Phoebe, Junior · Chapter 40 (2/2)

He went up to her and clutched her by the arm. “Then what are you a-standing there for, like a figure in stone? Can’t you out with it, and ease my mind? Out with it, I tell you! Do you want to drive me out of my senses?”

He was so much excited that he shook her in the hot paroxysm of returning rage. Phoebe was not frightened, but indignation made her pale. She stood without flinching, and looked at him, till poor old Tozer let go his hold, and dropping into a chair, covered his face with his hands. She was too generous to take advantage of him, but went on quietly, as if nothing had occurred.

“Grandpapa, as I tell you, I have found out something by chance that has to do with the thing that troubles you; but I don’t know quite what it is. Tell me first, and then⁠—is this the thing?” said Phoebe, curiously, taking up a slip of paper from the table, a stamped piece of paper, in a handwriting which seemed horribly familiar to her, and yet strange. Tozer nodded at her gloomily, holding his head between his hands, and Phoebe read over the first few words before her with an aching heart, and eyes that seemed to ache in sympathy. Only a few words, but what evidence of guilt, what pitiful misery in them! She did not even think so much of the name on the back, which was and was not her grandfather’s name. The rest of the bill was written in a hand disguised and changed; but she had seen a great deal of similar writing lately, and she recognized it with a sickening at her heart. In the kind of fatherly flirtation which had been innocently carried on between Phoebe and her friend’s father, various productions of his in manuscript had been given to her to read. She was said, in the pleasant social jokes of the party, to be more skilled in interpreting Mr. May’s handwriting than any of his family. She stood and gazed at the paper, and her eyes filled with tears of pain and pity. The openness of this self-betrayal, veiled as it was with a shadow of disguise which could deceive no one who knew him, went to Phoebe’s heart. What could he have done it for? Mere money, the foolish expenses of every day, or, what would be more respectable, some vague mysterious claim upon him, which might make desperate expedients necessary? She stood, temporarily stupefied, with her eyes full, looking at that pitiful, terrible, guilty bit of paper, stupefied by the sudden realization of her sudden guess at the truth⁠—though, indeed, the truth was so much more guilty and appalling than any guess of hers.

“Well,” said Tozer, “you’ve seen it, and now what do you think of it? That’s my name, mind you, my name! I hope the Almighty will grant me patience. Stuck on to what they calls a kite, an accommodation bill. What do you think of that, Miss Phoebe? A‑a‑ah! if I had hold of him⁠—if I had him under my fists⁠—if I had him by the scruff of the neck!”

“Grandpapa, doesn’t it say in the Bible we are to forgive when harm is done to us?”

Phoebe had begun to tremble all over; for the first time she doubted her own power.

He got up again, and began to prowl about the table, round and round, with the same wild look in his eyes.

“I am not one as would go again’ Scripture,” he said, gloomily; “but that’s a spiritual meaning as you’re too young to enter into. You don’t suppose as Scripture would approve of crime, or let them escape as had wronged their fellow-creatures? There wouldn’t be no business, no justice, no trade, on such a rule as that.”

“But, grandpapa⁠—”

“Don’t you but me. You’ve seen me in good spirits and good temper, Phoebe, my girl; but you don’t know old Sam Tozer when his spirit’s up. D⁠⸺ him!” cried the old man, striking his hand violently on the table; “and you may tell your father, as is a Minister, that I said so. The Bible’s spiritual; but there’s trade, and there’s justice. A man ain’t clear of what he’s done because you forgive him. What’s the law for else? Forgive! You may forgive him as fast as you like, but he’s got to be punished all the same.”

“But not by you.”

“By the law!” cried Tozer. His inflamed eyes seemed to glare upon her, his rough grey hair bristled on his head, a hot redness spread across his face beneath his fiery eyes, which seemed to scorch the cheek with angry flames. “The law that ain’t a individual. That’s for our protection, whether we like it or not. What’s that got to do with forgiving? Now, looking at it in a public way, I ain’t got no right to forgive.”

“Grandpapa, you have always been so kind, always so good to everybody. I have heard of so many things you have done⁠—”

“That is all very well,” said Tozer, not without a certain gloomy complacence, “so long as you don’t touch me. But the moment as you touches me, I’m another man. That’s what I can’t bear, nor I won’t. Them as tries their tricks upon me shan’t be let off, neither for wife nor child; and don’t you think, my girl, though you’re Phoebe, junior, that you are a-going for to come over me.”

