ng them in play each
with a word, talking all the way to fill up the somewhat sulky silence
between them; but when she got safely within the garden door, and heard
it shut behind her, and found herself in the quiet of the little green
enclosure, with the budding trees and the lilac bushes for her only
companions, the relief was very grateful to her. She could not go in all
at once to make conversation for grandpapa and grandmamma, and give them
the account they liked to hear, of how she had "enjoyed herself." She
took off her hat to be cooler, and walked slowly down under the
moonlight, her head all throbbing and rustling with thought. The paths
were bordered with primroses, which made a pale glimmer in the moon, and
shed a soft fragrance about. Phoebe had nothing to appeal to Heaven
about, or to seek counsel from Nature upon, as sentimental people might
do. She took counsel with herself, the person most interested. What was
the thing she ought to do? Clarence Copperhead was going to propose to
her. She did not even take the trouble of saying to herself that he
loved her; it was Reginald who did that, a totally different person, but
yet the other was more urgent. What was Phoebe to do? She did not dislike
Clarence Copperhead, and it was no horror to her to think of marrying
him. She had felt for years that this might be on the cards, and there
were a great many things in it which demanded consideration. He was not
very wise, nor a man to be enthusiastic about, but he would be a career
to Phoebe. She did not think of it humbly like this, but with a big
capital--a Career. Yes; she could put him into parliament, and keep him
there. She could thrust him forward (she believed) to the front of
affairs. He would be as good as a profession, a position, a great work
to Phoebe. He meant wealth (which she dismissed in its superficial aspect
as something meaningless and vulgar, but accepted in its higher aspect
as an almost necessary condition of influence), and he meant all the
possibilities of future power. Who can say that she was not as romantic
as any girl of twenty could be? only her romance took an unusual form.
It was her head that was full of throbbings and pulses, not her heart.
No doubt there would be difficulties and disagreeables. His father would
oppose it, and Phoebe felt with a slight shiver that his father's
opposition was nothing to be laughed at, and that Mr. Copperhead had it
in him to crush rebellion with a feroc