Chronicles of Carlingford

PHOEBE, JUNIOR

MRS OLIPHANT

CONTENTS. 

 CHAP. PAGE

 I. THE PASTOR'S PROGRESS 1

 II. THE LEADING MEMBER 9

 III. MR. COPPERHEAD'S BALL 16

 IV. A COUNTRY PARTY 26

 V. SELF-DEVOTION 31

 VI. A MORNING CALL 38

 VII. SHOPPING 45

 VIII. THE DORSETS 52

 IX. COMING HOME 59

 X. PAPA 67

 XI. PHŒBE'S PREPARATIONS 74

 XII. GRANGE LANE 81

 XIII. THE TOZER FAMILY 88

 XIV. STRANGERS 96

 XV. A DOMESTIC CRISIS 104

 XVI. THE NEW GENTLEMAN 113

 XVII. A PUBLIC MEETING 119

 XVIII. MR. MAY'S AFFAIRS 127

 XIX. THE NEW CHAPLAIN 134

 XX. THAT TOZER GIRL! 142

 XXI. A NEW FRIEND 148

 XXII. A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT 155

 XXIII. TIDED OVER 164

 XXIV. A VISIT 169

 XXV. TEA 177

 XXVI. THE HALL 185

 XXVII. A PAIR OF NATURAL ENEMIES 192

 XXVIII. THE NEW PUPIL 200

 XXIX. URSULA'S ENTRÉES 209

 XXX. SOCIETY AT THE PARSONAGE 217

 XXXI. SOCIETY 224

 XXXII. LOVE-MAKING 230

 XXXIII. A DISCLOSURE 236

 XXXIV. AN EXTRAVAGANCE 244

 XXXV. THE MILLIONNAIRE 251

 XXXVI. FATHER AND SON 258

 XXXVII. A PLEASANT EVENING 267

XXXVIII. AN EXPEDITION 273

 XXXIX. A CATASTROPHE 281

 XL. THE SINNED-AGAINST 287

 XLI. A MORNING'S WORK 298

 XLII. A GREAT MENTAL SHOCK 307

 XLIII. THE CONFLICT 312

 XLIV. PHŒBE'S LAST TRIAL 326

 XLV. THE LAST 336

PHŒBE, JUNIOR. 

A Last Chronicle of Carlingford. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE PASTOR'S PROGRESS. 

Miss Phoebe Tozer, the only daughter of the chief deacon and leadingmember of the Dissenting connection in Carlingford, married, shortlyafter his appointment to the charge of Salem Chapel, in that town, theReverend Mr. Beecham, one of the most rising young men in thedenomination. The marriage was in many ways satisfactory to the younglady's family, for Mr. Beecham was himself the son of respectable peoplein a good way of business, and not destitute of means; and the positionwas one which they had always felt most suitable for their daughter, andto which she had been almost, it may be said, brought up. It is, however, scarcely necessary to add that it was not quite so agreeable tothe other leading members of the congregation. I should be very sorry tosay that each family wished that preferment for its own favouritedaughter; for indeed there can be no doubt, as Mrs. Pigeon assertedvigorously, that a substantial grocer, whose father before him hadestablished an excellent business, and who had paid for his pew in Salemas long as any one could recollect, and supported every charity, andpaid up on all occasions when extra expense was necessary, was in everyway a more desirable son-in-law than a poor minister who was alwaysdependent on pleasing the chapel folks, and might have to turn out anyday. Notwithstanding, however, the evident superiority of theestablishment thus attained by Maria Pigeon, there is a certainsomething attached to the position of a clerical caste, even among suchan independent body as the congregation at Salem Chapel, which has itsown especial charms, and neither the young people who had been hercompanions nor the old people who had patronized and snubbed her, feltany satisfaction in seeing Phoebe thus advanced over them to the honoursand glories inalienable from the position of minister's wife. All herlittle airs of bridal vanity were considered as so many offensivemanifestations of delight and exultation in her rise in life. Her_trousseau_, though pronounced by all competent judges not half soabundant or fine as Maria Pigeon's, still called forth comments whichnobody ventured to indulge in, in respect to the grocer's bloomingbride. A grocer's lady has a right to anything her parents can afford;but to see a minister's wife swelling herself up, and trying to ape thequality, filled the town with virtuous indignation. The sight of youngMrs. Beecham walking about with her card-case in her hand, calling onthe Miss Hemmingses, shaking hands with Mrs. Rider the doctor's wife, caused unmitigated disgust throughout all the back streets ofCarlingford; and "_that_ Phoebe a-sweeping in as if the chapel belongedto her, " was almost more than the oldest sitter could bear. Phoebe, itmust be added, felt her elevation to the full, and did not spare hercongregation. Sometimes she would have the audacity to walk from thevestry to the pew, as if she were an office-bearer, instead of coming inhumbly by the door as became a woman. She would sit still ostentatiouslyuntil every one had gone, waiting for her husband. She quite led thesinging, everybody remarked, paying no more attention to the choir thanif it did not exist; and once she had even paused on her way to herseat, and turned down the gas, which was blazing too high, with an airof proprietorship that nobody could endure. 

"Does Salem belong to them Tozers, I should like to know?" said Mrs. Brown. "Brown would never be outdone by him in subscriptions you may besure, nor Mr. Pigeon neither, if the truth was known. I never gave mymoney to build a castle for the Tozers. "

Thus the whole congregation expressed itself with more or lesseloquence, and though the attendance never diminished, everybody beingtoo anxious to see "what they would do next, " the feeling could not beignored. Phoebe herself, with a courage which developed from the momentof her marriage, took the initiative. 

"It never answers, " she said, solemnly, "to marry one of the flock; Iknew it, Henery, and I told you so; and if you would be so infatuated, and marry me when I told you not, for your own interests--"

"They're all jealous of you, my pet, that's what it is, " said Mr. Beecham, and laughed. He could bear the annoyance in consideration ofthat sweet consciousness of its cause which stole over all his being. Phoebe laughed, too, but not with so delicious a gratification. She feltthat there were people, even in Salem, who might be jealous of him. 

"The end of it all is, we must not stay here, " she said. "You must findanother sphere for your talents, Henery, and I'm sure it will not bedifficult. If you get put on that deputation that is going down to theNorth, suppose you take a few of your best sermons, dear. That can neverdo any harm--indeed it's sure to do good, to some poor benighted soul atleast, that perhaps never heard the truth before. And likewise, perhaps, to some vacant congregation. I have always heard that chapels in theNorth were very superior to here. A different class of society, andbetter altogether. These Pigeons and Browns, and people are not the sortof society for you. "

"Well, there's truth in that, " said Mr. Beecham, pulling up hisshirt-collar. "Certainly it isn't the sort of thing one was accustomedto. " And he lent a serious ear to the suggestion about the sermons. Theconsequence was that an invitation followed from a chapel in the North, where indeed Mrs. Phoebe found herself in much finer society, and grewrapidly in importance and in ideas. After this favourable start, theprocess went on for many years by which a young man from Homerton wasthen developed into the influential and highly esteemed pastor of animportant flock. Things may be, and probably are, differently managednow-a-days. Mr. Beecham had unbounded fluency and an unctuous manner oftreating his subjects. It was eloquence of a kind, though not of anelevated kind. Never to be at a loss for what you have to say is aprodigious advantage to all men in all positions, but doubly so to apopular minister. He had an unbounded wealth of phraseology. Sentencesseemed to melt out of his mouth without any apparent effort, all set ina certain cadence. He had not, perhaps, much power of thought, but it iseasy to make up for such a secondary want when the gift of expression isso strong. Mr. Beecham rose, like an actor, from a long and successfulcareer in the provinces, to what might be called the Surrey side ofcongregational eminence in London; and from thence attained his finalapotheosis in a handsome chapel near Regent's Park, built of the whiteststone, and cushioned with the reddest damask, where a very largecongregation sat in great comfort and listened to his sermons with asatisfaction no doubt increased by the fact that the cushions were softas their own easy-chairs, and that carpets and hot-water pipes kepteverything snug under foot. 

It was the most comfortable chapel in the whole connection. The seatswere arranged like those of an amphitheatre, each line on a slightlyhigher level than the one in front of it, so that everybody saweverything that was going on. No dimness or mystery was wanted there;everything was bright daylight, bright paint, red cushions, comfort andrespectability. It might not be a place very well adapted for sayingyour prayers in, but then you could say your prayers at home--and it wasa place admirably adapted for hearing sermons in, which you could not doat home; and all the arrangements were such that you could hear in thegreatest comfort, not to say luxury. I wonder, for my own part, that thepoor folk about did not seize upon the Crescent Chapel on the coldSunday mornings, and make themselves happy in those warm and ruddy pews. It would be a little amusing to speculate what all the well-dressedpew-holders would have done had this unexpected answer to the appealwhich Mr. Beecham believed himself to make every Sunday to the world ingeneral, been literally given. It would have been extremely embarrassingto the Managing Committee and all the office-bearers, and would have, Ifear, deeply exasperated and offended the occupants of those familypews; but fortunately this difficulty never did occur. The proletariatof Marylebone had not the sense or the courage, or the profanity, whichyou will, to hit upon this mode of warming themselves. The realcongregation embraced none of the unwashed multitude. Its value in merevelvet, silk, lace, trinkets, and furs was something amazing, and theamount these comfortable people represented in the way of income wouldhave amounted to a most princely revenue. The little Salems andBethesdas, with their humble flocks, could not be supposed to belong tothe same species; and the difference was almost equally marked betweensuch a place of worship as the Crescent Chapel and the parish churches, which are like the nets in the Gospel, and take in all kinds of fish, bad and good. The pew-holders in the Crescent Chapel were universallywell off; they subscribed liberally to missionary societies, far moreliberally than the people in St. Paul's close by did to the S. P. G. They had everything of the best in the chapel, as they had in theirhouses. They no more economized on their minister than they did on theirpew-cushions, and they spent an amount of money on their choir whichmade the singing-people at St. Paul's gnash their teeth. From all thisit will be seen that the atmosphere of the Crescent Chapel was of avery distinct and individual kind. It was a warm, luxurious air, perfumy, breathing of that refinement which is possible to mere wealth. I do not say there might not be true refinement besides, but the surfacekind, that which you buy from upholsterers and tailors and dressmakers, which you procure ready made at schools, and which can only be kept upat a very high cost, abounded and pervaded the place. Badly dressedpeople felt themselves out of place in that brilliant sanctuary; a muddyfootprint upon the thick matting in the passages was looked at as acrime. Clean dry feet issuing out of carriage or cab kept the aislesunstained, even on the wettest day. We say cab, because many of thepeople who went to the Crescent Chapel objected to take out their owncarriages or work their own horses on Sunday; and there were many morewho, though they did not possess carriages, used cabs with a freedomincompatible with poverty. As a general rule, they were much better offthan the people at St. Paul's, more universally prosperous andwell-to-do. And they were at the same time what you might safely callwell-informed people--people who read the newspapers, and sometimes themagazines, and knew what was going on. The men were almost all liberalin politics, and believed in Mr. Gladstone with enthusiasm; the womenoften "took an interest" in public movements, especially of a charitablecharacter. There was less mental stagnation among them probably thanamong many of their neighbours. Their life was not profound nor high, but still it was life after a sort. Such was the flock which had invitedMr. Beecham to become their pastor when he reached the climax of hiscareer. They gave him a very good salary, enough to enable him to have ahandsome house in one of the terraces overlooking Regent's Park. It isnot a fashionable quarter, but it is not to be despised in any way. Therooms were good-sized and lofty, and sometimes have been known tosuffice for very fine people indeed, a fact which the Beechams were wellaware of; and they were not above the amiable weakness of making itknown that their house was in a line with that of Lady Cecilia Burleigh. This single fact of itself might suffice to mark the incalculabledistance between the Reverend Mr. Beecham of the Crescent Chapel, andthe young man who began life as minister of Salem in Carlingford. Andthe development outside was not less remarkable than the developmentwithin. 

It is astonishing how our prejudices change from youth to middle age, even without any remarkable interposition of fortune; I do not saydissipate, or even dispel, which is much more doubtful--but theychange. When Mr. And Mrs. Beecham commenced life, they had both thewarmest feeling of opposition to the Church and everything churchy. Allthe circumstances of their lives had encouraged this feeling. Thedislike of the little for the great, the instinctive opposition of alower class towards the higher, intensified that natural essence ofseparatism, that determination to be wiser than one's neighbour, whichin the common mind lies at the bottom of all dissent. In saying this weno more accuse Dissenters in religion than Dissenters in politics, or inart, or in criticism. The first dissenter in most cases is an originalthinker, to whom his enforced departure from the ways of his fathers ismisery and pain. Generally he has a hard struggle with himself before hecan give up, for the superlative truth which has taken possession ofhim, all the habits, the pious traditions of his life. He is the realNonconformist--half martyr, half victim, of his convictions. But thatNonconformity which has come to be the faith in which a large number ofpeople are trained is a totally different business, and affects a verydifferent kind of sentiments. Personal and independent conviction has nomore to do with it than it has to do with the ardour of a Breton peasanttrained in deepest zeal of Romanism, or the unbounded certainty of anyother traditionary believer. For this reason we may be allowed todiscuss the changes of feeling which manifested themselves in Mr. AndMrs. Beecham without anything disrespectful to Nonconformity. Not beingpersons of original mind, they were what their training andcircumstances, and a flood of natural influences, made them. They beganlife, feeling themselves to be of a hopelessly low social caste, andbelieving themselves to be superior to their superiors in thatenlightenment which they had been brought up to believe distinguishedthe connection. The first thing which opened their minds to a dawningdoubt whether their enlightenment was, in reality, so much greater thanthat of their neighbours, was the social change worked in their positionby their removal from Carlingford. In the great towns of the North, Dissent attains its highest social elevation, and Chapel people are nolonger to be distinguished from Church people except by the fact thatthey go to Chapel instead of Church, a definition so simple as to bequite overwhelming to the unprepared dissenting intelligence, brought upin a little Tory borough, still holding for Church and Queen. Theamazing difference which this made in the sentiments of Mrs. PhoebeBeecham, _née_ Tozer, it is quite impossible to describe. Her suddenintroduction to "circles" which Mrs. Pigeon had never entered, and tohouses at the area-door of which Mr. Brown, the dairyman, would havehumbly waited, would have turned the young woman's head, had she notfelt the overpowering necessity of keeping that organ as steady aspossible, to help her to hold her position in the new world. Phoebe was agirl of spirit, and though her head went round and round, and everythingfelt confused about her, she did manage desperately to hold her own andto avoid committing herself; but I cannot attempt to tell how much hersocial elevation modified her sectarian zeal. Phoebe was only a woman, sothat I am free to assign such motives as having a serious power overher. Let us hope Mr. Beecham, being a man and a pastor, was moved in amore lofty, intellectual, and spiritual way. 

But however that may be, the pair went conjugally together in thismodification of sentiment, and by the time they reached the loftyeminence of the Crescent Chapel, were as liberal-minded Nonconformistsas heart could desire. Mr. Beecham indeed had many friends in the Low, and even some in the Broad Church. He appeared on platforms, to promotevarious public movements, along with clergymen of the Church. He spokeof "our brethren within the pale of the Establishment" always withrespect, sometimes even with enthusiasm. "Depend upon it, my dear Sir, "he would even say sometimes to a liberal brother, "the Establishment isnot such an unmitigated evil as some people consider it. What should wedo in country parishes where the people are not awakened? They do thedirty work for us, my dear brother--the dirty work. " These sentimentswere shared, but perhaps not warmly, by Mr. Beecham's congregation, someof whom were hot Voluntaries, and gave their ministers a little trouble. But the most part took their Nonconformity very quietly, and weresatisfied to know that their chapel was the first in the connection, andtheir minister justly esteemed as one of the most eloquent. TheLiberation Society held one meeting at the Crescent Chapel, but it wasnot considered a great success. At the best, they were no more thanlukewarm Crescent-Chapelites, not political dissenters. Both ministerand people were Liberal, that was the creed they professed. Some of thecongregations Citywards, and the smaller chapels about Hampstead andIslington, used the word Latitudinarian instead; but that, as theCrescent Chapel people said, was a word always applied by the bigotedand ignorant to those who held in high regard the doctrines of Christiancharity. They were indeed somewhat proud of their tolerance, theirimpartiality, their freedom from old prejudices. "That sort of thingwill not do now-a-days, " said Mr. Copperhead, who was a great railwaycontractor and one of the deacons, and who had himself a son at Oxford. If there had been any bigotry in the Crescent, Mr. Copperhead would havehad little difficulty in transferring himself over the way to St. Paul'sChurch, and it is astonishing what an effect that fact had upon the mindof Mr. Beecham's flock. 

Mr. Beecham's house was situated in Regent's Park, and was constructedon the ordinary model of such houses. On the ground-floor was a handsomedining-room, a room which both Mr. And Mrs. Beecham twenty years beforewould have considered splendid, but which now they condescended to, asnot so large as they could wish, but still comfortable. The drawing-roomabove was larger, a bright and pleasant room, furnished withconsiderable "taste. " Behind the dining-room, a smaller room was Mr. Beecham's study, or the library, as it was sometimes called. It waslined with book-cases containing a very fair collection of books, andornamented with portraits (chiefly engravings) of celebrated ministersand laymen in the connection, with a bust of Mr. Copperhead over themantelpiece. This bust had been done by a young sculptor whom hepatronized, for the great man's own house. When it was nearly completed, however, a flaw was found in the marble, which somewhat detracted fromits perfection. The flaw was in the shoulder of the image, and by nomeans serious; but Mr. Copperhead was not the man to pass over any suchdefect. After a long and serious consultation over it, which made theyoung artist shake in his shoes, a solution was found for thedifficulty. 

"Tell you what, Sir, " said Mr. Copperhead; "I'll give it to theminister. It'll look famous in his little study. Works of art don'toften come his way; and you'll get a block of the best, Mr. Chipstone--the very best, Sir, no expense spared--and begin another forme. "

This arrangement was perfectly satisfactory to all parties, though Iwill not say that it was not instrumental in bringing about certainother combinations which will be fully discussed in this history. TheBeechams were mightily surprised when the huge marble head, almost aslarge as a Jupiter, though perhaps not otherwise so imposing, arrived atthe Terrace; but they were also gratified. 

"It is quite like receiving us into his own family circle, " Mrs. Beechamsaid with a glance at her daughter, Phoebe, junior, who, with all herpink fingers outspread, was standing in adoration before that image ofwealth and fabulous luxury. 

"What a grand head it is!" cried the young enthusiast, gazing rapt uponthe complacent marble whisker so delightfully curled and bristling withrealistic force. 

"It looks well, I must say, it looks well, " said Mr. Beecham himself, rubbing his hands, "to receive such a token of respect from the leadingmember of the flock. " And certainly no more perfect representation of abell-wether ever adorned any shepherd's sanctuary. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE LEADING MEMBER. 

Mr. Copperhead, to whom so much allusion has been made, was a well-knownman in other regions besides that of the Crescent Chapel. His name, indeed, may be said to have gone to the ends of the earth, from whencehe had conducted lines of railway, and where he had left docks, bridges, and light-houses to make him illustrious. He was one of the greatestcontractors for railways and other public works in England, and, byconsequence, in the world. He had no more than a very ordinaryeducation, and no manners to speak of; but at the same time he had thatkind of faculty which is in practical work what genius is in literature, and, indeed, in its kind is genius too, though it neither refines noreven (oddly enough) enlarges the mind to which it belongs. He saw theright track for a road through a country with a glance of his eye; hemastered all the points of nature which were opposed to him in therapidest survey, though scientifically he was great in no branch ofknowledge. He could rule his men as easily as if they were so manychildren; and, indeed, they were children in his hands. All these giftsmade it apparent that he must have been a remarkable and able man; butno stranger would have guessed as much from his appearance or his talk. There were people, indeed, who knew him well, and who remainedincredulous and bewildered, trying to persuade themselves that hissuccess must be owing to pure luck, for that he had nothing else tosecure it. The cause of this, perhaps, was that he knew nothing aboutbooks, and was one of those jeering cynics who are so common under oneguise or another. Fine cynics are endurable, and give a certain zestoften to society, which might become too civil without them; but yourcoarse cynic is not pleasant. Mr. Copperhead's eye was as effectual inquenching emotion of any but the coarsest kind as water is againstfire. People might be angry in his presence--it was the only passion hecomprehended; but tenderness, sympathy, sorrow, all the more generoussentiments, fled and concealed themselves when this large, rich, costlyman came by. People who were brought much in contact with him becameashamed of having any feelings at all; his eye upon them seemed toconvict them of humbug. Those eyes were very light grey, prominent, witha jeer in them which was a very powerful moral instrument. His ownbelief was that he could "spot" humbug wherever he saw it, and thatnothing could escape him; and, I suppose, so much humbug is there inthis world that his belief was justified. But there are few more awfulpeople than those ignoble spectators whose jeer arrests the moisture inthe eye, and strangles the outcry on their neighbour's lip. 

Mr. Copperhead had risen from the ranks; yet not altogether from theranks. His father before him had been a contractor, dealing chiefly withcanals and roads, and the old kind of public works; a very roughpersonage indeed, but one to whose fingers gold had stuck, perhapsbecause of the clay with which they were always more or less smeared. This ancestor had made a beginning to the family, and given his son aname to start with. _Our_ Mr. Copperhead had married young, and hadseveral sons, who were all in business, and all doing well; lessvigorous, but still moderately successful copies of their father. When, however, he had thus done his duty to the State, the first Mrs. Copperhead having died, he did the only incomprehensible action of hislife--he married a second time, a feeble, pretty, pink-and-white littlewoman, who had been his daughter's governess; married her without rhymeor reason, as all his friends and connections said. The only feasiblemotive for this second union seemed to be a desire on Mr. Copperhead'spart to have something belonging to him which he could always jeer at, and in this way the match was highly successful. Mrs. Copperhead thesecond was gushing and susceptible, and as good a butt as could beimagined. She kept him in practice when nobody else was at hand. She wasone of those naturally refined but less than half-educated, timidcreatures who are to be found now and then painfully earning the breadwhich is very bitter to them in richer people's houses, and preservingin their little silent souls some fetish in the shape of a scrap ofgentility, which is their sole comfort, or almost their sole comfort. Mrs. Copperhead's fetish was the dear recollection that she was "anofficer's daughter;" or rather this had been her fetish in the days whenshe had nothing, and was free to plume herself on the reflected glory. Whether in the depths of her luxurious abode, at the height of her goodfortune, she still found comfort in the thought, it would be hard totell. Everybody who had known her in her youth thought her the mostfortunate of women. Her old school companions told her story for theencouragement of their daughters, as they might have told a fairy tale. To see her rolling in her gorgeous carriage, or bowed out of a shopwhere all the daintiest devices of fashion had been placed at her feet, filled passers-by with awe and envy. She could buy whatever she liked, festoon herself with finery, surround herself with the costliestknick-knacks; the more there were of them, and the costlier they were, the better was Mr. Copperhead pleased. She had everything that heartcould desire. Poor little woman! What a change from thegoverness-chrysalis who was snubbed by her pupil and neglected byeverybody! and yet I am not sure that she did not--so inconsistent ishuman nature--look back to those melancholy days with a sigh. 

This lady was the mother of Clarence Copperhead, the young man who wasat Oxford, her only child, upon whom (of course) she doted with thefondest folly; and whom his father jeered at more than at any one elsein the world, more even than at his mother, yet was prouder of than ofall his other sons and all his possessions put together. Clarence, whomI will not describe, as he will, I trust, show himself more effectuallyby his actions, was like his mother in disposition, or so, at least, shemade herself happy by thinking; but by some freak of nature he was likehis father in person, and carried his mouse's heart in a huge frame, somewhat hulking and heavy-shouldered, with the same roll whichdistinguished Mr. Copperhead, and which betrayed something of theoriginal navvy who was the root of the race. He had his father's largeface too, and a tendency towards those demonstrative and offensivewhiskers which are the special inheritance of the British Philistine. But instead of the large goggle eyes, always jeering and impudent, whichlighted up the paternal countenance, Clarence had a pair of mild brownorbs, repeated from his mother's faded face, which introduced the oddestdiscord into his physiognomy generally. In the family, that is to sayamong the step-brothers and step-sisters who formed Mr. Copperhead'sfirst family, the young fellow bore no other name than that of thecurled darling, though, indeed, he was as far from being curled as anyone could be. He was not clever; he had none of the energy of his race, and promised to be as useless in an office as he would have been in acutting or a yard full of men. I am not sure that this fact did notincrease secretly his father's exultation and pride in him. Mr. Copperhead was fond of costly and useless things; he liked them fortheir cost, with an additional zest in his sense of the huge vulgar useand profit of most things in his own life. This tendency, more than anyappreciation of the beautiful, made him what is called a patron of art. It swelled his personal importance to think that he was able to hang upthousands of pounds, so to speak, on his walls, knowing all the timethat he could make thousands more by the money had he invested it inmore useful ways. The very fact that he could afford to refrain frominvesting it, that he could let it lie there useless, hanging by so manycords and ribbons, was sweet to him. And so also it was sweet to him topossess a perfectly useless specimen of humanity, which had cost him agreat deal, and promised to cost him still more. He had plenty of usefulsons as he had of useful money. The one who was of no use was the apexand glory of the whole. 

But these three made up a strange enough family party, as may besupposed. The original Copperheads, the first family, who were all ofthe same class and nature, would have made a much noisier, lesspeaceable household; but they would have been a much jollier and reallymore harmonious one. Mr. Copperhead himself somewhat despised his eldersons, who were like himself, only less rich, less vigorous, and lessself-assertive. He saw, oddly enough, the coarseness of their manners, and even of their ways of thinking; but yet he was a great deal morecomfortable, more at his ease among them, than he was when seatedopposite his trembling, deprecating, frightened little wife, or thathuge youth who cost him so much and returned him so little. Now andthen, at regular periodical intervals, the head of the family would godown to Blackheath to dine and spend the night with his son Joe, thesecond and the favourite, where there were romping children and aportly, rosy young matron, and loud talk about City dinners, contracts, and estimates. This refreshed him, and he came home with many chucklesover the imperfections of the family. 

"My sons buy their wives by the hundred-weight, " he would say jocularlyat breakfast the day after; "thirteen stone if she is a pound, is Mrs. Joe. Expensive to keep up in velvet and satin, not to speak of muttonand beef. Your mother comes cheap, " he would add aside to Clarence, witha rolling laugh. Thus he did not in the least exempt his descendantsfrom the universal ridicule which he poured on all the world; but whenhe sat down opposite his timid little delicate wife, and by hisUniversity man, who had very little on the whole to say for himself, Mr. Copperhead felt the increase in gentility as well as the failure injollity. "You are a couple of ghosts after Joe and his belongings, youtwo. Speak louder, I say, young fellow. You don't expect me to hear thatpenny-whistle of yours, " he would say, chuckling at them, with a mixtureof pride and disdain. They amused him by their dulness and silence, andpersonal awe of him. He was quite out of his element between these two, and yet the very fact pleasantly excited his pride. 

"I speak as gentlemen generally speak, " said Clarence, who was sometimessullen when attacked, and who knew by experience that his father wasrarely offended by such an argument. 

"And I am sure, dear, your papa would never wish you to do otherwise, "said anxious Mrs. Copperhead, casting a furtive frightened glance at herhusband. He rolled out a mighty laugh from the head of the table wherehe was sitting. He contemplated them with a leer that would have beeninsulting, had he not been the husband of one and the father of theother. The laugh and the look called forth some colour on Mrs. Copperhead's cheek, well as she was used to them; but her son was lesssusceptible, and ate his breakfast steadily, and did not care. 

"A pretty pair you are, " said Mr. Copperhead. "I like your gentility. How much _foie gras_ would you eat for breakfast, I wonder, my lad, ifyou had to work for it? Luckily for you, I wasn't brought up to talk, asyou say, like a gentleman. I'd like to see you managing a field ofnavvies with that nice little voice of yours--ay, or a mob before thehustings, my boy. You're good for nothing, you are; a nice delicatepiece of china for a cupboard, like your mother before you. However, thank Heaven, we've got the cupboard, " he said with a laugh, lookinground him; "a nice big 'un, too, well painted and gilded; and the timehas come, through not talking like a gentleman, that I can afford you. You should hear Joe. When that fellow talks, his house shakes. Confounded bad style of house, walls like gingerbread. How the boardsdon't break like pie-crust under Mrs. Joe's fairy foot, I can't makeout. By Jove, ma'am, one would think I starved you, to see you besideyour daughter-in-law. Always had a fine healthy appetite had Mrs. Joe. "

There was nothing to answer to this speech, and therefore a dead silenceensued. When the master of the house is so distinctly the master, silence is apt to ensue after his remarks. Mrs. Copperhead sipped hertea, and Clarence worked steadily through his breakfast, and the head ofthe family crumpled the Times, which he read at intervals. All sorts ofjokes had gone on at Joe's table the morning before, and there had beenpeals of laughter, and Mrs. Joe had even administered a slap upon herhusband's ruddy cheek for some pleasantry or other. Mr. Copperhead, ashe looked at his son and his wife, chuckled behind the Times. When theythought he was occupied they made a few gentle remarks to each other. They had soft voices, with that indescribable resemblance in tone whichso often exists between mother and son. Dresden china; yes, that was theword; and to see his own resemblance made in that delicate _pâte_, andelevated into that region of superlative costliness, tickled Mr. Copperhead, and in the most delightful way. 

"How about your ball?" was his next question, "or Clarence's ball, asyou don't seem to take much interest in it, ma'am? You are afraid ofbeing brought in contact with the iron pots, eh? You might crack or goto pieces, who knows, and what would become of me, a wretched widower. "Mr. Copperhead himself laughed loudly at this joke, which did not exciteany mirth from the others, and then he repeated his question, "How aboutthe ball?"

"The invitations are all sent out, Mr. Copperhead; ninety-five--I--Imean a hundred and thirty-five. I--I beg your pardon, they were in twolots, " answered the poor woman nervously. "A hundred andthirty-eight--and there is--a few more--"

"Take your time, ma'am, take your time, we'll get at the truth at last, "said her husband; and he laid down his paper and looked at her. He wasnot angry nor impatient. The twinkle in his eye was purely humorous. Herstumblings amused him, and her nervousness. But oddly enough, the mostfurious impatience could not have more deeply disconcerted her. 

"There are a few more--some old friends of mine, " she went on, confused. "They were once rather--kind--took an interest; that is--"

"Oh, the baronet and his daughters, " said Mr. Copperhead, "by all meanslet's have the baronet and his daughters. Though as for their taking aninterest--if you had not been a rich man's wife, ma'am, living in agrand house in Portland Place--"

"It was not now, " she said, hurriedly. "I do not suppose that any onetakes an interest--in me now--"

Mr. Copperhead laughed, and nodded his head. "Not many, ma'am, I shouldthink--not many. You women must make up your minds to that. It's allvery well to take an interest in a pretty girl; but when you come to acertain age--Well, let's proceed, the baronet--"

"And his two girls--"

"Ah, there's two girls! that's for you, Clarence, my boy. I thoughtthere must be a motive. Think that fellow a good _parti_, eh? And Iwould not say they were far wrong if he behaves himself. Make a note ofthe baronet's daughter, young man. Lord, what a world it is!" said Mr. Copperhead, reflectively. "I should not wonder if you had been scheming, too. "

"I would not for the world!" cried the poor little woman, roused foronce. "I would not for anything interfere with a marriage. That is thelast thing you need fear from me. Whether it was a girl I was fond of, or a girl I disliked--so long as she was Clarence's choice. Oh, I knowthe harm that is done by other people's meddling--nothing, nothing, would induce me to interfere. "

Mr. Copperhead laid down his paper, and looked at her. I suppose, however little a man may care for his wife, he does not relish the ideathat she married him for anything but love. He contemplated her stillwith amused ridicule, but with something fiercer in his eyes. "Oh--h!"he said, "you don't like other people to interfere? not so much as tosay, it's a capital match, eh? You'll get so and so, and so and so, thatyou couldn't have otherwise--carriages perhaps, and plenty of money inyour pocket (which it may be you never had in your life before), andconsideration, and one of the finest houses in London, let us say inPortland Place. You don't like that amount of good advice, eh? Well, Ido--I mean to interfere with my son, to that extent at least--you can dowhat you like. But as you're a person of prodigious influence, andstrong will, and a great deal of character, and all that, " Mr. Copperhead broke out with a rude laugh, "I'm afraid of you, I am--quiteafraid. "

Fortunately, just at this moment his brougham came round, and the greatman finished his coffee at a gulp, and got up. "You look out for thebaronet's daughters, then--" he said, "and see all's ready for this ballof yours; while I go and work to pay the bills, that's my share. You dothe ornamental, and I do the useful, ha, ha! I'll keep up my share. "

It was astonishing what a difference came upon the room the moment hedisappeared. Somehow it had been out of harmony. His voice, his look, his heavy person, even his whiskers had been out of character. Now theair seemed to flutter after the closing of the door like water intowhich something offensive has sunk, and when the ripples of movementwere over the large handsome room had toned down into perfect accordwith its remaining inhabitants. Mrs. Copperhead's eyes were ratherred--not with tears, but with the inclination to shed tears, which shecarefully restrained in her son's presence. He still continued to eatsteadily--he had an admirable appetite. But when he had finishedeverything on his plate, he looked up and said, "I hope you don't mind, mamma; I don't suppose you do; but I don't like the way my father speaksto you. "

"Oh, my dear!" cried the mother, with an affected little smile, "whyshould I mind? I ought to know by this time that it's only your papa'sway. "

"I suppose so--but I don't like it, " said the young man, decisively. Hedid not notice, however, as after second thoughts he returned to thegame-pie, that his mother's eyes were redder than ever. 

CHAPTER III. 

MR. COPPERHEAD'S BALL. 

This ball was an event, not only in Mr. Copperhead's household, but evenin the connection itself, to which the idea of balls, as given byleading members of the flock, was somewhat novel. Not that the youngpeople were debarred from that amusement, but it was generally attainedin a more or less accidental manner, and few professing Christiansconnected with the management of the chapel had gone the length ofgiving such an entertainment openly and with design. Mr. Copperhead, however, was in a position to triumph over all such prejudices. He wasso rich that any community would have felt it ought to extend a certainmeasure of indulgence to such a man. Very wealthy persons are likespoilt children, their caprices are allowed to be natural, and even whenwe are angry with them we excuse the vagaries to which money has aright. This feeling of indulgence goes a very great way, especiallyamong the classes engaged in money-making, who generally recognize aman's right to spend, and feel the sweetness of spending more acutelythan the hereditary possessors of wealth. I do not believe that hissuperior knowledge of the best ways of using money profitably everhinders a money-making man from lavish expenditure; but it gives him adouble zest in spending, and it makes him, generally, charitable towardsthe extravagances of persons still richer than himself. A ball, therewas no doubt, was a worldly-minded entertainment, but still, the chapelreflected, it is almost impossible not to be a little worldly-mindedwhen you possess such a great share of the world's goods, and that, ofcourse, it could not be for himself that Mr. Copperhead was doing this, but for his son. His son, these amiable casuists proceeded, was beingbrought up to fill a great position, and no doubt society did exactsomething, and as Mr. Copperhead had asked all the chief chapel people, his ball was looked upon with very indulgent eyes. The fact that theminister and his family were going staggered some of the more particularmembers a little, but Mr. Beecham took high ground on the subject andsilenced the flock. "The fact that a minister of religion is one of thefirst persons invited, is sufficient proof of the way our friend meansto manage everything, " said the pastor. "Depend upon it, it would begood for the social relations of the country if your pastors andteachers were always present. It gives at once a character to all theproceedings. " This, like every other lofty assertion, stilled themultitude. Some of the elder ladies, indeed, groaned to hear, even atthe prayer-meetings, a whisper between the girls about this ball andwhat they were going to wear; but still it was Christmas, and all thenewspapers, and a good deal of the light literature which is especiallycurrent at that season, persistently represented all the world as in astate of imbecile joviality, and thus, for the moment, every objectionwas put down. 

To nobody, however, was the question, what to wear, more interestingthan to Phoebe, junior, who was a very well-instructed young woman, andeven on the point of dress had theories of her own. Phoebe had, as herparents were happy to think, had every advantage in her education. Shehad possessed a German governess all to herself, by which means, evenMr. Beecham himself supposed, a certain amount of that philosophy whichGermans communicate by their very touch must have got into her, besidesher music and the language which was her primary study. And she hadattended lectures at the ladies' college close by, and heard a greatmany eminent men on a great many different subjects. She had read, too, a great deal. She was very well got up in the subject of education forwomen, and lamented often and pathetically the difficulty they lay underof acquiring the highest instruction; but at the same time shepatronized Mr. Ruskin's theory that dancing, drawing, and cooking werethree of the higher arts which ought to be studied by girls. It is notnecessary for me to account for the discrepancies between those twosystems, in the first place because I cannot, and in the second place, because there is in the mind of the age some ineffable way ofharmonizing them which makes their conjunction common. Phoebe wasrestrained from carrying out either to its full extent. She was notallowed to go in for the Cambridge examinations because Mr. Beecham feltthe connection might think it strange to see his daughter's name in thepapers, and, probably, would imagine he meant to make a schoolmistressof her, which he thanked Providence he had no need to do. And she wasnot allowed to educate herself in the department of cooking, to whichMrs. Beecham objected, saying likewise, thank Heaven, they had no needof such messings; that she did not wish her daughter to make a slave ofherself, and that Cook would not put up with it. Between these twolimits Phoebe's noble ambition was confined, which was a "trial" to her. But she did what she could, bating neither heart nor hope. She readVirgil at least, if not Sophocles, and she danced and dressed though shewas not allowed to cook. 

As she took the matter in this serious way, it will be understood thatthe question of dress was not a mere frivolity with her. A week beforethe ball she stood in front of the large glass in her mother's room, contemplating herself, not with that satisfaction which it is generallysupposed a pretty young woman has in contemplating her own image. Shewas decidedly a pretty young woman. She had a great deal of the hair ofthe period, nature in her case, as (curiously, yet very truly) in somany others, having lent herself to the prevailing fashion. How it comesabout I cannot tell, but it is certain that there does exist at thispresent moment, a proportion of golden-haired girls which very muchexceeds the number we used to see when golden hair had not becomefashionable--a freak of nature which is altogether independent of dyesand auriferous fluid, and which probably has influenced fashionunawares. To be sure the pomades of twenty years ago are, Heaven bepraised! unknown to this generation, and washing also has become thefashion, which accounts for something. Anyhow, Phoebe, junior, possessedin perfection the hair of the period. She had, too, the complexion whichgoes naturally with those sunny locks--a warm pink and white, which, hadthe boundaries between the pink and the white been a little moredistinct, would have approached perfection too. This was what she wasthinking when she looked at herself in her mother's great glass. Mrs. Beecham stood behind her, more full-blown and more highly-coloured thanshe, but very evidently the rose to which this bud would come in time. Phoebe looked at her own reflection, and then at her mother's, and sighedsuch a profound sigh as only lungs in the most excellent condition couldproduce. 

"Mamma, " she said, with an accent of despair, "I am too pink, a greatdeal too pink! What am I to do?"

"Nonsense, my pet, " said Mrs. Beecham; "you have a lovely complexion;"and she threw a quantity of green ribbons which lay by over her child'shair and shoulders. A cloud crossed the blooming countenance of Phoebe, junior. She disembarrassed herself of the ribbons with another sigh. 

"Dear mamma, " she said, "I wish you would let me read with you now andthen, about the theory of colours, for instance. Green is thecomplementary of red. If you want to bring out my pink and make it moreconspicuous than ever, of course you will put me in a green dress. No, mamma, dear, not that--I should look a fright; and though I dare say itdoes not matter much, I object to looking a fright. Women are, Isuppose, more ornamental than men, or, at least, everybody says so; andin that case it is our duty to keep it up. "

"You are a funny girl, with your theories of colour, " said Mrs. Beecham. "In my time, fair girls wore greens and blues, and dark girls wore redsand yellows. It was quite simple. Have a white tarlatan, then; everygirl looks well in that. "

"You don't see, mamma, " said Phoebe, softly, suppressing in the mostadmirable manner the delicate trouble of not being understood, "that athing every girl looks well in, is just the sort of thing that no onelooks _very_ well in. White shows no invention. It is as if one took notrouble about one's dress. "

"And neither one ought, Phoebe, " said her mother. "That is very true. Itis sinful to waste time thinking of colours and ribbons, when we mightbe occupied about much more important matters. "

"That is not my opinion at all, " said Phoebe. "I should like people tothink I had taken a great deal of trouble. Think of all the trouble thathas to be taken to get up this ball!"

"I fear so, indeed; and a great deal of expense, " said Mrs. Beecham, shaking her head. "Yes, when one comes to think of that. But then, yousee, wealth has its duties. I don't defend Mr. Copperhead--"

"I don't think he wants to be defended, mamma. I think it is allnonsense about wasting time. What I incline to, if you won't be shocked, is black. "

"Black!" The suggestion took away Mrs. Beecham's breath. "As if you werefifty! Why, I don't consider myself old enough for black. "

"It is a pity, " said Phoebe, with a glance at her mother's full colours;but that was really of so much less importance. "Black would throw meup, " she added seriously, turning to the glass. "It would take off thispink look. I don't mind it in the cheeks, but I am pink all over; mywhite is pink. Black would be a great deal the best for both of us. Itwould tone us down, " said Phoebe, decisively, "and it would throw us up. "

"But for you, a girl under twenty, my dear--"

"Mamma, what does it matter? The question is, am I to look my best?which I think is my duty to you and to Providence; or am I just, " saidPhoebe, with indignation, "to look a little insipidity--a creature withno character--a little girl like everybody else?"

The consequence of this solemn appeal was that both the Phoebes went toMr. Copperhead's ball in black; the elder in velvet, with Honiton lace(point, which Phoebe, with her artistic instincts, would have muchpreferred, being unattainable); the younger in tulle, flounced todistraction, and largely relieved with blue. And the consequence of thistoilette, and of the fact that Phoebe did her duty by her parents and byProvidence, and looked her very best, was that Clarence Copperhead fella hopeless victim to her fascinations, and scarcely could be induced toleave her side all night. The ball was about as remarkable a ball ascould have been seen in London. The son of the house had contemplatedwith absolute despair the list of invitations. He had deprecated theentertainment altogether. He had said, "We know nobody, " with adespairing impertinence which called forth one of his father's roars oflaughter. And though Mr. Copperhead had done all he could to assume theposition of that typical Paterfamilias who is condemned to pay for thosepleasures of his family which are no pleasure to him, yet common-sensewas too much for him, and everybody felt that he was in reality thegiver and enjoyer of the entertainment. It was Mr. , not Mrs. Copperhead's ball. It was the first of the kind which had ever takenplace in his house; the beginning of a new chapter in his socialexistence. Up to this moment he had not shown any signs of being smittenwith that craze for "Society, " which so often and so sorely affects themillionnaire. He had contented himself hitherto with heavy and showydinners, costing Heaven knows how much a head (Mr. Copperhead knew, andswelled visibly in pride and pleasure as the cost increased), which heconsumed in company with twenty people or so of kindred tastes tohimself, who appreciated the cost and understood his feelings. On suchpeople, however, his Dresden china was thrown away. Joe and Mrs. Joewere much more in their way than the elegant University man and thewell-bred mother, who was "a poor little dowdy, " they all said. Therefore the fact had been forced upon Mr. Copperhead that his circlemust be widened and advanced, if his crowning glories were to beappreciated as they deserved. 

The hunger of wealth for that something above wealth which thebewildered rich man only discovers the existence of when he hasstruggled to the highest pinnacle of advancement in his own way, beganto seize this wealthy neophyte. To be sure, in this first essay, thecompany which he assembled in his fine rooms in Portland Place, to seeall his fine things and celebrate his glory, was not a fine company, butthey afforded more gratification to Mr. Copperhead than if they had beenever so fine. They were people of his own class, his old friends, invited to be dazzled, though standing out to the utmost of their power, and refusing, so far as in them lay, to admit how much dazzled theywere. It was a more reasonable sort of vanity than the commoner kind, which aims at displaying its riches to great personages, people who arenot dazzled by any extent of grandeur, and in whose bosoms no jealousyis excited towards the giver of the feast. Mr. Copperhead's friends hadmuch more lively feelings; they walked about through the great rooms, with their wives on their arms, in a state of semi-defiance, expressingno admiration, saying to each other, "This must have cost Copperhead apretty penny, " as they met in doorways; while the ladies put theirflowery and jewelled heads together and whispered, "Did you ever seesuch extravagance? And what a dowdy _she_ is with it all!" This was theunder-current of sentiment which flowed strong in all the passages, anddown the rapids of the great staircase; a stream of vigorous humanfeeling, the existence of which was as deeply gratifying to theentertainer as the sweetest flattery. The lord and the ladies who mighthave been tempted to his great house would not have had a thought tospare for Mr. Copperhead; but the unwilling applause of his own classafforded him a true triumph. 

Amid this throng of people, however, there could be little doubt thatthe one young lady who attracted his son was the least eligible personthere, being no other than Phoebe Beecham, the pastor's daughter. Almostthe only other utterly ineligible girl was a pale little maiden whoaccompanied Sir Robert Dorset and his daughters, and who was supposed tobe either their governess or their humble companion. The Dorsets werethe only people who had any pretensions to belong to "society, " in allthose crowded rooms. They were distantly related to Mrs. Copperhead, and had been, she gratefully thought, kind to her in her youth, andthey had no particular objection to be kind to her now that she wasrich, though the Baronet, as Mr. Copperhead always called him, winced atso rampant a specimen of wealth, and "the girls" did not see what goodit was to keep up relations with a distant cousin, who though soprodigiously rich was of no possible use, and could neither make partiesfor them, nor chaperon them to the houses of the great. When they hadreceived her present invitation, they had accepted it with surprise andhesitation. Chance only had brought them to London at that time of theyear, the most curious time surely to choose for a ball, but convenientenough as affording a little amusement at a season when little amusementwas ordinarily to be had. Sir Robert had consented to go, as a man withno occupation elsewhere might consent to go to the Cannibal Islands, tosee how the savages comported themselves. And little Ursula May, anotherpoor relative on the other side of the house, whom they had charitablybrought up to town with them, might go too, they decided, to such agathering. There was no Lady Dorset, and the girls were "girls" only bycourtesy, having passed the age to which that title refers. Such goodlooks as they had were faded, and they were indifferently dressed. Thislast circumstance arose partly from the fact that they never dressedvery well, and partly because they did not think it necessary to putthemselves to much trouble for poor Mrs. Copperhead's ball. Their littlecompanion, Ursula, was in a white frock, the sort of dress which Phoebehad rebelled against. She was all white and had never been to a ballbefore. This little party, which represented the aristocracy at theCopperhead's ball, went to the entertainment with a little expectationin their minds: What sort of people would be there? Would they be"frights?" They were not likely to be interesting in any other way, theMiss Dorsets knew; but to little Ursula a ball was a ball, and meantdelight and glory she was aware, though she did not quite know how. Theexpectations of the party, however, were strangely disappointed. Insteadof being "a set of frights, " Mrs. Copperhead's guests were found to beresplendent in toilette. Never, even under a ducal roof, had theseladies found themselves in such a gorgeous assembly, and never before, perhaps, even at the Duchess's grandest receptions, had they been unableto discover a single face they knew. Sir Robert was even more appalledby this discovery than his daughters were. He put up his glass andpeered more and more wistfully into the crowd. "Don't know a soul, " herepeated at intervals. Poor Sir Robert! he had not thought it possiblethat such an event could happen to him within the four seas. Accordinglythe Dorsets clung, somewhat scared, to Mrs. Copperhead's side, andUrsula along with them, who looked at the crowd still more wistfullythan Sir Robert did, and thought how nice it would be to know somebody. Unfortunately the Miss Dorsets were not attractive in personalappearance. Clarence Copperhead, though he was not indifferent to abaronet, was yet not sufficiently devoted to the aristocracy to do morethan dance once, as was his bounden duty, with each of the sisters. "Itseems so strange not to know any one, " these ladies said. "Isn't it?"said Clarence. "_I_ don't know a soul. " But then he went off and dancedwith Phoebe Beecham, and the Miss Dorsets stood by Mrs. Copperhead, almost concealing behind them the slight little snow-white figure oflittle Ursula May. 

Clarence was a very well-behaved young man on the whole. He knew hisduty, and did it with a steady industry, working off his dances in thespirit of his navvy forefather. But he returned between each duty danceto the young lady in black, who was always distinguishable among so manyyoung ladies in white, and pink, and green, and blue. The Miss Dorsetsand Ursula looked with interest and something like envy at that younglady in black. She had so many partners that she scarcely knew how tomanage them all, and the son of the house returned to her side with apertinacity that could not pass unremarked. "Why should one girl have somuch and another girl so little?" Ursula said to herself; but, to besure, she knew nobody, and the young lady in black knew everybody. Onthe whole, however, it became evident to Ursula that a ball was notalways a scene of unmixed delight. 

"It is very kind of you to remember what old friends we are, " saidPhoebe. "But, Mr. Clarence, don't be more good to me than you ought tobe. I see your mother looking for you, and Mr. Copperhead might not likeit. Another time, perhaps, we shall be able to talk of old days. "

"There is no time like the present, " said the young man, who liked hisown way. I do not mean to say that it was right of Phoebe to dance withhim, especially dances she had promised to other people. But he was thepersonage of the evening, and that is a great temptation. Mr. Copperheadhimself came up to them more than once, with meaning in his eyes. 

"Don't be too entertaining, Miss Phoebe, " he said; for he saw no reasonwhy he should not speak plainly in his own house, especially to theminister's daughter. "Don't be too entertaining. This is Clarence'sball, and he ought to be civil to other people too. "

"Oh, please go away!" cried Phoebe, after this admonition. But Clarencewas sullen, and stood his ground. 

"We are going to have our waltz out, " he said. "It is not my ball abit--let him entertain his people himself. How should I know such a setof guys? I know nobody but you and the Dorset girls, who are in society. Parents are a mistake, " said the young man, half rebellious, halfsullen, "they never understand. Perhaps you don't feel that, but Ishould think girls must see it sometimes as well as men. "

"Girls don't use such strong expressions, " said Phoebe, smiling, as theyflew off in the uncompleted waltz. She danced very well, better thanmost of the ladies present, and that was the reason Clarence assigned tohis mother for his preference of her. But when Mr. Copperhead saw thathis remonstrance was unheeded by the young people, he went up to Mrs. Beecham, with a rich man's noble frankness and courage. "I am delightedto see you here, ma'am, and I hope you have remarked how well Miss Phoebeis entertaining my boy. Do you see them dancing? She's been away fromyou a long time, Mrs. Beecham, as girls will when they get hold ofsomebody that pleases them. Shouldn't you like me to go and fetch herback?" Mrs. Beecham, with cheeks that were very full blown indeed, andrequired a great deal of fanning, called back her child to her side atthe end of that dance. She scolded Phoebe behind her fan, and recalledher to a sense of duty. "A pastor's daughter has to be doublyparticular, " she said; "what if your poor papa was to get into troublethrough your thoughtlessness?"

"I was not thoughtless, mamma; forgive me for answering back, " saidPhoebe, very meekly; and she showed no signs of sulkiness, thoughClarence was carried off and kept from approaching her again. 

Unfortunately, however, when Clarence was removed from Phoebe, he fellinto still greater peril. The eldest Miss Dorset and her mother, both ofthem with equally benevolent intentions, introduced him simultaneouslyto Ursula May. "The poor little girl has not danced once, " Mrs. Copperhead, who had recollections of standing by herself for a wholeevening, unnoticed, whispered in his ear, and Miss Dorset spoke to himstill more plainly. "We brought her, " she said, "but I cannot get herpartners, for I don't know anybody. " And what could Clarence do butoffer himself? And Ursula, too, was a good dancer, and very pretty--farprettier than Phoebe. 

"Confound him! there he is now for ever with that girl in white, " saidhis father to himself, with great rage. Dozens of good partners in pinkand blue were going about the room. What did the boy mean by bestowinghimself upon the two poor ones, the black and the white. This disturbedMr. Copperhead's enjoyment, as he stood in the doorway of the ball-room, looking round upon all the splendour that was his, and feeling disposed, like Nebuchadnezzar, to call upon everybody to come and worship him. Heexpanded and swelled out with pride and complacency, as he looked roundupon his own greatness, and perceived the effect made upon thebeholders. When that effect did not seem sufficiently deep, he calledhere and there upon a lingerer for applause. "That's considered a veryfine Turner, " he said, taking one of them into a smaller room. "Comealong here, you know about that sort of thing--I don't. I should beashamed to tell you how much I gave for it; all that money hanging thereuseless, bringing in nothing! But when I do buy anything I like it to bethe very best that is to be had. "

"I'd as soon have a good chromo, " said the person addressed, "whichcosts a matter of a five-pound note, and enough too, to hang up againsta wall. But you can afford it, Copperhead. You've the best right of anyman I know to be a fool if you like. "

The great man laughed, but he scarcely liked the compliment. "I am afool if you like, " he said, "the biggest fool going. I like a thing thatcosts a deal, and is of no use. That's what I call luxury. My boy, Clarence, and my big picture, they're dear; but I can afford 'em, ifthey were double the price. "

"If I were you, " said his friend, "I wouldn't hang my picture in thislittle bit of a hole, nor let my boy waste his time with all theriff-raff in the room. There's Smith's girl and Robinson's niece, bothof them worth a cool hundred thousand; and you leave him to flourishabout all over the place with a chit in a white frock, and another in ablack one. I call that waste, not luxury, for my part. "

"I don't want to sell either the boy or the picture, " said the rich man, with a laugh. But nevertheless he was annoyed that his son should besuch an ass. Miss Smith and Miss Robinson were as fine as theirmilliners could make them. The first of these ladies had an emeraldlocket almost as big as a warming-pan, and Miss Robinson's pearls were alittle fortune in themselves; but the chosen objects of that youngidiot's attentions wore nothing but trumpery twopenny-halfpennytrinkets, and gowns which had been made at home for all Mr. Copperheadknew. Confound him! the father breathed hotly to himself. Thus it willbe seen that unmixed pleasure is not to be had in this world, even inthe midst of envious friends and the most splendid entertainment whichmoney could supply. 

CHAPTER IV. 

A COUNTRY PARTY. 

"Very funny, now, " said Sir Robert. "I don't know that such a thing everhappened to me before. Give you my word for it, I didn't know a singlesoul, not one; and there must have been a couple of hundred or so there. Jove! I never thought there were as many people in England that I didn'tknow. "

"How could you know Mr. Copperhead's friends?" said Sophy Dorset. "WhatI wonder is, that she should have asked us. Not but that it was amusingenough, once in a way, just to see how such people look. "

"They looked very much like other people, my dear. Finer, though. Ihaven't seen so many jewels at an evening party for ages. Very much likeother people. Fatter, perhaps, the men, but not the women. I notice, "said Sir Robert, who himself was spare, "that City men generally have atendency to fat. "

"They are so rich, " said Miss Dorset, with gentle disgust. 

She was the quiet one, never saying much. Sophy, who was lively, conducted the conversation. They were all seated at breakfast, laterthan usual, on the morning after the Copperheads' ball. It was a hazymorning, and the party were seated in a large sitting-room in the "verycentral" locality of Suffolk Street, looking down that straight littlestreet upon the stream of carriages and omnibuses in the foggy distance. It was not for pleasure that this country party had come to London. SirRobert's second son, who was in India, had sent his eldest children hometo the care of his father and sisters. They were expected at Portsmouthdaily, and the aunts, somewhat excited by the prospect of their charge, had insisted upon coming to town to receive them. As for Ursula May, whowas a poor relation on the late Lady Dorset's side, as Mrs. Copperheadhad been a poor relation on Sir Robert's, London at any season was awonder and excitement to her, and she could not sufficiently thank thekind relations who had given her this holiday in her humdrum life. Shewas the daughter of a poor clergyman in the little town of Carlingford, a widower with a large family. Ursula was the eldest daughter, with theduties of a mother on her much burdened hands; and she had no specialinclination towards these duties, so that a week's escape from them wasa relief to her at any time. And a ball! But the ball had not been sobeatific as Ursula hoped. In her dark blue serge dress, close up to thethroat and down to the wrists, she did not look so pale as she had donein her snow-white garments on the previous night; but she was at thebest of times a shadowy little person, with soft, dark brown hair, darkbrown eyes, and no more colour than the faintest of wild rose tints; butthe youthfulness, and softness, and roundness of the girl showed to fulladvantage beside the more angular development of the Miss Dorsets, whowere tall, and had lost the first smooth curves of youth. To Ursula, notyet twenty, these ladies looked very mature, almost aged, being one ofthem ten, and the other eight years older than herself. She looked up tothem with great respect; but she felt, all the same--how could she helpit?--that in some things, though the Miss Dorsets were her superiors, itwas best to be Ursula May. 

"Poor Clara!" said Sir Robert. "She was always a frightened creature. When I recollect her, a poor little governess, keeping behind backs atthe nursery parties--and to see her in all her splendour now!"

"She would keep behind backs still, if she could, " said Miss Dorset. 

"Think of that, Ursula, " cried Sophy; "there is an example for you. Shewas a great deal worse off than you are; and to see her now, as papasays! You may have a house in Portland Place too, and ask us to balls, and wear diamonds. Think of that! Though last night you looked asfrightened as she. "

"Don't put such demoralizing ideas into the child's head. How it is thatgirls are not ruined, " said Miss Dorset, shaking her head, "ruined! bysuch examples, I cannot tell. They must have stronger heads than wethink. As poor as Cinderella one day, and the next as rich as theQueen--without any merit of theirs, all because some chance man happensto take a fancy to them. "

"Quite right, " said Sir Robert; "quite right, my dear. It is the naturalcourse of affairs. "

Miss Dorset shook her head. She went on shaking her head as she pouredout the tea. She was not given to eloquence, but the subject inspiredher. 

"Don't think of it, Ursula; it is not the sort of thing that good girlsought to think of, " and the elder sister made signs to Sophy, who wasreckless, and did not mind the moral effect of the suggestion. 

"Poor Mrs. Copperhead! I shall never have a house in Portland Place, norany diamonds, except Aunt Mary's old brooch. I shall live and die an oldmaid, and nobody will waste a thought upon me, " said Sophy, who madethis prophecy at her ease, not expecting it to come true; "but I don'tenvy poor Clara, and if you marry such a man as Mr. Copperhead, though Ishall admire you very much, Ursula, I shan't envy you. "

"Is young Mr. Copperhead as bad as his father?" said Ursula, simply. 

She was so far from thinking what meaning could be attached to herwords, that she stopped and looked, wondering, from one to another whenthey laughed. 

"Ha! ha! ha!" said Sir Robert; "not so bad, either!"

Poor Ursula was extremely serious. She turned with relief to MissDorset, who was serious too. 

"My dear, we don't know much about Clarence; he is a heavy young man. Idon't think he is attractive. Have you had a letter from the Parsonagethis morning?" said Anne Dorset, with a very grave face; and as itturned out that Ursula had a letter, Miss Dorset immediately plungedinto discussion of it. The girl did not understand why the simple littleepistle should be so interesting, nor did she perceive yet what thelaughter was about. To tell the truth, Ursula, who was not clever, hadthought young Mr. Copperhead very _nice_. He had asked her to dance whennobody else did; he had talked to her as much as he could have talked toSophy Dorset herself. He had rehabilitated her in her own eyes after thefirst disappointment and failure of the evening, and she was prepared tothink, whatever might be said about the father, that the son was "verykind" and very agreeable. Why should they laugh? Ursula concluded thatthere must be some private joke of their own about Clarence (what apretty, interesting, superior name Clarence was!) which she could not bepermitted to know. 

"If you talk like that, " said Anne Dorset to Sophy, "you will set herlittle head afloat about good matches, and spoil her too. "

"And a very good thing, " said Sophy. "If you had put the idea into myhead, I should not be Sophy Dorset now. Why shouldn't she think of agood match? Can she live there for ever in that dreadful Parsonage, among all those children whom she does not know how to manage? Don't beabsurd, Anne; except an elder daughter like you here and there, youknow, girls must marry if they are to be of any consequence in theworld. Let them get it into their heads; we can't change what is thecourse of nature, as papa says. "

"Oh, Sophy! it is so unwomanly. "

"Never mind; when a man chuckles and jeers at me because I am unmarried, I think it is unmanly; but they all do it, and no one finds any fault. "

"Not all surely; not near _all_. "

"Don't they? Not to our faces, perhaps; but whenever they write, whenever they speak in public. When men are so mean, why should we traingirls up to unnatural high-mindedness? Why, that is the sort of girl whoought to make a good marriage; to 'catch' somebody, or have somebody'hooked' for her. She is pretty, and soft, and not very wise. I am doingthe very best thing in the world for her, when I laugh at love and allthat nonsense, and put a good match into her mind. "

Miss Dorset turned away with a sigh, and shook her head. It was all shecould do. To encounter Sophy in argument was beyond her power, and if ithad not been beyond her power, what would have been the good of it?Sophy had a story which, unfortunately, most people knew. She had beenromantic, and she had been disappointed. Five or six years before, shehad been engaged to a clergyman, who, finding that the good living hewas waiting for in order to marry was not likely to come through SirRobert's influence, intimated to his betrothed his serious doubt whetherthey were likely to be happy together, and broke off the engagement. Hemarried somebody else in six months, and Sophy was left to bear theshame as she might. To be sure, a great many people were highlyindignant with him at the moment; his sin, however, was forgotten longago, so far as he was concerned; but nobody forgot that Sophy had beenjilted, and she did not forget it herself, which was worse. ThereforeMiss Dorset attempted no argument with her sister. She shook her gentlehead, and said nothing. Anne was the elder sister born, themaiden-mother, who is a clearly defined type of humanity, though rare, perhaps, like all the finer sorts. She resolved in her own mind to takeprivate means for the fortification and preservation of Ursula, whoseposition, as elder sister of a motherless family, interested herespecially as being like her own; but Anne owned within herself thatshe had never been so young as little Ursula May. 

Ursula, for her part, thought very little about the question which hadthus moved her cousins. She thought Mr. Clarence Copperhead was verynice, and that if she had but known as many people, and had as manypartners as that young lady in black, she would have enjoyed the ballvery much. After all, now that it was over, she felt that she hadenjoyed it. Three dances were a great deal better than none at all, andto have that pretty white frock given to her by Sir Robert was no smallmatter. Besides, for in this as in other things the uses of adversityare sometimes sweet, the pretty dress, which no doubt would have beentorn and crumpled had she danced much, was almost quite fresh now, andwould do very well at Carlingford if there should be any ballsthere--events which happened occasionally, though Ursula had never beenlucky enough to go to any of them. And Cousin Sophy had given her a setof Venetian beads and Cousin Anne a bracelet. This good fortune wasquite enough to fill her mind with satisfaction, and prevent any unduemeditation upon good matches or the attentions of Clarence Copperhead. Ursula was as different as possible from Phoebe Beecham. She had nopretensions to be intellectual. She preferred the company even of hervery smallest brothers and sisters to the conversation of her papa, though he was known to be one of the most superior men in the diocese. Even when her elder brother Reginald, of whom she was very fond, camehome from college, Ursula was more than indifferent to the privilegedposition of elder sister, by which she was permitted to sit up andassist at the talks which were carried on between him and his father. Reginald was very clever too; he was making his own way at theuniversity by means of scholarships, the only way in which a son of Mr. May's was likely to get to the university at all, and to hear him talkwith his father about Greek poetry and philosophy was a very fine thingindeed; how Phoebe Beecham, if the chance had been hers, would haveprized it; but Ursula did not enjoy the privilege. She preferred apantomime, or the poorest performance in a theatre, or even MadameTussaud's exhibition. She preferred even to walk about the gay streetswith Miss Dorset's maid, and look into the shop-windows and speculatewhat was going to be worn next season. Poor little girl! with suchinnocent and frivolous tastes, it may be supposed she did not find herposition as elder sister and housekeeper a very congenial one. Herfather was no more than Incumbent of St. Roque, an old perpetual curacymerged in a district church, which was a poor appointment for anelderly man with a family; he was very clever and superior, but not aman who got on, or who did much to help his children to get on; and hadUrsula been of the kind of those who suffer and deny themselves bynature, she would have had her hands full, and abundant opportunityafforded her to exercise those faculties. But she was not of this frameof mind. She did what she was obliged to do as well as time andopportunity permitted; but she did not throw herself with any enthusiasminto her duties. To keep seven children in good condition and disciplinein a small house, on a small income, is more, it must be allowed, thanmost girls of twenty are equal to; only enthusiasm and self-devotioncould make such a task possible, and these qualifications poor littleUrsula did not possess. Oh! how glad she was to get away from it all, from having to think of Janey and Johnny, and Amy and little Robin. Shewas not anxious about how things might be going on in her absence, askind Miss Dorset thought she must be. The happiness of escaping wasfirst and foremost in her thoughts. 

CHAPTER V. 

SELF-DEVOTION. 

"Mr. Copperhead's manner is not pleasant sometimes, that is quite true. We must make allowances, my dear. Great wealth, you know, has itstemptations. You can't expect a man with so much money and so manypeople under him to have the same consideration for other people'sfeelings. He says to this man go and he goeth, and to that man come andhe cometh. "

"That is all very well, " said Phoebe; "but he has no right, that I canthink of, to be rude to mamma and me. "

"He was not exactly rude, my dear, " said Mrs. Beecham. "We must not sayhe was rude. Clarence ought to have divided his attentions more equally, we must admit, and his father was annoyed--for the moment. I have nodoubt he has forgotten all about it long ago, and will be as pleasant asever next time we meet. "

"I am quite sure of it, " said the pastor, "and at the worst it was buthis manner--only his manner. In short, at the committee meetingyesterday nothing could have been nicer. He went even out of his way tosend, as it were, a kind message to Phoebe. 'I needn't ask if Miss Phoebeenjoyed herself, ' he said. Depend upon it, my dear, if there was atemporary annoyance it is both forgotten and forgiven, so far as Mr. Copperhead is concerned. "

"Forgiven!" Phoebe said to herself; but she thought it wiser to saynothing audible on the subject. Her father and mother, it was evident, were both disposed to extend any amount of toleration to the leadingmember. It was he who was the best judge as to what he had a right to beannoyed about. The family party were in Mr. Beecham's study, where thelarge bust of Mr. Copperhead stood on the mantelpiece, the chiefdecoration. How could any one be so wicked as to rebel against theinfluence of so great a personage? Phoebe had her own ideas, but she waswise and kept them to herself. 

"And now, " said Mrs. Beecham, solemnly, "what is to be done, my dear, about this letter from my good papa?"

Phoebe was standing in front of a book-case, apparently looking for abook. She said nothing; but it was easy to perceive by the erectness ofher shoulders, and the slight movement that ran through her, that herattention was fully engaged. 

"Ah, yes indeed, what about it?" the pastor said. He put down the pen, which he had been holding in his hand by way of symbol that, amiable ashe was, his attention to his woman-kind was an encroachment upon timewhich might be more usefully employed. But this was a serious question;he had no suggestion to offer, but he sat and twiddled his thumbs, andlooked at his wife with interest suddenly aroused. 

"There is a great deal to be thought of, " said Mrs. Beecham, "it is nota simple matter of family devotion. Of course if I had no other ties, nor other duties, everything would be easy. I should go at once to mypoor suffering mamma. "

Mrs. Beecham was a clever woman, but she had not been able to get it outof her mind, owing to the imperfections of her education in youth, thatit was a vulgar thing to say father and mother. "But in the presentcircumstances, " she continued, her husband having given his assent tothis speech, "it is clear that I cannot do what I wish. I have you tothink of, my dear, and the children, and the duties of my position. Onthe other hand, of course I could not wish, as poor mamma's onlydaughter, to have my sister-in-law called in. She is not the kind ofperson; she is underbred, uneducated. Of course she would be thinking ofher own children, and what would be best for them. My parents have doneall that ought to be expected from them for Tom. Considering all things, what they have to dispose of ought to go to Phoebe and Tozer. But Mrs. Tom would not see that. "

"It is very true, my dear; I don't suppose she would, " said Mr. Beecham, with an anxious air. 

"Mrs. Tom, " said his wife, with some heat, "would think her own had thefirst claim. She maintained it to my very face, and after that what havewe to expect? It's us that are Tozers, " she said; "as for you, Phoebe, you belong to another family. I put it in my own language of course, notin her vulgar way. "

"It is a very serious question altogether, " said the pastor, with somesolemnity. "I don't see how you can get away, and I don't know what isto be done. "

"Whatever is to be done, I won't leave poor mamma in the hands of Mrs. Tom, " cries Mrs. Beecham, "not whatever it costs me. She's capable ofanything, that woman is. To have her in the same town is bad enough, butin the same house nursing poor mamma! You and I would never see a pennyof the money, Henery, nor our children--not a penny! besides thevexation of seeing one's own parents turned against one. I know verywell how it would be. "

Mr. Beecham ceased twiddling his thumbs. The crisis was too serious forthat indulgence. "The position is most difficult, " he said, "I see itall. It is easy to see it for that matter, but to decide what are we todo is not easy. To go back to Carlingford after so many changes, wouldit be good for you?"

"It would kill me, " said Mrs. Beecham, with energy, "you know it wouldkill me. Envy drove us out, and envy would bring me to the grave. Idon't deceive myself, that is what I see before me, if I tear myselffrom all my duties and go. But on the other hand----"

"Listen, mamma!" cried Phoebe, turning round suddenly; "if grandmamma isill, and you are afraid to leave her alone, why not send me?"

Both her parents turned towards Phoebe, as she spoke; they listened toher with wonder and consternation, yet with admiring looks. Then theylooked at each other consulting, alarmed. "You!" said Mrs. Beecham, and"You!" echoed the pastor, repeating in his great astonishment what hiswife said. 

"Yes, indeed, me--why not me? it would be only my duty, " said Phoebe, with great composure. "And there is nothing to keep me from going. Ialmost think I should like it--but anyhow, mamma, if you think itnecessary, whether I like it or not--"

"Phoebe, my darling, you are the best child in the world, " cried hermother, rising up, and going to her hastily. She gave her a kiss ofmaternal enthusiasm, and then she looked at her husband. "But should wetake advantage of it?" she said. 

"You see, my dear, " said Mr. Beecham, hesitating, "you might find manythings different from what you are used to. Your grandpapa Tozer is anexcellent man--a most excellent man--"

"Yes, yes, " said his wife, with some impatience. She was as conscious ashe was of the great elevation in the social scale that had occurred toboth of them since they left Carlingford, and knew as well as he didthat the old people had remained stationary, while the younger ones hadmade such advances; but still she did not like to hear her husbandcriticize her father. What there was to be said, she preferred to sayherself. "Yes, yes, " she said, "Phoebe knows there is a difference; theyare old-fashioned folks, and don't live quite as we live. Some thingswould strike you very strangely, my dear, some things you would notlike; and then Phoebe may be, for anything I can tell, at a turning-pointin her own life. "

"If you mean about the Copperheads, mamma, dismiss that from your mind, "said Phoebe. "There is no sort of hurry. We may be thrown together inafter-life, and of course no one can tell what may happen, but in themean time there is nothing of the sort in my mind--nor in any oneelse's. Do not think of that for a moment. I am at no turning-point. Iam quite ready and quite willing to go wherever you please. "

Once more the parent pair looked at each other. They had been verycareful not to bring their children into contact, since they werechildren, with the homelier circumstances of the life in which theythemselves had both taken their origin. They had managed this reallywith great skill and discretion. Instead of visiting the Tozers atCarlingford, they had appointed meetings at the sea-side, by means ofwhich the children were trained in affectionate acquaintance with theirgrandparents, without any knowledge of the shop. And Mr. Tozer, who wasonly a butterman at Carlingford, presented all the appearance of an oldDissenting minister out of it--old-fashioned, not very refined perhaps, as Mrs. Beecham allowed, but very kind, and the most doting ofgrandfathers. The wisp of white neckcloth round his neck, and his blackcoat, and a certain unction of manner all favoured the idea. Theoretically, the young people knew it was not so, but the impressionon their imagination was to this effect. Mrs. Tozer was only"grandmamma. " She was kind too, and if rather gorgeous in the way ofribbons, and dressing generally in a manner which Phoebe's tastecondemned, yet she came quite within the range of that affectionatecontempt with which youth tolerates the disadvantages of its seniors. But the butterman's shop! and the entire cutting off from everythingsuperior to the grocers and poulterers of Carlingford--how would Phoebesupport it? This was what Mr. And Mrs. Beecham asked each other withtheir eyes--and there was a pause. For the question was a tremendousone, and neither knew in what way to reply. 

"Phoebe, you are a very sensible girl--" said her father at last, faltering. 

"I beg your pardon, papa. I don't think you are treating me as if I weresensible, " said Phoebe. "I know well enough that grandpapa is inbusiness--if that is what you are afraid of--"

"Has been in business, " said Mrs. Beecham. "Your grandpapa has retiredfor some time. To be sure, " she added, turning to her husband, "it isonly Tom that has the business, and as I consider Mrs. Tomobjectionable, Phoebe need not be brought in contact--"

"If Phoebe goes to Carlingford, " said the pastor, "she must not bedisagreeable to any one. We must make up our minds to that. They mustnot call her stuck up and proud. "

"Henery, " said Mrs. Beecham, "I can put up with a great deal; but tothink of a child of mine being exposed to the tongues of those Brownsand Pigeons and Mrs. Tom, is more than I can bear. What I went throughmyself, 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 Ipassed! Was it my fault that I was better educated, and more refinedlike, than they were? In Mr. Vincent's time, before you came, Henery, hewas 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 askedhim--no more than I did you!"

"Your father used to ask me, " said Mr. Beecham, doubtfully. "It was verykind. A young pastor expects it in a new place; and a great many thingsarise, there is no doubt, in that way. "

"Not by my doing, " said the lady; "and when we were married, Henery, thethings 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 youare 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 inher hand, which of itself was a proof of Phoebe's pretensions. It was, Ithink, one of the volumes of Mr. Stuart Mill's "Dissertations. " Phoebewas not above reading novels or other light literature, but this only inthe moments dedicated to amusement, and the present hour was morning, atime 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 eleganciesof diction. She had suffered more than her husband had, and retained amore forcible idea of the perils; and in the pause which ensued, allthese perils crowded into her mind. As her own ambition rose, she hadfelt how dreadful it was to be shut in to one small circle of very smallfolks. She had felt the injurious line of separation between theshopkeepers and the rest of the world; at least she thought she had feltit. As a matter of fact, I think it very doubtful whether Phoebe Tozerhad felt anything of the kind; but she thought so now; and then it was afact that she was born Phoebe Tozer, and was used to that life, whereasPhoebe Beecham had no such knowledge. She had never been aware of thelimitations of a small Dissenting community in a small town, and thoughshe knew how much the Crescent congregation thought of a straymillionnaire like Mr. Copperhead (a thing which seemed too natural toMiss Beecham to leave any room for remark), her mother thought that itmight have a bad effect upon Phoebe's principles in every way, should shefind out the lowly place held by the connection in such anold-fashioned, self-conceited, Tory town as Carlingford. What wouldPhoebe think? how would she manage to associate with the Browns and thePigeons? Fortunately, Mr. And Mrs. Tozer had retired from the shop; butthe shop was still there, greasy and buttery as ever, and Mrs. Beecham'sown respected papa was still "the butterman. " How would Phoebe bear it?This was the uppermost thought in her mind. 

"You know, my darling, " she said afterwards, when they had left thestudy, and were seated, talking it over, in the drawing-room, "therewill be a great deal to put up with. I am silly; I don't like even tohear your papa say anything about dear old grandpapa. He is my own, andI ought to stand up for him; but even with grandpapa, you will have agreat deal to put up with. They don't understand our ways. They areused to have things so different. They think differently, and they talkdifferently. Even with your sense, Phoebe, you will find it hard to geton. "

"I am not at all afraid, I assure you, mamma. "

"You are not afraid, because you don't know. I know, and I am afraid. You know, we are not great people, Phoebe. I have always let you knowthat--and that it is far finer to elevate yourself than to be born to agood position. But when you see really the place which poor deargrandpapa and grandmamma think so much of, I am sure I don't know whatyou will say. "

"I shall not say much. I shall not say anything, mamma. I am notprejudiced, " said Phoebe. "So long as an occupation is honest andhonourable, and you can do your duty in it, what does it matter? Onekind of work is just as good as another. It is the spirit in which it isdone. "

"Oh, honest!" said Mrs. Beecham, half relieved, half affronted. "Ofcourse, it was all that. Nothing else would have answered papa. Youruncle Tom has the--business now. You need not go there, my dear, unlessyou like. I am not fond of Mrs. Tom. We were always, so to speak, aboveour station; but she is not at all above it. She is just adapted for it;and I don't think she would suit you in the least. So except just for aformal call, I don't think you need go there, and even that only ifgrandmamma can spare you. You must be civil to everybody, I suppose; butyou need not go further; they are not society for you. You will hearpeople talk of me by my Christian name, as if we were most intimate; butdon't believe it, Phoebe. I always felt aspirations towards a verydifferent kind of life. "

"Oh, don't be afraid, mamma, " said Phoebe, calmly; "I shall be able tokeep them at a distance. You need not fear. "

"Yes, my dear, " said the anxious mother; "but not too much at a distanceeither. That is just what is so difficult. If they can find an excusefor saying that my child is stuck up! Oh! nothing would please them morethan to be able to find out something against my child. When you haveapparently belonged to that low level, and then have risen, " said Mrs. Beecham, with a hot colour on her cheek, "there is nothing these kind ofpeople will not say. "

These conversations raised a great deal of thought in Phoebe's mind; butthey did not change her resolution. If it was necessary that some oneshould go to look after her grandmamma, and keep all those vulgar peopleat bay, and show to the admiring world what a Dissenting minister'sdaughter could be, and what a dutiful daughter was, then who so fit asherself to be the example? This gave her even a certain tragical senseof heroism, which was exhilarating, though serious. She thought of whatshe would have to "put up with, " as of something much more solemn thanthe reality; more solemn, but alas! not so troublesome. Phoebe feltherself something like a Joan of Arc as she packed her clothes and madeher preparations. She was going among barbarians, a set of people whowould not understand her, probably, and whom she would have to "put upwith. " But what of that? Strong in a sense of duty, and superior to alllesser inducements, she felt herself able to triumph. Mrs. Beechamassisted with very divided feelings at the preparations. It was on herlips to say, "Never mind the evening dresses; you will not want them. "But then the thought occurred to her that to let the Carlingford folkssee what her daughter had been used to, even if she had no use for suchthings, would be sweet. 

"No, Henery; she shall take them all, " she said to her husband. "Theyshall see the kind of society my child is in; very different from theirtrumpery little teas! They shall see that you and I, we grudge nothingfor Phoebe--and I dare be sworn there is not one of them like her, noteven among the quality! I mean, " said Mrs. Beecham, hastily, with aflush of distress at her own failure in gentility, "among those whothink themselves better than we are. But Phoebe will let them see what apastor's family is out of their dirty little town. She will bring themto their senses. Though I hesitated at first when it was spoken of, I amvery glad now. "

"Yes; Phoebe is a girl to find her level anywhere, " said the pastor, complacently. And they forgot what she would have to put up with intheir satisfaction and admiration for herself. 

CHAPTER VI. 

A MORNING CALL. 

Sir Robert Dorset and his daughter called, as in duty bound, upon theirrelation two days after her ball. "You had better come with us, Ursula, "said Miss Dorset. "Sophy does not care about visits, and Mrs. Copperheadasked a great many questions about you. She is very tender-hearted tothe ---- young. " Anne had almost said to the poor, for it is difficultto remember always that the qualifications by which we distinguish ourfriends when they are not present, are not always satisfactory to theirown ears. "She was like you once, you know, " she added, halfapologetically. Ursula, who was not in the least disposed to takeoffence, did not ask how, but assented, as she would have assented hadCousin Anne told her to get ready to go to the moon. She went upstairsand put on her little felt hat, which had been made handsome by the longdrooping feather bestowed upon her by Sophy, and the blue serge jacketwhich corresponded with her dress. She had not any great opinion of herown good looks, but she hoped that she was "lady-like, " notwithstandingthe simplicity of her costume. This was her only aspiration. In herheart she admired the tall straight angular kind of beauty possessed byher cousins, and did not think much of her own roundness and softness, which seemed to Ursula a very inferior "style;" but yet if she lookedlady-like that was always something, and both Sir Robert and hisdaughter looked at her approvingly as she stood buttoning her gloves, waiting for them. 

"If there are other city gentlemen there mind you make yourself veryagreeable, Ursula, " said Cousin Sophy, which vexed the girl a little. Whether the people were city gentlemen or not, of course, she said toherself, she would try to be _nice_--was not that a girl's first duty?She tried for her part to be _nice_ to everybody, to talk when shecould, and receive the recompense of pleased looks. To walk with herfriends up the long line of Regent Street, with many a sidelong glanceinto the shop-windows, was very pleasant to Ursula. Sometimes evenCousin Anne would be tempted to stop and look, and point things out toher father. Unfortunately, the things Miss Dorset remarked were chieflyhandsome pieces of furniture, beautiful carpets, and the like, whichwere totally out of Ursula's way. 

"There is just the kind of carpet I want for the drawing-room, " Annesaid, looking at something so splendid that Ursula thought it was goodenough for the Queen. But Sir Robert shook his head. 

"The drawing-room carpet will do very well, " he said. "It will last outmy day, and your brother will prefer to please himself. "

This brought a little cloud upon Anne Dorset's placid face, for she too, like Mr. Beecham, had a brother whose wife it was not agreeable to thinkof as mistress in the old house. She went on quickly after that lookingin at no more shops. Perhaps she who could buy everything she wanted (asUrsula thought) had on the whole more painful feelings in looking atthem, than had the little girl beside her, whose whole thoughts wereoccupied by the question whether she would have enough money left to buyher sister Janey one of those new neckties which were "the fashion. "Janey did not often get anything that was the fashion. But at any rateUrsula made notes and laid up a great many things in her mind to tellJaney of--which would be next best. 

Mrs. Copperhead was seated in a corner of her vast drawing-room when hervisitors arrived, and her pale little countenance brightened at sight ofthem. They were the nearest approach to "her own people" that the poorsoul possessed. She received their compliments upon her ball withdeprecating looks. 

"I am sure you are very good--very good to say so. I am afraid it wasnot much amusement to you. They were not the kind of people--"

"I scarcely knew a soul, " said Sir Robert; "it was a curious sensation. It does one good now and then to have a sensation like that. It showsyou that after all you are not such a fine fellow as you thoughtyourself. Once before I experienced something of the same feeling. Itwas at a ball at the Tuileries--but even then, after a while, I foundEnglish people I knew, though I didn't know the French grandees; but, byJove! except yourself and Mr. Copperhead, Clara, I knew nobody here. "

Mrs. Copperhead felt the implied censure more than she was intended tofeel it. 

"Mr. Copperhead does not care about cultivating fashionable people, " shesaid, with a little spirit. "He prefers his old friends. "

"That is very nice of him, " cried Anne, "so much the kindest way. Iliked it so much. At most balls we go to, people come and ask me todance for duty, pretending not to see that my dancing days are over. "

"She talks nonsense, " said Sir Robert. "Clara, I must trust to you toput this notion out of Anne's head. Why should her dancing days be over?I am not a Methuselah, I hope. She has no right to shelve herself soearly, has she? I hope to see her make a good match before I die. "

"So long as she is happy--" said Mrs. Copperhead, faltering. She was notany advocate for good matches. "Oh, there is Mr. Copperhead!" she added, with a little start, as a resounding knock was heard. "He does not oftencome home so early; he will be very glad to see you, Sir Robert. Are yougoing to stay long in town, Miss May?"

"Not long, only till the children arrive, " said Anne, lookingcompassionately at the rich man's nervous wife. She had been quietenough, so long as she was alone. Now a little fever seemed to beawakened in her. She turned to Ursula and began to talk to her quickly--

"Do you like being in town? It is not a good time of the year. It isnicer in May, when everything looks cheerful; but I always live inLondon. You will come back for the season, I suppose?"

"Oh no, " said Ursula. "I never was in London before. Cousin Anne broughtme for a great pleasure. I have been twice to the theatre, and at theball here. "

"Oh yes, I forgot, you were at the ball--and you danced, did you dance?I cannot remember. There were so many people. Oh yes, I recollect. Ispoke to Clarence--"

"I danced three times, " said Ursula. "I never was at a ball before. Itwas very nice. Mr. Copperhead was so kind--"

"What is that about Mr. Copperhead being kind? Was I kind? I am alwayskind--ask my wife, she will give me a good character, " said the masterof the house, coming up to them. "Ah, the Baronet! how do you do, SirRobert? I don't often see you in my house. "

"You saw us the other evening, " said Sir Robert, courteously, "and wehave just come, Anne and I, to let Clara know how much we enjoyedit. It was really splendid. I don't know when I have seen somuch--um--luxury--so great a display of--of--beautiful things--and--andwealth. "

"Glad to hear you were pleased, " said Mr. Copperhead, "no expense wasspared at least. I don't often throw away my money in that way, but whenI do I like things to be regardless of expense. That is our way in thecity; other people have to make a deal of gentility go a long way, butwith us, who don't stand on our gentility--"

"It is not much to stand upon, certainly, in the way of giving balls, "said Sir Robert. "I quite agree with you that money should not be sparedwhen a good effect is to be produced. Anne, my dear, if you have saidall you have to say to Clara, you must recollect that we have a greatdeal to do--"

"You are not going the moment I come in, " said Mr. Copperhead. "Come, wemust have some tea or something. Not that I care very much for tea, butI suppose you'll be shocked if I offer you anything else in theafternoon. Haven't you ordered tea, Mrs. Copperhead? I can't teach mywife hospitality, Sir Robert--not as I understand it. She'd see you comeand go a dozen times, I'll be bound, without once thinking of offeringanything. That ain't my way. Tea! and directly, do you hear. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Copperhead, in a nervous tremor; "bring tea, Burton, please. It is rather early, but I do so hope you will stay. " She gaveMiss Dorset an appealing glance, and Anne was too kind to resist theappeal. 

