Маргарет Олифант
Phoebe, Junior
“Miss Phœbe!” he said, breathless; “here's luck! I came over to see you, and you are the first person I set eyes on – ”
He was rather heavy to make such a jump, and it took away his breath.
“To see me?” she said, laughing, though her heart began to stir. “That is very odd. I thought you must have come to see poor Mr. May, who is so ill. You know – ”
“May be hanged!” said the young man; “I mean – never mind – I don't mean him any harm, though, by Jove, if you make such a pet of him, I don't know what I shall think. Miss Phœbe, I've come over post-haste, as you may see; chiefly to see you; and to try a horse as well,” he added, “which the governor has just bought. He's a very good 'un to go; and pleased the governor would be if he knew the use I had put him to,” he concluded, with a half-laugh.
Phœbe knew as well as he did what that use was. He had brought his father's horse out for the first time, to carry him here to propose to her, in spite of his father. This was the delicate meaning which it amused him to think of. She understood it all, and it brought a glow of colour to her face; but it did not steel her heart against him. She knew her Clarence, and that his standard of fine feeling and mental elevation was not high.
“Look here,” he said, “I wish I could speak to you, Miss Phœbe, somewhere better than in the street. Yes, in the garden – that will do. It ain't much of a place either to make a proposal in, for that's what I've come to do; but you don't want me to go down on my knees, or make a fuss, eh? I got up in the middle of the night to be here first thing and see you. I never had a great deal to say for myself,” said Clarence, “you won't expect me to make you fine speeches; but I am fond of you – awfully fond of you, Phœbe, that's the truth. You suit me down to the ground, music and everything. There's no girl I ever met that has taken such a hold upon me as you.”
Phœbe heard him very quietly, but her heart beat loud. She stood on the gravel between the flower-borders, where the primroses were beginning to wither, and glanced over her life of the past and that of the future, which were divided by this moment like the two beds of flowers; one homely, not very distinguished, simple enough – the other exalted by wealth to something quite above mediocrity. Her heart swelled, full as it was with so many emotions of a totally different kind. She had gained a great prize, though it might not be very much to look at; more or less, she was conscious this golden apple had been hanging before her eyes for years, and now it had dropped into her hand. A gentle glow of contentment diffused itself all over her, not transport, indeed, but satisfaction, which was better.
“Mr. Copperhead – ” she said, softly.
“No, hang it all, call me Clarence, Phœbe, if you're going to have me!” he cried, putting out his big hands.
“Grandmamma is looking at us from the window,” she said, hurriedly, withdrawing a little from him.
“Well, and what does that matter? The old lady won't say a word, depend upon it, when she knows. Look here, Phœbe, I'll have an answer. Yes or no?”
“Have you got your father's consent – Clarence?”
“Ah, it is yes then! I thought it would be yes,” he cried, seizing her in his arms. “As for the governor,” added Clarence, after an interval, snapping his fingers, “I don't care that for the governor. When I've set my mind on a thing, it ain't the governor, or twenty governors, that will stop me.”
CHAPTER XLII
A GREAT MENTAL SHOCK
“Have you any notion what was the cause?”
“None,” said Reginald. “Oh, no, none at all,” said Ursula. They were all three standing at the door of the sick-room, in which already a great transformation had taken place. The doctor had sent a nurse to attend upon the patient. He had told them that their father was attacked by some mysterious affection of the brain, and that none of them were equal to the responsibility of nursing him. His children thus banished had set the door ajar, and were congregated round it watching what went on within. They did not know what to do. It was Northcote who was asking these questions; it was he who was most active among them. The others stood half-stunned, wholly ignorant, not knowing what to do.
“I don't think papa is ill at all,” said Janey. “Look how he glares about him, just as I've seen him do when he was writing a sermon, ready to pounce upon any one that made a noise. He is watching that woman. Why should he lie in bed like that, and be taken care of when he is just as well as I am? You have made a mistake all the rest of you. I would go and speak to him, and tell him to get up and not make all this fuss, if it was me.”
