“I am sure as long as the minister keeps to his duty, he’ll always find friends in Tozer and me,” said the deacon’s wife, striking in; “and though there may be folks in a finer way, there ain’t no such good friends a pastor can have as in his own flock. As for hearing candidates and that, Tozer ought to know as none on us would hear of such a thing. I don’t see no reason why Mr. Vincent shouldn’t settle down in Carlingford and make himself comfortable. We’re all his friends as long as he’s at his post.”
“Oh, ma, I am sure he is at his post,” cried Phoebe; “he has gone away because he could not help it. I am quite sure,” continued the modest maiden, casting down her eyes, “that he would never have left but for a good reason! Oh, I am confident he is fond of Carlingford now. He would not go away if he had not some duty— I am certain he would not!”
“If Phoebe is better informed than the rest of us, it ain’t nobody’s business as I can see,” said the father, with a short laugh. “I always like the young folks to manage them matters among themselves; but I take my own view, miss, for all that.”
“Oh, Pa, how can you talk so,” cried Phœbe, in virgin confusion, “to make Mrs. Vincent think——”
“Indeed, nothing will make me think otherwise than I know,” said Mrs. Vincent, with a voice which extinguished Phœbe. “I understand my son. He does not bestow his confidence very easily; and I am sure he is quite able to manage all the matters he may have in hand,” added the widow, not without significance. Not all her anxiety for Arthur, not all her personal wretchedness, could unwoman the minister’s mother so much as to make her forgive or overlook Phœbe’s presumption. She could not have let this pretendant to her son’s affections off without transfixing her with a passing arrow. Human endurance has its limits. Mrs. Vincent could bear anything for Arthur except this pretence of a special interest in him.
“Oh, I am sure I never meant——!” faltered Phœbe; but she could get no further, and even her mother did not come to the rescue.
“Them things had much best not be talked of,” said Mrs. Tozer, sharply. “Mr. Beecher is coming in to have a bit of dinner. You mightn’t have things comfortable where you are, the minister being away, and you used to your own house. Won’t you come in with us and eat a bit of dinner? I never can swallow a morsel when I’m by myself. It’s lonesome for you in them rooms, and us so near. There ain’t no ceremony nor nonsense, but we’ll be pleased if you’ll come.”
“Thank you very much,” said Mrs. Vincent, who could not forget that the cherry-coloured bonnet had nodded during Mr. Beecher’s sermon, “but I slept badly last night. At my time of life a new bed often makes one sleepless, and I have a bad headache. I think I will go and lie down. Many thanks. It is very kind of you to ask me. I hope I shall see you,” said the widow, with a slight shiver, repeating her formula, “to-morrow.”
“You can’t take us amiss,” said Mrs. Tozer; “there’s always enough for an extra one, if it isn’t grand or any ceremony; or if you’ll come to tea and go to church with us at night? Phœbe can run over and see how you find yourself. Good mornin’. I’m sorry you’ll not come in.”
“Oh, I wish you would let me go with you and nurse you,” said Phœbe, not without a glance in the other direction at the approaching form of the young man from ’Omerton, “I am so frightened you don’t like me!—but I’ll come over before tea, and sit with you if your headache is not better. If I could only make you fancy I was Miss Vincent!” said Phœbe, with pink pleading looks.