"To be sure they'll stay, " said Mr. Copperhead. "Ladies never say no toa cup of tea, and ours ought to be good if there's any virtue in money. Come and look at my Turner, Sir Robert. I ain't a judge of art, but itcost a precious lot, if that is any test. They tell me it's one of thebest specimens going. Come this way. "

"You won't mind?" said poor Mrs. Copperhead. "He is very hospitable, hecannot bear that any one should go without taking something. It isold-fashioned, but then Mr. Copperhead--"

"It is a most kind fashion, I think, " said Anne Dorset, who had asuperstitious regard for other people's feelings, "and Mr. Copperhead isquite right, I never say no to a cup of tea. "

Just then Clarence came in with his hands in his pockets, so curiouslylike his father in his large somewhat loose figure, as unlike him inaspect and expression, that even the gentle Anne could scarcely helpsmiling. When he had shaken hands with Miss Dorset he dropped naturallyinto a seat beside Ursula, who, dazzled by his position as son of thehouse, and flattered by what she called his "kindness, " was as muchpleased by this sign of preference as if Clarence Copperhead had been ahero. 

"I hope you have recovered my father's ball, " he said. 

"Recovered! Mr. Copperhead. "

"Yes, you think it uncivil; but I myself have scarcely recovered yet. The sort of people he chose to collect--people whom nobody knew. "

"But, Mr. Copperhead, " said Ursula, "if it was his old friends, as yourmother says, how much more noble of him than if they had been finepeople he did not care for! As for me, I don't know any one anywhere. Itwas all the same to me. "

"That was very lucky for you, " said the young man. "My good cousins didnot take it so easily. They are your cousins, too?"

"Oh, yes--they are so good, " cried Ursula. "Cousin Sophy laughs at mesometimes, but Cousin Anne is as kind as an angel. They have always beengood to us all our lives. "

"You live near them, perhaps? Sir Robert has been kind enough to ask meto the Hall. "

"No, not near. We live at Carlingford. It is not a place like theDorsets'; it is a poor little town where papa is one of the clergymen. We are not county people like them, " said Ursula, with anxious honesty, that he might not have a false idea of her pretensions. "I have neverbeen anywhere all my life, and that is why they brought me here. It wasby far the most beautiful party I ever saw, " she added, with a littleenthusiasm. "I never was at a real dance before. "

"I am glad you thought it pretty, " said Clarence. "I suppose it waspretty; when the rooms are nice, " and he looked round the handsome room, not without a little complacency, "and when there is plenty of light andflowers, and well-dressed people, I suppose no dance can help being apretty sight. That was about all. There was no one worth pointing out. "

"Oh, there were some very pretty people, " said Ursula; "there was ayoung lady in black. She was always dancing. I should have liked to knowher. You danced with her a great many times, Mr. Copperhead. "

"Ah!" said Clarence. He was not more foolish than his neighbours, but itflattered him that his dancing with one person should have been noticed, especially by a pretty creature, who herself had attracted him andshared the privilege. "That was Miss Beecham. I did not dance with herabove three or four times. Of course, " he said, apologetically, "we areold friends. "

Ursula did not know why he should apologize. She did not intend toflirt, not having any knowledge of that pastime as yet. She was quitesimple in her mention of the other girl, who had attracted herattention. Now having said all she could remember to say, she stoppedtalking, and her eyes turned to the elder Mr. Copperhead, who came back, followed by Sir Robert. There was a largeness about the rich man, whichUrsula, not used to rich men, gazed at with surprise. He seemed toexpand himself upon the air, and spread out his large person, as she hadnever known any one else do. And Sir Robert, following him, looked sostrangely different. He was very reluctant to be so led about, and, asit were, patronized by the master of the house, and his repugnance tooka curious form. His nose was slightly drawn up, as if an odour ofsomething disagreeable had reached him. Ursula, in her innocence, wondered what it was. 

"Here's the Baronet, Clarence, " said Mr. Copperhead, who was slightlyflushed; "and he doubts the Turner being genuine. My Turner! Go off atonce to those picture people, Christie, whatever you call them, and tellthem I want proofs that it's genuine. I am not the sort of man, byGeorge! to be cheated, and they ought to know that. They have had many ahundred pounds of my money, but they shall never have another penny if Idon't get proofs. It ain't pleasant, I can tell you, to hear theBaronet, or any one else for that matter, running down my pictures. "

"I did not run it down, " said Sir Robert, with another little curl ofhis nostrils. (What could there be in this grand big house that couldmake a disagreeable smell?) "I only said that I had seen copies thatwere so wonderfully good that none but an expert could tell thedifference; that was all. I don't say that yours is one of them. "

"No; nor no one shall!" cried Mr. Copperhead. "We shall have theexperts, as you call them, and settle it. By George! there shall benothing uncertain in my house. You can tell the men it is Sir RobertDorset who suggested it. There's nothing like a title (even when itisn't much of a title) to keep people up to their work. Not meaning anydisrespect to Sir Robert, I could buy him and his up five times over. But I ain't Sir Robert, and never will be. Say Sir Robert, Clarence, myboy; that'll bear weight. "

"It was an unfortunate observation on my part, " said Sir Robert, stiffly. "I have a picture myself, which I bought for a Correggio, andwhich is a mere copy, I believe, though a very nice one. I hold mytongue on the subject, and nobody is the wiser. Anne, my dear, I thinkwe must go now. "

"That would never suit me, " said the rich man; "holding my tongue ain'tmy way, is it, Mrs. Copperhead? What! going, after all, without yourtea? I am afraid, ma'am, the Baronet is touchy, and doesn't like what Isaid. But nobody minds me, I assure you. I say what I think, but I don'tmean any harm. "

"Oh, no, " said Anne, drawing herself up, while her father took leave ofpoor little tremulous Mrs. Copperhead. "We really must go; we havestayed longer than we meant to stay. Ursula--"

"Your little companion?" said Mr. Copperhead. "Ah; you should take care, Miss Dorset, of these little persons. They stand in the way of the youngladies themselves often enough, I can tell you. And so can Mrs. Copperhead; she knows. "

He laughed, and both Anne and Ursula became aware that somethingoffensive was meant; but what it was, neither of them could make out. Mrs. Copperhead, whose intelligence had been quickened on that point, perceived it, and trembled more and more. 

"Good-bye, dear, " she said to Ursula in an agony. "Though we are notcousins, we are connections, through your kind Cousin Anne; for she letsme call her my Cousin Anne too. Perhaps you will come and pay me a visitsometimes, if--if you can be spared. "

"Oh, yes; I should be very glad, " said Ursula, confused. 

She did not understand why Sir Robert should be in such a hurry, whenboth young Mr. Copperhead and his mother were so kind. As for the otherMr. Copperhead, he did not interest Ursula. But he went down to the doorwith them in an excess of civility, offering Anne his arm, which she wasobliged to take, much against her will; and even Ursula felt a passingpang of humiliation when the footman threw open the great door beforethem, and no carriage was visible. 

"Oh, you are walking!" said Mr. Copperhead, with one of his big laughs. 

After all, a laugh could hurt nobody. Why was it that they all feltirritated and injured? Even Sir Robert grew scarlet, and when they wereoutside on the broad pavement turned almost angrily upon his daughter. 

"I tell you what, Anne, " he said; "not if it was to save my life, shallI ever enter that brute's doors again. "

"Oh, papa; poor Mrs. Copperhead!" cried kind Anne, with a wail in hervoice. That was all the reply she made. 

CHAPTER VII. 

SHOPPING. 

Next day a telegram came from Southampton, announcing the arrival of thelittle Dorsets, which Ursula rejoiced over with the rest, yet wasdreadfully sorry for in her heart. "Now we shall be able to get home, "the sisters said, and she did her best to smile; but to say that she wasglad to leave London, with all its delights, the bright streets and theshop-windows, and the theatres, and the excitement of being "on avisit, " would be a great deal more than the truth. She was glad, sympathetically, and to please the others; but for herself, her heartfell. It was still winter, and winter is not lively in Carlingford; andthere was a great deal to do at home, and many things "to put up with. "To be sure, that was her duty, this was only her pleasure; but attwenty, pleasure is so much more pleasant than duty. Ursula did not atall rebel, nor did she make painful contrasts in her mind, as so manyyoung people do; asking why are others so well off, and I so badly off?but her heart sank. All the mendings, all the keepings in order, thedinners to be invented with a due regard for the butcher's bill, thetradespeople to be kept in good humour, the servant to be managed, andpapa, who was more difficult than the servant, and more troublesome thanthe children! If Ursula sighed over the prospect, I don't think theseverest of recording angels would put a very bad mark against her. Shehad been free of all this for ten wonderful days. No torn frocks, nounpleasant baker, no hole in the carpet, no spoiled mutton-chops, haddisturbed her repose. All these troubles, no doubt, were going on asusual at home, and Janey and the maid were struggling with them as bestthey could. Had Ursula been very high-minded and given up to her duty, no doubt she would have been too much moved by the thought of what heryoung sister might be enduring in her absence, to get the good of herholiday; but I fear this was not how she felt it. Janey, no doubt, wouldget through somehow; and it was very sweet to escape for ever so short atime, and have a real rest. Therefore, it must be allowed that, whenUrsula went to her bed-room after this news arrived, she relievedherself by "a good cry. " Two or three days longer, what difference couldthat have made to those children? But after her headache was relieved inthis way, the cloud dispersed a little. The thought of all she had totell Janey consoled her. She counted over the spare contents of herpurse, and calculated that, after all, she would have enough to buy thenecktie; and she had all her presents to exhibit; the ball-dress, thatunhoped-for acquisition; the Venetian beads; the bracelet, "Which isreally good--_good_ gold; fancy!" said Ursula to herself, weighing it inher hand. How Janey would be interested, how she would be dazzled! Therewas a great deal of consolation in this thought. In the afternoon hercousins took her out "shopping, " an occupation which all young girls andwomen like. They bought a great many things "for the spring, " and "forthe children, " while Ursula looked on with admiration. To be able to buythings three months in advance, three months before they could possiblybe wanted, what luxury! and yet the Dorsets were not rich, or so, atleast, people said. 

"Now, Ursula, " said Cousin Anne, "we have made all our purchases. Suppose you choose frocks for the children at home. "

"Oh, me?" cried poor Ursula, forgetting grammar. She blushed very red, and looked, not without indignation, into Anne Dorset's mild eyes. "Youknow I have not any money; you know we can't afford it!" she cried, withstarting tears. 

"But I can, " said Cousin Anne; "at least, I have some money just now. Money always goes, whether one buys things or not, " she added, with alittle sigh. "It runs through one's fingers. When one has something toshow for it, that is always a satisfaction. Come, this would be prettyfor little Amy; but it is you who must choose. "

"But, Cousin Anne! Dresses! If it was a necktie or a ribbon; butfrocks--"

"Frocks would be most useful, wouldn't they? One for Amy, and one forJaney. I suppose Robin does not wear frocks now?"

"He has been in knickerbockers these two years, " said Ursula, halfproud, half sorry; "and the worst of it is, they can't be made at home. Papa says, boys' clothes made at home are always spoiled, and the tailoris so dear. Oh, Cousin Anne, are you really, really going to be so very, very good--!"

Mrs. Copperhead came into the shop while they were choosing. Poor littlewoman! she who trembled so in her own house, how everybody bowed downbefore her at Messrs. Margrove and Snelcher's! It was all she could doto extricate herself from a crowd of anxious officials, all eager tosupply her with everything that heart could desire, when she saw thelittle party. She came up to them, almost running in her eagerness, hersmall pale face flushed, and leaned on Anne Dorset's chair and whisperedto her. 

"You will not be angry, dear kind Anne. You are always so good toeverybody. Oh, forgive me! forgive me!"

Ursula could not help hearing what she said. 

"There is nothing to forgive _you_, Mrs. Copperhead. "

"Oh, dear Anne! But I am more than myself, you know! He does not meanit; he never was brought up to know better. He thinks that is how peoplebehave--"

"Please don't say anything, dear Mrs. Copperhead. "

"Not if you will forgive--not if you will promise to forgive. PoorClarence is heart-broken!" cried the poor woman. "He is so frightenedfor what you must think. "

"We don't think anything, " said Sophy, breaking in; "it is one of ourgood qualities as a family that we never think. Come and help us; we arechoosing frocks for Ursula's sisters. She has two. What are their ages, Ursula? You, who live in town, and know the fashions, come and help usto choose. "

And how respectful all the shopmen grew when the nameless country partywas joined by the great Mrs. Copperhead--or rather the great Mr. Copperhead's wife, at whose command was unlimited credit, and all thecontents of the shop if she chose. One hurried forward to give her achair, and quite a grand personage, a "head man, " came from anothercounter to take the charge of pleasing such a customer. Ursula could notbut look upon the whole transaction with awe. Mrs. Copperhead was a veryhumble, timid woman, and Mr. Copperhead was not nice; but it wassomething to command the reverence of all the people in such a grandshop--a shop which Ursula by herself would scarcely have ventured toenter, and in which she felt timid and overwhelmed, saying, "Sir" to thegentleman who was so good as to ask what she wanted. But here Mrs. Copperhead was not afraid. She gave herself up with her whole heart tothe delightful perplexity of choice, and when that matter was settled, looked round with searching eyes. 

"Don't they want something else?" she said, "it is so long since I havebought any children's things. It reminds me of the days when Clarencewas little, when I took such pride in his dress. Come with me into thecloak room, my dear, I am sure they must want jackets or something. "

Ursula resisted with pitiful looks at Cousin Anne, and Sophy whisperedinto Mrs. Copperhead's ear an explanation, which, instead of quenchingher ardour, brought it up instantly to boiling point. Her pale littlelanguid countenance glowed and shone. She took both Ursula's hands inhers, half smiling, half crying. 

"Oh, my dear, " she said, "you can give me such a pleasure, if you will!You know we are connections, almost relations. Let me send themsomething. Dear children, I wish I could see them. Come and look at thelittle jackets and mantles. I have often thought, if Providence hadgiven me a little girl, what pleasure I should have had in dressing her. Hats too! I am sure they must want hats. Come, my dear, come and look atthem. " Ursula did not know what to do. A little pride and a great dealof shyness kept her back, but Mrs. Copperhead was too much in earnest tobe crossed. She bought a couple of very smart little upper garments forAmy and Janey, and then, clandestinely taking no one into herconfidence, for Ursula herself, and gave secret orders to have them allsent to the Dorsets' lodgings that night. She was quite transformed solong as this transaction lasted. Her languid countenance grew bright, her pale eyes lighted up. 

"You have given me such a pleasure, " she said, holding Ursula's hands, and standing up on tip-toe to kiss her. "I am so much obliged to you. Icould almost think that Clarence was little again, or that he had got alittle sister, which was always my heart's desire. Ah, well! often, often, it seems better for us not to have our heart's desire, my dear;at least I suppose that is how it must be. "

"I do not know how to thank you, " said Ursula, "you have been sokind--so very kind. "

"I have been kind to myself, " said Mrs. Copperhead, "I have so enjoyedit; and, my dear, " she added, with some solemnity, still holding Ursulaby the hands, "promise you will do me one favour more. It will be such afavour. Whenever you want anything for yourself or your sister will youwrite to me? I am always in London except in autumn, and I should solike to do your commissions. People who live in London know how to getbargains, my dear. You must promise to let me do them for you. It willmake me so happy. Promise!" cried the little woman, quite bright in herexcitement. Ursula looked at the two others who were looking on, and didnot know what to say. 

"She thinks you are too expensive an agent for her, " said Sophy Dorset, "and I think so too. "

Mrs. Copperhead's face faded out of its pleasant glow. 

"There are two things I have a great deal too much of, " she said, "moneyand time. I am never so happy as when I am buying things for children, and I can see that she will trust me--won't you, my dear? Must we saygood-bye now? Couldn't I take you anywhere? Look at that big carriage, all for me alone, a little light woman. Let me take you somewhere. No!Ah, Cousin Anne, you have not forgiven us for all you said. "

"We have some other things to do, " said Anne, drawing back. As forUrsula, she would not at all have objected to the splendour of thecarriage. And her heart was melted by the lonely little woman's patheticlooks. But the other ladies stood out. They stood by while poor Mrs. Copperhead got into the carriage and drove off, her pale reproachfullittle face looking at them wistfully from the window. It was afternoonby this time, getting dark, and it was a tolerably long walk along thelighted, crowded streets. 

"Cousin Anne, I am afraid we have hurt her feelings, " said Ursula; "whywouldn't you go?"

"Go!" cried mild Anne Dorset; "get into that man's carriage afteryesterday? Not for the world! I can put up with a great deal, but Ican't go so far as that. "

"She never did any harm, " said Sophy, "poor little soul! You see now, Ursula, don't you, how fine it is to marry a rich man, and haveeverything that your heart can desire?"

Ursula looked at her wondering. To tell the truth, Mrs. Copperhead'seagerness to buy everything she could think of for the unknown childrenat Carlingford, the manner with which she was regarded in the greatshop, her lavish liberality, her beautiful carriage, and all the finethings about her, had brought Ursula to this very thought, that it wasextremely fine to marry a rich man. Sophy's irony was lost upon hersimple-minded cousin, and so indeed was Mrs. Copperhead's pathos. Thatshe was very kind, and that she was not very happy, were both apparent, but Ursula did not connect the unhappiness with the fact that she was arich man's wife. Mr. Copperhead certainly was not very _nice_; but whenpeople got so old as that, they never were very happy, Ursula thought, and what had the money to do with it? She looked confused and puzzled atSophy, wondering what she meant. Yes, indeed, to marry a rich man, to beable to buy presents for everyone, to make the children at homeperfectly happy without any trouble to one's self! Could any one doubtthat it was very nice? Alas! Ursula did not think it at all likely thatthis would ever be in her power. 

"Poor Mrs. Copperhead!" said Anne, as they made their way along thecrowded street, where it was difficult for them to walk together, muchless to maintain any conversation. And presently Ursula, keeping asclose as possible to her cousin's side, but compelled to make waycontinually for other passers-by, lost herself in a maze of fancies, towhich the misty afternoon atmosphere, and the twinkling lights, and thequickly passing crowds lent a confused but not unpleasing background. She was glad that the noise made all talk impossible, and that she coulddream on quietly as they glided and pressed their way through thecurrent of people in Oxford Street and Regent Street, as undisturbed asif she had been shut up in her own room--nay, more so--for the externalsights and sounds which flitted vaguely by her, disguised those dreamseven from herself. Mrs. Copperhead had once been poorer than she was, apoor little governess. What if somewhere about, in some beautiful house, with just such a carriage at the door, a beautiful young hero should bewaiting who would give all those dazzling delights to Ursula? Then whatfrocks she would buy, what toys, what ornaments! She would not stop atthe girls, but drive to the best tailor's boldly, and bid him send downsome one to take Johnnie's measure, and Robin's, and even Reginald's;and then she would go to the toy-shop, and to the bookseller, and Ican't tell where besides; and finally drive down in the fairy chariotladen with everything that was delightful, to the very door. She wouldnot go in any vulgar railway. She would keep everything in her ownpossession, and give each present with her own hands--a crowning delightwhich was impossible to Mrs. Copperhead--and how clearly she seemed tosee herself drawing up, with panting horses, high-stepping and splendid, to the dull door of the poor parsonage, where scarcely anything betterthan a pony-carriage ever came! How the children would rush to thewindow, and "even papa, " out of his study; and what a commotion wouldrun through Grange Lane, and even up into the High Street, where thebutcher and the baker would remember with a shiver how saucy they hadsometimes been--when they saw what a great lady she was. 

A dreamy smile hovered upon Ursula's face as she saw all the littlescenes of this little drama, mixed up with gleams of the shop-windows, and noises of the streets, and great ghosts of passing omnibuses, andhorses steaming in the frosty air. How many girls, like her, go dreamingabout the prosaic streets? It was not, perhaps, a very elevated orheroic dream, but the visionary chariot full of fine things for thechildren, was better than Cinderella's pumpkin carriage, or many anotherchariot of romance. Her cousins, who were so much her elders, and whoshuddered in their very souls at the thought of poor Mrs. Copperhead, and who were talking earnestly about the children they expected nextmorning, and what was to be done with them, had no clue to Ursula'sthoughts. They did not think much of them, one way or another, but tookgreat care not to lose her from their side, and that she should not befrightened by the crowding, which, after all, was the great matter. Andthey were very glad to get back to the comparative quiet of SuffolkStreet, and to take off their bonnets and take their cup of tea. ButUrsula, for her part, was sorry when the walk was over. She had enjoyedit so much. It was half Regent Street and half Carlingford, with thepleasure of both mixed up together; and she was half little Ursula Maywith her head in the air, and half that very great lady in thedream-chariot, who had it in her power to make everybody so happy. Between poor Mrs. Copperhead, who was the most miserable, frightenedlittle slave in the world, with nothing, as she said, but time andmoney, and Ursula without a penny, and who always had so much to do, what a gulf there was! a gulf, however, which fancy could bridge over soeasily. But the dream was broken when she got indoors; not even thequiet of her own little room could bring back in all their glory thedisturbed images that had floated before her in the street. 

This was Ursula's last day in town, and there can be no doubt that itwas of a nature, without any aid from Sophy's suggestion, to put a greatmany ideas into her mind. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE DORSETS. 

Next day the little Dorsets came, an odd little pair of shiveringbabies, with a still more shivering Ayah. It was the failing health ofthe little exotic creatures, endangered by their English blood, thoughthey had never seen England, and talked nothing but Hindostanee, whichhad brought them "home" at this inhospitable time of the year; and toget the rooms warm enough for them became the entire thought of theanxious aunts, who contemplated these wan babies with a curious mixtureof emotions, anxious to be "very fond" of them, yet feeling difficultiesin the way. They were very white, as Indian children so often are, withbig blue veins meandering over them, distinct as if traced with colour. They were frightened by all the novelty round them, and the strangefaces, whose very anxiety increased their alarming aspect; they did notunderstand more than a few words of English, and shrank back in a littleheap, leaning against their dark nurse, and clinging to her when theirnew relations made overtures of kindness. Children are less easilyconciliated in real life than superficial observers suppose. Theobstinate resistance they made to all Anne Dorset's attempts to wintheir confidence, was enough to have discouraged the most patient, andpoor Anne cried over her failure when those atoms of humanity, sostrangely individual and distinct in their utter weakness, helplessness, and dependence, were carried off to bed, gazing distrustfully at herstill with big blue eyes; creatures whom any moderately strong handcould have crushed like flies, but whose little minds not all the poweron earth could command or move. Strange contrast! Anne cried when theywere carried off to bed. Sir Robert had escaped from the hot room, whichstifled him, long before; and Sophy, half angry in spite of herself, had made up her mind to "take no notice of the little wretches. "

"Fancy!" she said; "shrinking at Anne--Anne, of all people in the world!There is not a little puppy or kitten but knows better. Littledisagreeable things! Oh, love them! Why should I love them? They areJohn's children, I believe; but they are not a bit like him; they mustbe like their mother. I don't see, for my part, what there is in them tolove. "

"Oh, much, Sophy, " said Anne, drying her eyes; "they are our own fleshand blood. "

"I suppose so. They are certainly Mrs. John's flesh and blood; at least, they are not a bit like us, and I cannot love them for being like her, can I?--whom I never saw?"

The illogicality of this curious argument did not strike Anne. 

"I hope they will get to like us, " she said. "Poor little darlings!everything strange about them, new faces and places. I don't wonder thatthey are frightened, and cry when any one comes near them. We must trustto time. If they only knew how I want to love them, to pet them--"

"I am going to help little Ursula with her packing, " said Sophy hastily;and she hurried to Ursula's room, where all was in disorder, and threwherself down in a chair by the fire, "Anne is too good to live, " shecried. "She makes me angry with her goodness. Little white-faced thingslike nobody I know of, certainly not like our family, shrinking away andclinging to that black woman as if Anne was an ogre--_Anne!_ why, alittle dog knows better--as I said before. "

"I don't think they are very pretty children, " said Ursula, not knowinghow to reply. 

"Why should we be supposed to be fond of them?" said Sophy, who wasrelieving her own mind, not expecting any help from Ursula. "The wholequestion of children is one that puzzles me; a little helpless wax imagethat does not know you, that can't respond to you, and won't perhapswhen it can; that has nothing interesting in it, that is not amusinglike a kitten, or even pretty. Well! let us suppose the people itbelongs to like it by instinct--but the rest of the world--"

"Oh, Cousin Sophy!" cried Ursula, her eyes round with alarm and horror. 

"You think I ought to be fond of them because they are my brother'schildren? We are not always very fond even of our brothers, Ursula. Don't scream; at your age it is different; but when they marry and haveseparate interests--if these mites go on looking at me with those bigscared eyes as if they expected me to box their ears, I shall do it someday--I know I shall; instead of going on my knees to them, like Anne, to curry favour. If they had been like our family, why, that would havebeen some attraction. Are you pleased to go home, or would you prefer tostay here?"

"In London?" said Ursula, with a long-drawn breath, her handsinvoluntarily clasping each other. "Oh! I hope you won't think me verysilly, but I do like London. Yes, I am pleased--I have so many presentsto take to them, thanks to you and to Cousin Anne, and to Mrs. Copperhead. I am ashamed to be carrying away so much. But Carlingford isnot like London, " she added, with a sigh. 

"No, it is a pretty soft friendly country place, not a greatcold-hearted wilderness. "

"Oh, Cousin Sophy!"

"My poor little innocent girl! Don't you think it is desolate andcold-hearted, this great sea of people who none of them care one strawfor you?"

"I have seen nothing but kindness, " said Ursula, with a little heat ofvirtuous indignation; "there is you, and Mrs. Copperhead; and even thegentlemen were kind--or at least they meant to be kind. "

"The gentlemen?" said Sophy, amused. "Do you mean the Copperheads?Clarence perhaps? He is coming to Easton, Ursula. Shall I bring him intoCarlingford to see you?"

"If you please, Cousin Sophy, " said the girl, simply. She had not beenthinking any thoughts of "the gentlemen" which could make her blush, butsomehow her cousin's tone jarred upon her, and she turned round to herpacking. The room was littered with the things which she was puttinginto her box, that box which had grown a great deal too small now, though it was quite roomy enough when Ursula left home. 

"Ursula, I think you are a good little thing on the whole--"

"Oh, Cousin Sophy, forgive me! No, I am not good. "

"Forgive you! for what? Yes, you are on the whole a good little thing;not a saint, like Anne; but then you have perhaps more to try yourtemper. We were always very obedient to her, though we worried her, andpapa always believed in her with all his heart. Perhaps you have more toput up with. But, my dear, think of poor Mrs. Copperhead, for example--"

"Why do you always call her poor Mrs. Copperhead? she is very rich. Shecan make other people happy when she pleases. She has a beautiful house, and everything--"

"And a bear, a brute of a husband. "

"Ah! Does she mind very much?" asked Ursula, with composure. Thisdrawback seemed to her insignificant, in comparison with Mrs. Copperhead's greatness. It was only Sophy's laugh that brought her toherself. She said with some haste, putting in her dresses, with her backturned, "I do not mean to say anything silly. When people are as old asshe is, do they mind? It cannot matter so much what happens when you areold. "

"Why? but never mind, the theory is as good as many others, " said Sophy. "You would not mind then marrying a man like that, to have everythingthat your heart could desire?"

"Cousin Sophy, I am not going to--marry any one, " said Ursula, loftily, carrying her head erect. "I hope I am not like that, thinking of suchthings. I am very, very sorry that you should have such an opinion ofme, after living together ten days. "

She turned away with all the forlorn pride of injury, and there weretears in her voice. Sophy, who dared not laugh in reply, to make theyoung heroine more angry, hastened to apologize. 

"It was a silly question, " she said. "I have a very good opinion of you, Ursula. Ten days is a long time, and I know you as if we had beentogether all your life. I am sure you do not think anything a nice girlought not to think; but I hope you will never be deceived and persuadedto marry any one who is like Mr. Copperhead. I mean who is not nice andyoung, and good, like yourself. "

"Oh, no!" cried the girl, with energy. "But most likely I shall notmarry any one, " she added, with a half sigh; "Janey may, but the eldesthas so much to do, and so much to think of. Cousin Anne has nevermarried. "

"Nor Cousin Sophy either. " Sophy's laugh sounded hard to the girl. "Never mind, you will not be like us. You will marry, most likely, aclergyman, in a pretty parsonage in the country. "

"I do not think I am very fond of clergymen, " said Ursula, recoveringher ease and composure. "They are always in and about, and everythinghas to be kept so quiet when they are studying; and then the parishpeople are always coming tramping upstairs with their dirty feet. Whenyou have only one servant it is very, very troublesome. Sir Robert nevergives any trouble, " she said, once more, with a soft little sigh. 

"Papa?" said Sophy, somewhat surprised; "but you would not--" she wasgoing to say, marry papa; but when she looked at Ursula's innocentgravity, her absolute unconsciousness of the meanings which her chancewords might bear, she refrained. "I think I must send Seton to helpyou, " she said, "you can not get through all that packing by yourself. "

"Oh yes, I am not tired. I have put in all my old things. The rest areyour presents. Oh, Cousin Sophy!" said the girl, coming quickly to herand stealing two arms round her, "you have been so good to me! as if itwas not enough to give me this holiday, the most delightful I ever hadin my life--to send me home loaded with all these beautiful things! Ishall never forget it, never, never, if I were to live a hundred years!"

"My dear!" cried Sophy, startled by the sudden energy of this embrace. Sophy was not emotional, but her eyes moistened and her voice softenedin spite of herself. "But you must let me send Seton to you, " she said, hurrying away. She was excited by the day's events, and did not trustherself to make any further response; for if she "gave way" at all, whocould tell how far the giving way might go? Her brother John had beenmarried at the time when Sophy too ought to have been married, had allgone well--and, perhaps, some keen-piercing thought that she too mighthave had little children belonging to her, had given force and sharpnessto her objections to the pale little distrustful Indian children who hadshrunk from her overtures of affection. She went to her room and bathedher eyes, which were hot and painful, and then she went back to Anne inthe sitting-room, who had opened the window to reduce the temperature, and was resting in an easy chair, and pondering what she could do tomake the children love her, and to be a mother to them in the absence ofMrs. John. 

"I have been talking to Ursula, who is always refreshing, " said Sophy. "I wonder whom that child will marry. She gave me to understand, in herawkward, innocent way, that she preferred papa. A laugh does one good, "Sophy added, slightly rubbing her eyes. Anne made no immediate answer. She scarcely heard indeed what her sister said. 

"I think we shall get on after a while, " she said, softly. "They saidtheir prayers very prettily, poor darlings, and let me kiss them withoutcrying. After a while we shall get on, I don't fear. "

"Anne!" cried Sophy, "you are too much for mere human nature: you aretoo bad or too good for anything. I begin to hate these little wretcheswhen I hear you speak of them so. "

"Hush!" said Anne, "I know you don't mean it. Easton will be verystrange to them at first. I could not go to India for my part. A crustof bread at home would be better. Think of parting with your childrenjust when they come to an age to understand?"

"John, I suppose, did not take children into consideration when he wentaway. You speak as if children were all one's life. "

"A great part of it, " said Anne, gently. "No, dear, I am not clever likeyou, and perhaps it is what you will call a low view; but after all itruns through everything. The flowers are used for the seed, andeverything in the world is intended to keep the world going. Yes, evenI, that is the good of me. I shall never be a mother, but what does thatmatter? There are so many children left on the world whom somebody mustbring up. "

"And who are brought to you when they need you, and taken from you whenthey need you no longer, " said Sophy, indignantly; "you are left to bearthe trouble--others have the recompense. "

"It is so in this world, my dear, all the way down, from God himself. Always looking for reward is mean and mercenary. When we do nothing, when we are of no use, what a poor thing life is, " said Anne, with alittle colour rising in her cheeks, "not worth having. I think we haveonly a right to our existence when we are doing something. And I have mywages; I like to be of a little consequence, " she said, laughing. "Nobody is of any consequence who does not do something. "

"In that case, the ayah, the housemaid is of more consequence than you. "

"So be it--I don't object, " said Anne; "but I don't think so, for theyhave to be directed and guided. To be without a housemaid is dreadful. The moment you think of that, you see how important the people who workare; everything comes to a stand-still without Mary, whereas there areladies whose absence would make no difference. "

"I, for instance. "

"You are very unkind to say so, Sophy; all the same, if you were to domore, you would be happier, my dear. "

"To do what? go on my knees to those wax dolls, and entreat them to letme pet them and make idols of them--as you will do?"

"Well, how are you getting on now?" said Sir Robert, coming in. "Ah! Isee, you have the window open; but the room is still very warm. Whenthey get to Easton they will have their own rooms of course. I don'twant to reflect upon John, but it is rather a burden this he has saddledus with. Mrs. John's mother is living, isn't she? I think somethingmight have been _said_ at least, on her part, some offer to take hershare. "

Sophy gave her sister a malicious glance, but promptly changed her tone, and took up her position in defence of the arrangement, with that easewhich is natural in a family question. 

"Of course, " she said, "your grandchildren, Dorsets, and the heir, probably, as Robert has no boy, could go nowhere, papa, but to us. Itmay be a bore, but at least John showed so much sense; for nothing elsecould be----"

"John does not show very much sense in an ordinary way. What did he wantwith a wife and children at his age? The boy is five, isn't he? and thefather only thirty--absurd! I did not marry till I was thirty, though Ihad succeeded before that time, and was the only son and the head of thefamily. John was always an ass, " said Sir Robert, with a crossness whichsprang chiefly from the fact that the temperature of the room was higherthan usual, and the habits of his evening interfered with. He wascapable of sacrificing something of much more importance to his family, but scarcely of sacrificing his comfort, which is the last and mostpainful of efforts. 

"That may be very true, " said Sophy, "but all the same, it is only rightthat the children should be with us. Mrs. John's people are not welloff. Her mother has a large family of her own. The little things wouldhave been spoiled, or they would have been neglected; and after all, they are Dorsets, though they are not like John. "

"Well, well, I suppose you are right, " said Sir Robert, grumbling, "and, thank Heaven, to-morrow we shall be at home. "

Anne had scarcely said a word, though it was she who was most deeplyconcerned about the children. She gave her sister a hug when Sir Robertrelapsed into the evening paper, and then stole upstairs to look at thepoor babies as they lay asleep. She was not a mother, and never wouldbe. People, indeed, called her an old maid, and with reason enough, though she was little over thirty; for had she been seventy, she couldnot have been more unlikely to marry. It was not her vocation. She hadplenty to do in the world without that, and was satisfied with her life. The sad reflection that the children whom she tended were not her own, did not visit her mind, as, perhaps, it had visited Sophy's, making herangry through the very yearning of nature. Anne was of a differenttemperament, she said a little prayer softly in her heart for thechildren and for her sister as she stooped over the small beds. "Godbless the children--and, oh, make my Sophy happy!" she said. She hadnever asked for nor thought of happiness to herself. It had come to herunconsciously, in her occupations, in her duties, as natural as the softdaylight, and as little sought after. But Sophy was different. Sophywanted material for happiness--something to make her glad; she did notpossess it, like her sister, in the quiet of her own heart. And from thechildren's room Anne went to Ursula's, where the girl, tired with herpacking, was brushing her pretty hair out before she went to bed. Everything was ready, the drawers all empty, the box full tooverflowing, and supplemented by a large parcel in brown paper; and whatwith the fatigue and the tumult of feeling in her simple soul, Ursulawas ready to cry when her cousin came in and sat down beside her. 

"I have been so happy, Cousin Anne. You have been so good to me, " shesaid. 

"My dear, everybody will be good to you, " said Miss Dorset, "so long asyou trust everybody, Ursula. People are more good than bad. I hope whenyou come to Easton you will be still happier. "

Ursula demurred a little to this, though she was too shy to say much. "Town is so cheerful, " she said. It was not Sir Robert's way of lookingat affairs. 

"There is very little difference in places, " said Anne, "when your heartis light you are happy everywhere. " Ursula felt that it was somewhatderogatory to her dignity to have her enjoyment set down to the score ofa light heart. But against such an assertion what could she say?

CHAPTER IX. 

COMING HOME. 

The party which set out from Suffolk Street next morning was a mightyone; there were the children, the ayah, the new nurse whom Anne hadengaged in town, to take charge of her little nephews as soon as theygot accustomed to their new life; and Seton, the ancient serving-woman, whom the sisters shared between them; and Sir Robert's man, not to speakof Sir Robert himself and the Miss Dorsets and Ursula. Easton was withina dozen miles of Carlingford, so that they all travelled together as faras that town. The Dorset party went farther on to the next station, fromwhich they had still six miles to travel by carriage. They set downUrsula on the platform with her box and her parcel, and took leave ofher, and swept out of the station again, leaving her rather forlorn andsolitary among the crowd. "Disgraceful of May not to send some one tomeet the child. I suppose he knew she was coming, " said Sir Robert. AndUrsula had something of the same feeling, as she stood looking wistfullyabout her. But as soon as the train was gone, her name was called in asomewhat high-pitched voice, and turning round she found herself huggedby Janey, while Johnnie, fresh from school, seized her bag out of herhand by way of showing his satisfaction. 

"We didn't come up till we could make sure that the Dorsets were out ofthe way, " said Janey, "and, oh, is it really you? I am so glad to getyou home. "

"Why didn't you want to see the Dorsets? They are the kindest friends wehave in the world, " said Ursula. "How is papa? Is he in a good humour?And the rest? Why did not some more come to meet me? I made sure therewould be four at least. "

"Amy and Robin have gone out to tea--they didn't want to go; but papainsisted. Oh, he is very well on the whole. And Reginald is at home, ofcourse, but I thought you would like me best. Johnnie came to carry thebag, " said Janey with a natural contempt for her younger brother. "Whata big parcel! You must have been getting quantities of presents, or elseyou must have packed very badly, for I am sure there was lots of room inthe trunk when you went away. "

"Oh, Janey, if you only knew what I have got there!"

"What?" said Janey, with quiet but composed interest. It never occurredto her that she could have any individual concern in the contents of theparcels. She was a tall girl who had outgrown all her frocks, or ratherdid outgrow them periodically, with dark elf locks about her shoulders, which would not curl or _crêper_, or do anything that hair ought to do. She had her thoughts always in the clouds, forming all sorts ofimpossible plans, as was natural to her age, and was just the kind ofangular, jerky school-girl, very well intentioned, but very maladroit, who is a greater nuisance to herself and everybody else than even aschool-boy, which is saying a good deal. Things broke in her hands asthey never broke in anybody else's; stuffs tore, furniture fell to theground as she passed by. Ursula carefully kept her off the parcel andgave it to Johnnie. One of the railway porters, when all the rest of thepassengers were disposed of, condescended to carry her trunk, and thusthey set out on their way home. The parsonage was close to St. Roque, atthe other end of Grange Lane. They had to walk all the way down thatgenteel and quiet suburban road, by the garden walls over which, atthis season, no scent of flowers came, or blossomed branches hung forth. There were red holly-berries visible, and upon one mossy old tree a graybunch of mistletoe could be seen on the other side of the street. Buthow quiet it was! They scarcely met a dozen people between the stationand St. Roque. 

"Oh, Janey, is everybody dead?" said Ursula. "How dull it is! You shouldsee London----"

"Ursula, " said Janey firmly, "once for all, I am not going to stand thisLondon! A nasty, smoky, muddy place, no more like Carlingford than--I amlike you. You forget I have been in London; you are not speaking toignorant ears, " said Janey, drawing herself up, "and your letters werequite bad enough. You are not going to talk of nothing but yourdisagreeable London here. Talk to people who have never seen it!" saidthe girl, elevating her shoulders with the contempt of knowledge. 

"That time you were at the dentist's--" said Ursula, "and call thatseeing London! Cousin Anne and Cousin Sophy took me everywhere. We wentto drive in the Park. We went to the Museum and the National Gallery. And, oh! Janey, listen! we went to the theatre: think of that!"

"Well, I should like to go to the theatre, " said Janey, with a sigh. "But you told me in your letter. That's what comes of being the eldest. Unless you get married, or something, nobody will ever think of taking_me_. "

"You are five years younger than I am, " said Ursula, with dignity. "Naturally, people don't think of a girl at your age. You must wait tillyou are older, as I have had to do. Janey! guess what is in _that_?"

"Your new dress--your ball-dress. If it isn't crumpled as you said, youcan't have danced very much. I know my dress will be in tatters if Iever go to a ball. "

"I danced as much as I wished. I did not know many people, " said Ursula, drawing herself up. "Of course at this time of the year nobody is intown, and we hardly knew any one--and of course--"

"Of course, you only knew the fashionable people who are out of town inwinter, " cried Janey, with a laugh which echoed along the street. Ursulahad not come home from London to be laughed at by her younger sister, she who had been petted by the Dorsets, and whose opinion even SirRobert had asked on various occasions. She felt this downfall all themore deeply that she had been looking forward to so many long talks withJaney, and expected to live all her brief ten days' holiday over again, and to instruct her young sister's mind by the many experiences acquiredin that momentous time. Poor Ursula! ten days is quite long enough toform habits at her age, and she had been taken care of, as young ladiesare taken care of in society; accompanied or attended wherever she went, and made much of. To find herself thus left to arrive and get home asshe pleased, with nobody but Janey to meet her, was a terriblefalling-off; and to be laughed at by Janey was the last step of all. Tears filled her eyes, she turned her shoulder to her companion, averting her head; and this was all poor Ursula had to look to. Thedreary Carlingford street, papa finding fault, everything going wrong, and Janey laughing at her! To be Cousin Anne's maid, or governess to thelittle Indian children would be better than this. For five minutes moreshe walked on in offended silence, saying nothing, though Janey, likethe school-girl she was, made frequent use of her elbow to move hersister. 

"Ursula!" the girl said at last, with a more potent nudge, "what's thematter? won't you speak to me?" And Janey, who had her owndisappointment too, and had expected to be received with enthusiasm, burst out crying, regardless of appearances, in the middle of thestreet. 

"Janey, for Heaven's sake--people will see you! I am sure it is I whoshould cry, not you, " said Ursula, in sudden distress. 

"I don't care who sees me, " sobbed Janey. "You have been enjoyingyourself while we have stayed at home, and instead of being pleased tocome back, or glad to see us--Oh, how can you be so cold-hearted?" shesaid with a fresh burst of tears. 

Here the other side of the question suddenly dawned upon Ursula. She hadbeen enjoying herself while the others stayed at home. It was quitetrue. Instead of feeling the shock of difference she should have thoughtof those who had never been so lucky as she was, who had never seenanything out of Carlingford. "Don't be so foolish, Janey, " she said, "I_am_ glad;--and I have brought you such beautiful presents. But when youdo nothing but laugh----"

"I am sure I didn't laugh to hurt. I only laughed for fun!" cried Janey, drying her eyes not without a little indignation; and thus peace wasmade, for indeed one was dying to tell all that happened, and the otherdying to hear. They walked the rest of the way with their heads veryclose together, so absorbed that the eldest brother, coming out of thegate as they approached, stood looking at them with a smile on his facefor some time before they saw him. A slight young man, not very tall, with dark hair, like Ursula's, and a somewhat anxious expression, incorrect English clerical dress. 

"Has it all begun already?" he said, when they came close up to him, butwithout perceiving him, Ursula's face inspired with the pleasure oftalking, as Janey's was with the eager delight of listening. The housewas built in the ecclesiastical style, with gables and mullionedwindows, which excluded the light, at least, whether or not theyinspired passers-by with a sense of correct art, as they were intendedto do. It was next door to the church, and had a narrow strip ofshrubbery in front, planted with somewhat gloomy evergreens. The gateand door stood always open, except when Mr. May himself, coming orgoing, closed them momentarily, and it cannot be denied that there wereoutward and visible signs of a large, somewhat unruly family inside. 

"Oh, Reginald!" cried Ursula. "You have come home!"

"Yes--for good, " he said with a half-laugh, half-sigh. "Or for bad--whocan tell? At all events, here I am. "

"Why should it be for bad?" cried Janey, whose voice was always audiblehalf-way up the street. "Oh, Ursula, something very nice has happened. He is to be warden of the old college, fancy! That _is_ being providedfor, papa says; and a beautiful old house. "

"Warden of the old college! I thought it was always some old person whowas chosen. "

"But papa says he can live at home and let the house, " cried Janey. "There is no reason why it should be an old gentleman, papa thinks; itis nice, because there is no work--but look at Reginald, he does notlike it a bit; he is never satisfied, I am sure, I wish it was me--"

"Come in, " said Reginald hastily, "I don't want all my affairs, and mycharacter besides, to be proclaimed from the house-tops. " Janey stoppedindignant, to make some reply, and Ursula, grasping her arm, as shefeared, with an energetic pinch, went in quickly. Little Amy had beenplaying in the little square hall, which was strewed with doll'sclothes, and with two or three dolls in various stages of dilapidation. Some old, ragged school-books lay in a corner, the leaves out of one ofwhich were blowing about in the wind. Even ten days of Anne Dorset'sorderly reign had opened Ursula's eyes to these imperfections. 

"Oh, what a muddle!" she cried; "I don't wonder that Reginald does notcare for living at home. "

"Oh, I wish papa heard you!" cried Janey loudly, as Ursula led the wayinto the drawing-room, which was not much tidier than the hall. Therewas a basket-full of stockings to be mended, standing on the oldwork-table. Ursula felt, with a sinking of the heart, that they werewaiting for her arrival, and that Janey had done nothing to them. Moretoys and more old school-books were tossed about upon the faded oldcarpet. The table-cover hung uneven, one end of it dragging upon thefloor. The fire was burning very low, stifled in dust and white ashes. How dismal it looked! not like a place to come home to. "Oh, I don'twonder Reginald is vexed to be made to live at home, " she said onceagain to herself, with tears in her eyes. 

"I hope you have enjoyed yourself, " her brother said, as she droppedwearily into the old easy-chair. "We have missed you very much; but Idon't suppose you missed us. London was very pleasant, I suppose, evenat this time of the year?"

"Oh, pleasant!" said Ursula. "If you had been with me, how you wouldhave liked it! Suffolk Street is only an inn, but it is a very nice inn, what they call a private hotel. Far better than the great big places onthe American principle, Sir Robert says. But we dined at one of thosebig places one day, and it was very amusing. Scores of people, and greatmirrors that made them look hundreds. And such quantities of lights andservants; but Sir Robert thought Suffolk Street very much the best. AndI went to two theatres and to a ball. They were so kind. Sophy Dorsetlaughs at me sometimes, but Anne is an angel, " said Ursula fervently. "Inever knew any one so good in my life. "

"That is not saying much, " said Janey, "for none of us are very good, and you know nobody else. Anne Dorset is an old maid. "

"Oh, Janey! how dare you?"

"And, for that matter, so is Sophy. Papa says so. He says she wasjilted, and that she will never get a husband. "

"Hold your tongue, " said Reginald fiercely, "if we are to hear what myfather says at second hand through an imp like you--"

"Oh, yes, " said Janey, mocking, "that is because you are not friendswith papa. "

"Janey, come and help me to take off my things, " said Ursula, seeingthat Reginald would probably proceed to strong measures and box hissister's ears. "If you were older, you would not talk like that, " shesaid, with dignity, as they went upstairs. "Oh, dear Janey, you can'tthink how different Cousin Anne and Sophy are, who are not girls, likeus. They never talk unkindly of other people. You would get to think itchildish, as I do, if you had been living with Cousin Anne. "

"Stuff!" said Janey. "Papa is not childish, I hope. And it was he whosaid all that. I don't care what your fine Cousin Anne does. "

Notwithstanding, the reproof thus administered went to Janey's heart;for to a girl of fifteen, whose next sister is almost twenty, thereproach of being childish is worse than any other. She blushedfiery-red, and though she scoffed, was moved. Besides, though it suitedher to quote him for the moment, she was very far from putting anyunbounded faith in papa. 

"Just wait a moment! See what Cousin Anne, whom you think so little of, has sent you, " said Ursula, sitting down on the floor with the greatparcel in her lap, carefully undoing the knots; for she had read MissEdgeworth's stories in her youth, and would not have cut the strings forthe world; and when the new dresses, in all their gloss and softness, were spread out upon the old carpet, which scarcely retained one traceof colour, Janey was struck dumb. 

"Is that, " she said, faltering and conscience-stricken, "for _me_?"

"This is for you; though you think them old maids--and that they willnever get husbands, " said Ursula, indignantly. "What a thing for a girlto say! And, indeed, I don't think Cousin Anne will ever get a husband. There is not one in the world half good enough for her--not one! Yes, this is for you. They went themselves, and looked over half the thingsin the shop before they could get one to please them. They did not say, 'Janey is an unkind little thing, that will repeat all she hears aboutus, and does not care for us a bit. ' They said, 'Ursula, we must choosefrocks for Janey and Amy. Come and help us to get what they will likebest. '"

Janey's lips quivered, and two very big tears came into her eyes. Shewas stricken with the deepest compunction, but her pride did not permither to give in all at once. 

"I dare say you told her how badly off we were, " she said. 

"I told her nothing about it, and she did not say a word--not a word, asif it were a charity--only to please you--to let you see that you wereremembered; but I dare say it is quite true after all, " said Ursula, with lofty irony, "that Cousin Anne will never get a husband, and thatthey are old maids. "

"Oh, you know I didn't mean it!" said Janey, giving way to her tears. 

Then Ursula got up and took off her hat and smoothed her hair, feelingsatisfied with her success, and went downstairs again to Reginald, whowas seated on the dingy sofa waiting for her, to answer her questionsabout the great event which had happened since she had been away. Ursula's mind was full of the shock of the sharp impression made by herreturn, though the impression itself began to wear away. 

"I can understand why you don't care about living at home, " she said. "Oh I wonder if I could do anything to mend it! I am so glad you havegot something, Reginald. If you have a good servant, you might be quitecomfortable by yourself, and we could come and see you. I should notfeel it a bit--not a single bit; and it would be so much nicer for you. "

"You are mistaken, " said her brother. "It is not staying at home Iobject to. We are not very tidy or very comfortable, perhaps, but we allbelong to each other, at least. It is not that, Ursula. "

"What is it, then? Janey says, " said Ursula, drawing a long breath ofawe and admiration, "that you are to have two hundred and fifty pounds ayear. "

"For doing nothing, " he said. 

"For doing nothing?" She looked up at him a little bewildered, for histone struck Ursula as not at all corresponding with the delightfulcharacter of the words he said. "But, Reginald, how nice, how very niceit sounds! How lucky you must have been! How could it happen that such adelightful thing should come to one of us? We are always so unlucky, papa says. "

"If you think this luck--" said Reginald. "He does, and he is quitepleased; but how do you suppose I can be pleased? Thrust into a placewhere I am not wanted--where I can be of no use. A dummy, a practicalfalsehood. How can I accept it, Ursula? I tell you it is a sinecure!"

Ursula looked at him with eyes round with wonder. He seemed to bespeaking in some different language of which she understood nothing. "What is a sinecure?" she said. 

CHAPTER X. 

PAPA. 

"Ursula has come back!" cried the little ones, who had returned fromtheir tea-party, running to meet their father at the door. 

Mr. May was very good, except by moments, to his younger children. Hewas not, indeed, an unkind father to any of them; but he had neverforgiven Providence for leaving him with his motherless family upon hishands, a man so utterly unfit for the task. Perhaps he did not put thisexactly into words, but he felt it deeply, and had never got over it. There were so many things that he could have done better, and there wereso many people who could have done this better; and yet it was preciselyto him, not a person adapted to the charge of children, that it had beengiven to do it! This seemed to argue a want of judgment in theregulation of mortal affairs, which irritated him all the more becausehe was a clergyman, and had to persuade other people that everythingthat happened to them was for the best. He was a man of some culture, and literary power, and wrote very pleasant "thoughtful" papers for someof the Church magazines; but these compositions, though very easy toread, were only brought into the world by elaborate precautions on thepart of the family, which scarcely dared to speak above its breath whenpapa was "writing;" for on such occasions he could be very savage, asthe occasional offender knew. He was a man with an imposing person, good-looking, and of very bland and delightful manners, when he chose. But yet he had never made friends, and was now at fifty-five theincumbent of St. Roque, with a small income and a humble position in thechurch hierarchy of Carlingford. He preached better than any other ofthe Carlingford clergymen, looked better, had more reputation out of theplace; and was of sufficiently good family, and tolerably wellconnected. Yet he never got on, never made any real advance in life. Nobody could tell what was the cause of this, for his opinions weremoderate and did not stand in his way--indeed within the limits ofmoderation he had been known to modify his principles, now incliningtowards the high, then towards the low, according as circumstancesrequired, though never going too far in either direction. Such a manought to have been successful, according to all rules, but he was not. He was generally in debt and always needy. His eldest son, James, was inIndia, doing well, and had often sent a contribution towards the comfortof the family, and especially to help Reginald at College. But James hadmarried a year before, and accordingly was in a less favourable positionfor sending help. And indeed these windfalls had never produced mucheffect upon the family, who heard of James' gifts vaguely withoutprofiting by them. All this _donna à penser_ to the elder children. Having no softening medium of a mother's eyes to look at their fatherthrough, they were more bold in judging him than, perhaps, they ought tohave been; and he did not take pains to fascinate his children, or throwthe glamour of love into their eyes. He took it for granted, frankly andas a part of nature, that he himself was the first person to beconsidered in all matters. So he was, of course--so the father, thebread-winner, the head of the family, ought to be; and when he has awife to keep him upon that pedestal, and to secure that his worshipshall be respected, it becomes natural, and the first article of thefamily creed; but somehow when a man has to set forth and uphold thisprinciple himself, it is less successful; and in Mr. May's case it wasnot successful at all. He was not severe or tyrannical, so that theymight have rebelled. He only held the conviction quite honestly andingeniously, that his affairs came first, and were always to be attendedto. Nothing could be said against this principle--but it tells badly inthe management of a family unless, indeed, as we have said, it ismanaged through the medium of the mother, who takes away all imputationof selfishness by throwing an awful importance and tender sanctity overall that happens to be desirable or necessary for "papa. "

Mr. May had no wife to watch over the approaches of his study, and talkof him with reverential importance to her children. This was not hisfault, but his misfortune. Bitterly had he mourned and resented the blowwhich took her from him, and deeply felt the loss she was to him. Thiswas how he spoke of it always, the loss to him; and probably poor Mrs. May, who had adored and admired her husband to the last day of her life, would have been more satisfied with this way of mourning for her thanany other; but naturally Ursula, who thought of the loss to herself andthe other children, found fault with this limitation of the misfortune. A man who has thus to fight for himself does not appear in an amiableaspect to his family, to whom, as to all young creatures, it seemednatural that _they_ should be the first objects; and as they were agreat trouble and burden to him, perhaps the children did not alwaysbear their most amiable aspect to their father. Both looked selfish tothe other, and Mr. May, no doubt, could have made out quite as good acase as the children did. He thought all young people were selfish, taking everything they could, trying to extract even the impossible fromthe empty purse and strained patience of their elders; and they thoughtthat he was indifferent to them, thinking about himself, as it is acapital sin in a parent to do; and both of them were right and bothwrong, as indeed may be said in every case to which there are two sides. 

"Ursula has come!" cried the two little ones. Amy and Robin could readtheir father's face better than they could read those instruments oftorture called printed books, and they saw that he was in a good humour, and that they were safe to venture upon the playful liberty of seizinghim, one by each hand, and dragging him in. He was a tall man, and thesight of him triumphantly dragged in by these imps, the youngest of whomwas about up to his knees, was pretty, and would have gone to the heartof any spectator. He was not himself unconscious of this, and when hewas in a good humour, and the children were neat and tolerably dressed, he did not object to being seen by the passers-by dragged up his ownsteps by those two little ones. The only passers-by, however, on thisoccasion were a retired shopkeeper and his wife, who had lately boughtone of the oldest houses in Grange Lane, and who had come out for a walkas the day was fine. "Mark my words, Tozer, " the lady was saying, "that's a good man though he's a church parson. Them as children hangsonto like that, ain't got no harm in them. "

"He's a rum un, he is, " said Mr. Tozer in reply. It was a pity that thepretty spectacle of the clergyman with his little boy and girl shouldhave been thus thrown away upon a couple of Dissenters, yet it was notwithout its effect. Amy pulled one arm and Robin pulled the other. Theywere dark-haired children like all the Mays, and as this peculiarity israre among children, it gave these two a certain piquancy. 

"Well, well, " he said, "take me to Ursula, " and after he had kissed hisnewly-arrived daughter, he sat down in the faded drawing-room with muchgeniality, and took one child on each knee. 

"I hope you have enjoyed yourself, Ursula, " he said; "of course, we havemissed you. Janey has done her best, but she is not very clever athousekeeping, nor does she understand many things that people require, as you have learned to do. "

"Oh, I am so glad you have missed me!" said Ursula, "I mean sorry; Ihave enjoyed myself very, very much. The Dorsets were so kind, kinderthan anybody ever was before. "

"And, papa, they have sent me a new dress. "

"And me too, papa, " chirruped little Amy on his knee. 

"You too, Mouse! it was very kind of them; and you went to the Tower anddid all the lions, Ursula? that is the lot of country cousins, and theDorsets would spare you nothing, I suppose. "

"We went to much better things, " said Ursula, producing her theatres andher ball as she had done before. "And, oh, papa, I like them so much. Iwish we lived a little nearer. Those poor little Indian children, I fearthey will be too much for Cousin Anne; they look so pale and so peevish, not like our children here. "

"Well, they are not pale at all events, " said Mr. May, putting themdown; "run and play like good children. You will have heard that we havehad something happening to us, even in this quiet place, while you wereaway. "

"Oh, I was so astonished, " said Ursula, "but Reginald doesn't seem tolike it. That is so odd; I should have thought he would have beenoverjoyed to get something. He used to talk so about having nointerest. "

"Reginald is like a great many other people. He does not know his ownmind, " said Mr. May, his countenance overcasting. Ursula knew that signof coming storms well enough, but she was too much interested toforbear. 

"What is a sinecure, papa?" she asked, her brother's last word stilldwelling in her mind. 

"A piece of outrageous folly, " he cried, getting up and striding aboutthe room, "all springing from the foolish books boys read now-a-days, and the nonsense that is put into their minds. Mean! it means that yourbrother is an ass, that is what it means. After all the money that hasbeen spent upon him--"

"But, papa, we have not spent much, have we? I thought it was hisscholarship?" said Ursula with injudicious honesty. Her father turnedupon her indignantly. 

"I am not aware that I said we. _We_ have nothing to spend upon any one, so far as I know. I said I--the only person in the house who earns anymoney or is likely to do so, if Reginald goes on in this idiotical way. "

Ursula grew red. She was Mr. May's own daughter, and had a temper too. "If I could earn any money I am sure I would, " she cried, "and only tooglad. I am sure it is wanted badly enough. But how is a girl to earn anymoney? I wish I knew how. "

"You little fool, no one was thinking of you. Do a little more in thehouse, and nobody will ask you to earn money. Yes, this is the shapethings are taking now-a-days, " said Mr. May, "the girls are mad to earnanyhow, and the boys, forsooth, have a hundred scruples. If women wouldhold their tongues and attend to their own business, I have no doubt weshould have less of the other nonsense. The fact is everything isgetting into an unnatural state. But if Reginald thinks I am going tomaintain him in idleness at his age--"

"Papa, for Heaven's sake don't speak so loud, he will hear you!" saidUrsula, letting her fears of a domestic disturbance overweigh herprudence. 

"He will hear me? I wish him to hear me, " said Mr. May, raising hisvoice. "Am I to be kept from saying what I like, how I like, in my ownhouse, for fear that Reginald should hear me, forsooth! Ursula, I amglad to have you at home; but if you take Reginald's part in his folly, and set yourself against the head of the family, you had better go backagain and at once. _He_ may defy me, but I shall not be contradicted bya chit of a girl, I give you my word for that. "

Ursula was silent; she grew pale now after her redness of hasty andunconsidered self-defence. Oh, for Cousin Anne to shield and calm her;what a difference it made to plunge back again thus into trouble andstrife. 

"He thinks it better to be idle at his father's expense than to do alittle work for a handsome salary, " said Mr. May; "everything is rightthat is extracted from his father's pocket, though it is contrary to ahigh code of honour to accept a sinecure. Fine reasoning that, is itnot? The one wrongs nobody, while the other wrongs you and me and allthe children, who want every penny I have to spend; but Reginald is muchtoo fine to think of that. He thinks it quite natural that I should goon toiling and stinting myself. "

"Papa, it may be very wrong what he is doing; but if you think he wantsto take anything from you--"

"Hold your tongue, " said her father; "I believe in deeds, not in words. He has it in his power to help me, and he chooses instead, for amiserable fantastic notion of his own, to balk all my care for him. Ofcourse the hospital was offered to him out of respect for me. No onecares for _him_. He is about as much known in Carlingford as--little Amyis. Of course it is to show their respect to me. And here he comes withhis fantastic nonsense about a sinecure! Who is he that he should makesuch a fuss? Better men than he is have held them, and will to the endof the chapter. A sinecure! what does he call a sinecure?"

"That is just what I want to know, " said Ursula under her breath, buther father did not, fortunately, hear this ejaculation. Reginald hadgone out, and happily was not within hearing, and Mr. May calmed down bydegrees, and told Ursula various circumstances about the parish and thepeople which brought him down out of his anger and comforted her afterthat passage of arms. But the commotion left him in an excitable state, a state in which he was very apt to say things that were disagreeable, and to provoke his children to wrath in a way which Ursula thought wasvery much against the scriptural rule. 

"Things in the parish are going on much as usual, " he said, "Mrs. SamHurst is as kind as ever. "

"Indeed!" said Ursula with a suppressed snort of anger. Mr. May gave thekind of offensive laugh, doubly offensive to every woman, which men givewhen their vanity is excited, and when there is, according to the commonexpression, a lady in the case. 

"Yes, she is very kind, " he said with a twinkle in his eye. "She has hadthe children to tea a great many times since you have been away. To showmy sense of her kindness, you must ask her one of these days. A womanwho understands children is always a valuable friend for a man in myposition--and also, Ursula, for a girl in yours. "

"She may understand children, but they are not fond of her, " saidUrsula, with a gleam of malice which restored her father to good humour. He had no more idea of marrying a second time than of flying. He wastenderly attached in his way to his wife's memory, and quitesufficiently troubled by the number of dwellers in his house already;but he rather liked, as a good-looking man in his wane generally does, to think that he could marry if he pleased, and to hold the possibilityover the heads of his household, as a chastisement of all their sinsagainst him which he could use at any time. All the Mays grew hot andangry at the name of Mrs. Sam Hurst, and their fear and anger delightedtheir father. He liked to speak of her to provoke them, and partly forthat, partly for other reasons of his own, kept up a decoroussemi-flirtation with his neighbour who lived next door, and thus excitedthe apprehensions and resentment of the girls every day of their lives. When Ursula thought of Mrs. Sam Hurst she wished for the Dorsets nomore. It was above all things, she felt, her duty to be here on the spotto defend the family from that woman's machinations. The idea put energyinto her. She ceased to be tired, ceased to feel herself, "after herjourney, " capable of nothing but sitting still and hearing of all thathad been done since she went away. 

In the course of the evening, however, Ursula took advantage of a quietmoment to look into the dictionary and make herself quite safe about themeaning of the word sinecure. It was not the first time she had heardit, as may be supposed. She had heard of lucky people who heldsinecures, and she had heard them denounced as evil things, but withoutentering closely into the meaning. Now she had a more direct interest init, and it must be confessed that she was not at all frightened by theidea, or disposed to reject it as Reginald did. Ursula had not learntmuch about public virtue, and to get a good income for doing nothing, ornext to nothing, seemed to her an ideal sort of way of getting one'slivelihood. She wished with a sigh that there were sinecures which couldbe held by girls. But no, in that as in other things "gentlemen" keptall that was good to themselves; and Ursula was disposed to treatReginald's scruples with a very high hand. But she did not choose thather father should attack him with all these disagreeable speeches aboutmaintaining him in idleness, and taunts about the money that had beenspent on his education. That was not the way to manage him, the girlfelt; but Ursula resolved to take her brother in hand herself, to arguewith him how foolish it was, to point out to him that if he did not takeit some one else would, and that the country would not gain anythingwhile he would lose, to laugh at his over delicacy, to show him howdelightful it would be if he was independent, and what a help to all hisbrothers and sisters. In short, it seemed quite simple to Ursula, andshe felt her path mapped out before her, and triumphed in every stage ofher argument, inventing the very weakest replies for Reginald to make. Full of the inspiration of this purpose, she felt that it was in everyway well that she had come home. With Reginald settled close by, goingaway no longer, standing by her in her difficulties, and even perhaps, who could tell? taking her to parties, and affording her the means nowand then of asking two or three people to tea, the whole horizon of herlife brightened for Ursula. She became reconciled to Carlingford. Allthat had to be done was to show Reginald what his duty was, and howfoolish he was to hesitate, and she could not allow herself to supposethat _when it was put before him properly_ there could long remain muchdifficulty upon that score. 

CHAPTER XI. 

PHŒBE'S PREPARATIONS. 

A few days after Ursula's return home, another arrival took place inCarlingford. Phoebe Beecham, after considering the case fully, andlistening with keen interest to all the indications she could pick up asto the peculiarities of her grandfather's house, and the many things inlife at Carlingford which were "unlike what she had been used to, " hadfully made up her mind to dare the difficulties of that unknownexistence, and to devote herself in her mother's place to the care ofher grandmother and the confusion of Mrs. Tom. This was partlyundertaken out of a sense of duty, partly out of that desire for changeand the unknown, which has to content itself in many cases with the verymildest provision, and partly because Phoebe's good sense perceived thenecessity of the matter. She was by no means sure what were the specialcircumstances that made "Mrs. Tom" disagreeable to her mother, but shewas deeply sensible of the importance of preventing Mrs. Tom fromsecuring to herself and her family all that Mr. And Mrs. Tozer had toleave. Phoebe was not mercenary in her own person, but she had no idea ofgiving up any "rights, " and she felt it of the utmost importance thather brother, who was unfortunately by no means so clever as herself, should be fully provided against all the contingencies of life. She wasnot concerned about herself in that particular. Phoebe felt it a matterof course that she should marry, and marry well. Self-confidence of thisassured and tranquil sort serves a great many excellent purposes--itmade her even generous in her way. She believed in her star, in her owncertain good-fortune, in herself; and therefore her mind was free tothink and to work for other people. She knew very well by all her mothersaid, and by all the hesitations of both her parents, that she wouldhave many disagreeable things to encounter in Carlingford, but she feltso sure that nothing could really humiliate _her_, or pull her down fromher real eminence, that the knowledge conveyed no fears to her mind. When this confidence in her own superiority to all debasing influencesis held by the spotless princess in the poem, it is the most beautifulof human sentiments, and why it should not be equally elevated whenentertained by a pink and plump modern young woman, well up in allnineteenth century refinements, and the daughter of the minister of theCrescent Chapel, it would be hard to say. Phoebe held it with thestrongest faith. 

"Their ways of thinking, perhaps, and their ways of living, are notthose which I have been used to, " she said; "but how does that affectme? I am myself whatever happens; even if poor dear grandmamma's habitsare not refined, which I suppose is what you mean, mamma, that does notmake me unrefined. A lady must always be a lady wherever she is--Una, "she continued, using strangely enough the same argument which hasoccurred to her historian, "is not less a princess when she is livingamong the satyrs. Of course, I am not like Una--and neither are theylike the wild people in the wood. "

Mrs. Beecham did not know much about Una, except that she was somebodyin a book; but she kissed her daughter, and assured her that she was "areal comfort, " and devoted herself to her comfort for the few days thatremained, doing everything that it was possible to do to show her love, and, so to speak, gratitude to the good child who was thus throwingherself into the breach. The Beechams were in no want of money to buywhat pleased them, and the mother made many additions to Phoebe'swardrobe which that young lady herself thought quite unnecessary, notreflecting that other sentiments besides that of simple love for herselfwere involved. 

"They shall see that my daughter is not just like one of theircommon-looking girls, " Mrs. Beecham said to her husband; and he sharedthe feeling, though he could not but think within himself that heraspect was of very much more importance than the appearance of PhoebeTozer's child could possibly be as _his_ daughter. 

"You are quite right, my dear, " he replied, "vulgar people of that sortare but too ready to look down upon a pastor's family. They ought to bemade to see the difference. "

The consequence of this was that Phoebe was fitted out like a youngprincess going on her travels. Ursula May would have been out of herwits with delight, had half these fine things come her way; but Phoebetook them very calmly. 

"I have never undervalued dress, " she said, "as some girls do; I thinkit is a very important social influence. And even without that, mamma, so long as it pleases you--" So with this mixture of philosophy andaffection all went well. 

"We must call on Mrs. Copperhead before you go; they would think itstrange, after all the interest they have shown in us. "

"Have they shown an interest in us?" said Phoebe. "Of course we mustcall--and Mrs. Copperhead is a lady, but as for Mr. Copperhead, mamma--"

"Hush! he is the leading member, and very influential in the connection. A pastor's family must not be touchy, Phoebe. We must put up with a greatmany things. There ought to be peace among brethren, you know, andharmony is the first thing that is essential in a church--"

"I wonder if harmony would be as essential, supposing Mr. Copperhead tocome to grief, mamma. "

"Phoebe! slang from you--who have always set your face against it. "

"What can one talk but slang when one thinks of such a person?" saidPhoebe gravely; and thus saying she opened the door for her mother, andthey went out in their best gowns to pay their visit. Mrs. Copperheadwas very civil to the pastor's family. It was not in her to be uncivilto any one; but in her soft heart she despised them a little, andcomported herself to them with that special good behaviour and dignifiedrestraint which the best natured people reserve for their inferiors. Forthough she went to chapel, taken there by Mr. Copperhead, she was"church" at heart. The interest which Mrs. Beecham took in everything, and the praises she bestowed on the ball, did not relax her coldness. They were too well off, too warm and silken to call forth hersympathies, and there was little in common between them to afford anyground for meeting. 

Yes, Mr. Copperhead was quite well--she was quite well--her son wasquite well. She hoped Mr. Beecham was well. She had heard that mostpeople were pleased with the ball, thank you. Oh, Miss Beecham was goingaway--indeed! She hoped the weather would be good; and then Mrs. Copperhead sat erect upon her sofa, and did not try to say any more. Though she had not the heart of a mouse, she too could play the greatlady when occasion served. Clarence, however, was much more hospitablethan his mother. He liked Phoebe, who could talk almost as if she was insociety, as girls talk in novels. He knew, of course, that she was notin society, but she was a girl whom a fellow could get on with, who hadplenty to say for herself, who was not a lay figure like many youngladies; and then she was pretty, pink, and golden, "a piece of colour"which was attractive to the eye. He soon found out where she was going, and let her know that he himself intended a visit to the neighbourhood. 

"The Dorsets live near, " he said. "Relations of my mother. You saw themat the ball. I dare say you will meet them somewhere about. " This, itis to be feared, Clarence said in something of his mother's spirit, witha warm sense of superiority, for he knew that the pastor's daughter wasvery unlikely to meet the Dorsets. Phoebe, however, was equal to theoccasion. 

"I am not at all likely to meet them, " she said with a gracious smile. "For one thing, I am not going to enjoy myself, but to nurse a sickperson. And sick people don't go to parties. Besides, you know thefoolish prejudices of society, properly so called. I think them foolishbecause they affect me, " said Phoebe, with engaging frankness. "If theydid not affect me, probably I should think them all right. "

"What foolish prejudices?" said Clarence, thinking she was about to saysomething about her inferior position, and already feeling flatteredbefore she spoke. 

"About Dissenters, you know, " she said; "of course, you must be awarethat we are looked down upon in society. It does not matter, for whenpeople have any sense, as soon as they know us they do us justice; butof course you must be aware that the prejudice exists. "

Clarence did know, and with some bitterness; for Mr. Copperhead, thoughhe did not care much, perhaps, about religion, cared for his chapel, andstood by it with unswerving strictness. His son, who was an Oxford man, and respectful of all the prejudices of society, did not like this. Butwhat could he do against the obstinate dissentership of his father?This, as much as anything else, had acted upon the crowd the night ofthe ball, and made them all nobodies. He hesitated to make any reply, and his face flushed with shame and displeasure. Phoebe felt that she hadavenged upon Clarence his mother's haughty politeness. She had broughthome to him a sense of the social inferiority which was common to themboth. Having done this, she was satisfied, and proceeded to soften theblow. 

"It cannot fall upon you, who are in so much better a position, as itdoes upon us, " said Phoebe. "We are the very head and front of theoffending, a Dissenting minister's family!--Society and its charms arenot for us. And I hope we know our place, " she said, with mock humility;"when people have any sense and come to know us it is different; and forthe foolish ones I don't care. But you see from that, I am not likely tomeet your cousins, am I?" she added with a laugh. 

"If you mean that they are among the foolish ones----"

"Oh, no; I don't. But you can't suppose they will take the trouble tofind _me_ out. Why should they? People entirely out of my range, andthat have nothing to do with me. So you may be quite sure I am rightwhen I say we sha'n't meet. "

"Well, " said Clarence, piqued, "I am going to Easton, and I shall seeyou, if Mrs. Beecham will give me permission to call. "

"She will give you the address along with that; but till then, good-bye, " said Phoebe. To tell the truth, she had no desire to seeClarence Copperhead in Carlingford. Perhaps he meant something, perhapshe did not--at this stage of the proceedings it was a matter ofindifference to Phoebe, who certainly had not allowed "her affections" tobecome engaged. If he did mean anything, was it likely that he couldsupport unmoved the grandfather and grandmother who were, or had been, "in trade?" On the other hand, was it not better that he should know theworst? Phoebe was no husband-hunter. She contemplated the issue with calmand composure, however it might turn out. 

"He asked me if he might call, " said Mrs. Beecham, in some excitement. "I don't care much to have you seen, my darling, out of your ownfather's house. "

"Just as you please, mamma--just as it suits best, " said Phoebe, dismissing the subject. She was not anxious. A good deal depended onwhether he meant anything or nothing, but even that did not conclude thesubject, for she had not made up her own mind. 

"Why didn't you tell them about the Mays?" said Clarence, as the twoladies went out. "They live in Carlingford, and I should think it wouldbe pleasant on both sides. "

"My dear boy, you forget the difference of position, " said Mrs. Copperhead. "They are Dissenters. "

"Oh, I like that, " cried Clarence, half angry, as himself sharing thedisadvantages of the connection. "A needy beggar like May has a greatdeal to stand upon. I like that. "

"But it is true all the same, " said Mrs. Copperhead, shaking her head. "And you can see the difference at once. I dare say Miss Beecham is avery clever young woman, but between her and Miss May what a differencethere is! Any one can see it--"

"I am afraid then I am stupid, for I can't see it, mother. They are bothpretty girls, but for amusing you and that sort of thing give me Phoebe. She is worth twenty of the other. As sharp as a needle, and plenty tosay for herself. This is the kind of girl I like. "

"I am very sorry for it. I hope that is not the kind of wife you willlike, " said Mrs. Copperhead, with a sigh. 

"Oh, wife! they haven't a penny, either the one or the other, " saidClarence, with delightful openness, "and we may be sure that would notsuit the governor even if it suited me. "

In the mean time Mrs. Beecham and Phoebe were walking up the broadpavement of Portland Place towards their home. 

"It is pleasant to see the mother and the son together, " said Mrs. Beecham, who was determined to see everything in the best light thatconcerned the Copperheads. "They are so devoted to each other, and, Phoebe, dear--I don't like to talk in this way to a sensible girl likeyou, but you must see it with your own eyes. You have certainly made agreat impression upon Clarence Copperhead. When he said he hoped to seeyou in Carlingford, and asked, might he call? it was exactly like askingmy permission to pay you his addresses; it is very flattering, but it isembarrassing as well. "

"I do not feel particularly flattered, mamma; and I think if I were youI would not give him the address. "

Mrs. Beecham looked anxiously in her daughter's face. 

"Is it from prudence, Phoebe, or is it that you don't like him, that youwouldn't have him if he asked you?"

"We must wait till he does ask me, " said Phoebe, decisively. "Till then Ican't possibly tell. But I don't want him at Carlingford. I know thatgrandpapa and grandmamma are--in trade. "

"Yes, dear, " said Mrs. Beecham, in a subdued voice. 

"Dissenters, and in trade; and he is going to stay with the Dorsets, fine county people. Don't give him the address; if we meet by chance, there is no harm done. I am not ashamed of any one belonging to me. Butyou can say that you don't think his father would like him to bevisiting me at Carlingford--which I am sure would be quite true. "

"Indeed he might go much farther without finding any one so well worthvisiting, " said the mother, indignant, to which Phoebe nodded her head intranquil assent. 

"That is neither here nor there, " she said; "you can always tell him so, and that will please Mr. Copperhead, if ever he comes to hear of it. Hethought at one time that I was too entertaining. One knows what thatmeans. I should like him to see how little I cared. "

"But, my dear, Clarence Copperhead would be worth--a little attention. He could give a girl--a very nice position, " Mrs. Beecham faltered, looking at her daughter between every word. 

"I am not saying anything against Clarence Copperhead, " said Phoebe, withcomposure, "but I should like his dear papa to know how little I care, and that you have refused him my address. "

This was all she said on the subject. Phoebe was quite ready to allowthat Clarence was everything that her mother had said, and she had fullyworked out her own theory on marriage, which will probably be hereafterexpounded in these pages, so that she was not at all shocked by havinghis advantages thus pointed out to her. But there was no hurry, she saidto herself. If it was not Clarence Copperhead, it would be some oneelse, and why should she, at this early stage of her career, attempt toprecipitate the designs of Providence? She had plenty of time beforeher, and was in no hurry for any change; and a genuine touch of naturein her heart made her anxious for an opportunity of showing herindependence to that arrogant and offensive "leading member, " who madethe life of the office-bearers in the Crescent a burden to them. If shecould only so drive him into a corner, that he should be obliged to cometo her in his despair, and beg her to accept his son's hand to save himfrom going off in a galloping consumption, that would have been atriumph after Phoebe's heart. To be sure this was a perfectly vain andwildly romantic hope--it was the only bit of wild and girlish romance inthe bosom of a very well-educated, well-intentioned, and sensible youngwoman. She had seen her parents put up with the arrogance of themillionnaire for a long time without rebelling any more than they did;but Mr. Copperhead had gone further than Phoebe could bear; andthoroughly as she understood her own position, and all its interests, this one vain fancy had found a footing in her mind. If she could buthumble him and make him sue to her. It was not likely, but for such atriumph the sensible Phoebe would have done much. It was the one point onwhich she was silly, but on that she was as silly as any cynic coulddesire. 

And thus with a huge trunk full of charming dresses, a dressing-case fitfor any bride, the prettiest travelling costume imaginable, andeverything about her fit, Mrs. Beecham fondly thought, for a duke'sdaughter, Phoebe junior took her departure, to be the comfort of hergrandmamma, and to dazzle Carlingford. Her fond parents accompanied herto the station and placed her in a carriage, and fee'd a guard heavilyto take care of and watch over her. "Not but that Phoebe might be safelytrusted to take care of herself anywhere, " they said. In whichexpression of their pride in their daughter, the observant reader maysee a proof of their own origin from the humbler classes. They wouldprobably have prided themselves on her timidity and helplessness hadthey been a little better born. 

CHAPTER XII. 

GRANGE LANE. 

Mr. And Mrs. Tozer had retired from business several years before. Theyhad given up the shop with its long established connection, and all itsadvantages, to Tom, their son, finding themselves to have enough to liveupon in ease, and indeed luxury; and though Mrs. Tozer found the housein Grange Lane shut in by the garden walls to be much duller than herrooms over the shop in High Street, where she saw everything that wasgoing on, yet the increase in gentility was unquestionable. The housewhich they were fortunate enough to secure in this desirable localityhad been once in the occupation of Lady Weston, and there wasaccordingly an aroma of high life about it, although somebody lessimportant had lived in it in the mean time, and it had fallen into astate of considerable dilapidation, which naturally made it cheaper. Mr. Tozer had solidly repaired all that was necessary for comfort, but hehad not done anything in those external points of paint and decoration, which tells so much in the aspect of a house. Lady Weston's taste hadbeen florid, and the walls continued as she had left them, painted andpapered with faded wreaths, which were apt to look dissipated, as theyought to have been refreshed and renewed years before. But outside, where the wreaths do not fade, there was a delightful garden charminglylaid out, in which Lady Weston had once held her garden parties, andwhere the crocuses and other spring bulbs, which had been put in with alavish hand, during Lady Weston's extravagant reign, had already begunto blow. The violets were peeping out from among their leaves on asheltered bank, and Christmas roses, overblown, making a great show withtheir great white stars, in a corner. Tozer himself soon took a greatinterest in this little domain out of doors, and was for ever potteringabout the flowers, obeying, with the servility of ignorance, thegardener's injunctions. Mrs. Tozer, however, who was in weak health, andconsequently permitted to be somewhat cross and contradictory, regrettedthe High Street. 

"Talk of a garden, " she said, "a thing as never changes except accordingto the seasons! Up in the town there was never a day the same, somethingalways happening--Soldiers marching through, or Punch and Judy, or arow at the least. It is the cheerfullest place in the whole world, I dobelieve; shut up here may do for the gentry, but I likes the streets andwhat's going on. You may call me vulgar if you please, but so I do. "

Tozer prudently said nothing to such outbursts except a soothingexhortation to wait till summer, when she would find the benefit of thefresh air, not to speak of the early vegetables; and he himself foundthe garden an unspeakable resource. At first, indeed, he would stroll upto the shop of a morning, especially if any new consignment offirst-rate York hams, or cheese, was coming in, which he loved to turnover and test by smell and touch; but by and by the ancient buttermanmade a discovery, such as we are all apt to make when we get old andstep out of the high road of life. He found out that his son did notappreciate his advice, and that Mrs. Tom cared still less for hisfrequent appearances. Indeed, he himself once saw her bounce out of theshop as he entered, exclaiming audibly, "Here's that fussy old managain. " Tozer was an old man, it is true, but nobody (under eighty)cares to have the epithet flung in his teeth; and to be in the way isalways unpleasant. He had self-command enough to say nothing about it, except in a very modified shape to his wife, who was ready enough tobelieve anything unpleasant about Mrs. Tom; but he took to gardeningwith ardour from that day; and learned all about the succession of theflowers, and how long one set lasted, and which kind should be put intothe ground next. He would even take off his coat and do a tolerableday's work under the gardener's direction, to the great advantage of hishealth and temper, while Mrs. Tozer grumbled upstairs. She was gettingmore and more helpless about the house, unable to see after the stoutmaid-of-all-work, who in her turn grumbled much at the large house, forwhich one maid was not enough. Many altercations took place inconsequence between the mistress and servant. 

"The ungrateful hussy hasn't even as many rooms to do as she had in theHigh Street, when there was the 'prentices' beds to make, " Mrs. Tozersaid indignantly to her husband; but Jane on her side pointed to thelength of passage, the stairs, the dining and drawing-rooms, where therehad once only been a parlour. 

"Cook and 'ousemaid's little enough, " said Jane; "there did ought to bea man in this kind of 'ouse; but as there's only two in family, shouldn't say nothing if I had a girl under me. "

Things were gravitating towards this girl at the time of Phoebe'sarrival; but nothing had as yet been finally decided upon. Jane, however, had bestirred herself to get the young lady's room ready withsomething like alacrity. A young person coming to the house promised alittle movement and change, which was always something, and Jane had nodoubt that Phoebe would be on her side in respect to the "girl. " "She'llwant waiting upon, and there'll always be sending of errands, " Jane saidto herself. She knew by experience "what young 'uns is in a house. "

There was something, perhaps, in all the preparations for her departurewhich had thrown dust in Phoebe Beecham's eyes. She had been toosharp-sighted not to see into her mother's qualms and hesitations abouther visit to Carlingford, and the repeated warnings of both parents asto the "difference from what she had been accustomed to;" and shethought she had fully prepared herself for what she was to encounter. But probably the elaborate outfit provided by her mother and theimportance attached to her journey had to some degree obliterated thisimpression, for it is certain that when Phoebe saw an old man in a shabbycoat, with a wisp of a large white neckcloth round his throat, watchinganxiously for the arrival of the train as it came up, she sustained ashock which she had not anticipated. It was about five years since shehad seen her grandfather, an interval due to hazard rather than purpose, though, on the whole, the elder Beechams had not been sorry to keeptheir parents and their children apart. Phoebe, however, knew hergrandfather perfectly well as soon as she saw him, though he had notperceived her, and was wandering anxiously up and down in search of her. She held back in her corner for the moment, to overcome the shock. Yes, there could be no doubt about it; there he was, he whom she was going tovisit, under whose auspices she was about to appear in Carlingford. Hewas not even like an old Dissenting minister, which had been herchildish notion of him. He looked neither more nor less than what hewas, an old shopkeeper, very decent and respectable, but a little shabbyand greasy, like the men whose weekly bills she had been accustomed topay for her mother. She felt an instant conviction that he would callher "Ma'am, " if she went up to him, and think her one of the quality. Poor Phoebe! she sat back in her corner and gave a gasp of horror anddismay, but having done this, she was herself again. She gave herself ashake, like one who is about to take a plunge, rose lightly to her feet, took up her bag, and stepped out of the carriage, just as Mr. Tozerstrolled anxiously past for the third time. 