“Oh, Janey! hold your tongue,” said Ursula; but she, too, looked half-scared at the bed, and then turned wistful inquiring eyes to Northcote. As for Reginald, he stood uncertain, bewildered, all the colour gone out of his face, and all the energy out of his heart. He knew nothing of his father's affairs, or of anything that might disturb his mind. His mind; all that his son knew of this was, that whatsoever things disturbed other minds his father had always contemptuously scouted all such nonsense. “Take some medicine,” Mr. May had been in the habit of saying. “Mind! you mean digestion,” was it nothing more than some complicated indigestion that affected him now?
“Is it anything about – money?” said Northcote.
They all turned and looked at him. The idea entered their minds for the first time. Yes, very likely it was money.
“We have always been poor,” said Ursula, wistfully. Northcote took her hand into his; none of them except Ursula herself paid any attention to this involuntary, almost unconscious caress, and even to her it seemed a thing of course, and quite natural that he should be one of them, taking his share in all that was going on.
“I – am not poor,” he said, faltering. “You must not think me presumptuous, May. But the first thing to be done is to get him out of his difficulties, if he is in difficulties – and you must let me help to do it. I think you and I should go out and see about it at once.”
“Go – where?” Reginald, like most young people, had taken little notice of his father's proceedings. So long as things went smoothly, what had he to do with them? When there was a pressure for money, he knew he should hear of it, at least in the shape of reproaches and sneers from his father at his useless life, and the expenses of the family. But even these reproaches had died away of late, since Reginald had possessed an income of his own, and since the revenues of the Parsonage had been increased by Clarence Copperhead. Reginald was more helpless than a stranger. He did not know where to turn. “Do you think we could ask him? I am almost of Janey's opinion. I don't think he is so ill as he seems.”
And then they all paused and looked again into the room. The nurse was moving softly about, putting everything in order, and Mr. May watched her from the bed with the keenest attention. His face was still livid and ghastly in colour; but his eyes had never been so full of eager fire in all the experience of his children. He watched the woman with a close attention which was appalling; sometimes he would put his covering half aside as if with the intention of making a spring. He was like some imprisoned animal seeing a possibility of escape. They looked at him, and then at each other, with a miserable helplessness. What could they do? He was their father, but they knew nothing about him, and just because he was their father they were more slow to understand, more dull in divining his secrets than if he had been a stranger. When there came at last a suggestion out of the silence, it was Northcote who spoke.
“I don't see how you can leave him, May. It is plain he wants watching. I will go if you will let me – if Ursula will say I may,” said the young man with a little break in his voice. This roused them all to another question, quite different from the first one. Her brother and sister looked at Ursula, one with a keen pang of involuntary envy, the other with a sharp thrill of pleasurable excitement. Oddly enough they could all of them pass by their father and leave him out of the question, more easily, with less strain of mind, than strangers could. Ursula for her part did not say anything; but she looked at her lover with eyes in which two big tears were standing. She could scarcely see him through those oceans of moisture, bitter and salt, yet softened by the sense of trust in him, and rest upon him. When he stooped and kissed her on the forehead before them all, the girl did not blush. It was a solemn betrothal, sealed by pain, not by kisses.
“Yes, go,” she said to him in words which were half sobs, and which he understood, but no one else.
“You perceive,” he said, “it is not a stranger interfering in your affairs, May, but Ursula doing her natural work for her father through me – her representative. God bless her! I am Ursula now,” he said with a broken laugh of joy; then grew suddenly grave again. “You trust me, May?”
Poor Reginald's heart swelled; this little scene so calmly transacted under his eyes, would it ever happen for him, or anything like it? No, his reason told him – and yet; still he was thinking but little of his father. He had his duty too, and this happened to be his duty; but no warmer impulse was in the poor young fellow's heart.
And thus the day went on. It was afternoon already, and soon the sky began to darken. When his children went into the room, Mr. May took no notice of them – not that he did not know them; but because his whole faculties were fixed upon that woman who was his nurse, and who had all her wits about her, and meant to keep him there, and to carry out the doctor's instructions should heaven and earth melt away around her. She too perceived well enough how he was watching her, and being familiar with all the ways, as she thought, of the “mentally afflicted,” concluded in her mind that her new patient was further gone than the doctor thought.
“I hope as you'll stay within call, sir,” she said significantly to Reginald; “when they're like that, as soon as they breaks out they're as strong as giants; but I hope he won't break out, not to-day.”
