excuse
for saying that my child is stuck up! Oh! nothing would please them more
than to be able to find out something against my child. When you have
apparently belonged to that low level, and then have risen," said Mrs.
Beecham, with a hot colour on her cheek, "there is nothing these kind of
people will not say."
These conversations raised a great deal of thought in Phoebe's mind; but
they did not change her resolution. If it was necessary that some one
should go to look after her grandmamma, and keep all those vulgar people
at bay, and show to the admiring world what a Dissenting minister's
daughter could be, and what a dutiful daughter was, then who so fit as
herself to be the example? This gave her even a certain tragical sense
of heroism, which was exhilarating, though serious. She thought of what
she would have to "put up with," as of something much more solemn than
the reality; more solemn, but alas! not so troublesome. Phoebe felt
herself something like a Joan of Arc as she packed her clothes and made
her preparations. She was going among barbarians, a set of people who
would not understand her, probably, and whom she would have to "put up
with." But what of that? Strong in a sense of duty, and superior to all
lesser inducements, she felt herself able to triumph. Mrs. Beecham
assisted with very divided feelings at the preparations. It was on her
lips to say, "Never mind the evening dresses; you will not want them."
But then the thought occurred to her that to let the Carlingford folks
see what her daughter had been used to, even if she had no use for such
things, would be sweet.
"No, Henery; she shall take them all," she said to her husband. "They
shall see the kind of society my child is in; very different from their
trumpery little teas! They shall see that you and I, we grudge nothing
for Phoebe--and I dare be sworn there is not one of them like her, not
even among the quality! I mean," said Mrs. Beecham, hastily, with a
flush of distress at her own failure in gentility, "among those who
think themselves better than we are. But Phoebe will let them see what a
pastor's family is out of their dirty little town. She will bring them
to their senses. Though I hesitated at first when it was spoken of, I am
very glad now."
"Yes; Phoebe is a girl to find her level anywhere," said the pastor,
complacently. And they forgot what she would have to put up with in
their satisfaction and admiration for herself.