"Grandpapa!" she cried with a smile. Mr. Tozer was almost as much takenaback by this apparition as Phoebe herself had been. He knew that hisdaughter had made great strides in social elevation, and that herchildren, when he had seen them last, had been quite like "gentlefolk'schildren;" but to see this young princess step forth graciously out of afirst-class carriage, and address him as "grandpapa, " took away hisbreath. 

"Why--why--why, Miss! you ain't little Phoebe?" he cried, scared out ofhis seven senses, as he afterwards said. 

"Yes, indeed, I am little Phoebe, " she said, coming up and kissing himdutifully. She was half-disgusted, he half-frightened; but yet it wasright, and Phoebe did it. "I have only two boxes and a bag, " she said, "besides my dressing-case. If you will get a cab, grandpapa, I will goand see after the luggage. "

Old Tozer thought he could have carried the bag himself, and left theboxes to follow; but he succumbed humbly and obeyed. 

"She don't seem a bit proud, " he said to himself; "but, good Lord, what'll she ever say to my old woman?"

He saw the contrast very clearly between his wife and this splendidgrandchild. It did not strike him so much in his own case. 

"How is grandmamma?" said Phoebe, blandly; "better, I hope? Mamma was sosorry not to come herself; but you know, of course, she has a great manythings to do. People in town are obliged to keep up certain appearances. You are a great deal better off in the country, grandpapa. "

"Lord bless you, my dear, do you call Carlingford the country?" said Mr. Tozer. "That is all you know about it. Your granny and I are humblefolks, but the new minister at Salem is one as keeps up appearances withthe best. Your mother was always inclined for that. I hope she has notbrought you up too fine for the likes of us. "

"I hope not, indeed, " said Phoebe. "No fear of my being too fine for myduty, grandpapa. Do you live down this nice road? How pretty it is! howdelightful these gardens must be in summer. I beg your pardon forcalling it the country. It is so quiet and so nice, it seems the countryto me. "

"Ah, to be sure; brought up in the London smoke, " said Mr. Tozer. "Idon't suppose, now, you see a bit of green from year's end to year'send? Very bad for the 'ealth, that is; but I can't say you look poorlyon it. Your colour's fresh, so was your mother's before you. To be sure, she wasn't cooped up like you. "

"Oh, we do get a little fresh air sometimes--in the parks, forinstance, " said Phoebe. She was somewhat piqued by the idea that she wassupposed to live in London smoke. 

"Ah, the parks are always something; but I suppose it takes you a day'sjourney to get at them, " said Mr. Tozer, shaking his head. "You mustn'tmind your grandmother's temper just at first, my dear. She's old, poorsoul, and she ain't well, and she's sometimes cross above a bit. Butshe'll be that proud of you, she won't know if she's on her 'eels or 'er'ead; and as for a cross word now and again, I hope as you won't mind--"

"I shan't mind anything, grandpapa, " said Phoebe, sweetly, "so long as Ican be of use. "

And these were, indeed, the dutiful sentiments with which she made herentry upon this passage in her life, not minding anything but to be ofuse. The first glimpse of old Tozer, indeed, made it quite evident toPhoebe that nothing but duty could be within her reach. Pleasure, friends, society, the thought of all such delights must be abandoned. And as for Clarence Copperhead and the Miss Dorsets, the notion ofmeeting or receiving them was too absurd. But Duty remained, and Phoebefelt herself capable of the sacrifice demanded from her. That confidencein herself which we have already indicated as a marked feature in hercharacter, gave her the consoling certainty that she could not sufferfrom association with her humble relations. Whosoever saw her must doher justice, and that serene conviction preserved her from all thethroes of uneasy pride which afflict inferior minds in similarcircumstances. She had no wish to exhibit her grandfather andgrandmother in their lowliness, nor to be ostentatious of her homelyorigin, as some people are in the very soreness of wounded pride; but ifhazard produced the butterman in the midst of the finest of heracquaintances, Phoebe would still have been perfectly at her ease. Shewould be herself, whatever happened. 

In the mean time, however, it was apparent that Duty was what she had tolook to; Duty, and that alone. She had come here, not to amuse herself, not to please herself, but to do her duty; and having thus concludedupon her object, she felt comparatively happy, and at her ease. 

Mrs. Tozer had put on her best cap, which was a very gorgeous creation. She had dressed herself as if for a party, with a large brooch, enclosing a curl of various coloured hair cut from the heads of herchildren in early life, which fastened a large worked collar over adress of copper-coloured silk, and she rustled and shook a good deal asshe came downstairs into the garden to meet her grandchild, with someexcitement and sense of the "difference" which could not but be felt onone side as well as on the other. She, too, was somewhat frightened bythe appearance of the young lady, who was her Phoebe's child, yet was sounlike any other scion of the Tozer race; and felt greatly disposed tocurtsey and say "Ma'am" to her. 

"You've grown a deal and changed a deal since I saw you last, " she said, restraining this impression, and receiving Phoebe's kiss with gratified, yet awe-struck feeling; and then her respectful alarm getting too muchfor her, she added, faltering, "You'll find us but humble folks; perhapsnot altogether what you've been used to--"

Phoebe did not think it expedient to make any reply to this outburst ofhumility. 

"Grandmamma, I am afraid you have over-exerted yourself, comingdownstairs to meet me, " she said, taking the old lady's hand, anddrawing it within her arm. "Yes, I have grown; I am tall enough to be ofsome use; but you must not treat me as if I were a stranger. No, no;never mind my room. I am not tired; the journey is nothing. Let me takeyou back to your chair and make you comfortable. I feel myself quite athome already. The only odd thing is that I have never been here before. "

"Ah, my dear, your mother thought too much of you to send you to thelikes of us; that's the secret of it. She was always fond of fine folks, was my Phoebe; and I don't blame her, bringing you up quite the lady asshe's done. "

"You must not find fault with mamma, " said Phoebe, smiling. "What a nicecozy room! This is the dining-room, I suppose; and here is your cushion, and your footstool at this nice window. How pleasant it is, with thecrocuses in all the borders already! I am not at all tired; but I amsure it must be tea-time, and I should so like a cup of tea. "

"We thought, " said Mrs. Tozer, "as perhaps you mightn't be used to teaat this time of day. "

"Oh, it is the right time; it is the fashionable hour, " said Phoebe;"everybody has tea at five. I will run upstairs first, and take off myhat, and make myself tidy. Jane--is that her name?--don't trouble, grandmamma; Jane will show me the way. "

"Well?" said Mr. Tozer to Mrs. Tozer, as Phoebe disappeared. The two oldpeople looked at each other with a little awe; but she, as was hernature, took the most depressing view. She shook her head. 

"She is a deal too fine for us, Tozer, " she said. "She'll never makeherself 'appy in our quiet way. Phoebe's been and brought her up quitethe lady. It ain't as her dress is much matter. I'd have given her asilk myself, and never thought of it twice; and something lively likefor a young person, 'stead of that gray stuff, as her mother might wear. But all the same, she ain't one of our sort. She'll never make herself'appy with you and me. "

"Well, " said Tozer, who was more cheerful, "she ain't proud, not a bit;and as for manners, you don't pay no more for manners. She came up andgive me a kiss in the station, as affectionate as possible. All I cansay for her is as she ain't proud. "

Mrs. Tozer shook her head; but even while she did so, pleasanter dreamsstole into her soul. 

"I hope I'll be well enough to get to chapel on Sunday, " she said, "justto see the folk's looks. The minister needn't expect much attention tohis sermon. 'There's Phoebe Tozer's daughter!' they'll all be saying, anda-staring, and a-whispering. It ain't often as anything like her is seenin chapel, that's a fact, " said the old lady, warming into theexultation of natural pride. 

Phoebe, it must be allowed, had a good cry when she got within theshelter of her own room, which had been very carefully prepared for her, with everything that was necessary for comfort, according to hergrandmother's standard; but where the "tent" bed hung with old-fashionedred and brown chintz, and the moreen curtains drooping over the window, and the gigantic flowers on the carpet, made Phoebe's soul sick withinher. Notwithstanding all her courage, her heart sank. She had expected"a difference, " but she had not looked for her grandfather's greasy coatand wisp of neckcloth, or her grandmother's amazing cap, or thegrammatical peculiarities in which both indulged. She had a good hot fitof crying, and for the moment felt so discouraged and depressed, thatthe only impulse in her mind was to run away. But her temperament didnot 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 sheheard in sermons and otherwise that no one ought to look for the sweetwithout the bitter, and that duty should never be avoided or refusedbecause it is unpleasant? Now was the time to put her principles to thetest; and the tears relieved her, and gave her something of the feelingof a martyr, which is always consolatory and sweet; so she dried hereyes, and bathed her face, and went downstairs cheerful and smiling, resolved that, at all costs, her duty should be done, howeverdisagreeable it might be. What a good thing the new fashion of fiveo'clock tea is for people who have connections in an inferior path oflife who make tea a meal, and don't dine, or dine in the middle of theday! This was the thought that passed through Phoebe's mind as she wentinto the dining-room, and found the table covered, not to say groaningunder good things. She took her place at it, and poured out tea for theold people, and cut bread-and-butter with the most gracious philosophy. Duchesses did the same every day; the tea-table had renewed its ancientsway, even in fashionable life. It cannot be told what a help andrefreshment this thought was to Phoebe's courageous heart. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE TOZER FAMILY. 

When Phoebe woke next morning, under the huge flowers of the oldfashioned cotton drapery of her "tent" bed, to see the faint daylightstruggling in through the heavy curtains which would not draw back fromthe window, the discouragement of her first arrival for a momentoverpowered her again--and with even more reason--for she had more fullyascertained the resources of the place in which she found herself. Therewere no books, except some old volumes of sermons and a few back numbersof the Congregational Magazine, no visitors, so far as she could makeout, no newspaper but the Carlingford Weekly Gazette, nothing but hergrandmother's gossip about the chapel and Mrs. Tom to pass the wearyhours away. Even last night Mrs. Tozer had asked her whether she had notany work to beguile the long evening, which Phoebe occupied much morevirtuously, from her own point of view, in endeavouring to amuse the oldpeople by talking to them. Though it was morning, and she ought to havebeen refreshed and encouraged by the repose of the night, it was againwith a few hot tears that Phoebe contemplated her prospects. But this wasonly a passing weakness. When she went down to breakfast, she was againcheerful as the crocuses that raised their heads along the borders withthe promise of summer in them. The sun was shining, the sky was frosty, but blue. After all, her present sufferings could not endure for ever. Phoebe hurried to get dressed, to get her blue fingers warned by thedining-room fire. It is needless to say that there was no fire, orthought of a fire in the chilly room, with its red and brown hangings, in which Mrs. Tozer last night had hoped she would be happy. "No fear ofthat, grandmamma, " she had answered cheerfully. This was as much a lie, she felt, as if it had been said with the wickedest intentions--was itas wrong? How cold it was, and yet how stifling! She could scarcelyfasten the ribbon at her neck, her fingers were so cold. 

"Yes, grandpapa, it is brighter than in London. We don't live in thecity, you know. We live in rather a pretty neighbourhood looking out onRegent's Park, but it is seldom so bright as the country. Sometimes thefog blows up our way, when the wind is in the east; but it is warmer, Ithink, " said Phoebe, with a little shiver, stooping over the dining-roomfire. 

"Ah!" said Mrs. Tozer, shaking her head, "it's your mother as has spoiltyou, I don't make no doubt, with fires and things. That takes thehardiness out of young folks. A little bit of cold is wholesome, itstirs up the blood. Them as is used to fires is always taking cold. Onegood fire in the sitting-room, that's always been my principle, and themas is cold if they can't warm theirselves with movin' about, which isfar the best, let them come and warm their fingers when they please--asyou may be doing now. "

"Perhaps it is a very good principle, grandmamma, " said Phoebe, "when oneis used to it; but the country is colder than town. Where there arefires on every side you must have more warmth than in a detached houselike this. But it is only my hands after all. Shall I make the tea?"

"You should wear mittens like me--I always did in the High Street, especial when I was going and coming to the shop, helping serve, whenthe children were young and I had the time for it. Ah! we've done withall that now. We're more at our ease, but I can't say as we're muchhappier. A shop is a cheerful sort of thing. I dare say your mother hastold you--"

"No, " said Phoebe, under her breath; but the reply was not noticed. Shenearly dropped the teapot out of her hand when she heard the word--Shop!Yes, to be sure, that was what being "in trade" meant, but she had neverquite realized it till now. Phoebe was going through a tremendous pieceof mental discipline in these first days. She writhed secretly, andmoaned to herself--why did not mamma tell me? but she sat quite stilloutside, and smiled as if it was all quite ordinary and natural, andshe had heard about the shop all her life. It seemed cruel and unkind tohave sent her here without distinct warning of what she was going tomeet. But Phoebe was a good girl, and would not blame her father andmother. No doubt they meant it "for the best. "

"Is Uncle Tom, " she said, faltering somewhat, "in the--shop now?"

"If I'm able, " said Mrs. Tozer, "I'll walk that far with you thismorning--or Tozer, I mean your grandfather, will go. It's a tidy houseo' business, though I say it as shouldn't, seeing it was him and me asmade it all; though I don't hold with Mrs. Tom's nonsense about the newwindows. Your Uncle Tom is as innocent as innocent, but as for her, sheain't no favourite of mine, and I makes no bones about saying so, Idon't mind who hears. "

"She ain't so bad as you make her out, " said Tozer. "She's kind enoughin her way. Your grandmother is a-going to show you off--that's it, mydear. She can't abide Tom's wife, and she wants to show her as you'refar finer than her girls. I don't say no. It's nat'ral, and I'm not oneas stands against nature; but don't you be prejudiced by my old womanthere. She _is_ a prejudiced one. Nothing in the world will make hergive up a notion when she's took it into her head. "

"No, nothing; and ain't I always right in the end? I should think you'veproved that times enough, " said the old woman. "Yes, I'll take a little, my dear, since you press me so pretty. Folks take many a thing whenthey're pressed as they wouldn't touch if there was no one to say, takea bit. Tozer, he never thinks of that; he's always had the best o'appetites; but as for me, if I get's a cup o' tea that's all as I caresfor. You'll see as she'll take my view, when she's once been to the HighStreet. She's her mother's daughter, and Phoebe can't abide that woman, no more than me. "

"Have they got many children?" said Phoebe. "I know there are two girls, but as I have never seen them--Are they as old as I am?" she asked, witha tremulous feeling at her heart. If there were girls in the shop in theHigh Street, with whom she would have to be on familiar terms, as hercousins and equals, Phoebe did not feel that she could put up with that. 

"The eldest, Polly, is only twelve, " said Tozer; "but never you mind, mydear, for you shan't be without company. There's a deal of families withdaughters like yourself. Your grandmother won't say nothing against it;and as for me, I think there's nought so cheery as young folks. Youshall have a fire in the drawing-room, and as many tea-parties as youlike. For the young men, I can't say as there's many, but girls isplenty, and as long as you're content with that--"

Mrs. Tozer regarded him with withering contempt across the table. 

"You're clever ones, you men, " she said. "Families with daughters! Doyou think the Greens and the Robbins is company for _her_? I dare say asyou've heard your mother speak of Maria Pigeon, my dear? She marriedJohn Green the grocer, and very well to do and respectable they may be, but nobody but the likes of your grandfather would think of you and themmaking friends. "

"Indeed I don't care for making friends, " said Phoebe, "you must rememberthat I came not for society, but to wait upon you, dear grandmamma. Idon't want young friends. At home I always go out with my mother; let metake walks with you, when you are able. I am glad Uncle Tom's childrenare little. I don't want company. My work--and the garden--and to sitwith grandmamma, that is all I care for. I shall be as happy as the dayis long, " said this martyr, smiling benignly over the aches in herheart. 

Her grandparents looked at her with ever-growing pride. Was not this theideal young woman, the girl of the story-books, who cared about nothingbut her duty?

"That's very nice of you, my dear; but you ain't going to hide yourselfup in a corner, " said Tozer. And, "Never fear, I'll take her whereverit's fit for her to go to, " his wife added, looking at her with pride. Phoebe felt, in addition to all the rest, that she was to be made a showof to all the connection, as a specimen of what the Tozer blood couldcome to, and she did not even feel sure that something of the samefeeling had not been in her mother's bosom when she fitted her out soperfectly. Phoebe Tozer had left contemporaries and rivals inCarlingford, and the thought of dazzling and surpassing them in heroffspring as in her good fortune had still some sweetness for her mind. "Mamma meant it too!" Phoebe junior said to herself with a sigh. Unfortunately for her, she did everybody credit who belonged to her, andshe must resign herself to pay the penalty. Perhaps there was somecompensation in that thought. 

And indeed Phoebe did not wonder at her grandmother's pride when shewalked up with her to High Street, supporting her on her arm. Sherecognised frankly that there were not many people like herself about, few who had so much the air of good society, and not one who was so welldressed. There were excuses to be made then for the anxiety of the oldpeople to produce her in the little world which was everything to them, and with her usual candour and good sense she acknowledged this, thoughshe winced a little when an occasional acquaintance drifted across Mrs. Tozer's path, and was introduced with pride to "my granddaughter, " andthrust forth an ungloved hand, with an exclamation of, "Lord bless us, Phoebe's eldest! I hope I see you well, Miss. " Phoebe continued urbane, though it cost her many a pang. She had to keep on a perpetual argumentwith herself as she went along slowly, holding up her poor grandmother'stottering steps. "If this is what we have really sprung from, this is myown class, and I ought to like it; if I don't like it, it must be myfault. I have no right to feel myself better than they are. It is notposition that makes any difference, but individual character, " Phoebesaid to herself. She got as much consolation out of this as is to beextracted from such rueful arguments in general; but it was after allindifferent comfort, and had not her temperament given her a strong holdof herself, and power of subduing her impulses, it is much to be fearedthat Phoebe would have dropped her grandmother's arm as they approachedthe station, and run away. She did waver for a moment as she came insight of it. On that side lay freedom, comfort, the life she had beenused to, which was not very elevated indeed, but felt like high rank incomparison with this. And she knew her parents would forgive her anddefend her if she went back to them, unable to support the martyrdomwhich she had rashly taken upon herself. But then how weak that wouldbe, Phoebe thought to herself, drawing Mrs. Tozer's arm more tightlywithin her own--how small! how it would hurt the feelings of the oldpeople, how it would vex and embarrass her father and mother! Lastly, itmight peril her brother's interests and her own, which, to do herjustice, was the last thing she thought of, and yet was not undeservingof notice in its way. 

"Lean on me more heavily, grandmamma, " she said at last, finallyconcluding and throwing off this self-discussion. She could not prolongit further. It was unworthy of her. Hence-forward she had made up hermind to set her face like a flint, and no longer leave the question ofher persistence in her domestic mission an open question. Whatever shemight have "to put up with, " it was now decided once for all. 

"Bless us all, if this ain't grandmamma, " said Mrs. Tom. It was notoften, as she herself said with pride, that she required to be in theshop, which was very much improved now from its old aspect. Ill luck, however, brought her here to-day. She stood at the door which led fromthe shop to the house, dividing the counter, talking to a lady who wasmaking a complaint upon the quality of cheese or butter. Mrs. Tozer hadled Phoebe that way in order to point out to her the plate-glass windowsand marble slabs for the cheese, of which, though they were one of hergrievances against Mrs. Tom, she was secretly proud. 

"I don't deny but what they've done a deal, " said the old woman, "showand vanity as I call it. I wish they may do as well for themselves withall their plate-glass as me and Tozer did without it; but it ain't oftenas you'll see a handsomer shop, " she added, contemplating fondly thescene of her early labours. If a squire looks fondly at his land, and asailor at his ship (when ships were worth looking at), why should not ashopkeeper regard his shop with the same affectionate feelings? Mrs. TomTozer had just taken leave of her remonstrant customer with a curtsey, and an assurance that the faults complained of should be remedied, whenshe caught sight of the infirm old woman leaning on Phoebe's arm, andmade the exclamation already quoted. 

"Lord bless us all! if it ain't grandmamma, and Phoebe's daughter alongo' her, I'll lay you sixpence, " said Mrs. Tom in the extremity of hersurprise, and at the highest pitch of her voice. The lady customer wasstill in the shop, and when she heard this she turned round and gave thenew-comers a stare. (It was not very wonderful, Phoebe allowed to herselfwith secret anguish). She gave old Mrs. Tozer a familiar nod. "This isquite a long walk for you now-a-days, " she said, gazing at Phoebe, thoughshe addressed the old woman. 

"Thank ye, ma'am, I am a deal better, " said Mrs. Tozer, "especially asI've got my granddaughter to take care of me. "

"Oh! is this young--person your granddaughter, " said the customer withanother stare, and then she nodded again and went away wondering. "Well, " Phoebe said to herself, "one little sting more or less what didit matter?" and she went on through the shop supporting her grandmother, keenly sensible of the looks that encountered her on every side. Mrs. Tom stood leaning against the counter, waiting for them without makingany advance. She was smart and good-looking, with a malicious gleam in apair of bright black beady eyes. 

"How are you, granny?" she said, "I declare you're looking quite youngagain, and as spry as twenty. Come in and rest; and this young lady asis with you, I don't think as I need ask her name, the likeness speaksfor itself. It's Phoebe Beecham, ain't it? Bless us all! I'd have knownher anywhere, I would; the very moral of her mother, and of you too, granny. As you stand there now, you're as like as two peas. "

Unconsciously Phoebe cast a look upon her grandmother. She did not thinkshe was vain. To be unconscious that she had some personal advantageswould, of course, be impossible; but a thrill crept through her when shelooked at the old woman by her side, wrinkled and red, in hercopper-coloured gown. As like as two peas! was that possible? Phoebe'sheart sank for the moment to her shoes, and a pitiful look of restrainedpain came to her face. This was assailing her in her tenderest point. 

"Am I so like you, grandmamma?" she said, faltering; but added quickly, "then I cannot be like mamma. How do you do? My mother wished me to comeat once, to bring her kind regards. Is my uncle at home?"

"No, Miss, your uncle ain't at home, " said Mrs. Tom, "but you might becivil, all the same, and put a name to me, more nor if I was a dog. I'myour aunt, I am--and I likes all my titles, I do--and proper respect. "

"Surely, " said Phoebe, with a bow and a gracious smile--but she did notadd that name. She was pleased to think that "Tom's wife" was hermother's favourite aversion, and that a dignified resistance to herclaims was, so to speak, her duty. It even amused her to think of theingenuity required throughout a long conversation for the clever andpolite eluding of this claim. 

"I hope as you mean to let us in, Amelia, " said Mrs. Tozer, "for itain't often as I takes so long a walk. I would never have thought of itbut for Phoebe--Phoebe junior, as Tozer calls her. She's been used tothings very different, but I'm thankful to say she ain't a bit proud. She couldn't be more attentive to me if I was the queen, and talks ofyour children as pretty as possible, without no nonsense. It ain't oftenas you see that in a girl brought up like she's been. "

"I don't pretend to know nothing of how she's been brought up, " saidMrs. Tom, "and I don't think as there's no occasion for pride here. We're all well-to-do, and getting on in the world--thanks to Him asgives the increase. I don't see no opening for pride here. Me and yourmother were never very good friends, Phoebe, since that's your name; butif there's anything I can do for you, or my family, you won't ask twice. Grandmother's ain't a very lively house, not like mine, as is full ofchildren. Come in, Granny. I'm always speaking of making the stairswider, and a big window on the landing; but folks can't do everythingat once, and we'll have to do with it a bit longer. We've done a dealalready to the old place. "

"More than was wanted, or was thought upon in my time, " said the oldlady, to whom this was as the trumpet of battle. "The stairs did wellenough for me, and I can't think what Tom can want changing things ashe's been used to all his life. "

"Oh, it ain't Tom, " said his wife, her face lighting up withsatisfaction. "Tom wouldn't mind if the place was to come to bits aboutour ears. He's like you, granny, he's one of the stand-still ones. Itain't Tom, it's me. "

This little passage of arms took place as they were going upstairs, which cost poor Mrs. Tozer many pantings and groaning, and placed Phoebefor once on Mrs. Tom's side, for a window on the landing would have beena wonderful improvement, there was no denying. When, at last, they hadtoiled to the top, fighting their way, not only through the obscurity, but through an atmosphere of ham and cheese which almost choked Phoebe, the old lady was speechless with the exertion, though the air was to heras the air of Paradise. Phoebe placed her on a chair and undid herbonnet-strings, and for a minute was really alarmed. Mrs. Tom, however, took it with perfect equanimity. 

"She's blown a bit; she ain't as young as she was, nor even as shethinks for, " said that sympathetic person. "Come, Granny, cheer up. Themstairs ain't strange to you. What's the good of making a fuss? Sit downand get your breath, " she went on, pulling forward a chair; then turningto Phoebe, she shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows. "She'sbreaking fast, that's what it is, " said Mrs. Tom under her breath, witha nod of her head. 

"This is the room as your mother spent most of her life in when she waslike you, " said Mrs. Tozer, when she regained her breath. "It was hereas she met your father first. The first time I set my eyes on him, 'That's the man for my Phoebe, ' I said to myself; and sure enough, so itturned out. "

"You didn't miss no way of helping it on, neither, granny, if folks doyou justice, " said Mrs. Tom. "Mothers can do a deal when they exertsthemselves; and now Phoebe has a daughter of her own, I dare be swornshe's just as clever, throwing the nice ones and the well-off ones inher way. It's a wonder to me as she hasn't gone off yet, with all heropportunities--two or three and twenty, ain't you, Miss Phoebe? I shouldhave thought you'd have married long afore now. "

"I stall be twenty my next birthday, " said Phoebe. "My cousins are agreat deal younger, I hear; are they at school? I hope I shall see thembefore I go. "

"Oh, you'll see 'em fast enough, " said their mother, "they're 'avingtheir music lesson. I don't hold with sending girls to school. I likesto keep them under my own eye. I suppose I needn't ask you now if youplay?"

"A very little, " said Phoebe, who rather piqued herself upon her music, and who was learned in Bach and Beethoven, and had an opinion of her ownabout Wagner. Mrs. Tom brightened visibly, for her girls played not alittle, but a great deal. 

"And draw?--but I needn't ask, for living in London, you've got mastersat your very door. "

"Not at all, I am sorry to say, " said Phoebe, with a pathetic tone ofregret in her voice. 

"Lord bless us! Now who'd have thought it? I think nothing a sacrificeto give mine the best of education, " said Mrs. Tom. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

STRANGERS. 

"Well, Ursula, how do you do?" said Mrs. Sam Hurst, meeting her youngneighbour with outstretched hands. She was a portly good-looking womanwith an active mind, and nothing, or next to nothing to do, and insteadof being affronted as some persons might have been, she was amused, andindeed flattered, by the suspicion and alarm with which all the youngMays regarded her. Whether she had the least intention of ever givingany justification to their alarms it would be impossible to say, forindeed to a sensible woman of forty-five, well to do and comfortable, ahusband with "a temper of his own, " and a large poor unruly family, was, perhaps, not so tempting as he appeared to be to his jealous children. Anyhow she was not at all angry with them for being jealous and afraidof her. She was cordial in her manner to the Mays as to everybody sheknew. She asked how Ursula had enjoyed herself, where she had been, whatshe had seen, and a hundred questions more. 

"It is quite delightful to see somebody who has something to tell, " shesaid when the interrogation was over. "I ask everybody what news, andno one has any news, which is dreadful for me. "

"How can you care for news?" said Ursula, "news! what interest can therebe in mere news that doesn't concern us?"

"You are very foolish, my dear, " said Mrs. Hurst; "what's to become ofyou when you're old, if you don't like to hear what's going on? I'mthankful to say I take a great deal, of interest in my fellow-creaturesfor my part. Now listen, I'll tell you a piece of news in return for allyour information about London. When I was in Tozer's shop to-day--Ialways go there, though they are Dissenters; after all, you know, mosttradespeople are Dissenters; some are sorry for it, some think it quitenatural that gentle-people and tradespeople should think differently inreligious matters; however, what I say is, you can't tell the differencein butter and bacon between church and dissent, can you now? and Tozer'sis the best shop in the town, certainly the best shop. So as I was inTozer's as I tell you, who should come in but old Mrs. Tozer, who oncekept it herself--and by her side, figure my astonishment, a young lady!yes, my dear, actually a young lady, in appearance, of course--I mean inappearance--for, as you shall hear, it could be no more than that. Sonicely dressed, nothing vulgar or showy, a gown that Elise might havemade, and everything to correspond, in perfect taste. Fancy! and you mayimagine how I stared. I could not take my eyes off her. I was soastonished that I rubbed up my old acquaintance with the old woman, andasked her how her rheumatism was. I _hope_ it is rheumatism. At allevents I called it so, and then she told me as proud as a peacock thatit was her granddaughter; fancy, her granddaughter! did you ever hear ofsuch a thing? The other woman in the shop, the present Tozer, called outto her by name. Phoebe they called her. Poor girl, I was so sorry forher. A lady in appearance, and to have to submit to that!"

"Oughtn't ladies to be called Phoebe?" asked Janey. "Why not? It's rathera pretty name. "

"That is so like Janey, " said Mrs. Hurst; "I know she is the clever one;but she never can see what one means. It is not being called Phoebe, itis because of her relations that I am sorry for her. Poor girl!educating people out of their sphere does far more harm than good, Ialways maintain. To see that nice-looking, well-dressed girl in Tozer'sshop, with all the butter boys calling her Phoebe--"

"The butter boys are as good as any one else, " cried Janey, whosetendencies were democratic. "I dare say she likes her relations as wellas we like ours, and better, though they do keep a shop. "

"Oh, Janey!" cried Ursula, whose feelings were touched; then sheremembered that her sympathies ought not to flow in the same channelwith those of Mrs. Sam Hurst, and continued coldly, "If she had notliked them she need not have come to see them. "

"That is all you know, you girls. You don't know the plague ofrelations, and how people have got to humble themselves to keep money inthe family, or keep up appearances, especially people that have risen inthe world. I declare I think they pay dear for rising in the world, ortheir poor children pay dear--"

"You seem to take a great deal of interest in the Tozers, " said Ursula, glad to administer a little correction; "even if they came to St. Roque's I could understand it--but Dissenters!" This arrow struck home. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Hurst, colouring, "of all people to take an interestin Dissenters I am the last; but I was struck, I must admit, to see thatold Mrs. Tozer, looking like an old washerwoman, with a girl in atwenty-guinea dress, you may take my word for it, though as plain asthat little brown frock of yours, Ursula. That was a sight to wake anyone up. "

Ursula looked down at the little brown frock thus contemptuouslyreferred to, with mingled offence and consciousness of inferiority. Ithad not cost as many shillings, and had been made up at home, and wasnot a shining example of the dressmaker's art. "If you value peopleaccording to what their dress costs--"

"I can't know much about her moral qualities, can I?" said Mrs. Hurst, "and I don't suppose she has any position, being old Tozer's grandchild. But she wasn't amiss in her looks, and I declare I should have taken herfor a lady if I had met her in the street. It shows how one may be takenin. And this is a lesson for you, young girls; you must never trust toappearances. I confess I'd like to find out some more about her. Goingin, Ursula? Well, my dear, perhaps I'll step in for a talk in theevening. You must be dull after your gaiety. Tell your dear papa, " saidMrs. Hurst with a laugh, "that I am coming to sit with you after tea. Now mind you give him my message. He does not like to miss me when Icome to the Parsonage, does he now? Good-bye for the present. Till eighto'clock. "

"Oh, how I hate her, " cried Janey, "except sometimes when she makes melaugh and I feel tempted to like her; but I always resist it. Do youthink really, Ursula, that papa could be--such a--stupid--"

"Oh, please don't ask me, " cried Ursula. "How can I tell? I don't knowwhat he may do; but if he does--and if she does--oh, then, Janey--"

"Yes, indeed, then!" said Janey, breathing hard. This mysterious threatseemed very horrible to both of them, though what they meant by it, itwould have been very hard for either of them to tell. They waited withinthe little shrubbery whispering to each other till they heard Mrs. Hurstclose her own door, for they did not want any more of her society, though they had no intention of going in. When she was safe out of theway, they stole out and continued their walk in the opposite direction. 

"I wanted to have gone into the town, " said Ursula. "It _is_ hard tohave that woman next door; one can't go anywhere or do anything! Iwanted some braid for your new frock, Janey, and twist to make thebutton-holes; but if we had said we were going up into Carlingford, shewould have come too. Never mind; a walk is better than nothing. Walkfast, and let us try how far we can go before tea. "

Upon this idea the two girls set out walking as if for a race, which didthem all the good in the world, quickening the blood in their veins, sending the colour to their cheeks, and dispersing all the cobwebs fromtheir minds, since they soon got into the spirit of the race, andpursued it with eagerness, with little outbursts of laughter, andbreathless adjurations to each other to keep within the proper pace, andnot to run. It was not a very inviting road along which they took theirwalk. Beyond St. Roque the land was divided into allotments for theworking people, not very tidily kept, and rough with cut cabbages, plants, and dug-up potatoes. Beyond this lay a great turnip-field, somewhat rank in smell, and the east wind swept chill along the openroad, which was not sheltered by a single tree, so that the attractionsof the way soon palled upon pedestrians. Looking back to Grange Lane, the snug and sheltered look of that genteel adjunct to the town wascomforting to behold. Even Grange Lane was not gay; a line of gardenwalls, however they may shelter and comfort the gardens within, are notlovely without; but yet the trees, though leafless, waved over the redlines of brick, and the big laurels hung out bushes of dark verdure andlong floating sprays of ivy. 

"Let's turn back; perhaps she may not be at the window, " cried Ursula. "It is so dull here. "

Janey stopped short in the heat of the walk, objecting for the moment. 

"I wish you had not gone to London. You never used to care for thestreets and the shops; now a regular good walk is too much for you, "cried Janey. 

"With a turnip-field on one side and a potato-field on the other!" saidUrsula, in high disdain. 

"I tell you what!" cried Janey. "I don't think I like you since you cameback. The Dorsets are fine people, and we are not fine. There are nogrand parties, nor theatres, nor balls at Carlingford. When we go outhere, we go to walk, not to see things, as you have been used to doing. I don't know what you mean by it; nineteen years with us, and onefortnight with them! and the fortnight counts for more than all theyears!"

Janey was not in the habit of restraining her voice any more thananything else about her, and she spoke this out with loud school-girltones, reckless who might hear her. In most cases she might have donethis with the utmost impunity, and how was she to know, as she said toher sister afterwards, in self-defence, that any one, especially anygentleman, could be lurking about, spying upon people, among those nastyallotments? There was some one there, however, who came down the muddypath, all cut up by the wheel-barrows, with a smile upon his face. Agentleman? Janey called him so without a doubt on the subject; butUrsula, more enlightened and slightly irritated, had her doubts. He wasdressed, not with any care of morning costume, but wore a blackfrock-coat of the most formal description, with a white cravatcarelessly tied, semi-clerical, and yet not clerical. He had a smile onhis face, which, on the whole, was rather a handsome face, and looked atthem, showing evident signs of having heard what Janey said. To be sure, he did not say anything, but Ursula felt that his look was just the sameas if he had spoken, and coloured high, resenting the intrusion. By thisstranger's side was one of the men who had been working at theallotments, whose hands were not clean, and whose boots were heavy withthe clinging, clayey soil. When they had nearly reached the road, thegentleman turned round and shook hands with his companion, and thenwalked on towards Carlingford, throwing another look towards the girlsas he passed. It would be hard to say whether curiosity or anger wasstrongest in Ursula. In Janey, the former sentiment carried everythingbefore it. 

"Oh, I wonder who he is?" she cried, low, but eager, in her sister'sear. "Who can he be, Ursula, who can he be? We know all the men abouthere, every one, as well as we know Reginald. Oh, Ursula, who do youthink he can be?"

"He is very impertinent, " cried Ursula, with an angry blush. "How shouldI know? And oh! how very silly of you, Janey, to talk so loud, and makeimpudent men stare at us so. "

"Impudent!" cried Janey. "I didn't talk loud. He looked rather nice, onthe contrary. Why, he laughed! Do you call that impudent? It can't beanybody from the town, because we know everybody; and did you see himshaking hands with that man? How very funny! Let us run in and tell Mrs. Sam Hurst, and ask her who she thinks he is. She is sure to know. "

"Janey, " said Ursula, severely, "if you live very long, you will be asgreat a gossip and as fond of news as Mrs. Sam Hurst herself. "

"I don't care, " cried Janey; "you're just as fond of news as I am, onlyyou won't confess it. I am dying to know who he is. He is quitenice-looking, and tall and grand. A new gentleman! Come, quick, Ursula;let us get back and see where he goes. "

"Janey!" cried the elder sister. She was half curious herself, butUrsula was old enough to know better, and to be ashamed of the other'snaïve and undisguised curiosity. "Oh, what would Cousin Anne say! A girlrunning after a gentleman (even if he is a gentleman), to see where hegoes!"

"Well!" cried Janey, "if she wants to know, what else is she to do? Whocares for Cousin Anne? She is an old maid. Why, if it had been a lady, Ishouldn't have minded. There are so many ladies; but a new gentleman! Ifyou won't come on, I will run by myself. How pleased Mrs. Sam Hurst willbe!"

"I thought you hated Mrs. Sam Hurst?"

"So I do when I think of papa; but when there's anything going on, oranything to find out, I like her dearly. She's such fun! She nevershilly-shallies, like you. She's not an old maid like your Cousin Annethat you are always talking of. Come along! if anybody else finds outwho he is before we do, " cried Janey, with almost despairing energy, "Ishall break my heart!"

Ursula stoically resisted the tug upon her, but she went back to GrangeLane, to which, indeed, she had turned her face before they met thestranger, and she could not help seeing the tall black figure in frontof her which Janey watched so eagerly. Ursula was not eager, but shecould not help seeing him. He walked up the street quickly, not as if hethought himself of interest to any one, but when he had got half way upGrange Lane, crossed to speak to somebody. This filled Janey withconsternation. 

"He is not such a stranger after all, " she cried. "He knows some one. Hewill not be quite a discovery. Who is it he is talking to, I wonder? Heis standing at one of the doors, but it is not Miss Humphreys, nor MissGriffiths, nor any of the Charters. Perhaps she is a stranger too. If heis married he won't be half so interesting, for there are always plentyof ladies. Perhaps he has just come by the railway to spend the day--butthen there is nothing to see in Carlingford, and how did he know thatman at the lots? Oh, Ursula, why don't you answer me? why don't you saysomething? have you no feeling? I am sure it don't matter a bit to me, for I am not out; I am never asked to parties--but I take an interestfor you other girls' sake. "

Before this time, however, Ursula had found a new object of interest. She had not been quite so unmoved as Janey supposed. A new gentleman wasa thing to awaken anybody who knew Carlingford, for, indeed, gentlemenwere scarce in the society of the little town, and even at the most mildof tea-parties it is ludicrous to see one man (and that most likely acurate) among a dozen ladies--so that even when she appeared to Janey towonder, she felt that her sister's curiosity was not unjustifiable. Butwhile thus engaged in the enterprise of discovering "a new gentleman"for the good of society, Ursula's eyes and her attention were caught byanother interest. The stranger had crossed the street to talk to a lady, who had been walking down the Lane, and whom Ursula felt she had seensomewhere. Who was it? Certainly not Miss Humphreys, nor Miss Griffiths, nor any other of the well-known young ladies of Grange Lane. The settingsun, which had come out suddenly after a dull day, threw a slanting, long-drawn ray up the street, which fell upon the strangers, as theystood talking. This ray caught the young lady's hair, and flashed back areflection out of the shining coils which looked to Ursula (being darkherself, she admired golden hair more than anything) as bright as thesunshine. And in the light she caught the out-line of a pretty head, andof a nose slightly "tip-tilted, " according to the model which theLaureate has brought into fashion. Where had she seen her before? Sheremembered all at once with a rush of bewildered pleasure. 

"Janey! Oh, Janey!" she cried, "Listen! This is too extraordinary. Thereis the young lady in black!"

Janey, as may be supposed, had heard every detail of Mrs. Copperhead'sball, and knew what Ursula meant as well as Ursula herself did. She grewpale with excitement and curiosity. "No!" she said, "you can't mean it. Are you sure, are you quite sure? Two new people in one day! Why, everybody must be coming to Carlingford. It makes me feel quitestrange!" said this susceptible young woman; "the young lady in black!"

"Oh, yes, there can't be any mistake, " said Ursula, hurrying on in herexcitement, "I looked at her so much. I couldn't mistake her. Oh, Iwonder if she will know me, I wonder if she will speak to me! or if sheis going to see the Dorsets, or what has brought her to Carlingford. Only fancy, Janey, the young lady in black whom I have talked so muchof; oh, I wonder, I do wonder what has brought her here. "

They were on the opposite side of the lane, so that their hurriedapproach did not startle the strangers; but Phoebe, looking up at thesound of the footsteps, saw a face she knew looking wistfully, eagerlyat her, with evident recognition. Phoebe had a faculty quite royal ofremembering faces, and it took but a moment to recall Ursula's to her. Another moment was spent in a rapid discussion with herself, as towhether she should give or withhold the salutation which the girlevidently sought. But what harm could it do? and it would be pleasant toknow some one; and if on finding out who she was, Miss Dorset's littlerelation shrank from her acquaintance, why then, Phoebe said to herself, "I shall be no worse than before. " So she sent a smile and a bow acrossthe road and said, "How do you do?" in a pause of her conversation. Ursula was too shy to feel on equal terms with the young lady in black, who was so much more self-possessed than she was. She blushed andsmiled, answered, "Quite well, thank you, " across the lane like a child, and notwithstanding a great many pokes from Janey's energetic elbow, went on without further response. 

"Oh, why can't you run across and speak to her?" cried Janey, "oh, howfunny you are, and how disagreeable! would _I_ pass any one I knew, likethat!"

"You don't understand, you are only a child, " said Ursula, frightenedand agitated, yet full of dignity, "we have only met--in society. Whenyou are introduced to any one in society it does not count. Perhaps theymight not want to know you; perhaps--but anyhow you can't rush up tothem like two girls at school. You have to wait and see what they willdo. "

"Well, I declare!" cried Janey; "then what is the good of society? Youknow them, and yet you mustn't know them. I would never be such a foolas that. Fancy looking at her across the lane and saying 'quite well, thank you, ' after she had begun to speak. I suppose that's Cousin Anne'sway? I should have rushed across and asked where she was staying, andwhen she would come to see us. Ursula, oh, " cried Janey, suddenlychanging her tone, and looking at her sister with eyes which had widenedto twice their natural size with the grandeur of the idea, "you willhave to ask her to tea!"

"Oh, you silly girl, do you think she would come? you should have seenher at the ball. She knew everybody, and had such quantities ofpartners. Mr. Clarence Copperhead was always dancing with her. Fancy hercoming to tea with us. " But Ursula herself was somewhat breathless withthe suggestion. When a thing has been once said, there is always achance that it may be done, and the two girls walked up very quicklyinto the High Street after this, silent, with a certain awe ofthemselves and their possibilities. It might be done, now that it hadbeen said. 

CHAPTER XV. 

A DOMESTIC CRISIS. 

The interest shown by the two girls in the stranger whom they had notedwith so much attention was not destined to meet with any immediatereward. Neither he, nor "the young lady in black, " whom he hurriedacross the street to meet, could be heard of, or was seen for full twodays afterwards, to the great disappointment of the young Mays. Ursula, especially, who had been entertaining vague but dazzling thoughts of acompanionship more interesting than Janey's, more novel and at the sametime more equal than that which was extended to her by the MissGriffiths in Grange Lane, who were so much better off and had so muchless to do than she. Ursula did not recollect the name of the fortunategirl who was so much in the ascendant at Mr. Copperhead's ball, thoughPhoebe had been introduced to her; but she did recollect her popularityand general friendliness, and the number of partners she had, and allthose delightful signs of greatness which impress a poor littlestranger, to whom her first dance is not unmingled pleasure. Shewhispered to Janey about her even in the drawing-room when all thefamily were assembled. 

"Do you think she will call?" said Ursula, asking counsel even ofJaney's inexperience, of which she was so contemptuous on otheroccasions. 

"Call! how can she, if she is a stranger?" said Janey. 

"As if you knew anything about it!" Ursula retorted with greatinjustice. 

"If I don't know, then why do you ask me?" complained Janey with reason. The room looked more cheerful since Ursula had come home. The fire, nolonger choked with cinders, burned clear and red. The lamp, though itwas a cheap one, and burned paraffin oil, did not smell. The oldcurtains were nicely drawn, and the old covers smoothed over the chairs. All this did not make them look less old; but it made their antiquitynatural and becoming. Johnnie, the school-boy, was learning his lessonson the rug before the fire. Reginald sat writing, with a candle all tohimself, at a writing-table in a corner. Ursula and Janey were workingat the centre table by the light of the lamp. They had no time, you mayimagine, for fancy-work. Janey, with many contortions of her person, especially of her mouth, with which she seemed to follow the movementsof her needle, was stitching up a sleeve of her new frock which MissDorset had sent her, and which a poor dress-maker, who "went out, " wasat this moment making up in the schoolroom; while Ursula was still busywith the basket of stockings which she had found awaiting her on theirreturn. What Reginald was doing at the writing-table was probably agreat deal less useful, but the girls respected his occupation as no oneever thought of respecting theirs, and carried on their conversationunder their breath, not to interrupt him. The little children had goneto bed, tea was over, and several hours of the long winter evening stillbefore them. Janey had given over lessons, partly because there was noone to insist upon her doing them. Once in a week or so her father gaveher a lecture for her ignorance, and ordered her into his study to do along sum in arithmetic out of the first old "Colenso" that could bepicked up; and about once a week too, awakening suddenly to a sense ofher own deficiencies, she would "practise" energetically on the oldpiano. This was all that was being done for Janey in the way ofeducation. She was fifteen, and as Johnnie, and Amy, and Robin were atan age when school is a necessity, the only retrenchment possible was tokeep Janey at home. Ursula had got what education she possessed in thesame irregular way. It was not much. Besides reading and writing, shehad pretty manners, which came by nature like those other gifts. A girlis not so badly off who can read and write and has pretty manners. Janeypossessed the two first faculties, but neither had nor apparently couldacquire the third. The two dark brown heads were close together as theyworked--Ursula's shining and neat, and carefully arranged, Janey's roughwith elf-locks; but they were more interesting than Reginald, though hewas so much better informed. As for Johnnie, he lay extended on the rug, his head slightly raised on his two hands, his book on a level with therest of his person, saying over his lesson to himself with moving lips. And now and then, when the girls' whispered chatter was silent, thesound of Reginald's pen scratching across the paper would fill up theinterval; it was a sound which filled them all with respect. 

This peaceful domestic scene was broken in upon by the entry of Mr. May. From the moment that he closed the hall-door behind him, coming in, alittle thrill ran through the family party. The girls looked at eachother when they heard that sound, and Johnnie, without stopping hisinward repetition, shifted himself and his book adroitly, with thecleverness of practice, to the side instead of the front of the fire. Reginald's pen stopped its scratching, and he wheeled round on his chairto give an appealing glance at his sisters. 

"What is it now?" he said hurriedly. Every one knew that when the doorwas closed like that it meant something like a declaration of war. Butthey had not much time to wait and wonder. Mr. May came in, pushing thedoor wide open before him, and admitting a gust of chill air of theJanuary night. He looked at the peaceable domestic scene with a "humph"of dissatisfaction, because there was nothing to find fault with, whichis as great a grievance as another when one is in the mood forgrievances. He had come in cross and out of sorts, with a private causefor his ill-temper, which he did not choose to reveal, and it would havebeen a relief to him had he found them all chattering or wasting theirtime, instead of being occupied in this perfectly dutiful way--evenJohnnie at his lessons, repeating them over under his breath. What wasthe world coming to? Mr. May was disappointed. Instead of leading up toit gradually by a general _battue_ of his children all round, he had toopen upon his chief subject at once, which was not nearly so agreeable away. 

"What are you doing, Reginald?" he asked, roughly, pulling his chair tothe other side of the fire, opposite the corner to which Johnnie hadscuffled out of the way. "I have come in especially to speak to you. Itis time this shilly-shallying was done with. Do you mean to accept theCollege chaplaincy or not? an answer must be given, and that at once. Are you so busy that you can't attend to what I say?"

"I am not busy at all, sir, " said Reginald, in a subdued voice, whilehis sisters cast sympathetic looks at him. Both the girls, it is true, thought him extremely foolish, but what of that? Necessarily they wereon his side against papa. 

"I thought as much; indeed it would be hard to say what you could findto be busy at. But look here, this must come to an end one way oranother. You know my opinion on the subject. "

"And you know mine, sir, " said Reginald, rising and coming forward tothe fire. "I don't say anything against the old College. For an old manit might be quite a justifiable arrangement--one who had already spenthis strength in work--but for me--of course there is nothing in theworld to do. "

"And two hundred and fifty a year for the doing of it--not to speak ofthe house, which you could let for fifty more. "

"Father! don't you see that is just the very thing that I object to, somuch for nothing. "

"You prefer nothing for nothing, " said Mr. May, with a smile; "well, Isuppose that is more fair, perhaps--to the public;--but how about me? Ason of three-and-twenty depending upon me for everything, useless andbringing in nothing, does not suit me. You are all the same, " he said, "all taking from me, with a thousand wants, education, clothes, amusement--"

"I am sure, " said the irrepressible Janey, "it is not much clothes weget, and as for amusements--and education!"

"Hold your tongue, " cried her father. "Here are six of you, one morehelpless than another, and the eldest the most helpless of all. I didnot force you into the Church. You might have gone out to James if youhad liked--but you chose an academical career, and then there wasnothing else for it. I gave you a title to orders. You are my curatejust now--so called; but you know I can't pay a curate, and you know Ican't afford to keep you. Providence--" said Mr. May, sitting up in hischair, with a certain solemnity, "Providence itself has stepped in tomake your path clear. Here is better than a living, a provision for you. I don't bid you take it for life; take it for a year or two till you canhear of something better. Now what on earth is your objection to this?"

The girls had both turned their faces towards their brother. Janey, always the first in action, repeated almost unconsciously. "Yes, whaton earth, Reginald, can be your objection to this?"

Reginald stood in the middle of the room and looked helplessly at them. Against his father alone he might have made a stand--but when the unitedfamily thus gazed at him with inquiring and reproachful looks, what washe to say?

"Objection!" he faltered, "you know very well what my objection is. Itis not honest work--it is no work. It is a waste of money that might bebetter employed; it is a sinecure. "

"And what do you call your nominal curateship, " said his father, "is notthat a sinecure too?"

"If it is, " said Reginald, growing red, but feeling bolder, for here thefamily veered round, and placed itself on his side, "it is of a contrarykind. It is _sine_ pay. My work may be bad, though I hope not, but mypay is nothing. I don't see any resemblance between the two. "

"Your pay nothing!" cried the father, enraged; "what do you call yourliving, your food that you are so fastidious about, your floods of beerand all the rest of it--not to speak of tailors' bills much heavier thanmine?"

"Which are never paid. "

"Whose fault is it that they are never paid? yours and the others whoweigh me down to the ground, and never try to help or do anything forthemselves. Never paid! how should I have gone on to this period andsecured universal respect if they had never been paid? I have had to payfor all of you, " said Mr. May, bitterly, "and all your vagaries;education, till I have been nearly ruined; dresses and ribbons, and ahundred fooleries for these girls, who are of no use, who will nevergive me back a farthing. "

"Papa!" cried Ursula and Janey in one breath. 

"Hold your tongues! useless impedimenta, not even able to scrub thefloors, and make the beds, which is all you could ever be good for--andyou must have a servant forsooth to do even that. But why should I speakof the girls?" he added, with a sarcastic smile, "they can do nothingbetter, poor creatures; but you! who call yourself a man--a Universityman, save the mark--a fine fellow with the Oxford stamp upon you, twenty-three your next birthday. It is a fine thing that I should stillhave to support you. "

Reginald began to walk up and down the room, stung beyond bearing--notthat he had not heard it all before, but to get accustomed to suchtaunts is difficult, and it is still more difficult for a young andsusceptible mind to contradict all that is seemly and becoming innature, and to put forth its own statement in return. Reginald knew thathis education had in reality cost his father very little, and that hisfather knew this. He was aware, too, much more distinctly than Mr. Mayknew, of James's remittances on his account; but what could he say? Itwas his father who insulted him, and the young man's lips were closed;but the effort was a hard one. He could not stand still there and facethe man who had so little consideration for his feelings. All he coulddo was to keep his agitation and irritation down by that hurriedpromenade about the room, listening as little as he could, and answeringnot at all. 

"Oh, papa! how can you?" cried Janey, seizing the first pause. Janey wasnot old enough to understand the delicacy that closed Reginald's lips, and the impulse of self-defence was stirring in her; "how dare you talkto Ursula so? I mayn't be much use, but Ursula! nice and comfortable youwere when she was away! as if you didn't say so ten times in a morning;to be sure that was to make me feel uncomfortable. Scrub floors!" criedJaney, in the violence of her resentment. "I'll go out and be amaid-of-all-work whenever you please. I am sure it would be much happierthan here. "

"Hold your tongue, " said Mr. May, "you scolding and Ursula crying;that's the beauty of the feminine element in a house. I ought to be verythankful, oughtn't I, that I have girls to furnish this agreeablevariety? But as for you, Reginald, " his father added, "mark my words, ifyou determine to reject this windfall that Providence has blown intoyour hands, it must be done at once. No further play of I would and Iwould not, if you please, here; and if it does not suit you, you willplease to understand that I have no further need for a curate that suitsme still less. I want your room. If nothing else can be done, I must tryto take a pupil to add a little to the income which has so many claimsupon it; and I don't mean to go on keeping you--this is plain enough, Ihope. "

"Very plain, sir, " said Reginald, who had grown as pale as he was redbefore. 

"I am glad to hear it; you will write to the Corporation at once, accepting or rejecting at your pleasure; but this must be done to-night. I must insist on its being done to-night; and if you find yourselfsufficiently bold to reject an income, " said Mr. May with emphasis, "andgo off into the world without a penny in your pocket, I wash my hands ofit; it is nothing to me. "

Then there was a pause. The father of the family sat down in his chair, and looked round him with the happy consciousness that he had madeeverybody miserable. The girls were both crying, Reginald pale anddesperate, coming and going through the room. No one had escaped butJohnnie, who, happy in insignificance, lay all his length on the otherside of the fire, and lifted his face from his book to watch thediscomfiture of the others. Johnnie had no terrors on his own account. He had done nothing to call forth the paternal wrath. Mr. May could notresist this temptation. 

"Is that a way to learn lessons as they ought to be learnt?" he criedsuddenly, throwing one of his darts at the unthinking boy. "Get up thismoment, and sit down to a table somewhere. Your own room, where there isnobody to disturb you, is better than amid the chit-chat here; do youhear me? get up, sir, and go. "

Johnnie stumbled to his feet appalled; he was too much startled to sayanything. He took his books across the room to the writing-table whichReginald had abandoned in a similar way. But by the time he reached thathaven, he came to himself, and recovering his courage muttered somethingabout the hardship to which he was thus exposed, as boys have a way ofdoing; upon which Mr. May got suddenly up, seized him by the shouldersand turned him out of the drawing-room. "I said your own room, sir, "cried this impartial father, distributing to all alike an equal share ofhis urbanities. When he had accomplished this, he stood for a moment andlooked at the rest of his confused and uncomfortable family. "There isnot much cheerful society to be had here this evening, I perceive, " hesaid. "It is pleasant to come in from one's cares and find a receptionlike this, don't you think? Let some one bring me some coffee to mystudy. I am going to write. "

"Whose fault is it that he gets such a reception?" burst forth Janey, the moment her father had closed the door. "Who does it all, I wonder?Who treats us like a set of wretches without any feeling? I can't hush, I won't hush! Oh, shouldn't I be glad to go out as a housemaid, to doanything!"

"Oh, Janey, hush! we can't help ourselves, we are obliged to put up withit, " said Ursula; "but Reginald, he is not obliged, he can save himselfwhen he likes. Oh, I know, I know papa is unreasonable; but, Reginald, aren't you a little bit unreasonable too?"

"Don't you begin to reproach me, " cried the young man, "I have hadenough for one day. Have I been such a charge upon him, Ursula? What hashe spent upon me? Next to nothing. That tailor's bill he spoke of, heknew as well as I do that I paid it by the tutorship I had in thevacation. It is his bill that is not paid, not mine. And then James'smoney--"

"Oh, never mind that, never mind the past, " cried Ursula, "think of thepresent, that's what you ought to do. Oh, Reginald, think; if _I_ hadthe chance of two hundred and fifty pounds a year! there is nothing Iwould not do for it. I would scrub floors, as he said, I would doanything, the dirtiest work. You will be independent, able to do whatyou please, and never to ask papa for anything. Reginald, think! Oh, dear, dear, I wish I knew how to talk to you. To be independent, able toplease yourself!"

"I shall be independent anyhow after to-night, " he said. "Ursula, youwill help me to pack my things, won't you? It is leaving you here, yougirls, with nobody to stand up for you; it is that I feel most. "

"Oh, Reginald, don't go and leave us, " cried Janey, leaning on the backof his chair; "what can we do without you? When he comes in, in a ragelike to-night, as long as you are here one can bear it. Oh, Reginald, can't you, can't you take the chaplaincy? Think what it would be forus. "

"Yes, I will pack your things, " said Ursula, "I will help you to get outof it, though we must stay and put up with it all, and never, neverescape. But where will you go? You have no money, not enough scarcely topay your railway fare. You would have to take to teaching; and where areyou to go?"

"I have some friends left, " cried Reginald, his lips quivering, "somepeople care for me still and would hold out a hand. I am--not--quite sobadly off as he thinks; I could go to town, or to Oxford--or--"

"You don't know where; and here is a nice old-fashioned house all readyfor you to step into, and an income, " cried Ursula, her tone deepeningto mark the capital letter; "an Income, quite sure and ready--withoutany difficulty, without any trouble, all if you say yes. Oh, only thinkwhat a comfort for us all to be able to rush to you when we are introuble! Think of Johnnie and Robin; and that delightful wainscoted roomfor your study, with the book-cases all ready--and plenty of money tobuy books. " This being the highest point to which Ursula could reach, she dropped down after it into an insinuating half whisper, "And plentyof work to do; dear Reginald, plenty of work in the parish, you may besure, if you will only help the Rector; or here where you are workingalready, and where you may be sure nobody will think of paying you. Oh, Reginald, there is plenty, plenty of work. "

The young man was already beginning to melt. "Do you think so?" hesaid. 

"Think!" cried Janey, "I am sure you may do all papa's work for him andwelcome, if that is all. For my part I think you are very silly, bothUrsula and you. Work! Pay is far better if you weren't such a pair ofsimpletons. After all, he has a little reason to be angry. Goodgracious! why shouldn't you take it? Some one else will, if you won't. Iwould in a minute, and so would Ursula if we could. And why should yoube so much grander than anybody else? I think it is quite childish formy part. "

"Reginald, never mind her, she is only a child and doesn't understand('Child yourself, ' cried Janey). I don't understand very well, but stillI can see what you want. Oh, you might find such quantities of work, things nobody is ever found to do. What do the fellows do at Oxford thatthey get that money for? I have heard you say you would be very glad toget a fellowship--"

"That is different, that is a reward of scholarship. "

"Well, and so is this too, " said Ursula; "it is (I am sure) because theold men knew you were one that would be kind. You were always kind, Reginald, that is what it is for. "

"The old men have nothing to do with it, " he said, shaking his head, "itis the Corporation, and they are--"

"Very rich men, Reginald dear, a great many of them, very sensible! whatdoes it matter about their education? And then you would be a reallyeducated man, always ready to do anything that was wanted inCarlingford. Don't you see that was their meaning? They pay you for thatwhich is not work, but they will find you plenty of work they don't payfor. That is what they mean; and oh, Reginald, to run over to you therein that pretty wainscoted room, and to have you coming in to us everyday, and to know that you were there to stand by us!"

Here once more Ursula began to cry. As for Janey, she made a dash at thewriting-table and brought him paper and pens and ink, "Say yes, sayyes, " she cried; "oh, Reginald, if it was only to spite papa!"

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE NEW GENTLEMAN. 

It seems difficult to imagine what connection there could be betweenPhoebe Beecham's appearance in Grange Lane and the interview which tookplace there between her and the "new gentleman, " and Mr. May's suddenonslaught upon his family, which ended in Reginald's acceptance of thechaplaincy. But yet the connection was very distinct. Not even the Mays, in their excitement over the appearance of a stranger in Carlingford, could be more surprised than Phoebe was when her solitary walk wasinterrupted by the apparition across the street of a known person, aface familiar to her in other regions. "Mr. Northcote!" she cried, witha little start of surprise. As for the stranger, he made but two stepsacross Grange Lane in his delight at the sight of her. Not that he wasPhoebe's lover, or possessed by any previous enthusiasm for the girl whomhe had met about half-a-dozen times in his life, and of whom he knewlittle more than that she was the daughter of a "brother clergyman;" forboth Mr. Beecham and he were in the habit of using that word, whetherappropriate or inappropriate. This was the explanation of the whitenecktie and the formal dress which had puzzled Ursula. 

Horace Northcote was not of Mr. Beecham's class. He was not well-to-doand genial, bent upon keeping up his congregation and his popularity, and trying to ignore as much as he could the social superiority of theChurch without making himself in any way offensive to her. He was apolitical Nonconformist, a vigorous champion of the DisestablishmentSociety, more successful on the platform than in the pulpit, andstrenuously of opinion in his heart of hearts that the Church was thegreat drawback to all progress in England, an incubus of which thenation would gladly be rid. His dress was one of the signs of hischaracter and meaning. Strong in a sense of his own clerical position, he believed in uniform as devoutly as any Ritualist, but he would notplagiarise the Anglican livery and walk about in a modified soutane andround hat like "our brethren in the Established Church, " as Mr. Beechamkindly called them. To young Northcote they were not brethren, butenemies, and though he smiled superior at the folly which stigmatisedan M. B. Waistcoat, yet he scorned to copy. Accordingly his frock coatwas not long, but of the extremest solemnity of cut and hue, his whitetie was of the stiffest, his tall hat of the most uncompromisingcharacter. He would not veil for a day in easier and more ordinaryhabiliments the distinct position he assumed as clerical, yet not of theclergy; a teacher of men, though not a priest of the Anglicaninspiration. He could not help feeling that his appearance, as he movedabout the streets, was one which might well thrill Anglican bosoms witha flutter of terror. He was the Church's avowed enemy, and upon this hestood as his claim to the honour of those who thought with him. This wasvery different from the views held by the pastor of the Crescent Chapel, who was very willing to be on the best terms with the Church, and wouldhave liked to glide into closer and closer amity, and perhaps finally tomelt away altogether in her broad bosom, like a fat raindropcontributing noiselessly to swell the sea. It was not, however, anyfeeling of this difference which made Phoebe draw herself backinstinctively after the first start of recognition. Across her mind, even while she held out her hand to the stranger, there flashed a suddenrecollection of her grandmother and her grandfather, and all the homelybelongings which he, a minister of the connection, could not be kept inignorance of. It was but a momentary pang. Phoebe was not so foolish asto shrink before the inevitable, or to attempt by foolish expedients tostave off such a danger. She shrank for a second, then drew herself upand shook off all such ignoble cares. "I am myself whatever happens, "was her reflection; and she said with something like security:

"I am so glad to meet you, Mr. Northcote; what an unexpected pleasure tosee you here!"

"It is a most unexpected pleasure for me, I assure you, " he said, "and avery great one. " He spoke with unaffected honesty; for indeed his plungeinto the society of Salem Chapel had given him a shock not easily gotover, and the appearance of a being of his own species, among all theseexcellent poulterers and grocers, was a relief unspeakable; and then headded, "May I walk with you, if you are going to walk?"

"Surely, " said Phoebe with momentary hesitation, and it was just at thismoment that she perceived Ursula on the other side of the road, and, glad of the diversion, waved her hand to her, and said, "How do you do?"

"A friend of yours?" said Mr. Northcote, following her gesture with hiseyes, and feeling more and more glad that he had met her. "I passedthose young ladies just now, and heard some of their conversation, which amused me. Do they belong to our people? If you will not be angry, Miss Beecham, I must say that I should be glad to meet somebodybelonging to us, who is not--who is more like--the people one meetselsewhere. "

"Well, " said Phoebe, "we are always talking of wanting somethingoriginal; I think on the whole I am of your opinion; still there isnothing very great or striking about most of the people one meetsanywhere. "

"Yes; society is flat enough, " said the young man. "But--it is strangeand rather painful, though perhaps it is wrong to say so--why, I wonder, are all our people of one class? Perhaps you have not seen much of themhere? All of one class, and that--"

"Not an attractive class, " said Phoebe, with a little sigh. "Yes, Iknow. "

"Anything but an attractive class; not the so-called working men andsuch like. One can get on with them. It is very unpleasant to have tosay it; buying and selling now as we have it in Manchester does notcontract the mind. I suppose we all buy and sell more and less. How isit? When it is tea and sugar--"

"Or butter and cheese, " said Phoebe with a laugh, which she could notquite keep from embarrassment. "I must be honest and tell you before yougo any further. You don't know that I belong to the Tozers, Mr. Northcote, who are in that line of business. Don't look so dreadfullydistressed. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you, had you not been sure tofind out. Old Mr. Tozer is my grandfather, and I am staying there. It isquite simple. Papa came to Carlingford when he was a young clergyman, newly ordained. He was pastor at Salem Chapel, and married mamma, whowas the daughter of one of the chief members. I did not know myself whenI came to Carlingford that they actually kept a shop, and I did not likeit. Don't apologize, please. It is a very difficult question, " saidPhoebe philosophically, partly to ease herself, partly to set him at hisease, "what is best to do in such a case. To be educated in anothersphere and brought down to this, is hard. One cannot feel the same forone's relations; and yet one's poor little bit of education, one's pettymanners, what are these to interfere with blood relationships? And tokeep everybody down to the condition they were born, why, that is theold way--"

"Miss Beecham, I don't know what to say. I never meant--I could nottell. There are excellent, most excellent people in all classes. "

"Exactly so, " said Phoebe, with a laugh. "We all know that; one man is asgood as another--if not better. A butterman is as good as a lord; but--"she added, with a little elevation of her eyebrows and shrug of hershoulders, "not so pleasant to be connected with. And you don't sayanything about my difficulty, Mr. Northcote. You don't realize itperhaps, as I do. Which is best: for everybody to continue in theposition he was born in, or for an honest shopkeeper to educate hischildren and push them up higher until they come to feel themselvesmembers of a different class, and to be ashamed of him? Either way, youknow, it is hard. "

Northcote was at his wit's end. He had no fellow-feeling for thisdifficulty. His friends were all much better off than he was as a poorminister. They were Manchester people, with two or three generations ofwealth behind them, relations of whom nobody need be ashamed; and he washimself deeply humiliated and distressed to have said anything whichcould humiliate Phoebe, who rose immeasurably in his estimation inconsequence of her bold avowal, though he himself would have sacrificeda great deal rather than put himself on the Tozer level. He did not knowwhat to say. 

"Miss Beecham, you know as well as I do, how falsely our opinions areformed in this respect, how conventional we are. What is position afterall? To a grand Seigneur, for instance, the difference between hissteward and his laquais seems nothing, but to the steward it is a greatgulf. I--I mean--the whole question is conventional--position, orstation, or rank--"

Phoebe smiled. "I don't think that is quite the question, " she said, "butnever mind. I suppose you are here on some mission? You would not cometo Carlingford for pleasure. "

"Nay, " said Northcote, with a reproachful tone. "I should have thoughtyou must have heard of our Meeting. It is for to-night. I have come fromthe Disestablishment Society with some other friends; but it has been myfate to come on before to make the arrangements. The others cometo-day. "

"A hard fate, Mr. Northcote. "

"I thought so this morning. I have not been much in the way of thecountry congregations. I was confounded; but, Miss Beecham, I no longerthink my fate hard since I have met you. Your noble simplicity andfrankness have taught me a lesson. "

"It is not noble at all, " said Phoebe; "if I had not been sure you mustfind out I should have said nothing about it. Now I fear I must turnback. "

"But you will come to the Meeting, " he said, turning with her. He feltit necessary to be obsequious to Phoebe, after the terrible mistake hehad made. 

"Not unless grandpapa insists. I should like to hear your speech, " saidPhoebe; "but I don't object to the Established Church as you do, neitherdoes papa when you push him hard. I don't think England would be muchnicer if we were all Dissenters. To be sure we might be more civil toeach other. "

"If there were no Dissenters, you mean. "

"It comes to much the same thing; congregations are not pleasantmasters, are they, Mr. Northcote? I know some people--one at least, "said Phoebe, "who is often very insolent to papa; and we have to put upwith it--for the sake of peace, papa says. I don't think in the Churchthat any leading member could be so insolent to a clergyman. "

"That is perhaps rather--forgive me--a narrow, personal view. "

"Wait till you get a charge, and have to please the congregation and theleading members!" cried Phoebe. "I know what you are thinking: it is justlike a woman to look at a public question so. Very well; after all womenare half the world, and their opinion is as good as another. "

"I have the greatest respect for your opinion, " said young Northcote;"but we must not think of individual grievances. The system, with allits wrongs, is what occupies me. I have heard something--even here--thisvery day--What is it, my good friend? I am busy now--another time; or ifyou want me, my lodgings are--"

A glance, half of pain, half of fun, came into Phoebe's eyes. "It isgrandpapa!" she said. 

"You shouldn't speak in that tone, sir, not to your elders, and maybeyour betters, " said Tozer, in his greasy old coat. "Ministers take adeal upon them; but an old member like me, and one as has stood by theconnection through thick and thin, ain't the one to be called your goodfriend. Well, if you begs pardon, of course there ain't no more to besaid; and if you know our Phoebe--Phoebe, junior, as I calls her. What ofthe meeting, Mr. Northcote? I hope you'll give it them Church folks 'otand strong, sir. They do give themselves airs, to be sure, inCarlingford. Most of our folks is timid, seeing for one thing as theirbest customers belong to the Church. That don't touch me, notnow-a-days, " said Tozer, with a laugh, "not that I was ever one asconcealed my convictions. I hope you'll give it 'em 'ot and strong. "

"I shall say what I think, " said the young man bewildered. He was by nomeans broken into the ways of the connection, and his pride rebelled atthe idea of being schooled by this old shopkeeper; but the sight ofPhoebe standing by not only checked his rebellious sentiments, but filledhim with a sympathetic thrill of feeling. What it must be for that girlto own this old man, to live with him, and feel herself shut into hissociety and friends of his choosing--to hear herself spoken of as Phoebe, junior! The idea made him shiver, and this caught old Tozer's alwayshospitable eye. 

"You're chilly, " he said, "and I don't wonder after the dreadful weatherwe've had. Few passes my door without a bite or a sup, specially attea-time, Mr. Nor'cote, which is sociable time, as I always says. Comein and warm yourself and have a cup of tea. There is nothing as pleasesmy old woman so much as to get out her best tea-things for a minister;she 'as a great respect for ministers, has Mrs. Tozer, sir; and nowshe's got Phoebe to show off as well as the chiney. Come along, sir, Ican't take no refusal. It's just our time for tea. "

Northcote made an unavailing attempt to get away, but partly it appearedto him that to refuse the invitation might look to Phoebe like a pretenceof superiority on his part, and partly he was interested in herself, andwas very well aware he should get no company so good in Carlingford, even with the drawback of the old shop-people among whom she lived. Howstrange it was to see her in the dress of which Mrs. Sam Hurst hadraved, and of which even the young Nonconformist vaguely divined theexcellence, putting her daintily-gloved hand upon old Tozer's greasysleeve, walking home with the shuffling old man, about whose socialposition no one could make the least mistake! He turned with them, witha sensation of thankfulness that it was in Grange Lane, Carlingford, where nobody knew him. As for Phoebe, no such comfort was in her mind;everybody knew her here, or rather, everybody knew old Tozer. Nodisguise was possible to her. The only way to redeem the position was tocarry it with a high hand, as she did, holding her head erect, andplaying her part so that all the world might see and wonder. "I thinkyou had better come, Mr. Northcote, and have some tea, " she saidgraciously, when the awe-stricken young man was floundering in effortsto excuse himself. Old Tozer chuckled and rubbed his hands. 

"Take Phoebe's advice, " he said, "Phoebe's the sensiblest girl I know; sowas her mother before her, as married one of the most popular preachersin the connection, though I say it as shouldn't. My old woman alwayssaid as our Phoebe was cut out for a minister's wife. And Phoebe junior'sjust such another, " cried the admiring grandfather. Heavens above! didthis mean traps and snares for himself, or did the old shopkeeper thinkof him, Horace Northcote, as another possible victim? If he had butknown with what sincere compassionate toleration Phoebe regarded him, asa young man whom she might be kind to, he might have been saved allalarm on this point. The idea that a small undistinguished Dissentingminister should think her capable of marrying him, was a humiliationwhich did not enter into Phoebe's head. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

A PUBLIC MEETING. 

Phoebe's philosophy, however, was put to the test when, after the youngpastor had taken tea and got himself away from the pressinghospitalities of the Tozers, her grandfather also disappeared to put onhis best coat in order to attend the Meeting. Mrs. Tozer, left alonewith her granddaughter, immediately proceeded to evolve her views as towhat Phoebe was expected to do. 

"I never see you out o' that brown thing, Phoebe, " she said; "ain't yougot a silk dress, child, or something that looks a bit younger-looking?I'd have thought your mother would have took more pride in you. Surelyyou've got a silk dress. "

"Oh, yes, more than one, " said Phoebe, "but this is considered in bettertaste. "

"Taste, whose taste?" cried the old lady; "my Phoebe didn't ought to carefor them dingy things, for I'm sure she never got no such example fromme. I've always liked what was bright-looking, if it was only a print. Anice blue silk now, or a bright green, is what you'd look pretty in withyour complexion. Go now, there's a dear, and put on something very nice, something as will show a bit; you're going with your grandfather to thisMeeting. "

"To the Meeting? oh, I hope not, " said Phoebe with fervour. 

"And why should you hope not? isn't it natural as a young creature likeyou should get out a bit when she can, and see what's to be seen? Idon't hold with girls moping in a house. Besides, it's very instructive, as I've always heard: and you as is clever, of course you'll understandevery word. Mr. Northcote is a nicish-looking sort of young man. Ministers mayn't be much, " said Mrs. Tozer, "though just see how yourpapa has got on, my dear. Nobody else as Phoebe could have married wouldhave got up in the world like that; you may make a deal more money intrade, but it ain't so genteel, there's always that to be said. Now it'sjust as well as you should have your chance with the rest and letyourself be seen, Phoebe. Run, there's a darling, and put on somethingbright, and a nice lace collar. You can have mine if you like. Ishouldn't grudge nothing, not a single thing I've got, to see youlooking as nice as the best there; and so you will if you take a littlepains. I'd do up my hair a bit higher if I was you; why, Phoebe, Ideclare! you haven't got a single pad. Now what is the use of neglectingyourself, and letting others get ahead of you like that?"

"Pads are going out of fashion, grandmamma, " said Phoebe gravely, "so arebright colours for dresses. You can't think what funny shades we wear intown. But must I go to this Meeting? I should not like to leave youalone. It is so much nicer for me to be here. "

"You _are_ a good girl, you are, " said Mrs. Tozer admiringly, "and me aswas frightened for a fine lady from London! But Tozer would say as itwas my doing. He would say as it wasn't natural for a young creature;and, bless you, they'll all be there in their best--that Pigeon and theothers, and Mrs. Tom. I just wish I could go too, to see you outshine'em all, which you'll do if you take pains. Take a little more painswith your hair, Phoebe, mount it up a bit higher, and if you wantanything like a bit of lace or a brooch or that, just you come to me. Ishould like Mrs. Tom to see you with that brooch as she's always wantingfor Minnie. Now why should I give my brooch to Minnie? I don't see noreason for it, for my part. "

"Certainly not, grandmamma, " said Phoebe, "you must wear your broochesyourself, that is what I like a great deal better than giving themeither to Minnie or me. "

"Ah, but there ain't a many like you, my sweet, " cried the old woman, wiping her eyes. "You're my Phoebe's own daughter, but you're a touchabove her, my darling, and us too, that's what you are. Run now anddress, or I don't know what Tozer will say to me. He's set his heart onshowing you off to-night. "

Thus adjured, Phoebe went away reluctantly. It is unnecessary to say thather disinterestedness about her grandmother's brooch was not perhaps sonoble as it appeared on the outside. The article in question was a kindof small warming-pan in a very fine solid gold mount, set with largepink topazes, and enclosing little wavy curls of hair, one from the headof each young Tozer of the last generation. It was a piece of jewelryvery well known in Carlingford, and the panic which rose in Phoebe'sbosom when it was offered for her own personal adornment is more easilyimagined than described. She went upstairs feeling that she had escaped, and took out a black silk dress at which she looked lovingly. 

"But grandmamma would think it was no better than this, " she said toherself, and after much searchings of heart she chose a costume ofVenetian blue, one soft tint dying into another like the lustre on apiece of old glass, which in her own opinion was a great deal too goodfor the occasion. "Some one will tread on it to a certainty, and thecolours don't show in candle-light; but I must try to pleasegrandmamma, " she said heroically. When it was put on with puffings oflace such as Mrs. Tozer had never seen, and was entirely ignorant of thevalue of, at the throat and sleeves, Phoebe wrapt a shawl round her insomething of the same dim gorgeous hue, covered with embroidery, anIndian rarity which somebody had bestowed upon Mrs. Beecham, and whichno one had used or thought of till Phoebe's artistic eye fell upon it. Itwas a great deal too fine for Carlingford. An opera-cloak bought inOxford Street for a pound or two would have much more impressed theassembly to which Phoebe was bound. Mrs. Tozer inspected her when shewent downstairs, with awe, yet dissatisfaction. 

"I dare say as it's all very fine, and it ain't like other folks, anybody can see; but I'd dress you different, my dear, if you was in myhands, " said the old woman, walking round and round her. As for Tozer, he too showed less admiration than if he had known better. 

"I got a fly, thinking as you'd have some fallal or other on you; but, bless my heart, you could have walked in that gown, " he said. So thatPhoebe's toilette, which would have been mightily admired in a Londondrawing-room, could not be said to be a success. She was somewhatdiscouraged by this, notwithstanding that she knew so very much better;and accordingly set out in the fly with her grandfather in his bestcoat, feeling, generally, in a depressed condition. 

"It is clear that I must take to the pinks and blues to please them, "she said to herself with a sigh. She could triumph over the slight thatmight be shown to herself in consequence of her relations; but thosesneers at her dress went to Phoebe's heart. 

The Music Hall was full of a miscellaneous crowd when Phoebe, followingher grandfather, went in; and the seats allotted to these importantpeople were on the platform, where, at least, Tozer's unacknowledgedobject of showing her off could be amply gratified. This arrangement didnot, on the whole, displease Phoebe. Since she must be exhibited, itseemed better, on the whole, to be exhibited there, than in a lessdistinguished place; and all the speakers knew her, which was something. She sat down with some complaisance, and let her Indian scarf droop fromher shoulders, and her pretty dress show itself. 

"I declare if that isn't Phoebe, junior, " said Mrs. Tom audibly, in themiddle of the hall, "making a show of herself; but, Lord bless us, forall their grandeur, how she do dress, to be sure. A bit of a rag of anold shawl, and a hat on! the same as she wears every day. I've got morerespect for them as comes to instruct us than that. "

And, indeed, Mrs. Tom was resplendent in a red _sortie de bal_, with abrooch almost as big as that envied one of Mrs. Tozer's stuck into hergown, and a cap covered with flowers upon her head. This was the usualfashion of the Salem ladies on such rare occasions. The meeting of theDisestablishment Society was to them what a ball is to worldly-mindedpersons who frequent such vanities. The leading families came out _enmasse_ to see and to be seen. It would be wrong to say that they did notenter into all the arguments and recognise the intellectual feast setbefore them; no doubt they did this just as well as if they had come intheir commonest attire; but still the seriousness of the occasion was, no doubt, modified by being thus made into a dissipation. The men werenot so fine, perhaps, because it is more difficult for men to befine--but they were all in their Sunday clothes; and the younger oneswere in full bloom of coloured satin cravats and fine waistcoats. Someof them were almost as fine a sight as the ladies in their ribbons andflowers. 

"I suppose by the look of them this must be an influentialcommunity--people of some pretensions, " said an obese elderly minister, who had seated himself by Phoebe, and whose eyes were dazzled by thedisplay. "I never expected all this dress in a quiet country place. "

"Oh, yes! they are people of much pretension, " said Phoebe gravely. 

And then the proceedings began. Old Mr. Green, the grocer, whose son hadmarried Maria Pigeon, and who had long been retired from business, occupying a house in the country and "driving his carriage, " was in thechair; and the proceedings went on according to the routine of suchassemblies, with differing degrees of earnestness on the part of thespeakers. To most of these gentlemen it was the ordinary occupation oftheir lives; and they made their hearers laugh at well-known stories, and enjoyed their own wit, and elicited familiar cheers, and made hitssuch as they had made for years on the same subject, which was acomfortable _cheval de bataille_, not at all exciting to themselves, though they were quite willing to excite their audience, if thataudience would allow itself to be excited. Things jogged on thus for thefirst hour very pleasantly! the Meeting was not excited, but it wasamused and enjoyed itself. It was an intellectual treat, as Pigeon saidto Brown, and if the younger people did not like it so well as theywould have liked a ball, the elder people liked it a great deal better, and the hall rang with applause and with laughter as one speakersucceeded another. It was pleasant to know how unstable "the Church" wason her foundation; that aristocratical Church which looked down uponDissent, and of which the poorest adherent gave himself airs much aboveChapel folks; and how much loftier a position the Nonconformist held, who would have nothing to say to State support. 

"For my part, " said one of the speakers, "I would rather abandon mysacred calling to-morrow, or make tents as St. Paul did in its exercise, than put on the gilded fetters of the State, and pray or preach as anArchbishop told me; nay, as a Cabinet Council of godless worldlingsdirected. There are many good men among the clergy of the Church ofEngland; but they are slaves, my friends, nothing but slaves, dragged atthe chariot wheels of the State; ruled by a caste of hard-headedlawyers; or binding themselves in the rotten robes of tradition. It iswe only who can dare to say that we are free!"

At this sentiment, the Meeting fairly shouted with applause and delightand self-complacency; and the speaker, delighted too, and tasting allthe sweetness of success, gave place to the next, and came and sat downby Phoebe, to whose society the younger men were all very glad to escape. 

"Miss Beecham, you are fashionably calm, " whispered the orator, "youdon't throw yourself, like the rest of us, into this great agitation. "

"Have you a leading member?" whispered Phoebe back again; "and does henever drag you at his chariot wheels? Have you deacons that keep you upto the mark? Have you people you must drink tea with when they ask you, or else they throw up their sittings? I am thinking, of course, ofpapa. "

"Have I deacons? Have I leading members? Miss Beecham, you are cruel--"

"Hush!" said Phoebe, settling herself in her chair. "Here is somebody whois in dreadful earnest. Don't talk, Mr. Northcote is going to speak. "

Thus it will be seen that the Minister's daughter played her _rôle_ offine lady and _bel esprit_ very fairly in an atmosphere so unlike theair that fine ladies breathe. Phoebe paid no more attention to thediscomfited man at her elbow. She gathered up her shawl in her hand witha seeming careless movement, and let it drop lightly across her knee, where the gold threads in the embroidery caught the light; and she tookoff her hat, which she had thought proper to wear to show her sense thatthe Meeting was not an evening party; and prepared herself to listen. Her complexion and her hair, and the gold threads in the rich Indianwork, thus blazed out together upon the startled audience. Many of themwere as much struck by this as by the beginning of Mr. Northcote'sspeech, though it was very different from the other speeches. The othershad been routine agitation, this was fiery conviction, crude, andjumping at conclusions, but still an enthusiasm in its way. Mr. Northcote approached his subject gradually, and his hearers, at firstdisappointed by the absence of their familiar watch-words, were dull, and bestowed their attention on Phoebe; but before he had been speakingten minutes Phoebe was forgotten even by her uncle and aunt, the twopeople most interested in her. It would be dangerous to repeat to areader, probably quite uninterested in the controversy, Mr. Northcote'sspeech, in which he laid hold of some of those weak points which theChurch, of course, has in common with every other institution in theworld. Eloquence has a way of evaporating in print, even when the reportis immediate. But his peroration was one which startled his hearers outof a calm abstract interest to all that keen personal feeling whichaccompanies the narrative of facts known to an audience, and affectingpeople within their own locality. 