Reginald withdrew, shivering, from the idea thus presented to him. He stole down to his father's study, notwithstanding the warning she had given him, and there with a sick heart set to work to endeavour to understand his father – nay, more than that, to try to find him out. The young man felt a thrill of nervous trembling come over him when he sat down in his father's chair and timidly opened some of the drawers. Mr. May was in many respects as young a man as his son, and Reginald and he had never been on those confidential terms which bring some fathers and sons so very close together. He felt that he had no business there spying upon his father's privacy. He could not look at the papers which lay before him. It seemed a wrong of the first magnitude, wrought treacherously, because of the helplessness of the creature most concerned. He could not do it. He thrust the papers back again into the drawer. In point of fact there were no secrets in the papers, nor much to be found out in Mr. May's private life. All its dark side might be inferred from, without being revealed in, the little book which lay innocently on the desk, and which Reginald looked over, thinking no harm. In it there were two or three entries which at length roused his curiosity. Cotsdean, October 10th. Cotsdean, January 12th. C. & T. April 18th. What did this mean? Reginald remembered to have seen Cotsdean paying furtive visits in the study. He recollected him as one of the few poor people for whom his father had a liking. But what could there be between them? He was puzzled, and as Betsy was passing the open door at the time, called her in. The evening was falling quickly, the day had changed from a beautiful bright morning to a rainy gusty afternoon, tearing the leaves and blossoms from the trees, and whirling now and then a shower of snowy petals, beautiful but ill-omened snow, across the dark window. Beyond that the firmament was dull; the clouds hung low, and the day was gone before it ought. When Betsy came in she closed the door, not fastening it, but still, Reginald felt, shutting him out too much from the sick-bed, to which he might be called at any moment. But he was not alarmed by this, though he remarked it. He questioned Betsy closely as to his father's possible connection with this man. In such a moment, confidential, half-whispered interviews are the rule of a house. Every one has so much to ask; so much to say in reply; so many particulars to comment upon which the rest may have forgotten. She would have liked to enter upon the whole story, to tell how the master was took, and how she herself had thought him looking bad when he came in; but even to talk about Cotsdean was pleasant.
“I told Miss Beecham,” said Betsy, “and I told the other gentleman, Mr. Northcote, as was asking me all about it. It's months and months since that Cotsdean got coming here – years I may say; and whenever he came master looked bad. If you'll believe me, Mr. Reginald, it's money as is at the bottom of it all.”
“Money? hush, what was that? I thought I heard something upstairs.”
“Only the nurse, sir, as is having her tea. I'm ready to take my oath as it's money. I've been in service since I was nine years old,” said Betsy, “I've had a deal of experience of gentlefolks, and it's always money as is the thing as sets them off their head. That's what it is. If that Cotsdean didn't come here something about money, never you believe me no more.”
“Cotsdean! a poor shopkeeper! what could he have to do with my father's affairs?” Reginald was not speaking to the woman, but drearily to himself. If this was the only clue to the mystery, what a poor clue it was!
“I dunno, sir,” said Betsy, “it ain't for me to tell; but one thing I'm sure of – Lord bless us, what's that?”
Reginald rushed to the door, nearly knocking her down as he pushed her aside with his hand. When they got outside, it was only the hat-stand in the hall that had fallen, something having been torn off from it apparently in mad haste, and the door had opened and shut. Reginald rushed upstairs, where the nurse was sitting quietly at her tea, the bed-curtains being drawn.
“All right, sir; he's in a nice sleep,” said that functionary; “I didn't light no candles, not to disturb him, poor gentleman.”
Reginald tore the curtains aside, then turned and dashed downstairs, and out into the windy twilight. In that moment of stillness and darkness the patient had escaped. He could see a strange figure walking rapidly, already half way up Grange Lane, and rushed on in pursuit without taking thought of anything. The sick man had seized upon a long coat which had been hanging in the hall, and which reached to his heels. Reginald flew on, going as softly as he could, not to alarm him. Where could he be going, utterly unclothed except in this big coat? Was it simply madness that had seized him, nothing more or less? He followed, with his heart beating loudly. There seemed nobody about, no one to whom he could make an appeal to help him, even if he could overtake the rapidly progressing fugitive. But even while this thought crossed his mind, Reginald saw another figure, broad and tall, developing in the distance, coming towards them, which stopped short, and put out an arm to stop the flight. Even that moment gave him the advantage, and brought him near enough to make out that it was Mr. Copperhead.
