"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.