"I have only been in this place three days, " said the speaker, "but inthat short time I have heard of one of the most flagrant abuses which Ihave been indicating to you. There is in this town, as you all know, aninstitution called the College; what was its original object I do notknow. Nests of idle pauperism, genteelly veiled under such a name, doexist, I know, over all the country; but it is at least probable thatsome educational purpose was in the mind of the pious founder whoestablished it. The pious founder! how immense are the revenues, howincalculable the means of doing good, which have been locked up inuselessness, or worse than uselessness, by men who have purchased a passinto the kingdom of heaven at the last moment by such gifts, and becomepious founders just before they ceased to be miserable sinners! Whatevermay have been the original intention of the College, however, it isclear that it was meant for something more than the pitiful use it isput to now. This old foundation, ladies and gentlemen, which mightprovide half the poor children in Carlingford with a wholesomeeducation, is devoted to the maintenance of six old men, need I sayChurchmen?" (here the speaker was interrupted by mingled hisses andironical "hear, hears")--"and a chaplain to say their prayers for them. Six old men: and one able-bodied parson to say their prayers for them. What do you think of this, my friends? I understand that this heavy andonerous duty has been offered--not to some other mouldy old gentleman, some decayed clergyman who might have ministered in peace to the decayedold burghers without any interference on my part: for a refuge for theaged and destitute has something natural in it, even when it is a wrongappropriation of public money. No, this would have been some faintapproach perhaps to justice, some right in wrong that would have closedour mouths. But no! it is given to a young gentleman, able-bodied, as Ihave said, who has appeared more than once in the cricket-field withyour victorious Eleven, who is fresh from Oxford, and would no morecondescend to consider himself on a footing of equality with the humbleperson who addresses you, than I would, having the use of my hands, accept a disgraceful sinecure! Yes, my friends, this is what the StateChurch does. She so cows the spirit and weakens the hearts of herfollowers that a young man at the very beginning of his career, able toteach, able to work, able to dig, educated and trained and cultured, canstoop to accept a good income in such a position as this. Think of it!Six old men, able surely, if they are good for anything, to mumble theirprayers for themselves somehow; yet provided with an Oxford scholar, anable-bodied young man, to read the service for them daily! He thinks itvery fine, no doubt, a good income and a good house for life, andnothing to do but to canter over morning and evening prayer at aswinging pace, as we have all heard it done: morning prayer, let us see, half an hour--or you may throw in ten minutes, in case the six shouldmumble their Amens slowly--and twenty minutes for the evening, one houra day. Here it is under your very eyes, people of Carlingford, acharming provision for the son of one of your most respected clergymen. Why, it is in your newspaper, where I read it! Can I give a moreforcible instance of the way in which a State Church cuts honesty andhonour out of men's hearts. "

A great many people noticed that when Mr. Northcote ended this with athundering voice, some one who had been listening near the door in anInverness cape, and hat over his brows, gave himself a sudden impetuousshake which shook the crowd, and turning round made his way out, notcaring whom he stumbled against. The whole assembly was in a hubbub whenthe orator ceased, and whispers ran freely round among all the groups inthe front. "That's young May he means. " "In course it's young May. Infernal job, as I've always said. " "Oh hush, Pigeon, don't swear! butit do seem a black burning shame, don't it?" "Bravo, Mr. Nor'cote!"called out old Tozer, on the platform, "that's what I call giving forthno uncertain sound. That's laying it into them 'ot and 'ot. "

This was the climax of the Meeting. Everything else was flat after sucha decided appeal to personal knowledge. Phoebe alone gave a frigidreception to the hero of the evening. 

"I dislike personalities, " she said, pointedly. "They never do a causeany good; and it isn't gentlemanly; don't you think so, Mr. Sloely;" andshe turned away from Northcote, who had come to speak to her, anddevoted herself to the man at her elbow, whom she had snubbed a littlewhile before. Mr. Northcote said to himself that this was untrue, andbrought up a hundred very good reasons why he should have employed suchan example, but the reproof stung him to the quick, for to beungentlemanly was the reproach of all others most calculated to go tohis heart. 

But nobody knew how Mr. May went home in his Inverness cape, breathingfire and flame, nor of the execution he did thereupon. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

MR. MAY'S AFFAIRS. 

Mr. May went into his study and closed the door. He poked the fire--heput himself into his easy-chair--he drew his writing-book towards him, and opened it at where a half-written sheet lay waiting. And then hepaused, rubbed his hands softly together, and falling back again, laughed quietly to himself. 

Yes; he who had stormed out of the drawing-room like a whirlwind, havingdiscomfited everybody, leaving the girls in tears, and the boys in awhite heat of passion, when he reached the profoundest depths of his ownretirement, laughed. What did it mean? Of all the people in the world, his children would have been most entirely thunderstruck by thisself-betrayal. They could not have understood it. They were acquaintedwith his passions, and with his moments of good temper. They knew whenhe was amiable, and when he was angry, by instinct, by the gleam of hiseye, by the way in which he shut the door; but this was somethingtotally unknown to them. The truth was that Mr. May, like many otherpeople, having a naturally bad temper, which he indulged freely when hepleased, had attained the power of using it when it suited him to useit, without being suspected by anybody. A bad temper is a possessionlike another, and may be made skilful use of like other things which, perhaps, in themselves, are not desirable. He could work himself up intofury, and launch the doom he felt disposed to launch, like a burning andfizzing thunder-bolt from a hand which was, in reality, not at allexcited; and like most other people who possess such an unrevealedpower, it pleased him very much when he persuaded his surroundings thatit was an impulse of rage which moved him. He had been at the Meeting atthe Music Hall, "to hear what those fellows had to say for themselves. "Contempt, unbounded but wrathful, was the feeling in his mind towards"those fellows;" but he felt that young Northcote's eloquence, reportedin next day's papers, was quite enough to quash for ever all hopes ofhis son's acceptance of the chaplaincy. So he walked home as fast as hislegs would carry him, and burst into his house, as we have seen, with asemblance of passion so perfect as to deceive his entire family andfill the place with anger and tears. Upon which, withdrawing from thescene of conflict, he threw himself down in his easy-chair and chuckled, recovering his composure by slow degrees. 

When, however, this private indulgence was over, Mr. May's face grewdark enough. He pushed his writing away from him, and pulling out adrawer in his writing-table, which was full of papers of a veryunliterary aspect, betook himself to the consideration of them, withanything but laughter in his looks, or in his mind. Letters upon bluepaper in straight up and down handwriting--other papers, also blue, withruled lines and numerals, for which Mr. May was more frightened than hewould have been for a charge of cavalry. These were the veryunattractive contents of this drawer. He brought two or three of themout in a bundle and read them over, one after another, with contractedbrows. Debt is an idiosyncrasy like other things. Some people keep clearof it miraculously, some seem to drop into it without cause or meaning, and to spend all their lives afterwards in vain attempts to get out. Mr. May was one of these unfortunate men. He could not tell himself wherehis money went to. Poor man! it was not so much he had, and there was alarge family to be fed and clothed, and schooled after a sort. But stillother people on incomes as small as his had managed to maintain theirfamilies without dropping into this hopeless condition. He had been indebt since ever he could remember; and to be sure it was not the painand trouble to him that it is to many people. So long as, by hook or bycrook, he could manage to stave off the evil day, so long was he happyenough, and he had managed this by all sorts of semi-miraculouswindfalls up to the present time. James's remittances had been likeheavenly dew to him. It is true that these remittances had been intendedto keep Reginald at Oxford, and perhaps something of the specialhardness with which he regarded Reginald arose from the fact that he haddone him wrong in this respect, and had appropriated what was intendedfor him. But after all, he had said to himself, the maintenance of thehouse in comfort, the keeping clean of the family name, and the stavingoff disagreeable revelations of the family's poverty, were more, foreven Reginald's comfort, than a little more money in his pocket, whicheverybody knew was very dangerous for a young man. 

Mr. May had always a bill coming due, which James's remittances arrivedjust in time to meet. Indeed, this was the normal condition of his life. He had always a bill coming due--a bill which some good-humoured bankerhad to be coaxed into renewing, or which was paid at the last moment bysome skilful legerdemain in the way of pouring out of one vessel intoanother, transferring the debt from one quarter to another, so thatthere may have been said to be always a certain amount of quitefictitious and visionary money floating about Mr. May, money whichexisted only in the shape of symbol, and which, indeed, belonged tonobody--which was borrowed here to-day, and paid there to-morrow, to bere-borrowed and repaid in the same way, never really reaching anybody'spocket, or representing anything but that one thing which money issupposed to be able to extinguish--debt. When human affairs reach thisvery delicate point, and there is nothing at any moment, except asemi-miraculous windfall, to keep a man going, the crisis is veryserious. And it was no wonder that Mr. May was anxious to drive his soninto accepting any possible appointment, and that he occasionally railedunreasonably at his family. Unless a hundred pounds or so fell down fromthe skies within the next ten days, he saw nothing before him but ruin. This, it is needless to say, is very far from being a comfortableposition. The _sourde_ agitation, excitement, feverish hope and fear ofthe sufferer might well affect his temper. If he could not get a hundredpounds within ten days, he did not know what he was to do. 

And nobody could say (he thought to himself) that he was an expensiveman; he had no expensive habits. He liked good living, it is true, and aglass of good wine, but this amount of regard for the table does notruin men. He liked books also, but he did not buy them, contentinghimself with such as the library could afford, and those which he couldobtain by the reviews he wrote for the Church Magazines. How then was itthat he never could get rid of that rapidly maturing bill? He could nottell. Keeping out of debt is one thing, and getting rid of it when youhave once taken its yoke upon your neck is another. His money, when hehad any, "slipped through his fingers, " as people say. When James'sremittance or any other piece of good fortune gave him enough to paythat hundred pounds without borrowing elsewhere, he borrowed elsewhereall the same. It was a mysterious fatality, from which he seemed unableto escape. In such circumstances a crisis must come sooner or later, andit appeared to him that now at least, after many hairbreadth escapes, the crisis had come. 

What was he to do? There was no chance, alas! of money from James, andeven if Reginald accepted the chaplaincy, and was willing at once tocome to his father's aid, there was no hope that he would have anythingfor some time--for chaplains incomes are not, any more than otherpeople's, generally paid in advance. He leaned back in his chair andwent over again, for the hundredth time, the list of all the people hecould borrow from, or who would "back" a bill for him, and he was stillemployed in this melancholy and hopeless enumeration, when a low knockcame to the door, and a maid-of-all-work, pushing it open, thrust in ahomely little man in a dusty-brown coat, who put up a hand to hisforehead as he came in with a salutation which was half charityschool-boy, half awkward recruit. Beyond this there was no ceremonyabout his entrance, no leave asked or question made. Betsy knew verywell that he was to come in when he pleased, and that her master did notdeny himself to Cotsdean. Mr. May received him with a familiar nod, andpointed hastily to a chair. He did not even take the trouble to put awaythose blue papers, which he would have done if any other individual, even if one of his children had come into the room. 

"Good evening, Cotsdean, " he said, in a friendly tone. "Well, whatnews?"

"Nothing as is pleasant, sir, " said the man, sitting down on a corner ofhis chair. "I've been to the bank, and it's no use my explaining, orbegging ever so hard. They won't hear of it. 'We've done it times andtimes, ' they says to me, 'and we won't do it no more. That's flat, ' andso indeed it is flat, sir, as you may say downright Dunstable; but thatain't no advantage to you and me. "

"Yes, it is, Cotsdean, " said the clergyman, "it is a decided advantage, for it shows there is nothing to be hoped from that quarter, and that isalways good--even though it's bad bad, as bad as can be--"

"You may say so, sir, " said Cotsdean. "I don't know what's to be done nomore than the babe unborn, and it's wearing me to death, that's whatit's doing. When I looks round on my small family, it's all I can do notto cry out loud. What's to become of my children, Mr. May? Yours, sir, they'll never want friends, and a hundred or so here or there, thatdon't ruin gentlefolks; but without selling up the business, how am Iever to get a hundred pounds? It ain't equal, sir, I swear it ain't. Yougets the money, and you takes it easy, and don't hold your head not abit lower; but me as has no good of it (except in the way o' a bit ofcustom that is a deal more in looks than anything else), and has to goround to all the folks, to Mr. Brownlow, at the bank, and I don't knowwho, as if it was for me! I suffers in my credit, sir, and I suffers inmy spirits, and I suffers in my health; and when the smash comes, what's to become of my poor children? It's enough to put a man besidehimself, that's what it is. "

Here the poor man's eyes grew bloodshot, partly with rubbing them, partly with tears. He rubbed them with the sleeve of his rough coat, andthe tears were very real, though few in number. Cotsdean's despair wasindeed tragical enough, but its outside had in it a dash of comedy, which, though he was in no mirthful mood, caught the quick eye of Mr. May. He was himself very painfully affected, to tell the truth, but yetit cost him an effort not to smile. 

"Cotsdean, " he said, "have I ever failed you yet? You have done a gooddeal for me, I don't deny it--you have had all the trouble, but beyondthat what have you suffered except in imagination? If you choose toexaggerate dangers, it is not my fault. Your children are as safe as--assafe as the Bank of England. Now, have I ever failed you? answer methat. "

"I can't say as you have, sir, " said Cotsdean, "but it's dreadful workplaying with a man's ruin, off and on like this, and nobody knowing whatmight happen, or what a day or an hour might bring forth. "

"That is very true, " said Mr. May. "I might die, that is what you mean;very true, though not quite so kind as I might have expected from an oldfriend--a very old friend. "

"I am sure, Sir, I beg your pardon, " cried the poor man, "it wasn'tthat; but only just as I'm driven out o' my seven senses with thinkingand thinking. "

"My dear Cotsdean, don't think; there could not be a more unnecessaryexercise; what good does your thinking do, but to make you unhappy?leave that to me. We have been driven into a corner before now, butnothing has ever happened to us. You will see something will turn upthis time. I ask you again, have I ever failed you? you know best. "

"No, sir, " said Cotsdean, somewhat doubtfully. "No, I didn't say as youhad. It's only--I suppose I ain't so young as I once was--and a man'sfeelin's, sir, ain't always in his own control. "

"You must take care that it is only to me that you make such anexhibition as this, " said Mr. May. "Who is there? oh, my coffee! put iton the table. If you are seen coming here to me with red eyes and thisagitated appearance, " he went on, waiting pointedly till the door wasclosed, "it will be supposed there is some family reason forit--again--"

"Oh, lor', Sir! you know--"

"Yes, I know very well, " said the clergyman. "I know that there couldn'tbe a better wife, and that bygones are bygones; but you must rememberand take care; everybody doesn't know you--and her--so well as I do. When you come to see your clergyman in this agitated state, I put it toyourself, Cotsdean, I put it to your good sense, what is anybody tothink? You must take great care not to betray yourself to anybody butme. "

The man looked at him with a half-gasp of consternation, bewildered bythe very boldness with which he was thus set down. Betray himself--hedrew a long breath, as if he had received a _douche_ of cold water inhis face, which was indeed very much like the effect that thisextraordinary address produced--betray himself! Poor Cotsdean'sstruggles and sufferings arose, at the present moment, entirely from thefact that he had allowed himself to be made use of for Mr. May'soccasions, and both the men were perfectly aware of this. But though hegasped, Cotsdean was too much under the influence of his clergyman to doanything more. Had he been a Dissenter, he would have patronized youngNorthcote, who was as good a man as Mr. May (or far better if truth weretold), with the frankest certainty of his own superior position, butbeing a humble churchman he yielded to his clergyman as to one of thepowers that be. It is a curious difference. He sat still on the edge ofhis chair, while Mr. May walked across the room to the table by thedoor, where his _café noir_ had been placed, and took his cup and drankit. He was not civil enough to ask his visitor to share it, indeed itnever would have occurred to him, though he did not hesitate to use poorCotsdean for his own purpose, to treat him otherwise than as men treattheir servants and inferiors. When he had finished his coffee, he wentleisurely back into his former place. 

"You have nothing to suggest, " he said, "nothing to advise? Well, I musttry what I can do. It will be hard work, but still I must do it, youknow, " added Mr. May, in a gracious tone. "I have never concealed fromyou, Cotsdean, how much I appreciated your assistance; everything ofthis sort is so much worse in my position than in yours. You understandthat? A gentleman--and a clergyman--has things expected from him whichnever would be thought of in your case. I have never omitted toacknowledge my obligations to you--and you also owe some obligations tome. "

"I don't deny as you've been very kind, sir, " said Cotsdean, half-grateful, half-sullen; then he wavered a little. "I never deniedit, _her_ and me could never have 'it it off but for you. I don't forgeta favour--nobody can say that of me. I ain't forgot it in this case. "

"I don't say that you have forgotten it. I have always put the utmostconfidence in you; but, my good fellow, you must not come to me in thisdown-in-the-mouth way. Have I ever failed you? We've been hard pressedenough at times, but something has always turned up. Have not I told youa hundred times Providence will provide?"

"If you put it like that, sir--"

"I do put it like that. I have always been helped, you know, sometimeswhen it seemed the last moment. Leave it to me. I have no more doubt, "said Mr. May, lifting up a countenance which was by no means sountroubled as could have been wished, "that when the time comes all willbe well, than I have of the sun rising to-morrow--which it will, " headded with some solemnity, "whether you and I live to see it or not. Leave it all, I say, to me. "

Cotsdean did not make any reply. He was overawed by this solemnity oftone, and knew his place too well to set himself up against hisclergyman; but still it cannot be denied that the decision was lesssatisfactory than one of much less exalted tone might have been. He hadnot the courage to say anything--he withdrew with his hat in his hand, and a cloud over his face. But as he left the house the doubt in hissoul breathed itself forth. "If so be as neither me nor him see it rise, what good will that do to my family, " said Cotsdean to himself, and wenthis way to his closed shop, through all the sacks of seeds and dryrustling grain, with a heavy heart. He was a corn-factor in a tolerablebusiness, which, as most of the bankers of Carlingford knew, he had somedifficulty in carrying along, being generally in want of money; but thiswas not so rare a circumstance that any special notice should be takenof it. Everybody who knew thought it was very kind of Mr. May to backhim up as he did, and even to put his name to bills for poor Cotsdean, to whom, indeed, he was known to have been very kind in many ways. Butnobody was aware how little of these said bills went to Cotsdean, andhow much to Mr. May. 

When he was gone, the clergyman threw himself back again into his chairwith a pale face. Providence, which he treated like some sort of neutraldeity, and was so very sure of having on his side when he spoke toCotsdean, did not feel so near to him, or so much under his command, when Cotsdean was gone. There were still two days; but if before that hecould not make some provision, what was to be done? He was not a cruelor bad man, and would have suffered keenly had anything happened to poorCotsdean and his family on his account. But they must be sacrificed ifit came to that, and the thought was very appalling. What was he to do?His friends were exhausted, and so were his expedients. There was nolonger any one he could borrow from, or who would take even a share ofhis burden on their shoulders. What was he to do?

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE NEW CHAPLAIN. 

It cannot be denied that, reluctant as Reginald May had been to acceptthe chaplaincy of which so much had been said, he had no sooner fairlydone so, and committed himself beyond remedy, than a certain sense ofrelief began to steal over the young man's mind. He had made the leap. Moved, at last, by arguments which, perhaps, were not worth very muchlogically, and which even while he yielded to them he saw the weaknessof, he felt sure that when he woke in the morning, and realized what hehad done, fearful feelings of remorse would seize him. But, curiouslyenough, this was not so; and his first sensation was relief that theconflict was over, and that he had no more angry remonstrances to meetwith, or soft pleadings from Ursula, or assaults of rude abruptness fromJaney. All that was over; and then a warm glow of independence andcompetency came over the young man. You may be sure he had no fire inhis rooms to make him warm, and it was a chill January morning, withsnow in the heavy sky, and fog in the yellow air; but, notwithstanding, there came a glow of comfort over him. 

Independent!--free to go where he pleased, buy what he liked, spend histime as best seemed to him, with a "position" of his own; even a houseof his own. He laughed softly to himself at this new idea. It did notsomehow hurt him as he thought it would, this sinecure he had accepted. Could he not make it up, as Ursula said, "work for the town in otherways without pay, since the town had given him pay without work?" Agenial feeling of toleration came over Reginald's mind. Why should hehave made such a fuss about it? It was natural that his father shouldinsist, and, now that it was done, he himself did not wish it undone, ashe had expected to do. After all, if you judged matters with suchrigidity, who was there without guilt? what public appointment wasgiven and held according to abstract right, as, formally speaking, itought to be? Those in the highest offices were appointed, not because oftheir personal excellence, but because of being some other man's son orbrother; and yet, on the whole, public duty was well done, and theunjust ruler and hireling priest were exceptions. Even men whose entryinto the fold was very precipitate, over the wall, violently, or by somerat-hole of private interest, made very good shepherds, once they wereinside. Nothing was perfect in this world, and yet things were more goodthan evil; and if he himself made it his study to create for himself anideal position, to become a doer of all kinds of volunteer work, whatwould it matter that his appointment was not an ideal appointment? Itseemed very strange to him, and almost like an interposition ofProvidence in his favour, that he should feel in this way, for Reginaldwas not aware that such revulsions of feeling were very naturalphenomena, and that the sensation, after any great decision, is almostinvariably one of relief. To be sure it upset this manly state of mind alittle when, coming down to breakfast, his father gave him a nod, andsaid briefly, "I am glad you have seen your duty at last. "

This made him almost resolve to throw it up again; but the feeling wasmomentary. Why should he give it up? It had made him independent(already he thought of his independence as a thing accomplished), and hewould make full amends to the Church and to Carlingford for taking twohundred and fifty pounds a year without working for it. Surely he coulddo that. He did not grudge work, but rather liked it, and would be readyto do anything, he did not care what, to make his sinecure into avolunteer's outpost for every good work. Yes, that was the way to lookat it. And it was a glorious independence. Two hundred and fifty poundsa year!

"And the house, " cried Ursula, when Mr. May had left thebreakfast-table, and left them free to chatter. "The house--I don'tthink you are likely to find a tenant for it. The houses in Grange Laneare so cheap now; and some people object to the poor old men. I thinkyou must keep the house. Furnishing will be an expense; but, of course, when you have a certain income, that makes such a difference; and youcan come and see us every day. "

"Why can't he live at home?" said Janey; "we are so poor; he ought tocome and pay us something for his board, and help us to get on. "

"What can you know about it, at your age?" said Ursula. "We have not gotproper rooms for Reginald. He ought, at least, to have a study of hisown, as well as a bed-room, now that he has an appointment. No, you mustgo to the College, Reginald; and, perhaps, you might have one of theboys with you, say Johnnie, which would be a great saving--for he has anappetite; he eats more than two of the rest of us do. You might take oneof them with you--to save the bills a little--if you like. "

"Take me, " said Janey, "I have a good appetite too; and then I'm a girl, which is a great deal more useful. I could keep your house. Oh, Reginald! mayn't we go out and see it? I want to see it. I have neveronce been over the College--not in all my life. "

"We might as well go, don't you think, Ursula?" he said, appealing toher with a delightful mixture of helplessness and supremacy. Yesterday, he had not been able to assert any exclusive claim to sixpence. Now hehad a house--a house all his own. It pleased him to think of taking thegirls to it; and as for having one of them, he was ready to have themall to live with him. Ursula thought fit to accede graciously to thissuggestion, when she had looked after her numerous household duties. Janey, in the mean time, had been "practising" in one of her periodicalfits of diligence. 

"For, you know, if Reginald did really want me to keep house for him, "said Janey, "(you have too much to do at home; or, of course, he wouldlike you best), it would be dreadful if people found out how little Iknow. "

"You ought to go to school, " said Ursula, gravely. "It is a dreadfulthing for a girl never to have had any education. Perhaps Reggie mightspare a little money to send you to school; or, perhaps, papa--"

"School yourself!" retorted Janey, indignant; but then she thoughtbetter of it. "Perhaps just for a year to finish, " she added in adoubtful tone. They thought Reginald could do anything on that wonderfultwo hundred and fifty pounds a year. 

The College was a picturesque old building at the other side ofCarlingford, standing in pretty grounds with some fine trees, underwhich the old men sat and amused themselves in the summer mornings. Onthis chilly wintry day none of them were visible, except the cheerfulold soul bent almost double, but with a chirruppy little voice like asuperannuated sparrow, who acted as porter, and closed the big gatesevery night, and fined the old men twopence if they were too late. Hetrotted along the echoing passages, with his keys jingling, to show themthe chaplain's rooms. 

"The old gentlemen is all as pleased as Punch, " said Joe. "We was afeared as it might be somebody foreign--not a Carlingford gentleman; andsome parsons is queer, saving your presence, Mr. May; but we knows whereyou comes from, and all about you, as one of the old gentlemen was justa-saying to me. Furnished, Miss? Lord bless you, yes! they're furnished. It's all furnished, is College. You'll think as the things look a bitqueer; they wasn't made not this year, nor yet last year, I can tellyou; and they ain't in the fashion. But if so be as you don't stand byfashion, there they is, " said Joe, throwing open the door. 

The young people went in softly, their excitement subdued into a kind ofawe. An empty house, furnished, is more desolate, more overwhelming tothe imagination, than a house which is bare. For whom was it waiting, all ready there, swept and garnished? Or were there already unseeninhabitants about, writing ghostly letters on the tables, seated on thechairs? Even Janey was hushed. 

"I'd rather stay at home, after all, " she whispered in Ursula's earunder her breath. 

But after awhile they became familiar with the silent place, and awokethe echoes in it with their voices and new life. Nothing so young hadbeen in the College for years. The last chaplain had been an old man andan old bachelor; and the pensioners were all solitary, living a sort ofmonastic life, each in his room, like workers in their cells. WhenJaney, surprised by some unexpected joke, burst into one of her peals oflaughter, the old building echoed all through it, and more than onewindow was put up and head projected to know the cause of thisprofanation. 

"Joe!" cried one portentous voice; "what's happened? what's the meaningof this?"

"It's only them a-laughing, sir, " said Joe, delighting in the vaguenessof his rejoinder. "They ain't used to it, that's the truth; but laughaway, Miss, it'll do you good, " he added benignly. Joe was of a cheerfulspirit, notwithstanding his infirmities, and he foresaw lightsome days. 

Somewhat taken aback, however, by the commotion produced by Janey'slaugh, the young party left the College, Ursula carrying with her sundrymemoranda and measurements for curtains and carpets. "You must havecurtains, " she said, "and I think a carpet for the study. The other roomwill do; but the study is cold, it has not the sunshine. I wonder if wemight go and look at some, all at once. "

Here the three paused in the road, and looked at each other somewhatovercome by the grandeur of the idea. Even Reginald, notwithstanding hisOxford experience, held his breath a little at the thought of goingright off without further consideration, and buying carpets andcurtains. As for Janey, she laughed again in pure excitement anddelight. 

"Fancy going into Holden's, walking right in, as if we had the Bank inour pockets, and ordering whatever we like, " she cried. 

"I suppose we must have them!" said Reginald, yielding slowly to thepleasure of acquisition. Ursula was transformed by the instinct ofbusiness and management into the leader of the party. 

"Of course you must have them, " she said, with the air of a woman whohad ordered curtains all her life, "otherwise you will catch cold, andthat is not desirable, " and she marched calmly towards Holden's, whileJaney dropped behind to smother the laughter which expressed her amazeddelight in this new situation. It is doubtful whether Holden would havegiven them so good a reception had the Miss Mays gone to hint to ordercurtains for the Parsonage--for the Carlingford tradesmen were very wellaware of the difficulties, in point of payment, which attended Mr. May'spurchases. But Holden was all smiles at the idea of fitting up the roomsin the College. 

"Carpets? I have a Turkey carpet that would just suit one of those oldrooms--old-fashioned rooms are so much thought of at present, " said theman of furniture. 

"Yes--I suppose that would do, " said Reginald, with a side look at hissister, to know if he was right. Ursula slew him with a glance of herbrown eyes. She was almost grand in superior knowledge and righteousindignation. 

"Turkey! are you out of your senses? Do you think we have the Bank inour pockets, " she whispered to him angrily, "as Janey says?"

"How was I to know? He said so, " said the alarmed chaplain, cowed, notwithstanding his income. 

"_He_ said so! that is just like you boys, taking whatever everyonetells you. Why, a Turkey carpet costs a fortune. Mr. Holden, I think, ifyou please, Brussels will do; or some of those new kinds, a jumble ofcolours without any decided pattern. Not too expensive, " said Ursulasolemnly, the colour mounting to her face. They were all rather broughtdown from their first delight and grandeur when this was said--forstipulating about expense made a difference all at once. The delightfulsensation of marching into Holden's as if the world belonged to them wasover; but Janey was touched to see that Holden still remained civil, and did not express, in his countenance, the contempt he must have felt. 

When this was over, and Mr. Holden had kindly suggested the idea ofsending various stuffs to the College, "that they might judge of theeffect, " the party went home, slightly subdued. The air was heavy andyellow, and prophesied snow; but a very red wintry sun had managed tomake an opening temporarily in the clouds, and threw a ruddy ray downGrange Lane, bringing out the few passengers who were coming and goingunder the old garden walls. Ursula clasped her hands together, and cameto a stop suddenly, when she turned her eyes that way. 

"Oh!" she said, "here she is--she is coming! all by herself, and wecan't help meeting her--the young lady in black!"

"Shall we speak to her?" said Janey with a little awe. 

"Who is the young lady in black?" said Reginald, "this girl who iscoming up? I never saw her before in Carlingford. Is she some one youhave met with the Dorsets? She don't look much like Grange Lane. "

"Oh, hush! here she is, " said Ursula, losing all that importance ofaspect which her position as leader of the expedition had given her. Apretty blush of expectation came over her face--her dimples revealedthemselves as if by magic. You will think it strange, perhaps, that thesight of one girl should produce this effect upon another. But thenPhoebe represented to Ursula the only glimpse she had ever had into aworld which looked gay and splendid to the country girl--a world inwhich Phoebe had appeared to her as a princess reigning in glory anddelight. Ursula forgot both her companions and her recent occupation. Would the young lady in black notice her; stop, perhaps, and talk toher--remember her? Her eyes began to glow and dance with excitement. Shestumbled as she went on in her anxiety, fixing her eyes upon theapproaching figure. Phoebe, for her part, was taking a constitutionalwalk up and down Grange Lane, and she too was a little moved, recognizing the girl, and wondering what it would be wisest todo--whether to speak to her, and break her lonely promenade with alittle society, or remember her "place, " and save herself from furthermortification by passing the clergyman's daughter, who was a cousin ofthe Dorsets, with a bow. 

"The Dorsets wouldn't recognise me, nor Miss May either, " Phoebe said toherself, "_if they knew_--"

But Ursula looked so wistful as they approached each other that she hadnot the courage to keep to this wise resolution. Though she was only thegranddaughter of Tozer, the butterman, she was much more a woman of theworld than this pretty blushing girl who courted her notice. She put outher hand instinctively when they met. "It can't harm anybody but myself, after all, " she thought. 

"Oh, I am so glad you remember me, " cried Ursula. "I knew you in amoment. Have you come to stay here? This is my brother, Reginald, and mylittle sister, Janey, " (how Janey scowled at that _little!_ and withreason, for she was by half an inch the taller of the two). "Are youtaking a walk? I do hope you like Carlingford. I do hope you are goingto stay. That is our house down at the end of the lane, close to St. Roque's. Papa is the clergyman there. It will be so delightful, " saidUrsula, repeating herself in her excitement, "if you are going to stay. "

"I am going to stay for some time, " said Phoebe graciously, "I don'tquite know how long. I came here shortly after I saw you in town. Mygrandfather lives here. Grange Lane is very nice for a walk. Grandmammais an invalid, so that I don't leave her very often. It was great luckfinding you just as I had come out; for it is not cheerful walkingalone. "

Phoebe felt perfectly sure that through each of the three heads turnedtowards her a hurried inquiry was going on as to which of those enclosedhouses contained the grandmother who was an invalid; but no sort ofenlightenment followed the inquiry, and as for Ursula it terminatedabruptly in her mind with a rush of cordiality. She was not at an agewhen friendship pauses to make any inquiry into grandmothers. 

"I am so glad! for if you are not going anywhere in particular, we mayall walk together. Janey knows you quite well. I have talked of you sooften, " (here Phoebe gave a gracious bow and smile to Janey, who was notquite sure that she liked to be thus patronized), "and so does mybrother, " said Ursula, more doubtfully. "Do you like Carlingford? Haveyou seen many people? Oh! I do hope you will stay. "

"I have not seen anybody, " said Phoebe. "My people are not much insociety. When one is old and sick, I don't suppose one cares--"

"There is no society to speak of in Carlingford, " said Reginald. "It islike most other country towns. If you like it we shall be sure yourliking is quite disinterested, for it has no social charms--"

When had Reginald said so many words at a time to a young lady before?The girls exchanged glances. "I think it is pretty, " said Phoebe, closingthe subject. "It is going to snow, don't you think? I suppose you skatelike all the young ladies now. It seems the first thing any one thinksof when the winter begins. "

"Do you skate?" said Ursula, her eyes brighter and opener than ever. 

"Oh, a little--as everybody does! Perhaps if there is no society, " saidPhoebe, turning to Reginald for the first time, "people are free herefrom the necessity of doing as everybody does. I don't think there isany such bondage in the world--dressing, living, working, amusingyourself--you have to do everything as other people do it. So I skate--Ican't help myself; and a hundred foolish things beside. "

"But I should think it _delightful_, " cried Ursula, "I have alwaysenvied the boys. They look so warm when we are all shivering. Reginald, if it freezes will you teach us? I think I should like it better thananything in the world. "

"Yes, " said Reginald, "if Miss--if we can make up a party--if you, " headded with a perfectly new inflection in his voice, "will come too. "

"I see you don't know my name, " said Phoebe, with a soft little laugh. "It is Beecham. One never catches names at a party. I remembered yoursbecause of a family in a novel that I used to admire very much in mygirlish days--"

"Oh! I know, " cried Janey, "the Daisy Chain. We are not a set of prigslike those people. We are not goody, whatever we are; we--"

"I don't suppose Miss Beecham cares for your opinion of the familycharacter, " said Reginald in a tone that made Janey furious. Thusdiscoursing they reached the gates of the Parsonage, where Ursula wasmost eager that her friend should come in. And here Mr. May joined them, who was impressed, like everybody else, by Phoebe's appearance, and madehimself so agreeable that Reginald felt eclipsed and driven into thebackground. Ursula had never been so satisfied with her father in herlife; though there was a cloud on Mr. May's soul, it suited him to showa high good-humour with everybody in recompense for his son'ssatisfactory decision, and he was, indeed, in a state of highcomplacence with himself for having managed matters so cleverly that thevery thing which should have secured Reginald's final abandonment of thechaplaincy determined him, on the contrary, to accept it. And he admiredPhoebe, and was dazzled by her self-possession and knowledge of theworld. He supported Ursula's invitation warmly; but the stranger freedherself with graceful excuses. She had her patient to attend to. 

"That is a very lady-like young woman, " said Mr. May, when they hadgone in, after watching regretfully their new acquaintance's progressthrough Grange Lane. "You met her in town, did you? A friend of theDorsets? Where is she living, I wonder; and whom does she belong to? Onedoes not often see that style of thing here. "

"I never saw any one like her before, " said Ursula fervently; and theywere still all uniting in admiration of Phoebe--when--

But such an interruption demands another page. 

CHAPTER XX. 

THAT TOZER GIRL!

"Well, who is she?" cried Mrs. Sam Hurst, too curious to think of theordinary decorums. She had no bonnet on, but a light "cloud" of whitewool over her cap, and her whole aspect was full of eagerness andexcitement. "Why didn't you tell me you knew her? Who is she? I am dyingto know. "

"Who is--who?" said Ursula, rather glad of the opportunity of beingpolitely rude to Mrs. Sam Hurst before papa. "How is any one to find outfrom the way you speak? She? who is she?"

"That is just what I want you to tell me, " said Mrs. Sam Hurst, withimperturbable good-humour. "You, Mr. May, you are always good to me, though Ursula has her little tempers--the girl you were talking to atthe door. I stood and watched from the window, and I scarcely couldcontain myself sufficiently not to bounce out in the middle of the talk. Now do tell, as the Americans say. Who is that Tozer girl?"

"That Tozer girl!" Ursula gave a little shriek, and grew first red andthen pale with horror and dismay. 

"Yes; I told you about her; so well dressed and looking so nice. Thatwas she; with the very same dress, such a charming dress! so much styleabout it. Who is she, Ursula? Mr. May, tell me who is she? You can'timagine how much I want to know. "

Ursula dropped into a chair, looking like a little ghost, faint andrigid. She said afterwards to Janey that she felt in the depths of herheart that it must be true. She could have cried with pain anddisappointment, but she would not give Mrs. Sam Hurst the pleasure ofmaking her cry. 

"There must be some mistake, " said Reginald, interposing. "This is alady--my sister met her in town with the Dorsets. "

"Oh, does she know the Dorsets too?" said the inquirer. "That makes itstill more interesting. Yes, that is the girl that is with the Tozers;there can be no mistake about it. She is the granddaughter. She was atthe Meeting last night. I had it from the best authority--on theplatform with old Tozer. And, indeed, Mr. May, how any one that had beenthere could dare to look you in the face!--"

"I was there myself, " said Mr. May. "It amused me very much. Tell me nowabout this young person. Is she an impostor, taking people in, or whatis it all about? Ursula looks as if she was in the trick herself, andhad been found out. "

"I am _sure_ she is not an impostor, " said Ursula. "An impostor! If youhad seen her as I saw her, at a great, beautiful, splendid ball. I neversaw anything like it. I was nobody there--nobody--and neither wereCousin Anne and Cousin Sophy--but Miss Beecham! It is a mistake, Isuppose, " the girl said, raising herself up with great dignity; "whenpeople are always trying for news, they get the wrong news sometimes, Idon't doubt. You may be sure it is a mistake. "

"That's me, " said Mrs. Sam Hurst, with a laugh; "that is one of Ursula'sassaults upon poor me. Yes, I confess it, I am fond of news; and I neversaid she was an impostor. Poor girl, I am dreadfully sorry for her. Ithink she is a good girl, trying to do her duty to her relations. Shedidn't choose her own grandfather. I dare say, if she'd had any say init, she would have made a very different choice. But whether your papamay think her a proper friend for you--being Tozer's granddaughter, MissUrsula, that's quite a different business, I am bound to say. "

Again Ursula felt herself kept from crying by sheer pride, and nothingelse. She bit her lips tight; she would not give in. Mrs. Hurst totriumph over her, and to give her opinion as to what papa might thinkproper! Ursula turned her back upon Mrs. Hurst, which was not civil, fearing every moment some denunciation from papa. But nothing of thekind came. He asked quite quietly after a while, "Where did you meetthis young lady?" without any perceptible inflection of anger in histone. 

"Why, papa, " cried Janey, distressed to be kept so long silent, "everybody knows where Ursula met her; no one has heard of anything elsesince she came home. She met her of course at the ball. You know;Reginald, _you_ know! The ball where she went with Cousin Anne. "

"Never mind Cousin Anne; I want the name of the people at whose house itwas. "

"Copperhead, papa, " said Ursula, rousing herself. "If Cousin Anne doesnot know a lady from a common person, who does, I wonder? It was CousinAnne who introduced me to her (I think). Their name was Copperhead, andthey lived in a great, big, beautiful house, in the street whereambassadors and quantities of great people live. I forget the name ofit; but I know there was an ambassador lived there, and Cousin Annesaid----"

"Copperhead! I thought so, " said Mr. May. "When Ursula has been seta-going on the subject of Cousin Anne, there is nothing rational to begot from her after that for an hour or two. You take an interest in thisyoung lady, " he said shortly, turning to Mrs. Sam Hurst, who stood bysmiling, rather enjoying the commotion she had caused. 

"Who, I? I take an interest in anybody that makes a stir, and gives ussomething to talk about, " said Mrs. Hurst, frankly. "You know myweakness. Ursula despises me for it, but you know human nature. If I didnot take an interest in my neighbours what would become of me--a poorlone elderly woman, without either chick or child?"

She rounded off this forlorn description of herself with a hearty laugh, in which Janey, who had a secret kindness for their merry neighbour, though she feared her "for papa, " joined furtively. Mr. May, however, did not enter into the joke with the sympathy which he usually showed toMrs. Hurst. He smiled, but there was something _distrait_ andpre-occupied in his air. 

"How sorry we all are for you, " he said; "your position is trulymelancholy. I am glad, for your sake, that old Tozer has a prettygranddaughter to beguile you now and then out of recollection of yourcares. "

There was a sharp tone in this which caught Mrs. Hurst's ear, and shewas not disposed to accept any sharpness from Mr. May. She turned thetables upon him promptly. 

"What a disgraceful business that Meeting was! Of course, you have seenthe paper. There ought to be some way of punishing those agitators thatgo about the country, taking away people's characters. Could not youbring him up for libel, or Reginald? I never knew anything so shocking. To come to your own town, your own neighbourhood, and to strike youthrough your son! It is the nastiest, most underhanded, unprincipledattack I ever heard of. "

"What is that?" asked Reginald. 

He was not easily roused by Carlingford gossip, but there was clearlymore in this than met the eye. 

"An Anti-State Church Meeting, " said Mr. May, "with special complimentsin it to you and me. It is not worth our while to think of it. Youragitators, my dear Mrs. Hurst, are not worth powder and shot. Now, pardon me, but I must go to work. Will you go and see the sick people inBack Grove Street, Reginald? I don't think I can go to-day. "

"I should like to know what was in the paper, " said the young man, withan obstinacy that filled the girls with alarm. They had been in hopesthat everything between father and son was to be happy and friendly, nowthat Reginald was about to do what his father wished. 

"Oh, you shall see it, " said Mrs. Hurst, half alarmed too; "but it isnot anything, as your father says; only we women are sensitive. We arealways thinking of things which, perhaps, were never intended to harmus. Ursula, you take my advice, and don't go and mix yourself up withDissenters and that kind of people. The Tozer girl may be very nice, butshe is still Tozer's granddaughter, after all. "

Reginald followed the visitor out of the room, leaving his sisters veryill at ease within, and his father not without anxieties which were sopowerful, indeed, that he relieved his mind by talking of them to hisdaughters--a most unusual proceeding. 

"That woman will set Reginald off at the nail again, " he cried; "afterhe had begun to see things in a common-sense light. There was an attackmade upon him last night on account of that blessed chaplaincy, whichhas been more trouble to me than it is worth. I suppose he'll throw itup now. But I wash my hands of the matter. I wonder how you girls canencourage that chattering woman to come here. "

"Papa!" cried Janey, ever on the defensive, "we _hate_ her! It is youwho encourage her to come here. "

"Oh, hush!" cried Ursula, with a warning glance; it was balm to her soulto hear her father call Mrs. Hurst _that woman_. "We have been to seethe house, " she said; "it was very nice. I think Reginald liked it, papa. "

"Ah, well, " said Mr. May, "girls and boys are queer articles. I dare saythe house, if he likes it, will weigh more with him than justice orcommon sense. So Copperhead was the people's name? What would be wanted, do you think, Ursula, to make Reginald's room into a comfortable roomfor a pupil? Comfortable, recollect; not merely what would do; and onethat has been used, I suppose, to luxury. You can look over it and letme know. "

"Are we going to take a pupil, papa?" cried Janey, with widening eyes. 

"I don't know what you could teach him, " he said. "Manners, perhaps? Letme know, Ursula. The room is not a bad room; it would want a new carpet, curtains, perhaps--various things. Make me out a list. The Copperheadshave a son, I believe. Did you see him at that fine ball of yours?"

"Oh! papa, he danced with me twice; he was very kind, " said Ursula, witha blush; "and he danced all the night with Miss Beecham. It must be afalsehood about her being old Tozer's granddaughter. Mr. ClarenceCopperhead was always by her side. I think Mrs. Hurst must have made itall up out of her own head. "

Mr. May gave a little short laugh. 

"Poor Mrs. Hurst!" he said, recovering his temper; "how bitter you allare against her. So he danced with you twice? You must try to make himcomfortable, Ursula, if he comes here. "

"Is Mr. Clarence Copperhead coming here?"

Ursula was struck dumb by this piece of news. The grand house inPortland Place, and all Sophy Dorset's questions and warnings, camesuddenly back to her mind. She blushed fiery red; she could not tellwhy. Coming here! How strange it would be, how extraordinary, to have toorder dinner for him, and get his room in order, and have him in thedrawing-room in the evenings! How should she know what to say to him? orwould papa keep him always at work, reading Greek or somethingdownstairs? All this flashed through her mind with the rapidity oflightning. Mr. May made no reply. He was walking up and down the roomwith his hands behind him, as was his habit when he was "busy. " Beingbusy was separated from being angry by the merest visionary line in Mr. May's case; his children never ventured on addressing him at suchmoments, and it is impossible to describe how glad they were when hewithdrew to his own room before Reginald's return; but not a minute toosoon. The young man came back, looking black as night. He threw himselfinto a chair, and then he got up again, and began also to walk about theroom like his father. At first he would make no reply to the questionsof the girls. 

"It is exactly what I expected, " he said; "just what I looked for. Iknew it from the first moment. "

It was Janey, naturally, who had least patience with this unsatisfactoryutterance. 

"If it was just what you expected, and you looked for it all the time, why should you make such a fuss now?" she cried. "I declare, for all youare young, and we are fond of you, you are almost as bad as papa. "

Reginald did not take any notice of this address; he went on repeatingthe same words at intervals. 

"A child might have known it. Of course, from the beginning one knew howit must be. " Then he suddenly faced round upon Ursula, who was nearlycrying in excitement and surprise. "But if they think I am to be drivenout of a resolution I have made by what they say--if they think that Iwill be bullied into giving up because of their claptrap, " he cried, looking sternly at her, "then you will find you are mistaken. You willfind I am not such a weak idiot as you suppose. Give up! because somedemagogue from a Dissenting Committee takes upon him to criticise myconduct. If you think I have so little self-respect, so little stamina, "he said, fiercely, "you will find you have made a very great mistake. "

"Oh, Reginald, _me_?" cried Ursula, with tears in her eyes; "did I everthink anything unkind of you? did I ever ask you to do anything that wasdisagreeable? You should not look as if it was me. "

Then he threw himself down again on the old sofa, which creaked andtottered under the shock. 

"Poor little Ursula!" he cried, with a short laugh. "Did you think Imeant you? But if they thought they would master me by these means, "said Reginald with pale fury, "they never made a greater mistake, I cantell you. A parcel of trumpery agitators, speechifiers, little pettydemagogues, whom nobody ever heard of before. A fine thing, indeed, tohave all the shopkeepers of Carlingford sitting in committee on one'sconduct, isn't it--telling one what one ought to do? By Jupiter! It'senough to make a man swear!"

"I declare!" cried Janey loudly, "how like Reginald is to papa! I neversaw it before. When he looks wicked like that, and sets his teeth--but Iam not going to be pushed, not by my brother or any one!" said the girl, growing red, and making a step out of his reach. "I won't stand it. I amnot a child any more than you. "

Janey's wrath was appeased, however, when Reginald produced the paperand read Northcote's speech aloud. In her interest she drew nearer andnearer, and read the obnoxious column over his shoulder, joining inUrsula's cries of indignation. By the time the three had thus gotthrough it, Reginald's own agitation subsided into that fierce amusementwhich is the frequent refuge of the assaulted. 

"Old Green in the chair! and old Tozer and the rest have all beensitting upon me, " he said, with that laugh which is proverbiallydescribed as from the wrong side of the mouth, whatever that may be. Ursula said nothing in reply, but in her heart she felt yet anotherstab. Tozer! This was another complication. She had taken so great aromantic interest in the heroine of that ball, which was the mostentrancing moment of Ursula's life, that it seemed a kind of disloyaltyto her dreams to give up thus completely, and dethrone the young lady inblack; but what could the poor girl do? In the excitement of thisquestion the personality of Reginald's special assailant was lostaltogether: the girls did not even remember his name. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

A NEW FRIEND. 

After this there followed an exciting interval for the family at theParsonage. Reginald, with the impatience of anger, insisted upontransporting himself to the College at once, and entering upon "hisduties, " such as they were, in defiance of all public comment. And Mr. May, delighted with the head-strong resentment which served his purposeso well, promoted it by all the means in his power, goading his son on, if he showed any signs of relaxing, by references to public opinion, andwhat the Liberation Society would say. Before those curtains were ready, which the girls had ordered with so much pride, or the carpet laid down, he had taken possession, and his room in the Parsonage was alreadyturned upside down preparing for a new inmate. Many and strange were thethoughts in Ursula's mind about this new inmate. She remembered ClarenceCopperhead as a full-grown man, beyond, it seemed to her, the age atwhich pupilage was possible. What was he coming to Carlingford for? Whatwas he coming to the Parsonage for? What could papa do with a pupilquite as old as Reginald, who, in his own person, had often takenpupils? Ursula had read as many novels as were natural at her age, andcan it be supposed that she did not ask herself whether there was anyother meaning in it? Could he be coming to Carlingford on account ofMiss Beecham; or, on account of--any one else? Ursula never whispered, even to her own imagination, on account of me. But it is not to besupposed that the unbidden inarticulate thought did not steal in, fluttering her girlish soul. Everybody knows that in fiction, at least, such things occur continually, and are the most natural things in theworld; and to Ursula, beyond her own little commonplace world, which shesomewhat despised, and the strange world undeciphered and wonderful towhich the Dorsets had introduced her for those ten brief days in London, the world of fiction was the only sphere she knew; and in that spherethere could be no such natural method of accounting for a young man'sactions as that of supposing him to be "in love. " The question remained, was it with Miss Beecham, or was it with--anybody else? Such an inquirycould not but flutter her youthful bosom. She made his room ready forhim, and settled how he was to be disposed of, with the strangest senseof something beneath, which her father would never suspect, but which, perhaps, she alone might know. 

Clarence Copperhead was a more imposing figure to Ursula than he was inreality. She had seen him only twice, and he was a big and full-grown"gentleman, " while Ursula only realised herself as a little girl. Shewas not even aware that she had any intelligence to speak of, or thatshe would be a fit person to judge of "a gentleman. " To be sure she hadto do many things which wanted thought and sense; but she was toounthoughtful of herself to have decided this as yet, or to have createdany private tribunal at which to judge a new-comer of ClarenceCopperhead's dimensions. A much greater personage than she was, anindividual whose comings and goings could not be without observation, whose notice would be something exciting and strange, was what she tookhim to be. And Ursula was excited. Did Mrs. Copperhead, that kind littlewoman, know why he was coming--was she in his confidence? And how wasUrsula to entertain him, to talk to him--a gentleman accustomed to somuch better society? She did not say anything to Janey on this subject, though Janey was not without her curiosities too, and openly indulged inconjectures as to the new pupil. 

"I wonder if he will be fine. I wonder if he will be very good, " saidJaney. "I wonder if he will fall in love with Ursula. Pupils, in books, always do; and then there is a dreadful fuss and bother, and the girl issent away. It is hard for the girl; it is always supposed to be herfault. I would not allow papa to take any pupils if it was me. "

"And much your papa would care for your permission, " said Mrs. SamHurst. "But so far I agree with you, Janey, that before he has pupils, or anything of that sort, there ought to be a lady in the house. Heshould marry--"

"Marry! we don't want a lady in the house, " cried Janey, "we are ladiesourselves, I hope. Marry! if he does, I, for one, will do all I can tomake his life miserable, " said the girl with energy. "What should hewant to marry for when he has daughters grown up? There are enough of usalready, I should think. "

"Too many, " said Mrs. Sam Hurst with a sigh. It gave her the greatestsecret delight to play upon the girl's fears. 

Besides this, however, Ursula had another pre-occupation. In thatcordial meeting with the young lady who had turned out to be a person insuch an embarrassing position, there had been a great deal said aboutfuture meetings, walks, and expeditions together, and Ursula had beenvery desirous that Phoebe should fix some time for their first encounter. She thought of this now with blushes that seemed to burn her cheeks. Shewas afraid to go out, lest she should meet the girl she had been soanxious to make a friend of. Not that, on her own account, after thefirst shock, Ursula would have been hard-hearted enough to deny heracquaintance to Tozer's granddaughter. In the seclusion of her chamber, she had cried over the downfall of her ideal friend very bitterly, andfelt the humiliation for Phoebe more cruelly than that young lady felt itfor herself; but Ursula, however much it might have cost her, would havestood fast to her friendship had she been free to do as she pleased. 

"I did not like her for her grandfather, " she said to Janey, of whom, inthis case, she was less unwilling to make a confidant. "I never thoughtof the grandfather. What does it matter to me if he were a sweep insteadof old Tozer?"

"Old Tozer is just as bad as if he were a sweep, " said Janey; "if youhad ever thought of her grandfather, and known he was old Tozer, youwould have felt it would not do. "

"What is there about a grandfather? I don't know if we ever had any, "said Ursula. "Mamma had, for the Dorsets are her relations--but papa. Mr. Griffiths's grandfather was a candle-maker; I have heard papa sayso--and they go everywhere. "

"But he is dead, " said Janey, with great shrewdness, "and he was rich. "

"You little nasty calculating thing! Oh, how I hate rich people; how Ihate this horrid world, that loves money and loves fine names, and doesnot care for people's selves whether they are bad or good! I shall neverdare to walk up Grange Lane again, " said Ursula, with tears. "Fancychanging to her, after being so glad to see her! fancy never sayinganother word about the skating, or the walk to the old mill! How shewill despise me for being such a miserable creature! and she will thinkit is all my own fault. "

At this moment Mr. May, from the door of his study, called "Ursula!"repeating the call with some impatience when she paused to dry her eyes. She ran down to him quickly, throwing down her work in her haste. He wasstanding at the door, and somehow for the first time the worn look abouthis eyes struck Ursula with a touch of pity. She had never noticed itbefore: a look of suppressed pain and anxiety, which remained about hiseyes though the mouth smiled. It had never occurred to her to be sorryfor her father before, and the idea struck her as very strange now. 

"Come in, " he said, "I want to speak to you. I have been thinking aboutthe young woman--this friend of yours. We are all among the Dissentersnow-a-days, whatever Mrs. Sam Hurst may say. You seem to have taken afancy to this Tozer girl?"

"Don't call her so, papa, please. She is a lady in herself, as good alady as any one. "

"Well! I don't say anything against her, do I? So you hold by yourfancy? You are not afraid of Grange Lane and Mrs. Sam Hurst. "

"I have not seen her again, " said Ursula, cast down. "I have not beenout at all. I could not bear to be so friendly one day, and then to passas if one did not know her the next. I cannot do it, " cried the girl, intears; "if I see her, I must just be the same as usual to her, whateveryou say. "

"Very well, _be_ the same as usual, " said Mr. May; "that is why I calledyou. I have my reasons. Notwithstanding Tozer, be civil to the girl. Ihave my reasons for what I say. "

"Do you mean it, papa!" said Ursula, delighted. "Oh, how good of you!You don't mind--you really don't mind? Oh! I can't tell you how thankfulI am; for to pretend to want to be friends, and then to break off all ina moment because of a girl's grandfather----"

"Don't make a principle of it, Ursula. It is quite necessary, in anordinary way, to think of a girl's grandfather--and a boy's too, forthat matter. No shopkeeping friends for me; but in this individual caseI am willing to make an exception. For the moment, you see, Dissentersare in the ascendant. Young Copperhead is coming next week. Now, go. "

Ursula marched delighted upstairs. "Janey, run and get your hat, " shesaid; "I am going out. I am not afraid of any one now. Papa is a greatdeal nicer than he ever was before. He says I may see Miss Beecham asmuch as I like. He says we need not mind Mrs. Sam Hurst. I am so glad! Ishall never be afraid of that woman any more. "

Janey was taken altogether by surprise. "I hope he is not going to fallin love with Miss Beecham, " she said suspiciously. "I have heard Betsysay that old gentlemen often do. "

"He is not so foolish as to fall in love with anybody, " said Ursula, with dignity. "Indeed, Janey, you ought to have much more respect forpapa. I wish you could be sent to school and learn more sense. You giveyour opinion as if you were--twenty--more than that. I am sure I nevershould have ventured to say such things when I was a child like you. "

"Child yourself!" said Janey indignant; which was her last resource whenshe had nothing more to say; but Ursula was too busy putting aside herwork and preparing for her walk to pay any attention. In proportion asshe had been subdued and downcast heretofore, she was gay now. Sheforgot all about old Tozer; about the Dissenters' meeting, and the manwho had made an attack upon poor Reginald. She flew to her room for herhat and jacket, and ran downstairs, singing to herself. Janey onlyovertook her, out of breath, as she emerged into the road from theParsonage door. 

"What a dreadful hurry you are in, " said Janey. "I always get ready somuch quicker than you do. Is it all about this girl, because she is new?I never knew you were so fond of new people before. "

But that day they went up and down Grange Lane fruitlessly, withoutseeing anything of Phoebe, and Ursula returned home disconsolate. In theevening Reginald intimated carelessly that he had met Miss Beecham. "Sheis much better worth talking to than most of the girls one meets with, whoever her grandfather may be, " he said, evidently with an instantreadiness to stand on the defensive. 

"Oh, did you talk to her, " said Ursula, "without knowing? Reginald, papahas no objections. He says we may even have her here, if we please. "

"Well, of course I suppose he must guide you in that respect, " saidReginald, "but it does not matter particularly to me. Of course I talkedto her. Even my father could not expect that his permission was neededfor me. "

At which piece of self-assertion the girls looked at him with admiringeyes. Already they felt there was a difference. Reginald at home, nominal curate, without pay or position, was a different thing fromReginald with an appointment, a house of his own, and two hundred andfifty pounds a year. The girls looked at him admiringly, but felt thatthis was never likely to be their fate. In everything the boys had somuch the best of it; and yet it was almost a comfort to think that theyhad seen Reginald himself trembling before papa. Reginald had a greatdeal to tell them about the college, about the old men who made ahundred daily claims on his attention, and the charities which he had toadminister, doles of this and that, and several charity schools of ahumble class. 

"As for my time, it is not likely to hang on my hands as I thought. Ican't be a parish Quixote, as we planned, Ursula, knocking downwindmills for other people, " he said, adjusting his round edge ofcollar. He was changed; he was important, a personage in his own sight, no longer to be spoken of as Mr. May's son. Janey ventured on a littlelaugh when he went away, but Ursula did not like the change. 

"Never mind, " cried Janey; "I hope Copperhead will be nice. We shallhave him to talk to, when he comes. "

"Oh!" cried Ursula, in a kind of despair, "who taught you to callgentlemen like that by their name? There is nothing so vulgar. Why, Cousin Anne says--"

"Oh, Cousin Anne!" cried Janey, shaking her head, and dancing away. After that she was aware there was nothing for it but flight. 

Next day, however, they were more successful. Phoebe, though very littleolder than Ursula, was kind to the country girls, and talked to themboth, and drew them out. She smiled when she heard of ClarenceCopperhead, and told them that he was not very clever, but she did notthink there was any harm in him. 

"It is his father who is disagreeable, " said Phoebe; "didn't you thinkso? You know, papa is a minister, Miss May, " (she did not say clergymanwhen she spoke to a churchwoman, for what was the use of exciting anyone's prejudices?) "and Mr. Copperhead comes to our church. You may bevery thankful, in that respect, that you are not a dissenter. But itwill be very strange to see Clarence Copperhead in Carlingford. I haveknown him since I was no bigger than your little sister. To tell thetruth, " said Phoebe, frankly, "I think I am rather sorry he is cominghere. "

"Why?" cried bold Janey, who was always inquisitive. 

Miss Phoebe only smiled and shook her head; she made no distinct reply. 

"Poor fellow, I suppose he has been 'plucked, ' as the gentlemen callit, or 'ploughed, ' does your brother say? University slang is verydroll. He has not taken his degree, I suppose, and they want him to workbefore going up again. I am sorry for your father, too, for I don'tthink it will be very easy to get anything into Clarence Copperhead'smind. But there is no harm at all in him, and he used to be very nice tohis mother. Mamma and I liked him for that; he was always very nice tohis mother. "

"Will you come in and have some tea?" said Ursula. "Do, please. I hope, now that I have met you again, you will not refuse me. I was afraid youhad gone away, or something--"

Ursula, however, could not help looking guilty as she spoke, and Phoebeperceived at once that there had been some reason for the two or threedays disappearance of the girls from Grange Lane. 

"You must tell me first, " she said, with a smile, "whether you know whoI am. If you ask me after that, I shall come. I am old Mr. Tozer'sgranddaughter, who had a shop in the High Street. My uncle has a shopthere now. I do not like it myself, " said Phoebe, with the masterlycandour that distinguished her, "and no one else can be expected to likeit. If you did not know--"

"Oh, we heard directly, " cried Janey; "Mrs. Sam Hurst told us. She cameshrieking, 'Who is she?' before your back was turned that day; for shewondered to see you with old Tozer--"

"Janey!" cried Ursula, with horror. "Of course we know; and please willyou come? Every new person in Carlingford gets talked over, and if anangel were to walk about, Mrs. Sam Hurst would never rest till she hadfound out where he came from. "

"And, perhaps, whether he had a broken feather in his wing, " said Phoebe. "I am very glad you don't mind. It will be very pleasant to come. I willrun in and tell them, and then I will join you. Grandmamma is aninvalid, and would like to know where I am. "

And the news made a considerable flutter in the dim room where Mrs. Tozer sat between the fire and the window, looking out upon the crocusesand regretting the High Street. 

"But run and put on another dress, dear. What will they think of you inthat everlasting brown frock as you're so fond of? I'd like them to seeas my grandchild could dress as nice as any lady in the land. "

"She'll not see much finery there, " said Tozer; "they're as poor aschurch mice, are them Mays, and never a penny to pay a bill when it'swanted. I don't think as Phoebe need mind her dressing to go there. "

"And you'll send for me if you want me, grandmamma; you will be sure tosend?"

But for the brown frock, Mrs. Tozer's satisfaction would have beenunalloyed as she watched her granddaughter walking across the garden. 

"She's at home among the quality, she is, " said the old woman; "maybemore so than she is with you and me; but there ain't a better girl inall England, and that I'll say for her, though if she would think alittle more about her clothes, as is nat'ral at her age, it would bemore pleasing to me. "

"The worst dress as Phoebe has is better than anything belonging to themMays, " said Tozer. 

He did not care for the parson at St. Roque; though he was pleased thathis child should be among "the quality. " But it was on that evening thatpoor old Mrs. Tozer had one of her attacks, and Phoebe had to be summonedback at an early hour. The servant went down with an umbrella and anote, to bring her home; and that trifling incident had its influenceupon after affairs, as the reader shall shortly see. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT. 

It was something of a comfort to Phoebe to find that the "tea" to whichUrsula asked her was a family meal, such as Mr. And Mrs. Tozer indulgedin, in Grange Lane, with no idea of dinner to follow, as in more refinedcircles. This, she said to herself benignly, must be "country fashion, "and she was naturally as bland and gracious at the Parsonage tea-tableas anybody from town, knowing better, but desiring to make herselfthoroughly agreeable, could be. She amused Mr. May very much, who feltthe serene young princess, accepting her vulgar relations with gentleresignation, and supported by a feeling of her own innate dignity, to besomething quite new to him. Phoebe had no objection to talk upon thesubject, for, clever as she was, she was not so clever as to see throughMr. May's amused show of interest in her trials, but believedingenuously that he understood and felt for her, and was, perhaps, atlast, the one noble, impartial, and generous Churchman who could seethe difficulties of cultivated Dissenters, and enter into themsympathetically. Why Mr. May took the trouble to draw her out on thispoint it is more difficult to explain. Poor man, he was in a state ofsemi-distraction over Cotsdean's bill. The ten days had shortened intothree, and he was no nearer finding that hundred pounds than ever. Evenwhile he smiled and talked to Phoebe, he was repeating over and over tohimself the terrible fact which could not now be ignored. "17th, 18th, 19th, and Friday will be the 20th, " he was saying to himself. If that20th came without any help, Cotsdean would be virtually made a bankrupt;for of course all his creditors would make a rush upon him, and all hisaffairs would be thrown open to the remorseless public gaze, if thebill, which had been so often renewed, had to be dishonoured at last. Mr. May had a conscience, though he was not careful of his money, andthe fear of ruin to Cotsdean was a very terrible and real oppression tohim. The recollection was upon him like a vulture in classic story, tearing and gnawing, as he sat there and smiled over the cup of teaUrsula gave him, feeling amused all the same at Phoebe's talk. He couldscarcely have told why he had permitted his daughter to pursue heracquaintance with Tozer's granddaughter. Partly it was because ofClarence Copperhead; out of curiosity, as, being about to be brought incontact with some South Sea Islander or Fijian, one would naturally wishto see another who was thrown in one's way by accident, and thus prepareone's self for the permanent acquaintance. And she amused him. Hercleverness, her ease, her conversational powers, her woman of the worldaspect, did not so much impress him, perhaps, as they did others; butthe complacency and innocent confidence of youth that were in her, andher own enjoyment of the situation, notwithstanding the mortificationsincurred--all this amused Mr. May. He listened to her talk, sometimesfeeling himself almost unable to bear it, for the misery of those words, which kept themselves ringing in a dismal chorus in his own mind, andyet deriving a kind of amusement and distraction from it all the same. 

"One of your friends was very hard upon my son--and myself--at yourMeeting the other night, Miss Beecham. "

"He was very injudicious, " said Phoebe, shaking her head. "Indeed I didnot approve. Personalities never advance any cause. I said so to him. Don't you think the Church has herself to blame for those politicalDissenters, Mr. May? You sneer at us, and look down upon us--"

"I? I don't sneer at anybody. "

"I don't mean you individually; but Churchmen do. They treat us as ifwe were some strange kind of creatures, from the heart of Africaperhaps. They don't think we are just like themselves: as well educated;meaning as well; with as much right to our own ideas. "

Mr. May could scarcely restrain a laugh. "Just like themselves. " Theidea of a Dissenter setting up to be as well educated, and as capable offorming an opinion, as a cultivated Anglican, an Oxford man, and abeneficed clergyman, was too novel and too foolish not to be somewhatstartling as well. Mr. May was aware that human nature is strangelyblind to its own deficiencies, but was it possible that any delusioncould go so far as this? He did laugh a little--just the ghost of alaugh--at the idea. But what is the use of making any serious oppositionto such a statement? The very fact of contesting the assumption seemedto give it a certain weight. 

"Whenever this is done, " said Phoebe, with serene philosophy, "I thinkyou may expect a revulsion of feeling. The class to which papa belongsis very friendly to the Established Church, and wishes to do her everyhonour. "

"Is it indeed? We ought to be much gratified, " said Mr. May. 

Phoebe gave him a quick glance, but he composed his face and met her lookmeekly. It actually diverted him from his pre-occupation, and that is agreat deal to say. 

"We would willingly do her any honour; we would willingly be friends, even look up to her, if that would please her, " added Phoebe, verygravely, conscious of the importance of what she was saying; "but whenwe see clergymen, and common persons also, who have never had onerational thought on the subject, always setting us down as ignorant anduncultured, because we are Dissenters----"

"But no one does that, " said Ursula, soothingly, eager to save her newfriend's feelings. She paused in the act of pouring out the children'ssecond cup of tea, and looked up at her with eyes full of caressing andflattering meaning. "No one, at least, I am sure, " she added, faltering, remembering suddenly things she had heard said of Dissenters, "who knows_you_. "

"It is not I that ought to be thought of, it is the general question. Then can you wonder that a young man like the gentleman we were talkingof, clever and energetic, and an excellent scholar (and very good inphilosophy, too--he was at Jena for two or three years), should be madebitter when he feels himself thrust back upon a community of smallshopkeepers?"

Mr. May could not restrain another short laugh. 

"We must not join in the vulgar abuse of shopkeepers, " he said. 

Phoebe's colour rose. She raised her head a little, then perceiving thesuperiority of her former position, smiled. 

"I have no right to do so. My people, I suppose, were all shopkeepers tobegin with; but this gives me ways of knowing. Grandpapa is very kindand nice--really nice, Mr. May; but he has not at all a wide way oflooking at things. I feel it, though they are so kind to me. I have beenbrought up to think in such a different way; and if I feel it, who amfond of them, think how that young minister must feel it, who wasbrought up in a totally different class?"

"What kind of class was this one brought up in?" said Mr. May, with alaugh. "He need not have assaulted Reginald, if he had been born aprince. We had done him no harm. "

"That is making it entirely a private question, " said Phoebe, suavely, "which I did not mean to do. When such a man finds out abuses--what hetakes to be abuses--in the Church, which treats him like a roadsideranter, may not he feel a right to be indignant? Oh, I am not so. Ithink such an office as that chaplaincy is very good, one here and therefor the reward of merit; and I think he was very right to take it; butstill it would not do, would it, to have many of them? It would notanswer any good purpose, " she said, administering a little stingscientifically, "if all clergymen held sinecures. "

These words were overheard by Reginald, who just then came in, and towhom it was startling to find Phoebe serenely seated at tea with hisfamily. The hated word sinecure did not seem to affect him from her lipsas it would have done from any one else's. He came in quitegood-humouredly, and said with a smile--

"You are discussing me. What about me? Miss Beecham, I hope you take myside. "

"I take everybody's side, " said Phoebe; "for I try to trace people'smotives. I can sympathise both with you and those who assailed you. "

"Oh, that Dissenting fellow. I beg your pardon, Miss Beecham, if you area Dissenter; but I cannot help it. We never go out of our way to attackthem and their chapels and coteries, and why should they spring at ourthroats on every occasion? I think it is hard, and I can't say I haveany charity to spare for this individual. What had we done to him?Ursula, give me some tea. "

"Miss Beecham, I leave the cause of the Church in younger and, I hope, abler hands, " said Mr. May, getting up. 

Partly it was that Reginald's onslaught made him see for the first timecertain weak points in the situation; partly it was that his privatecare became too clamorous, and he could not keep on further. He wentaway quite abruptly, and went downstairs to his study, and shut himselfin there; and the moment he had closed the door, all this amusementfloated away, and the vulture gripped at him, beak and talons digginginto his very soul. Good God! what was he to do? He covered his facewith his hands, and turned round and round mentally in that darkness tosee if anywhere there might be a gleam of light; but none was visibleeast or west. A hundred pounds, only a hundred pounds; a bagatelle, athing that to many men was as small an affair as a stray sixpence; andhere was this man, as good, so to speak, as any--well educated, full ofgifts and accomplishments, well born, well connected, not a prodigal noropen sinner, losing himself in the very blackness of darkness, feelingthat a kind of moral extinction was the only prospect before him, forwant of this little sum. It seemed incredible even to himself, as he satand brooded over it. Somehow, surely, there must be a way ofdeliverance. He looked piteously about him in his solitude, appealing tothe very blank walls to save him. What could they do? His few books, hisfaded old furniture, would scarcely realize a hundred pounds if theywere sold to-morrow. All his friends had been wearied out, all naturalresources had failed. James might any day have sent the money, but hehad not done so--just this special time, when it was so hard to get it, James, too, had failed; and the hours of this night were stealing awaylike thieves, so swift and so noiseless, to be followed by the others;and Cotsdean, poor soul, his faithful retainer, would be broken andruined. To do Mr. May justice, if it had been only himself who could beruined, he would have felt it less; but it went to his very heart tothink of poor Cotsdean, who had trusted in him so entirely, and to whom, indeed, he had been very kind in his day. Strife and discord had been inthe poor man's house, and perpetual wretchedness, and Mr. May hadmanaged, he himself could scarcely tell how, to set it right. He hadfrightened and subdued the passionate wife, and quenched the growingtendencies to evil, which made her temper worse than it was by nature, and had won her back to soberness and some kind of peace, changing theunhappy house into one of comparative comfort and cheerfulness. Mostpeople like those best to whom they have been kind, whom they haveserved or benefited, and in this way Mr. May was fond of Cotsdean, whoin his turn had been a very good friend to his clergyman, serving him asnone of his own class could have done, going in the face of all his ownprejudices and the timorousness of nature, on his account. And theresult was to be ruin--ruin unmitigated to the small man who was inbusiness, and equally disastrous, though in a less creditable way, tohis employer. It was with a suppressed anguish which is indescribablethat he sat there, with his face covered, looking this approachingmisery in the face. How long he had been there, he could scarcelyhimself tell, when he heard a little commotion in the hall, the soundsof running up and down stairs, and opening of doors. He was in afeverish and restless condition, and every stir roused him. Partlybecause of that impatience in his mind, and partly because every newthing seemed to have some possibility of hope in it, he got up and wentto the door. Before he returned to his seat, something might haveoccurred to him, something might have happened--who could tell? It mightbe the postman with a letter containing that remittance from James, which still would set all right. It might be--he rose suddenly, andopening the door, held it ajar and looked out; the front door was open, and the night air blowing chilly into the house, and on the stairs, coming down, he heard the voices of Ursula and Phoebe. Ursula was pinninga shawl round her new friend, and consoling her. 

"I hope you will find it is nothing. I am so sorry, " she said. 

"Oh, I am not very much afraid, " said Phoebe. "She is ill, but not verybad, I hope; and it is not dangerous. Thank you so much for letting mecome. "

"You will come again?" said Ursula, kissing her; "promise that you willcome again. "

Mr. May listened with a certain surface of amusement in his mind. Howeasy and facile these girlish loves and fancies were! Ursula knewnothing of this stranger, and yet so free were the girl's thoughts, soopen her heart to receive impressions, that on so short knowledge shehad received the other into it with undoubting confidence and trust. Hedid not come forward himself to say good-bye, but he perceived thatReginald followed downstairs, and took his hat from the table, toaccompany Phoebe home. As they closed the outer door behind them, thelast gust thus forcibly shut in made a rush through the narrow hall, andcarried a scrap of paper to Mr. May's feet. He picked it up almostmechanically, and carried it with him to the light, and looked at itwithout thought. There was not much in it to interest any one. It wasthe little note which Tozer had sent to his granddaughter by the maid, not prettily folded, to begin with, and soiled and crumpled by thebearer. 

"Your grandmother is took bad with one of her attacks. Come backdirectly. She wants you badly. 

"SAML. TOZER. "

This was all that was in it. Mr. May opened it out on his table with ahalf-smile of that same superficial amusement which the entire incidenthad caused him--the contact, even momentary, of his own household withthat of Tozer, the old Dissenting butterman, was so droll an event. Thenhe sank down on his chair again with a sigh, the amusement dying out allat once, purely superficial as it was. Amusement! how strange that eventhe idea of amusement should enter his head in the midst of his despair. His mind renewed that horrible mechanical wandering through the dismalcircle of might-be's which still survived amid the chaos of histhoughts. Once or twice there seemed to gleam upon him a stray glimmerof light through a loophole, but only to throw him back again into thedarkness. Now and then he roused himself with a look of real terror inhis face, when there came a noise outside. What he was afraid of waspoor Cotsdean coming in with his hand to his forehead, and hisapologetic "Beg your pardon, sir. " If he came, what could he say to him?Two days--only two days more! If Mr. May had been less sensible and lesscourageous, he would most likely have ended the matter by a pistol or adose of laudanum; but fortunately he was too rational to deliver himselfby this desperate expedient, which, of course, would only have made theburden more terrible upon the survivors. If Cotsdean was to be ruined, and there was no remedy, Mr. May was man enough to feel that it was hisbusiness to stand by him, not to escape in any dastardly way; but in themean time to face Cotsdean, and tell him that he had done and could donothing, seemed more than the man who had caused his ruin could bear. Hemoved about uneasily in his chair in the anguish of his mind. As he didso, he pushed off some of his papers from the table with his elbow. Itwas some sort of break in his feverish musings to pick them up again ina bundle, without noticing what they were. He threw them down in alittle heap before him. On the top, as it chanced, came the little dirtyscrap of paper, which ought to have been tossed into the fire or thewaste-paper basket. Saml. Tozer! What was Saml. Tozer to him that hisname should stare him in the face in this obtrusive way? Tozer, the oldbutterman! a mean and ignorant person, as far beneath Mr. May's level asit is possible to imagine, whose handwriting it was very strange to seeon anything but a bill. He fixed his eyes upon it mechanically; he hadcome, as it were, to the end of all things in those feverish musings; hehad searched through his whole known world for help, and found therenothing and nobody to help him. Those whom he had once relied on wereexhausted long ago; his friends had all dropped off from him, as far, atleast, as money was concerned. Some of them might put out a hand to keephim and his children from starvation even now, but to pay Cotsdean'sbill, never. There was no help anywhere, nor any hope. Natural ways andmeans were all exhausted, and though he was a clergyman, he had no suchfaith in the supernatural as to hope much for the succour of Heaven. Heaven! what could Heaven do for him? Bank-notes did not drop down outof the skies. There had been a time when he had felt full faith in"Providence;" but he seemed to have nothing to expect now from thatquarter more than from any other. Samuel Tozer! why did that name alwayscome uppermost, staring into his very eyes? It was a curious signature, the handwriting very rude and unrefined, with odd, illiterate dashes, and yet with a kind of rough character in it, easy to identify, notdifficult to copy--

What was it that brought beads of moisture all at once to Mr. May'sforehead? He started up suddenly, pushing his chair with a hoarseexclamation, and walked up and down the room quickly, as if trying toescape from something. His heart jumped up in his breast, like a thingpossessed of separate life, and thumped against his side, and beat withloud pulsations in his ears. When he caught sight of himself in themirror over the mantelpiece, he started as if he had seen a ghost. Someone else seemed to see him; seemed to pounce upon and seize him out ofthat glass. He retreated from the reach of it, almost staggering; thenhe returned to his table. What thought was it that had struck him sowildly, like a sudden squall upon a boat? He sat down, and covered hisface with his hands; then putting out one finger, stealthily drew thepaper towards him, and studied it closely from under the shadow of theunmoved hand, which half-supported, half-covered his face. Well! afterall, what would be the harm? A gain of three months' time, during whichevery sort of arrangement could be made so nicely; supplies gotanywhere, everywhere; the whole machinery of being set easily in motionagain, and no harm done to any one: this was the real force of theidea--no harm done to any one! Long before the three months were out, that hundred pounds--a paltry business, a nothing, when a man had timebefore him--could be got, one might make sure; and where was the harm?_He_ would never know it. Poor Cotsdean need never have the slightestburden upon his conscience. Here, in the stillness of his own room, itcould all be done as easily as possible, without a soul being taken intoconfidence, except that bloodless wretch in the glass with his staringface, Mr. May said to himself, only dimly sensible that this wretch washimself. No, it would harm no one, that was clear; it never need beknown to any one. It was a mere act of borrowing, and borrowing wasnever accounted a crime; borrowing not money even, only a name, and forso short a time. No harm; it could do no one in the world any harm. 

While these reasonings went on in his mind, his heart dropped down againinto its right place; his pulse ceased to beat like the pistons of asteam-engine; he came gradually to himself. After all, what was it? Notsuch a great matter; a loan of something which would neither enrich himwho took, nor impoverish him who, without being aware of it, shouldgive--a nothing! Why people should entertain the prejudices they did onthe subject, it was difficult to see, though, perhaps, he allowedcandidly to himself, it might be dangerous for any ignorant man tofollow the same strain of thinking; but in the hands of a man who wasnot ignorant, who knew, as he himself did, exactly how far to go, andwhat might be _innocently_ done; _innocently_ done--in his own mind heput a great stress on this--why, what was it? A thing which might be ofuse in an emergency, and which was absolutely no harm. 

Mr. May was late in leaving his room that night. It was understood inthe family that he "was writing, " and all was kept very quiet in thehouse; yet not sufficiently quiet, for Janey, when she brought in thecoffee, placing it on the table close to the door, was startled by thefierceness of the exclamation with which her father greeted herentrance. 

"What do you want prying here?" he said, dropping his hand over thewriting. 

"Prying himself!" said Janey, furiously, when she was up again in thecheerful light of the drawing-room; "a great deal there is to pry intoin that dreadful old study. "

"Hush! he never likes to be disturbed in his writing, " said Ursula, soothingly. 

And he sat at his "writing" to a much later hour than usual, and hestumbled upstairs to his bed-room in the dead of the night, with thesame scared pale face which he had seen in the glass. Such a look asthat when it once comes upon a man's face takes a long time to glideaway; but his heart beat more tranquilly, and the blood flowed even inhis veins. After all, where was the harm?

CHAPTER XXIII. 

TIDED OVER. 

Next morning, Cotsdean was mournfully turning over his ledger in theHigh Street, wondering whether he should go back to Mr. May on anotherforlorn expedition, or whether he should betray his overwhelming anxietyto his wife, who knew nothing about the state of affairs. The shop waswhat is called a corn-factor's shop, full of sacks of grain, with knotsof wheat-ears done up ornamentally in the window, a stock not veryvaluable, but sufficient, and showing a good, if not a very important, business. A young man behind, attended to what little business was goingon; for the master himself was too much pre-occupied to think of bushelsof seed. He was as uneasy as Mr. May had been on the previous night, andin some respects even more unhappy; for he had no resource except a sortof dumb faith in his principle, a feeling that he must be able to findout some way of escape--chequered by clouds of despondency, sometimesapproaching despair. For Cotsdean, too, felt vaguely that things wereapproaching a crisis--that a great many resources had beenexhausted--that the pitcher which had gone so often to the well must, atlast, be broken, and that it was as likely the catastrophe was comingnow as at any other time. He said to himself that never in his previousexperience had things seemed so blank as at present; never had themoment of fate approached so nearly without any appearance ofdeliverance. He had not even the round of possibilities before him whichwere in Mr. May's mind, however hopeless, at this particular moment, hemight find them. 

Cotsdean, for his part, had nothing to think of but Mr. May. Would hefind some way out of it still, he who was always so clever, and must, inhis position, have always "good friends?" How the poor man wished thathe had never been led into this fatal course--that he had insisted, longago, on the settlement which must come some time, and which did not getany easier by putting it off; but then, who was he to stand against hisclergyman? He did not feel able now to make any stand against him. If hehad to be ruined--he must be ruined: what could he do? The man who hadbrought him to this, held him in such subjection that he could notdenounce or accuse him even now. He was so much better, higher, abler, stronger than himself, that Cotsdean's harshest sentiment was a dumbfeeling of injury; a feeling much more likely to lead him to miserabletears than to resistance. His clergyman--how was he to stand against hisclergyman? This was the burden of his thoughts. And still, perhaps, there might be salvation and safety in the resources, the power, andcleverness, and superior strength of the man for whom, in his humility, he had risked everything. Poor Cotsdean's eyes were red withsleeplessness and thinking, and the constant rubbings he administeredwith the sleeve of his rough coat. He hung helpless, in suspense, waiting to see what his chief would say to him; if he would send forhim--if he would come. And in the intervals of these anxious thoughts, he asked himself should he tell poor Sally--should he prepare her forher fate? She and her children might be turned out of house and home, very probably would be, he said to himself, leaping to the extremepoint, as men in his condition are apt to do. They might take everythingfrom him; they might bring all his creditors on him in a heap; theymight sell him up; his shop by which he made his daily bread, andeverything he had, and turn his children out into the streets. Once morehe rubbed his sleeve over his eyes, which were smarting withsleeplessness and easily-coming tears. He turned over the pages of theledger mechanically. There was no help in it--no large debts owing tohim that could be called in; no means of getting any money; and nothingcould he do but contemplate the miseries that might be coming, and wait, wait, wondering dully whether Mr. May was doing anything to avert thisruin, and whether, at any moment, he might walk in, bringing safety inthe very look of his bold eyes. Cotsdean was not bold; he was small andweakly, and nervous, and trembled at a sharp voice. He was not a manadapted for vigorous struggling with the world. Mr. May could do it, inwhose hands was the final issue. He was a man who was afraid of no one;and whose powers nobody could deny. Surely now, even at the last moment, he would find help somehow. It seemed profane to entertain a doubt thathe would be able to do it even at the very last. 

But Cotsdean had a miserable morning; he could do nothing. Minute byminute, hour by hour, he waited to be called to the Parsonage; now andthen he went out to the door of his shop and looked out wistfully downthe street where it ended in the distance of Grange Lane. Was that themaid from the Parsonage coming up across the road? Were these the youngladies, who, though they knew nothing about the matter at issue, veryfrequently brought a note, or message, from their father to Cotsdean?But he was deceived in these guesses as well as in so many others. Allthe world seemed out of doors that morning, but nobody came. The ruddysunshine shone full down the street, glorifying it with rays of warmgold, and tinting the mists and clouds which lurked in the corners. Ithad been heavy and overcast in the morning, but at noon the clouds hadcleared away, and that big red globe of fire had risen majestically outof the mists, and everybody was out. But no one, except humble people inthe ordinary way of business, came to Cotsdean. Bushels of grain forchickens, pennyworths of canary seed--oh! did any one think he could paya hundred pounds out of these?--a hundred pounds, the spending of whichhad not been his, poor man; which was indeed spent long ago, andrepresented luxuries past and over, luxuries which were not Cotsdean's. Strange that a mere lump of money should live like this, long after itwas, to all intents and purposes, dead, and spent and gone!

Then came the hour of dinner, when his Sally called him to the roombehind the shop, from which an odour of bacon and fine big beans--beanswhich were represented in his shop in many a sackful. He went inunwillingly in obedience to her command, but feeling unable to eat, soonleft the table, sending the young man to fill his place, with whoseappetite no obstacle of care or thought interfered. Poor Cotsdean feltthat the smell of the dinner made him sick--though he would have likedto eat had he been able--the smell of the bacon which he loved, and thesight of the small children whom he loved still better, and poor Sally, his wife, still red in the face from dishing it up. Sally was anxiousabout her husband's want of appetite. 

"What ails you, John?" she said, pathetically; "it wasn't as if you wereout last night, nor nothing o' that sort. A man as is sober like youdon't ought to turn at his dinner. "

She was half sorry, and half aggrieved, poor woman, feeling as if someblame of her cookery must be involved. 

"It's the bile, " said poor Cotsdean, with that simplicity of statementwhich is common in his class. "Don't you take on, Sally, I'll be a dealbetter by supper-time----or worse, " he added to himself. Yes, he wouldmake an effort to eat at supper-time; perhaps it might be the last mealhe should eat in his own comfortable home. 

He had been out at the shop door, gazing despairingly down the road; hehad come in and sold some birdseed, wondering--oh, what good would thatpenny do him?--he who wanted a hundred pounds? and was standinglistening with a sad heart to the sound of the knives and forks andchatter of the children, when suddenly all at once Mr. May walked intothe shop, changing dismay into hope. What a thing it was to be agentleman and a clergyman. Cotsdean could not but think! The very sightof Mr. May inspired him with courage; even though probably he had nomoney in his pocket, it was a supporting thing only to see him, and hearthe sound of his free unrestrained step. He came in with a friendly nodto his humble helper; then he glanced round the shop, to see that no onewas present, and then he said, "All right, Cotsdean, " in a voice thatwas as music to the little corn-factor's ears. His heart, which had beenbeating so low, jumped up in his bosom; his appetite came back with aleap; he asked himself would the bacon be cold? and cried, "God bepraised, sir, " in a breath. 

Mr. May winced slightly; but why should it be wrong to be grateful toGod in any circumstances? he asked himself, having become alreadysomewhat composed in his ideas on this particular point. 

