Phoebe, Junior

“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. Hence-forward 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 to-day. 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 Phœbe 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 Phœbe's arm, and made the exclamation already quoted.

“Lord bless us all! if it ain't grandmamma, and Phœbe'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 new-comers a stare. (It was not very wonderful, Phœbe allowed to herself with secret anguish). She gave old Mrs. Tozer a familiar nod. “This is quite a long walk for you now-a-days,” she said, gazing at Phœbe, 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,” Phœbe 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 rest; and this young lady as is with you, I don't think as I need ask her name, the likeness speaks for itself. It's Phœbe Beecham, ain't it? Bless us all! I'd have known her anywhere, I would; the very moral of her mother, and of you too, granny. As you stand there now, you're as like as two peas.”

Unconsciously Phœbe cast a look upon her grandmother. She did not think she was vain. To be unconscious that she had some personal advantages would, of course, be impossible; but a thrill crept through her when she looked at the old woman by her side, wrinkled and red, in her copper-coloured gown. As like as two peas! was that possible? Phœbe's heart sank for the moment to her shoes, and a pitiful look of restrained pain came to her face. This was assailing her in her tenderest point.

“Am I so like you, grandmamma?” she said, faltering; but added quickly, “then I cannot be like mamma. How do you do? My mother wished me to come at once, to bring her kind regards. Is my uncle at home?”

“No, Miss, your uncle ain't at home,” said Mrs. Tom, “but you might be civil, all the same, and put a name to me, more nor if I was a dog. I'm your aunt, I am – and I likes all my titles, I do – and proper respect.”

“Surely,” said Phœbe, with a bow and a gracious smile – but she did not add that name. She was pleased to think that “Tom's wife” was her mother's favourite aversion, and that a dignified resistance to her claims was, so to speak, her duty. It even amused her to think of the ingenuity required throughout a long conversation for the clever and polite eluding of this claim.

“I hope as you mean to let us in, Amelia,” said Mrs. Tozer, “for it ain't often as I takes so long a walk. I would never have thought of it but for Phœbe – Phœbe junior, as Tozer calls her. She's been used to things very different, but I'm thankful to say she ain't a bit proud. She couldn't be more attentive to me if I was the queen, and talks of your children as pretty as possible, without no nonsense. It ain't often as you see that in a girl brought up like she's been.”

“I don't pretend to know nothing of how she's been brought up,” said Mrs. Tom, “and I don't think as there's no occasion for pride here. We're all well-to-do, and getting on in the world – thanks to Him as gives the increase. I don't see no opening for pride here. Me and your mother were never very good friends, Phœbe, since that's your name; but if there's anything I can do for you, or my family, you won't ask twice. Grandmother's ain't a very lively house, not like mine, as is full of children. Come in, Granny. I'm always speaking of making the stairs wider, and a big window on the landing; but folks can't do everything at once, and we'll have to do with it a bit longer. We've done a deal already to the old place.”

“More than was wanted, or was thought upon in my time,” said the old lady, to whom this was as the trumpet of battle. “The stairs did well enough for me, and I can't think what Tom can want changing things as he's been used to all his life.”

“Oh, it ain't Tom,” said his wife, her face lighting up with satisfaction. “Tom wouldn't mind if the place was to come to bits about our ears. He's like you, granny, he's one of the stand-still ones. It ain't Tom, it's me.”

This little passage of arms took place as they were going upstairs, which cost poor Mrs. Tozer many pantings and groaning, and placed Phœbe for once on Mrs. Tom's side, for a window on the landing would have been a wonderful improvement, there was no denying. When, at last, they had toiled to the top, fighting their way, not only through the obscurity, but through an atmosphere of ham and cheese which almost choked Phœbe, the old lady was speechless with the exertion, though the air was to her as the air of Paradise. Phœbe placed her on a chair and undid her bonnet-strings, and for a minute was really alarmed. Mrs. Tom, however, took it with perfect equanimity.