Phoebe could not but shiver in her fright and agitation; but distressed and excited as she was, she found means to take a step which was important indeed, though at the moment she did not fully realize its importance, and did it by instinct only. She had a handkerchief in her hand, and almost without consciousness of what she was doing, she crushed up the miserable bit of paper, which was the cause of so much evil and misery, in its folds. He was far too impassioned and excited to observe such a simple proceeding. It was the suggestion of a moment, carried out in another moment like a flash of lightning. And as soon as she had done this, and perceived what she had done, fortitude and comfort came back to Phoebe’s soul.

“You will not hear what I have found out, and now I do not choose to tell you, grandpapa,” she said, with an air of offence. “Unless you wish to be ill, you will do much better to go to bed. It is your usual hour, and I am going to grandmamma. Say good night, please. I am going out again to stay all night. Mr. May is ill, and I ought to help poor Ursula.”

“You go a deal after them Mays,” said Tozer, with a cloud over his face.

“Yes. I wonder whom else I should go after? Who has been kind to me in Carlingford except the Mays? Nobody. Who has asked me to go to their house, and share everything that is pleasant in it? None of your Salem people, grandpapa. I hope I am not ungrateful, and whatever happens, or whatever trouble they are in,” cried Phoebe, fervently, “I shall stand up for them through thick and thin, wherever I go.”

The old man looked at her with a startled look.

“You speak up bold,” he said; “you won’t get put upon for want of spirit; and I don’t know as what you’re saying ain’t the right thing⁠—though I don’t hold with the Church, nor parsons’ ways. I’d do a deal myself, though you think me so hard and cross, for folks as has been kind to you.”

“I know you will, grandpapa,” said Phoebe, with a slight emphasis which startled him, though he did not know why; and she kissed him before she went to her grandmother, which she did with a perfectly composed and tranquil mind. It was astonishing how the crackle of that bit of paper in her handkerchief calmed and soothed her. She recovered her breath, her colour, and her spirits. She ran up to her room and changed her dress, which was silk, for a soft merino one, which made no rustling; and then she folded the bill carefully, and put it into the safe keeping of the little purse which she always carried in her pocket. No one would think of searching for it there, and she would always have it at hand whatever happened. When she had made these needful arrangements, she went to old Mrs. Tozer, and took her comfortably upstairs. Never was there a more devoted nurse. The old lady chatted cheerfully, yet sympathetically, of the poor gentleman and his illness, with the half-satisfaction of an invalid in hearing of someone else who is ill.

“And be sure you take him some of the port wine as the doctor ordered, and Tozer paid that dear for. I don’t care for it, not a bit, Phoebe. I’d sooner have it from the grocer’s, at two shillings a bottle. That’s what I’ve always been used to, when I did take a glass of wine now and again. But I dare say as Mr. May would like it, poor gentleman.”

When Mrs. Tozer had laid her head, all nodding with white muslin frills, edged with cotton lace, upon her pillow, Phoebe, noiseless in her soft merino gown, went back, accompanied by Martha, to the Parsonage, where Ursula’s careworn face lighted a little at sight of her. Ursula had left her father for the moment in Betsy’s care, to get something that was wanted, and she stole into the dining-room on hearing of her friend’s arrival, and talked a little in a whisper, though the sick man was on the upper floor, and could not possibly have heard anything. Northcote was still there, sitting with Reginald, too anxious and excited to go away; and they all conversed in whispers, the three of them talking together for the benefit of the newcomer.

“Not paralysis; at least, he does not think so; a great mental shock⁠—but we can’t tell a bit what it was⁠—coming when he was dreadfully tired, and not able to bear it.”

They all spoke together, each of them saying a few words, and kept close together in the centre of the room, a curious little half-frightened group, overawed and subdued by the sudden change and strange calamity dropt into their midst. Phoebe seemed to bring them new life and hope.

“If it is going to be an illness,” she said, “you gentlemen had better go home and go to bed, to be able to help us when we want help. Anyhow, what good can they do, Ursula? They had much better go to bed.”

Ursula looked at them with a certain regret; though they could not do much good, it was a relief to come and whisper a few words to them now and then, giving them news of the patient. But Phoebe was right, and there was nothing to be said against her decision. The two young women and the faithful Betsy were enough, and, indeed, more than enough to watch over Mr. May.