"Are we quite alone?" he said. "Nobody within hearing? I have notbrought you the money, but a piece of paper that is as good as themoney. Take it: you will have no difficulty in discounting this; the manis as well known as the Carlingford Bank, and as safe, though I dare sayyou will be surprised at the name. "

Cotsdean opened out the new bill with trembling hands. "Tozer!" he saidfaintly, between relief and dismay. 

"Yes. You must know that I am taking a pupil--one who belongs to a veryrich Dissenting family in London. Tozer knows something about him, fromhis connection with the body, and through this young man I have got toknow something of _him_. He does it upon the admirable security of thefees I am to receive with this youth; so you see, after all, there is nomystery about it. Better not wait for to-morrow, Cotsdean. Go at once, and get it settled. You see, " said Mr. May, ingratiatingly, "it is alittle larger than the other--one hundred and fifty, indeed--but thatdoes not matter with such an excellent name. "

"Tozer!" said Cotsdean, once more bewildered. He handled the piece ofpaper nervously, and turned it upside down, and round about, with asense that it might melt in his hold. He did not like the additionalfifty added. Why should another fifty be added? but so it was, and thereseemed nothing for him but to take the immediate relief and be thankful. 

"I'd rather, sir, as Tozer hadn't known nothing about it; and why shouldhe back a bill for me as ain't one of my friends, nor don't know nothingabout me? and fifty more added on, " said Cotsdean. It was the nearest hehad gone to standing up against his clergyman; he did not like it. To beMr. May's sole stand-by and agent, even at periodical risk of ruin, waspossible to him; but a pang of jealousy, alarm, and pain came into hismind when he saw the new name. This even obliterated the immediate senseof relief that was in his mind. 

"Come three months it'll have to be paid, " said Cotsdean, "and Tozerain't a man to stand it if he's left to pay; he'd sell us up, Mr. May. He ain't one of the patient ones, like--some other folks; and there'sfifty pounds put on. I don't see my way to it. I'd rather it was justthe clear hundred, if it was the same to you. "

"It is not the same to me, " said Mr. May, calmly. "Come, there is nocause to make any fuss. There it is, and if you don't like to make useof it, you must find some better way. Bring the fifty pounds, less theexpenses, to me to-night. It is a good bit of paper, and it delivers usout of a mess which I hope we shall not fall into again. "

"So you said before, sir, " said the corn-factor sullenly. 

"Cotsdean, you forget yourself; but I can make allowance for youranxiety. Take it, and get it settled before the bank closes; pay in themoney to meet the other bill, and bring me the balance. You will find nodifficulty with Tozer's name; and what so likely as that one respectabletradesman should help another? By the way, the affair is a private onebetween us, and it is unnecessary to say anything to him about it; thearrangement, you understand, is between him and me. "

"Beg your pardon, sir, " said Cotsdean, with a deprecatory movement ofhis hand to his forehead; "but it is me as will be come upon first ifanything happens, and that fifty pounds--"

"Have you ever found me to fail you, Cotsdean? If you knew the anxiety Ihave gone through, that you might be kept from harm, the sleeplessnights, the schemes, the exertions! You may suppose it was no ordinaryeffort to ask a man like Tozer. "

Cotsdean was moved by the touching tone in which his partner in troublespoke; but terror gave him a certain power. He grumbled still, notaltogether vanquished. 

"I don't say nothing against that, sir, " he said, not meeting Mr. May'seye; "but when it comes to be paid, sir, I'm the first in it, and whereis that other fifty to come from? That's what I'm a thinking for--forI'm the first as they'd haul up after all. "

"You!" said Mr. May, "what could they get from you? You are not worthpowder and shot. Don't be ridiculous, my good fellow. I never avoid myresponsibilities, as you know. I am as good, I hope, for that fifty asfor all that went before. Have you ever known me leave you or any one inthe lurch?"

"No, sir, I can't say as--I don't suppose I have. I've always put mytrust in you like in Providence itself, " he cried, hastily, holding hisbreath. 

"Then do as I tell you, " said Mr. May, waving his hand with carelesssuperiority; and though his heart was aching with a hundred anxiousfears, he left the shop with just that mixture of partial offence andindifference which overawed completely his humble retainer. Cotsdeantrembled at his own guilty folly and temerity. He did not dare to callhis patron back again, to ask his pardon. He did not venture to go backto the table and snatch a bit of cold bacon. He was afraid he hadoffended his clergyman, what matter that he was hungry for his dinner?He called the young man from the bacon, which was now cold and all buteaten up, and snatched at his hat and went out to the bank. It was allhe could do. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

A VISIT. 

 "DEAR MAY, "Young Copperhead, the young fellow whom you have undertaken to coach, is coming to the Hall for a few days before he enters upon his studies, and Anne wishes me to ask you to come over on Tuesday to dine and sleep, and to make acquaintance with him. You can carry him back with you if it suits you. In my private opinion, he is a cub of the most disagreeable kind; but the girls like his mother, who is a kind of cousin, as you know. It is not only because he has failed to take his degree (you know how I hate the hideous slang in which this fact is generally stated), but that his father, who is one of the rich persons who abound in the lower circles of society, is ambitious, and would like to see him in Parliament, and that sort of thing--a position which cannot be held creditably without some sort of education: at least, so I am myself disposed to think. Therefore, your pleasing duty will be to get him up in a little history and geography, so that he may not get quite hopelessly wrong in any of the modern modifications of territory, for instance; and in so much Horace as may furnish him with a few stock quotations, in case he should be called upon, in the absence of any more hopeful neophyte, to move the Address. He is a great hulking fellow, not very brilliant, you may suppose, but not so badly mannered as he might be, considering his parentage. I don't think he'll give you much trouble in the house; but he will most probably bore you to death, and in that case your family ought to have a claim, I should think, for compensation. Anyhow, come and see him, and us, before you begin your hard task. 

 "Very truly yours, "R. DORSET. "

 "Anne makes me open my letter to say that Ursula must come too. We will send a carriage to meet you at the station. "

This letter caused considerable excitement in the Parsonage. It was thefirst invitation to dinner which Ursula had ever received. Thedinner-parties in Carlingford were little frequented by young ladies. The male population was not large enough to afford a balance for theyoung women of the place, who came together in the evening, and took allthe trouble of putting on their pretty white frocks, only to sit in rowsin the drawing-room, waiting till the old gentlemen came in from thedining-room, after which everybody went away. There were no younggentlemen to speak of in Carlingford, so that when any one was boldenough to attempt a dancing-party, or anything of an equally amusingdescription, friends were sent out in all directions, as the beaters aresent into the woods to bring together the unfortunate birds for a_battue_, to find men. These circumstances will explain the flutter inUrsula's innocent bosom when her father read her that postscript. Mr. May was singularly amiable that day, a thing which happened atperiodical intervals, usually after he had been specially "cross. " Onthis occasion there was no black mark against him in the familyreckoning, and yet he was more kind than any one had ever known him. Instead of making any objections, he decided at once that Ursula mustgo, and told her to put on her prettiest frock, and make herself lookvery nice. 

"You must let Anne Dorset see that you care to please her, " he said. "Anne is a very good woman, and her approval is worth having. "

"Oh, papa!" cried Janey, "when you are always calling her an old maid!"

"L'un n'empêche pas l'autre, " he said, which puzzled Janey, whose Frenchwas very deficient. Even Ursula, supposed to be the best French scholarin the family, was not quite sure what it meant; but it was evidentlysomething in favour of Cousin Anne, which was sweet to the gratefulgirl. 

Janey, though suffering bitterly under the miserable consciousness ofbeing only fourteen, and not asked anywhere, helped with disinterestedzeal to get her sister ready, and consoled herself by orders forunlimited muffins and cake for tea. 

"There will only be the children, " she said, resignedly, and feltherself _incomprise_; but indeed, the attractions of a good rompafterwards, no one being in the house to restrain the spirits of theyouthful party, made even Janey amends. 

As for Reginald, who was not asked, he was, it must be allowed, rathersulky too, and he could not solace himself either with muffins or romps. His rooms at the College were very pleasant rooms, but he was used tohome; and though the home at the Parsonage was but faded, and not insuch perfect order as it might have been, the young man felt even hiswainscoted study dull without the familiar voices, the laughter andfoolish family jokes, and even the little quarrels which kept lifealways astir. He walked with Ursula to the station, whither her littlebox with her evening dress had gone before her, in a half-affrontedstate of mind. 

"What does he want with a pupil?" Reginald was saying, as he had saidbefore. "A fellow no one knows, coming and taking possession of thehouse as if it belonged to him. There is plenty to do in the parishwithout pupils, and if I were not on the spot he would get into trouble, I can tell you. A man that has been ploughed, 'a big hulking fellow'(Sir Robert says so, not I). Mind, I'll have no flirting, Ursula; thatis what always happens with a pupil in the house. "

"Reginald, how dare you--"

"Oh, yes, I dare; my courage is quite equal to facing you, even if youdo shoot thunderbolts out of your eyes. Mind you, I won't have it. Thereis a set of fellows who try it regularly, and if you were above them, would go in for Janey; and it would be great fun and great promotion forJaney; she would feel herself a woman directly; so you must mind her aswell as yourself. I don't like it at all, " Reginald went on. "Probablyhe will complain of the dinners you give him, as if he were in an inn. Confound him! What my father means by it, I can't tell. "

"Reginald, you ought not to swear, " said Ursula. "It is dreadfullywicked in a clergyman. Poor papa meant making a little more money. Whatelse could he mean? And I think it is very good of him, for it willbother him most. Mr. Copperhead is very nice, Reginald. I saw him inLondon, you know. I thought he was very----". 

"Ah! oh!" said Reginald, "I forgot that. You met him in London? To besure, and it was there you met Miss Beecham. I begin to see. Is hecoming here after her, I should like to know? She doesn't look the sortof girl to encourage that sort of thing. "

"The sort of girl to encourage that sort of thing! How strangely youtalk when you get excited: isn't that rather vulgar? I don't know if heis coming after Miss Beecham or not, " said Ursula, who thought thesuggestion uncalled for, "but in a very short time you can judge foryourself. "

"Ah--indignation!" said the big brother, who like most big brotherslaughed at Ursula's exhibition of offended dignity; "and, by the way, Miss Beecham--you have not seen her since that night when she was sentfor. Will not she think it strange that you never sent to inquire?"

"I sent Betsey--"

"But if Miss Beecham had been somebody else, you would have goneyourself, " he said, being in a humour for finding fault. "If poor oldMrs. Tozer had been what you call a lady--"

"I thought you were much more strong than I am against the Dissenters?"said Ursula, "ever since that man's speech; and, indeed, always, as longas I can recollect. "

"She is not a mere Dissenter, " said Reginald. "I think I shall call as Igo home. She is the cleverest girl I ever met; not like one of youbread-and-butter girls, though she is not much older than you. A manfinds a girl like that worth talking to, " said the young clergyman, holding himself erect. Certainly Reginald had not improved; he had grownever so much more self-important since he got a living of his own. 

"And if I was to say, 'Mind, I won't have it, Reginald?'" cried Ursula, half-laughing, half-angry. "I think that is a great deal worse than apupil. But Miss Beecham is very dignified, and you may be sure she willnot think much of a call from you. Heaven be praised! that is one thingyou can't get into your hands; we girls are always good for somethingthere. Men may think themselves as grand as they please, " said Ursula, "but their visits are of no consequence; it is ladies of the family whomust _call_!" After this little out-break, she came down at once to herusual calm. "I will ask Cousin Anne what I ought to do; I don't thinkMiss Beecham wanted me to go then--"

"I shall go, " said Reginald, and he left Ursula in her father's keeping, who met them at the station, and went off at once, with a pleasant senseof having piqued her curiosity, to Grange Lane. 

It was still early, for the trains which stopped at the little countrystation next to the Hall were very few and inconvenient, and the sun, though setting, was still shining red from over St. Roque's upon GrangeLane. The old red walls grew redder still in the frosty night, and thesky began to bloom into great blazing patches of colour upon the wintryclearness of the blue. There was going to be a beautiful sunset, andsuch a thing was always to be seen from Grange Lane better than anywhereelse in Carlingford. Reginald went down the road slowly, looking at it, and already almost forgetting his idea of calling on Miss Beecham. Tocall on Miss Beecham would be to call on old Tozer, the butterman, towhom alone the visit would be naturally paid; and this made him laughwithin himself. So he would have passed, no doubt, without the leastattempt at intruding on the privacy of the Tozers, had not thegarden-door opened before he got so far, and Phoebe herself came out, with her hands in her muff, to take a little walk up and down as she diddaily. She did not take her hand out of its warm enclosure to give it tohim; but nodded with friendly ease in return to his salutation. 

"I have come out to see the sunset, " said Phoebe; "I like a little airbefore the day is over, and grandmamma, when she is poorly, likes herroom to be very warm. "

"I hope Mrs. Tozer is better. I hope you have not been anxious. "

"Oh, no! it is chronic; there is no danger. But she requires a greatdeal of attendance; and I like to come out when I can. Oh, how fine itis! what colour! I think, Mr. May, you must have a _spécialité_ forsunsets at Carlingford. I never saw them so beautiful anywhere else. "

"I am glad there is something you like in Carlingford. "

"Something! there is a very great deal; and that I don't like too, " shesaid with a smile. "I don't care for the people I am living among, which is dreadful. I don't suppose you have ever had such an experience, though you must know a great deal more in other ways than I. All thepeople that come to inquire about grandmamma are very kind; they are asgood as possible; I respect them, and all that, but----Well, it must bemy own fault, or education. It is education, no doubt, that gives usthose absurd ideas. "

"Don't call them absurd, " said Reginald, "indeed I can enter into themperfectly well. I don't _know_ them, perhaps, in my own person; but Ican perfectly understand the repugnance, the distress--"

"The words are too strong, " said Phoebe, "not so much as that;the--annoyance, perhaps, the nasty disagreeable struggle with one's selfand one's pride; as if one were better than other people. I dislikemyself, and despise myself for it; but I can't help it. We have solittle power over ourselves. "

"I hope you will let my sister do what she can to deliver you, " saidReginald; "Ursula is not like you; but she is a good little thing, andshe is able to appreciate you. I was to tell you she had been calledsuddenly off to the Dorsets', with whom my father and she have gone topass the night--to meet, I believe, a person you know. "

"Oh, Clarence Copperhead; he is come then? How odd it will be to see himhere. His mother is nice, but his father is----Oh, Mr. May! if you onlyknew the things people have to put up with. When I think of Mr. Copperhead, and his great, ugly, staring wealth, I feel disposed to hatemoney--especially among Dissenters. It would be better if we were allpoor. "

Reginald said nothing; he thought so too. In that case there would be afew disagreeable things out of a poor clergyman's way, and assaults likethat of Northcote upon himself would be impossible; but he couldscarcely utter these virtuous sentiments. 

"Poverty is the desire of ascetics, and this is not an ascetic age, " hesaid at length, with a half-laugh at himself for his stiff speech. 

"You may say it is not an ascetic age; but yet I suppose theRitualists----. Perhaps you are a Ritualist yourself, Mr. May? I know aslittle personally about the church here, as you do about Salem Chapel. Ilike the service--so does papa--and I like above all things theindependent standing of a clergyman; the feeling he must have that he isfree to do his duty. That is why I like the church; for other things ofcourse I like our own body best. "

"I don't suppose such things can be argued about, Miss Beecham. I wishI knew something of my father's new pupil. I don't like having astranger in the house; my father is fond of having his own way. "

"It is astonishing how often parents are so, " said Phoebe, demurely; "andthe way they talk of their experience! as if each new generation did notknow more than the one that preceded it. "

"You are pleased to laugh, but I am quite in earnest. A pupil is anuisance. For instance, no man who has a family should ever take one. Iknow what things are said. "

"You mean about the daughters? That is true enough, there are alwaysdifficulties in the way; but you need not be afraid of ClarenceCopperhead. He is not the fascinating pupil of a church-novel. There'snothing the least like the Heir of Redclyffe about him. "

"You are very well up in Miss Yonge's novels, Miss Beecham. "

"Yes, " said Phoebe; "one reads Scott for Scotland (and a few otherthings), and one reads Miss Yonge for the church. Mr. Trollope is goodfor that too, but not so good. All that I know of clergymen's families Ihave got from her. I can recognize you quite well, and your sister, butthe younger ones puzzle me; they are not in Miss Yonge; they are toomuch like other children, too naughty. I don't mean anythingdisagreeable. The babies in Miss Yonge are often very naughty too, butnot the same. As for you, Mr. May----"

"Yes. As for me?"

"Oh, I know everything about you. You are a fine scholar, but you don'tlike the drudgery of teaching. You have a fine mind, but it interfereswith you continually. You have had a few doubts--just enough to give apiquancy; and now you have a great ideal, and mean to do many thingsthat common clergymen don't think of. That was why you hesitated aboutthe chaplaincy? See how much I have got out of Miss Yonge. I know you aswell as if I had known you all my life; a great deal better than I knowClarence Copperhead; but then, no person of genius has taken any troubleabout him. "

"I did not know I had been a hero of fiction, " said Reginald, who had agreat mind to be angry. All this time they were walking briskly backwardand forward before Tozer's open door, the Anglican, in his long blackcoat, following the lively movements of Tozer's granddaughter, onlybecause he could not help himself. He was irritated, yet he was pleased. A young man is pleased to be thought of, even when the notice is butbarely complimentary. Phoebe must have thought of him a good deal beforeshe found him out in this way; but he was irritated all the same. 

"You are, however, " she answered lightly. "Look at that blaze ofcrimson, Mr. May; and the blue which is so clear and so unfathomable. Winter is grander than summer, and even warmer--to look at; with itsorange, and purple, and gold. What poor little dirty, dingy things weare down here, to have all this exhibited every evening for ourdelight!"

"That is true, " he said; and as he gazed, something woke in the youngman's heart--a little thrill of fancy, if not of love. It is hard tolook at a beautiful sunset, and then see it reflected in a girl's face, and not to feel something--which may be nothing, perhaps. His heart gavea small jump, not much to speak of. Phoebe did not talk like the otheryoung ladies in Grange Lane. 

"Mr. May, Mr. May!" she cried suddenly, "please go away! I foresee adisastrous encounter which alarms me. You can't fight, but there is nosaying what you might do to each other. Please go away!"

"What is the matter?" he said. "I don't understand any encounter beingdisastrous here. Why should I go away?"

She laughed, but there was a certain fright in her tone. "Please!" shesaid, "I see Mr. Northcote coming this way. He will stop to speak to me. It is the gentleman who attacked you in the Meeting. Mr. May, " she addedentreatingly, between laughter and fright, "do go, please. "

"I shall do nothing of the kind, " said Reginald, roused; "I am notafraid. Let him come on. This wall shall fly from its firm base as soonas I. "

Phoebe clasped her hands in dismay, which was partially real. "Thetypical churchman, " she said, with a glance at Reginald's figure, whichwas not displeasing to him, "and the typical Dissenter! and what am I todo between them? Oh, I wish you would go away. "

"Not an inch, " said the young champion. Phoebe was frightened, but shewas delighted. "I shall introduce him to you, " she said threatening. 

"I don't mind, " he replied; "nothing on earth should induce me to fly. "

CHAPTER XXV. 

TEA. 

Now here was a business! The typical Anglican and the typical Dissenter, as Phoebe said, with only that clever young woman to keep them fromflying at each other's throats; the one obstinately holding his place byher side (and Phoebe began to have a slight consciousness that, beingwithout any chaperon, she ought not to have kept Reginald May at herside; but in the Tozer world, who knew anything of chaperons?), theother advancing steadily, coming up the Lane out of the glow of thesunset, showing square against it in his frock-coat and high hat, formaland demagogical, not like his rival. The situation pleased Phoebe, wholiked to "manage;" but it slightly frightened her as well, though theopen door behind, and the long garden with its clouds of crocuses, was acity of refuge always within reach. 

"Is it really you, Mr. Northcote?" she said. "You look as if you haddropped out of that lovely sunset I have been watching so long--and Ithought you were at the other end of the world. "

"I have been at the other end of England, which comes to the samething, " said Northcote, in a voice which was harsh by nature, andsomewhat rough with cold; "and now they have sent me back to SalemChapel, to take Mr. Thorpe's place for three months. They asked for me, I believe; but that you must know better than I do. "

It was not in the nature of man not to be a little proud in thecircumstances, and it is quite possible that he considered Phoebe to havesomething to do with the flattering request. 

"No, I have not heard; but I am glad, " said Phoebe; "and if it is notwicked to say so, I am glad Mr. Thorpe is to be away. Let us hope itwill do him good. I am sure it will do the rest of us good, at allevents. "

Northcote made no answer; but he looked at the other, and severalquestions began to tremble on his lips. That this was a Churchman didnot immediately occur to him; for, indeed, various young pastors of hisown body put on the livery which he himself abjured, and the sight of itas a servile copy filled him with a certain contempt. 

"Mr. May has been stopped in his way by the beauty of the skies, " saidPhoebe, rather enjoying the position as she got used to it. "Mr. Northcote--Mr. May. It is not easy to pass such an exhibition as that, is it?--and given to us all for love, and nothing for reward, " sheadded; for she was a well read young woman, and did not hesitate tosuffer this to appear. 

And then there was a momentary pause. Northcote was confused, it must beallowed, by thus coming face to face, without previous warning, with theman whom he had so violently assailed. Reginald had the best of it inevery way, for he was the man injured, and had it in his power to bemagnanimous; and he had the advantage of full warning, and had preparedhimself. Besides, was not he the superior by every social rule? And thatconsciousness is always sweet. 

"If Mr. Northcote is new to Carlingford, he will probably not know whata fine point of view we have here. That, like so many other things, "said Reginald, pointedly, "wants a little personal experience to find itout. "

"For that matter, to see it once is as good as seeing it a hundredtimes, " said Northcote, somewhat sharply; for to give in was the verylast thing he thought of. A little glow of anger came over him. Hethought Phoebe had prepared this ordeal for him, and he was vexed, notonly because she had done it, but because his sense of discomfituremight afford a kind of triumph to that party in the connection which wasdisposed, as he expressed it, to "toady the Church. "

"Pardon me, I don't think you can judge of anything at a first view. "

"And, pardon me, I think you see everything most sharply and clearly ata first view, " said the Nonconformist, who was the loudest; "certainlyin all matters of principle. After a while, you are persuaded againstyour will to modify this opinion and that, to pare off a little here, and tolerate a little there. Your first view is the most correct. "

"Well, " said Phoebe, throwing herself into the breach, "I am glad youdon't agree, for the argument is interesting. Will you come in and fightit out? You shall have some tea, which will be pleasant, for it shall behot. I really cannot stay out any longer; it is freezing here. "

The new-comer prepared to follow; but Reginald hesitated. Pridewhispered that to go into the house of Tozer, the butterman, wassomething monstrous; but then it might be amusing. This "Dissentingfellow, " no doubt, was a drawback; but a kind of angry antagonism anddisdain half-attracted him even to the Dissenting fellow. It might bewell, on the whole, to see what kind of being such a person was. Allcurious phenomena are attractive to a student. "The proper study ofmankind is man, " Reginald said to himself. Before he had got throughthis little argument with himself, Phoebe had gone in, and Northcote, whose disgust at the interposition of an adversary had no such softeningof curiosity, followed her abruptly, without any of those graces whichare current in society. This rudeness offended the other, who was aboutto walk on indignant, when Phoebe turned back, and looked out at him fromthe open door. 

"Are not you coming, Mr. May?" she said softly, looking at him with theleast little shrug of her shoulders. 

Reginald yielded without further resistance. But he felt fully that tosee him, the chaplain of the old College, walking down through Tozer'sgarden, between the two rows of closed-up crocuses which glimmeredghostly by the side of the path, was one of the strangest sights in theworld. 

Phoebe, to tell the truth, was a little confused as to where to conveyher captive, out of whom she meant to get a little amusement for thelong winter afternoon. For a girl of her active mind, it may easily beimagined that a succession of long days with Mrs. Tozer was somewhatmonotonous. She did her duty like a hero, and never complained; butstill, if a little amusement was possible, it was worth having. Shecarried in her two young men as naughty boys carry stag-beetles, orother such small deer. If they would fight it would be fun; and if theywould not fight, why, it might be fun still, and more amusing thangrandmamma. She hesitated between the chilly drawing-room, where a firewas lighted, but where there was no evidence of human living, and thecozy parlour, where Mrs. Tozer sat in her best cap, still wheezy, butconvalescent, waiting for her tea, and not indisposed to receive suchdeputations of the community as might come to ask for her. Finally, Phoebe opened the door of that sanctuary, which was dazzling with brightfire-light after the gloom outside. It was a very comfortable interior, arranged by Phoebe to suit her own ideas rather than those of grandmamma, though grandmamma's comfort had been her chief object. The tea-thingswere sparkling upon the table, the kettle singing by the fire, and Mrs. Tozer half-dozing in the tranquillity and warmth. 

"Grandmamma, I have brought Mr. May and Mr. Northcote to see you, " shesaid. 

The poor old lady almost sprang from her chair in amazement. 

"Lord bless us, Phoebe, Mr. May!"

"Don't disturb yourself, grandmamma; they will find seats. Yes, we wereall looking at the sunset, and as I knew tea must be ready--I know youwant it, dear granny--I asked them to have some. Here it is, as I toldyou, quite hot, and very fragrant this cold night. How cold it isoutside! I think it will freeze, and that skating may come off at last, Mr. May, that you were talking of, you remember? You were to teach yoursisters to skate. "

"Yes, with the advantage of your example. "

Reginald had put himself in a corner, as far away as possible from theold woman in the chair. His voice, he felt, had caught a formal tone. Asfor the other, his antagonist, he had assumed the front of thebattle--even, in Tozer's absence, he had ventured to assume the front ofthe fire. He was not the sort of man Reginald had expected, almost hopedto see--a fleshy man, loosely put together, according to the nature, sofar as he knew it, of Dissenters; but a firmly knit, clean-limbed youngman, with crisp hair curling about his head, and a gleam of energy andspirit in his eye. The gentler Anglican felt by no means sure of aspeedy victory, even of an intellectual kind. The young man before himdid not look a slight antagonist. They glared at each other, measuringtheir strength; they did not know, indeed, that they had been brought inhere to this warmth and light, like the stag-beetles, to make a littleamusement for Phoebe; but they were quite ready to fight all the same. 

"Mr. Northcote, sir, I'm glad to see you. Now this is friendly; this iswhat I calls as it should be, when a young pastor comes in and makesfree, without waiting for an invitation, " said Tozer kindly, bustlingin; "that speech of yours, sir, was a rouser; that 'it 'em off, thatdid, and you can see as the connection ain't ungrateful. What's that yousay, Phoebe? what? I'm a little hard of hearing. Mr. --May!"

"Mr. May was good enough to come in with me, grandpapa. We met at thedoor. We have mutual friends, and you know how kind Miss May has been, "said Phoebe, trembling with sudden fright, while Reginald, pale with rageand embarrassment, stood up in his corner. Tozer was embarrassed too. Hecleared his throat and rubbed his hands, with a terrible inclination toraise one of them to his forehead. It was all that he could do to getover this class instinct. Young May, though he had been delighted tohear him assailed in the Meeting, was a totally different visitor fromthe clever young pastor whom he received with a certain consciousness ofpatronage. Tozer did not know that the Northcotes were infinitelyricher, and quite as well-born and well-bred in their ways as the Mays, and that his young Dissenting brother was a more costly production, aswell as a more wealthy man, than the young chaplain in his long coat;but if he had known this it would have made no difference. His relationto the one was semi-servile, to the other condescending and superior. InReginald May's presence, he was but a butterman who supplied the family;but to Horace Northcote he was an influential member of society, withpower over a Minister's individual fate. 

"I assure you, sir, as I'm proud to see you in my house, " he said, witha duck of his head, and an ingratiating but uncomfortable smile. "Yourfather, I hope, as he's well, sir, and all the family? We are a kind ofneighbours now; not as we'd think of taking anything upon us on accountof living in Grange Lane. But Phoebe here--Phoebe, junior, as we call'sher--she's a cut above us, and I'm proud to see any of her friends in my'umble 'ouse. My good lady, sir, " added Tozer, with another duck, indicating with a wave of his hand his wife, who had already once risen, wheezy, but knowing her manners, to make a kind of half-bow, half-curtsey from her chair. 

"You are very kind, " said Reginald, feeling himself blush furiously, andnot knowing what to say. The other young man stood with his back to thefire, and a sneer, which he intended to look like a smile, on his face. 

And as for Phoebe, it must be allowed that, notwithstanding all herresources, even she was exquisitely uncomfortable for a minute or two. The young people all felt this, but to Tozer it seemed that he hadmanaged everything beautifully, and a sense of elation stole over him. To be visited in this manner by the gentry, "making free, " and "quite ina friendly way, " was an honour he had never looked for. He turned toNorthcote with great affability and friendliness. 

"Well, " he said, "Mr. Northcote, sir, it can't be denied as this is astrange meeting; you and Mr. May, as mightn't be, perhaps, just the bestof friends, to meet quite comfortable over a cup of tea. But ain't itthe very best thing that could happen? Men has their public opinions, sir, as every one should speak up bold for, and stick to; that's my wayof thinking. But I wouldn't bring it no farther; not, as might be said, into the domestic circle. I'm clean against that. You say your say inpublic, whatever you may think on a subject, but you don't bear nomalice; it ain't a personal question; them's my sentiments. And I don'tknow nothing more elevatin', nothing more consolin', than for two publicopponents, as you may say, to meet like this quite cozy and comfortableover a cup o' tea. "

"It is a pleasure, I assure you, which I appreciate highly, " saidReginald, finding his voice. 

"And which fills me with delight and satisfaction, " said Northcote. Those stag-beetles which Phoebe, so to speak, had carried in in herhandkerchief, were only too ready to fight. 

"You had better have some tea first, " she said breathless, "before youtalk so much of its good effects. Sit down, grandpapa, and have yourmuffin while it is hot; I know that is what you like. Do you care aboutchina, Mr. May? but every one cares for china now-a-days. Look at thatcup, and fancy grandmamma having this old service in use without knowinghow valuable it is. Cream Wedgwood! You may fancy how I stared when Isaw it; and in everyday use! most people put it up on brackets, whenthey are so lucky as to possess any. Tell Mr. May, grandmamma, how youpicked it up. Mr. Northcote, there is an article in this review that Iwant you to look at. Papa sent it to me. It is too metaphysical for me, but I know you are great in metaphysics--"

"I am greater in china; may not I look at the Wedgwood first?"

"Perhaps you will turn over the literature to me, " said Reginald, "reviews are more in my way than teacups, though I say it withconfusion. I know how much I am behind my age. "

"And I too, " whispered Phoebe, behind the book which she had taken up. "Don't tell any one. It is rare, I know; and everybody likes to havesomething that is rare; but I don't really care for it the least in theworld. I have seen some bits of Italian _faience_ indeed--but Englishpottery is not like Italian, any more than English skies. "

"You have the advantage of me, Miss Beecham, both as regards the potteryand the skies. "

"Ah, if it is an advantage; bringing poetry down to prose is not alwaysan advantage, is it? Italy is such a dream--so long as one has neverbeen there. "

"Yes, it is a dream, " said Reginald, with enthusiasm, "to everybody, Ithink; but when one has little money and much work all one'slife--poverty stands in the way of all kinds of enjoyment. "

"Poverty is a nice friendly sort of thing; a ground we can all meet on, "said Phoebe. "But don't let us say that to grandpapa. How odd people are!he knows you are not Croesus, but still he has a sort of feeling that youare a young prince, and do him the greatest honour in coming to hishouse; and yet, all the same, he thinks that money is the very grandestthing in existence. See what prejudice is! He would not allow that hehad any class-reverence, and yet he can no more get rid of it--"

"Miss Beecham, it is very difficult for me to say anything on such asubject. "

"Very difficult, and you show your delicacy by not saying anything. Butyou know, apart from this, which is not gratifying, I am rather proud ofgrandpapa's way of looking at some things. About saying out youropinions in public, and yet bearing no malice, for instance. Now, Mr. Northcote is the very Antipodes to you; therefore you ought to know himand find out what he means. It would be better for you both. That iswhat I call enlarging the mind, " said Phoebe with a smile; which was, totell the truth, a very pretty smile, and filled with a soft lustre theblue eyes with which she looked at him. Whether it was this, or thecogency of her argument, that moved the young Anglican, it would be hardto say. 

"If you are to be the promoter of this new science, I don't object tostudying under you, " he said with a great deal of meaning in his voice. 

Phoebe gave him another smile, though she shook her head; and then sheturned to the hero on the other side. 

"Is it genuine, Mr. Northcote? is it as fine as I thought? There now, Itold you, grandmamma! Have you been telling Mr. Northcote how you pickedit up? I am sure you will present him with a cup and saucer for hiscollection in return for his praises. "

"Not for the world, " said Northcote, with profound seriousness; "break aset of cream Wedgwood! what do you take me for, Miss Beecham? I don'tmean to say that I would not give my ears to have it--all; but to breakthe set--"

"Oh, I beg your pardon! I was not prepared for such delicacy offeeling--such conscientiousness--"

"Ah!" said Northcote, with a long-drawn breath, "I don't think you canunderstand the feelings of an enthusiast. A set of fine China is like apoem--every individual bit is necessary to the perfection of the whole. I allow that this is not the usual way of looking at it; but my pleasurelies in seeing it entire, making the tea-table into a kind of lyric, elevating the family life by the application of the principles ofabstract beauty to its homeliest details. Pardon, Miss Beecham, but Mrs. Tozer is right, and you are wrong. The idea of carrying off a few linesof a poem in one's pocket for one's collection--"

"Now that's what I call speaking up, " said Mrs. Tozer, the first timeshe had opened her lips, "that's just what I like. Mr. Northcote has adeal more sense than the like of you. He knows what's what. Old thingslike this as might have been my granny's, they're good enough for everyday, they're very nice for common use; but they ain't no more fit to beput away in cupboards and hoarded up like fine china, no more than I am. Mr. Northcote should see our best--that's worth the looking at; and ifI'd known as the gentleman was coming--but you can't put an old head onyoung shoulders. Phoebe's as good as gold, and the trouble she takes withan old woman like me is wonderful; but she can't be expected to think ofeverything, can she now, at her age?"

The two young men laughed--it was the first point of approach betweenthem, and Phoebe restrained a smile, giving them a look from one toanother. She gave Reginald his cup of tea very graciously. 

"Mr. Northcote prefers the Wedgwood, and Mr. May doesn't mind, grandmamma, " she said sweetly. "So it is as well to have the best chinain the cupboard. Grandpapa, another muffin--it is quite hot; and I knowthat is what you like best. "

"Well, I'll say that for Phoebe, " said Tozer, with his mouth full, "thatwhether she understands china or not I can't tell, but she knows what aman likes, which is more to the purpose for a young woman. That's whatshe does; and looks after folk's comforts as I never yet saw her match. She's a girl in a thousand, is Phoebe, junior. There be them as is morefor dress, " he added, fond and greasy, looking at her seated modestly inthat gown, which had filled with awe and admiration the experienced mindof Mrs. Sam Hurst; "and plays the pianny, and that sort of style ofgirl; but for one as minds the comforts of them about her----" Tozerturned back to the table, and made a gulp of his last piece of muffin. Eloquence could have no more striking climax; the proof of all hisenthusiasm, was it not there?

"Don't you play, Miss Beecham?" said Reginald, half-amused, half-angry. 

"A little, " said Phoebe, with a laugh. She had brought down a smallcottage piano out of the drawing-room, where nobody ever touched it, into a dark corner out of reach of the lamp. It was the onlyaccomplishment upon which she prided herself. She got up from the table, when she had poured out another cup of tea for her grandfather, andwithout saying a word went to the little piano. It was not much of aninstrument, and Reginald May was very little of a _connoisseur_. Northcote, who knew her gifts, gave himself up to listening, but theTozers looked on, shaking their heads, and it was only after some timehad passed, that Reginald began to understand that he was listening tosomething which he had never heard before. Ursula's school-girl tuneshad never interested him very much; he did not know what this was whichseemed to creep into his heart by his ears. He got up by and by, andstole towards the piano bewildered. 

"It'll soon be over, sir, " said Tozer, encouragingly. "Don't you runaway, Mr. May. Them are queer tunes, I allow, but they don't last long, and your company's an honour. As for the playing, it'll soon be over;you needn't run away. "

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE HALL. 

It is unnecessary to say that the dinner party in the Hall bore verylittle resemblance to those simple amusements in No. 6, Grange Lane. There were three or four people to meet Mr. May, who, as an orator andliterary man, had greater reputation even such a little way from homethan he had in his own town. He was a very good preacher, and thosearticles of his were much admired as "thoughtful" papers, searching intomany mental depths, and fathoming the religious soul with wonderfulinsight. Ladies especially admired them; the ladies who wereintellectual, and found pleasure in the feeling of being more advancedthan their neighbours. The Rector's wife of the parish in which theDorsets lived applied herself with great vigour to the art of drawinghim out. She asked him questions with that air of delightful submissionto an intellectual authority which some ladies love to assume, and whichit pleases many men to accept. His daughters were not at all reverentialof Mr. May, and it soothed him to get marks of devotion and literarysubmission out of doors. Even Sophy Dorset had gone through the phase ofadmiration for her cousin. This had been dissipated, it is true, longago; but yet she did not laugh, as she usually did, at the believers inhim. She listened to Mrs. Rector plying him with eager questions, askinghis advice on that point and the other, and smiled, but was charitable. As for Cousin Anne, she was charitable by nature, and all the world gotthe advantage of it. Little Ursula was one of her prime favourites--amotherless girl, who was the eldest, and who had to work for the family, was of all others the thing which moved her sympathies most. The littleIndian children had long ere this yielded to the charms of Aunt Anne. They followed her wherever she went like little spaniels, hanging on byher dress. She had to go up to the nursery to hear them say theirprayers before she dressed for dinner. 

"You see, this is a proof that with children one should never bediscouraged, " she said; "for they did not take to me at first;" and sheturned her mild countenance, beaming with soft light, upon Ursula. To behampered by these babies clinging about her, to have them claimingimperiously her attention and her time, however she might be engaged; togive up to them the moments of leisure in which otherwise she might havehad a little quiet and repose, this was what Anne Dorset considered asher recompense. 

"Oh, I wish I could be as good to Amy and Robin! But I feel as if Ishould like to shake them often, " cried Ursula, "even though I love themwith all my heart. Oh! Cousin Anne, I don't think there is any one likeyou. "

"Yes, that is what she thinks her reward, " said Sophy. "I should likesomething better, if it was I. Don't copy her, Ursula. It is better tohave children of your own, and get other people to nurse them. Anne, yousee, likes it. I want you to marry, and get all the good things in thislife. Let us leave the self-denials to her; she likes them, youperceive. "

"I don't know why you should always talk of marrying to me, CousinSophy, " said Ursula with gentle reproach. "I hope I am not a girl tothink of such things. "

"And why not? Is it not the first duty of woman, you little simpleton?"said Sophy Dorset, with a laugh. 

But Ursula could not imagine that it was only in this general way thather cousin spoke. She could not but feel that this big ClarenceCopperhead, with the diamond buttons, and that huge expanse ofshirt-front, had something to do with Sophy's talk. There was six feetof him, which is a thing that goes a long way with a girl; and he wasnot bad-looking. And why did he come to Carlingford, having nothing inthe world to do with the place? and coming to Carlingford, why was papasought out, of all people, to be his tutor? Certainly the circumstanceswere such as invited conjecture, especially when added on to Sophy'sallusions. He took Ursula in to dinner, which fluttered her somewhat;and though he was much intent upon the dinner itself, and studied the_menu_ with a devotion which would have made her tremble for herhousekeeping, had she been sufficiently disengaged to notice it, he yetfound time to talk a little between the courses. 

"I did not expect, when I saw you in London, that we were to meet againso soon, Miss May, " was the perfectly innocent remark with which heopened the conversation. 

Ursula would have said it herself had he not said it, and all she coulddo was to answer, "No, indeed, " with a smile. 

"And I am coming to your father to be coached, " continued the young man. "It is a funny coincidence, don't you think so? I am glad you came tothat ball, Miss May. It makes me feel that I know you. I don't likestarting off afresh, all at once, among people I don't know. "

"No, " said Ursula; "I should not like it either. But there are otherpeople you know in Carlingford. There is the lady who was at theball--the young lady in black, I used to call her--Miss Beecham; youmust know her better than you know me. "

"Who? Phoebe? really!" he said, elevating his eyebrows. "Phoebe inCarlingford! By Jove! how the governor will laugh! I should like toknow, " with a conscious smile on his countenance, "what _she_ is doingthere. "

"Her grandmamma is ill, and she is nursing her, " said Ursula simply, atwhich young Copperhead laughed again. 

"Oh, that is how it is! Very good of her, don't you think? Shouldn'tsuppose she would be amusing, the old granny, and Phoebe likes to beamused. I must go to see her as soon as I can get there. You know, weare Dissenters at home, Miss May. Good joke, isn't it? The governor willnot hear a word against them. As a matter of fact, nobody does go tochapel in our rank of life; but the governor sometimes is as obstinateas an old pig. "

"I suppose he likes it best, " said Ursula, gently; and here a new coursecame round, and for the moment Clarence had something else to do. Heresumed after the _entrées_, which were poor, as he made a mental note. 

"Is there anything to do at Carlingford, Miss May? I hope you skate. Iam not much in the hunting way; nor your father, I suppose? for, to besure, a hunting parson would never do. I am too heavy a weight for mosthorses, and the good of galloping over the country all day, after a poorbrute of a fox!--but we must not say that before Sir Robert. I supposeit is dull?" he said, somewhat pathetically, looking in her face. 

"We don't think it dull, Mr. Copperhead. It may be, perhaps, for agentleman. "

"That's it, " said Clarence. "I don't know if it's because women havemore resources, or because they want less; but you always get on betterthan we do, somehow; very lucky for you. You don't expect so much. Ibelieve that's what it is. "

"Then that shows we are the most sensible, " said Ursula, roused, and alittle indignant. 

He paused, to make his choice between the inevitable turkey and theinevitable beef. 

"I hope it's braised, " he said, in a devout undertone. "You don't expectso much, Miss May, that's what it is; you're always in the house. Youdon't care for exercise. Bless you, if I didn't take exercise, I shouldbe fifteen stone before you could turn round. How much are you? abouteight, perhaps; not much more. That makes a deal of difference: youdon't require to keep yourself down. "

Ursula did not make any answer. She was prepared to look upon him veryfavourably, and accept what he said as full of originality and force;but the tone the conversation had taken was not entirely to her mind. Phoebe could have managed it; but Ursula was not Phoebe. She was moredisposed to take offence at the young man's tone than to guide it intobetter ways. 

"I hope your mother is well, " she said at last, falteringly, after along pause. Ursula thought her companion would remark this pause, andthink her displeased. She might have saved herself the trouble, for itwas the braised turkey which kept Clarence quiet, not offence. 

"Oh, quite well, I thank you. Not so well as when I am at home; shedon't like parting with me, " he said, "but, of course, I can't be alwaysat my mother's apron-strings. Women forget that. "

"She was very kind when I was in London. "

"Yes, that just pleases her; she is never so happy as when she is buyingthings for somebody, " he replied, betraying an acquaintance with theexact manner of the kindness which somewhat disturbed poor Ursula: "thatis exactly her way. I dare say she'll come and see the Dorsets while I'mhere. "

Then there was again a pause, and Clarence turned to speak to some oneat his other side. 

"No, I don't hunt much, " he said; "I have come into the country to becoached. My father's a modern sort of man, and wants a fellow to be upin history, and that sort of thing. Bore--yes; and I dare sayCarlingford is very dull. Oh, yes, I will go out with the hounds now andthen, if there is not a frost. I should rather like a frost for mypart. "

It was a hunting lady who had started this new conversation, into whichthe stranger had drifted away, leaving Ursula stranded. She was slightlypiqued, it must be allowed, and when Sophy asked her after dinner howshe liked her companion, made a dignified reply. 

"I have no doubt he is very nice, " she said; "I don't know much ofgentlemen. He talks of papa as if he were a school-master, and thinksCarlingford will be dull. "

"So it is, Ursula. I have often heard you say so. "

"Yes, perhaps; but a stranger ought to be civil, " said the girl, offended; and she went and entrenched herself by the side of CousinAnne, where the new pupil could not come near her. Indeed he did notseem very anxious to do so, as Ursula soon saw. She blushed very hotlyall by herself, under Cousin Anne's shadow: that she could have been soabsurd as ever to think--But his size, and the weight over which he hadlamented, and his abundant whiskers and large shirt front, made it quiteimpossible for Ursula to think of him as a person to be educated. Itmust be Miss Beecham, she said to herself. 

No thoughts of this kind crossed Mr. Clarence Copperhead's mind, as hestretched his big limbs before the drawing-room fire after dinner, andsaid "Brava!" when the ladies sang. He knew "Brava" was the right thingto say. He liked to be at the Hall, which he had never visited before, and to know that it was undeniable gentry which surrounded him, andwhich at the piano was endeavouring to gain his approbation. He was somuch his father's son that he had a sense of pleasure and triumph inbeing thus elevated; and he had a feeling, more or less, of contempt forthe clergyman, "only a parson, " who was to be his coach. He felt thepower and the beauty of money almost as much as his father did. What wasthere he could not buy with it? the services of the most learned punditin existence, for what was learning? or the prettiest woman going to behis wife, if that was what he wanted. It may be supposed then that hehad very little attention indeed to bestow upon a girl like Ursula, whowas only the daughter of his coach--nobody at all in particular--andthat her foolish fancies on the subject might have been spared. He airedhimself on the hearth-rug with great satisfaction, giving now and then ashake to one of his long limbs, and a furtive glance to see that all wasperfect in the _sit_ of the garment that clothed it. He had beenploughed it is true, but that did not interfere much with his mentalsatisfaction; for, after all, scholarship was a thing cultivated chieflyby dons and prigs, and poor men; and no doubt this other poor man, theparson, would be able to put all into his head that was necessary, justas much as would pay, and no more--a process the mere thought of whichmade Clarence yawn, yet which he had wound up his noble mind to submitto. 

"Mind you, I don't say I am going to work, " he had said to his mother;"but if you think he can put it into me, he may try, " and he repeatedmuch the same sentiment, with a difference, to Sophy Dorset, who by wayof civility, while the Rector's wife paid court to Mr. May, talked toClarence a little, from the corner of the ottoman close to the fire. 

"Work! well, I suppose so, after a sort. I don't mean to make myself illwith midnight oil and that sort of thing, " he said (he was not at allclear in his mind as to how the midnight oil was applied), "but if Mr. May can get it into me, I'll give him leave; for one thing, I supposethere will be nothing else to do. "

"Not much in Carlingford; there are neither pictures, nor museums, norfine buildings, nor anything of the sort; and very little society; a fewtea-parties, and one ball in the season. "

Mr. Clarence Copperhead shrugged his large shoulders. 

"I shan't go to the tea-parties, that's certain, " he said; "a fellowmust hunt a little, I suppose, as the place is so destitute. As forpictures and museums, that don't trouble me. The worst of going abroadis that you've always got to look at things of that sort. To have to doit at home would be beyond a joke. "

"Have you seen the box of curious things John sent me with thechildren?" said Sophy. "They are on the table at the end of theroom, --yataghans, and I don't know what other names they have, all sortsof Indian weapons. I should think you would be interested in them. "

"Thanks, Cousin Sophy, I am very well where I am, " he said. He looked ather in such a way that she might have appropriated this remark as acompliment, had she pleased; but Sophy laughed, and it is to be feareddid not feel the compliment, for she turned right round to somebodyelse, and took no more notice of Clarence. He was so fully satisfiedwith himself that he had not any strong sense of neglect, though he hadbut little conversation with the company. He was quite satisfied toexhibit himself and his shirt-front before the fire. 

Next day he accompanied the Mays back to Carlingford. Mr. May hadenjoyed his visit. His mind was free for the moment; he had staved offthe evil day, and he had a little money in his pocket, the remains ofthat extra fifty pounds which he had put on to Tozer's bill. With someof it he had paid some urgent debts, and he had presented five pounds toCotsdean to buy his wife a gown, and he had a little money in hispockets. So that in every way he was comfortable and more at ease thanusual. The reckoning was four months off, which was like an eternity tohim in his present mood of mind, and of course he would get the moneybefore that time. There was so much time, indeed, that to begin to thinkof the ways and means of paying it at this early period seemed absurd. He was to have three hundred pounds for the year of Copperhead'sresidence with him, if he stayed so long, and that would do, if nothingelse. Therefore Mr. May was quite easy in his mind, not in the leastfeeling the possibility of trouble in store for him. And the visit hadbeen pleasant. He had enlarged his acquaintance, and that among the verysort of people he cared to know. He had been very well received by allthe Dorsets, and introduced by Sir Robert as a relation, and he hadreceived some personal incense about his works and his gifts which wassweet to him. Therefore he was in very good spirits, and exceedinglyamiable. He conversed with his future pupil urbanely, though he had notconcealed his entire concurrence in Sir Robert's opinion that he was "acub. "

"What have you been reading lately?" he asked, when they had beentransferred from the Dorsets' carriage, to the admiration and by theobsequious cares of all the attendant officials, into the railwaycarriage. Mr. May liked the fuss and liked the idea of that superioritywhich attended the Dorsets' guests. He had just been explaining to hiscompanions that Sir Robert was the Lord of the Manor, and that all thehomage done to him was perfectly natural; and he was in greatgood-humour even with this cub. 

"Well, I've not been reading very much, " said Clarence, candidly. "Whatwas the good? The governor did not want me to be a parson, or a lawyer, or anything of that sort, and a fellow wants some sort of a motive toread. I've loafed a good deal, I'm afraid. I got into a very good set, you know, first chop--Lord Southdown, and the Beauchamps, and that lot;and--well, I suppose we were idle, and that's the truth. "

"I see, " said Mr. May; "a good deal of smoke and billiards, and soforth, and very little work. "

"That's about it, " said the young man, settling himself and histrousers, which were the objects of a great deal of affectionate care onhis part. He gave them furtive pulls at the knees, and stroked them downtowards the ankle, as he got himself comfortably into his seat. 

Mr. May looked at him with scientific observation, and Ursula withhalf-affronted curiosity; his self-occupation was an offence to thegirl, but it was only amusing to her father. "An unmitigated cub, " Mr. May pronounced to himself; but there where he sat he represented threehundred a-year, and that, at least, was not to be despised. Ursula wasnot so charitable as her father; she was not amused by him in theslightest degree. Had he come down to Carlingford in humble worship ofher pretty eyes, and with a romantic intention of making himselfagreeable to her, the captivating flattery would have prepossessedUrsula, and prepared her to see him in a very pleasant light, and putthe best interpretation upon all he did and said. But this prettydelusion being dissipated, Ursula was angry with herself for having beenso foolish, and naturally angry with Clarence for having led her intoit, though he was quite without blame in the matter. She looked at himin his corner--he had taken the best corner, without consulting herinclinations--and thought him a vulgar coxcomb, which perhaps he was. But she would not have been so indignant except for that little bit ofinjured feeling, for which really, after all, he was not justly toblame. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

A PAIR OF NATURAL ENEMIES. 

After the evening at Grange Lane which has been described, Reginald Maymet Northcote in the street several times, as was unavoidable, considering the size of the place, and the concentration of all businessin Carlingford within the restricted length of the High Street. The twoyoung men bowed stiffly to each other at first; then by dint of seeingeach other frequently, got to inclinations a little more friendly, untilat length one day when Northcote was passing by the College, as Reginaldstood in the old doorway, the young chaplain feeling magnanimous on hisown ground, and somewhat amused by the idea which suddenly presenteditself to him, asked his Dissenting assailant if he would not come inand see the place. Reginald had the best of it in every way. It was hewho was the superior, holding out a hand of favour and kindness to onewho here at least, was beneath him in social consideration; and it washe who was the assailed, and, so to speak, injured party, and whonevertheless extended to his assailant a polite recognition, which, perhaps, no one else occupying the same position would have given. Hewas amused by his own magnanimity, and enjoyed it, and the pleasure ofheaping coals of fire upon his adversary's head was entirely delightfulto him. 

"I know you do not approve of the place or me, " he said, forgetting inthat moment of triumph all his own objections to it, and the ground uponwhich these objections were founded. "Come in and see it, will you? Thechapel and the rooms are worth seeing. They are fair memorials of thepast, however little the foundation may be to your mind. "

He laughed as he spoke, but without ill-humour; for it is easy to begood-humoured when one feels one's self on the gaining, not the losingside. As for Northcote, pride kept him from any demonstration ofunwillingness to look at what the other had to show. He would not forworlds have betrayed himself. It was expedient for him, if he did notmean to acknowledge himself worsted, to put on a good face and acceptthe politeness cheerfully. So that it was on the very strength of theconflict which made them first aware of each other's existence, thatthey thus came together. The Dissenter declared his entire delight inbeing taken to see the place, and with secret satisfaction, not easilyput into words, the Churchman led the way. They went to all the roomswhere the old men sat, some dozing by the fire, some reading, some busyabout small businesses; one had a turning-lathe, another wasilluminating texts, a third had a collection of curiosities of aheterogeneous kind, which he was cleaning and arranging, writing neatlittle labels in the neatest little hand for each article. 

"The charity of our ancestors might have been worse employed, " saidReginald. "A home for the old and poor is surely as fine a kind ofbenevolence as one could think of--if benevolence is to be tolerated atall. "

"Ye-es, " said Northcote. "I don't pretend to disapprove of benevolence. Perhaps the young who have a future before them, who can be of use totheir country, are better objects still. "

"Because they will pay, " said Reginald; "because we can get somethingout of them in return; while we have already got all that is to be hadout of the old people? A very modern doctrine, but not so lovely as theold-fashioned way. "

"I did not mean that, " said the other, colouring. "Certainly it ought topay; everything, I suppose, is meant to pay one way or other. The lifeand progress of the young, or the gratified sentiment of the benefactor, who feels that he has provided for the old--which is the noblest kind ofpayment? I think the first, for my part. "

"For that matter, there is a large and most flourishing school, whichyou will come across without fail if you work among the poor. Do youwork among the poor? Pardon my curiosity; I don't know. "

"It depends upon what you call the poor, " said the other, who did notlike to acknowledge the absence of this element in Salem Chapel; "if youmean the destitute classes, the lowest level, no; but if you mean therespectable, comfortable--"

"Persons of small income?" said Reginald. "I mean people with no incomesat all; people without trades, or anything to earn a comfortable livingby; labouring people, here to-day and away to-morrow; women who take inwashing, and men who go about hunting for a day's work. These are thekind of people the Church is weighted with. "

"I don't see any trace of them, " said the Nonconformist. "Smooth lawns, fine trees, rooms that countesses might live in. I can't see any traceof them here. "

"There is no harm in a bit of grass and a few trees, and the rooms arecheaper in their long continuance than any flimsy new rubbish that couldbe built. "

"I know I am making an unfortunate quotation, " said Northcote; "butthere is reason in it. It might be sold for so much, and given to thepoor. "

"Cheating the poor, in the first place, " said Reginald, warmly concernedfor what he felt to be his own; "just as the paddock an old horse diesin might bear a crop instead, and pay the owner; but what would becomeof the old horse?"

"Half-quarter of this space would do quite as well for your pensioners, and they might do without--"

"A chaplain!" said Reginald, laughing in spite of himself. "I know youthink so. It is a sinecure. "

"Well, I think they may say their prayers for themselves; a young manlike you, full of talent, full of capability--I beg your pardon, " saidNorthcote, "you must excuse me, I grudge the waste. There are so manythings more worthy of you that you might do. "

"What, for example?"

"Anything almost, " cried the other; "digging, ploughing, building--anything! And for me too. "

This he said in an undertone; but Reginald heard, and did not carry hismagnanimity so far as not to reply. 

"Yes, " he said; "if I am wasted reading prayers for my old men, what areyou, who come to agitate for my abolition? _I_ think, too, almostanything would be better than to encourage the ignorant to makethemselves judges of public institutions, which the wisest even find toodelicate to meddle with. The digging and the ploughing might be a goodthing for more than me. "

"I don't say otherwise, " said the young Dissenter, following into theold fifteenth-century chapel, small but perfect, the young priest of theplace. They stood together for a moment under the vaulted roof, bothyoung, in the glory of their days, both with vague noble meanings inthem, which they knew so poorly how to carry out. They meant everythingthat was fine and great, these two young men, standing upon thethreshold of their life, knowing little more than that they werefiercely opposed to each other, and meant to reform the world each inhis own way; one by careful services and visitings of the poor, theother by the Liberation Society and overthrow of the State Church; bothfoolish, wrong and right, to the utmost bounds of human possibility. Howdifferent they felt themselves standing there, and yet how much at onethey were without knowing it! Northcote had sufficient knowledge toadmire the perfect old building. He followed his guide with a certainhumility through the details, which Reginald had already learned byheart. 

"There is nothing so perfect, so beautiful, so real now-a-days, " saidthe young Churchman, with a natural expansion of mind over the beauty towhich he had fallen heir. It seemed to him, as he looked up at the tallwindows with their graceful tracery, that he was the representative ofall who had worked out their belief in God within these beautiful walls, and of all the perpetual worshippers who had knelt among the old brassesof the early founders upon the worn floor. The other stood beside himwith a half envy in his mind. The Dissenter did not feel himself theheir of those centuries in the same unhesitating way. He tried to feelthat he was the heir of something better and more spiritual, yet felt anot ungenerous grudge that he could not share the other kinship too. 

"It is very beautiful and noble, " he said. "I should like to feel for itas you do; but what I should like still better would be to have the sameclear certainty of faith, the same conviction that what they were doingwas the only right thing to do which made both building and prayer sounfaltering in those days. We can't be so sure even of the span of anarch now. "

"No--nor can you be content with the old span, even though it is clearlythe best by all rules, " said Reginald. The other smiled; he was the mostspeculative of the two, being perhaps the most thoughtful; and he had nofifteenth-century chapel to charm, nor old foundation to give him ananchor. He smiled, but there was a little envy in his mind. Even to haveone's life set out before one within clear lines like this, would notthat be something? If it had but been possible, no doubt saying prayersfor the world, even with no better than the old men of the College tosay amen, had something more beautiful in it than tours of agitation forthe Liberation Society; but Northcote knew that for him it was notpossible, any more than was the tonsure of Reginald's predecessor, whohad said mass when first those pinnacles were reared towards heaven. After he had smiled he sighed, for the old faith was more lovely thanall the new agitations; he felt a little ashamed of the LiberationSociety, so long as he stood under that groined and glorious roof. 

"May!" said some one, coming in suddenly. "I want you to go to thehospital for me. I am obliged to go off to town on urgentbusiness--convocation work; and I must get a lawyer's opinion about thereredos question; there is not a moment to lose. Go and see the peoplein the pulmonary ward, there's a good fellow; and there are two or threebad accidents; and that old woman who is ill in Brown's cottage, you sawher the other day; and the Simmonds in Back Grove Street. I should havehad a day's work well cut out, if I had not had this summons to town;but the reredos question is of the first importance, you know. "

"I'll go, " said Reginald. There is nothing more effectual in showing usthe weakness of any habitual fallacy or assumption than to hear itsympathetically, through the ears, as it were, of a sceptic. Reginald, seeing Northcote's keen eyes gleam at the sound of the Rector's voice, instinctively fell into sympathy with him, and heard the speech throughhim; and though he himself felt the importance of the reredos, yet hesaw in a moment how such a question would take shape in the opinion ofthe young Dissenter, in whom he clearly saw certain resemblances tohimself. Therefore he assented very briefly, taking out his note-book toput down the special cases of which the Rector told him. They had aconfidential conversation in a corner, during which the new-comercontemplated the figure of Northcote in his strange semi-clericalgarments with some amaze. "Who is your friend?" he said abruptly, for hewas a rapid man, losing no time about anything. 

"It is not my friend at all; it is my enemy who denounced me at theDissenters' meeting. "

"Pah!" cried the Rector, curling up his nostrils, as if somedisagreeable smell had reached him. "A Dissenter here! I should not haveexpected it from you, May. "

"Nor I either, " said Reginald; but his colour rose. He was not disposedto be rebuked by any rector in Carlingford or the world. 

"Are you his curate, " said Northcote, "that he orders you about as ifyou were bound to do his bidding? I hope, for your own sake, it is notso. "

Now it was Reginald's turn to smile. He was young, and liked a bit ofgrandiloquence as well as another. 

"Since I have been here, " he said, "in this sinecure, as you callit--and such it almost is--I have been everybody's curate. If the othershave too much work, and I too little, my duty is clear, don't youthink?"

Northcote made no reply. Had he known what was about to be said to him, he might have stirred up his faculties to say something; but he had notan idea that Reginald would answer him like this, and it took him aback. He was too honest himself not to be worsted by such a speech. He bowedhis head with genuine respect. The apology of the Churchman whom he hadassaulted, filled him with a kind of reverential confusion; he couldmake no reply in words. And need it be said that Reginald's heart toomelted altogether when he saw how he had confounded his adversary? Thatsilent assent more than made up for the noisy onslaught. That he shouldhave thus overcome Northcote made Northcote appear his friend. He waspleased and satisfied beyond the reach of words. 

"Will you come to the hospital with me?" he said; and they walked outtogether, the young Dissenter saying very little, doing what he could toarrange those new lights which had suddenly flashed upon his favouritesubject, and feeling that he had lost his landmarks, and was confused inhis path. When the logic is taken out of all that a man is doing, whatis to become of him? This was what he felt; an ideal person inReginald's place could not have made a better answer. Suddenly somehow, by a strange law of association, there came into his mind the innocenttalk he had overheard between the two girls who were, he was aware, May's sisters. A certain romantic curiosity about the family came intohis mind. Certainly they could not be an ordinary family like others. There must be something in their constitution to account for this suddendownfall, which he had encountered in the midst of all his theories. TheMays must be people of a different strain from others; a peculiar race, to whom great thoughts were familiar; he could not believe that therewas anything common or ordinary in their blood. He went out in silence, with the holder of the sinecure which he had so denounced, but which nowseemed to him to be held after a divine fashion, in a way which commonmen had no idea of. Very little could he say, and that of the mostcommonplace kind. He walked quite respectfully by the young clergyman'sside along the crowded High Street, though without any intention ofgoing to the hospital, or of actually witnessing the kind of workundertaken by his new friend. Northcote himself had no turn that way. Togo and minister at a sick-bed had never been his custom; he did notunderstand how to do it; and though he had a kind of sense that it wasthe right thing to do, and that if any one demanded such a service ofhim he would be obliged to render it, he was all in the dark as to howhe could get through so painful an office; whereas May went to itwithout fear, thinking of it only as the most natural thing in theworld. Perhaps, it is possible, Northcote's ministrations, had he beenfully roused, would have been, in mere consequence of the reluctance ofhis mind, to undertake them, more real and impressive than those whichReginald went to discharge as a daily though serious duty; but in anycase it was the Churchman whose mode was the more practical, the moreuseful. They had not gone far together, when they met the Rectorhurrying to the railway; he cast a frowning, dissatisfied look atNorthcote, and caught Reginald by the arm, drawing him aside. 

"Don't be seen walking about with that fellow, " he said; "it will injureyou in people's minds. What have you to do with a Dissenter--ademagogue? Your father would not like it any more than I do. Get rid ofhim, May. "

"I am sorry to displease either you or my father, " said Reginaldstiffly; "but, pardon me, in this respect I must judge for myself. "

"Don't be pig-headed, " said the spiritual ruler of Carlingford; but hehad to rush off for his train, and had no time to say more. He leftReginald hot and angry, doubly disposed, as was natural, to marchNorthcote over all the town, and show his intimacy with him. Get rid ofan acquaintance whom he chose to extend his countenance to, to pleasethe Rector! For a man so young as Reginald May, and so lately madeindependent, such an act of subserviency was impossible indeed. 

Before they entered the hospital, however, another encounter happened ofa very different character. Strolling along in the centre of thepavement, endeavouring after the almost impossible combination of a yawnand a cigar, they perceived a large figure in a very long great-coat, and with an aspect of languor and _ennui_ which was unmistakable ahundred yards off. This apparition called a sudden exclamation fromNorthcote. 

"If it was possible, " he said, "I should imagine I knew that man. Arethere two like him? but I can't fancy what he can be doing here. "

"_That_ fellow!" said Reginald. "It's a pity if there are two like him. I can't tell you what a nuisance he is to me. His name is Copperhead;he's my father's pupil. "

"Then it _is_ Copperhead! I thought there could not be another. He givesa sort of odd familiar aspect to the place all at once. "

"Then you are a friend of his!" said Reginald, with a groan. "Pardon thenatural feelings of a man whose father has suddenly chosen to become acoach. I hate it, and my dislike to the thing is reflected on the personof the pupil. I suppose that's what my antipathy means. "

"He does not merit antipathy. He is a bore, but there is no harm in him. Ah! he is quickening his pace; I am afraid he has seen us; and anybodyhe knows will be a godsend to him, I suppose. "

"I am off, " said Reginald; "you will come again? that is, " he added, with winning politeness, "I shall come and seek you out. We are each themoral Antipodes of the other, Miss Beecham says--from which she arguesthat we should be acquainted and learn the meaning of our differences. "

"I am much obliged to Miss Beecham. "

"Why, Northcote!" said Clarence Copperhead, bearing down upon them inhis big grey Ulster, like a ship in full sail. "Morning, May; who'd havethought to see you here. Oh, don't turn on my account! I'm only taking awalk; it don't matter which way I go. "

"I am very much hurried. I was just about to hasten off to anappointment. Good-bye, Northcote, " said Reginald. "We shall meet againsoon, I hope. "

"By Jove! this is a surprise, " said Clarence; "to see you here, where Ishould as soon have thought of looking for St. Paul's; and to find youwalking about cheek by jowl with that muff, young May, who couldn't becivil, I think, if he were to try. What is the meaning of it? I supposeyou're just as much startled to see me. I'm with a coach; clever, and agood scholar and a good family, and all that; father to that youngsprig: so there ain't any mystery about me. What's brought you here?"

"Work, " said Northcote, curtly. He did not feel disposed to enter intoany kind of explanation. 

"Oh, work! Now I do wonder that a fellow like you, with plenty of moneyin your pocket, should go in for work as you do. What's the good of it?and in the Dissenting parson line of all things in the world! When afellow has nothing, you can understand it; he must get his grub somehow. That's what people think of you, of course. Me, I don't do anything, andeverybody knows I'm a catch, and all that sort of thing. Now I don't say(for I don't know) if your governor has as much to leave behind him asmine--But halt a bit! You walk as if we were going in for athletics, anddoing a two mile. "

"I'm sorry to see you so easily blown, " said Northcote, not displeasedin his turn to say something unpleasant. "What is it? or are you onlyout of training?"

"That's it, " said Clarence, with a gasp. "I'm awfully out of training, and that's the fact. We do, perhaps, live too well in Portland Place;but look here--about what we were saying--"

"Do you live with the Mays?"

"Worse luck! It's what you call plain cooking; and bless us all, dinnerin the middle of the day, and the children at table. But I've put a stopto that; and old May ain't a bad old fellow--don't bother me with workmore than I like, and none of your high mightiness, like that fellow. I'll tell you what, Northcote, you must come and see me. I haven't got asitting-room of my own, which is a shame, but I have the use of theirrooms as much as I like. The sisters go flying away like a flock ofpigeons. I'll tell you what, I'll have you asked to dinner. Capital funit will be. A High Church parson cheek by jowl with a red-hot Dissenter, and compelled to be civil. By Jove! won't it be a joke?"

"It is not a joke that either of us will enjoy. "

"Never mind, _I'll_ enjoy it, by Jove!" said Copperhead. "He daren't sayno. I'd give sixpence just to see you together, and the Bashaw of twotails--the young fellow. They shall have a party; leave it all to me. "

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE NEW PUPIL. 

Mr. May, since the bargain was fairly concluded with the Copperheads, had thought a great deal about the three hundred a-year he was to getfor his pupil. It almost doubled his income in a moment, and that has agreat effect upon the imagination. It was true he would have anotherperson to maintain on this additional income, but still that additionalperson would simply fill Reginald's place, and it did not at firstoccur to him that what was good enough for himself, Mr. May, of St. Roque's, was not good enough for any _parvenu_ on the face of the earth. Therefore the additional income represented a great deal of additionalcomfort, and that general expansion of expenditure, not going into anyspecial extravagances, but representing a universal ease and enlargementwhich was congenial to him, and which was one of the great charms ofmoney in his eyes. To be sure, when he reflected on the matter, he feltthat the first half-year of Clarence's payment ought to be appropriatedto that bill, which for the present had brought him so much relief; butthis would be so entirely to lose the benefit of the money so far as hewas himself concerned, that it was only in moments of reflection thatthis appeared urgent. The bill to which Tozer's signature had beenappended did not oppress his conscience. After all, what was it? Not avery large sum, a sum which when put to it, and with time before him, hecould so easily supply; and as for any other consideration, it wasreally, when you came to think of it, a quite justifiable expedient, notto be condemned except by squeamish persons, and which being neverknown, could do no harm in the world. He had not harmed anybody by whathe had done. Tozer, who was quite able to pay it over and over again, would never know of it; and in what respect, he asked himself, was itworse to have done this than to have a bill really signed by a man ofstraw, whose "value received" meant nothing in the world but a simplefiction? Cotsdean was no more than a man of straw; if left to himself, he could not pay anything, nor had he anything really to do with thebusiness for which his name stood sponsor; and Tozer's name was merelyplaced there in the same fictitious way, without any trouble to Tozer, or burden of responsibility. What was the difference, except that itsaved trouble and anxiety to everybody except the principal in theaffair--he who ought to bear the brunt? Mr. May recognised this withoutdoubt. It was he who had reaped the advantage; and whether Cotsdean wasthe instrument who knew all about it, or Tozer, who did not knowanything about it, it was he, Mr. May, whose natural duty it was to meetthe claim and pay the money. He was an honest man; if he wasoccasionally a little slow in his payments, no one could throw any doubtupon his character. But, of course, should any unforeseen emergencyarise, the pupil at once made that straight. Mr. May felt that he hadonly to go to the bank, which generally did not encourage his visits, and tell them of his pupil, to have the money at once. Nobody couldreject such unmistakeable security. So that really there was no furtheroccasion for so much as thinking of Tozer; that was provided for; withthe freest conscience in the world he might put it out of his mind. Buthow he could feel this so strongly, and at the same time revel in theconsciousness of a fuller purse, more to enjoy, and more to spend, is amystery which it would be difficult to solve. He did so, and many othershave done so besides him, eating their cake, yet believing that they hadtheir cake with the fullest confidence. He was a sensible man, ratherpriding himself on his knowledge of business, with much experience inhuman nature, and a thoughtful sense (fully evidenced in his writings)of all the strange inconsistencies and self-deceits of mankind; but hedropped into this strain of self-delusion with the calmest satisfactionof mind, and was as sure of his own good sense and kindness as if he hadnever in all his life taken a step out of the rigidest of the narrowways of uprightness. 

Some part of this illusion, however, was sharply dispelled at a veryearly date. Clarence Copperhead, who was not likely to err by means oftoo much consideration for the feelings of others, grumbled frankly atthe mid-day meal. 

"I don't understand a two o'clock dinner, " he said; "it's lunch, that'swhat I call it; and I won't be disagreeable about the kids, but I musthave my dinner. Bless you! a man can't live without his dinner. What ishe to do? It is the sort of thing you can look forward to, whateverhappens. If it's a wet day, or anything of that sort, there's alwaysdinner; and after it's over, if there's music or a rubber, why that'sall very well; or if a man feels a bit sleepy, it doesn't matter. Why, dinner's your stand-by, wherever you are. I'd as soon do without myhead, for my part. "

Ursula hastened to tell her father this with dismay in her looks. 

"I've always heard that late dinners were so expensive; you requiretwice as many dishes. At two, one has only what is necessary; but atseven, you require to have fish, and soup, and _entrées_, and all sortsof things, besides the joint. It was disgraceful of him to say it!"cried Ursula; "and I think he ought to be made to follow our plan, whatever it is, and not do everything he likes here. "

"That is all very true, " said Mr. May; "but he is right about thedinner; it is a great deal more agreeable. "

"And expensive, papa. "

"Well, perhaps it is a great deal to expect at your age; but if you readyour cookery-book, as I have often said, when you were reading thosenovels, and learned how to toss up little dishes out of nothing, andmake _entrées_, and so forth, at next to no expense--"

The tears came into Ursula's eyes at this unjust assault. 

"Papa, " she said, "you ought to know better at your age. One forgivesthe boys for saying such silly things. How can I toss up little dishesout of nothing? If you only knew the price of butter, not to talk ofanything else. Made dishes are the most expensive things! A leg ofmutton, for instance; there it is, and when one weighs it, one knowswhat it costs; but there is not one of those _entrées_ but costs_shillings_ for herbs and truffles and gravy and forcemeat, and a glassof white wine here, and a half pint of claret there. It is all very wellto talk of dishes made out of nothing. The meat may not be verymuch--and men never think of the other things, I suppose. "

"It is management that is wanted, " said Mr. May, "to throw nothing away, to make use of everything, to employ all your scraps. If you once have agood sauce--which is as easy as daylight when you take the trouble--youcan make all sorts of things out of a cold joint; but women never willtake the trouble, and that is the secret of poor dinners. Not one infifty will do it. If you wanted really to help us, and improve myposition, you might, Ursula. I can't afford to fall out with Copperhead, he is very important to me just at this moment; and perhaps it is betterthat I should give in to him at once about the late dinner. "

"You may say it is not my business, " said Ursula, "but we have alreadyanother maid, and now two dinners--for it is just the same as twodinners. He will not be any advantage to you like that, and why shouldhe be so much harder to please than we are? Reginald never grumbled, whowas much better bred and better educated than Mr. Copperhead. "

"And with so much money to keep up his dignity, " said her fathermockingly. "No, it is not your business, the cookery-book is yourbusiness, and how to make the best of everything; otherwise I don't wantany advice from you. "

"What did he say?" cried Janey, rushing in as soon as her father hadleft the room. Ursula, a very general consequence of such interviews, was sitting by the fire, very red and excited, with tears glistening inher eyes. 

"Of course I knew what he would say; he says it is not my business, andthere are to be late dinners, and everything that man chooses to askfor. Oh, it is so hard to put up with it!" cried Ursula, her eyesflashing through her tears. "I am to read up the cookery-book and learnto make _entrées_ for them; but to say we can't afford it is not mybusiness. I wonder whose business it is? It is I who have to go to thetradespeople and to bear it all if they grumble; and now this horribleman, who dares to tell me the coffee is not strong enough, as if I was abarmaid--"

"Barmaids don't have to do with coffee, have they?" said matter-of-factJaney; "but the fact is _he is not a gentleman_; why should you mind?What does it matter what a person like that says or does? You said soyourself, he is not a bit a gentleman. I wonder what Cousin Anne andCousin Sophy could mean. "

"It is not their fault; they think of his mother, who is nice, who sentthose things; but Mr. Copperhead knew about the things, which was not sonice of her, was it? But never mind, we must try to make the best of it. Get the cookery-book, Janey; perhaps if you were to read it out loud, and we were both to try to fix our mind upon it--for something must bedone, " said Ursula gravely. "Papa will never find it out till all themoney is spent, but we shall be poorer than we were before we had thepupil. Who is that, Janey, at the door?"

It was Phoebe, who came in blooming from the cold, in a furred jacket, atwhich the girls looked with unfeigned admiration. "The skating will sooncome on in earnest now, " she said; "grandmamma is better, and I thoughtI might come and see you. I had a long talk with your brother the otherday, did he tell you? and I made him know Mr. Northcote, one of ourpeople. I know you will turn up your pretty nose, Ursula, at aDissenter. "

"I should think so, " cried Janey; "we have nothing to do with suchpeople, being gentlefolks, have we, Ursula? Oh, I forgot! I beg yourpardon, I didn't mean to say--"

Phoebe smiled upon her serenely. "I am not angry, " she said, "Iunderstand all that; and in Carlingford I have no right, I suppose, tostand upon being a lady, though I always thought I was one. I am only ayoung woman here, and not so bad either for that, if you will promise, Janey, not to call me a young person--"

"Oh, Miss Beecham!"

"Mr. Copperhead is a Dissenter, " said Ursula, somewhat sullenly, "we putup with him because he is rich. Oh, it is all very disagreeable! I don'twant to know any new people whatever they are; I find the old ones badenough. Reginald hates him too, a big lazy useless being that treats oneas if one were a chambermaid!"

"Is it Clarence? It is not quite his fault. His mother is a lady, buthis father is a brute, " said Phoebe, "thinking of nothing but hishorrible money. Clarence is not so bad. It is because he has noimagination, and does not understand other people's feelings; he doesnot mean it, poor fellow; he goes trampling about with his big feet uponeverybody's toes, and never is a bit the wiser. Here he is--he is comingin with your father. I suppose there must be a great deal in race, " sheadded with a soft little sigh, "Clarence looks a clown, and your fathersuch a gentleman. I suppose I show just the same when I stand besideyou. "

Now Phoebe was well aware that this was not the case, and Ursula'sindignant disclaimer made her rather laugh, because it was sounnecessary, than be pleased by its vehemence. There was an old convexmirror opposite which reflected the girls in miniature, making a prettypicture of them as they sat together, Ursula with her dark locks, andPhoebe in her golden hair, and the tall sharp school-girl, Janey, allelbows and angles, short petticoats and grey stockings. Janey was theonly one in whom there could have been suspected any inferiority ofrace; but her awkwardness was that of youth, and her disordered hair anddress belonged also to her age, for she was at that troublesome periodwhen frocks are constantly getting too short, and sleeves too scanty. Janey was shuffling slowly round the visitor, admiring her at everypoint; her garments were not made as dresses were made in Carlingford. Their fit and their texture were alike too perfect for anything thatever came out of High Street. The furred jacket had not been seen inGrange Lane before. Perhaps it was because the cold had become moresevere, an ordinary and simple reason--or because Clarence Copperhead, who knew her, and in whose eyes it was important to bate no jot of hersocial pretensions, was here; and the furred jacket was beyondcomparison with anything that had been seen for ages in Carlingford. Thedeep border of fur round the velvet, the warm waddings and paddings, theclose fit up to the throat, were excellencies which warranted Janey'stour of inspection. Phoebe perceived it very well, but did not confusethe girl by taking any notice, and in her heart she was herself slightlypre-occupied, wondering (as Ursula had done) what the man had come herefor, and what he would say when he saw her. Both of these young womenhad a secret belief that something romantic, something more than themere prose of reading in the first tutor's house that happened to havebeen suggested to him, had brought young Copperhead to such an unlikelyplace as Carlingford. Ursula had by this time learned to reject thishypothesis with much indignation at herself for having entertained it, but Phoebe still felt slightly fluttered by this possibility, and waseager for the entrance of Clarence. She would know at once what hadbrought him, she said to herself, the moment she caught his eye. 

And though Mr. May had reconciled himself so completely to the Tozerbusiness, the appearance of Tozer's granddaughter gave him a momentaryshock. "What did you do with my grandfather's letter? he thought hereyes said, and the meeting confused and disturbed him. This, however, was only for a moment. He was a man to whom it was always possible tomake himself agreeable to women, and though he felt so easy in his mindabout Tozer, still it was evident that to conciliate Tozer's relation, and that so influential a relation, was on the whole a good thing to do. He was going up to her accordingly with outstretched hands, and the mostamiable inquiries about her grandmother's health, when, to his surprise, he was frustrated by Clarence who had come in before him--his largeperson swelling out, as it always seemed to do when he presented himselfupon a new scene, with importance and grandeur. 

"Miss Beecham!" he said, "really, who would have thought it? Now lookhere, I came to Carlingford thinking there was not a soul I knew in theplace; and here have you turned up all at once, and Northcote (you knowNorthcote?). It is very queer. "

"It is odd, isn't it?" said Phoebe quickly. "I was astonished to see Mr. Northcote, and though I heard you were coming I am not less surprised tosee you. " "He has not come for me, " she said rapidly to herself, "norfor Ursula either; then who is it?" Phoebe demanded in the depths of herown bosom; that he should have come for nobody at all, but simply forhis own purposes, to get a little information put into his head, seemedincredible to both the girls. Ursula, for her part, had been angry whenshe discovered his want of meaning, though why she would have found ithard to say. But Phoebe, for her part, was not angry. She took this likeother things of the kind, with great and most philosophical calm, butshe could not outgrow it all at once. For whom was it? His cousins, those Miss Dorsets? But they were much older, and not the kind of womenfor whom such an act was likely. Her mind wandered forth lively andcurious in search of the necessary clue. She could not consent to thefact that no clue was necessary where no mystery was. 

"I am glad to see that you venture out in this wintry weather, " said Mr. May; "you set us all a good example. I am always telling my girls thatcold weather is no sufficient reason for staying indoors. I wish Ursulawould do as you do. "

"Papa, how can you talk so?" said Janey, indignant, "when you know verywell it is not the cold that keeps Ursula in, but because she has somuch to do. "

"Oh, yes, one knows the sort of things young ladies have to do, " saidClarence, with a laugh; "read stories, and look up pretty dresses fortheir parties, eh, Miss Janey? and consult the fashion-books. Oh, ofcourse you will deny it; but my mother makes me her confidant, and Iknow that's what you all do. "

"To be sure, " said Phoebe, "we are not so clever as you are, and can't doso many things. We know no Latin or Greek to keep our minds instructed;we acknowledge our infirmity; and we couldn't play football to save ourlives. Football is what you do in this season, when you don't hunt, andbefore the ice is bearing? We are poor creatures; we can't parcel outour lives, according as it is time for football or cricket. You must notbe so severe upon girls for being so inferior to you. "

("Oh, don't be too hard upon him, ") whispered Ursula, in a parenthesis, afraid that this irony should drive the pupil to desperation. ("Hardupon him! he will never find it out, ") Phoebe whispered back in the sametone. 

"Oh, hang it all, I don't mean to be severe upon girls, " said Clarence, pulling his moustache with much complacency; "I am sorry for them, I cantell you. It ain't their fault; I know heaps of nice girls who feel ithorribly. What can they do? they can't go in for cricket and football. There ought to be something invented for them. To be sure there islawn-tennis, but that's only for summer. I should go mad, I think, if Ihad nothing to do. "

"But you have more brain and more strength, you see, than we have; andbesides, we are used to it, " said Phoebe. "I am afraid, Ursula, grandmamma will want me, and I must go. "

Here Mr. May said something to his daughter which filled Ursula withexcitement, mingled of pleasure and displeasure. 

"Papa says, will you come to dinner to-morrow at seven? It appears thereis some one you know coming--a Mr. Northcote. I don't know who he is, but it will be very kind if you will come on my account, " the girlconcluded, whispering in her ear, "for how shall I ever get through adinner-party? We never gave one in my life before. "

"Of course I will come, " said Phoebe. "Dinner-parties are not so commonhere that I should neglect the chance. I must thank Mr. May. But I hopeyou know who Mr. Northcote is, " she added, laughing. "I gave an accountof myself loyally, before I permitted you to ask me; but Mr. Northcote--Oh, no! he does not belong to----the lower classes; but he isa fiery red-hot----"

"What?" cried eager Janey, pressing to the front. "Radical? I am aradical too; and Reginald used to be once, and so was Ursula. Oh, I wishit was to-night!" said Janey, clasping her hands. 

"Not a radical, but a Dissenter; and you who are a clergyman, Mr. May! Ilike you, oh, so much for it. But I wonder what the people will say. "

"My dear Miss Beecham, " said the suave Churchman, quite ready to seizethe chance of making a point for himself, "in the Church, fortunately, what the people say has not to be studied, as your unfortunate pastors, I am informed, have to do. While Mr. Copperhead is under my roof, I makehis friends welcome--for his sake first, probably afterwards for theirown. "

"Yes, I asked Northcote, " said Clarence; "I never thought they wouldhave any objection. He's not a common Dissenter, like the most of thosefellows that have nothing but their salaries. He's well off; he don'trequire, bless you, to keep people in good temper, and toady to 'em, like most do. He's as independent as I am; I don't say that he's quiteas well off; but money always finds its level. I shouldn't have thoughtof asking May to receive a common Dissenting fellow, like the rest. "

Phoebe laughed. It did not occur to the accomplished scion of the houseof Copperhead, nor to the two girls, who were not experienced enough tothink of such things, what was the meaning expressed in Phoebe's laugh, which was not cheerful. Mr. May himself had the advantage of morediscrimination. 

"I hope you will find that, Dissenter or not, I know what is my duty tomy friends, " he said. "What my guests may possess, or the exact natureof their opinions on all points, are not subjects to be discussed byme. "

"Oh, there is nothing to find fault with in _you_, " said Phoebe, withless than her usual universal courtesy; "you are always kind, Mr. May;"and then she laughed again. "Some people are very clever in finding outthe vulnerable places, " she said. 

"She is changed, " said Clarence, when she was gone. "She is not thejolly girl she used to be. She was always a very jolly girl; ready tohelp a fellow out of a scrape, you know. But Northcote's a fearfullyclever fellow. You should just hear him talk. He and May will go at ithammer and tongs, as sure as fate. "

CHAPTER XXIX. 

URSULA'S ENTRÉES. 