“She's blown a bit; she ain't as young as she was, nor even as she thinks for,” said that sympathetic person. “Come, Granny, cheer up. Them stairs ain't strange to you. What's the good of making a fuss? Sit down and get your breath,” she went on, pulling forward a chair; then turning to Phœbe, she shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows. “She's breaking fast, that's what it is,” said Mrs. Tom under her breath, with a nod of her head.

“This is the room as your mother spent most of her life in when she was like you,” said Mrs. Tozer, when she regained her breath. “It was here as she met your father first. The first time I set my eyes on him, 'That's the man for my Phœbe,' I said to myself; and sure enough, so it turned out.”

“You didn't miss no way of helping it on, neither, granny, if folks do you justice,” said Mrs. Tom. “Mothers can do a deal when they exerts themselves; and now Phœbe has a daughter of her own, I dare be sworn she's just as clever, throwing the nice ones and the well-off ones in her way. It's a wonder to me as she hasn't gone off yet, with all her opportunities – two or three and twenty, ain't you, Miss Phœbe? I should have thought you'd have married long afore now.”

“I stall be twenty my next birthday,” said Phœbe. “My cousins are a great deal younger, I hear; are they at school? I hope I shall see them before I go.”

“Oh, you'll see 'em fast enough,” said their mother, “they're 'aving their music lesson. I don't hold with sending girls to school. I likes to keep them under my own eye. I suppose I needn't ask you now if you play?”

“A very little,” said Phœbe, who rather piqued herself upon her music, and who was learned in Bach and Beethoven, and had an opinion of her own about Wagner. Mrs. Tom brightened visibly, for her girls played not a little, but a great deal.

“And draw? – but I needn't ask, for living in London, you've got masters at your very door.”

“Not at all, I am sorry to say,” said Phœbe, with a pathetic tone of regret in her voice.

“Lord bless us! Now who'd have thought it? I think nothing a sacrifice to give mine the best of education,” said Mrs. Tom.

CHAPTER XIV

STRANGERS

“Well, Ursula, how do you do?” said Mrs. Sam Hurst, meeting her young neighbour with outstretched hands. She was a portly good-looking woman with an active mind, and nothing, or next to nothing to do, and instead of being affronted as some persons might have been, she was amused, and indeed flattered, by the suspicion and alarm with which all the young Mays regarded her. Whether she had the least intention of ever giving any justification to their alarms it would be impossible to say, for indeed to a sensible woman of forty-five, well to do and comfortable, a husband with “a temper of his own,” and a large poor unruly family, was, perhaps, not so tempting as he appeared to be to his jealous children. Anyhow she was not at all angry with them for being jealous and afraid of her. She was cordial in her manner to the Mays as to everybody she knew. She asked how Ursula had enjoyed herself, where she had been, what she had seen, and a hundred questions more.

“It is quite delightful to see somebody who has something to tell,” she said when the interrogation was over. “I ask everybody what news, and no one has any news, which is dreadful for me.”

“How can you care for news?” said Ursula, “news! what interest can there be in mere news that doesn't concern us?”

“You are very foolish, my dear,” said Mrs. Hurst; “what's to become of you when you're old, if you don't like to hear what's going on? I'm thankful to say I take a great deal, of interest in my fellow-creatures for my part. Now listen, I'll tell you a piece of news in return for all your information about London. When I was in Tozer's shop to-day – I always go there, though they are Dissenters; after all, you know, most tradespeople are Dissenters; some are sorry for it, some think it quite natural that gentle-people and tradespeople should think differently in religious matters; however, what I say is, you can't tell the difference in butter and bacon between church and dissent, can you now? and Tozer's is the best shop in the town, certainly the best shop. So as I was in Tozer's as I tell you, who should come in but old Mrs. Tozer, who once kept it herself – and by her side, figure my astonishment, a young lady! yes, my dear, actually a young lady, in appearance, of course – I mean in appearance – for, as you shall hear, it could be no more than that. So nicely dressed, nothing vulgar or showy, a gown that Elise might have made, and everything to correspond, in perfect taste. Fancy! and you may imagine how I stared. I could not take my eyes off her. I was so astonished that I rubbed up my old acquaintance with the old woman, and asked her how her rheumatism was. I hope it is rheumatism. At all events I called it so, and then she told me as proud as a peacock that it was her granddaughter; fancy, her granddaughter! did you ever hear of such a thing? The other woman in the shop, the present Tozer, called out to her by name. Phœbe they called her. Poor girl, I was so sorry for her. A lady in appearance, and to have to submit to that!”