“The very man I want,” he heard him say with his loud voice, putting his arm within that of Mr. May, who resisted, but not enough to attract the attention of the new-comer, as Reginald came up breathless and placed himself on his father's other side. The darkness prevented any revelation of the strange appearance of the fugitive, and Mr. Copperhead was not lively of perception in respect to people unconnected with himself.
“You, too,” he cried, nodding at Reginald, “come along. I've come to save that boy of mine from a little artful – Come, both of you. The sight of a young fellow like himself will shame him more than anything; and you, May, you're the very man I want – ”
“Not there, not there, for God's sake!” said Mr. May, with a hoarse cry, “not there, my God! Reginald! it used to be hanging. Do you mean to give me up?”
“Hold him fast,” Reginald whispered in desperation, “hold him fast! It is madness.”
“Lord bless us!” said Mr. Copperhead, but he was a man who was proud of his strength, and not given to timidity. He held his captive fast by the arm, while Reginald secured him on the other side. “Why, what's this, May? rouse yourself up; don't give in, man. No, you ain't mad, not a bit of you. Come along, wait here at Tozer's for me, while I do my business; and then I'll look after you. Come on.”
There was a violent but momentary struggle; then all at once the struggling man yielded and allowed himself to be dragged within the garden-door. Was it because an ordinary policeman, one of the most respectful servants of the law, who would have saluted Mr. May with the utmost reverence, was just then coming up? He yielded; but he looked at his son with a wild despair which made Reginald almost as desperate as himself in maddening ignorance and terror.
“Ruin! ruin!” he murmured hoarsely, “worse than death.”
CHAPTER XLIII
THE CONFLICT
The day which had intervened between Phœbe's morning walk, and this darkling flight along the same road, had been full of agitation at the house of the Tozers. Phœbe, who would willingly have spared her lover anything more than the brief intercourse which was inevitable with her relations, could find no means of sending him away without breakfast. She had escaped from him accordingly, weary as she was, to make arrangements for such a meal as she knew him, even in his most sentimental mood, to love – a thing which required some time and supervision, though the house was always plentifully provided. When she had hastily bathed her face and changed her dress she came back to the room where she had left him, to find him in careless conversation with Tozer, who only half-recovered from the excitement of last night, but much overawed by a visit from so great a personage, had managed to put aside the matter which occupied his own thoughts, in order to carry on a kind of worship of Clarence, who was the son of the richest man he had ever heard of, and consequently appeared to the retired butterman a very demigod. Clarence was yawning loudly, his arms raised over his head in total indifference to Tozer, when Phœbe came into the room; and the old man seized upon the occasion of her entrance to perform another act of worship.
“Ah, here's Phœbe at last. Mr. Copperhead's come in from the country, my dear, and he's going to make us proud, he is, by accepting of a bit of breakfast. I tell him it's a wretched poor place for him as has palaces at his command; but what we can give him is the best quality, that I answers for – and you're one as knows how things should be, even if we ain't grand ourselves.”
“Have you palaces at your command, Clarence?” she said, with a smile. Notwithstanding the fatigue of the night, the fresh air and her ablutions, and the agitation and commotion of her mind, made Phœbe almost more animated and brilliant than usual. Her eyes shone with the anxiety and excitement of the crisis, and a little, too, with the glory and delight of success; for though Clarence Copperhead was not very much to brag of in his own person, he still had been the object before her for some time back, and she had got him. And yet Phœbe was not mercenary, though she was not “in love” with her heavy lover in the ordinary sense of the word. She went towards him now, and stood near him, looking at him with a smile. He was a big, strong fellow, which is a thing most women esteem, and he was not without good looks; and he would be rich, and might be thrust into a position which would produce both honour and advantage; and lastly, he was her own, which gives even the most indifferent article a certain value in some people's eyes.
“Palaces? I don't know, but nice enough houses; and you know you like a nice house, Miss Phœbe. Here, I haven't said a word to the old gentleman. Tell him; I ain't come all this way for nothing. You've always got the right words at your fingers' end. Tell him, and let's get it over. I think I could eat some breakfast, I can tell you, after that drive.”