It would be difficult to describe the anxiety with which that first"late dinner" was regarded by Ursula. Janey, too, had thrown herselfinto it heart and soul, until she received the crushing intimation fromher father, that her company was not expected at this stately meal; adiscovery which altogether extinguished poor Janey, accustomed to bealways in the front whatever occurred, and to whom suggestions of thingsthat could not be done by a girl who was not "out, " had never presentedthemselves. She retired to her own room dissolved in tears when thisfearful mandate went forth, and for the rest of the morning was good fornothing, her eyes being converted into a sort of red pulp, her roughhair doubly dishevelled, her whole being run into tears. She was of nomore use now to go errands between the kitchen and the drawing-room, orto read the cookery-book out loud, which was a process upon which Ursuladepended very much, to fix in her mind the exact ingredients and painfulmethod of preparation of the _entrées_ at which she was toiling. Betsy, the former maid-of-all-work, now promoted under the title of cook, couldbe trusted to roast the saddle of mutton, which, on consideration thatit was "a party, " had been thought preferable to a leg, and she couldboil the fish, after a sort, and make good honest family soup, and therice-pudding or apple-tart, which was the nearest approach to luxuryindulged in at the Parsonage; but as for _entrées_, Betsy did not knowwhat they were. She had heard of made dishes indeed, and respectfullyafar off had seen them when she was kitchen-maid at Lady Weston's--thegolden age of her youthful inexperience. But this was so long ago, thather recollections were rather confusing than useful to Ursula, when shewent downstairs to make her first heroic effort. 

"La, Miss, that ain't how cook used to do 'em at Lady Weston's, " Betsysaid, looking on with unbelieving eyes. She was sure of this negative, but she was not sure of anything else, and utterly failed to give anyactive assistance, after driving the girl desperate with her criticisms. Altogether it was a confused and unpleasant day. When Reginald came inin the morning, his sister had no time to speak to him, so anxious wasshe and pre-occupied, and the drawing-room was being turned upside down, to make it look more modern, more elegant, more like the Dorsets'drawing-room, which was the only one Ursula knew. The comfortable roundtable in the middle, round which the family had grouped themselves forso long, had been pushed aside into a corner, leaving one fresh patch ofcarpet, quite inappropriate, and unconnected with anything else; andinstead of the work and the school-books which so often intruded there, all that was gaudy and uninteresting in the May library had beenproduced to decorate the table; and even a case of wax flowers, aproduction of thirty years since, which had been respectfullytransferred to a china closet by Ursula's better taste, but which in thedearth of ornament she had brought back again. Reginald carried off thewax flowers and replaced the table with his own hands, while Ursulascorched her cheeks over the _entrées_ downstairs. 

"All this for Northcote, " he said, when she ran up for a moment, done upin a big white apron, her face crimson with the fire and anxietycombined: "for Miss Beecham has been here before, and you made no fussabout her then. "

"She came to tea, " said Ursula. "And I got a cake, which was all any onecould do; but a dinner is a very different thing. " Indeed she had bythis time come to share her father's opinion, that dinner was the rightand dignified thing in all cases, and that they had been hitherto livingin a very higgledy-piggledy way. The dinner had gone to her head. 

"Then it is for Northcote, as I say, " said Reginald. "Do you know who heis?"

"A Dissenter, " said Ursula, with a certain languor; "but so, you know, is Mr. Copperhead, and he is the chief person here now-a-days. Papathinks there is nobody like him. And so is Phoebe. "

"Oh, have you come so far as that?" said Reginald, with a little tingeof colour in his face. He laughed, but the name moved him. "It is apretty fresh sort of country name, not quite like such an accomplishedperson. "

"Oh, that is just like you men, with your injustice! Because she isclever you take it amiss; you are all jealous of her. Look at her prettycolour and her beautiful hair; if that is not fresh I should like toknow what is. She might be Hebe instead of Phoebe, " said Ursula, who hadpicked up scraps of classical knowledge in spite of herself. 

"You are a little goose, " said Reginald, pinching her ear, but he likedhis sister for her generous partizanship. "Mind you don't come to dinnerwith cheeks like that, " he said. "I like my sister to be herself, not acook-maid, and I don't believe in _entrées_;" but he went away smiling, and with a certain warmth in his breast. He had gone up and down GrangeLane many times at the hour of sunset, hoping to meet Phoebe again, butthat sensible young woman had no mind to be talked of, and neverappeared except when she was certain the road was clear. This hadtantalized Reginald more than he chose to avow, even to himself. Prideprevented him from knocking at the closed door. The old Tozers werefearful people to encounter, people whom to visit would be to damnhimself in Carlingford; but then the Miss Griffiths were very insipid bythe side of Phoebe, and the variety of her talk, though he had seen solittle of her, seemed to have created a new want in his life. He thoughtof a hundred things which he should like to discuss with her--thingswhich did not interest Ursula, and which the people about him did notunderstand much. Society at that time, as may be presumed, was in a poorway in Carlingford. The Wentworths and Wodehouses were gone, and manyother nice people; the houses in Grange Lane were getting deserted, orfalling into inferior hands, as was apparent by the fact that theTozers--old Tozer, the butterman--had got one of them. The other peoplewere mostly relics of a bygone state of things: retired old couples, oldladies, spinsters, and widows--excellent people, but not lively to talkto--and the Griffiths, above mentioned, put up with in consideration oftolerable good looks and "fun, " became tiresome when anything better wasto be had. The mere apparition of Phoebe upon the horizon had been enoughto show Reginald that there were other kinds of human beings in theworld. It had not occurred to him that he was in love with her, and theidea of the social suicide implied in marrying old Tozer'sgranddaughter, had not so much as once entered his imagination. Had hethought of it, he would have pulled that imagination up tight, like anunruly horse, the thing being too impossible to bear thinking of. Butthis had never entered his mind. He wanted to see Phoebe to talk to her, to be near her, as something very new, captivating and full ofinterest--that was all. No one else within his sphere could talk sowell. The Rector was very great indeed on the reredos question, and thenecessity of reviving the disused "Church" customs; but Reginald couldnot go so far as he did as to the importance of the reredos, and wasquite in doubt whether it was not as well for most people to "direct"themselves by their own consciences as to be directed by the spiritualhead of the parish, who was not over wise in his own concerns. Hisfather, Reginald knew, could be very agreeable among strangers, but heseldom chose to be so in his own house. All this made the advent ofPhoebe appear to him like a sudden revelation out of a different world. He was an Oxford man, with the best of education, but he was a simpletonall the same. He thought he saw in her an evidence of what life was likein those intellectual professional circles which a man may hope to getinto only in London. It was not the world of fashion he was aware, buthe thought in his simplicity that it was the still higher world ofculture and knowledge, in which genius, and wit, and intellect stoodinstead of rank or riches. How Tozer's granddaughter had got admissionthere, he did not ask himself, but this was what he thought, and to talkto her was a new sensation. He was quite unconscious of anything more. 

Nobody knew when Ursula took her place at the head of the table in herpretty white dress, which she had worn at the Dorsets', how much toiland anxiety the preparations had given her. At the last moment, when hermind was so far clear of the _entrées_, &c. --as clear as the mind of aninexperienced dinner-giver can be, until the blessed moment when theyare eaten and done with--she had to take Sarah in hand, who was not veryclear about the waiting, and to instruct her according to her own veryimperfect knowledge how to fulfil her duties. 

"Think it is not a dinner-party at all, but only just our ordinaryluncheon, and don't get fluttered; and when I look at you like _this_come quite close, and I will whisper what you are to do. And oh, Sarah, like a good creature, don't break anything!" said Ursula almost withtears. 

These were all the directions she could give, and they, it must beallowed, were somewhat vague. The excitement was becoming to her. Shesat down with a dreadful flutter in her heart, but with her eyes shiningand sparkling. Clarence Copperhead, who extended an arm very carelesslyto take her downstairs, absolutely certain of being a more importantperson than his guest Northcote, was roused for the first time to theconsciousness that she was very pretty, which he had not found outbefore. "But no style, " he said to himself. Phoebe was the one who hadstyle. She sat between Mr. May and the stranger, but devoted herself toher host chiefly, displaying a gentle contempt of the younger men in hispresence. No anxiety was in her mind about the dinner. She did notfollow the fate of those _entrées_ round the table with terriblepalpitations, as poor Ursula did; and, alas, the _entrées_ were notgood, and Ursula had the mortification to see the dishes she had takenso much trouble with, rejected by one and another. Reginald ate some, for which she blessed him, and so did Phoebe, but Mr. May sent his plateaway with polite execrations. 

"Tell your cook she shall go if she sends up such uneatable stuff again, Ursula, " her father cried from the other end of the table. 

Two big tears dashed up hot and scalding into Ursula's eyes. Oh, how shewished she could be dismissed like Betsy! She turned those two littleoceans of trouble piteously, without knowing it, upon Northcote, who hadsaid something to her, without being able to reply to him. AndNorthcote, who was but a young man, though he was a fiery politicalDissenter, and who had come to the Parsonage with a curious mixture ofpleasure and reluctance, immediately threw down any arms that naturemight have provided him with, and fell in love with her there and thenon the spot! to his own absolute consternation. This was how ithappened. The moment was not romantic, the situation was not sublime. Alittle motherless housekeeper crying because her father scolded her inpublic for a piece of bad cookery. There is nothing in this to make anidyll out of; but such as it was, it proved enough for Horace Northcote;he yielded himself on the spot. Not a word was said, for Ursula feltthat if she tried to talk she must cry, and anything further from hertroubled thoughts than love it would be impossible to imagine; but thenand there, so far as the young man was concerned, the story began. Hetalked very little for the rest of the meal, and Ursula did not exertherself, though she recovered slightly when the mutton turned out to bevery good, and was commended; but what was the mutton in comparison withher _entrées_, which she had made with her own hands, and which were afailure? She was reduced to silence, and she thought that the strangerat her left hand was nice, because he did not bother her, and wascontent with a very little talk. 

"Oh, Phoebe, did you hear papa about those _entrées_?" she cried, whenthey reached the drawing-room; and sitting down on the stool by the firewhich Janey usually appropriated, she cried, poor child, withundisguised passion. "I had made them myself; I had been busy about themall day; I read the cookery-book till my head ached, and took suchpains! and you heard what he said. "

"Yes, dear, I heard him; but he did not think what he was saying, itnever occurred to him that it was you. Don't shake your little head, Iam sure of it; you know, Ursula, your papa is very agreeable and veryclever. "

"Yes, I know he is clever; and he can be nice when he likes--"

"Did you like it?" cried Janey, bursting in, red-eyed and dishevelled inher morning frock. "Oh, no, I am not dressed, I don't mean to, to lethim get the better of me, and think I care. Only just for a moment tosee you two. Oh, isn't Phoebe grand in that dress? She is like a picture;you are nothing beside her, Ursula. Tell me, is it nice to have dinnerinstead of tea? Did it go off very well, did you enjoy yourselves? Orwere you all unhappy, sitting round the table, eating beef and mutton, "cried Janey with all the scorn of ignorance, "at that ridiculous hour!"

"I was as miserable as I could be, " cried Ursula, "I was not happy atall. Enjoy myself! with the _entrées_ on my mind, and after what papasaid. Oh, run away, Janey, and dress, or else go to bed. Papa will be soangry if he comes up and finds you here. "

"I should like to make him frantic, " cried Janey with vindictive force, "I should just like to drive him out of his senses! Never mind, yes, Iam angry; haven't I a right to be angry? I am as tall as Ursula--I hopeI know how to behave myself--and when there were people coming, and areal dinner--"

"Oh, I hear them, " cried Ursula in alarm, and Janey flew off, her hairstreaming behind her. Phoebe put her arm round Ursula, and raised herfrom the stool. She was not perhaps a perfect young woman, but had herown ends to serve like other people; yet she had a friendly soul. Shegave her friend a kiss to preface her admonition, as girls have a way ofdoing. 

"I would not let Janey talk so, " she said, "I think you should not talkso yourself, Ursula, if you will forgive me, of your papa; he is verynice, and so clever. I should try all I could to please him, and Ishould not let any one be disrespectful to him if it was I. "

"Oh, Phoebe, if you only knew--"

"Yes, I know, gentlemen don't understand often; but we must do our duty. He is nice, and clever, and handsome, and you ought to be proud of him. Dry your eyes, here they are really, coming upstairs. You must begood-humoured and talk. He is ever so much nicer than the young men, "said Phoebe, almost loud enough to be heard, as Clarence Copperhead, sauntering in advance of the others with his large shirt-front fullydisplayed, came into the room. He came in half whistling in sereneindifference. Phoebe had "style, " it was true; but she was only aDissenting parson's daughter, and what were two such girls to ClarenceCopperhead? He came in whistling an opera air, which he let drop onlyafter he was well inside the door. 

"Miss Beecham, let us have some music. I know you can play, " he said. 

"If Miss May likes, " said Phoebe, covering his rudeness; and then shelaughed, and added, "if you will accompany me. "

"Does Mr. Copperhead play too?"

"Oh beautifully. Has he not let you see his music? Won't you bring ithere and let us look over it? I dare say there are some things we canplay together. "

"You can play everything, " said the young man. "And I'll bring myviolin, if you like. "

He was delighted; he quickened his steps almost into a run as he wentaway. 

"You should not laugh at Mr. Copperhead, " Ursula retorted on her friend. "You should be good-humoured, too. You are better than I am, but you arenot quite good, after all. "

"Violin!" said Mr. May. "Heaven and earth! is there going to be anyfiddling? Miss Beecham, I did not expect you to bring such a horror uponme. I thought I had nothing but good to expect from you. "

"Wait till you hear him, sir, " said Phoebe. 

Mr. May retired to the far corner of the room. He called young Northcoteto him, who was standing beside Ursula, eager to talk, but not knowinghow to begin. It was bad enough to be thus withdrawn from his chance ofmaking himself agreeable; but the reader may imagine what was theDissenter's feelings when Mr. May, with a smile, turned upon him. Havinggiven him a (tolerably) good dinner, and lulled him into a belief thathis sins against the family were unknown, he looked at him, smiling, andbegan. 

"Mr. Northcote, the first time I saw you, you were discoursing at anAnti-Establishment Meeting in the Town Hall. "

Northcote started. He blushed fiery red. "It is quite true. I wished tohave told you; not to come here on false pretences; but Copperhead--andyour son has been very kind--"

"Then I suppose your views are modified. Clergymen no longer appear toyou the demons in human shape you thought them then; and my son, inparticular, has lost his horns and hoofs?"

"Mr. May, you are very severe; but I own there is reason--"

"It was you who were severe. I was not quite sure of you till Copperheadbrought you in. Nay, " said the clergyman, rubbing his hands; "do youthink that I object to the utterance of a real opinion? Certainly not. As for Reginald, it was the thing that decided him; I leave you to findout how; so that we are positively in your debt. But I hope you don'tfiddle too. If you like to come with me to my study--"

Northcote gave a longing look round the room, which had become all atonce so interesting to him. Mr. May was too clear-sighted not to see it. He thought, quite impartially, that perhaps it was an excusableweakness, even though it was his own society that was the counterattraction. They were two nice-looking girls. This was how he put it, being no longer young, and father to one of them; naturally, the twoyoung men would have described the attraction of Phoebe and Ursula morewarmly. Clarence Copperhead, who had come in with an armful of music andhis fiddle, was not thinking of the girls, nor of anything but the sweetsounds he was about to make--and himself. When he began to tune hisviolin, Mr. May got up in dismay. 

"This is more than mortal can stand, " he said, making as though he wouldhave gone away. Then he changed his mind, for, after all, he was thechaperon of his motherless girl. "Get me the paper, Ursula, " he said. Itwould be hard to tell with what feelings Northcote contemplated him. Hewas the father of Ursula, yet he dared to order her about, to bring thetears to her eyes. Northcote darted the same way as she was going, andcaught at the paper on a side-table, and brought it hastily. But alas, that was last week's paper! he did not save her the trouble, but hebrought upon himself a gleam of mischief from her father's eyes. "Mr. Northcote thinks me a tyrant to send you for the paper, " he said, as hetook it out of her hands. "Thank him for his consideration. But he wasnot always so careful of your peace of mind, " he added, with a laugh. 

Ursula looked at him with a wondering question in her eyes; but thosetears were no longer there which had gone to Northcote's heart. 

"I don't know what papa means, " she said, softly; and then, "I want tobeg your pardon, please. I was very silly. Will you try to forget it, and not tell any one, Mr. Northcote? The truth was, I thought I had donethem nicely, and I was vexed. It was very childish, " she said, shakingher head with something of the same moisture floating back over thelustre in her pretty eyes. 

"I will never tell any one, you may be sure, " said the young man; butUrsula did not notice that he declined to give the other pledge, forReginald came up just then with wrath in his eyes. 

"Is that idiot going to fiddle all night?" he cried (poor Clarence hadscarcely begun); "as if anybody wanted to hear him and his tweedle-dees. Miss Beecham plays like St. Cecilia, Ursula; and I want to speak to herabout something. Can't you get that brute beguiled away?"

Clarence was the one who was _de trop_ in the little party; but hefiddled beatifically, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, without theslightest suspicion of the fact, while Phoebe accompanied him, withlittle smiles at her friends, and shrugs of her shoulders. Reginald feltvery strongly, though for the first time, that she was over doing theScriptural maxim of being all things to all men. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

SOCIETY AT THE PARSONAGE. 

After this dinner-party, such as it was, the Parsonage became graduallythe centre of a little society, such as sometimes forms in the mostaccidental way in a house where there are young men and young women, andof which no one can say what momentous results may arise. They cametogether fortuitously, blown to one centre by the merest winds ofcircumstance, out of circles totally different and unlike. Why it wasthat Mr. May, so good a Churchman, permitted two people so entirely outof his sphere to become his habitual guests and the companions of hischildren was very perplexing to the outside world, who half in meresurprise, and a little in despite, wondered and commented till they weretired, or till they had become so familiar with the strange spectaclethat it ceased to strike them. A rich pupil might be forgiven for beinga Dissenter, indeed in Carlingford as elsewhere money made up for mostdeficiencies; but even natural complacency towards the rich pupilscarcely accounted for the reception of the others. The neighbours couldnever be quite sure whether the family at the Parsonage knew or did notknow that their new friend Northcote was not only acting as Minister ofSalem Chapel, but was the assailant of Reginald May at theAnti-Establishment Meeting, and various persons in Grange Lane heldthemselves for a long time on the tip-toe of preparation, ready tobreathe to Mr. May the painful intelligence, in case he was unaware ofit. But he never gave them the opportunity. Honestly, he had forgottenthe speaker's name at first, and only recognized him when he wasintroduced by young Copperhead; and then the situation was piquant andamused him, especially the evident confusion and consternation of theculprit when found out. 

"I don't know what he thinks he has done to you, " said Clarence, "Icould scarcely make him come in. He says he is sure you can't wish tosee him. "

This was two days after the dinner, when Horace Northcote came to leavea respectful card, hoping that he might see Ursula at a door or window. Clarence had seized upon him and dragged him in, in spite of himself. 

"On the contrary, I am very glad to see him, " said Mr. May, with asmile. He looked at the young Dissenter with a jeer in his eyes. Heliked to punish him, having suddenly perceived that this jeer was muchmore potent than any serious penalty. "If he will promise not to slayme, I shan't quarrel with him. " Mr. May was in such good spirits at thismoment that he could afford to joke; his own magnanimity, and theother's confused looks of guilt, overcame his gravity. "Come backagain, " he said, holding out his hand; and though Horace retired for themoment utterly confounded, yet the attractions of the cheerful houseovercame, after a while, his sense of humiliation and inappropriateness. If the injured family had condoned his offence, why should he mind? andthe pleasant girlish friendliness, without any _arrière pensée_, ofUrsula, was enough to have set any man at his ease; the facts of thecase being that Mrs. Hurst was away upon a long visit, and that, havingno other gossip within the range of her acquaintance, Ursula did notknow. Reginald, who did, had the same sense of magnanimity as his fatherhad, and began to like the society of the congenial yet different spiritwhich it was so strange to him to find under a guise so unlike his own. And Northcote, on his side, finding no house to which he could betakehimself among those whom Phoebe called "our own people;" found a refuge, which gradually became dearer and dearer to him, at the Parsonage, andin his profound sense of the generosity of the people who had thusreceived him, felt his own partizanship wax feebler and feebler everyday. He seemed to see the ground cut from under his feet, as he watchedthe young chaplain at his work. Mr. May, to be sure, was no example ofpastoral diligence, but he was a pleasant companion, and had put himselffrom the first in that position of moral superiority which naturallybelongs to an injured person who can forgive heartily and withoutprejudice. And Ursula! He did not venture to call her Ursula, even inthe secret depths of his heart. There a pronoun was enough, as, indeed, incipient Love generally finds it. She spoke to him, smiled at him inthe street; and immediately life became a _Vita Nuova_ to him. The youngDissenter was as Dante, and simple Ursula, with her housekeeping booksin her hand, became another Beatrice. It is not every one who has thecapacity for this perfect and absorbing sentiment; but Horace Northcotehad, and for a long time Ursula was as unconscious of it as heart coulddesire. 

Phoebe's admission to the house had been more simple still. A girlishfancy on Ursula's part, a fit of good-nature on her father's, and thenthat secret thread of connection with Tozer which no one knew of, andthe coming of Clarence Copperhead, to please whom Mr. May permittedhimself to be persuaded to do much; and in addition to all this, hergood looks, her pretty manners, her cleverness and the deference she hadalways shown in the proper quarter. Mr. May did not enter into the listswith his son, or think of offering himself as a suitor to Phoebe; but heliked to talk to her, and to watch what he called "her little ways, " andto hear her play when Clarence and his violin were otherwise disposedof. He was an experienced man, priding himself on a knowledge of humannature, and Phoebe's "little ways" amused him greatly. What did shemean?--to "catch" Clarence Copperhead, who would be a great match, or tofascinate Northcote? Oddly enough Mr. May never thought of Reginald, though that young man showed an eagerness to talk to Phoebe which wasmore than equal with his own, and had always subjects laid up ready todiscuss with her, when he could find the opportunity. Sometimes he wouldgo up to her in the midst of the little party and broach one of thesetopics straight on end, without preface or introduction, as which washer favourite play of Shakespeare, and what did she think of thecharacter of King Lear? It was not very wise, not any wiser than hisneighbour was, who made pretty little Ursula into the ideal lady, themost gentle and stately figure in poetry; and yet no doubt there wassomething in both follies that was a great deal better than wisdom. Thesociety formed by these two young pairs, with Clarence Copperhead as aheavy floating balance, and Mr. May and Janey--one philosophical, wiseand mistaken; the other sharp-sighted and seeing everything--asspectators, was very pleasant to the close little coterie themselves, and nobody else got within the charmed circle. They grew more and moreintimate daily, and had a whole vocabulary of domestic jokes andallusions which no one else could understand. It must be allowed, however, that the outside world was not pleased with this arrangement oneither side of the question. The Church people were shocked with theMays for harbouring Dissenters under any circumstances whatever, andthere had not been a Minister at Salem Chapel for a long time sounpopular as Horace Northcote, who was always "engaged" when any of theconnection asked him to tea, and preached sermons which went over theirheads, and did not remember them when he met them in the street. Tozerwas about the only one of the congregation who stood up for the youngman. The others thanked Heaven that "he was but tempory, " and on thewhole they were right, for certainly he was out of place in his presentpost. 

As for Clarence Copperhead, he led an agreeable life enough among allthese undercurrents of feeling, which he did not recognise with anydistinctness. He was comfortable enough, pleased with his ownimportance, and too obtuse to perceive that he bored his companions; andthen he considered himself to be slightly "sweet upon" both the girls. Ursula was his favourite in the morning, when he embarrassed her much bypersistently seeking her company whenever liberated by her father; butPhoebe was the queen of the evening, when he would get his fiddle with anunfailing complacency which drove Reginald frantic. Whether it was meregood-nature or any warmer impulse, Phoebe was strangely tolerant of thesefiddlings, and would go on playing for hours with serene composure, never tired and never impatient. Yet poor Clarence was not anaccompanyist to be coveted. He was weak in the ear and defective inscience, but full of a cheerful confidence which was as good as genius. 

"Never mind, Miss Phoebe, " he would say cheerfully, when he had brokendown for the twentieth time, "play on and I'll catch you up. " He hadthus a series of trysting places in every page or two, which might havebeen very laughable to an indifferent spectator, but which aggravatedthe Mays, father and son, to an intolerable extent. They were the twowho suffered. As for Horace Northcote, who was not a great talker, itwas a not disagreeable shield for his silent contemplation of Ursula, and the little things which from time to time he ventured to say to her. For conversation he had not the thirst which animated Reginald, andUrsula's talk, though lively and natural, was not like Phoebe's; butwhile the music went on he could sit by her in a state of silentbeatitude, now and then saying something to which Ursula replied if shewas disposed, or if she was not disposed put aside by a little shake ofher head, and smiling glance at the piano. Sometimes it was simplewilfulness that made her silent; but Northcote set it down to anangelical sweetness which would not wound even the worst of performancesby inattention. They were happy enough sitting there under the shelterof the piano, the young man absorbed in the dreams of a young love, thegirl just beginning to realize the adoration which she was receiving, with a timid perception of it--half-frightened, half-grateful. She wasin spite of herself amused by the idea only half understood, and whichshe could scarcely believe, that this big grown man, so much moreimportant than herself in everybody's eyes, should show so much respectto a little girl whom her father scolded, whom Reginald sent trottingabout on all sorts of errands, and whom Cousin Anne and Cousin Sophyconsidered a child. It was very strange, a thing to call forthinextinguishable laughter, and yet with a strange touch of sweetness init, which almost made her cry in wondering gratitude. What she thoughtof him, Ursula did not ask herself; that he should think _like this_ ofher was the bewildering, extraordinary, ridiculous fact that at presentfilled her girlish head. 

But if they were sweet to Northcote, these evenings were the crown ofClarence Copperhead's content and conscious success; he was supremelyhappy, caressing his fiddle between his cheek and his shoulder, andraising his pale eyes to the ceiling in an ecstasy. The music, and theaudience, and the accompanyist all together were delightful to him. Hecould have gone on he felt not only till midnight, but till morning, andso on to midnight again, with short intervals for refreshment. Every tenminutes or so there occurred a break in the continuity of the strain, and a little dialogue between the performers. 

"Ah, yes, I have missed a line; never mind; go on, Miss Phoebe, I willmake up to you, " he said. 

"It is those accidentals that have been your ruin, " said Phoebe laughing;"it is a very hard passage, let us turn back and begin again, " and thenthe audience would laugh, not very sweetly, and (some of them) makeacrid observations; but the pianist was good-nature itself, and wentback and counted and kept time with her head, and with her hand when shecould take it from the piano, until she had triumphantly tided him overthe bad passage, or they had come to the point of shipwreck again. During these labours, Phoebe, who was really a good musician, ought tohave suffered horribly; but either she did not, or her good-nature wasstronger than her good taste, for she went on serenely, sometimes forhours together, while her old and her young admirers sat secretlycursing (in such ways as are becoming to a clergyman) each in hiscorner. Perhaps she had a slight degree of pleasure in the evident powershe had over father and son; but it was difficult fully to understandher views at this somewhat bewildering period of her life, in which shewas left entirely to her own resources. She was herself groping a littlethrough paths of uncertain footing, enjoying herself a great deal, butnot seeing clearly where it led to, and having no definite purpose, orchart of those unknown countries in her mind. 

"How you can go on, " said Reginald, on one of these occasions, having atlength managed to seize upon and get her into a corner, "for hours, having your ears sacrificed and your patience tried by these fearfuldiscords, and smile through it, is a mystery which I cannot fathom! Ifit was only consideration for your audience, that might be enough tomove any one--but yourself--"

"I don't seem to feel it so very much myself. "

"And yet you are a musician!"

"Don't be too hard upon me, Mr May. I only play--a little. I am not likemy cousins in the High Street, who are supposed to be very clever atmusic; and then poor Mr. Copperhead is a very old friend. "

"Poor Mr. Copperhead! poor us, you mean, who have to listen--and you, who choose to play. "

"You are very vindictive, " she said, with a piteous look. "Why shouldyou be so vindictive? I do what I can to please my friends, and--thereis no doubt about what poor Clarence likes best; if you were to show meas plainly what you would like--_quite_ plainly, as he does----"

"Don't you know?" said Reginald, with glowing eyes. "Ah, well! if I mayshow you plainly--quite plainly, with the same results, you may be surenot to be left long in doubt. Talk to me! it is easier, and not sofatiguing. Here, " said the young man, placing a chair for her; "he hashad your patient services for two hours. Do only half as much for me. "

"Ah! but talking is a different thing, and more--difficult--andmore--personal. Well!" said Phoebe, with a laugh and a blush, taking thechair, "I will try, but you must begin; and I cannot promise, you know, for a whole hour. "

"After you have given that fellow two! and such a fellow! If it wasNorthcote, I might be equally jea--displeased, but I could understandit, for he is not a fool. "

"I think, " said Phoebe, looking towards the other end of the room, whereNorthcote was occupied as usual close to Ursula's work-basket, "that Mr. Northcote manages to amuse himself very well without any help of mine. "

"Ah!" cried Reginald, startled; for of course it is needless to say thatthe idea of any special devotion to his little sister had never enteredhis mind. He felt disposed to laugh at first when the idea was suggestedto him, but he gave a second look, and fellow-feeling threw a certainenlightenment upon the subject. "That would never do, " he said gravely;"I wonder I never thought of it before. "

"Why would it not do? She is very nice, and he is clever and a risingman; and he is very well off; and you said just now he was not a fool. "

"Nevertheless it would never do, " said Reginald, opposing her pointedly, as he had never opposed her before; and he remained silent for a wholeminute, looking across the room, during which long interval Phoebe satdemurely on the chair where he had placed her, looking at him with asmile on her face. 

"Well?" she said at length, softly, "it was talk you said you wanted, Mr. May; but you are not so ready to tune up your violin as Mr. Copperhead, though I wait with my fingers on the piano, so to speak. "

"I beg your pardon!" he cried, and then their eyes met, and bothlaughed, though, as far as Reginald was concerned, in an embarrassedway. 

"You perceive, " said Phoebe, rising, "that it is not nearly so easy toplease you, and that you don't know half so exactly what you want, asClarence Copperhead does, though you abuse him, poor fellow. I have gotsomething to say to Ursula! though, perhaps, she does not want me anymore than you do. "

"Don't give me up for one moment's distraction; and it was your fault, not mine, for suggesting such a startling idea. "

Phoebe shook her head, and waved her hand as a parting salutation, andthen went across the room to where Ursula was sitting, where HoraceNorthcote at least found her very much in his way. She began at once totalk low and earnestly on some subject so interesting that it absorbedboth the girls in a way which was very surprising and unpleasant to theyoung men, neither of whom had been able to interest the one whoseattention he was specially anxious to secure half so effectually. Northcote, from the other side of the table, and Reginald from the otherend of the room, gazed and gloomed with discomfited curiosity, wonderingwhat it could be; while Clarence strutted uneasily about the piano, taking up his fiddle now and then, striking a note, and screwing up hisstrings into concord, with many impatient glances. But still the girlstalked. Was it about their dresses or some nonsense, or was it a moreserious subject, which could thus be discussed without masculine help?but this matter they never fathomed, nor have they found out till thishour. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

SOCIETY. 

Notwithstanding such little social crosses, however, the society at theParsonage, as thus constituted, was very agreeable. Mr. May, though hehad his faults, was careful of his daughter. He sat in the drawing-roomevery evening till she retired, on the nights their visitors came, andeven when it was Clarence only who remained, an inmate of the house, andfree to go and come as he pleased. Ursula, he felt, must not be leftalone, and though it is uncertain whether she fully appreciated the carehe took of her, this point in his character is worth noting. When theyoung party went out together, to skate, for instance, as they did, forseveral merry days, Reginald and Janey were, he considered, sufficientguardians for their sister. Phoebe had no chaperon--"Unless you will takethat serious office upon you, Ursula, " she said, shrugging her shouldersprettily; but she only went once or twice, so well was she able, evenwhen the temptation was strongest, to exercise self-denial, and show herperfect power of self-guidance. As for old Tozer and his wife, the ideaof a chaperon never entered their homely head. Such articles areunnecessary in the lower levels of society. They were anxious that theirchild should enjoy herself, and could not understand the reason of herstaying at home on a bright frosty day, when the Mays came to the doorin a body to fetch her. 

"No, if they'd have gone down on their knees, nor if I had gone down onmine, would that girl have left me, " cried the old lady, with tears inher eyes. "She do behave beautiful to her old granny. If so be as Ihaven't a good night, no power on earth would make that child gopleasuring. It's 'most too much at her age. "

But Phoebe confided to Ursula that it was not altogether anxiety abouther grandmother. 

"I have nobody of my own to go with. If I took grandpapa with me, Idon't think it would mend matters. Once or twice it was possible, butnot every day. Go and enjoy yourself, dear, " she said, kissing herfriend. 

Ursula was disposed to cry rather than to enjoy herself, and appealed toReginald, who was deeply touched by Phoebe's fine feeling. He took hissister to the ice, but that day he went so far as to go back himself toNo. 6, actually into the house, to make a humble protest, yet toinsinuate his admiration. He was much impressed by, and approved highlyof this reticence, having a very high standard of minor morals forladies, in his mind, like most young men. 

"She is not one of the girls who rush about everywhere, and whom one issick of seeing, " he said. 

"I think it is very silly, " cried Janey. "Who cares for a chaperon! andwhy shouldn't Phoebe have her fun, like the rest, instead of shuttingherself up in a stuffy room with that dreadful old Mrs. Tozer?"

Her brother reproved her so sharply for this speech that Janey withdrewin tears, still asking "Why?" as she rushed to her room. ClarenceCopperhead, for his part, stroked his moustache and said it was a bore. 

"For she is the best skater of all the ladies here, " he said. "I begyour pardon, Miss Ursula. She's got so much go in her, and keeps it uplike fun. She's the best I know for keeping a fellow from getting tired;but as it's Thursday, I suppose she'll be there in the evening. "

Clarence never called them anything but Miss Ursula and Miss Phoebe, dropping the prefix in his thoughts. He felt that he was "a little sweetupon" them both; and, indeed, it had gleamed dully across his mind thata man who could marry them both need never be bored, but was likelyalways to find something "to do. " Choice, however, being necessary, hedid not see his way so clearly as to which he would choose. "Themountain sheep are sweeter, but the valley sheep are fatter, " he said tohimself, if not in these immortal words, yet with full appreciation ofthe sentiment. Ursula began to understand dinners with a judiciousintelligence, which he felt was partly created by his own instructionsand remarks; but in the evening it was Phoebe who reigned supreme. Shewas so sensible that most likely she could invent a _menu_ all out ofher own head, he thought, feeling that the girl who got him through the"Wedding March" with but six mistakes, was capable of any intellectualfeat. He had not the slightest doubt that it was in his power to marryeither of the girls as soon as he chose to intimate his choice; and inthe mean time he found it very agreeable to maintain a kind of mentalpossibility of future proprietorship of them both. 

And thus the pleasant life ran on in the most agreeable absorption andabstraction from the world outside. "Don't ask any one else; why shouldwe have any one else?" they all said, except Janey, who had condescendedto appear in the evening in her best frock, though she was not admittedat dinner, and who thought a few additional guests, and a round game nowand then, would be delightful variations upon the ordinary programme;but the others did not agree with her. They became more and moreintimate, mingling the brother and sister relationship with a somethingunnamed, unexpressed, which gave a subtle flavour to their talks andflirtations. In that incipient stage of love-making this process is verypleasant even to the spectators, full of little excitements andsurprises, and sharp stings of momentary quarrel, and great revolutions, done with a single look, which are infinitely amusing to the lookers-on. The house became a real domestic centre, thought of by each and all withtender sentiment, such as made its owners somewhat proud of it, theycould scarcely tell why. Even Mr. May felt a certain complacence in thefact that the young men were so fond of the Parsonage, and when he heardcomplaints of the coldness and dullness of domestic intercourse, smiled, and said that he did not feel it so, with that pleasant sense ofsomething superior in himself to cause this difference, which is sweetto the greatest Stoic; for he was not as yet enlightened as to theentire indifference of the little circle to any charm in him, and wouldhave been utterly confounded had any one told him that to the grave andreflective Northcote, whom he had treated with such magnanimous charity, binding him (evidently) by bonds of gratitude to himself for ever, itwas little Ursula, and not her father, who was the magnet of attraction. Mr. May was a clever man, and yet it had not occurred to him that anycomparison between his own society and that of Ursula was possible. Ursula! a child! He would have laughed aloud at the thought. 

But all this pleasant society, though father and daughter both agreedthat it cost nothing, for what is a cake and a cup of tea? and the latedinners and the extra maid, and the additional fires, and generalenlargement of expenditure made immense inroads, it must be allowed, into the additional income brought by Clarence Copperhead. The firstquarter's payment was spent, and more than spent, before it came. Themoney that was to be laid up for that bill of Tozer's--perhaps--had nowno saving peradventure left in it; for the second half would not be duetill two months after the Tozer bill, and would but be half, even ifprocurable at once. Mr. May felt a slight shock while this gleamedacross his mind, but only for a moment. There was still a month, and amonth is a long time, and in the mean time James was almost certain tosend something, and his Easter offerings might, probably would, thisyear be something worth having. Why they should be better than usualthis year Mr. May did not explain to himself; his head was a littleturned it must be supposed by the momentary chance of having more moneyin his hands than he used to have. Already he had got into the habit ofordering what he wanted somewhat recklessly, without asking himself howthe things he ordered were to be paid for, and, as so often happened, followed up that first tampering with the rules of right and wrong by ageneral recklessness of the most dangerous kind. He was not so muchalone as he had been; his house, in which he was infinitely more amiablethan of old, had become more pleasant to him; he liked his life better. His son was independent with an income of his own, and therefore he feltmuch more respect for him, and treated him as a companion. His daughterhad developed, if not in the way of _entrées_, a talent for dinnerswhich raised her very much in his eyes; and naturally the regard shownto her by the visitors reacted upon Mr. May, though it had not crossedhis mind as yet that any one could be in love with Ursula. All this madehim happier in spite of himself. When you begin to esteem and be proudof your children your life is naturally happier than when you scoff andjeer at them, and treat them as creatures of inferior mould to yourself. Mr. May found out all at once that Reginald was a fine young fellow, that Ursula was pretty and pleasant, and that droll Janey, with herelf-locks and angles, was amusing at least, if no more. As for thelittle ones, they were considerably thrust into a corner when the elderyouth forced itself into the front. They learned their lessons incorners, and had their tea by themselves, and were much humbled andsubdued from the moment in which their school-books and toys hadmeandered over the whole house, and their looks and likings had beenjust as important as anything else. When there is no mother to protectthem, the elder sister's first lover marks a terribly critical periodfor the children of the house. They were banished from thedrawing-room, except on special occasions, when they came _en grandetenue_, in their best things, and were jeered at by Mr. Copperhead. Hecalled them "the kids, " both Amy and Robin were aware, and they resentedit unspeakably. Thus the inward happiness of the Mays confined itself tothe upper regions of the family. Even Betsy regretted the days when, ifshe had more to do, she had at least "her kitchen to herself, " andnobody to share the credit. There was more fuss and more worry, if atrifle less labour, and the increase in consequence which resulted frombeing called cook, instead of maid-of-all-work, was scarcely so sweet inpossession as had seemed in prospect. 

"Them late dinners" were the object of her perpetual railings; "oh, howmuch more comfortable it was, if gentry would but think so, to have yourdinner at two, and get done with your washing up before you was cleaned, or had any occasion to bother yourself about your cap!" When little Amycried over the loneliness of "the children's tea, " which they frequentlyhad to pour out for themselves, Betty gave her a cake and a kiss, andfelt disposed to cry too. 

"And she don't know, poor child, not the half, " said Betty, which was akind of oracular sentence difficult for Betty herself to understand. Thechildren had nothing to do with the late dinner; they were sent to bedearlier than they used to be, and scolded if any distant sounds of rompsmade itself audible at seven o'clock when their elders were dining; andthen when the little ones went injured to bed, and Johnnie, indignant, worked at his lessons by himself in a corner of the old nursery, deeplyaware that his school-boy boots and jacket were quite unfit for thedrawing-room, the grown-up young people ran lightly upstairs, all smilesand pleasure, and those delightful evenings began. 

The children sometimes could not get to sleep for the piano and theraspings of the fiddle, which sounds of mirth suggested nothing but thewildest enjoyment to them; and when the door opened now and then, burstsof laughter and mingling voices would come out like the sounds the Periheard at the gates of Paradise. The elder ones were happy; their littleatoms of individual life had all united for the moment into one sunshinyand broad foundation, on which everything seemed to rest with thatstrange sense of stability and continuance, which such a moment ofhappiness, though it carries every element of change in it, almostinvariably brings. It felt as if it might go on for ever, and yet thevery sentiment that inspired it made separation and convulsioninevitable--one of those strange paradoxes which occur every day. 

Thus the year crept round, and winter melted away with all itsamusements, and spring began. Mr. Northcote's time at Salem Chapel wasmore than half over, a fact on which the congregation congratulateditself much. 

"If so be as he had a settled charge of his own, I shouldn't be sorry tosee him gone to-morrow, " said one of the recent members. 

"Settled charge! You take my word, " said Mrs. Pigeon, who was gettingold, but always continued a woman of spirit, "he'll never have a settledcharge in our connection. He carries on here, 'cause he can't helphisself, but he ain't cut out for a pastor, and he's a deal too thickwith them Church folks. A parson, too! I'd 'a thought he had morepride. "

"Nay, now, but I don't wish him no harm, " said the first speaker; "he'sa civil spoken gentleman if he ain't so free and so pleasant as a bodylooks for. "

"Civil spoken!" said the other; "one of our own ministers in our ownconnection! Bless you! they're our servants, that's what they are. I'dlike to see one on 'em as 'ud take upon him to be civil spoken to me. "

"Well, I wouldn't go as far as that, " cried Mrs. Brown; "we pays 'emtheir salary, and we 'as a right to a civil word: but a minister's aminister, and I'll show him respect as long as he deserves it. I ain'tone for being too hard upon ministers, especially when they're youngmen, as has their temptations like, we all know. "

"I don't know what you call temptations, " said Mrs. Pigeon; "licking thedust under the feet of a Church parson! and after speaking up so boldagainst young May and them old cheats at the College. I wish he was gonefrom here, that's what I wish, and our old pastor (if we can't get nonebetter) back again. He was one as knew his place, and wouldn't have sethis foot inside one of them Parsonages. Parsonages, indeed! kept up withour money. If ever there was an iniquity on this earth it's a StateChurch, and all the argufying in the world won't put that out of me. "

It happened that Northcote was in the poulterer's shop, talking to thepoulterer himself at this moment, and he heard the conclusion of thisspeech delivered with much unction and force. Such sentiments would havecharmed him three months ago, and probably he would have thought thisuneducated but strenuous partisan an extremely intelligent woman. Hehurried away now with an uncomfortable smile. If an opinion is theright opinion, why should it have an air of absurdity thrown upon it bybeing thus uttered in ungrammatical language by a poulterer's wife?Truth is the same by whomsoever stated; but yet, was not dogmatism onany subject the sign of an inexperienced and uncultivated, or a rude anduntutored mind? What did this woman know of the Parsonage, which shesupposed she helped to pay for? What had he himself known three monthsago of Reginald May, whom he had assaulted so savagely? This Churchfamily, which Mrs. Pigeon knew no better than to abuse, with what divinecharity it had received himself, notwithstanding his public sin againstit. When he thought of that public sin, Northcote's countenance glowedwith shame, and it continued to glow with a more agreeable warmth whenhe escaped into thought of the goodness which the Mays had shown him. Had there ever been such goodness? Was there ever so sweet a home of theheart as that faded, homely drawing-room? His heart beat high, his stepsquickened; they carried him down Grange Lane in a path so often trodthat he felt there must be a special track of his own under the gardenwalls, going Parsonage way. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

LOVE-MAKING. 

Mrs. Sam Hurst had been a long time out of Carlingford; she had beenpaying visits among her friends, with whom, though the young Mays wouldnever believe it, she was very popular, for she was not ill-natured inher gossip, and she was often amusing in the fulness of her interest inother people. It was April when she came back, and the early warmth andsoftness of the spring were beginning to be felt in Grange Lane; thedoors of the houses began to be left open, and the girls at theParsonage had taken to running out and in without their hats, gleamingthrough the little shrubbery in front, and round to the back garden. Oneevening it was so mild that they all (which comprehensive term, sometimes extended to "the whole party, " began to be commonly used amongthem with that complacence in the exclusiveness of their little coterie, which every "set" more or less feels) came downstairs in a body, andwandered about among the laurel-bushes in the spring moonlight. Therewas Ursula and Mr. Northcote, Phoebe and Reginald, and ClarenceCopperhead, with Janey behind, who followed where they went, but did notenjoy the ceremony. It was bad enough in the drawing-room; butmoonlight, who cared about moonlight? Janey said to herself indignantly. She was the only one who looked up to Mrs. Hurst's window, where therewas a faint light, and when the voices became audible Janey perceivedsome one come behind the curtain and look out. The girl was dividedbetween her faithful family feud against Mrs. Hurst, and a vague senseof satisfaction in her presence as a Marplot, who one way or other wouldinfallibly interfere. 

"She will say something to papa, " said Janey, her heart involuntaryrising at the thought, though at the same time she shivered to think ofthe treachery involved to all the tenets of the family. Janey sat on thesteps and listened to the others talking. No one pointed out the starsto her, or followed her about as Reginald followed Phoebe. As for Mr. Copperhead, Janey thought he was almost as lonely as she was. He hadlighted his cigar, and was strolling up and down, interrupting both ofthe other pairs occasionally, breaking into the midst of Northcote'sastronomical lecture abruptly, and stopping Phoebe herself in the middleof a sentence. Janey, watching sharply from the steps, noticed, as aspectator has it in her power to do, that whereas Northcote wasextremely impatient of the interruption, and discovered immediately thatthe stars could be seen better from another spot, Phoebe took it quitesweetly, and addressed herself to him as she went on, which Reginald didnot like, Janey was sure. Were they in love with each other? the girlasked herself--was this how it was managed? When the moon went under acloud for a moment Clarence Copperhead's vast shirt-front made a kind ofsubstitute down below. Janey lost the other two among the bushes, butshe always beheld that orb of white moving backward and forward with twodark figures near. She felt sure Reginald did not want to have him insuch close neighbourhood; but Phoebe's voice went on talking to bothalike. Janey was half-pleased, and half-indignant. She had a jealousdislike, such as most girls have, to see her brother engrossed by anyone, but no more did she like to see another man preferred to Reginald;she was jealous both ways. As she sat and watched, a slight little creakcame to her sharp ears, and looking up she saw Mrs. Hurst's drawing-roomwindow opened the very least little bit in the world. Ah! Janey said, with a long breath. There was nothing she would not have given to havetalked it all over with Mrs. Hurst, and to hear what she would say, ifshe had not been the traditional adversary against whom all the familysteeled their hearts. 

That was a very pleasant evening; they all remembered it afterwards. Itwas the moment when Ursula discovered all in the darkness, when the moonwas under that cloud, _what Mr. Northcote meant_. It flashed upon herlike a sudden light, though they were standing in the shade of a greatlaurel. He did not make any declaration, nor say a word that she couldremember. And yet all at once, by some magic which is not explainable, she found out that that was what he was meaning. This is not anadmirable sentence; but it is difficult to know how to put it better. Itwas quite a strange discovery. It set her heart beating, thumpingagainst her breast. She herself meant nothing whatever, and she neverthought of any response, or of the time when he might ask her to make aresponse. The sensation of the moment was quite enough for Ursula. Shewas greatly startled, surprised, yet not surprised, touched and full ofa wondering respect and sympathy, awe and half-amusement. Could it bepossible, was _that_ what it was? Though he was not conscious ofbetraying himself in any way, Northcote thought he had done something tooffend her. Her shy silence and withdrawal from him went to his heart;never had her society been so sweet, never had he had her so completelyto himself. What had he done to alarm or offend her? He went home withhis head full of this, able to think of nothing else. 

And Phoebe went home too, escorted by Reginald and Clarence together, toher grandfather's door, with her head buzzing with many thoughts. It wasnot her heart that was in a commotion, like little Ursula's. She wasmore experienced, though she was not much older, and had gone throughsuch discoveries before now. But a much more perplexing accident hadbefallen her. Reginald May had fallen in love with her, and ClarenceCopperhead, after considerable resistance and hanging off, was making uphis mind to propose. Yes. Phoebe felt with unerring instinct that thiswas the state of affairs. He was making up his mind to propose. So muchof her and so little of her had at length made an end of all the prudenthesitations that lay under the crisp pie-crust of that starched anddazzling shirt front. That he should never be able to speak a word toher without that May! that fellow! "the son of my coach!" poking himselfin, was a thing which at length had fired his cool blood to fever heat. Nobody else could play his accompaniments like that, or pull him throughthe "Wedding March" like that; and who would look better at the head ofa table, or show better at a ball, or get on better in society? No onehe knew, certainly. It was true she was only a Minister's daughter, andwithout a penny; for the little fortune Mr. And Mrs. Beecham hadcarefully gathered together and preserved for their daughter, what wasthat to the Copperheads?--nothing, not a penny. But, on the other hand, Clarence felt that he himself, or rather his father, was rich enough tobe able to afford a wife without money. There was no reason why heshould marry money; and a wife like Phoebe, what a relief that would be, in the way of education! No need of any more coaching. She was clever, and fond of reading, and so forth. She would get everything up for him, if he went into parliament, or that sort of thing; why, she'd keep himposted up. "There ain't many girls that could do that, " he said tohimself. She would save him worlds of trouble; save his money even, forcoaches and that sort of thing cost money; and then that fellow Maywould be out of it; his nose would be put out of joint. These are noteloquent sentiments, but so it was that Clarence's natural feelingsexpressed themselves. He had intimated that he would see Miss Phoebehome, but May had stalked out side by side with him--had not left themfor a moment; and Clarence determined that he would not stand it anylonger. If there was no other way of shaking this fellow off, why, thenhe would make up his mind to it, and propose. 

Phoebe somehow saw all this written in his fine countenance, and she sawat the same time that poor Reginald, who was (she thought) young andsimple, and just the sort of poor boy to yield to such folly, was inlove with her; and her head was buzzing with the double discovery. Thefirst was (of course) the most important. She had no time to indulge herthoughts while she walked up between them, keeping them in play eachwith a word, talking all the way to fill up the somewhat sulky silencebetween them; but when she got safely within the garden door, and heardit shut behind her, and found herself in the quiet of the little greenenclosure, with the budding trees and the lilac bushes for her onlycompanions, the relief was very grateful to her. She could not go in allat once to make conversation for grandpapa and grandmamma, and give themthe account they liked to hear, of how she had "enjoyed herself. " Shetook off her hat to be cooler, and walked slowly down under themoonlight, her head all throbbing and rustling with thought. The pathswere bordered with primroses, which made a pale glimmer in the moon, andshed a soft fragrance about. Phoebe had nothing to appeal to Heavenabout, or to seek counsel from Nature upon, as sentimental people mightdo. She took counsel with herself, the person most interested. What wasthe thing she ought to do? Clarence Copperhead was going to propose toher. She did not even take the trouble of saying to herself that heloved her; it was Reginald who did that, a totally different person, butyet the other was more urgent. What was Phoebe to do? She did not dislikeClarence Copperhead, and it was no horror to her to think of marryinghim. She had felt for years that this might be on the cards, and therewere a great many things in it which demanded consideration. He was notvery wise, nor a man to be enthusiastic about, but he would be a careerto Phoebe. She did not think of it humbly like this, but with a bigcapital--a Career. Yes; she could put him into parliament, and keep himthere. She could thrust him forward (she believed) to the front ofaffairs. He would be as good as a profession, a position, a great workto Phoebe. He meant wealth (which she dismissed in its superficial aspectas something meaningless and vulgar, but accepted in its higher aspectas an almost necessary condition of influence), and he meant all thepossibilities of future power. Who can say that she was not as romanticas 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 wouldoppose it, and Phoebe felt with a slight shiver that his father'sopposition was nothing to be laughed at, and that Mr. Copperhead had itin him to crush rebellion with a ferocious hand. And would Clarence havestrength of mind or spirit to hold out? This was a very seriousquestion, and one which included all the rest. If she accepted hisproposal, would he have the heart to stand to it against his father? orwould her consent simply involve her in a humiliating struggle whichwould end in defeat? That was the great question. If this should be thecase, what use would there be in any sacrifice that Phoebe might make? Astruggle with Mr. Copperhead would affect her father's position as muchor more than her own, and she knew that a great many of the congregationwould infallibly side with Mr. Copperhead, feeling it a most dangerousprecedent that a pastor's daughter should be encouraged to think herselfeligible for promotion so great, and thus interfere with the moresuitable matrimonial prospects of wealthy young men who might happen toattend her father's chapel. Such a thing the conscript fathers of theconnection would feel ought to be put a stop to with a high hand. So itmay be supposed that Phoebe had enough to think of, as she strolledabout in the moonlight alone, between the two borders of primroses. Tozer thought she had gone upstairs to take off her "things, " and it wasnatural that when a girl got before a looking-glass she should forgetthe progress of time; so that he merely wondered at her non-appearanceuntil the little chill of air stole in from the open door, and made Mrs. Tozer cough. 

"If it ain't our Phoebe a-walking about in the moonlight like aplay-actor!" said Tozer, in consternation, drawing aside the curtain tolook out. "I'll tell you what, old woman, the girl's in love; and that'swhat it is. " He thought this was a capital joke, and followed hiswitticism with a laugh. 

"Not much wonder, neither, with all them young fellows about, " said theold lady. "You may laugh; but, Tozer, I ain't so easy in my mind as you. If it's him as they call Northcote, that don't matter; but if it's thatbig gabby of a Copperhead, there's troubles a-coming; though he's asrich, they do say, as Creases, whoever Creases might be, and it would bea credit to have the girl make a match like that out of our house. "

Whereat Tozer again laughed loud and long. 

"Well, " he said, "if Mister Creases himself was here, I wouldn't say ashe was a bit too good for our Phoebe. Don't you trouble your head, oldwoman; Copperhead or t'other one, let her make her choice. Phoebejunior's the girl as'll be their match, and you may take my word forthat. Phoebe's the one as will keep them in their right place, whoeverthey may be. "

Phoebe heard this laugh echo out into the quiet of the night. Of course, she did not know the cause of it, but it disturbed her in her thoughts. Poor, kind, excellent grandpapa, she said to herself, how would he geton with Mr. Copperhead? He would touch his forelock to so rich a man. Hewould go down metaphorically upon his knees before so much wealth; andwhat a fool Clarence would be thought on every side for wanting to marryher! Even his mother, who was a romantic woman, would not see anyromance in it if it was she, Phoebe, who was the poor girl whom he wantedto marry. Ursula might have been different, who was a clergyman'sdaughter, and consequently a lady by prescriptive right. But herself, Tozer's granddaughter, Tom Tozer's niece, fresh from the butter-shop, asit were, and redolent of that petty trade which big trade ignores, asmuch as the greatest aristocrat does! Phoebe was too sensible by far tovex or distress herself on this point, but she recognised it without anyhesitation, and the question remained--was it for her advantage to enterupon this struggle, about which there could be no mistake, or was itnot? And this question was very difficult. She did not dislikeClarence, but then she was not in love with him. He would be a Career, but he was not a Passion, she said to herself with a smile; and if thestruggle should not turn out successful on her part, it would involve akind of ruin, not to herself only, but to all concerned. What, then, wasshe to do? The only thing Phoebe decided upon was that, if she did enterupon that struggle, it _must_ be successful. Of this alone there couldbe no manner of doubt. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A DISCLOSURE. 

"Well, young ladies!" said Mrs. Sam Hurst, "I left you very quiet, butthere seems to be plenty going on now-a-days. What a beautiful moonthere was last night! I put up my window to look at it, and all at onceI found there was a party going on below. Quite a _fête champêtre_. Ihave newly come from abroad, you know, and it seemed quite congenial. Iactually rubbed my eyes, and said to myself, 'I can't have come home. It's Boulogne still, it isn't Carlingford!'"

"There was no company, " said Ursula with dignity; "there was only ourown party. A friend of Reginald's and a friend of mine join us often inthe evening, and there is papa's pupil--if you call that a party. We arejust as quiet as when you went away. We never invite strangers. We areas much by ourselves as ever. "

"With a friend of Reginald's, and a friend of yours, and papa's pupil!"said Mrs. Hurst, laughing; "double your own number, Ursula! and I don'tsuppose Janey counts yet. Why, there is a young man too many. How dareyou waste the gifts of Providence, you prodigal child? And now let mehear who they are. "

"You may say Janey doesn't count, " cried that young woman in person. "Oh, Mrs. Hurst, what a bore they are! If that's society, I don't carefor society. One always following Ursula about whenever she moves, sothat you can't say a word to her; and the others pulling poor Phoebe topieces, who hates them, I am sure. Phoebe was so jolly at first. Shewould talk to you, or she would play for you! Why, she taught Johnnieand me a part-song to sing with her, and said he had a delightfulvoice; but she never has any time to look at us now, " said Janey, stopping in this breathless enumeration of wrongs. "She is always takenup with those horrible men. "

"I suppose you call Reginald a horrible man?" said Ursula, with risingcolour. "If that was my opinion of my own brother, I should take carenot to say it, at least. "

"Oh, Reginald isn't the worst! There's your Mr. Northcote, and there'sthat Copperhead--Woodenhead, we call him in the nursery. Oh, how papacan put up with him, I can't tell! he never had any patience with us. You can't think how dull he is, Mrs. Hurst! I suppose girls don't mindwhen a man _goes on_, whether he's stupid or not. I never heard Mr. Northcote say much that was interesting either; but he looks clever, andthat is always something. "

"So Mr. Northcote is Ursula's one, " said Mrs. Hurst, laughing. "You area perfect jewel, Janey, and I don't know how I should ever find outanything that's going on, but for you. Northcote! it is a new name inCarlingford. I wonder I have not heard of him already; or have you kepthim entirely to yourself, and let nobody know that there was a new manin the place?"

There was a little pause here. The girls knew nothing about Northcote, except the one fact that he was a Dissenter; but as Mrs. Hurst was anexcellent Churchwoman, much better than they were, who had, perhaps, been brought up too completely under the shadow of the Church to believein it implicitly, they hesitated before pronouncing before her thatunfortunate name. 

"I don't know whether you are aware, " Ursula said at last, with someslowness and reluctance, "that papa's pupil is of a Dissenting family. He is related, through his mother, to our cousins, the Dorsets. " (Thisfact Ursula put forth with a little triumph, as refuting triumphantlyany ready conclusion as to the social standing of Dissenters. ) "I thinkMr. Northcote came first to the house with Mr. Copperhead. He is aDissenter too. "

"Why, Ursula, " cried Mrs. Hurst, "not the man who attacked Reginald inthe Meeting? It was all in the papers. He made a frightful violentspeech about the College and the sinecure, and what a disgraceful thingit was that your brother, a young man, could accept it. You don't meanhim?"

Ursula was struck dumb. She looked up at her questioner with her lipsfalling apart a little, with a look of mingled consternation and fear. 

"Of course it can't be, " said the gossip, who was not ill-natured. "Younever read the papers, but your papa does, and so does Reginald. Oh, you may be sure it is some other Northcote, though I don't know thename. "

"Ursula doesn't like to tell you, " said Janey; "but he's the DissentingMinister, I know he is. Well! I don't care! He is just as good asanybody else. I don't go in for your illiberal ways of thinking, as ifno one was worth talking to except in the Church. Mr. Northcote is verynice. I don't mind what you say. Do you mean to tell me that all thosecurates and people who used to plague our lives out were nicer? Mr. Saunders, for instance; he is a real good Churchman, I have always heardpeople say--"

"Hold your tongue, Janey; you don't know anything about it, " said Mrs. Hurst, whom this wonderful disclosure elevated into authority. "ADissenting Minister! Ah, me! what a thing it is for you poor girls tohave no mother. I did not think your papa would have had so littleconsideration as to expose you to society like that. But men are sothoughtless. "

"I don't know what right you have to speak of exposing us to societylike that, " cried Ursula, quivering all over with sudden excitement. 

She felt as if some one had dug a knife into her, and turned it round inthe wound. 

"Men have so little consideration, " repeated Mrs. Hurst, "especiallywhen a girl is concerned. Though how your papa could have received a manwho made such an assault upon him--even if he had passed over the attackupon Reginald, he was attacked himself. "

"It must be a mistake, " said Ursula, growing pale. Her hands cametogether half-unconsciously, and clasped in a mute gesture of appeal. "It is not possible; it cannot be true. "

"Well, it is very odd that your papa should show such charity, I allow. I don't think it is in human nature. And Reginald, what does Reginaldsay? If it is that man, it will be the strangest thing I ever heard of. But there could not be two Northcotes, Dissenting Ministers inCarlingford, could there? It is very strange. I can't think what yourpapa can have had in his head. He is a man who would do a thing for adeep reason, whether he liked it or not. How did this Mr. Northcote comefirst here?"

"Oh, it was through Mr. Copperhead, " said Janey. "It was the firstdinner-party we had. You should have seen the fright Ursula was in! Andpapa would not let me come to dinner, which was a horrid shame. I amsure I am big enough, bigger than Ursula. "

"If he came with the pupil, that makes it all quite plain. I supposeyour papa did not want to quarrel with his pupil. What a predicament forhim, if that was the case! Poor Mr. May! Of course, he did not want tobe uncivil. Why, it was in the 'Gazette, ' and the 'Express, ' and all thepapers; an account of the Meeting, and that speech, and then a leadingarticle upon it. I always file the 'Express, ' so you can see it if youlike. But what an embarrassment for your poor papa, Ursula, that youshould have taken this man up! And Reginald, how could he put up withit, a touchy young man, always ready to take offence? You see now thedrawback of not paying a little attention to what is going on round you. How uncomfortable you must have made them! It might be very well to lookover an offence, not to be unpleasant to the stranger; but that youshould have thoughtlessly led this man on into the position of anintimate--"

"I did nothing of the sort, " cried Ursula, growing red and growing pale, starting up from her work with a sense of the intolerable which shecould not restrain. "What have I done to be spoken of so? I never ledhim on, or any one. What you say is cruel, very cruel! and it is nottrue. "

"Isn't it true that he was here last night, following you about, asJaney says? Oh, I know how these sort of things go on. But you ought tothink of your papa's position, and you ought to think of Reginald. If itwas to come to the Bishop's ears that St. Roque's Parsonage was a refugefor Dissenters! For I know who _your_ friend is, Ursula! That Tozergirl, another of them! Indeed, I assure you, it makes me feel veryuncomfortable. And Reginald, just at the very beginning of his career. "

Ursula did not make any reply. She bent her head down over her work, solow that her flushed cheeks could scarcely be seen, and went onstitching with energy and passion such as needles and thread are seldomthe instruments of; and yet how much passion is continually worked awaythrough needles and thread! Mrs. Hurst sat still for some time, lookingat her, very little satisfied to keep silence, but feeling that she haddischarged an efficient missile, and biting her lips not to say more toweaken its effect. When some time had passed in this way, and it wasapparent that Ursula had no intention of breaking the silence, hervisitor got up and shook out her skirts with a little flutter ofindignation. 

"You are offended, " she said, "though I must say it is very ill on yourpart to be offended. What motive can I have but your good, and regardfor your poor dear papa? It is he that is always the victim, poor man, whether it is your vagaries he has to pay for, or Reginald'shigh-flying. Oh, yes; you may be as angry as you like, Ursula; but youwill find out the difference if your encouragement of this Dissenterinterferes with something better--a living for Reginald, perhaps, orbetter preferment for your poor papa. "

"Oh!" cried Janey, awe-stricken; "but after all, it was not Ursula; itwas papa himself. I think he must have done it to please Mr. Copperhead;for, Mrs. Hurst, you know Mr. Copperhead is very important. We have allto give in to him. He pays papa three hundred a-year. "

"Three thousand wouldn't make up for it if it spoilt all your career, "cried the indignant woman, and she swept away without saying any more toUrsula, who kept quite still over her work without budging. Janey wentdownstairs meekly after her to open the door, whispering an entreatythat she would not be angry. 

"No, no, I am not angry, " said Mrs. Hurst, "but I shall keep it up for aday or two. It is the best thing for her. I think she was struck withwhat I said. "

Janey stole upstairs again, feeling rather guilty; but Ursula tooklittle notice of her. The dinner was ordered and everything settled forthe day. She was busy with her week's mending and darning, with thestockings and other things in a big basket beside her. When she came tosome articles belonging to Janey, she threw them out with greatimpatience. 

"You may surely mend your things yourself, you are big enough. You cantalk for yourself and me too, " cried Ursula with sudden impetuosity; andthen she sat and worked, her needle flying through the meshes of herdarning, though it is hard to darn stockings in that impassioned way. They were socks of Johnnie's, however, with holes in the heels that youcould put your fist through, and the way in which the big spans filledthemselves up under this influence was wonderful to see. Janey, who wasnot fond of mending, set to work quite humbly under the influence ofthis example, and made two or three attempts to begin a conversation butwithout avail. 

The girls were seated thus in a disturbed and restless silence, workingas if for their lives, when the usual little jar of the gate and soundof the bell downstairs announced a visitor. On ordinary occasions, theywere both in the habit of rushing to the window when the gate was openedto see who was coming, and Janey had thrown aside her work to do so whena look from Ursula stopped her. High-spirited as Janey was, she did notdare to disobey that look. By right of the passion that had gotpossession of her, Ursula took the absolute command of the situation ina way she had never done before, and some sudden intuition made heraware who it was who was coming. The girls both sat there still andbreathless, waiting for his appearance. He never came in the day, neverhad been seen in the Parsonage at that hour before, and yet Ursula wasas certain who it was as if she had seen him a mile off. He came intothe room, himself looking a little breathless and disturbed, and gave aquick impatient look at Janey as he went up to her sister. Ursula saw itand understood well enough. Janey was in his way; he had come thismorning with a special purpose. Her heart sank down to her very shoes, and then rose again with a feverish and unreal leap. Was it not her dutyto take the initiative, to cut away the very ground from beneath hisfeet? He took a seat, not far from where she was sitting, and made aneffort to begin a little ordinary conversation, throwing frequentglances at Janey. He said it was a fine day, which was self-evident;that he almost feared they would be out; that he had come to--totell her something he had forgotten last night, about--yes, about--Cassiopeia's chair, to correct what he said about Orion--yes, that was it; and again he looked at Janey, who saw his looks, andwondered much what she ought to do--go away, as he evidently wished her, or stay and listen, which was the eager desire of her mind. When Ursulalifted her head from her darning, and looked at him with cheeksalternately white and crimson, Janey felt herself grow hot andbreathless with kindred excitement, and knew that the moment had come. 

"Mr. Northcote, " said Ursula, looking at him fixedly, so fixedly that anervous trembling ran over him, "I have a question to ask you. You havebeen coming to us very often, and perhaps papa may know, but I don't. Isit true that you made a speech about Reginald when you first came here?"

Janey, looking eagerly on, saw Northcote grow pale, nay, grey in thefresh daylight. The colour seemed to ebb out of him. He started veryslightly, as if waking up, when she began to speak, and then sat lookingat her, growing greyer and greyer. A moment elapsed before he made anyreply. 

"Yes, I did, " he said, with a half-groan of pain in his voice. 

"You did! really you did! Oh!" cried Ursula, the hot tears fallingsuddenly out of her eyes, while she still looked at him, "I was hopingthat it was all some horrible mistake, that you would have laughed. Ihoped you would laugh and say no. "

Northcote cleared his throat; they were waiting for him to defendhimself. Janey, holding herself on the leash, as it were, keepingherself back from springing upon him like a hound. Ursula gazed at himwith great blazing reproachful eyes; and all he could do was to givethat sign of embarrassment, of guilt, and confusion. He could not uttera word. By the time he had got himself wound up to the point of speech, Ursula, impatient, had taken the words out of his mouth. 

"Reginald is my brother, " she said. "Whatever is against him is againstus all; we have never had any separate interests. Didn't you think itstrange, Mr. Northcote, to come to this house, among us all, when youhad been so unkind to him?"

"Miss May--"

He made a broken sort of outcry and motion of his head, and then clearedhis throat nervously once more. 

"Did you think how your own brothers and sisters would have stood up foryou? that it would have been an offence to them if anybody had come tothe house who was not a friend to you? that they would have had aright--"

"Miss May, " said the culprit; "all this I have felt to the bottom of myheart; that I was here on false pretences--that I had no right to behere. But this painful feeling was all quenched and extinguished, andturned into gratitude by the goodness of your father and brother. I didnot even know that you had not been told. I thought you were aware fromthe beginning. You were colder than they were, and I thought it wasnatural, quite natural, for it is easier to forgive for one's self thanfor those one loves; and then I thought you melted and grew kinder tome, that you saw how all my ideas were changed, all my feelings--my minditself; changed by the great charity, the wonderful goodness I havefound here!"

"Mr. Northcote!" Ursula had been struggling to break in all the time;but while he spoke her words dispersed, her feelings softened, and atthe end she found nothing but that startled repetition of his name withwhich to answer him. No doubt if he had given her time the eloquencewould have come back; but he was too much in earnest to be guilty ofsuch a mistake. 

"What can I say about it?" cried the young man. "It has filled me withshame and with happiness. I have been taken in my own trap--those whom Iattacked as you say--went out of my way to attack, and abused like afool because I knew nothing about them--have shown me what the Biblemeans. Your father and brother knew what I had done, they met meseparately, quite independent of each other, and both of them held outtheir hands to me; why, except that I had offended them, I cannot tell. A stranger, belonging to an obscure class, I had no claim upon themexcept that I had done what ought to have closed their house againstme. And you know how they have interpreted that. They have shown me whatthe Bible means. "

The two girls sat listening, both with their heads bent towards him, andtheir eyes fixed upon his face. When he stopped, Janey got up with herwork in her lap, and coming a little nearer to Ursula, addressed her ina wondering voice. 

"Is it _papa_ he is talking of like that?" she said, under her breath. 

"Yes, " he said, fervently, turning to her. "It is your father. He hasmade charity and kindness real things to me. "

"Poor papa!" said Ursula, whose tears were arrested in her eyes by thesame surprised sensation, half-pleasure, half-pain, which hushed evenJaney's voice. They were "struck, " as Mrs. Hurst had said, but by such astrange mingling of feelings that neither knew what to make of them. Northcote did not understand what they meant; their words conveyed aslight shock of surprise, but no distinct idea to him; and when Janey, too much impressed to settle down again, went away after a whilemusingly, carrying her work in the upper skirt of her gown, held like amarket-woman's apron by her elbow against her side; and he found himselfto have attained in the very confusion of his intentions to what hewished, i. E. , an interview with Ursula by herself, he was almost toomuch agitated to take advantage of it. As for Ursula, she had floated ahundred miles away from that sensation of last night which, had nostronger feeling come in to bewilder her, would have made his errandvery plain to her mind. She had ceased to think about him, she wasthinking with a certain tenderness, and wondering, half-awed, half-amused, self-questioning, about her father. Was he so good as this?had he done this Christian action? were they all perhaps doing papainjustice? She was recalled to herself by Northcote's next proceeding. He went to the door and closed it after Janey, who had left it open, ofcourse, and then he came to the back of the chair on which stood thegreat basket of darning. His voice was tremulous, his eyes liquid andshining with emotion. 

"Will you forgive me, since they have forgiven me? and may I ask _you_something?" he said. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

AN EXTRAVAGANCE. 

Mr. May did not take any particular notice of what was going on aroundhim among the young people. Nobody could have been more startled thanhe, had he been told of the purpose with which Horace Northcote, theDissenting minister, had paid his early morning visit; and though he hada half-scornful, half-amused glimmer of insight into the feelings of hisson, and saw that Clarence Copperhead was heavily veering the same way, it did not occur to him that any crisis was approaching. He was enjoyinghimself in his way, and he had not done that for a long time. He dearlyliked the better way of living, the more liberal strain of housekeepingand expenditure; he liked the social meetings in the evening, the talkafter dinner with the three young men, the half-fatherly flirtation withPhoebe, which she too enjoyed much, avowedly preferring him, with prettycoquetry, to the others. All this was very pleasant to him; and theadditional money in his pocket was very pleasant, and when the post camein, one of these April mornings, and brought a letter from James, enclosing a draft for fifty pounds, his satisfaction was intense. Thesight of the money brought an itching to his fingers, a restlessnessabout him generally. And yet it was not all that might have beendesired, only fifty pounds! he had been buoying himself up by vainthoughts of how James this time, having been so long writing, would senda larger sum, which would at once tide him over the Tozer business, andon this account had been giving himself no trouble about it. Neverbefore had he been so _insouciant_, although never before had the riskbeen so great. He had suffered so much about it last time, probably, that was why he took it so easily now; or was it because his trust inthe chapter of accidents had grown greater since he was more dependenton it? or because of the generally expanded sense of living in him whichmade anxiety uncongenial anyhow? Whatever the cause was, this was theeffect. A momentary disappointment when he saw how little James's draftwas--then a sense of that semi-intoxication which comes upon a poor manwhen a sum of money falls into his hands--gradually invaded his soul. Hetried to settle down to his writing, but did not feel equal to theeffort. It was too little for the purpose, he said to himself, for whichhe wanted it; but it was enough to do a great many pleasant things withotherwise. For the first time he had no urgent bills to swallow it up;the very grocer, a long-suffering tradesman who made less fuss than theothers, and about whom Ursula made less fuss, had been pacified by apayment on account of the Copperhead money, and thus had his mouthstopped. Barring that bill, indeed, things were in a more comfortablestate than they had been for a long time in the May household; andputting that out of account, James's money would have been the nearestapproach to luxury--reckoning luxury in its most simple form as money tospend without any absolutely forestalling claim upon it--which Mr. Mayhad known for years. It is so seldom that poor people have thisdelicious sense of a little, ever so little surplus! and it would behard to say how he could entertain the feeling that it was an overplus. There was something of the fumes of desperation perhaps, and impendingfate in the lightness of heart which seized upon him. He could not keepstill over his writing. He got up at last, and put James's draft intohis pocket-book, and got his hat to go out. It was a fine morning, fullof that exhilaration which belongs only to the spring. He went to thebank, and paid in the money, getting a small sum at the same time forhis own immediate use; but somehow his restlessness was scarcelysatisfied by that very legitimate piece of business, and he extended hiswalk into the town, and strayed, half by chance, half by intention, tothe old furniture shop at the other end of the High Street, which was afavourite resort of the higher classes in Carlingford, and whereperiodically there was an auction, at which sometimes great bargainswere to be had. Mr. May went into this dangerous place boldly. The salewas going on; he walked into the midst of temptation, forgetting theprayer against it, which no doubt he had said that morning. And as evilfate would have it, a carved book-case, the very thing he had beensighing for, for years, was at that moment the object of theauctioneer's praises. It was standing against the wall, a noble piece offurniture, in which books would show to an advantage impossibleotherwise, preserved from dust and damp by the fine old oak and glassdoor. Mr. May's heart gave a little jump. Almost everybody has wishedfor something unattainable, and this had been the object of his desiresfor years. He gave a little start when he saw it, and hurried forward. The bidding had actually begun; there was no time to think and consider, if he wished to have a chance, and it was going cheap, dead cheap. After a minute or two of competition the blood rose to his cheeks, hegot thoroughly excited. The effect of this excitement was two-fold--notonly did it drive all thought of prudence out of his head, but it raisedby several pounds the price of the book-case, which, had he gone aboutit coolly, he might have had at a much cheaper rate. When he suddenlywoke up to find himself the owner of it, a thrill of consternation ranover him--it was all so sudden; and it was perfectly innocent, if onlyhe had any money; and to be sure he had James's money, which was notenough to do anything else--certainly not to do the thing he wanted itfor. He tried to laugh at himself for the little thrill of alarm thatran through him; but it was too late to recede; and he gave his chequefor the money and his directions as to having it sent to the Parsonage, with a quake at his heart, yet a little flourish of satisfaction. 

"Just what I have been wanting for years, " he said, as he examined hisnew acquisition, and the people about looked at him with additionalrespect he felt, not being used to see Mr. May so prompt in payment, andso ready with his money. This pleased him also. He walked home with hishead a little turned still, although there was a quake and flutterunderneath. Well! he said to himself, who could call it an extravagance?a thing he had wanted for years--a thing which was a necessity, not forluxury, but everyday use--a thing which was not dear, and which was veryhandsome and substantial, and _really good_; how could any one say itwas extravagant? Ursula might stare with her big eyes, but she was onlya silly little girl, and women always were silly about expenses, alarmedby a big bold handsome purchase, though there was nobody better at theart of frittering away money in pretty nothings. When he got home, hebegan at once nervously to clear the space where it should stand. Whatan improvement it would be! and his books were getting spoiled daily inthose unsightly, open shelves, entirely spoiled. It was exciting toanticipate its arrival, and the admiration and commotion in the house. He called in Betsy and gave her orders about it; how, if it came when hewas absent, it was to be put in that particular place, no other. 

"And mind that great care is taken, for it is valuable, and a beautifulpiece of furniture, " he said. 

"La, sir!" said Betsy, who was thunderstruck, though she knew it was not"her place" to show any feeling. He did not think it was necessary toappeal to Ursula on the same subject, but was rather glad to get outagain, feeling the restlessness which had not been dissipated, butrather the reverse. He went and saw one or two poor people, to whom hewas much more tolerant and kind than his wont, for in general Mr. Maywas not attracted towards the poor; and he gave them a shilling or twoof the money he had drawn at the bank that morning--though somehow ithad acquired a certain value in his eyes, and it was with a grudge thathe took it out of his pocket. I must not spend this, he said to himself;but gave the shillings as a kind of tithe or propitiatory offering toProvidence, that things might go well with him. Why should not things gowell with him? He was not a bad man, he wronged nobody. He had donenothing to-day that a saint might not have done; he wanted thebook-case, and he had the money, a sum not big enough for any moreimportant purpose; but which was far better disposed of so thanfrittered away in nothings, as no doubt it would have otherwise been. Bythe afternoon, when the book-case arrived, he had convinced himself thatit was not only quite reasonable, but a most lucky chance, a thing hecould scarcely have hoped for, the opportunity and the money both comingin such exact accord with each other. When he returned from his walk thegirls were looking at it, Ursula somewhat scared, Janey in openraptures. 

"It is very nice indeed, papa, " said the elder girl; "but it must havecost a deal of money. "

"Be thankful that you haven't got to pay for it, " he said, brusquely. Hewas not disposed to stand criticism. How it filled up his bare room, andmade it, Mr. May thought, all at once into a library, though the oldwriting-table and shabby chairs looked rather worse perhaps than before, and suggested renewal in the most urgent way. To make it all of a piece, to put a soft Turkey carpet instead of the drugget, how pleasant itwould be!--not extravagant, only a natural inclination towards theseemly, and a desire to have things around him becoming his position. Nodoubt such things were things which he ought to have in his position; agentleman and a scholar, how humiliating it was that nothing but thebarest elements of comfort should be within his reach. This was not howlife ought to be; a poor creature like Clarence Copperhead, withoutbirth, or breeding, or brains, or anything but money, was able togratify every wish, while he--his senior, his superior! Instead ofblaming himself, therefore, for his self-indulgence, Mr. May sympathizedwith himself, which is a much less safe thing to do; and accordingly, itsoon began to appear to him that his self-denial all this time in notgiving himself what he wanted had been extreme, and that what he had nowdone, in conceding himself so harmless a gratification, was what heought to have done years ago. It was his own money sent to him by hisdutiful son without conditions; and who had any right to interfere?

When he was at dinner, Betsy came behind his chair under pretence ofserving him; Betsy, whose place was in the kitchen, who had no right toshow in the dining-room at all, and whose confused toilette had caughtUrsula's eye and filled her with horror. 

"Please, sir, " she said, breathing hot on Mr. May's ear, till he shrankwith sensitive horror. "Cotsdean's in the kitchen. He says as how hemust see you; and I can't get him away. "

"Ah, Cotsdean? tell him if he has anything to say to me, to write itdown. "

"Which he's done, sir, " said Betsy, producing a little bit of paperrolled tightly together, "but I wasn't to give it till I'd asked you tosee him. Oh, please see him, sir, like a dear good gentleman. He lookslike a man as is going off his head. "

"He is a fool, " said Mr. May, taking the paper, but setting his teeth ashe did so. Evidently he must get rid of this fellow--already beginningto trouble him, as if he was not the best person to know when and howfar he could go. 

"Tell him I'll attend to it, he need not trouble himself, " he said, andput the paper into his pocket, and went on with his dinner. Cotsdean, indeed! surely there had been enough of him. What were his trumperylosses in comparison with what his principal would lose, and how darethat fellow turn up thus and press him continually for his own poorselfish safety? This was not how Mr. May had felt three months before;but everything changes, and he felt that he had a right to be angry atthis selfish solicitude. Surely it was of as much consequence to him atleast as to Cotsdean. The man was a fussy disagreeable fool, and nothingmore. 

And as it happened they sat late that night at dinner, without anyparticular reason, because of some discussion into which Clarence andReginald fell, so that it was late before Mr. May got back to his room, where his books were lying in a heap waiting their transportation. Theyseemed to appeal to him also, and ask him reproachfully how they had gotthere, and he went to work arranging them all with all the enthusiasmnatural to a lover of books. He was a book-lover, a man full of finetastes and cultured elegant ways of thinking. If he had been extravagant(which he was not) it would have been in the most innocent, naydelightful and laudable way. To attach any notion of criminality, anysuspicion of wrong-doing to such a virtuous indulgence, how unjust itwould be! There was no company upstairs that evening. Copperhead hadstrolled out with Reginald to smoke his cigar, much against the will ofthe latter, and was boring him all the way to the College with accountsof his own lavish expenditure, and how much he had given for this andthat; his cameos, his diamond studs, the magnificent dressing-case whichwas the wonder of the Parsonage. "Hang it all, what is the good ofhaving money if you don't spend it?" said Clarence, and Reginald, whohad not much money to spend, felt as near hating him as it was in hisnature to do. Thus Mr. May was released from duty in the drawing-room, where Ursula, palpitating with many thoughts which were altogether newto her, sat doing her darning, and eluding as well as she could Janey'squestions. Janey was determinedly conversational that night. She droveUrsula nearly out of her senses, and kept Johnnie--who had crept intothe drawing-room in high delight at finding it for once free tohim--from learning his lessons. 

"Oh, how nice it is to be by ourselves, " said Janey, "instead of allthose new people. I don't mind Phoebe; but strange men in the house, whata nuisance they are, always getting in one's way--don't you think so, Ursula?"

Ursula made no reply, and after awhile even Janey sank into silence, andthe drawing-room, usually so gay, got a cold and deserted look. The newlife which had come in had left its mark, and to go back to what hadonce been so pleasant in the past was no longer possible. Johnnie andJaney might like it, having regained their former places, but to Ursulathe solitude was horrible. She asked herself, with a great blush andquiver, what she would do if that temporary filling up of new interestsand relationships was to fall away, as was likely, and leave her to theold life unbroken, to Janey's childish society and questions, and papa'simperious and unmodified sway. She grew pale and chill at the verythought. 

But Mr. May, as we have said, was off duty. He forgot all about Cotsdeanand the note in his pocket, and set to work with the most boyishsimplicity of delight to arrange his books in his new shelves. How wellthey looked! never before had their setting done them justice. Therewere books in gorgeous bindings, college prizes which had never shown atall, and which now gleamed out in crimson and gold from behind theglass, and made their owner's heart beat with pleasure. Alas! to thinkhow much innocent pleasure is denied us by the want of that small sum ofmoney! and worse still, how an innocent pleasure becomes the reverse ofinnocent when it is purchased by the appropriation of something whichshould have been employed elsewhere. Perhaps, however, the sense ofguilt which he kept under, added zest in Mr. May's mind to the pleasureof his acquisition; he was snatching a fearful joy, Heaven knows howsoon the penalty might overwhelm him. In the mean time he was determinedto take the good of it, and enjoy what he had gained. 

When the books were all in he sat down at his table and surveyed it, rubbing his dusty hands. How much that is childish, how much that isfresh, and youthful, and innocent must be in the mind of a man (youwould say) who could be thus excited about a book-case! and yet this wasnot the kind of man whom you would call unsophisticated and youthful. Itwas probably the state of suppressed excitement in which he was, theunreality of his position, that helped him to that sense of elation asmuch as anything else; for emotion is a Proteus ready to take any form, and pain itself sometimes finds vent in the quick blazing up offictitious delight, as much as in the moanings that seem more accordantwith its own nature. He put his hand into his pocket for his pencil tomake a note of the contents of the new shelves, and then he foundCotsdean's note, which he had not forgotten, but which he had felt nodesire to remember. When he felt it between his fingers his countenancefell a little; but he took it out and read it with the smile still uponhis face. It was a dirty little roll of paper, scribbled in pencil. 

 "Rev. Sir, "I hope as you are not forgetting the 15th. Pleas excuse anxiety and bad writing, i am a poor nervous man I no, a word of answer just to say as it is all right will much oblidge. 

 "Rev. Sir, "Your humble servant, "T. COTSDEAN. "

Betsy knocked at the door as he read this, with a request for an answerto Mr. Cotsdean's note. "Little Bobby, sir, is waiting for it in thekitchen. "

"Give Bobby some supper, " said Mr. May, "tell him to tell his fatherit's all right, and I shan't forget. You understand? He is a troublesomelittle fool; but it's all right, and I shan't forget, and give the childsome supper, Betsy. He ought not to be out so late. "

"He is a delicate little thing, sir, thankye, sir, " said Betsy, half-frightened by her master's amiability; and he smiled and repeated, "Tell him it's all right. "

Was it all right, the 15th? Cotsdean must have made a mistake. Mr. May'scountenance paled, and the laugh went off; he opened a drawer in hiswriting-table and took out a book, and anxiously consulted an entry init. It was the 18th certainly, as clear as possible. Something had beenwritten on the opposite page, and had blotted slightly the one on whichthese entries were written; but there it stood, the 18th April. Mr. Mayprided himself on making no mistakes in business. He closed the bookagain with a look of relief, the smile coming back once more to hisface. The 18th, it was three days additional, and in the time there wasno doubt that he would find out what was the right thing to do. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE MILLIONNAIRE. 

