Phoebe, Junior · Chapter 12 (2/2)

“I hope I’ll be well enough to get to chapel on Sunday,” she said, “just to see the folk’s looks. The minister needn’t expect much attention to his sermon. ‘There’s Phoebe Tozer’s daughter!’ they’ll all be saying, and a-staring, and a-whispering. It ain’t often as anything like her is seen in chapel, that’s a fact,” said the old lady, warming into the exultation of natural pride.

Phoebe, it must be allowed, had a good cry when she got within the shelter of her own room, which had been very carefully prepared for her, with everything that was necessary for comfort, according to her grandmother’s standard; but where the “tent” bed hung with old-fashioned red and brown chintz, and the moreen curtains drooping over the window, and the gigantic flowers on the carpet, made Phoebe’s soul sick within her. Notwithstanding all her courage, her heart sank. She had expected “a difference,” but she had not looked for her grandfather’s greasy coat and wisp of neckcloth, or her grandmother’s amazing cap, or the grammatical peculiarities in which both indulged. She had a good hot fit of crying, and for the moment felt so discouraged and depressed, that the only impulse in her mind was to run away. But her temperament did not favour panics, and giving in was not in her. If somebody must do it, why should not she do it? she said to herself. How many times had she heard in sermons and otherwise that no one ought to look for the sweet without the bitter, and that duty should never be avoided or refused because it is unpleasant? Now was the time to put her principles to the test; and the tears relieved her, and gave her something of the feeling of a martyr, which is always consolatory and sweet; so she dried her eyes, and bathed her face, and went downstairs cheerful and smiling, resolved that, at all costs, her duty should be done, however disagreeable it might be. What a good thing the new fashion of five o’clock tea is for people who have connections in an inferior path of life who make tea a meal, and don’t dine, or dine in the middle of the day! This was the thought that passed through Phoebe’s mind as she went into the dining-room, and found the table covered, not to say groaning under good things. She took her place at it, and poured out tea for the old people, and cut bread-and-butter with the most gracious philosophy. Duchesses did the same every day; the tea-table had renewed its ancient sway, even in fashionable life. It cannot be told what a help and refreshment this thought was to Phoebe’s courageous heart.