“Oughtn't ladies to be called Phœbe?” asked Janey. “Why not? It's rather a pretty name.”

“That is so like Janey,” said Mrs. Hurst; “I know she is the clever one; but she never can see what one means. It is not being called Phœbe, it is because of her relations that I am sorry for her. Poor girl! educating people out of their sphere does far more harm than good, I always maintain. To see that nice-looking, well-dressed girl in Tozer's shop, with all the butter boys calling her Phœbe – ”

“The butter boys are as good as any one else,” cried Janey, whose tendencies were democratic. “I dare say she likes her relations as well as we like ours, and better, though they do keep a shop.”

“Oh, Janey!” cried Ursula, whose feelings were touched; then she remembered that her sympathies ought not to flow in the same channel with those of Mrs. Sam Hurst, and continued coldly, “If she had not liked them she need not have come to see them.”

“That is all you know, you girls. You don't know the plague of relations, and how people have got to humble themselves to keep money in the family, or keep up appearances, especially people that have risen in the world. I declare I think they pay dear for rising in the world, or their poor children pay dear – ”

“You seem to take a great deal of interest in the Tozers,” said Ursula, glad to administer a little correction; “even if they came to St. Roque's I could understand it – but Dissenters!” This arrow struck home.

“Well,” said Mrs. Hurst, colouring, “of all people to take an interest in Dissenters I am the last; but I was struck, I must admit, to see that old Mrs. Tozer, looking like an old washerwoman, with a girl in a twenty-guinea dress, you may take my word for it, though as plain as that little brown frock of yours, Ursula. That was a sight to wake any one up.”

Ursula looked down at the little brown frock thus contemptuously referred to, with mingled offence and consciousness of inferiority. It had not cost as many shillings, and had been made up at home, and was not a shining example of the dressmaker's art. “If you value people according to what their dress costs – ”

“I can't know much about her moral qualities, can I?” said Mrs. Hurst, “and I don't suppose she has any position, being old Tozer's grandchild. But she wasn't amiss in her looks, and I declare I should have taken her for a lady if I had met her in the street. It shows how one may be taken in. And this is a lesson for you, young girls; you must never trust to appearances. I confess I'd like to find out some more about her. Going in, Ursula? Well, my dear, perhaps I'll step in for a talk in the evening. You must be dull after your gaiety. Tell your dear papa,” said Mrs. Hurst with a laugh, “that I am coming to sit with you after tea. Now mind you give him my message. He does not like to miss me when I come to the Parsonage, does he now? Good-bye for the present. Till eight o'clock.”

“Oh, how I hate her,” cried Janey, “except sometimes when she makes me laugh and I feel tempted to like her; but I always resist it. Do you think really, Ursula, that papa could be – such a – stupid – ”

“Oh, please don't ask me,” cried Ursula. “How can I tell? I don't know what he may do; but if he does – and if she does – oh, then, Janey – ”

“Yes, indeed, then!” said Janey, breathing hard. This mysterious threat seemed very horrible to both of them, though what they meant by it, it would have been very hard for either of them to tell. They waited within the little shrubbery whispering to each other till they heard Mrs. Hurst close her own door, for they did not want any more of her society, though they had no intention of going in. When she was safe out of the way, they stole out and continued their walk in the opposite direction.