When Mr. May woke next morning, it was not the book-case he thought of, but that date which had been the last thing in his mind on the previousnight. Not the 15th, --the 18th. Certainly he was right, and Cotsdean waswrong. Cotsdean was a puzzle-headed being, making his calculations bythe rule of thumb; but he had put down the date, and there could be nopossible mistake about it. He got up disposed to smile at the poor man'signorance and fussy restlessness of mind. "I have never left him in thelurch, he may trust to me surely in the future, " Mr. May said tohimself, and smiled with a kind of condescending pity for his pooragent's timidity; after all, perhaps, as Cotsdean had so little profitby it, it was not wonderful that he should be uneasy. After this, itmight be well if they did anything further of the sort, to divide themoney, so that Cotsdean too might feel that he had got something for therisk he ran; but then, to be sure, if he had not the money he had notrouble, except by his own foolish anxiety, for the payment, and alwaysa five-pound note or two for his pains. But Mr. May said to himself thathe would do no more in this way after the present bill was disposed of;no, he would make a stand, he would insist upon living within hisincome. He would not allow himself to be subject to these perpetualagitations any more. It would require an effort, but after the effortwas made all would be easy. So he said to himself; and it was the 18th, not the 15th, three days more to make his arrangements in. It had cometo be the 12th now, and up to this moment he had done nothing, havingthat vague faith in the Indian mail which had been realized, and yet hadnot been realized. But still he had nearly a week before him, which wasenough certainly. Anything that he could do in six months, he said tohimself, he could easily do in six days--the mere time was nothing; andhe smiled as he dressed himself leisurely, thinking it all over. Somehoweverything looked perfectly easy to him this time; last time he had beenplunged into tragic despair; now, and he did not know why, he took itquite easily; he seemed to fear nothing. There were various ways ofgetting the money as natural as the daylight, and in the mean time whyshould he make himself unhappy? As soon as he was ready he went to hisroom and had another look at the book-case which, with his best books init, all in order and ranged in unbroken lines, looked everything abook-case ought to look. It made him feel more of a man somehow, morelike the gentleman and scholar he had meant to be when he started inlife; he had not intended then to be a poor district incumbent all hislife, with a family of eight children. His book-case somehow transportedhim back to the days when he had thought of better things for himself, and when life had held an ideal for him. Perhaps at the best of times ithad never been a very high ideal; but when a man is over fifty and hasgiven up doing anything but struggle through each day as it comes, andget out of his work as best he may, doing what he must, leaving undonewhat he can, any ideal almost seems something higher than himself; butthe recollection of what he had meant to be, came back to him stronglywhen he looked at his carved oak. It had not been carried out; but stillhe felt rehabilitated and better in his own opinion as he stood besidethis costly purchase he had made, and felt that it changed his room andall his surroundings. It might have been almost wicked to run into suchan extravagance, but yet it did him good. 

"My people came down to the Hall last night, " Clarence Copperhead saidto him at breakfast, "and the Governor is coming over along with SirRobert. He'd like to see you, I am sure, and I suppose they'll be goingin for sight-seeing, and that sort of thing. He is a dab atsight-seeing, is the Governor. I can't think how he can stand it for mypart. "

"Then you must remember that I put myself at his orders for the day, "said Mr. May graciously. "Sir Robert is not a bad guide, but I am abetter, though it sounds modest to say it; and, Ursula, of course Mr. Copperhead will take luncheon with us. "

"Don't think of that, " said Clarence, "he's queer and likes his own way. Just as likely as not he'll think he ought to support the hotels of theplace where he is--sort of local production, you know. I think it'snonsense, but that is how it is--that's the man. "

"We shall look for him all the same, " said Mr. May, with a nod atUrsula; and a sudden project sprang up in his mind, wild as projects sooften are. This father whom his fancy, working upon what Clarence said, immediately invested with all the prodigal liberality of a typical richman; this stranger to whom a hundred pounds was less then a penny was tohimself, would give him the money he wanted. What so easy? He drew along breath, and though he had not been aware that he was anxious, hewas suddenly conscious of a sense of relief. Yes, to be sure, what sosimple, what so likely? he would explain his monetary necessitieslightly and with grace, and Mr. Copperhead would supply them. He was inthe mildest state of desperation, the painless stage, as may be seen, when this strange idea entered into his head. He hugged it, though hewas a man of the world and might have known better, and it produced akind of elation which would have been a very strange spectacle to anylooker-on who knew what it meant. The thing seemed done when he nextthought of it ten minutes later, settled as if it had been so for years. Mr. Copperhead would make it all right for him, and after that he wouldundertake such risks no more. 

Mr. Copperhead, however, did not come for two days, though Ursula spentall the morning and a great deal of trouble in arranging a luncheon forhim; but on the second morning he came, driven by Sir Robert, who hadchanged horses on the road, and who was in a somewhat irritated andexcited condition, very glad to get rid of his visitor. 

"I hope you don't mind having your toes trodden on, May, " he said, privately; "that fellow is never happy but when he's insulting someone. " And indeed Mr. Copperhead began this favourite pastime at once bymaking very big eyes at the sight of Ursula. "A-ha!" he said, rubbinghis hands, and elevating his eyebrows; and he gave a meaning laugh as heshook hands with her, and declared that he did not expect to find youngladies here. "I haven't a great deal of education myself, and I neverknew it could be carried on so pleasantly, " he said. "You're a luckyyoung dog, Clar, that's what you are;" and the son laughed with thefather at this excellent joke, though the rest of the company looked onwith great gravity. Ursula, for her part, turned with wondering eyesfrom the new-comer to her old friend, Sir Robert. 

"What does he mean?" she asked, with an appealing look. 

"He is the greatest brute I know, " said poor Sir Robert, under hisbreath; and he went off suddenly on the plea of business, leaving hisunpleasant visitor in Mr. May's hands, who undertook the charge notunwillingly, being possessed by his own plan. Mr. Copperhead went allover Carlingford. He inspected the town-hall, the infirmary, and thechurch, with the business-like air of a man who was doing his duty. 

"Poor little place, but well enough for the country, " he said. "Acountry-town's a mistake in my opinion. If I had it in my power I'd razethem all to the ground, and have one London and the rest green fields. That's your sort, Mr. May. Now you don't produce anything here, what'sthe good of you? All unproductive communities, sir, ought to be sweptoff the face of the earth. I'd let Manchester and those sort of placesgo on till they burst; but a bit of a little piggery like this, wherethere's nothing doing, no trade, no productions of any kind. "

"We like it all the same, " said Mr. May; "we small sort of people whohave no enterprise like you--"

"I dare say you like it! To be sure, you can moon about here as much asyou please, and make believe to do something, and there's nobody tocontradict you. In a great centre of industry you couldn't live likethat; you must work or you'll get pushed aside altogether; unless, ofcourse, you're a millionnaire to start with, " Mr. Copperhead added, witha noisy laugh. 

"Which I am not certainly--very much the reverse--in short, a poor manwith a large family, which I suppose is a thing about as objectionablein a centre of industry as anything can be. "

"The large family ain't objectionable if you make 'em work, " said Mr. Copperhead; "it all depends on that. There's always objections, youknow, " he said, with a jocular grin, "to pretty girls like that daughterof yours put straight in a young fellow's way. You won't mind my sayingit? They neither work themselves nor let others work--that sort. I thinkwe could get on with a deal fewer women, I must allow. There's whereProvidence is in a mistake. We don't want 'em in England; it's a wasteof raw material. They're bad for the men, and they ain't much good forthemselves, that I can see. "

"You are a little hard upon the ladies, Mr. Copperhead. "

"Not I--we can't do without 'em of course, and the surplus we ought toexport as we export other surpluses; but I object to them in a youngman's way, not meaning anything unpleasant to you. And perhaps if I hadbeen put up to it sooner--but let's hope there's no mischief done. Whatis this now? some of your antiquities, I suppose. Oh yes, let's have alook at it; but I confess it's the present age I like best. "

"This is the College, " cried Mr. May, swallowing certain sensationswhich impaired his sense of friendliness; "but not an educationalcollege, a foundation for old men--decayed citizens, as they arecalled--founded in the fifteenth century. My son is the chaplain, andwill be very glad to show it you. There are twelve old men here atpresent, very comfortably looked after, thanks to the liberalarrangements of the founder. They attend chapel twice a day, whereReginald officiates. It is very agreeable to me to have him settled sonear me. "

"Cunning I call it, " said Mr. Copperhead, with his hoarse laugh; "doesyou credit; a capital snug nest--nothing to do--and pay--pay good now?those old fellows generally managed that; as it was priests that had thedoing of it, of course they did well for their own kind. Good Lord, whata waste of good money all this is!" he continued, as they went into thequadrangle, and saw the little park beyond with its few fine trees;"half-a-dozen nice villas might be built on this site, and it's just thesort of place I should fancy where villas would pay. Why don't theCorporation lay hands on it? And your son lives here? Too dull for me; Ilike a little movement going on, but I dare say he likes it; and withhow much a year?"

"Two hundred and fifty; and some advantages beside--"

"Bravo!" said Mr. Copperhead, "now how many curates could you get forthat two and a-half? I've got a great respect for you, Mr. May; you knowwhat's what. That shows sense, that does. How do you do, sir? fine oldplace you've got here--capital snug appointment. I've just been sayingto your father I admire his sense, looking out for you a nice fat easyappointment like this. "

Reginald turned from red to white, and then to portentous blackness. Thesubject was of all others the one least likely to please him. 

"It is not very fat, " he said, with a look of offence, quite undeservedby the chief sufferer, towards his father, "nor very easy. But come in. It is rather an interesting old place. I suppose you would like to seethe Chapel, and the old captain's rooms; they are very fine in theirway. "

"Thank you; we've been seeing a deal already, and I feel tired. I thinkI'll--let you off the chapel. Hallo! here's another oldfriend--Northcote, by George! and what are _you_ doing here I shouldlike to know, a blazing young screamer of the Liberation Society, in ahigh and dry parson's rooms? This is as good as a play. "

"I suppose one is not required to stay at exactly the same point ofopinion all one's life, " said Northcote, with a half-smile. 

"By George! but you are though, when you're a public man; especiallywhen you're on a crusade. Haven't I heard you call it a crusade? I cantell you that changing your opinion is just the very last thing thepublic will permit you to do. But I shan't tell for my part--makeyourself easy. Clarence, don't you let it out; your mother, fortunately, is out of the way. The world shall never know through me that youngNorthcote, the anti-state Churchman, was discovered hob-nobbing with asnug chaplain in a sinecure appointment. Ha, ha! had you there. "

"To do Northcote justice, " said Mr. May; "he began life in Carlingfordby pointing out this fact to the neighbourhood; that it was a sinecure, and that my son and I--"

"Would it not be more to the point to inspect the chapel?" saidReginald, who had been standing by impatiently playing with a big key;upon which Mr. Copperhead laughed more loudly than before. 

"We'll not trouble the chapel, " he said, "railway stations are more inmy way; you are all a great deal finer than I am, and know a deal more, I suppose; but my roughness has served its purpose on the whole, betterperhaps for some things--yes, for some things, Clar, and you may thankyour stars, old boy. If you had been a parson's son, by George! therewould have been no fat appointment waiting for you. "

"After all, my son's appointment is not so very fat, " said Mr. May, forcing a laugh. "It is not so much as many a boy at school gets fromhis father. "

"Ah, you mean my boy at school! he's an extravagant dog. His mother andhe, sir, are made of different clay from me; they are porcelain and I amdelft. They want fine velvet cupboards to stand themselves in, while I'mfor the kitchen dresser. That's the difference. But I can afford it, thank Heaven. I tell Clarence that he may thank his stars that I canafford it, and that he isn't born a poor man's son. He has been pluckedat Oxford, you know, " he said, with a big laugh, thrusting forth hischest as Clarence thrust forth his shirt-front, with an apparentcomplacency over the very plucking. My son can afford to be plucked, heseemed to say. He got up as he spoke, and approaching the fireplaceturned his back to it, and gathered up his coat-tails under his arm. Hewas no taller than Mr. May, and very little taller than Reginald; butthey both shrank into insignificance beside the big self-assertivefigure. He looked about the room as if he was thinking of "buying up"the whole contents of it, and thought very little of them. A glance ofcontempt, a shrug more implied than actual, testified his low opinion ofeverything around. When he withdrew his eyes from the furniture he shookout his leg, as Clarence had done his, and gave a pull to his trousersthat they might sit properly. He had the word "Rich" painted in bigletters all over him, and he seemed to feel it his vocation to show thissense of superiority. Clarence by his side, the living copy of the greatman's appearance and manners, strutted and put himself forward like hisfather, as a big calf might place itself beside the parent cow. Mr. Copperhead did not look upon his offspring, however, with the cow'smotherly complacency. He laughed at him openly, with cynical amusement. He was clever in his way, and Clarence was stupid; and besides he wasthe proprietor, and Clarence, for all he was porcelain, was his goodsand chattels. When he looked at him, a wicked leer of derision awoke inhis eye. 

"Yes, my boy, " he said, "thank your stars; you would not make much of itif you were a poor man. You're an ornament that costs dear; but I canafford you. So, Northcote, you're changing your opinions--going over tothe Church, eh? Extremes meet, they say; I shouldn't have thought it--"

"I am doing nothing of the kind, " said Northcote stoutly. He was not ina mood to be taken to task by this Mammon of unrighteousness, and indeedhad at all times been a great deal too independent and unwilling tosubmit to leading members of the connection. Mr. Copperhead, however, showed no resentment. Northcote too, like Clarence, had a father beforehim, and stood on quite a different footing from the ordinary youngpastor, whose business it was to be humble and accept all that hisbetters might portion out. 

"Well, " he said, "you can afford to please yourself, and that's alwayssomething. By the way, isn't it time to have something to eat? If thereis a good hotel near--"

"Luncheon will be waiting at my house, " said Mr. May, who was stilldoing his best to please the man upon whom he had built such wild hopes, "and Ursula will be waiting. "

"Ah, ah, the young lady! so she will. I wouldn't miss that forsomething; but I don't like putting you to so much expense. My son herehas an excellent appetite, as you must have found out by this time, andfor my part so have I. I think it a thousand pities to put you to thistrouble--and expense. "

"Pray don't think of that, " said Mr. May with courtesy, which belied hisfeelings, for he would have liked nothing so well as to have knockeddown his complacent patron. He led the way out, almost with eagerness, feeling Mr. Copperhead to be less offensive out of doors than withinfour walls. Was this the sort of man to be appealed to for help as hehad thought? Probably his very arrogance would make him more disposedtowards liberality. Probably it would flatter his sense of consequence, to have such a request made to him. Mr. May was very much at sea, letting I dare not wait upon I would; afraid to speak lest he shouldshut this door of help by so doing, and afraid to lose the chance of anysuccour by not speaking. He tried hard, in spite of all hisdifficulties, to be smooth and agreeable to a man who had so much in hispower; but it was harder work than he could have thought. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

FATHER AND SON. 

Ursula had prepared a very careful luncheon for the stranger. Shethought him disagreeable, but she had not looked at him much, for, indeed, Ursula's mind was much unsettled. Horace Northcote had spoken toher that morning, after Mrs. Hurst's visit and her retaliation upon him, as no man yet had ever spoken to her before. He had told her a longstory, though it was briefly done, and could have been expressed inthree words. He was not of her species of humanity; his ways ofthinking, his prejudices, his traditions, were all different from hers, and yet that had happened to him which happens all over the world inevery kind of circumstances--without knowing how it was, he had got tolove her. Yes, he knew very well how it was, or rather, he knew when itwas, which is all that is to be expected from a lover. It was on theevening of the _entrées_, the first dinner-party, and he had gone onever since, deeper and deeper, hearing her say many things which he didnot agree in, and tracing her life through a score of little habitswhich were not congenial to his, yet loving her more and more for allthat was new to him, and even for the things which were uncongenial. Hehad told her all this, and Ursula had listened with a kind of awe, wondering at the ardour in the young man's eyes, and the warmth withwhich he spoke; wondering and trembling a little. She had guessed whathe meant the night before, as has been said, and this had touched herwith a little thrill of awakened feeling; but the innocent girl knew nomore about passion than a child, and when she saw it, glowing andardent, appealing to her, she was half-alarmed, half-overawed by thestrange sight. What answer could she make to him? She did not know whatto say. To reject him altogether was not in Ursula's heart; but shecould not respond to that strange, new, overwhelming sentiment, whichput a light in his eyes which she dared not meet; which dazzled her whenshe ventured a glance at him. "Was he to go away?" he asked, his voice, too, sounding musical and full of touching chords. Ursula could not tellhim to go away either. What she did say to him, she never quite knew;but at least, whatever it was, it left him hopeful, if unsatisfied. 

And since that time her mind had been in a strange confusion, aconfusion strange but sweet. Gratified vanity is not a pretty title togive to any feeling, and yet that mixture of gratification andgratitude, and penetrating pleasure in the fact of being elevated froman often-scolded and imperfect child to an admired and worshipped womanis, perhaps, of all the sensations that feminine youth is conscious of, the most poignant in its sweetness. It went through her whole life;sometimes it made her laugh when she was all alone, and there wasnothing of a laughter-producing nature in her way; and sometimes it madeher cry, both the crying and the laughter being one. It was strange, very strange, and yet sweet. Under the influence of this, and of thesecret homage which Northcote paid her whenever they met; and which shenow understood as she had never understood it before, the girl's wholenature expanded, though she did not know. She was becoming sweet to thechildren, to puzzled Janey, to every one around her. Her littlepetulances were all subdued. She was more sympathetic than she had everbeen before. And yet she was not in love with her lover. It was onlythat the sunshine of young life had caught her, that the highestgratification of youth had fallen to her share unawares. All this mighthave been, and yet some one else come in to secure Ursula's real love;but in the mean time she was all the happier, all the better for thelove which she did not return. 

This is a digression from our immediate subject, which was the luncheonprepared for Mr. Copperhead. Ursula sent up an urgent message for Phoebe, who came to her in her prettiest morning dress, very carefullyarranged, but with a line of care upon her brow. 

"I will come if you wish it, dear, " she said; "but I don't want to meetMr. Copperhead. I don't like him. "

"Neither do I like him, " cried Ursula. "He said something disagreeablethe little moment he was here. Oh, I don't remember what it was, butsomething. Please stay. What am I to do with them all by myself? If youwill help me, I may get through. "

Phoebe kissed her with a tremulous kiss; perhaps she was not unwilling tosee with her own eyes what the father of Clarence meant, and whatbrought him here. She sat down at the window, and was the first to seethem coming along the street. 

"What a gentleman your father looks beside them, " cried Phoebe; "both ofthem, father and son; though Clarence, after all, is a great deal betterthan his father, less like a British snob. "

Ursula came and stood by her, looking out. 

"I don't think he is much better than his father, " she said. 

Phoebe took her hand suddenly and wrung it, then dropped it as if it hadhurt her. What did it all mean? Ursula, though rays of enlightenment hadcome to her, was still perplexed, and did not understand. 

Mr. Copperhead did not see her till he went to luncheon, when Phoebeappeared with little Amy May looking like a visitor, newly arrived. Shehad run upstairs after that first sight of him from the window, declaring herself unable to be civil to him except at table. The greatman's face almost grew pale at the sight of her. He looked at Ursula, and then at Clarence, and laughed. 

"'Wheresoever the carcase is the eagles are gathered together, '" hesaid. "That's Scripture, ain't it, Miss Ursula? I am not good at givingchapter and verse. "

"What does it mean?" asked Ursula. 

She was quite indifferent to Mr. Copperhead, and perfectly unconsciousof his observation. As for Phoebe, on the contrary, she was slightlyagitated, her placid surface ruffled a little, and she looked her bestin her agitation. Mr. Copperhead looked straight at her across thetable, and laughed in his insolent way. 

"So you are here too, Miss Phoebe!" he said. "I might think myself in theCrescent if I didn't know better. I met young Northcote just now, andnow you. What may you be doing here, might one ask? It is what you calla curious coincidence, ain't it, Clarence and you both here?"

"I said so when Mr. Clarence came, " said Phoebe. "_I_ came to take careof my grandmother, who is ill; and it was a very lucky thing for me thatI had met Miss May at your ball, Mr. Copperhead. "

"By Jove, wasn't it!" said Clarence, roused to some dull sense of whatwas going on. "We owe all the fun we have had here to that, so we do. Odd, when one thinks of it; and thought so little of it then, didn't we?It's a very queer world. "

"So you've been having fun here?" said his father. "I thought you camehere to work; that's how we old fellows get taken in. Work! with youngladies dangling about, and putting things into your head! I ought tohave known better, don't you think so, Miss Ursula? _You_ could havetaught me a thing or two. "

"I?" said Ursula, startled. "I don't know what I could teach any one. Ithink Mr. Clarence Copperhead has kept to his hours very steadily. Papais rather severe; he never would take any excuse from any of us when wewere working with him. "

"He is not so severe now, I'll be bound, " said Mr. Copperhead. "Lets youhave your fun a little, as Clarence tells me; don't you, May? Girls willbe girls, and boys, boys, whatever we do; and I am sure, Miss Phoebe, youhave been very entertaining, as you always were. "

"I have done my best, " said Phoebe, looking him in the face. "I shouldhave had a dull life but for the Parsonage, and I have tried to begrateful. I have accompanied your son on the violin a great manyevenings, and I hope our friends have liked it. Mr. Clarence is apromising player, though I should like him to trust less to his ear; butwe always pulled through. "

"Thanks to you, " said Clarence, in the middle of his cutlet

He did not quite see why she should flourish this music in his father'sface; but still he was loyal in a dull fashion, and he was obstinate, and did not mean to be "sat upon, " to use his own words. As for Phoebe, her quick mind caught at once the best line of policy. She determined todeliver Ursula, and she determined at the same time to let her futurefather-in-law (if he was to be her father-in-law) see what sort of aperson he had to deal with. As soon as she made up her mind, heragitation disappeared. It was only the uncertainty that had cowed her;now she saw what to do. 

"So!" said Mr. Copperhead, "musical evenings! I hope you have notturned poor Clar's head among you, young ladies. It's not a very stronghead; and two is more than a match for one. I dare say he has had nochance between you. "

"Make yourself quite easy, " said Phoebe, with her sweetest smile; "he wasonly one of a party. Mr. Reginald May and Mr. Northcote are both verypleasant companions. Your son is bored sometimes, but the rest of us arenever bored. You see, he has been accustomed to more brilliant society;but as for us, we have no particular pretensions. We have been veryhappy. And if there has been two to one, it has been the other way. "

"I think I must let your people know of your gaieties, Miss Phoebe. Ifyour mother sent you here, I don't doubt it was for a purpose, eh? Sheknows what she's about, and she won't like it if she knows you arefritting away your chances and your attentions. She has an eye forbusiness, has Mrs. Beecham, " said the leading member, with a laugh. 

"You cannot tell mamma more about me than she knows already, " saidPhoebe, with rising colour. 

And by this time every one else at table was uncomfortable. EvenClarence, who had a dull appreciation of his father's jokes when theywere not levelled at himself, and who was by no means indisposed tobelieve that "girls, " generally, were "after him, " and that even in thisparticular case Phoebe herself might have come to Carlingford on purposeto complete his conquest, even Clarence was moved. 

"I don't know what you mean by brilliant society, " he said. "I know I'mthe dull one among you clever people. I don't say much, but I know itall the same; and it's awfully good of you to pull me through all thatmusic. I don't begrudge you your laugh after. Is my mother coming over, sir, to see the place?"

"To see what? There is not much in the place, " said Mr. Copperhead. "You're coming back with me, my boy. I hope it won't inconvenience you, May. I've other views for him. Circumstances alter cases, you know. I'vebeen turning it over in my head, and I think I can see my way to anotherarrangement. "

"That, of course, is entirely in your own hands, " said Mr. May, with acheerfulness he did not feel. His heart sank, but every rule of goodsociety made it incumbent upon him to show no failure at such a moment. "Copperhead, see that your father has some wine. Well, I suppose ourpoor little Carlingford is not much of a place; no trade, no movement, no manufactures--"

"The sort of place that should be cleared off the face of the earth, "said the millionnaire; "meaning no offence, of course. That's my opinionin respect to country towns. What's the good of them? Nests of gossip, places where people waste their time, and don't even amuse themselves. Give me green fields and London, that is my sort. I don't care if therewas not another blessed brick in the country. There is always somethingthat will grow in a field, corn or fat beasts--not that we couldn't getall that cheaper from over the water if it was managed as it ought tobe. But a place like this, what's the good of it? Almshouses andchaplains, and that kind of rubbish, and old women; there's old women bythe score. "

"They must be somewhere, I suppose, " said Mr. May. "We cannot kill themoff, if they are inoffensive, and keep the laws. So that, after all, acountry town is of use. "

"Kill 'em off--no; it's against what you benevolent humbugs call thespirit of the time, and Christianity, and all that; but there's such athing as carrying Christianity too far; that's my opinion. There's youralmshouses now. What's the principle of them? I call it encouragingthose old beggars to live, " said Mr. Copperhead; "giving them permissionto burden the community as long as they can manage it; a dead mistake, depend upon it, the greatest mistake in the world. "

"I think there is a great deal to be said in favour of Euthanasia, " saidPhoebe, quietly stepping into the conversation; "but then it would haveto be with the consent of the victims. When any one found himselfuseless, unnecessary to the world, or unhappy in it--"

"Humbug and nonsense, " said Mr. Copperhead. "A likely thing for anybodyto do. No, it is not a question for law-making. Let 'em die outnaturally, that's my opinion. Don't do anything to hurry 'em--that is, Idon't see my way to it; but let 'em go quiet, and don't bring 'emcordials and feather-beds, and all that middyeval nonsense, to keep 'emgoing as long as possible. It's wicked, that's what it is. "

"At all events, " said Mr. May, who, poor man, was bent on pleasing, "itis refreshing to hear opinions so bold and original. Something new isalways a blessing. I cannot say I agree with you--"

"No parson would be bold enough for that. Christianity's been a capitalthing for the world, " said Mr. Copperhead, "I don't say a word againstit; but in these go-ahead days, sir, we've had enough of it, that's tosay when it's carried too far. All this fuss about the poor, all the rowabout dragging up a lot of poor little beggars to live that had farbetter die, and your almshouses to keep the old ones going, past allnature! Shovel the mould over them, that's the thing for the world; let'em die when they ought to die; and let them live who can live--that'smy way of thinking--and what's more, I'm right. "

"What a fine thing for you, Mr. Clarence, " cried Phoebe, "who are goinginto Parliament! to take up your father's idea and work it out. What aspeech you could make on the subject! I saw a hospital once in Paristhat would make such a wonderful illustration. I'll tell you about it ifyou like. Poor old wretched people whose life was nothing butwretchedness kept going, kept living for years and years--why, no onecould tell; for I am sure it would have been better, far better for themto die and be done with it. What a speech you might make when you bringa bill into Parliament to abolish almshouses and all sorts ofcharities!" she added with a laugh, turning from Clarence, at whom shehad been looking, to his father, who was puzzled, and did not know howto understand the young woman's eyes. 

"I'll never make much of a speech in Parliament, " said Clarence; "unlessyou make it for me, " he added in an undertone. But no one else wasspeaking, and the undertone was quite audible. Meanwhile Phoebe had notceased to look at his father, and held him with a pair of eyes not likethe Ancient Mariner's. Mr. Copperhead was confused, his power even ofinsolence was cowed for the moment. He obeyed quite docilely themovement made to leave the table. Was it possible that she defied him, this Minister's daughter, and measured her strength against his? Mr. Copperhead felt as if he could have shaken the impertinent girl, butdared not, being where he was. 

And lunch being over, Mr. May led his pupil's father into his study. "Iwant to show you what your boy has been doing, " he said, pointing to aline of books which made the millionnaire's soul shrink within him. "Ihave not bothered him with classics; what was the use as he is not goingback to Oxford? but I have done my best for him in a practical way. Hehas read history, largely as you see, and as much as I could give him ofpolitical and constitutional--"

"Yes, yes, " said Mr. Copperhead, reading the titles of some of the booksunder his breath. They impressed him deeply, and took away for a momenthis self-confidence. It was his habit to boast that he knew nothingabout books; but in their presence he shrank, feeling that they weregreater than he, which was, there is little doubt, a sign of grace. 

"If you wish to remove Clarence, " said Mr. May, "perhaps I had bettermake out a scheme of reading for him. "

"Look here, " cried the rich man, "I didn't want to remove him; but therehe is, the first I see of him, cheek for jowl with a good-looking girl. I don't mean to say a word against Miss May, I've no doubt she'scharming; but anyhow there she is side by side with Clar, who is no moreable to resist that sort of thing--"

Mr. May laughed, and this time with unmitigated amusement. "Do you meanUrsula? I think I can answer for it that she made no attempts upon himfor which resistance would be necessary. "

"That's all very well to say; but bless you they do it, every one, " saidMr. Copperhead, "without exception, when a young fellow's well off andwell-looking; and as if one wasn't bad enough, you've got Phoebe Beecham. You won't tell me she doesn't mean anything?--up to any mischief, a realminister's daughter. I don't mean anything uncivil to you or yours. Isuppose a parson's different; but we know what a minister's daughter isin our connection. Like the men themselves, in short, who are alwayspouncing on some girl with a fortune if her relations don't take care. And Clarence is as weak as a baby; he takes after his mother--a poor bitof a feeble creature, though he's like me in exterior. That's how it is, you perceive; I don't quite see my way to letting him go on. "

"That is of course precisely as you please, " said Mr. May, somewhatsharply. He would preserve his dignity even though his heart wassinking; but he could not keep that tone of sharpness out of his voice. 

"Of course it is as I please. I'll pay up of course for the second threemonths, if you choose, fair and square. I meant him to stay, and I'llpay. But that's all. You've no further claim upon me that I know of; andI must say that for a tutor, a regular coach, to keep girls in hishouse, daughters, or whatever you choose to call them, is somethingmonstrous. It's a thing no fellow's friends would put up with. It's whatI call dishonourable. "

"Perhaps, " said Mr. May, with all the self-possession he was master of, "you will let your son know at once that he must pack and go. I daresay, Sir Robert can take him, and we will send the portmanteaux. In sucha case, it is better there should not be a moment's delay. "

"Clarence!" cried Mr. Copperhead, walking to the door and opening it. "Come along, look sharp, you're to go. I'll take you with me, do youhear? And May will see to sending you your boxes. Quick, come along, there's no time to lose. "

"Go!" said Clarence, coming in startled, with his eyebrows rising almostinto his hair. "Go? What do you mean? Out of the Parsonage? TheGovernor's been having too much sherry, " he said, coming close to Mr. May's arm; he had himself been taking too much of the sherry, for thegood reason that nobody had taken any notice of what he did, and that hehad foreseen the excitement that was coming. "You don't mean it, Iknow, " he added aloud; "I'll go over for the night if Sir Robert willhave me, and see my mother--"

"Ask May, " said Mr. Copperhead, "you'll believe him, I suppose; he's asglad to get rid of you as I am to take you away. "

"Is this true?" cried Clarence, roused and wondering, "and if so, what'shappened? I ain't a baby, you know, to be bundled about from one toanother. The Governor forgets that. "

"Your father, " said Mr. May, "chooses to remove you, and that is all Ichoose to say. "

"But, by George, I can say a deal more, " said Mr. Copperhead. "Yousimpleton, do you think I am going to leave you here where there'sman-traps about? None of such nonsense for me. Put your things together, I tell you. Phoebe Beecham's bad enough at home; but if she thinks she'sto have you here to pluck at her leisure, she and her friends--"

"W--hew!" said Clarence, with a long whistle. "So that's it. I am verysorry, father, if these are your sentiments; but I may as well tell youat once I shan't go. "

"You--must go. "

"No, " he said, squaring his shoulders and putting out his shirt front;he had never been roused into rebellion before, and perhaps withoutthese extra glasses of sherry he would not have had the courage now. Butwhat with sherry, and what with _amour propre_, and what with the thinghe called love, Clarence Copperhead mounted all at once upon a pedestal. He had a certain dogged obstinacy in him, suspected by nobody but hismother, who had little enough to say in the guidance of her boy. He sethimself square like a pugilist, which was his notion of resistance. Mr. May looked on with a curious mixture of feelings. His own sudden andfoolish hope was over, and what did it matter to him whether thedetestable father or the coarse son should win? He turned away from themwith contempt, which was made sharp by their utter uselessness tohimself. Had it been possible that he might have what he wanted fromMr. Copperhead, his patience would have held out against any trial; butthe moment that hope was over, what further interest had he in thequestion? He went to his writing-table and sat down there, leaving themto fight it out as they would, by themselves. It was no affair of his. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

A PLEASANT EVENING. 

The result, however, was a compromise. Clarence Copperhead went off withhis father and Sir Robert to the Hall for the night, but was to returnnext day, and Phoebe was left in a condition of some excitement behindthem, not quite knowing what to think. She was as sure as ever that hehad made up his mind to propose; but he had not done it, and what effecthis father's visit, and perhaps his mother's entreaties, might have uponhim, Phoebe could not tell. The crisis excited her beyond any excitementwhich she would have thought possible in respect to Clarence Copperhead. She was more like an applicant for office kept uncertain whether she wasto have a desirable post or not, than a girl on the eve of a lover'sdeclaration. This was her own conception of the circumstances. She didnot dislike Clarence; quite the reverse. She had no sympathy withUrsula's impatience of his heavy vanity. Phoebe had been used to him allher life, and had never thought badly of the heavy boy whom she had beeninvited to amuse when she was six years old, and whom she had noparticular objection to amuse still, let the others wonder at her asthey might. Poor Reginald, contemplating bitterly her many littlecomplacencies to his rival, set them down hastily to an appreciation ofthat rival's worldly advantages, which was not quite a just sentence. Itwas true, and yet it was not true; other feelings mingled in Phoebe'sworldliness. She did, indeed, perceive and esteem highly the advantageswhich Clarence could give her; but she had not the objections toClarence himself that the others had. She was willing, quite willing, toundertake the charge of him, to manage, and guide, and make a man ofhim. And yet, while it was not pure worldliness, much less was it actuallove which moved her. It was a kind of habitual affection, as for the"poor thing, but mine own, sir, " of the jester. He was but a poorcreature, but Phoebe knew she could make something of him, and she hadno distaste to the task. When she began to perceive that Reginald, in somany ways Clarence's superior, was at her disposal, a sense ofgratification went through Phoebe's mind, and it certainly occurred toher that the feeling he might inspire would be a warmer and a moredelightful one than that which would fall to Clarence Copperhead; butshe was not tempted thereby to throw Clarence off for the other. No, shewas pleased, and not unwilling to expend a little tender regret andgratitude upon poor Reginald. She was ready to be "kind" to him, thoughevery woman knows that is the last thing she ought to be to a rejectedlover; and she was full of sympathy for the disappointment which, nevertheless, she fully intended was to be his lot. This seemsparadoxical, but it is no more paradoxical than human creaturesgenerally are. On this particular evening her heart beat very high onaccount of Clarence, to know if he would have strength of mind to holdhis own against his father, and if he would come back to her and askher, as she felt certain he meant to do, that one momentous question. Her heart would not have been broken had he not done so, but still shewould have been disappointed. Notwithstanding when the evening came, theabsence of Clarence was a relief to Phoebe as well as to the rest of theparty, and she gave herself up to the pleasures of a few hours ofhalf-tender intercourse with Reginald, with a sense of enjoyment such asshe seldom felt. This was very wrong, there is no denying it, but stillso it was. She was anxious that Clarence should come back to her, andask her to be his wife; and yet she was pleased to be rid of Clarence, and to give her whole attention and sympathy to Reginald, trying herbest to please him. It was very wrong; and yet such things have happenedbefore, and will again; and are as natural, perhaps, as the moreabsolute and unwavering passion which has no doubt of its object, passion like Northcote's, who had neither eyes nor ears for anything butUrsula. The four were alone together that evening, and enjoyed itthoroughly. Clarence was away, who, to all but Phoebe, was aninterruption of their intercourse; and Mr. May was away in his study, too much absorbed to think of any duties that ought to have devolvedupon him as chaperon; and even Janey was out of the way, taking tea withMrs. Hurst. So the two young pairs sat round the table and talked; thegirls, with a mutual panic, which neither breathed to the other, keepingtogether, avoiding separation into pairs. Ursula out of very shyness andfright alone, lest another chapter of the strange, novel, too movinglove-tale might be poured into her ears; but Phoebe with more settledpurpose, to prevent any disclosure on the part of Reginald. The eveningwas mixed up of pleasure and pain to the two young men, each eager tofind himself alone with the girl whom he loved; but it is to be fearedthe girls themselves had a furtive guilty enjoyment of it, which theyought not to have had. Open and outrageous love-making is not half sodelicate a pastime as that in which nothing distinct dare be said, butall is implication, conveyed and understood without words. I know it isa dangerous thing to confess, but veracity requires the confession; youmay say it was the playing of the cat with the mouse, if you wish togive a disagreeable version of it; but, however you choose to explainit, this was how it was. 

It was with fear and trembling at last that Phoebe went to the piano, which was at the other end of the room, after making all the resistancewhich was possible. 

"Thank Heaven, that idiot and his fiddle aren't here to-night tointerfere!" cried Reginald. 

Phoebe shook her head at him, but ventured on no words; and how she didexert herself on the piano, playing things which were a great deal tooclassical for Reginald, who would have preferred the simplest stockpiece, under cover of which he might have talked to her hanging over herchair, and making belief to turn over the music! This was what hewanted, poor fellow. He had no heart nor ears for Beethoven, which Phoebeplayed to him with a tremor in her heart, and yet, the wicked littlewitch, with some enjoyment too. 

"This is not the sort of thing you play when Copperhead is here, " hesaid at last, driven to resistance. 

"Oh, we play Mendelssohn, " said Phoebe, with much show of innocence; andthen she added, "You ought to feel the compliment if I play Beethoven toyou. "

"So I ought, I suppose, " said Reginald. "The truth is, I don't care formusic. Don't take your hands off the keys. "

"Why, you have done nothing but worry me to play!"

"Not for the music, " said Reginald, quite satisfied to have got hiswill. "Why will you not talk to me and play to me, as I wish?"

"Perhaps, if I knew what you wish--" Phoebe said, in spite of herself. 

"Oh, how I should like to tell you! No, not Beethoven; a little, just alittle music. Heavens!" cried Reginald, as she crashed into afortissimo, "another sonata! Listen, I am not equal to sonatas. Nay, Miss Beecham, play me a little nothing--talk to me. "

She shook her head at him with a laugh, and went on playing the hardestpiece of music she could think of, complicating herself in difficultchords and sudden accidentals. If there had been anybody there to hearwho could have understood, Phoebe's performance would, no doubt, haveappeared a masterpiece of brilliant execution, as it was; but the twoothers were paying not the slightest attention, and as for Reginald, hewas in a state of tantalized vexation, which half-amused himself, andfilled the performer with an exhilarating sense of successful mischief. Northcote was trying to say--what was he not trying to say?--to Ursula, under cover of the music, which was the best shield he could have had;and perhaps in reality, though Reginald was tantalized to the utmostdegree of tantalization, even he had a certain enjoyment in the saucyself-defence which was more mischievous than cruel. He stood behindPhoebe's chair, now and then meeting her laughing glance with one oftender appeal and reproach, pleased to feel himself thus isolated withher, and held an arm's-length in so genial a way. He would have hisopportunity after a while, when there would be no piano to give her amomentary refuge, and then he would say out all that was in his heart, with no possible shadow of a rival to interfere with him. Angry? no; ashe stood behind her, watching her fingers fly over the keys, adelightful calm stole over Reginald. Now and then she would throw ahalf-mocking glance at him upward over her shoulder, as she swept overthe resounding board. When the sonata was concluded, Phoebe sprang upfrom the piano, and went back to the table. She proposed that theyshould play a game at cards, to which Ursula agreed. The young menshrugged their shoulders and protested; but, after all, what did itmatter, so long as they were together? They fell into their places quitenaturally, the very cards assisting; and so the moments flew by. Therewas not so much sound as usual in the old faded drawing-room, which hadcome to look so bright and homelike; not so much sound of voices, perhaps less laughter--yet of all the evenings they had spent theretogether, that was the one they looked back upon, all four, with mosttender recollection. They had been so happy, or, if not happy, so near(apparently) to happiness, which is better sometimes than happinessitself. 

"Don't let Reginald come with me, " Phoebe whispered, as she kissed herfriend, and said good night, "or ask Mr. Northcote to come too. "

"Why?" said Ursula, with dreamy eyes; her own young tide of life wasrising, invading, for the moment, her perceptions, and dulling her senseof what was going on round her. There was no time, however, foranything more to be said, for Reginald was close behind with his hat inhis hand. Phoebe had to resign herself, and she knew what was coming. Theonly thing was, if possible, to stop the declaration on the way. 

"This is the first chance I have had of seeing you home without thatperpetual shadow of Copperhead--"

"Ah, poor Clarence!" said Phoebe. "I wonder how he is getting on awayfrom us all to-night. "

"Poor Clarence!" echoed Reginald aghast. "You don't mean to say thatyou--miss him, Miss Beecham? I never heard you speak of him in that tonebefore. "

"Miss him! no, perhaps not exactly, " said Phoebe, with a soft littlesigh; "but still--I have known him all my life, Mr. May; when we werequite little I used to be sent for to his grand nursery, full of lovelytoys and things--a great deal grander than mine. "

"And for that reason--" said Reginald, becoming bitter, with a laugh. 

"Nothing for that reason, " said Phoebe; "but I noticed it at six as Ishould at twenty. I must have been a horrid little worldly-minded thing, don't you think? So you see there are the associations of a great manyyears to make me say Poor Clarence, when anything is the matter withhim. "

"He is lucky to rouse your sympathies so warmly, " cried Reginald, thoroughly wretched; "but I did not know there was anything the matter. "

"I think there will be if he has to leave our little society, where wehave all been so happy, " said Phoebe, softly. "How little one thought, coming here a stranger, how pleasant it was to be! I especially, to whomcoming to Carlingford was rather--perhaps I might say a humiliation. Iam very fond of grandpapa and grandmamma now, but the first introductionwas something of a shock--I have never denied it; and if it had not beenfor sweet kind Ursula and you--all. "

The little breathless fragmentary pause which Phoebe made between the youand the "all, " giving just a ghost of emphasis to the pronoun, soundedto poor Reginald in his foolishness almost like a caress. How cleverlyit was managed, with just so much natural feeling in it as gave itreality! They were approaching No. 6, and Martha, the maid, already wasvisible at the open door. 

"Then you do give me some share--some little share, " he cried, with abroken voice. "Ah, if you would only let me tell you what your cominghas been to me. It has opened up my life; I feel everything different, the old earth itself; there is a new light upon the whole world--"

"Hush, here is Martha!" cried Phoebe, "she will not understand about newlights. Yes, it has been pleasant, very pleasant; when one begins tosigh and realize how pleasant a thing has been, I always fear it isgoing to be broken up. "

"_Absit omen!_" cried Reginald, fervently, taking the hand she had putout to bid him good night, and holding it fast to detain her; and wasthere moisture in the eyes which she lifted to him, and which glistened, he thought, though there was only the distant light of a lamp to seethem by?

"You must not keep me now, " cried Phoebe, "here is grandpapa coming. Goodnight, Mr. May, good night. "

Was Phoebe a mere coquette _pure et simple_? As soon as she had got safewithin these walls, she stooped down over the primroses to get rid ofMartha, and then in the darkness had a cry, all by herself, on one sideof the wall, while the young lover, with his head full of her, checked, but not altogether discouraged, went slowly away on the other. Shecried, and her heart contracted with a real pang. He was very tender inhis reverential homage, very romantic, a true lover, not the kind of manwho wants a wife or wants a clever companion to amuse him, and save himthe expense of a coach, and be his to refer to in everything. That wasan altogether different kind of thing. Phoebe went in with a sense in hermind that perhaps she had never touched so close upon a higher kind ofexistence, and perhaps never again might have the opportunity; butbefore she had crossed the garden, she had begun once more to questionwhether Clarence would have the fortitude to hold his own againsteverything that father or mother could do to change his mind. Would hehave the fortitude? Would he come back to her, safe and determined, orwould he yield to arguments in favour of some richer bride, and comeback either estranged or at the least doubtful? This gave her a pang ofprofound anxiety at the bottom of her heart. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

AN EXPEDITION. 

Mr. May did not come upstairs that evening. It was not that he wasparalysed as he had been on the previous occasion, when he sat as nowand heard Phoebe go away after her first visit, and when the wind blowingin from the open door playfully carried to his feet the scribbled notewith Tozer's name. He was not stupefied as then, nor was he miserable. The threatened withdrawal of Clarence Copperhead was more to him thanthe impending ruin meant by that bill which was so nearly due. He wasoccupied by that to the exclusion of the other. It would be a mostserious change to him in every way. He had calculated on the continuanceof this additional income for at least a year, and short of the year itwould have done him no good, but had simply plunged him into additionalexpense. It was this he was thinking of, and which kept him in his studyafter the young people had assembled. Cotsdean had come again while Mr. May was at dinner, which by some curious unconscious aggravation on hispart was the time he especially chose as most convenient for him; and hehad again sent a dirty note by Bobby, imploring his principal to thinkof the impending fate, and not to desert him. Mr. May was angry at thisperpetual appeal. "Why should I desert him, the idiot?" he said tohimself; and moved by the man's persistence, he took out his pocket-bookagain, and made out beyond all chance of mistake, that it was the 18th. Why should the fool insist upon its being the 15th with such perpetualiteration? There were the figures as plain as possible, 18th April. Mr. May wrote a peremptory note announcing this fact to Cotsdean, and thenreturned to his own thoughts. Sir Robert had asked him to go over thatmorning and spend the day at the Hall with the Copperheads, not knowingof any breach between them. He thought he had better do this. IfClarence determined to stay, that would be a great thing in his favour, and he had seen that the young man's dull spirit was roused; and if thathope failed, there might still be advantage even in this sudden breakingof the bond. Part of the second quarter was gone, and the father hadoffered three months additional pay. These two payments would make upthe hundred and fifty pounds at once, and settle the business. Thus, ineither way, he should be safe, for if Clarence went away the money wouldbe paid; and if he stayed, Mr. May himself had made up his mind to riskthe bold step of going to the bank and asking an advance on thisinalienable security. All these deliberations made his mind easy aboutthe bill. It must come right one way or another; he might have chosenperhaps not to run it quite so close; but after all the 15th was onlyto-morrow, and there were still three days. While his mind was full ofthese things he did not care to go upstairs. He heard the voices of theyoung people, but he was too much engrossed with his own calculations tocare to join them. It was a close thing, he said to himself, a veryclose thing; but still he felt that he could do it--surely he could doit. If Mr. Copperhead settled with him--and he was the sort of man, aman to whom money was nothing, to do so on the spot if he took it intohis head--then all was right. And if Mr. Copperhead did not do so, thebank, though his past transactions with it had not been encouraging, would certainly make all right on account of these Copperhead payments, which were as certain as any payments could be. He went to bed early, being engrossed by these thoughts, not even saying good-night to Ursula, as was his wont; and he made up his mind to take an early breakfast, andstart the first thing in the morning for the Hall. There was an earlytrain which would suit admirably. He could not afford to drive, as SirRobert had done, changing horses half way. He went upstairs to bed, somewhat heavily, but not discontented, seeing his way. After all, thegreat thing in life is to see your way. It does not matter so muchwhether that way is great or small, so long as you can see it plainbefore you. Mr. May breathed a sigh of anxiety as he ended the day. Hehad a great many things on his mind; but still he was not altogetherheavy-hearted or discouraged beyond measure; things, he felt, wouldshape themselves better than he had hoped. He was not perhaps going tobe so much better off than of old, as he thought possible when ClarenceCopperhead came. Such delusive prospects do glimmer across a poor man'spath when any apparent expansion of means occurs to him; but in themajority of cases he has to consent to see the fine fictitious glow dieaway. Mr. May was not ignorant of this experience already. A man who isover fifty is generally more or less prepared for anything that canhappen to him in this kind; but he thought he could "get on;" and afterall that is the sum of life to three parts of mankind. 

He was silent at breakfast, but not disagreeable, and Ursula was toomuch taken up with her own concerns to pay much attention to him. Ursula's concerns were developing with a rapidity altogetherextraordinary. In the mind of a girl of twenty, unforestalled by anyprevious experience, the process that goes on between the moment whenthe surprising, overwhelming discovery rushes upon her that some oneloves her in the old way of romance, until the corresponding moment whenshe finds out that her own heart too has been invaded by this wonderfulsentiment, which is like nothing that was ever known before, is of avery rapid description. It is like the bursting of a flower, which aday's sunshine brings to the blooming point like a miracle, though it isin reality the simplest result of nature. Already there began to glow ahaze of brightness about those three months past in which everything hadbegun. When or how it began she could not now tell. The glow of it wasin her eyes and dazzled her. She heard the voices of the others soundingvaguely through this bright mist in which she herself was isolated; whenshe was obliged to reply, she called herself back with an effort, anddid so--but of her own will she seldom spoke. How Janey chattered, howthe children maundered on about their little concerns, which were ofconsequence to nobody! Papa was the person whom Ursula really respectedthis morning, for he had more sense than to talk. How could people talk, as if there was pleasure in that? But papa had more sense, he had thingsto think of--too. So the girl approved her father, and thought morehighly of him, and never inquired what it might be that occupied hismind, and kept him from noticing even when the children were unruly. Andit would be giving the reader an unfair idea of the children, if weattempted to conceal that they did take advantage of theiropportunities, and were as unruly as well-conditioned children in thecircumstances were likely to be. Mr. May took no notice; he took hiscoffee hurriedly and went off to the station. 

"If I don't return this evening you need not be alarmed. I shall comeback at the latest to-morrow morning, " he said. 

The children all rushed to the window to see him go away; even Ursulalooking out dreamily remarked him too, as she seldom did; and Mrs. SamHurst at her window, wondering where her neighbour could be going, heaved a deep sigh of admiration, which though she was not "in love, " asthe girls thought, with Mr. May, was a passing tribute to his good looksand training. He looked a gentleman every inch of him--an Englishgentleman, spotless in linen, speckless in broadcloth, though his dresswas far from new; the freshness of sound health and a clear conscienceon his handsome face, though he was no longer young. His abundant hair, steel-grey, slightly crisped under his hat, not curling exactly, butwith a becoming twist in it--clerical, yet not too clerical, a man givento no extremes, decorously churchmanlike, yet liberal and tolerant ofthe world. Though she was too wise to compromise her own comfort bymarrying him, Mrs. Hurst felt that there was a great pleasure in makinghis daughters anxious about her "intentions, " and that even to be saidto be in love with such a man was no shame, but rather the reverse. 

He went away accordingly, taking a short cut to the railway, and thusmissing Cotsdean, who came breathless ten minutes after he was gone, andfollowed him to the train; but too late. 

"Well, well, " Cotsdean said to himself, wiping his forehead, "Old Tozerhas plenty, it ain't nothing to him to pay. They can settle it between'em. "

Cotsdean himself was easier in his mind than he had ever been before onsuch an occasion. His clergyman, though personally an awful andrespect-inspiring personage, was so far as money went a man of straw, ashe well knew, and his name on a bill was very little worth; but Tozerwas a man who could pay his way. A hundred and fifty pounds, or even tentimes that, would not ruin the old shopkeeper. Cotsdean's sense ofcommercial honour was not so very keen that the dishonouring of his billin the circumstances should give him a very serious pang. He would notbe sold up, or have an execution put into his shop when the other partyto the bill was so substantial a person. Of course Tozer, when he signedit, must have been told all about it, and Cotsdean did not see how withtwo such allies against ruin, anything very serious could befall him. Hewas uneasy indeed, but his uneasiness had no such force in it as before. He went back to his shop and his business prepared to take the matter ascalmly as possible. He was but passive in it. It could not harm him muchin the eyes of his banker, who knew his affairs too well to be muchastonished at any such incident, and Tozer and Mr. May must settle itbetween them. It was their affair. 

Meanwhile Mr. May rattled along in the railway towards the Hall. He gota dog-cart at the little inn at the station to take him over, thoughgenerally when he went to see the Dorsets it was his custom to walk. "But what were a few shillings?" he said to himself, the prodigality ofdesperation having seized upon him. In any case he could pay that, andif he was to be ruined, what did a few shillings more or less matter?but the discomfort of walking over those muddy roads, and arriving withdirty boots and a worn-out aspect, mattered a great deal. He reached theHall at a propitious moment, when Mr. Copperhead was in the highestgood-humour. He had been taken over the place, from one end to another, over the stables, the farm-buildings, the farm itself from end to end, the preserves, the shrubberies, the greenhouses, everything; all ofwhich details he examined with an unfailing curiosity which would havebeen highly flattering to the possessors if it had not been neutralizedby a strain of comment which was much less satisfactory. When Mr. Maywent in, he found him in the dining-room, with Sir Robert and hisdaughters standing by, clapping his wings and crowing loudly over apicture which the Dorsets prized much. It represented a bit of vagueItalian scenery, mellow and tranquil, and was a true "Wilson, " bought byan uncle of Sir Robert's, who had been a connoisseur, from the Masterhimself, in the very country where it was painted; and all these detailspleased the imagination of the family, who, though probably they wouldhave been but mildly delighted had they possessed the acquaintance ofthe best of contemporary painters, were proud that Uncle Charles hadknown Italian Wilson, and had bought a picture out of his studio. AHobbema or a Poussin would scarcely have pleased them as much, for theworst of an old Master is that your friends look suspiciously upon it asa copy; whereas Wilson is scarcely old enough or precious enough to becopied. They were showing their picture and telling the story to themillionnaire with an agreeable sense that, though they were not so rich, they must, at least, have the advantage of him in this way. 

"Ha!" said Mr. Copperhead, "you should see my Turner. Didn't I show youmy Turner? I don't venture to tell you, Sir Robert, what that picturecost me. It's a sin, it is, to keep that amount of capital hanginguseless upon a bit of wall. The Wilson may be all very well. I ain't ajudge of art, and I can't give my opinion on that point, though it's acommon sort of a name, and there don't seem to be much in it; buteverybody knows what a Turner means. Here's May; he'll be able to tellyou as well as another. It means a few cool thousands, take my word forit. It means, I believe, that heaps of people would give you your ownprice. I don't call it a profitable investment, for it brings in nointerest; but they tell me it's a thing that grows in value every year. And there it is, Sir, hanging up useless on my wall in Portland Place, costing a fortune, and bringing in not a penny. But I like it; I likeit, for I can afford it, by George! Here's May; he knows what that sortof thing is; he'll tell you that a Turner is worth its weight in gold. "

"Thank you, I don't think I need any information on that subject, " saidSir Robert. "Besides, I saw your Turner. It is a pretty picture--if itis authentic; but Wilson, you know--"

"Wasn't a big-enough swell not to be authentic, eh?" said Mr. Copperhead. "Common name enough, and I don't know that I ever heard ofhim in the way of painting; but I don't pretend to be a judge. Here'sMay; now, I dare say he knows all about it. Buying's one thing, knowing's another. Your knowing ones, when they've got any money, theyhave the advantage over us, Sir Robert; they can pick up a thing that'sgood, when it happens to come their way, dirt cheap; but fortunately forus, it isn't often they've got any money, " he added, with a laugh, slapping Mr. May on the shoulder in a way which made him totter. But theclergyman's good-humour was equal even to this assault. It is wonderfulhow patient and tolerant we can all be when the motive is strong enough. 

"That is true, " he said; "but I fear I have not even the compensation ofknowledge. I know enough, however, to feel that the possessor of aTurner is a public personage, and may be a public benefactor if hepleases. "

"How that? If you think I am one to go lending my pictures about, orleaving them to the nation when I'm done for, that's not my sort. No, Ikeep them to myself. If I consent to have all that money useless, it isfor myself, you may depend, and not for other people. And I'll leave itto my boy Clarence, if he behaves himself. He's a curiosity, too, andhas a deal of money laid out on him that brings no interest, him and hismother. I'll leave it to Clar, if he doesn't make a low marriage, or anyfolly of that kind. "

"You should make it an heir-loom, " said Sir Robert, with sarcasm toofine for his antagonist; "leave it from father to son of yourdescendants, like our family diamonds and plate. "

Anne and Sophy looked at each other and smiled, the one sadly, the othersatirically. The Dorset family jewels were rose-diamonds of small value, and the plate was but moderate in quantity, and not very great inquality. Poor Sir Robert liked to blow his little trumpet too, but itwas not so blatant as that of his visitor, whose rude senses did noteven see the intended malice. 

"By George! I think I will, " he said. "I'm told it's as safe as thebank, and worth more and more every year, and if it don't bring inanything, it don't eat anything; eh, May? Look here; perhaps I washasty the other day, " he said, pushing the clergyman a little apart fromthe group with a large hand on his shoulder. "Clarence tells me you'rethe best coach he ever saw, and that he's getting on like a house onfire. "

"He does make progress, I think, " answered the tutor, thus gracefullycomplimented. 

"But all the same, you know, I had a right to be annoyed. Now a man ofyour sense--for you seem a man of sense, though you're a parson, andknow what side your bread's buttered on--ought to see that it's anaggravating thing when a young fellow has been sent to a coach for hisinstruction, and to keep him out of harm's way, to find him cheek byjowl with a nice-looking young woman. That's not what a father has aright to expect. "

"You couldn't expect me to do away with my daughter because I happenedto take a pupil?" said Mr. May, half-amused; "but I can assure you thatshe has no designs upon your son. "

"So I hear, so I hear, " said the other, with a mixture of pique andsatisfaction. "Won't look at him, Clar tells me; got her eye on some oneelse, little fool! She'll never have such a chance again. As for havingno designs, that's bosh, you know; all women have designs. I'm a dealeasier in my mind when I'm told she's got other fish to fry. "

"Other fish to fry?" said Mr. May; this time he was wholly amused, andlaughed. "This is news to me. However, we don't want to discuss mylittle Ursula; about your son it will be well that I should know, for Imight be forming other engagements. This moment is a time of pecuniarypressure with me, " he added, with the ingratiating smile andhalf-pathetic frankness of the would-be borrower. "I have not takenpupils before, but I want money for the time. My son's settlement inlife, you see, and--but the father of a large family can always findgood reasons for wanting money. "

"That's it, " said Mr. Copperhead, seriously. "Why are you the father ofa large family? That's what I ask our ministers. It's against allpolitical economy, that is. According as you've no money to give 'em, you go and have children--when it should be just the other way. "

"That may be very true; but there they are, and can't be done away with;and I do want money, as it happens, more now than I shall want it a yearhence, or, perhaps, even six months hence. "

"Most people do, " said Mr. Copperhead, withdrawing his hand from hispocket, and placing his elbow tightly against the orifice of that veryimportant part of him. "It's the commonest thing in the world. I wantmoney myself, for that matter. I've always got a large amount to make upby a certain date, and a bill to pay. But about Clar, that's theimportant matter. As he seems to have set his mind on it, and as youassure me there's no danger--man-traps, or that sort of thing, eh?"

The colour came to Mr. May's cheek; but it was only for a moment. Tohave his own daughter spoken of as a man-trap gave him a momentarythrill of anger; but, as he would have applied the word quite composedlyto any other man's daughter, the resentment was evanescent. He did nottrust himself to answer, however, but nodded somewhat impatiently, whichmade the millionnaire laugh the more. 

"Don't like the man-trap?" he said. "Bless you, they're all alike, notyours more than the rest. But as I was saying, if it's warranted safe Isuppose he'll have to stay. But I don't stand any nonsense, May; andlook here, your music and all that ain't in the agreement. He can have amaster for his music, he's well enough able to pay for it; but I won'thave a mistress, by George, to put folly into his head. "

"I am to forbid him the drawing-room, I suppose, and take his fiddlefrom him! I have no objections. Between ourselves, as I am not musical, it would be very agreeable to me; but perhaps he is rather over the age, don't you think, for treatment of that kind?"

Clarence had come in, and stood watching the conversation, with a lookMr. Copperhead was not prepared for. Those mild brown eyes, which werehis mother's share in him, were full a-stare with sullen resolution, andhis heavy mouth shut like that of a bull-dog. He lingered at the door, looking at the conversation which was going on between his father andhis tutor, and they both noticed him at the same moment, and drew thesame conclusion. Mr. May was in possession of the _parole_, as theFrench say, and he added instinctively in an undertone, "Take care; if I were you I would not try him too far. "

Mr. Copperhead said nothing; but he stared too, rather aghast at thisnew revelation. What! his porcelain, his Dresden figure of a son, hiscrowning curiosity, was _he_ going to show a will of his own? The despotfelt a thrill go over him. What kind of a sentiment love was in his mindit would be hard to tell; but his pride was all set on this heavy boy. To see him a man of note, in Parliament, his name in the papers, hisspeeches printed in the "Times, " was the very heaven of hisexpectations. "Son of the famous Copperhead, the great contractor. " Hedid not care about such distinction in his own person; but this hadbeen his dream ever since Clarence came into being. And now there hestood gloomy, obdurate. If he had made up his mind to make a lowmarriage, could his father hinder him--could anything hinder him? Mr. Copperhead looked at his son and quailed for the first time in his life. 

"May, " he said, hurriedly, "do the best you can; he's got all hismother's d----d obstinacy, you can see, can't you? but I've set my hearton making a man of him--do the best you can. "

Mr. May thought to himself afterwards if he had only had the vigour tosay, "Pay me six months in advance, " the thing would have been done. Butthe lingering prejudices of breeding clung about him, and he could notdo it. Mr. Copperhead, however, was very friendly all the rest of theday, and gave him private looks and words aside, to the great admirationof the Dorsets, to whom the alliance between them appeared remarkableenough. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A CATASTROPHE. 

Mr. May left the Hall before dinner, notwithstanding the warm invitationwhich was given to him to stay. He was rather restless, and though itwas hard to go out into the dark just as grateful odours began to stealthrough the house, it suited him better to do so than to spend the nightaway from home. Besides, he comforted himself that Sir Robert's cook wasnot first-rate, not good enough to make it a great temptation. It was along walk to the station, for they had no horses at liberty to drivehim, a fact at which he was slightly offended, though he was aware thatSir Robert's stable was but a poor one. He set out just as thedressing-bell began to ring, fortified with a glass of sherry and abiscuit. The night was mild and soft, the hedgerows all rustling withthe new life of the spring, and the stars beginning to come out as hewent on; and on the whole the walk was pleasant, though the roads weresomewhat muddy. As he went along, he felt himself fall into a curiousdreamy state of mind, which was partly fatigue perhaps, but was not atall unpleasant. Sometimes he almost seemed to himself to be asleep as hetrudged on, and woke up with a start, thinking that he saw indistinctfigures, the skirt of a dress or the tail of a long coat, disappearingpast him, just gone before he was fully awake to what it was. He knewthere was no one on the lonely road, and that this was a dream orillusion, but still he kept seeing these vanishings of indistinctwayfarers, which did not frighten him in the least, but half-amused himin the curious state of his brain. He had got rid of his anxiety. It wasall quite plain before him what to do, --to go to the Bank, to tell themwhat he had coming in, and to settle everything as easily as possible. The consciousness of having this to do acted upon him like a gentleopiate or dream-charm. When he got to the railway station, and got intoa carriage, he seemed to be floating somehow in a prolonged vision oflight and streaks of darkness, not quite aware now far he was going, orwhere he was going, across the country; and even when he arrived atCarlingford he roused himself with difficulty, not quite certain that hehad to get out; then he smiled at himself, seeing the gas-lights in asort of vague glimmer about him, not uncomfortable, but misty andhalf-asleep. "If Sir Robert's sherry had been better, I should haveblamed that, " he said to himself; and in fact it was a kind of drowsy, amiable mental intoxication which affected him, he scarcely could tellhow. When he got within sight of his own house, he paused a moment andlooked up at the lights in the windows. There was music going on; Phoebe, no doubt, for Ursula could not play so well as that, and the houselooked full and cheerful. He had a cheerful home, there was no doubt ofthat. Young Copperhead, though he was a dunce, felt it, and showed anappreciation of better things in his determination not to leave thehouse where he had been so happy. Mr. May felt an amiable friendlinessstealing over him for Clarence too. 

Upstairs in the drawing-room another idyllic evening had begun. Phoebe"had not intended to come, " but was there notwithstanding, persuaded byUrsula, who, glad for once to escape from the anxieties of dinner, hadcelebrated tea with the children, to their great delight, though she wasstill too dreamy and pre-occupied to respond much to them. And Northcotehad "not intended to come. " Indeed, he had gone further than this, hehad intended to keep away. But when he had eaten his solitary dinner, he, too, had strayed towards the centre of attraction, and walking upand down in forlorn contemplation of the lighted windows, had been spiedby Reginald, and brought in after a faint resistance. So the four weretogether again, with only Janey to interpose an edge of generalcriticism and remark into the too personal strain of the conversation. Janey did not quite realize the importance of the place she wasoccupying, but she was keenly interested in all that was going on, veryeager to understand the relationships in which the others stood, and tosee for herself what progress had been made last night while she wasabsent. Her sharp girlish face, in which the eyes seemed too big for thefeatures, expressed a totally different phase of existence from thatwhich softened and subdued the others. She was all eyes and ears, andwatchful scrutiny. It was she who prevented the utterance of thehalf-dozen words trembling on Northcote's lips, to which Ursula had asoft response fluttering somewhere in her pretty throat, but which wasnot destined to be spoken to-night; and it was she who made Phoebe'smusic quite a simple performance, attended with little excitement and nodanger. Phoebe was the only one who was grateful to her, and perhaps evenPhoebe could have enjoyed the agitations of the evening better had Janeybeen away. As it was, these agitations were all suppressed andincipient; they could not come to anything; there were no hairbreadthescapes, no breathless moments, when the one pursued had to exercise herbest skill, and only eluded the pursuer by a step or two. Janey, withall her senses about her, hearing everything, seeing everything, neutralized all effort on the part of the lovers, and reduced thecondition of Ursula and Phoebe to one of absolute safety. They were allkept on the curb, in the leash, by the presence of this youthfulobserver; and the evening, though full of a certain excitement andmixture of happiness and misery, glided on but slowly, each of the youngmen outdoing the other in a savage eagerness for Janey's bed-time. 

"Do you let her sit up till midnight every night?" said Reginald, withindignation. 

"Let me sit up!" cried Janey, "as if I was obliged to do what she tellsme!"

Ursula gave a little shrug to her pretty shoulders, and looked at theclock. 

"It is not midnight yet; it is not nine o'clock, " she said, with a sigh. "I should have thought papa would have come home before now. Can he bestaying at the Hall all night?"

Just then, however, there was the well-known ring at the bell, andUrsula ran downstairs to see after her father's supper. Why couldn'tJaney make herself useful and do that, the little company thoughtindignantly and with one accord, instead of staying here with her sharpeyes, putting everybody out? Mr. May's little dinner, or supper, servedon a tray, was very comfortable, and he ate it with great satisfaction, telling Ursula that he had, on the whole, spent a pleasant day. 

"The Dorsets were kind, as they always are, and Mr. Copperhead was alittle less disagreeable than he always is; and you may look forClarence back again in a day or two. He is not going to leave us. Youmust take care that he does not fall in love with you, Ursula. That isthe chief thing they seem to be afraid of. "

"Fall in love with _me_!" cried Ursula. "Oh, papa, where are your eyes?He has fallen in love, but not with me. Can't you see it? It is Phoebe hecares for. "

Mr. May was startled. He raised his head with a curious smile in hiseyes, which made Ursula wonder painfully whether her father had takenmuch wine at the Hall. 

"Ah, ha! is that what they are frightened for?" he said, and then heshrugged his shoulders. "She will show bad taste, Ursula; she might dobetter; but I suppose a girl of her class has not the delicacy--So thatis what they are frightened for! And what are the other fish _you_ haveto fry?"

"Papa!"

"Yes. He told me he was not alarmed about you; that you had other fishto fry, eh! Well, it's too late for explanations to-night. What's that?Very odd, I thought I saw some one going out at the door--just a whiffof the coat-tails. I think my digestion must be out of order. I'll gointo the study and get my pills, and then I think I'll go to bed. "

"Won't you come upstairs to the drawing-room?" said Ursula, faltering, for she was appalled by the idea of explanations. What had she toexplain, as yet? Mr. May shook his head, with that smile still upon hisface. 

"No, you'll get on excellently well without me. I've had a long walk, and I think I'll go to bed. "

"You don't look very well, papa. "

"Oh, yes, I'm well enough; only confused in the head a little withfatigue and the things I've had to think about. Good-night. Don't keepthose young fellows late, though one of them is your brother. You cansay I'm tired. Good-night, my dear. "

It was very seldom that he called her "my dear, " or, indeed, saidanything affectionate to his grown-up children. If Ursula had not beenso eager to return to the drawing-room, and so sure that "they" wouldmiss her, she would have been anxious about her father; but as it was, she ran upstairs lightly when he stopped speaking, and left him goinginto the study, where already his lamp was burning. Betsy passed her asshe ran up the stairs, coming from the kitchen with a letter heldbetween two folds of her apron. Poor papa! no doubt it was some tiresomeparish business to bother him, when he was tired already. But Ursula didnot stop for that. How she wanted to be there again, among "them all, "even though Janey still made one! She went in breathless, and gave herfather's message only half-articulately. He was tired. "We are never tomind; he says so. " They all took the intimation very easily. Mr. Maybeing tired, what did that matter? He would, no doubt, be betterto-morrow; and in the mean time those sweet hours, though so hampered byJaney, were very sweet. 

Betsy went in, and put down the note before Mr. May on his table. He wasjust taking out his medicine from the drawer, and he made a wry face atthe note and at the pills together. 

"Parish?" he said, curtly. 

"No, sir; it's from Mr. Cotsdean. He came this morning, after you'dgone, and he sent over little Bobby. "

"That will do. "

A presentiment of pain stole over him. He gave Betsy a nod of dismissal, and went on with what he was doing. After he had finished, he took upthe little note from the table with a look of disgust. It was badlyscrawled, badly folded, and dirty. Thank Heaven, Cotsdean'scommunications would soon be over now. 

Janey had proposed a round game upstairs. They were all humble in theirdesire to conciliate that young despot. Reginald got the cards, andNorthcote put chairs round the table. He placed Ursula next to himself, which was a consolation, and sat down by her, close to her, though not aword, except of the most commonplace kind, could be said. 

Just then--what was it? an indescribable thrill through the house, thesound of a heavy fall. They all started up from their seats to hear whatit was. Then Ursula, with a cry of apprehension, rushed downstairs, andthe others after her. Betsy, alarmed, had come out of the kitchen, followed by her assistant, and was standing frightened, but irresolute;for Mr. May was not a man to be disturbed with impunity. And this mightbe nothing--the falling of a chair or a table, and nothing more. 

"What is it?" cried Ursula, in an anxious whisper. 

She was the leader in the emergency, for even Reginald held back. Then, after a moment's pause, she opened the door, and with a little cryrushed in. It was, as they feared, Mr. May who had fallen; but he had sofar recovered himself as to be able to make efforts to rise. His facewas towards them. It was very pale, of a livid colour, and covered withmoisture, great beads standing on his forehead. He smiled vaguely whenhe saw the circle of faces. 

"Nothing--nothing--a faintness, " he faltered, making again an effort torise. 

"What is it, papa? Oh, what's the matter?" cried Janey, rushing at himand seizing him by the arm. "Get up! get up! what will people think? Oh, Ursula, how queer he looks, and he feels so heavy. Oh, please get up, papa!"

"Go away, " said Mr. May, "go away. It is--a faintness. I am very wellwhere I am--"

But he did not resist when Reginald and Northcote lifted him from thefloor. He had a piece of paper tightly clasped in his hand. He gave thema strange suspicious look all round, and shrank when his eyes fell uponPhoebe. "Don't let her know, " he said. "Take me away, take me away. "

"Reginald will take you upstairs, papa--to your room--to bed; you oughtto go to bed. It is the long walk that has worn you out. Oh, Reginald, don't contradict him, let him go where he pleases. Oh, papa, where _are_you going?" cried Ursula, "the other way; you want to go to bed. "

"This way, take me--somewhere, " said the sufferer; though he could notstand he made a step, staggering between them, and an effort to pushtowards the hall door, and when they directed him in the other directionto the staircase which led to his room, he struggled feebly yetviolently with them. "No, no, no, not there!" he cried. The suddenconfusion, dismay, and alarm into which the family was plunged, thestrange sense of a catastrophe that came upon them, cannot be told. Ursula, calling out all the time that they were not to contradict him, insisted imperiously with words and gestures that he should be takenupstairs. Janey, altogether overcome, sat down on the lower steps of thestaircase and cried. Reginald almost as pale as his father, and notsaying a word, urged him towards the stairs. To get him up to his room, resisting as well as he could, and moaning inarticulate remonstrancesall the way, was no easy business. As the procession toiled along Phoebewas left below, the only one in possession of her faculties. She sentthe housemaid hurriedly off for the doctor, and despatched Betsy to thekitchen. 

"Hot water is always wanted, " said Phoebe; "see that you have enough incase he should require a bath. "

Then with her usual decision she stepped back into the study. It was notvulgar curiosity which was in Phoebe's mind, nor did it occur to her thatshe had no right to investigate Mr. May's private affairs. If she couldfind what had done it, would not that be a great matter, something totell the doctor, to throw light on so mysterious a seizure? Several bitsof torn paper were lying on the floor; but only one of these was bigenough to contain any information. It was torn in a kind of triangularshape, and contained a corner of a letter, a section of three lines, "must have mistaken the date presented to-day, paid by Tozer, "

was what she read. She could not believe her eyes. What transactionscould there be between her grandfather and Mr. May? She secured thescrap of paper, furtively putting it into her pocket. It was better tosay nothing either to the doctor, or any one else, of anything soutterly incomprehensible. It oppressed Phoebe with a sense of mystery andof personal connection with the mystery, which even her self-possessioncould scarcely bear up against. She went into the kitchen after Betsy, avowedly in anxious concern for the boiling of the kettle. 

"Hot water is good for everything, " said Phoebe; "mamma says a hot bathis the best of remedies. Did Mr. May have anything--to worry him, Betsy?I suppose it is only fatigue, and that he has taken too long a walk. "

"I don't believe in the long walk, Miss, " said Betsy, "it's thatCotsdean as is always a-tormenting with his dirty letters. When that mancomes bothering here, master is always put out. "

"Cotsdean? I don't know the name. "

"Don't say nothing, Miss, " said Betsy, sinking her voice, "but you takemy word it's money. Money's at the bottom of everything. It's something, as sure as you're alive, as master has got to pay. I've been a deal withgentlefolks, " added Betsy, "and ne'er a one of them can abide that. "

CHAPTER XL. 

THE SINNED-AGAINST. 

Phoebe's mind was full of many and somewhat agitating thoughts. She wentupstairs with a restless haste, which she would have been the first tocondemn, to the room where the others were congregated, when they hadlaid Mr. May on his bed with no small difficulty, and were nowconsulting what to do. Ursula had fallen a little from the position ofcommand she had taken up. To get him to bed, to send for the doctor, these were evident practical steps to take; but after having done theseshe was bewildered and fell back upon her advisers. 

"We can't do anything, we can only wait and watch him, " Reginald wassaying, as Phoebe, herself unseen, looked in at the anxious party; andwithout asking any question she turned and went downstairs again, andhastily putting on her shawl and hat, went out, shutting the doorsoftly, and ran home on the shady side of Grange Lane, where nobodycould see her. It was a very quiet road, and she was not disturbed byany unreasonable alarms. It was still early when she got home, earlierthan usual, and her intention was not to stay there at all, but to goback again and offer her assistance to Ursula, for whom she had left amessage to this effect. Phoebe was full of genuine regard andfriendliness towards the Mays. 

She felt that she had obligations to all of them, to the parson-fatherfor submitting to her presence, nay, encouraging it, and to Ursula forreceiving her with that affectionate fervour of friendship which hadcompletely changed the tenor of Phoebe's life at Carlingford. She wasobliged to them, and she knew that she was obliged to them. Howdifferent these three months would have been but for the Parsonage; whata heavy leaden-coloured existence without variety and without interestshe must have lived; whereas it had gone by like a summer day, full ofreal life, of multiplied interests, of everything that it was mostdesirable to have. Not at home and in London could she have had theadvantages she had enjoyed here. Phoebe was sensible enough--or perhapswe might use a less complimentary word--worldly enough, to count withinthose manifest benefits the advantage of seeing more of ClarenceCopperhead, and of drawing him within the charmed circle of herinfluence, and she was grateful to the Mays, for this was their doing. And then, on the other hand, quite a different thing, her heart wastouched and softened with gratitude to Reginald for loving her; of allher gratitudes, perhaps this indeed was the most truly felt. They hadgiven her unbounded kindness, friendliness, everything that is mostsweet to the solitary; and over and above, as if these were not enough, they had made her the exquisite present of a heart, the best thing thatcan be given or received by man. Phoebe felt herself penetrated withgratitude for all this, and she resolved that, if anything she could docould benefit the Mays, the effort on her part should not be wanting. "Paid by Tozer. " What had been paid by Tozer? What had her grandfatherto do with it. Could it be he who had lent money to Mr. May? Then Phoeberesolved, with a glow on her face, he should forgive his debtors. Shewent in with her mind fully made up, whatever might happen, to be thechampion of the sufferer, the saviour of the family. This would showthem that their kindness had been appreciated. This would prove even toReginald that, though she would not sacrifice her own prospects bymarrying him, yet that she was grateful to him, to the bottom of herheart. Her mind was full of generous ardour as she went in. She knew herpower; her grandfather had never yet refused her anything, neverresisted her, and it did not seem likely that he should begin now. 

Mrs. Tozer was by herself in the parlour, dozing over the fire. She wokeup with a little start when Phoebe came in and smiled at the sight ofher. 

"I didn't expect as you'd have come so soon, " she said; "you've broke upearly to-night, darling. Couldn't you have no music? I didn't look foryou for an hour or more. "

"You know, grandmamma, it is Mr. Copperhead who teases me most formusic, and he is not here. "

"Yes, yes, _I_ know, " said the old lady, nodding her head with manysmiles. "I know a deal more about it than you think for, Phoebe, anddon't you think as I disapprove, for it's quite the other way. But youwon't tell me as there ain't others as cares for music as well as youngCopperhead. I've seen one as couldn't take his eyes off of you while youwere playing. "

"Hush, grandmamma; the others like music for music's sake, or perhapsfor my sake; but Mr Copperhead likes it for his own sake, and thereforehe is the one who insists upon it. But this is not the reason why I havecome home so soon. Mr. May has been taken suddenly ill. "

"Lord bless us!" cried Mrs. Tozer, "deary, deary me! I'm very sorry, poor gentleman, I hope it ain't anything serious. Though he's a churchparson, he's a very civil-spoken man, and I see his children drag himinto his own house one day as me and Tozer was passing. I said to Tozerat the time, you take my word, whatever folks say, a man as lets hischildren pull him about like that ain't a bad one. And so he's ill, poorman! Is there anything as we can do to help, my dear? They ain't rich, and they've been as kind to you as if you'd been one of their own. "

"I thought that would be the first thing you would ask me, " said Phoebegratefully, giving her a kiss--"dear grandmamma, it is like your kindheart--and I ran off to see that you were quite well and comfortable, thinking perhaps if you did not want me I might go back to poor Ursulafor the night. "

To hear her granddaughter call Miss May by her Christian name was initself a pleasure to Mrs. Tozer. She gave Phoebe a hug. "So you shall, mydarling, and as for a bottle of good wine or that, anything as is in thehouse, you know you're welcome to it. You go and talk to yourgrandfather; I'm as comfortable as I can be, and if you'd like to runback to that poor child--"

"Not before you are in bed, " said Phoebe, "but if you please I'll go andtalk to grandpapa as you said. There are things in which a man may be ofuse. "

"To be sure, " said Mrs. Tozer, doubtfully; "your grandfather ain't a manas is much good in sickness; but I won't say as there ain't somethings--"

"Yes, grandmamma, I'll take your advice and run and talk to him; and bythe time I come back you will be ready for bed. "

"Do, my dear, " said Mrs. Tozer. She was very comfortable, and did notcare to move just then, and, as Phoebe went away, looked after her withdreamy satisfaction. "Bless her! there ain't her match in Carlingford, and the gentlefolks sees it, " said Mrs. Tozer to herself. But she had noidea how Phoebe's heart was beating as she went along the dimly-lightedpassage, which led to a small room fitted up by Tozer for himself. Sheheard voices in earnest talk as she approached, but this made her onlythe more eager to go in, and see for herself what was going on. Therecould be no doubt, she felt sure of it, that the discussion here hadsome connection with the calamity _there_. What it was she had not theslightest idea; but that somehow the two were connected she feltcertain. The voices were loud as she approached the door. 

"I'll find out who done it, and I'll punish him--as sure as that's myname, though I never put it on that there paper, " Tozer was saying. Phoebe opened the door boldly, and went in. She had never seen hergrandfather look so unlike himself. The knot of the big whiteneckerchief round his neck was pushed away, his eyes were red, givingout strange lights of passion. He was standing in front of the fireplacegesticulating wildly. Though it was now April and the weather very mildand genial, there were still fires in the Tozer sitting-rooms, and asthe windows were carefully shut, Phoebe felt the atmosphere stifling. Theother person in the room was a serious, large man, whom she had alreadyseen more than once; one of the chief clerks in the bank where Tozerkept his account, who had an old acquaintance with the butterman, andwho was in the habit of coming when the bank had anything to say to sosure a customer about rates of investment or the value of money. He wasseated at one side of the fire, looking very grave and shaking his headas the other spoke. 

"That is very true, and I don't say anything against it. But, Mr. Tozer, I can't help thinking there's some one else in it than Cotsdean. "

"What one else? what is the good of coming here to me with a pack ofnonsense? He's a poor needy creature as hasn't a penny to bless himselfwith, a lot of children, and a wife as drinks. Don't talk to me of someone else. That's the sort of man as does all the mischief. What, Phoebe!run away to your grandmother, I don't want you here. "

"I am very sorry to interrupt you, grandpapa. Mayn't I stay? I havesomething to say to you--"

Tozer turned round and looked at her eagerly. Partly his own fancy, andpartly his wife's more enlightened observations, had made him aware thatit was possible that Phoebe might one day have something very interestingto reveal. So her words roused him even in the midst of hispre-occupation. He looked at her for a second, then he waved his handand said, "I'm busy; go away, my dear, go away; I can't talk to you now. "

Phoebe gave the visitor a look which perplexed him; but which meant, ifhe could but have read it, an earnest entreaty to him to go away. Shesaid to herself, impatiently, that he would have understood had he beena woman; but as it was he only stared with lack-lustre eyes. What wasshe to do?

"Grandpapa, " she said, decisively, "it is too late for businessto-night. However urgent it may be, you can't do anything to-night. Why, it is nearly ten o'clock, and most people are going to bed. See Mr. ----, I mean this gentleman--to-morrow morning the first thing; for youknow, however anxious you may be, you can't do anything to-night. "

"That is true enough, " he said, looking with staring eyes from her tohis visitor, "and more's the pity. What had to be done should ha' beendone to-day. It should have been done to-day, sir, on the spot, not leftover night like this, to give the villain time to get away. It's acrime, Phoebe, that's what it is--that's the fact. It's a crime. "

"Well, grandpapa, I am very sorry; but it will not mend matters, willit, if sitting up like this, and agitating yourself like this, makes youill? That will not do away with the crime. It is bed-time, and poorgrandmamma is dozing, and wondering what has become of you. Grandpapa----"

"Phoebe, go away, it ain't none of your business; you're only a bit of agirl, and how can you understand? If you think I'm going to sit downwith it like an old fool, lose my money, and what is worse nor my money, let my very name be forged before my eyes--"

Phoebe gave so perceptible a start that Tozer stopped short, and even thebanking-clerk looked at her with aroused curiosity. 

"Forged!" she cried, with a gasp of dismay; "is it so bad as that?" Shehad never been more near betraying herself, showing a personal interestmore close than was natural. When she saw the risk she was running, shestopped short and summoned all her energies. "I thought some one hadpilfered something, " she said with an attempt at a laugh. "I beg yourpardon, grandpapa; but anyhow what can you do to-night? You arekeeping--this gentleman--and yourself out of bed. Please put it off tillto-morrow. "

"I think so too, " said the banker's clerk. "I'll come to you in themorning as I go to the Bank. Perhaps I may have been wrong; but I thinkthere's more in it than meets the eye. To-morrow we can have the manCotsdean up and question him. "

"After he's had time to take himself off, " said Tozer, vehemently. "Youtake my word he ain't in Carlingford, not now, let alone to-morrow. "

"Then that shows, " said Phoebe, quietly, "that it is of no use makingyourself ill to-night. Grandpapa, let this gentleman go--he wants to go;and I have something to say to you. You can do anything that isnecessary to-morrow. "

"I think so indeed, " said Mr. Simpson, of the Bank, getting up at last, "the young lady is quite right. We can't act hastily in a thing likethis. Cotsdean's a man of good character, Mr. Tozer; all that has to betaken into account--and he is not a beggar. If he has done it, we canrecover something at least; but if he has been taken advantage of--Ithink the young lady is a good counsellor, and that it's much the bestto wait till to-morrow. "

Phoebe seized upon her grandfather's arm to restrain him, and held himback. "Good-night, " she said; "grandpapa, stay with me, I have somethingto say to you. Listen; you don't think me very silly, do you, grandpapadear?"