“Grandpapa,” said Phœbe, slightly tremulous, “Mr. Copperhead wishes me to tell you that – Mr. Copperhead wishes you to know why – ”
“Bless us!” cried Clarence with a laugh. “Here is a beating about the bush! She has got her master, old gentleman, and that is what she never had before. Look here, I'm going to marry Phœbe. That's plain English without any phrases, and I don't know what you could say to better it. Is breakfast ready? I've earned it for my part.”
“Going to marry Phœbe!” Tozer gasped. He had heard from his wife that such a glory was possible; but now, when it burst upon him, the dazzling delight seemed too good to be true. It thrust the forgery and everything out of his head, and took even the power of speech from him. He got up and gazed at the young people, one after the other, rubbing his hands, with a broad grin upon his face; then he burst forth all at once in congratulation.
“God bless you, sir! God bless you both! It's an honour as I never looked for. Rising in the world was never no thought of mine; doing your duty and trusting to the Lord is what I've always stood by; and it's been rewarded. But she's a good girl, Mr. Copperhead; you'll never regret it, sir. She's that good and that sensible, as I don't know how to do without her. She'll do you credit, however grand you may make her; and if it's any comfort to you, as she's connected with them as knows how to appreciate a gentleman – ” said Tozer, breaking down in his enthusiasm, his voice sinking into a whisper in the fulness of his heart.
“Grandpapa!” said Phœbe, feeling sharply pricked in her pride, with a momentary humiliation, “there are other things to be thought of,” and she gave him a look of reproach which Tozer did not understand, but which Clarence did vaguely. Clarence, for his part, liked the homage, and was by no means unwilling that everybody should perceive his condescension and what great luck it was for Phœbe to have secured him. He laughed, pleased to wave his banner of triumph over her, notwithstanding that he loved her. He was very fond of her, that was true; but still her good fortune in catching him was, for the moment, the thing most in his thoughts.
“Well, old gentleman,” he said, “you ain't far wrong there. She is a clever one. We shall have a bad time of it with the governor at first; for, of course, when there's no money and no connections, a man like the governor, that has made himself, ain't likely to be too well pleased.”
“As for money, Mr. Copperhead, sir,” said Tozer with modest pride, “I don't see as there's anything to be said against Phœbe on that point. Her mother before her had a pretty bit of money, though I say it, as shouldn't – ”
“Ah, yes – yes,” said Clarence. “To be sure; but a little bit of coin like that don't count with us. The governor deals in hundreds of thousands; he don't think much of your little bits of fortunes. But I don't mind. She suits me down to the ground, does Phœbe; and I don't give that for the governor!” cried the young man valiantly. As for Phœbe herself, it is impossible to imagine any one more entirely put out of her place, and out of all the comfort and satisfaction in her own initiative which she generally possessed, than this young woman was, while these two men talked over her so calmly. It is doubtful whether she had ever been so set aside out of her proper position in her life, and her nerves were overstrained and her bodily strength worn out, which added to the sense of downfall. With almost a touch of anger in her tone she, who was never out of temper, interrupted this talk.
“I think breakfast is ready, grandpapa. Mr. Clarence Copperhead wants some refreshment after his exertions, and in preparation for the exertions to come. For I suppose your papa is very likely to follow you to Carlingford,” she added, with a low laugh, turning to her lover. “I know Mr. Copperhead very well, and I should not like my first meeting with him after I had thwarted all his views.”
“Phœbe! you don't mean to desert me? By Jove! I'll face him and twenty like him if you'll only stand by me,” he cried; which was a speech that made amends.
She suffered him to lead her into breakfast less formally than is the ordinary fashion, and his hand on her trim waist did not displease the girl. No; she understood him, knew that he was no great things; but yet he was hers, and she had always meant him to be hers, and Phœbe was ready to maintain his cause in the face of all the world.