“I wanted to have gone into the town,” said Ursula. “It is hard to have that woman next door; one can't go anywhere or do anything! I wanted some braid for your new frock, Janey, and twist to make the button-holes; but if we had said we were going up into Carlingford, she would have come too. Never mind; a walk is better than nothing. Walk fast, and let us try how far we can go before tea.”

Upon this idea the two girls set out walking as if for a race, which did them all the good in the world, quickening the blood in their veins, sending the colour to their cheeks, and dispersing all the cobwebs from their minds, since they soon got into the spirit of the race, and pursued it with eagerness, with little outbursts of laughter, and breathless adjurations to each other to keep within the proper pace, and not to run. It was not a very inviting road along which they took their walk. Beyond St. Roque the land was divided into allotments for the working people, not very tidily kept, and rough with cut cabbages, plants, and dug-up potatoes. Beyond this lay a great turnip-field, somewhat rank in smell, and the east wind swept chill along the open road, which was not sheltered by a single tree, so that the attractions of the way soon palled upon pedestrians. Looking back to Grange Lane, the snug and sheltered look of that genteel adjunct to the town was comforting to behold. Even Grange Lane was not gay; a line of garden walls, however they may shelter and comfort the gardens within, are not lovely without; but yet the trees, though leafless, waved over the red lines of brick, and the big laurels hung out bushes of dark verdure and long floating sprays of ivy.

“Let's turn back; perhaps she may not be at the window,” cried Ursula. “It is so dull here.”

Janey stopped short in the heat of the walk, objecting for the moment.

“I wish you had not gone to London. You never used to care for the streets and the shops; now a regular good walk is too much for you,” cried Janey.

“With a turnip-field on one side and a potato-field on the other!” said Ursula, in high disdain.

“I tell you what!” cried Janey. “I don't think I like you since you came back. The Dorsets are fine people, and we are not fine. There are no grand parties, nor theatres, nor balls at Carlingford. When we go out here, we go to walk, not to see things, as you have been used to doing. I don't know what you mean by it; nineteen years with us, and one fortnight with them! and the fortnight counts for more than all the years!”

Janey was not in the habit of restraining her voice any more than anything else about her, and she spoke this out with loud school-girl tones, reckless who might hear her. In most cases she might have done this with the utmost impunity, and how was she to know, as she said to her sister afterwards, in self-defence, that any one, especially any gentleman, could be lurking about, spying upon people, among those nasty allotments? There was some one there, however, who came down the muddy path, all cut up by the wheel-barrows, with a smile upon his face. A gentleman? Janey called him so without a doubt on the subject; but Ursula, more enlightened and slightly irritated, had her doubts. He was dressed, not with any care of morning costume, but wore a black frock-coat of the most formal description, with a white cravat carelessly tied, semi-clerical, and yet not clerical. He had a smile on his face, which, on the whole, was rather a handsome face, and looked at them, showing evident signs of having heard what Janey said. To be sure, he did not say anything, but Ursula felt that his look was just the same as if he had spoken, and coloured high, resenting the intrusion. By this stranger's side was one of the men who had been working at the allotments, whose hands were not clean, and whose boots were heavy with the clinging, clayey soil. When they had nearly reached the road, the gentleman turned round and shook hands with his companion, and then walked on towards Carlingford, throwing another look towards the girls as he passed. It would be hard to say whether curiosity or anger was strongest in Ursula. In Janey, the former sentiment carried everything before it.

“Oh, I wonder who he is?” she cried, low, but eager, in her sister's ear. “Who can he be, Ursula, who can he be? We know all the men about here, every one, as well as we know Reginald. Oh, Ursula, who do you think he can be?”

“He is very impertinent,” cried Ursula, with an angry blush. “How should I know? And oh! how very silly of you, Janey, to talk so loud, and make impudent men stare at us so.”