The breakfast was to Clarence's taste, and so was the company – even old Tozer, who sat with his mouth agape in admiration of the young potentate, while he recounted his many grandeurs. Clarence gave a great deal of information as to prices he had paid for various things, and the expenses of his living at Oxford and elsewhere, as he ate the kidneys, eggs, and sausages with which Phœbe's care had heaped the table. They had no pâté de foie gras, it is true, but the simple fare was of the best quality, as Tozer had boasted. Mrs. Tozer did not come downstairs to breakfast, and thus Phœbe was alone with the two men, who suited each other so much better than she could have hoped. The girl sat by them languidly, though with a beating heart, wondering, as girls will wonder sometimes, if all men were like these, braggards and believers in brag, worshippers of money and price. No doubt, young men too marvel when they hear the women about them talking across them of chiffons, or of little quarrels and little vanities. Phœbe had more brains than both of her interlocutors put together, and half-a-dozen more added on; but she was put down and silenced by the talk. Her lover for the moment had escaped from her. She could generally keep him from exposing himself in this way, and turn the better side of him to the light; but the presence of a believer in him turned the head of Clarence. She could not control him any more.
“A good horse is a deuced expensive thing,” he said; “the governor gave a cool hundred and fifty for that mare that brought me over this morning. He bought her from Sir Robert; but he didn't know, Phœbe, the use I was going to put her to. If he'd known, he'd have put that hundred and fifty in the sea rather than have his beast rattled over the country on such an errand.” Here he stopped in the midst of his breakfast, and looked at her admiringly. “But I don't repent,” he added. “I'd do it again to-morrow if it wasn't done already. If you stand by me, I'll face him, and twenty like him, by Jove!”
“You don't say nothing,” said her grandfather. “I wouldn't be so ungrateful. Gentlemen like Mr. Copperhead ain't picked up at every roadside.”
“They ain't, by Jove!” said Clarence; “but she's shy, that's all about it,” he added, tenderly; “when we're by ourselves, I don't complain.”
Poor Phœbe! She smiled a dismal smile, and was very glad when breakfast was over. After that she took him into the garden, into the bright morning air, which kept her up, and where she could keep her Clarence in hand and amuse him, without allowing this revelation of the worst side of him. While they were there, Martha admitted the visitor of yesterday, Mr. Simpson from the Bank, bringing back to Phœbe's mind all the other matter of which it had been full.
“Don't you think you ought to go and see about the horse and the dog-cart?” she said suddenly, turning to her lover with one of those sudden changes which kept the dull young man amused. “You don't know what they may be about.”
“They can't be up to much,” said Clarence. “Thank you, Miss Phœbe, I like you better than the mare.”
“But you can't be here all day, and I can't be here all day,” she said. “I must look after grandmamma, and you ought to go down and inquire after poor Mr. May – he is so ill. I have been there all night, helping Ursula. You ought to go and ask for him. People don't forget all the duties of life because – because a thing of this sort has happened – ”
“Because they've popped and been accepted,” said graceful Clarence. “By Jove! I'll go. I'll tell young May. I'd like to see his face when I tell him the news. You may look as demure as you like, but you know what spoons he has been upon you, and the old fellow too – made me as jealous as King Lear sometimes,” cried the happy lover, with a laugh. He meant Othello, let us suppose.
“Nonsense, Clarence! But go, please go. I must run to grandmamma.”
Mr. Simpson had gone in, and Phœbe's heart had begun to beat loudly in her throat; but it was not so easy to get rid of this ardent lover, and when at last he did go, he was slightly sulky, which was not a state of mind to be encouraged. She rushed upstairs to her grandmother's room, which was over the little room where Tozer sat, and from which she could already hear sounds of conversation rapidly rising in tone, and the noise of opening and shutting drawers, and a general rummage. Phœbe never knew what she said to the kind old woman, who kissed and wept over her, exulting in the news.
“I ain't been so pleased since my Phœbe told me as she was to marry a minister,” said Mrs. Tozer, “and this is a rise in life a deal grander than the best of ministers. But, bless your heart, what shall I do without you?” cried the old woman, sobbing.
Presently Tozer came in, with an air of angry abstraction, and began to search through drawers and boxes.
“I've lost something,” he answered, with sombre looks, to his wife's inquiry. Phœbe busied herself with her grandmother, and did not ask what it was. It was only when he had searched everywhere that some chance movement directed his eyes to her. She was trembling in spite of herself. He came up to her, and seized her suddenly by the arm. “By George!” he cried, “I'm in a dozen minds to search you!”