“Impudent!” cried Janey. “I didn't talk loud. He looked rather nice, on the contrary. Why, he laughed! Do you call that impudent? It can't be anybody from the town, because we know everybody; and did you see him shaking hands with that man? How very funny! Let us run in and tell Mrs. Sam Hurst, and ask her who she thinks he is. She is sure to know.”

“Janey,” said Ursula, severely, “if you live very long, you will be as great a gossip and as fond of news as Mrs. Sam Hurst herself.”

“I don't care,” cried Janey; “you're just as fond of news as I am, only you won't confess it. I am dying to know who he is. He is quite nice-looking, and tall and grand. A new gentleman! Come, quick, Ursula; let us get back and see where he goes.”

“Janey!” cried the elder sister. She was half curious herself, but Ursula was old enough to know better, and to be ashamed of the other's naïve and undisguised curiosity. “Oh, what would Cousin Anne say! A girl running after a gentleman (even if he is a gentleman), to see where he goes!”

“Well!” cried Janey, “if she wants to know, what else is she to do? Who cares for Cousin Anne? She is an old maid. Why, if it had been a lady, I shouldn't have minded. There are so many ladies; but a new gentleman! If you won't come on, I will run by myself. How pleased Mrs. Sam Hurst will be!”

“I thought you hated Mrs. Sam Hurst?”

“So I do when I think of papa; but when there's anything going on, or anything to find out, I like her dearly. She's such fun! She never shilly-shallies, like you. She's not an old maid like your Cousin Anne that you are always talking of. Come along! if anybody else finds out who he is before we do,” cried Janey, with almost despairing energy, “I shall break my heart!”

Ursula stoically resisted the tug upon her, but she went back to Grange Lane, to which, indeed, she had turned her face before they met the stranger, and she could not help seeing the tall black figure in front of her which Janey watched so eagerly. Ursula was not eager, but she could not help seeing him. He walked up the street quickly, not as if he thought himself of interest to any one, but when he had got half way up Grange Lane, crossed to speak to somebody. This filled Janey with consternation.

“He is not such a stranger after all,” she cried. “He knows some one. He will not be quite a discovery. Who is it he is talking to, I wonder? He is standing at one of the doors, but it is not Miss Humphreys, nor Miss Griffiths, nor any of the Charters. Perhaps she is a stranger too. If he is married he won't be half so interesting, for there are always plenty of ladies. Perhaps he has just come by the railway to spend the day – but then there is nothing to see in Carlingford, and how did he know that man at the lots? Oh, Ursula, why don't you answer me? why don't you say something? have you no feeling? I am sure it don't matter a bit to me, for I am not out; I am never asked to parties – but I take an interest for you other girls' sake.”

Before this time, however, Ursula had found a new object of interest. She had not been quite so unmoved as Janey supposed. A new gentleman was a thing to awaken anybody who knew Carlingford, for, indeed, gentlemen were scarce in the society of the little town, and even at the most mild of tea-parties it is ludicrous to see one man (and that most likely a curate) among a dozen ladies – so that even when she appeared to Janey to wonder, she felt that her sister's curiosity was not unjustifiable. But while thus engaged in the enterprise of discovering “a new gentleman” for the good of society, Ursula's eyes and her attention were caught by another interest. The stranger had crossed the street to talk to a lady, who had been walking down the Lane, and whom Ursula felt she had seen somewhere. Who was it? Certainly not Miss Humphreys, nor Miss Griffiths, nor any other of the well-known young ladies of Grange Lane. The setting sun, which had come out suddenly after a dull day, threw a slanting, long-drawn ray up the street, which fell upon the strangers, as they stood talking. This ray caught the young lady's hair, and flashed back a reflection out of the shining coils which looked to Ursula (being dark herself, she admired golden hair more than anything) as bright as the sunshine. And in the light she caught the out-line of a pretty head, and of a nose slightly “tip-tilted,” according to the model which the Laureate has brought into fashion. Where had she seen her before? She remembered all at once with a rush of bewildered pleasure.