"Silly!" he said, listening to the steps of the departing visitor asthey receded along the passage. "What has a chit like you to do withbusiness? I tell you it'll kill me. Me a-signing of accommodation billsfor a bit of a small shopkeeper like that Cotsdean! I tell you it'llmake an end of me, that will, unless I gets my money and clears myselfafore the world. And here you've been and sent away Simpson, and who'sto manage for me? I ain't a lawyer to know what to do. Get away, getaway, and leave me to myself, I can't be disturbed with women-folks whenI've got real business in hand. "

"I'll manage for you, " said Phoebe; "you need not stare at me like that, grandpapa--"

"Go out o' the room this moment, Miss!" he cried furious; "you! here's asort of thing for me to put up with. Sam Tozer wasn't born yesterdaythat a bit of an impudent girl should take upon her to do for him. Manage for me! go out o' my sight; I'm a fool, am I, and in my dotage tohave a pack of women meddling in my affairs?"

Phoebe had never met with such an outburst of coarse anger in her lifebefore, and it gave her a shock, as such assaults naturally do to peoplebrought up softly, and used to nothing but kindness. For a moment shewavered, doubtful whether she should not proudly abandon him and hisaffairs altogether; but this was to abandon her friends too. Shemastered herself accordingly, and the resentment which she could nothelp feeling--and stood pale but quiet opposite to the infuriated oldman. His grey eyes seemed to give out sparks of fire. His hair bristledup on his head like the coat of a wild animal enraged. He went up anddown on the hearth-rug like the same animal in a cage, shaking his fistat some imaginary culprit. 

"Once I get him, see if I let him go, " he cried, his voice thick withfast-coming words and the foam of fury. "Let the bank do as it likes;I'll have him, I will. I'll see justice on the man as has dared to makefree with my name. It ain't nothing to you, my name; but I've kep' ithonest, and out of folk's mouths, and see if I'll stand disgrace thrownon it now. A bill on me as never had such a thing, not when I wasstruggling to get on! Dash him! damn him!" cried the old man, transported with rage. When he had come to this unusual and terriblelength, Tozer paused dismayed. He had lost his temper before in hislife; but very seldom had he been betrayed into anything so desperate asthis. He stopped aghast, and cast a half-frightened look at Phoebe, whostood there so quiet, subdued out of her usual force, pale anddisapproving--his own grandchild, a pastor's daughter! and he hadforgotten himself thus before her. He blushed hotly, though he was notused to blushing, and stopped all at once. After such frightfullanguage, so unbecoming a deacon of Salem, so unlike a consistent memberof the connection, what could he say?

"Grandpapa, " said Phoebe softly, "it is not good to be so angry; you aremade to say things you are sorry for. Will you listen to me now? Thoughyou don't think it, and perhaps won't believe it, I have found outsomething quite by chance--"

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

He was so much excited that he shook her in the hot paroxysm ofreturning rage. Phoebe was not frightened, but indignation made her pale. She stood without flinching, and looked at him, till poor old Tozer letgo 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, asif nothing had occurred. 

"Grandpapa, as I tell you, I have found out something by chance that hasto do with the thing that troubles you; but I don't know quite what itis. 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 ahandwriting which seemed horribly familiar to her, and yet strange. Tozer nodded at her gloomily, holding his head between his hands, andPhoebe read over the first few words before her with an aching heart, andeyes that seemed to ache in sympathy. Only a few words, but whatevidence of guilt, what pitiful misery in them! She did not even thinkso much of the name on the back, which was and was not her grandfather'sname. 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 sherecognized it with a sickening at her heart. In the kind of fatherlyflirtation which had been innocently carried on between Phoebe and herfriend's father, various productions of his in manuscript had been givento 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 hisfamily. She stood and gazed at the paper, and her eyes filled with tearsof pain and pity. The openness of this self-betrayal, veiled as it waswith a shadow of disguise which could deceive no one who knew him, wentto Phoebe's heart. What could he have done it for? Mere money, thefoolish expenses of every day, or, what would be more respectable, somevague mysterious claim upon him, which might make desperate expedientsnecessary? She stood, temporarily stupefied, with her eyes full, lookingat that pitiful, terrible, guilty bit of paper, stupefied by the suddenrealization of her sudden guess at the truth--though, indeed, the truthwas 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 mepatience. 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--ifI 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 isdone to us?"

Phoebe had begun to tremble all over; for the first time she doubted herown 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; "butthat's a spiritual meaning as you're too young to enter into. You don'tsuppose as Scripture would approve of crime, or let them escape as hadwronged their fellow-creatures? There wouldn't be no business, nojustice, 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. TheBible's spiritual; but there's trade, and there's justice. A man ain'tclear of what he's done because you forgive him. What's the law forelse? Forgive! You may forgive him as fast as you like, but he's got tobe 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 acrosshis face beneath his fiery eyes, which seemed to scorch the cheek withangry flames. "The law that ain't a individual. That's for ourprotection, whether we like it or not. What's that got to do withforgiving? Now, looking at it in a public way, I ain't got no right toforgive. "

"Grandpapa, you have always been so kind, always so good to everybody. Ihave heard of so many things you have done--"

"That is all very well, " said Tozer, not without a certain gloomycomplacence, "so long as you don't touch _me_. But the moment as youtouches me, I'm another man. That's what I can't bear, nor I won't. Themas tries their tricks upon me shan't be let off, neither for wife norchild; and don't you think, my girl, though you're Phoebe, junior, thatyou are a-going for to come over me. "

Phoebe could not but shiver in her fright and agitation; but distressedand excited as she was, she found means to take a step which wasimportant indeed, though at the moment she did not fully realize itsimportance, and did it by instinct only. She had a handkerchief in herhand, and almost without consciousness of what she was doing, shecrushed up the miserable bit of paper, which was the cause of so muchevil and misery, in its folds. He was far too impassioned and excited toobserve such a simple proceeding. It was the suggestion of a moment, carried out in another moment like a flash of lightning. And as soon asshe had done this, and perceived what she had done, fortitude andcomfort came back to Phoebe's soul. 

"You will not hear what I have found out, and now I do not choose totell you, grandpapa, " she said, with an air of offence. "Unless you wishto 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 outagain to stay all night. Mr. May is ill, and I ought to help poorUrsula. "

"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 inCarlingford except the Mays? Nobody. Who has asked me to go to theirhouse, and share everything that is pleasant in it? None of your Salempeople, grandpapa. I hope I am not ungrateful, and whatever happens, orwhatever trouble they are in, " cried Phoebe, fervently, "I shall stand upfor 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 ofspirit; and I don't know as what you're saying ain't the rightthing--though I don't hold with the Church, nor parsons' ways. I'd do adeal myself, though you think me so hard and cross, for folks as hasbeen kind to you. "

"I know you will, grandpapa, " said Phoebe, with a slight emphasis whichstartled him, though he did not know why; and she kissed him before shewent to her grandmother, which she did with a perfectly composed andtranquil mind. It was astonishing how the crackle of that bit of paperin her handkerchief calmed and soothed her. She recovered her breath, her colour, and her spirits. She ran up to her room and changed herdress, 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 keepingof the little purse which she always carried in her pocket. No one wouldthink of searching for it there, and she would always have it at handwhatever happened. When she had made these needful arrangements, shewent to old Mrs. Tozer, and took her comfortably upstairs. Never wasthere a more devoted nurse. The old lady chatted cheerfully, yetsympathetically, of the poor gentleman and his illness, with thehalf-satisfaction of an invalid in hearing of some one 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'dsooner have it from the grocer's, at two shillings a bottle. That's whatI'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 softmerino gown, went back, accompanied by Martha, to the Parsonage, whereUrsula's careworn face lighted a little at sight of her. Ursula had lefther father for the moment in Betsy's care, to get something that waswanted, and she stole into the dining-room on hearing of her friend'sarrival, and talked a little in a whisper, though the sick man was onthe upper floor, and could not possibly have heard anything. Northcotewas still there, sitting with Reginald, too anxious and excited to goaway; and they all conversed in whispers, the three of them talkingtogether for the benefit of the new-comer. 

"Not paralysis; at least, he does not think so; a great mentalshock--but we can't tell a bit what it was--coming when he wasdreadfully tired, and not able to bear it. "

They all spoke together, each of them saying a few words, and kept closetogether in the centre of the room, a curious little half-frightenedgroup, overawed and subdued by the sudden change and strange calamitydropt 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 bettergo 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 domuch good, it was a relief to come and whisper a few words to them nowand then, giving them news of the patient. But Phoebe was right, andthere was nothing to be said against her decision. The two young womenand the faithful Betsy were enough, and, indeed, more than enough towatch over Mr. May. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

A MORNING'S WORK. 

"Go and lie down for an hour, " whispered Phoebe. "I am not sleepy at all. I have sat up before, and never felt it, you never did, I can see it inyour poor little white face; and besides, I am steadier, because I amnot so anxious. Now go, Ursula, if you are really fond of me, as yousay--"

"Oh, Phoebe! if you think he is a little better. Oh, how horrible it isto be sleepy, as if you were all body, and had no heart at all!"

"You have plenty of heart, but you have never been used to this nursing. Leave your door open, so that I may call you in a moment. I have sat upoften. Now go, to please me, " said Phoebe. She had another object thanmere rest to her friend, who at last, very much ashamed and cryingsoftly, yet so weary that nothing on this earth seemed so desirable toher as sleep, crept to her room, and lay down there as the pale morningbegan to dawn. Betsy slept heavily in an easy-chair outside the door ofthe sick-room. She was there at hand in case anything was wanted, butshe was happily unconscious where she was, sleeping the sleep of hardwork and a mind undisturbed. Phoebe had seen that the patient wasstirring out of the dull doze in which his faculties had been entirelystilled and stupefied. He was rousing to uneasiness, if not to fullconsciousness. Two or three times he made a convulsive movement, as ifto raise himself; once his eyes, which were half open, seemed to turnupon her with a vague glimmer of meaning. How strangely she felt towardshim, as she sat there in the grey of the morning, sole guardian, soleconfidant of this erring and miserable man! The thought ran through herwith a strange thrill. He was nothing to her, and yet he was absolutelyin her power, and in all heaven and earth there seemed no one who wascapable of protecting him, or cared to do so, except herself only. Shesat looking at him with a great pity in her mind, determined to be histrue protector, to deliver him from what he himself had done. She hadnot realized at first what it was he had done, and indeed it was onlynow that its full enormity, or rather its full consequences (which werethe things that affected her most urgently), made themselves apparentto her. Generalizations are unsafe things; and whether it was becauseshe was a woman that Phoebe, passing over the crime, fixed her thoughtsupon the punishment, I do not venture to say; but she did so. After alla few lines of writing on a bit of paper is not a crime which affectsthe imagination of the inexperienced. Had it been a malicious slanderPhoebe would have realized the sin of it much more clearly; but the copyof her grandfather's signature did not wound her moral sense in the sameway, though it was a much more serious offence. That Mr. May could haveintended to rob him of the money appeared impossible to her; and nodoubt the borrowing of the signature was wrong--very wrong. Yes, ofcourse it was horribly, fatally wrong; but still it did not set herimagination aglow with indignant horror, as smaller affairs might havedone. But the consequences--disgrace, ruin, the loss of his position, the shame of his profession, moral death indeed, almost as frightful asif he had been hanged for murder. She shivered as she sat by him, veiledby the curtain, and thought of her grandfather's vindictive fierceness;only she stood between him and destruction, and Phoebe felt that it wasby no legitimate means that she was doing so, not by her influence overher grandfather as she had hoped, but only by an unjustifiable expedientwhich in itself was a kind of crime. This, however, brought a slightsmile on her face. She took out her little purse from her pocket, andlooked at the bit of paper carefully folded in it. The faint perfume ofthe Russia leather had already communicated itself to the document, which had not been so pleasant in Tozer's hands. As she looked at itlying peacefully on her lap, her attention was suddenly called by thepatient, who sat upright and looked furtively about him, with his handupon the coverings ready to throw them off. His ghastly white facepeered at her from behind the curtain with wild eagerness--then relaxed, when he met her eye, into a kind of idiot smile, a painful attempt todivert suspicion, and he fell back again with a groan. The trance thathad stupefied him was over; he had recovered some kind of consciousness, how much or how little she could not tell. His mind now seemed to be setupon hiding himself, drawing his coverings over him, and concealinghimself with the curtain, at which he grasped with an excess of forcewhich neutralized itself. 

"Mr. May, " said Phoebe, softly. "Mr. May! do you know me?"

She could not tell what answer he made, or if he made any answer. Hecrouched down under the bed-clothes, pulling them over his face, tryingto hide himself from her; from which she divined that he did recognizeher, confused though his faculties were. Then a hoarse murmuring soundseemed to come out of the pillow. It was some time before she could makeout what it was. 

"Where am I?" he said. 

With the lightning speed of sympathy and pity, Phoebe divined what histerror was. She said, almost whispering, "At home, in your own bed--at home! and safe. Oh, don't you know me--Iam Phoebe. " Then after a pause, "Tozer's granddaughter; do you know menow?"

The strange, scared, white-faced spectre shrank under his covering, tillshe could see no more of him except two wild eyes full of terror whichwas almost madness. 

"Listen!" she said eagerly, "try to understand! Oh, Mr. May, try tounderstand! I know about it--I know everything, and you are safe--quitesafe; you need not have any fear!"

He did not follow what she said, Phoebe perceived with pain and terror. Even the impression made by the first sight of her seemed to fade fromhis mind. His grasp relaxed upon the curtains and coverlet; and then thehoarse murmuring was resumed. Straining all her ears, she made out thathe was not speaking to her or any one, but moaned to himself, saying thesame words over and over again. It took her a long time to make out evenwhat these words were. When at last she did make them out they filledthe girl with an alarm beyond words. 

"It used to be hanging, " he said. "Hard labour; can I bear hard labour?And the children--the children! Hard labour--for life. Hanging--was soonover. The children! I cannot bear it. I never was put to--hardlabour--in all my life. "

Phoebe was too sick at heart to listen to more. She drew a little apart, but near enough to be seen by him. If he chose to spring up, to flinghimself from the window, as she had heard of men doing in delirium, whocould restrain him? Not she, a slight girl, nor Betsy, even if Betsycould be roused to the danger. She did not know how long the vigil whichfollowed lasted, but it seemed like years to her; and when at last shewas relieved by the joyful sound of Reginald's voice and footstep comingup the stairs, she felt disposed to run to the glass at once, and lookif her hair had grown white, or her countenance permanently changed withthe terror. Reginald, for his part, thought of his father in the secondplace only, as children are apt to do; he came up to her first, andwith a thrill in his voice of surprise and emotion, addressed herhastily by her name. 

"Phoebe! is it _you_ who are watching--you, darling?"

"Hush! I sent Ursula to bed; she was so tired. Don't leave him. I amfrightened, " cried Phoebe. "He is wandering in his mind. Oh, don't leavehim, Mr. May!"

"I will do exactly as you tell me, " said Reginald, in a confusedtransport of feeling, the very anxiety in his mind helping to destroyhis self-control. He stooped down and kissed her hands before she coulddivine what he was about to do. "Only you or an angel would have doneit, " he cried, with a tremulous voice. 

Was it not natural that he should think that some thought of him hadmade Phoebe so careful of his father? His heart was swelling, too full tohold, with a sudden joy, which expanded the pain, and made that greatertoo. 

"Oh, what does it matter about me? Mr. May, think what I am saying. Don't leave him for a moment. He might throw himself out of the window, he might do some harm to himself. Ah! again!" said Phoebe, trembling. 

But this time it was only a convulsive start, nothing more. The patientdropped down again softly upon his pillows, and relapsed into his doze, if doze it could be called, in which his faculties were buthalf-dormant, and his open eyes contradicted all the appearances ofnatural sleep. 

When she was relieved from the sick room--and now she had a doublemotive in getting away--Phoebe stole softly into the faded little placewhere Ursula lay, still fast asleep, though fully dressed, and bathedher face and strained eyes. "I wonder if my hair is grey underneath, "she said to herself. "I wonder nothing has happened to me. " But a greatdeal had happened to her. Such a night is rarely encountered by so younga creature, or such an alarming charge undertaken. And sudden hot kissesupon little, cold, agitated hands, worn by fatigue to nervous perceptionof every touch, are very exciting and strange to a girl. They had givenher a kind of electric shock. She was not in love with Reginald, andtherefore she felt it all the more, and her heart was still throbbingwith the suddenness and excitement of the incident. And after she hadmade an effort to get over this, there remained upon her mind thedisturbing burden of a knowledge which no one shared, and aresponsibility which was very heavy and terrible, and too tremendous forher slight shoulders. After she had made that hasty toilette, she satdown for a moment at the foot of the bed on which Ursula lay sleeping, unconscious of all those mysteries, and tried to think. It is not aneasy process at any time, but after a long night's watching, terror, andagitation, it seemed more impossible to Phoebe than it had ever donebefore. And she had so much occasion for thought, so much need of thepower of judging clearly. What was she to do?--not to-morrow, or nextweek, but now. She had taken the responsibility of the whole uponherself by the sudden step she had taken last night; but, bold as shehad been, Phoebe was ignorant. She did not know whether her theft of thebill would really stop the whole proceedings, as had seemed so certainlast night; and what if she was found out, and compelled to return it, and all her labour lost! A panic took possession of her as she sat thereat the foot of Ursula's bed, and tried to think. But what is the use oftrying to think? The more you have need of them, the more all mentalprocesses fail you. Phoebe could no more think than she could fly. Shesat down very seriously, and she rose up in despair, and, thought beingno longer among her possibilities, resolved to do something at once, without further delay, which would be a consolation to herself at least. How wonderful it was to go out in the fresh early morning, and see thepeople moving about their work, going up and down with indifferentfaces, quite unconcerned about the day and all it might bring forth! Shewent up Grange Lane with a curious uncertainty as to what she should donext, feeling her own extraordinary independence more than anythingelse. Phoebe felt like a man who has been out all night, who has his ownfuture all in his hands, nobody having any right to explanation orinformation about what he may choose to do, or to expect from himanything beyond what he himself may please to give. Very few people arein this absolutely free position, but this was how Phoebe represented itto herself, having, like all other girls, unbounded belief in theindependence and freedom possessed by men. Many times in her life shehad regarded with envy this independence, which, with a sigh, she hadfelt to be impossible. But now that she had it, Phoebe did not like it. What she would have given to have gone to some one, almost any one, andtold her dilemma, and put the burden a little off her shoulders! But shedurst not say a word to any one. Very anxious and pre-occupied, she wentup Grange Lane. Home? She did not know; perhaps she would have thoughtof something before she reached the gate of No. 6. And accordingly, whenshe had lifted her hand to ring the bell, and made a step aside toenter, an inspiration came to Phoebe. She turned away from the door andwent on up into the town, cautiously drawing her veil over her face, foralready the apprentices were taking down the shutters from her uncle'sshop, and she might be seen. Cotsdean's shop was late of opening thatmorning, and its master was very restless and unhappy. He had heardnothing more about the bill, but a conviction of something wrong hadcrept into his mind. It was an altogether different sensation from theanxiety he had hitherto felt. This was no anxiety to speak of, but adull pain and aching conviction that all was not right. When he saw theyoung lady entering the shop, Cotsdean's spirits rose a little, for anew customer was pleasant, and though he thought he had seen her, he didnot know who she was. She was pleasant to look upon, and it was notoften that any one came so early. He came forward with anxiouspoliteness; the boy (who was always late, and a useless creature, moreexpense than he was worth) had not appeared, and therefore Cotsdean wasalone. 

"I wanted to speak to you, please, " said Phoebe. "Will you mind if Ispeak very plainly, without any ceremony? Mr. Cotsdean, I am Mr. Tozer'sgranddaughter, and live with him at No. 6 in the Lane. I dare say youhave often seen me with Miss May. "

"Yes--yes, Miss, certainly, " he said, with a thrill of alarm andexcitement running through him. He felt his knees knock together undercover of the counter, and yet he did not know what he feared. 

"Will you please tell me frankly, in confidence, about----the bill whichwas brought to my grandfather yesterday?" said Phoebe, bringing out thequestion with a rush. 

Whether she was doing wrong, whether she might bring insult uponherself, whether it was an interference unwarrantable and unjustifiable, she could not tell. She was in as great a fright as Cotsdean, and moreanxious still than he was; but fortunately her agitation did not show. 

"What am I to tell you about it, Miss?" said the man, terrified. "Is itMr. Tozer as has sent you? Lord help me! I know as he can sell me up ifhe has a mind; but he knows it ain't me. "

"Don't speak so loud, " said Phoebe, trembling too. "Nobody must hear; andremember, you are never, never to talk of this to any one else; but tellme plainly, that there may be no mistake. Is it--Mr. May?"

"Miss Tozer, " said Cotsdean, who was shaking from head to foot, "ifthat's your name--I don't want to say a word against my clergyman. He'sstood by me many a day as I wanted him, and wanted him bad; but as I'm aliving man, that money was never for me; and now he's a-gone and left mein the lurch, and if your grandfather likes he can sell me up, andthat's the truth. I've got seven children, " said the poor man, with asob breaking his voice, "and a missus; and nothing as isn't in thebusiness, not a penny, except a pound or two in a savings' bank, aswould never count. And I don't deny as he could sell me up; but oh!Miss, he knows very well it ain't for me. "

"Mr. Cotsdean, " said Phoebe, impressively, "you don't know, I suppose, that Mr. May had a fit when he received your note last night?"

"Lord help us! Oh! God forgive me, I've done him wrong, poor gentleman, if that's true. "

"It is quite true; he is very, very ill; he can't give you any advice, or assist you in any way, should grandpapa be unkind. He could not evenunderstand if you told him what has happened. "

Once more Cotsdean's knees knocked against each other in the shadow ofthe counter. His very lips trembled as he stood regarding his strangevisitor with scared and wondering eyes. 

"Now listen, please, " said Phoebe, earnestly; "if any one comes to youabout the bill to-day, don't say anything about _him_. Say you gotit--in the way of business--say anything you please, but don't mention_him_. If you will promise me this, I will see that you don't come toany harm. Yes, I will; you may say I am not the sort of person to knowabout business, and it is quite true. But whoever comes to you rememberthis--if you don't mention Mr. May, I will see you safely through it; doyou understand?"

Phoebe leant across the counter in her earnestness. She was not the kindof person to talk about bills, or to be a satisfactory security for aman in business; but Cotsdean was a poor man, and he was ready to catchat a straw in the turbid ocean of debt and poverty which seemed closinground him. He gave the required promise with his heart in his mouth. 

Then Phoebe returned down the street. Her fatigue began to tell upon her, but she knew that she dared not give in, or allow that she was fatigued. However heavy with sleep her eyes might be, she must keep awake andwatchful. Nothing, if she could help it, must so much as turn theattention of the world in Mr. May's direction. By this time she was muchtoo deeply interested to ask herself why she should do so much for Mr. May. He was her charge, her burden, as helpless in her hands as a child;and nobody but herself knew anything about it. It was characteristic ofPhoebe's nature that she had no doubt as to being perfectly right in thematter, no qualm lest she should be making a mistake. She felt theweight upon her of the great thing she had undertaken to do, with acertain half-pleasing sense of the solemnity of the position and of itsdifficulties; but she was not afraid that she was going wrong orsuffering her fancy to stray further than the facts justified; neitherwas she troubled by any idea of going beyond her sphere by interferingthus energetically in her friend's affairs. Phoebe did not easily takeany such idea into her head. It seemed natural to her to do whatevermight be wanted, and to act upon her own responsibility. Herself-confidence reached the heroic point. She knew that she was right, and she knew moreover that in this whole matter she alone was right. Therefore the necessity of keeping up, of keeping alert and vigilant, ofholding in her hand the threads of all these varied complications wasnot disagreeable to her, though she fully felt its importance--nay, almost exaggerated it in her own mind if that could be. She felt thedangerous character of the circumstances around her, and her heart wassore with pity for the culprit, or as she called him to herself thechief sufferer; and yet all the same Phoebe felt a certain sense ofsatisfaction in the great role she herself was playing. She felt equalto it, though she scarcely knew what was the nest step she ought totake. She was walking slowly, full of thought, to Tozer's door, pondering upon this, when the sound of rapid wheels behind roused herattention, and looking up, surprised, she suddenly saw leaping out of adog-cart the imposing figure of Clarence Copperhead, of whom she had notbeen thinking at all. He came down with a heavy leap, leaving the lightcarriage swinging and quivering behind him with the shock of hiswithdrawal. 

"Miss Phoebe!" he said, breathless; "here's luck! I came over to see you, and you are the first person I set eyes on--"

He was rather heavy to make such a jump, and it took away his breath. 

"To see me?" she said, laughing, though her heart began to stir. "Thatis very odd. I thought you must have come to see poor Mr. May, who is soill. You know--"

"May be hanged!" said the young man; "I mean--never mind--I don't meanhim any harm, though, by Jove, if you make such a pet of him, I don'tknow what I shall think. Miss Phoebe, I've come over post-haste, as youmay see; chiefly to see you; and to try a horse as well, " he added, "which the governor has just bought. He's a very good 'un to go; andpleased the governor would be if he knew the use I had put him to, " heconcluded, with a half-laugh. 

Phoebe knew as well as he did what that use was. He had brought hisfather's horse out for the first time, to carry him here to propose toher, in spite of his father. This was the delicate meaning which itamused him to think of. She understood it all, and it brought a glow ofcolour to her face; but it did not steel her heart against him. She knewher Clarence, and that his standard of fine feeling and mental elevationwas not high. 

"Look here, " he said, "I wish I could speak to you, Miss Phoebe, somewhere better than in the street. Yes, in the garden--that will do. It ain't much of a place either to make a proposal in, for that's whatI've come to do; but you don't want me to go down on my knees, or make afuss, eh? I got up in the middle of the night to be here first thing andsee you. I never had a great deal to say for myself, " said Clarence, "you won't expect me to make you fine speeches; but I _am_ fond ofyou--awfully fond of you, Phoebe, that's the truth. You suit me down tothe ground, music and everything. There's no girl I ever met that hastaken such a hold upon me as you. "

Phoebe heard him very quietly, but her heart beat loud. She stood on thegravel between the flower-borders, where the primroses were beginning towither, and glanced over her life of the past and that of the future, which were divided by this moment like the two beds of flowers; onehomely, not very distinguished, simple enough--the other exalted bywealth to something quite above mediocrity. Her heart swelled, full asit was with so many emotions of a totally different kind. She had gaineda great prize, though it might not be very much to look at; more orless, she was conscious this golden apple had been hanging before hereyes for years, and now it had dropped into her hand. A gentle glow ofcontentment diffused itself all over her, not transport, indeed, butsatisfaction, which was better. 

"Mr. Copperhead--" she said, softly. 

"No, hang it all, call me Clarence, Phoebe, if you're going to have me!"he cried, putting out his big hands. 

"Grandmamma is looking at us from the window, " she said, hurriedly, withdrawing a little from him. 

"Well, and what does that matter? The old lady won't say a word, dependupon it, when she knows. Look here, Phoebe, I'll have an answer. Yes orno?"

"Have you got your father's consent--Clarence?"

"Ah, it is yes then! I thought it would be yes, " he cried, seizing herin his arms. "As for the governor, " added Clarence, after an interval, snapping his fingers, "I don't care _that_ for the governor. When I'veset my mind on a thing, it ain't the governor, or twenty governors, thatwill stop me. "

CHAPTER XLII. 

A GREAT MENTAL SHOCK. 

"Have you any notion what was the cause?"

"None, " said Reginald. "Oh, no, none at all, " said Ursula. They were allthree standing at the door of the sick-room, in which already a greattransformation had taken place. The doctor had sent a nurse to attendupon the patient. He had told them that their father was attacked bysome mysterious affection of the brain, and that none of them were equalto the responsibility of nursing him. His children thus banished had setthe door ajar, and were congregated round it watching what went onwithin. They did not know what to do. It was Northcote who was askingthese questions; it was he who was most active among them. The othersstood half-stunned, wholly ignorant, not knowing what to do. 

"I don't think papa is ill at all, " said Janey. "Look how he glaresabout him, just as I've seen him do when he was writing a sermon, readyto pounce upon any one that made a noise. He is watching that woman. Whyshould he lie in bed like that, and be taken care of when he is just aswell as I am? You have made a mistake all the rest of you. I would goand speak to him, and tell him to get up and not make all this fuss, ifit was me. "

"Oh, Janey! hold your tongue, " said Ursula; but she, too, lookedhalf-scared at the bed, and then turned wistful inquiring eyes toNorthcote. As for Reginald, he stood uncertain, bewildered, all thecolour gone out of his face, and all the energy out of his heart. Heknew nothing of his father's affairs, or of anything that might disturbhis mind. His mind; all that his son knew of this was, that whatsoeverthings disturbed other minds his father had always contemptuouslyscouted all such nonsense. "Take some medicine, " Mr. May had been in thehabit of saying. "Mind! you mean digestion, " was it nothing more thansome complicated indigestion that affected him now?

"Is it anything about--money?" said Northcote. 

They all turned and looked at him. The idea entered their minds for thefirst time. Yes, very likely it was money. 

"We have always been poor, " said Ursula, wistfully. Northcote took herhand into his; none of them except Ursula herself paid any attention tothis involuntary, almost unconscious caress, and even to her it seemed athing of course, and quite natural that he should be one of them, takinghis share in all that was going on. 

"I--am not poor, " he said, faltering. "You must not think mepresumptuous, May. But the first thing to be done is to get him out ofhis difficulties, if he is in difficulties--and you must let me help todo it. I think you and I should go out and see about it at once. "

"Go--where?" Reginald, like most young people, had taken little noticeof his father's proceedings. So long as things went smoothly, what hadhe to do with them? When there was a pressure for money, he knew heshould hear of it, at least in the shape of reproaches and sneers fromhis father at his useless life, and the expenses of the family. But eventhese reproaches had died away of late, since Reginald had possessed anincome of his own, and since the revenues of the Parsonage had beenincreased by Clarence Copperhead. Reginald was more helpless than astranger. He did not know where to turn. "Do you think we could ask him?I am almost of Janey's opinion. I don't think he is so ill as he seems. "

And then they all paused and looked again into the room. The nurse wasmoving softly about, putting everything in order, and Mr. May watchedher from the bed with the keenest attention. His face was still lividand ghastly in colour; but his eyes had never been so full of eager firein all the experience of his children. He watched the woman with a closeattention which was appalling; sometimes he would put his covering halfaside as if with the intention of making a spring. He was like someimprisoned animal seeing a possibility of escape. They looked at him, and then at each other, with a miserable helplessness. What could theydo? He was their father, but they knew nothing about him, and justbecause he was their father they were more slow to understand, more dullin divining his secrets than if he had been a stranger. When there cameat last a suggestion out of the silence, it was Northcote who spoke. 

"I don't see how you can leave him, May. It is plain he wants watching. I will go if you will let me--if Ursula will say I may, " said the youngman with a little break in his voice. This roused them all to anotherquestion, quite different from the first one. Her brother and sisterlooked at Ursula, one with a keen pang of involuntary envy, the otherwith a sharp thrill of pleasurable excitement. Oddly enough they couldall of them pass by their father and leave him out of the question, moreeasily, with less strain of mind, than strangers could. Ursula for herpart did not say anything; but she looked at her lover with eyes inwhich two big tears were standing. She could scarcely see him throughthose oceans of moisture, bitter and salt, yet softened by the sense oftrust in him, and rest upon him. When he stooped and kissed her on theforehead before them all, the girl did not blush. It was a solemnbetrothal, sealed by pain, not by kisses. 

"Yes, go, " she said to him in words which were half sobs, and which heunderstood, but no one else. 

"You perceive, " he said, "it is not a stranger interfering in youraffairs, May, but Ursula doing her natural work for her father throughme--her representative. God bless her! I am Ursula now, " he said with abroken laugh of joy; then grew suddenly grave again. "You trust me, May?"

Poor Reginald's heart swelled; this little scene so calmly transactedunder his eyes, would it ever happen for him, or anything like it? No, his reason told him--and yet; still he was thinking but little of hisfather. He had his duty too, and this happened to be his duty; but nowarmer impulse was in the poor young fellow's heart. 

And thus the day went on. It was afternoon already, and soon the skybegan to darken. When his children went into the room, Mr. May took nonotice of them--not that he did not know them; but because his wholefaculties were fixed upon that woman who was his nurse, and who had allher wits about her, and meant to keep him there, and to carry out thedoctor's instructions should heaven and earth melt away around her. Shetoo perceived well enough how he was watching her, and being familiarwith all the ways, as she thought, of the "mentally afflicted, "concluded in her mind that her new patient was further gone than thedoctor thought. 

"I hope as you'll stay within call, sir, " she said significantly toReginald; "when they're like that, as soon as they breaks out they're asstrong as giants; but I hope he won't break out, not to-day. "

Reginald withdrew, shivering, from the idea thus presented to him. Hestole down to his father's study, notwithstanding the warning she hadgiven him, and there with a sick heart set to work to endeavour tounderstand his father--nay, more than that, to try to find him out. Theyoung man felt a thrill of nervous trembling come over him when he satdown in his father's chair and timidly opened some of the drawers. Mr. May was in many respects as young a man as his son, and Reginald and hehad never been on those confidential terms which bring some fathers andsons so very close together. He felt that he had no business therespying upon his father's privacy. He could not look at the papers whichlay before him. It seemed a wrong of the first magnitude, wroughttreacherously, because of the helplessness of the creature mostconcerned. He could not do it. He thrust the papers back again into thedrawer. In point of fact there were no secrets in the papers, nor muchto be found out in Mr. May's private life. All its dark side might beinferred from, without being revealed in, the little book which layinnocently on the desk, and which Reginald looked over, thinking noharm. In it there were two or three entries which at length roused hiscuriosity. Cotsdean, October 10th. Cotsdean, January 12th. C. & T. April18th. What did this mean? Reginald remembered to have seen Cotsdeanpaying furtive visits in the study. He recollected him as one of the fewpoor people for whom his father had a liking. But what could there bebetween them? He was puzzled, and as Betsy was passing the open door atthe time, called her in. The evening was falling quickly, the day hadchanged from a beautiful bright morning to a rainy gusty afternoon, tearing the leaves and blossoms from the trees, and whirling now andthen a shower of snowy petals, beautiful but ill-omened snow, across thedark window. Beyond that the firmament was dull; the clouds hung low, and the day was gone before it ought. When Betsy came in she closed thedoor, not fastening it, but still, Reginald felt, shutting him out toomuch from the sick-bed, to which he might be called at any moment. Buthe was not alarmed by this, though he remarked it. He questioned Betsyclosely as to his father's possible connection with this man. In such amoment, confidential, half-whispered interviews are the rule of a house. Every one has so much to ask; so much to say in reply; so manyparticulars to comment upon which the rest may have forgotten. She wouldhave liked to enter upon the whole story, to tell how the master wastook, and how she herself had thought him looking bad when he came in;but even to talk about Cotsdean was pleasant. 

"I told Miss Beecham, " said Betsy, "and I told the other gentleman, Mr. Northcote, as was asking me all about it. It's months and months sincethat Cotsdean got coming here--years I may say; and whenever he camemaster looked bad. If you'll believe me, Mr. Reginald, it's money as isat the bottom of it all. "

"Money? hush, what was that? I thought I heard something upstairs. "

"Only the nurse, sir, as is having her tea. I'm ready to take my oath asit's money. I've been in service since I was nine years old, " saidBetsy, "I've had a deal of experience of gentlefolks, and it's alwaysmoney as is the thing as sets them off their head. That's what it is. Ifthat Cotsdean didn't come here something about money, never you believeme no more. "

"Cotsdean! a poor shopkeeper! what could he have to do with my father'saffairs?" Reginald was not speaking to the woman, but drearily tohimself. If this was the only clue to the mystery, what a poor clue itwas!

"I dunno, sir, " said Betsy, "it ain't for me to tell; but one thing I'msure of--Lord bless us, what's that?"

Reginald rushed to the door, nearly knocking her down as he pushed heraside with his hand. When they got outside, it was only the hat-stand inthe hall that had fallen, something having been torn off from itapparently in mad haste, and the door had opened and shut. Reginaldrushed upstairs, where the nurse was sitting quietly at her tea, thebed-curtains being drawn. 

"All right, sir; he's in a nice sleep, " said that functionary; "I didn'tlight no candles, not to disturb him, poor gentleman. "

Reginald tore the curtains aside, then turned and dashed downstairs, andout into the windy twilight. In that moment of stillness and darknessthe patient had escaped. He could see a strange figure walking rapidly, already half way up Grange Lane, and rushed on in pursuit without takingthought of anything. The sick man had seized upon a long coat which hadbeen hanging in the hall, and which reached to his heels. Reginald flewon, going as softly as he could, not to alarm him. Where could he begoing, utterly unclothed except in this big coat? Was it simply madnessthat had seized him, nothing more or less? He followed, with his heartbeating loudly. There seemed nobody about, no one to whom he could makean appeal to help him, even if he could overtake the rapidly progressingfugitive. But even while this thought crossed his mind, Reginald sawanother figure, broad and tall, developing in the distance, comingtowards them, which stopped short, and put out an arm to stop theflight. Even that moment gave him the advantage, and brought him nearenough to make out that it was Mr. Copperhead. 

"The very man I want, " he heard him say with his loud voice, putting hisarm within that of Mr. May, who resisted, but not enough to attract theattention of the new-comer, as Reginald came up breathless and placedhimself on his father's other side. The darkness prevented anyrevelation of the strange appearance of the fugitive, and Mr. Copperheadwas not lively of perception in respect to people unconnected withhimself. 

"You, too, " he cried, nodding at Reginald, "come along. I've come tosave that boy of mine from a little artful--Come, both of you. The sightof a young fellow like himself will shame him more than anything; andyou, May, you're the very man I want--"

"Not there, not there, for God's sake!" said Mr. May, with a hoarse cry, "not there, my God! Reginald! it used to be hanging. Do you mean to giveme up?"

"Hold him fast, " Reginald whispered in desperation, "hold him fast! Itis madness. "

"Lord bless us!" said Mr. Copperhead, but he was a man who was proud ofhis strength, and not given to timidity. He held his captive fast by thearm, while Reginald secured him on the other side. "Why, what's this, May? rouse yourself up; don't give in, man. No, you ain't mad, not a bitof you. Come along, wait here at Tozer's for me, while I do my business;and then I'll look after _you_. Come on. "

There was a violent but momentary struggle; then all at once thestruggling man yielded and allowed himself to be dragged within thegarden-door. Was it because an ordinary policeman, one of the mostrespectful servants of the law, who would have saluted Mr. May with theutmost reverence, was just then coming up? He yielded; but he looked athis son with a wild despair which made Reginald almost as desperate ashimself in maddening ignorance and terror. 

"Ruin! ruin!" he murmured hoarsely, "worse than death. "

CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE CONFLICT. 

The day which had intervened between Phoebe's morning walk, and thisdarkling flight along the same road, had been full of agitation at thehouse of the Tozers. Phoebe, who would willingly have spared her loveranything more than the brief intercourse which was inevitable with herrelations, could find no means of sending him away without breakfast. She had escaped from him accordingly, weary as she was, to makearrangements for such a meal as she knew him, even in his mostsentimental mood, to love--a thing which required some time andsupervision, though the house was always plentifully provided. When shehad hastily bathed her face and changed her dress she came back to theroom where she had left him, to find him in careless conversation withTozer, who only half-recovered from the excitement of last night, butmuch overawed by a visit from so great a personage, had managed to putaside the matter which occupied his own thoughts, in order to carry on akind of worship of Clarence, who was the son of the richest man he hadever heard of, and consequently appeared to the retired butterman a verydemigod. Clarence was yawning loudly, his arms raised over his head intotal indifference to Tozer, when Phoebe came into the room; and the oldman seized upon the occasion of her entrance to perform another act ofworship. 

"Ah, here's Phoebe at last. Mr. Copperhead's come in from the country, mydear, and he's going to make us proud, he is, by accepting of a bit ofbreakfast. I tell him it's a wretched poor place for him as has palacesat his command; but what we can give him is the best quality, that Ianswers for--and you're one as knows how things should be, even if weain't grand ourselves. "

"Have you palaces at your command, Clarence?" she said, with a smile. Notwithstanding the fatigue of the night, the fresh air and herablutions, and the agitation and commotion of her mind, made Phoebealmost more animated and brilliant than usual. Her eyes shone with theanxiety and excitement of the crisis, and a little, too, with the gloryand delight of success; for though Clarence Copperhead was not very muchto brag of in his own person, he still had been the object before herfor some time back, and she had got him. And yet Phoebe was notmercenary, though she was not "in love" with her heavy lover in theordinary sense of the word. She went towards him now, and stood nearhim, looking at him with a smile. He was a big, strong fellow, which isa thing most women esteem, and he was not without good looks; and hewould be rich, and might be thrust into a position which would produceboth honour and advantage; and lastly, he was her own, which gives eventhe most indifferent article a certain value in some people's eyes. 

"Palaces? I don't know, but nice enough houses; and you know you like anice house, Miss Phoebe. Here, I haven't said a word to the oldgentleman. Tell him; I ain't come all this way for nothing. You'vealways got the right words at your fingers' end. Tell him, and let's getit over. I think I could eat some breakfast, I can tell you, after thatdrive. "

"Grandpapa, " said Phoebe, slightly tremulous, "Mr. Copperhead wishes meto tell you that--Mr. Copperhead wishes you to know why----"

"Bless us!" cried Clarence with a laugh. "Here is a beating about thebush! She has got her master, old gentleman, and that is what she neverhad before. Look here, I'm going to marry Phoebe. That's plain Englishwithout any phrases, and I don't know what you could say to better it. Is breakfast ready? I've earned it for my part. "

"Going to marry Phoebe!" Tozer gasped. He had heard from his wife thatsuch a glory was possible; but now, when it burst upon him, the dazzlingdelight seemed too good to be true. It thrust the forgery and everythingout of his head, and took even the power of speech from him. He got upand gazed at the young people, one after the other, rubbing his hands, with a broad grin upon his face; then he burst forth all at once incongratulation. 

"God bless you, sir! God bless you both! It's an honour as I neverlooked for. Rising in the world was never no thought of mine; doing yourduty and trusting to the Lord is what I've always stood by; and it'sbeen rewarded. But she's a good girl, Mr. Copperhead; you'll neverregret it, sir. She's that good and that sensible, as I don't know howto do without her. She'll do you credit, however grand you may make her;and if it's any comfort to you, as she's connected with them as knowshow to appreciate a gentleman--" said Tozer, breaking down in hisenthusiasm, his voice sinking into a whisper in the fulness of hisheart. 

"Grandpapa!" said Phoebe, feeling sharply pricked in her pride, with amomentary humiliation, "there are other things to be thought of, " andshe gave him a look of reproach which Tozer did not understand, butwhich Clarence did vaguely. Clarence, for his part, liked the homage, and was by no means unwilling that everybody should perceive hiscondescension and what great luck it was for Phoebe to have secured him. He laughed, pleased to wave his banner of triumph over her, notwithstanding that he loved her. He _was_ very fond of her, that wastrue; but still her good fortune in catching him was, for the moment, the thing most in his thoughts. 

"Well, old gentleman, " he said, "you ain't far wrong there. She _is_ aclever one. We shall have a bad time of it with the governor at first;for, of course, when there's no money and no connections, a man like thegovernor, that has made himself, ain't likely to be too well pleased. "

"As for money, Mr. Copperhead, sir, " said Tozer with modest pride, "Idon't see as there's anything to be said against Phoebe on that point. Her mother before her had a pretty bit of money, though I say it, asshouldn't--"

"Ah, yes--yes, " said Clarence. "To be sure; but a little bit of coinlike that don't count with us. The governor deals in hundreds ofthousands; he don't think much of your little bits of fortunes. But Idon't mind. She suits me down to the ground, does Phoebe; and I don'tgive that for the governor!" cried the young man valiantly. As for Phoebeherself, it is impossible to imagine any one more entirely put out ofher place, and out of all the comfort and satisfaction in her owninitiative which she generally possessed, than this young woman was, while these two men talked over her so calmly. It is doubtful whethershe had ever been so set aside out of her proper position in her life, and her nerves were overstrained and her bodily strength worn out, whichadded to the sense of downfall. With almost a touch of anger in her toneshe, who was never out of temper, interrupted this talk. 

"I think breakfast is ready, grandpapa. Mr. Clarence Copperhead wantssome refreshment after his exertions, and in preparation for theexertions to come. For I suppose your papa is very likely to follow youto Carlingford, " she added, with a low laugh, turning to her lover. "Iknow Mr. Copperhead very well, and I should not like my first meetingwith him after I had thwarted all his views. "

"Phoebe! you don't mean to desert me? By Jove! I'll face him and twentylike him if you'll only stand by me, " he cried; which was a speech thatmade amends. 

She suffered him to lead her into breakfast less formally than is theordinary fashion, and his hand on her trim waist did not displease thegirl. No; she understood him, knew that he was no great things; but yethe was hers, and she had always meant him to be hers, and Phoebe wasready to maintain his cause in the face of all the world. 

The breakfast was to Clarence's taste, and so was the company--even oldTozer, who sat with his mouth agape in admiration of the youngpotentate, while he recounted his many grandeurs. Clarence gave a greatdeal of information as to prices he had paid for various things, and theexpenses of his living at Oxford and elsewhere, as he ate the kidneys, eggs, and sausages with which Phoebe's care had heaped the table. Theyhad no _pâté de foie gras_, it is true, but the simple fare was of thebest quality, as Tozer had boasted. Mrs. Tozer did not come downstairsto breakfast, and thus Phoebe was alone with the two men, who suited eachother so much better than she could have hoped. The girl sat by themlanguidly, though with a beating heart, wondering, as girls will wondersometimes, if all men were like these, braggards and believers in brag, worshippers of money and price. No doubt, young men too marvel when theyhear the women about them talking across them of _chiffons_, or oflittle quarrels and little vanities. Phoebe had more brains than both ofher interlocutors put together, and half-a-dozen more added on; but shewas put down and silenced by the talk. Her lover for the moment hadescaped from her. She could generally keep him from exposing himself inthis way, and turn the better side of him to the light; but the presenceof a believer in him turned the head of Clarence. She could not controlhim any more. 

"A good horse is a deuced expensive thing, " he said; "the governor gavea cool hundred and fifty for that mare that brought me over thismorning. He bought her from Sir Robert; but he didn't know, Phoebe, theuse I was going to put her to. If he'd known, he'd have put that hundredand fifty in the sea rather than have his beast rattled over the countryon such an errand. " Here he stopped in the midst of his breakfast, andlooked at her admiringly. "But I don't repent, " he added. "I'd do itagain to-morrow if it wasn't done already. If you stand by me, I'll facehim, and twenty like him, by Jove!"

"You don't say nothing, " said her grandfather. "I wouldn't be soungrateful. Gentlemen like Mr. Copperhead ain't picked up at everyroadside. "

"They ain't, by Jove!" said Clarence; "but she's shy, that's all aboutit, " he added, tenderly; "when we're by ourselves, I don't complain. "

Poor Phoebe! She smiled a dismal smile, and was very glad when breakfastwas over. After that she took him into the garden, into the brightmorning air, which kept her up, and where she could keep her Clarence inhand and amuse him, without allowing this revelation of the worst sideof him. While they were there, Martha admitted the visitor of yesterday, Mr. Simpson from the Bank, bringing back to Phoebe's mind all the othermatter of which it had been full. 

"Don't you think you ought to go and see about the horse and thedog-cart?" she said suddenly, turning to her lover with one of thosesudden changes which kept the dull young man amused. "You don't knowwhat they may be about. "

"They can't be up to much, " said Clarence. "Thank you, Miss Phoebe, Ilike you better than the mare. "

"But you can't be here all day, and I can't be here all day, " she said. "I must look after grandmamma, and you ought to go down and inquireafter poor Mr. May--he is so ill. I have been there all night, helpingUrsula. You ought to go and ask for him. People don't forget all theduties of life because--because a thing of this sort has happened--"

"Because they've popped and been accepted, " said graceful Clarence. "ByJove! I'll go. I'll tell young May. I'd like to see his face when I tellhim the news. You may look as demure as you like, but you know whatspoons he has been upon you, and the old fellow too--made me as jealousas King Lear sometimes, " cried the happy lover, with a laugh. He meantOthello, let us suppose. 

"Nonsense, Clarence! But go, please go. I must run to grandmamma. "

Mr. Simpson had gone in, and Phoebe's heart had begun to beat loudly inher throat; but it was not so easy to get rid of this ardent lover, andwhen at last he did go, he was slightly sulky, which was not a state ofmind to be encouraged. She rushed upstairs to her grandmother's room, which was over the little room where Tozer sat, and from which she couldalready hear sounds of conversation rapidly rising in tone, and thenoise of opening and shutting drawers, and a general rummage. Phoebenever knew what she said to the kind old woman, who kissed and wept overher, exulting in the news. 

"I ain't been so pleased since my Phoebe told me as she was to marry aminister, " said Mrs. Tozer, "and this is a rise in life a deal granderthan the best of ministers. But, bless your heart, what shall I dowithout you?" cried the old woman, sobbing. 

Presently Tozer came in, with an air of angry abstraction, and began tosearch through drawers and boxes. 

"I've lost something, " he answered, with sombre looks, to his wife'sinquiry. Phoebe busied herself with her grandmother, and did not ask whatit was. It was only when he had searched everywhere that some chancemovement directed his eyes to her. She was trembling in spite ofherself. He came up to her, and seized her suddenly by the arm. "ByGeorge!" he cried, "I'm in a dozen minds to search you!"

"Tozer! let my child alone. How dare you touch her--her as is as goodas Mr. Copperhead's lady? What's she got to do with your dirty papers?Do you think Phoebe would touch them--with a pair of tongs?" cried theangry grandmother. 

Phoebe shrank with all the cowardice of guilt. Her nerves were unstrungby weariness and excitement. And Tozer, with his little red eyes blazingupon her, was very different in this fury of personal injury, from thegrandfather of the morning, who had been ready to see every virtue inher. 

"I believe as you've got it!" he cried, giving her a shake. It was ashot at a venture, said without the least idea of its truth; but beforethe words had crossed his lips, he felt with a wild passion of rage andwonder that it was true. "Give it up, you hussy!" he shrieked, with ayell of fury, his face convulsed with sudden rage, thickly and withsputtering lips. 

"Tozer!" cried his wife, flinging herself between them, "take your handsoff the child. Run, run to your room, my darling; he's out of hissenses. Lord bless us all, Sam, are you gone stark staring mad?"

"Grandpapa, " said Phoebe, trembling, "if I had it, you may be sure itwould be safe out of your way. I told you I knew something about it, butyou would not hear me. Will you hear me now? I'll make it up toyou--double it, if you like. Grandmamma, it is a poor man he would driveto death if he is not stopped. Oh!" cried Phoebe, clasping her hands, "after what has happened this morning, will you not yield to me? andafter all the love you have shown me? I will never ask anything, notanother penny. I will make it up; only give in to me, give in to me--foronce in my life! Grandpapa! I never asked anything from you before. "

"Give it up, you piece of impudence! you jade! you d--d deceitful----"

He was holding her by the arm, emphasizing every new word by a violentshake, while poor old Mrs. Tozer dropped into a chair, weeping andtrembling. 

"Oh! it ain't often as he's like this; but when he is, I can't donothing with him, I can't do nothing with him!" she cried. 

But Phoebe's nerves strung themselves up again in face of the crisis. Sheshook him off suddenly with unexpected strength, and moving to a littledistance, stood confronting him, pale but determined. 

"If you think you will get the better of me in this way, you aremistaken, " she said. "I am not your daughter; how dare you treat me so?Grandmamma, forgive me. I have been up all night. I am going to liedown, " said Phoebe. "If grandpapa has anything more to say against me, hecan say it to Clarence. I leave myself in his hands. "

Saying this, she turned round majestically, but with an anxious heart, and walked away to her room, every nerve in her trembling. When she gotthere, Phoebe locked the door hastily, in genuine terror; and then shelaughed, and then she cried a little. "And to think it was here all thetime!" she said to herself, taking out the little Russia leather purseout of her pocket. She went into the closet adjoining her room, andburied it deep in her travelling trunk which was there, relievingherself and her mind of a danger. Then--Phoebe did what was possibly themost sensible thing in the world, in every point of view. She went tobed; undressed herself quietly, rolled up her hair, and lay down with agrateful sense of ease and comfort. "When Clarence comes back he will bedisappointed; but even for Clarence a little disappointment will be noharm, " said the sensible young woman to herself. And what comfort it wasto lie down, and feel all the throbs and pulses gradually subsiding, thefright going off, the satisfaction of success coming back, and graduallya slumberous, delicious ease stealing over her. Of all the clever thingsPhoebe had done in her life, it must be allowed that there was not one somasterly as the fact that she, then and there, went to sleep. 

All this had taken up a good deal of time. It was twelve when Mr. Simpson of the bank disturbed the lovers in the garden, and it was oneo'clock before Phoebe put a stop to all Tozer's vindictive plans by goingto bed. What he said to Mr. Simpson, when he went back to him, is not onrecord. That excellent man of business was much put out by the longwaiting, and intimated plainly enough that he could not allow his timeto be thus wasted. Mr. Simpson began to think that there was somethingvery strange in the whole business. Tozer's house was turned upside downby it, as he could hear by the passionate voices and the sound of cryingand storming in the room above; but Cotsdean was secure in his shop, apparently fearing no evil, as he had seen as he passed, peering in withcurious eyes. What it meant he could not tell; but it was queer, and didnot look as if the business was straight-forward. 

"When you find the bill, or make up your mind what to do, you can sendfor me, " he said, and went away, suspicious and half-angry, leavingTozer to his own devices. And the afternoon passed in the mostuncomfortable lull imaginable. Though he believed his granddaughter tohave it, he looked again over all his papers, his drawers, hiswaste-basket, every corner he had in which such a small matter mighthave been hid; but naturally his search was all in vain. Clarencereturned in the afternoon, and was received by poor old Mrs. Tozer, verytremulous and ready to cry, who did not know whether she ought todistrust Phoebe or not, and hesitated and stumbled over her words tillthe young man thought his father had come in his absence, and that Phoebehad changed her mind. This had the effect of making him extremely eagerand anxious, and of subduing the bragging and magnificent mood which thetriumphant lover had displayed in the morning. He felt himself "takendown a peg or two, " in his own fine language. He went to the Parsonageand tried very hard to see Ursula, to secure her help in case anythinghad gone wrong, and then to Reginald, whose vexation at the news he feltsure of, and hoped to enjoy a sight of. But he could see no one in theabsorbed and anxious house. What was he to do? He wandered about, growing more and more unhappy, wondering if he had been made to flinghimself into the face of fate for no reason, and sure that he could notmeet his father without Phoebe's support. He could not even face herrelations. It was very different from the day of triumph he had lookedfor; but, as Phoebe had wisely divined, this disappointment, and all theattending circumstances, did not do him any harm. 

It was late in the afternoon when Northcote called. He too had acted onthe information given by Betsy, and had gone to Cotsdean, who made himvaguely aware that Tozer had some share in the business in which Mr. Maywas involved, and who, on being asked whether it could be set right bymoney, grew radiant and declared that nothing could be easier. But whenNorthcote saw Tozer, there ensued a puzzling game at cross purposes, forTozer had no notion that Mr. May had anything to do with the business, and declined to understand. 

"I ain't got nothing to do with parsons, and if you'll take my advice, sir, it 'ud be a deal better for you to give 'em up too. You'rea-aggravating the connection for no good, you are, " said Tozer, surelyby right of his own troubles and perplexities, and glad to think hecould make some one else uncomfortable too. 

"I shall do in that respect as I think proper, " said Northcote, who wasnot disposed to submit to dictation. 

"Fact is, he's a deal too well off for a minister, " Tozer said to hiswife when the young man disappeared, "they're too independent that sort;and I don't know what he means by his Mays and his fine folks. What havewe got to do with Mr. May?"

"Except that he's been good to the child, Tozer; we can't forget as he'sbeen very good to the child. "

"Oh, dash the child!" cried the old man, infuriated; "if you say muchmore I'll be sorry I ever let you see her face. What has she done withmy bill?"

"Bill? if it's only a bill what are you so put out about!" cried Mrs. Tozer. "You'll have dozens again at Christmas, if that is all you want. "

But the laugh was unsuccessful, and the old man went back to his room tonurse his wrath and to wonder what had come to him. Why had hisgranddaughter interfered in his business, and what had he to do with Mr. May?

Phoebe got up refreshed and comfortable when it was time for the familytea, and came down to her lover, who had come back, and was sitting verydejected by old Mrs. Tozer's side. She was fresh and fair, and in one ofher prettiest dresses, having taken pains for him; and notwithstandingTozer's lowering aspect, and his refusal to speak to her, the mealpassed over very cheerfully for the rest of the party, and the two youngpeople once more withdrew to the garden when it was over. The presenceof Clarence Copperhead protected Phoebe from all attack. Her grandfatherdared not fly out upon her as before, or summon her to give up what shehad taken from him. Whatever happened, this wonderful rise in life, thisgrand match could not be interfered with. He withdrew bitter andexasperated to his own den, leaving his poor wife crying and wretched inthe family sitting-room. Mrs. Tozer knew that her husband was not to betrifled with, and that, though the circumstances of Phoebe's betrothalsubdued him for the moment, this effect in all probability would notlast; and she sat in terror, watching the moments as they passed, andtrembling to think what might happen when the young pair came in again, or when Clarence at last went away, leaving Phoebe with no protection butherself. Phoebe, too, while she kept her dull companion happy, keptthinking all the while of the same thing with a great tremor ofsuppressed agitation in her mind; and she did not know what was the nextstep to take--a reflection which took away her strength. She had takenthe bill from her trunk again and replaced it in her pocket. It wassafest carried on her person, she felt; but what she was to do next, even Phoebe, so fruitful in resources, could not say. When Northcote cameback in the evening she felt that her game was becoming more and moredifficult to play. After a brief consultation with herself, she decidedthat it was most expedient to go in with him, taking her big body-guardalong with her, and confiding in his stupidity not to find out more thanwas indispensable. She took Northcote to her grandfather's room, whispering to him on the way to make himself the representative ofCotsdean only, and to say nothing of Mr. May. 

"Then you know about it?" said Northcote amazed. 

"Oh, hush, hush!" cried Phoebe; "offer to pay it on Cotsdean's part, andsay nothing about Mr. May. "

The young man looked at her bewildered; but nodded his head in assent, and then her own young man pulled her back almost roughly, and demandedto know what she meant by talking to that fellow so. Thus poor Phoebe wasbetween two fires. She went in with a fainting yet courageous heart. 

"Pay the money!" said Tozer, who by dint of brooding over it all the dayhad come to a white heat, and was no longer to be controlled. "Mr. Northcote, sir, you're a minister, and you don't understand business nomore nor women do. Money's money--but there's more than money here. There's my name, sir, as has been made use of in a way!--me go signingof accommodation bills! I'd have cut off my hand sooner. There's thatgirl there, she's got it. She's been and stolen it from me, Mr. Northcote. Tell her to give it up. You may have some influence, you asis a minister. Tell her to give it up, or, by George, she shall neverhave a penny from me! I'll cut her off without even a shilling. I'll puther out o' my will--out o' my house. "

"I say, Phoebe, " said Clarence, "look here, that's serious, that is; notthat I mind a little pot of money like what the poor old fellow's got;but what's the good of throwing anything away?"

"Make her give it up, " cried Tozer hoarsely, "or out of this house shegoes this very night. I ain't the sort of man to be made a fool of. Iain't the sort of man--Who's this a-coming? some more of your d--dintercessors to spoil justice, " cried the old man, "but I won't have'em. I'll have nothing to say to them. What, who? Mr. Copperhead'sfather? I ain't ashamed to meet Mr. Copperhead's father; but one thingat a time. Them as comes into my house must wait my time, " cried thebutterman, seeing vaguely the group come in, whom we left at his doors. "I'm master here. Give up that bill, you brazen young hussy, and go outof my sight. How dare you set up your face among so many men? Give itup!" he cried, seizing her by the elbow in renewed fury. The strangers, though he saw them enter, received no salutation from him. There was onesmall lamp on the table, dimly lighted, which threw a faint glow uponthe circle of countenances round, into which came wondering the burlybig Copperhead, holding fast by the shoulder of Mr. May, whose ghastlyface, contorted with wild anxiety, glanced at Tozer over the lamp. Butthe old man was so much absorbed at first that he scarcely saw who thenew-comers were. 

"What's all this about?" said Mr. Copperhead. "Seems we've come into themidst of another commotion. So you're here, Clar! it is you I want, myboy. Look here, Northcote, take hold, will you? there's a screw loose, and we've got to get him home. Take hold, till I have had a word withClarence. That's a thing that won't take long. "

Clarence cast a glance at Phoebe, who even in her own agitation turnedand gave him a tremulous smile of encouragement. The crisis was so greaton all sides of her that Phoebe became heroic. 

"I am here, " she said, with all the steadiness of strong emotion, andwhen he had received this assurance of support, he feared his father nomore. 

"All right, sir, " he said almost with alacrity. He was afraid of nothingwith Phoebe standing by. 

"Make her give me up my bill, " said Tozer; "I'll hear nothing else tillthis is settled. My bill! It's forgery; that's what it is. Don't speakto me about money! I'll have him punished. I'll have him rot in prisonfor it. I'll not cheat the law--You people as has influence with thatgirl, make her give it me. I can't touch him without the bill. "

Mr. May had been placed in a chair by the two young men who watched overhim; but as Tozer spoke he got up, struggling wildly, almost tearinghimself out of the coat by which they held him. "Let me go!" he said. "Do you hear him? Rot in prison! with hard labour; it would kill me! Andit used to be hanging! My God--my God! Won't you let me go?"

Tozer stopped short, stopped by this passion which was greater than hisown. He looked wonderingly at the livid face, the struggling figure, impressed in spite of himself. "He's gone mad, " he said. "Good Lord! Buthe's got nothing to do with it. Can't you take him away?"

"Grandpapa, " said Phoebe in his ear, "here it is, your bill; it was _he_who did it--and it has driven him mad. Look! I give it up to you; andthere he is--that is your work. Now do what you please--"

Trembling, the old man took the paper out of her hand. He gazedwondering at the other, who somehow moved in his excitement by a sensethat the decisive moment had come, stood still too, his arm half-pulledout of his coat, his face wild with dread and horror. For a moment theylooked at each other in a common agony, neither the one nor the otherclear enough to understand, but both feeling that some tremendous crisishad come upon them. "He--done it!" said Tozer appalled and almostspeechless. "_He_ done it!" They all crowded round, a circle of scaredfaces. Phoebe alone stood calm. She was the only one who knew the whole, except the culprit, who understood nothing with that mad confusion inhis eyes. But he was overawed too, and in his very madness recognizedthe crisis. He stood still, struggling no longer, with his eyes fixedupon the homely figure of the old butterman, who stood trembling, thunderstruck, with that fatal piece of paper in his hand. 

Tozer had been mad for revenge two moments before--almost as wild as theguilty man before him--with a fierce desire to punish and make anexample of the man who had wronged him. But this semi-madness wasarrested by the sight of the other madman before him, and by theextraordinary shock of this revelation. It took all the strength out ofhim. He had not looked up to the clergyman as Cotsdean did, but he hadlooked up to the gentleman, his customer, as being upon an elevationvery different from his own, altogether above and beyond him; and thesight of this superior being, thus humbled, maddened, gazing at him withwild terror and agony, more eloquent than any supplication, struck poorold Tozer to the very soul. "God help us all!" he cried out with abroken, sobbing voice. He was but a vulgar old fellow, mean, it mightbe, worldly in his way; but the terrible mystery of human wickedness andguilt prostrated his common soul with as sharp an anguish of pity andshame as could have befallen the most heroic. It seized upon him so thathe could say or do nothing more, forcing hot and salt tears up into hisold eyes, and shaking him all over with a tremor as of palsy. The scaredfaces appeared to come closer to Phoebe, to whom these moments seemedlike years. Had her trust been vain? Softly, but with an excitementbeyond control, she touched him on the arm. 

"That's true, " said Tozer, half-crying. "Something's got to be done. Wecan't all stand here for ever, Phoebe; it's him as has to be thought of. Show it to him, poor gentleman, if he ain't past knowing; and burn it, and let us hear of it no more. "

Solemnly, in the midst of them all, Phoebe held up the paper before theeyes of the guilty man. If he understood it or not, no one could tell. He did not move, but stared blankly at her and it. Then she held it overthe lamp and let it blaze and drop into harmless ashes in the midst ofthem all. Tozer dropped down into his elbow-chair sniffing and sobbing. Mr. May stood quite still, with a look of utter dulness and stupiditycoming over the face in which so much terror had been. If he understoodwhat had passed, it was only in feeling, not in intelligence. He grewstill and dull in the midst of that strange madness which all the timewas only half-madness, a mixture of conscious excitement and anxietywith that which passes the boundaries of consciousness. For the momenthe was stilled into stupid idiotcy, and looked at them with vacanteyes. As for the others, Northcote was the only one who divined atall what this scene meant. To Reginald it was like a scene in apantomime--bewildering dumb show, with no sense or meaning in it. It washe who spoke first, with a certain impatience of the occurrence which hedid not understand. 

"Will you come home, sir, now?" he said. "Come home, for Heaven's sake!Northcote will give you an arm. He's very ill, " Reginald added, lookinground him pitifully in his ignorance; "what you are thinking of I can'ttell--but he's ill and--delirious. It was Mr. Copperhead who brought himhere against my will. Excuse me, Miss Beecham--now I must take himhome. "

"Yes, " said Phoebe. The tears came into her eyes as she looked at him; hewas not thinking of her at the moment, but she knew he had thought ofher, much and tenderly, and she felt that she might never see him again. Phoebe would have liked him to know what she had done, and to know thatwhat she had done was for him chiefly--in order to recompense him alittle, poor fellow, for the heart he had given her, which she could notaccept, yet could not be ungrateful for. And yet she was glad, thoughthere was a pang in it, that he should never know, and remain unaware ofher effort, for his own sake; but the tears came into her eyes as shelooked at him, and he caught the gleam of the moisture which made hisheart beat. Something moved her beyond what he knew of; and his heartthrilled with tenderness and wonder; but how should he know what it was?

"Give my love to Ursula, " she said. "I shall not come to-night as shehas a nurse, and I think he will be better. Make her rest, Mr. May--andif I don't see her, say good-bye to her for me----"

"Good-bye?"

"Yes, good-bye--things have happened--Tell her I hope she will notforget me, " said Phoebe, the tears dropping down her cheeks. "But oh, please never mind me, look at him, he is quite quiet, he is worn out. Take him home. "

"There is nothing else to be done, " said poor Reginald, whose heartbegan to ache with a sense of the unknown which surrounded him on everyside. He took his father by the arm, who had been standing quite silent, motionless, and apathetic. He had no need for any help, for Mr. May wentwith him at a touch, as docile as a child. Northcote followed with gravelooks and very sad. Tozer had been seated in his favourite chair, muchsubdued, and giving vent now and then to something like a sob. Hisnerves had been terribly shaken. But as he saw the three gentlemen goingaway, nature awoke in the old butterman. He put out his hand and pluckedNorthcote by the sleeve. "I'll not say no to that money, not now, Mr. Northcote, sir, " he said. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

PHŒBE'S LAST TRIAL. 

"Now if you please, " said Mr. Copperhead. "I think it's my turn. Iwanted May to hear what I had got to say, but as he's ill or mad, orsomething, it is not much good. I can't imagine what all theseincantations meant, and all your play, Miss Phoebe, eyes and all. Thatsort of thing don't suit us plain folks. If you don't mind followingyour friends, I want to speak to old Tozer here by himself. I don't liketo have women meddling in my affairs. "

"Grandpapa is very tired, and he is upset, " said Phoebe. "I don't thinkhe can have any more said to him to-night. "

"By George, but he shall though, and you too. Look here, " said Mr. Copperhead, "you've taken in my boy Clarence here. He's been a fool, andhe always was a fool; but you're not a fool, Miss Phoebe. You knowprecious well what you're about. And just you listen to me; he shan'tmarry you, not if he breaks his heart over it. I ain't a man that thinksmuch of breaking hearts. You and he may talk what nonsense you like, butyou shan't marry my boy; no, not if there wasn't another woman in theworld. "

"He has asked me, " said Phoebe; "but I certainly did not ask him. Youmust give your orders to your son, Mr. Copperhead. You have no right todictate to me. Grandpapa, I think you and I have had enough forto-night. "

With this Phoebe began to close the shutters, which had been left open, and to put away books and things which were lying about. Tozer made afeeble attempt to stop her energetic proceedings. 

"Talk to the gentleman, Phoebe, if Mr. Copperhead 'as anything to say toyou--don't, don't you go and offend him, my dear!" the old man cried inan anxious whisper; and then he raised himself from the chair, in whichhe had sunk exhausted by the unusual commotions to which he had beensubjected. "I am sure, sir, " Tozer began, "it ain't my wish, nor thewish o' my family, to do anything as is against your wishes--"

"Grandpapa, " said Phoebe, interrupting him ruthlessly, "Mr. Copperhead'swishes may be a rule to his own family, but they are not to be a rule toyours. For my part I won't submit to it. Let him take his son away if hepleases--or if he can, " she added, turning round upon Clarence with asmile. "Mr. Clarence Copperhead is as free as I am to go or to stay. "

"By Jove!" cried that young man, who had been hanging in the background, dark and miserable. He came close up to her, and caught first her sleeveand then her elbow; the contact seemed to give him strength. "Look here, sir, " he said, ingratiatingly, "we don't want to offend you--_I_ don'twant to fly in your face; but I can't go on having coaches for ever, andhere's the only one in the world that can do the business instead ofcoaches. Phoebe knows I'm fond of her, but that's neither here nor there. Here is the one that can make something of me. I ain't clever, you knowit as well as I do--but she is. I don't mind going into parliament, making speeches and that sort of thing, if I've got her to back me up. But without her I'll never do anything, without her you may put me in acupboard, as you've often said. Let me have her, and I'll make a figure, and do you credit. I can't say any fairer, " said Clarence, taking therest of her arm into his grasp, and holding her hand. He was stupid--buthe was a man, and Phoebe felt proud of him, for the moment at least. 

"You idiot!" cried his father, "and I was an idiot too to put any faithin you; come away from that artful girl. Can't you see that it's all amade-up plan from beginning to end? What was she sent down here for butto catch you, you oaf, you fool, you! Drop her, or you drop me. That'sall I've got to say. "

"Yes, drop me, Clarence, " said Phoebe, with a smile; "for in the meantime you hurt me. See, you have bruised my arm. While you settle thisquestion with your father, I will go to grandmamma. Pardon me, I takemore interest in her than in this discussion between him and you. "

"You shan't go, " cried her lover, "not a step. Look here, sir. If that'swhat it comes to, her before you. What you've made of me ain't much, isit? but I don't mind what I go in for, as long as she's to the fore. Herbefore you. "

"Is that your last word?" said Mr. Copperhead. 

"Yes. " His son faced him with a face as set and cloudy as his own. Themouth, shut close and sullen, was the same in both; but those brown eyeswhich Clarence got from his mother, and which were usually mild in theirexpression, looking out gently from the ruder face to which they did notseem to belong, were now, not clear, but muddy with resolution, glimmering with dogged obstinacy from under the drooping eyelids. He wasnot like himself; he was as he had been that day when Mr. May saw him atthe Dorsets, determined, more than a match for his father, who had onlythe obstinacy of his own nature, not that dead resisting force of twopeople to bring to the battle. Clarence had all the pertinacity that wasnot in his mother, to reinforce his own. Mr. Copperhead stared at hisson with that look of authority, half-imperious, half-brutal, with whichhe was in the habit of crushing all who resisted him; but Clarence didnot quail. He stood dull and immovable, his eyes contracted, his facestolid, and void of all expression but that of resistance. He was notmuch more than a fool, but just by so much as his father was morereasonable, more clear-sighted than himself, was Clarence stronger thanhis father. He held Phoebe by the sleeve, that she might not escape him;but he faced Mr. Copperhead with a dull determination that all thepowers of earth could not shake. 

For the moment the father lost his self-control. 

"Then I'll go, " he said, "and when you've changed your mind, you cancome to me; but--" here he swore a big oath, "mind what you're about. There never was a man yet but repented when he set himself against me. "

Clarence made no answer. Talking was not in his way. And Mr. Copperheadshowed his wondering apprehension of a power superior to his own, bymaking a pause after he had said this, and not going away directly. Hestopped and tried once more to influence the rebel with that stare. "Phoebe--Phoebe--for God's sake make him give in, and don't go against Mr. Copperhead!" cried Tozer's tremulous voice, shaken with weakness andanxiety. But Phoebe did not say anything. She felt in the hesitation, thepause, the despairing last effort to conquer, that the time of hertriumph had nearly come. When he went away, they all stood still andlistened to his footsteps going along the passage and through thegarden. When he was outside he paused again, evidently with the idea ofreturning, but changed his mind and went on. To be left like this, thevictors on a field of domestic conflict, is very often not at all atriumphant feeling, and involves a sense of defeat about as bad as thereality experienced by the vanquished. Phoebe, who was imaginative, andhad lively feeling, felt a cold shiver go over her as the steps wentaway one by one, and began to cry softly, not knowing quite why it was;but Clarence, who had no imagination, nor any feelings to speak of, wasat his ease and perfectly calm. 

"What are you crying for?" he said, "the governor can do what he likes. I'd marry you in spite of a hundred like him. He didn't know what he wasabout, didn't the governor, when he tackled _me_. "

"But, Clarence, you must not break with your father, you must notquarrel on my account--"

"That's as it may be, " he said, "never you mind. When it's clevernessthat's wanted, it's you that's wanted to back me up--but I can stick tomy own way without you; and my way is this, " he said, suddenly liftingher from the ground, holding her waist between his two big hands, andgiving her an emphatic kiss. Phoebe was silenced altogether when this hadhappened. He was a blockhead, but he was a man, and could stand up forhis love, and for his own rights as a man, independent of the world. Shefelt a genuine admiration for her lout at that moment; but thisadmiration was accompanied by a very chill sense of all that might beforfeited if Mr. Copperhead stood out. Clarence, poor and disowned byhis father, would be a very different person from the ClarenceCopperhead who was going into parliament, and had "a fine position" inprospect. She did not form any resolutions as to what she would do inthat case, for she was incapable of anything dishonourable; but it madeher shiver as with a cold icy current running over; and as for poor oldTozer he was all but whimpering in his chair. 

"Oh, Lord!" he cried. "A great man like Mr. Copperhead affronted in my'umble 'ouse. It's what I never thought to see. A friend of theconnection like that--your father's leading member. Oh, Phoebe, it was anevil day as brought you here to make all this mischief! and if I hadknown what was going on!" cried Tozer, almost weeping in his despair. 

"You are tired, grandpapa, " said Phoebe. "Don't be frightened about us. Mr. Copperhead is very fond of Clarence, and he will give in; or if hedoesn't give in, still we shall not be worse off than many otherpeople. " But she said this with a secret panic devouring her soul, wondering if it was possible that such a horrible revolution ofcircumstances and change of everything she had looked for, could be. Even Clarence was silenced, though immovable. He went away soon after, and betook himself to his room at the Parsonage, where all hispossessions still were, while Phoebe attended upon her grandmother, whoseagitation and fear she calmed without saying much. Tozer, quite brokendown, retired to bed; and when they were all disposed of, Phoebe went outto the garden, and made a mournful little promenade there, with veryserious thoughts. If Clarence was to be cast off by his father whatcould she do with him? It was not in Phoebe to abandon the stupid lover, who had stood up so manfully for her. No, she must accept her fatehowever the balance turned; but if this dreadful change happened whatshould she do with him? The question penetrated, and made her shiver tothe depths of her soul; but never even in imagination did she forsakehim. He was hers now, come good or ill; but the prospect of the ill wasappalling to her. She went up and down the garden-path slowly in thesilence, looking up to the stars, with her heart very full. Phoebe feltthat no usual burden had been put upon her. Last night her occupationhad been one of the purest charity, and this Providence had seemed torecompense in the morning, by dropping at her very feet the prize shehad long meant to win; but now she was down again after being lifted upso high, and a great part of its value was taken out of that prize. Wasshe mercenary or worldly-minded in her choice? It would be hard to sayso, for she never questioned with herself whether or not she shouldfollow Clarence into obscurity and poverty, if things should turn outso. She would never abandon him, however bad his case might be; but herheart sunk very low when she thought of her future with him, without the"career" which would have made everything sweet. 

Mr. Copperhead, too, had very serious thoughts on this subject, and satup long drinking brandy-and-water, and knitting his brows, as he turnedthe subject over and over in his mind, recognizing with disgust (inwhich nevertheless there mingled a certain respect) that Clarence wouldnot yield, he was as obstinate as himself, or more so. He had gone tothe inn, where he was alone, without any of his usual comforts. It wasperhaps the first time in his prosperous life that he had ever beenreally crossed. Joe had never attempted to do it, nor any of the firstfamily. They had married, as they had done everything else, according tohis dictation; and now here was his useless son, his exotic plant, hisDresden china, not only asserting a will of his own, but meaning to haveit; and showing a resolution, a determination equal to his own. Hismother had never shown anything of this. She had yielded, as every oneelse had yielded (Mr. Copperhead reflected), to whatever he ordered. Where had the boy got this unsuspected strength? A kind of smile brokeunawares over the rich man's face, as he asked himself this question, asmile which he chased away with a frown, but which nevertheless had beenthere for a moment roused by a subtle suggestion of self-flattery. Where, but from himself, had his gentleman-son (as the millionnaireproudly held him to be) got that strength of obstinacy? He chased thethought and the smile away with a frown, and went to bed gloomilynursing his wrath; but yet this suggestion which he himself had made wasmore flattering to himself than words can say. As for Clarence, the onlyother person deeply concerned, after he had asked for Mr. May, andexpressed his regret to learn how ill he was, the young man smoked acigar on the doorsteps, and then went peaceably, without either care oranxiety, to bed, where he slept very soundly till eight o'clock nextmorning, which was the hour at which he was called, though he did notalways get up. 

When Mr. Copperhead began the new day, he began it with a very unwiseidea, quickly carried out, as unwise ideas generally are. Feeling thathe could make nothing of his son, he resolved to try what he could makeof Phoebe; a young woman, nay, a bit of a girl not more than twenty, anda minister's daughter, brought up in reverence of the leadingmember--any resistance on her part seemed really incredible. He couldnot contemplate the idea of giving up all the cherished plans of hislife by a melodramatic renunciation of his son. To give up Clarence whomhe had trained to be the very apex and crowning point of his grandeur, was intolerable to him. But Mr. Copperhead had heard before now of youngwomen, who, goaded to it, had been known to give up their lover ratherthan let their lover suffer on their account, and if this had ever beenthe case, surely it might be so in the present instance. Had he not thecomfort of the Beecham family in his hands? Could not he make theCrescent Chapel too hot to hold them? Could he not awaken the fears ofscores of other fathers very unlikely to permit their favourite sons tostray into the hands of pastors' daughters? There was nothing indeed tobe said against Mr. Beecham, but still it would be strange if Mr. Copperhead, out and away the richest man in the community, could notmake the Crescent too hot to hold him. He went down the Lane from the"George, " where he had slept, quite early next morning, with thispurpose full in his head, and, as good luck (he thought) would have it, found Phoebe, who had been restless all night with anxiety, and had gotup early, once more walking up and down the long garden-path, reflectingover all that had happened, and wondering as to what might happen still. What a piece of luck it was! He was accustomed to have fortune on hisside, and it seemed natural to him. He went up to her with scarcely apause for the usual salutations, and plunged at once into what he had tosay. 

"Miss Phoebe, I am glad to find you alone. I wanted a word with you, " hesaid, "about the affair of last night. Why shouldn't you and I, the onlytwo sensible ones in the business, settle it between ourselves? OldTozer is an old ass, begging your pardon for saying so, and my son is afool--"

"I do not agree to either, " said Phoebe gravely, "but never mind, I willcertainly hear what you have to say. "

"What I have to say is this. I will never consent to let my son Clarencemarry you. " Here he was interrupted by a serious little bow of assentfrom Phoebe, which disconcerted and angered him strangely. "This beingthe case, " he resumed more hotly, "don't you think we'd better come toterms, you and me? You are too sensible a girl, I'll be bound, to marrya man without a penny, which is what he would be. He would be properlymade an end of, Miss Phoebe, if he found out, after all his bravado lastnight, that you were the one to cast him off after all. "

"He cannot find that out, " said Phoebe with a smile; "unfortunately evenif I could have done it under brighter circumstances my mouth is closednow. I desert him now, when he is in trouble! Of course you do not knowme, so you are excused for thinking so, Mr. Copperhead. "

The rich man stared. She was speaking a language which he did notunderstand. "Look here, Miss Phoebe, " he said, "let's understand eachother. High horses don't answer with me. As for deserting him when he'sin trouble, if you'll give him up--or desert him, as you call it--heneed never be in trouble at all. You can stop all that. Just you say noto him, and he'll soon be on his knees to me to think no more of it. Youknow who I am, " Mr. Copperhead continued with a concealed threat. "Ihave a deal of influence in the connection, though I say it thatshouldn't, and I'm very well looked on in chapel business. What wouldthe Crescent do without me? And if there should be an unpleasantnessbetween the minister and the leading member, why, you know, Miss Phoebe, no one better, who it is that would go to the wall. "

She made no answer, and he thought she was impressed by his arguments. He went on still more strongly than before. "Such a clever girl as youknows all that, " said Mr. Copperhead, "and suppose you were to marryClarence without a penny, what would become of you? What would you makeof him? He is too lazy for hard work, and he has not brains enough foranything else. What would you make of him if you had him? That's what Iwant to know. "

"And that is just what I can't tell you, " said Phoebe smiling. "It is avery serious question. I suppose something will turn up. "

"What can turn up? You marry him because he is going into parliament, and could give you a fine position. "

"I confess, " said Phoebe with her usual frankness, "that I did think ofhis career; without that the future is much darker, and ratherdepressing. "

"Yes, you see that! A poor clod of a fellow that can't work, and will behanging upon you every day, keeping you from working--that you willnever be able to make anything of. "

"Mr. Copperhead, " said Phoebe sweetly, "why do you tell all this to me?Your mere good sense will show you that I cannot budge. I have acceptedhim being rich, and I cannot throw him over when he is poor. I may notlike it--I don't like it--but I am helpless. Whatever change is made, itcannot be made by me. "

He stared at her in blank wonder and dismay. For a moment he could notsay anything. "Look here, " he faltered at last, "you thought him a greatmatch, a rise in the world for you and yours; but he ain't a great matchany longer. What's the use then of keeping up the farce? You and meunderstand each other. You've nothing to do but to let him off; you'reyoung and pretty, you'll easily find some one else. Fools are plenty inthis world, " he added, unable to refrain from that one fling. "Let himoff and all will be right. What's to prevent you? I'd not lose a momentif I were you. "

Phoebe laughed. She had a pretty laugh, soft yet ringing like a child's. "You and I, I fear, are no rule for each other, " she said. "Mr. Copperhead, what prevents me is a small thing called honour, that isall. "

"Honour! that's for men, " he said hastily, "and folly for them accordingas you mean it; but for women there's no such thing, it's sham andhumbug; and look you here, Miss Phoebe, " he continued, losing his temper, "you see what your father will say to this when you get him into hotwater with his people! There's more men with sons than me; and if theCrescent ain't too hot to hold him within a month--Do you think I'llstand it, a beggarly minister and his belongings coming in the way of aman that could buy you all up, twenty times over, and more!"

The fury into which he had worked himself took away Mr. Copperhead'sbreath. Phoebe said nothing. She went on by his side with soft steps, herface a little downcast, the suspicion of a smile about her mouth. 

"By George!" he cried, when he had recovered himself, "you think you canlaugh at me. You think you can defy me, you, a bit of a girl, as poor asJob!"

"I defy no one, " said Phoebe. "I cannot prevent you from insulting me, that is all; which is rather hard, " she added, with a smile, which costher an effort, "seeing that I shall have to drag your son through theworld somehow, now that you have cast him off. He will not give me up, Iknow, and honour prevents me from giving him up. So I shall have hardwork enough, without any insults from you. It is a pity, " said Phoebe, with a sort of sympathetic regret for herself so badly used. "I couldhave made a man of him. I could have backed him up to get on as well asmost men; but it will certainly be uphill work now. "

She did not look at the furious father as she spoke. She was quite calm, treating it reflectively, regretfully, as a thing past and over. Mr. Copperhead tried to burst forth again in threats and objurgations; butin spite of himself, and though she never said another word, the big, rich, noisy man was silenced. He went away, threatening to appeal to herfather, which Phoebe, with a last effort, begged him smilingly to do. Butthis was the last of which she was capable. When she had closed the doorafter him, she rushed upstairs to her room, and cried bitterly. Everything was very dark to her. If he did appeal to her father, theappeal would spread confusion and dismay through the pastor's heart andfamily; and what was to become of herself, with Clarence on her hands, who could do nothing that was useful, and could earn neither his ownliving nor hers? All this was very terrible to Phoebe, and for a momentshe contemplated the unheard of step of having a headache, and stayingupstairs. But she reflected that her poor old grandfather had done _his_duty, at no small sacrifice, according to her bidding, yesterday; andshe bathed her eyes heroically, and collected her strength and wentdown to breakfast as usual. It was her duty, which she must do. 

As for Mr. Copperhead, he took a long walk, to reflect upon all thecircumstances, which were complicated enough to cause him much trouble. He could not give up his cherished scheme, his Member of Parliament, hiscrown of glory. It was what he had been looking forward to for years. Hetried to realize the failure of his hopes, and could not--nay, wouldnot, feeling it more than he could bear. No; without his gentleman son, his University man, his costly, useless production, who was worth somuch money to him, yet brought in nothing, he felt that he must shrinkin the opinion of all his friends, even of his own sons, the "firstfamily, " who had so envied, sneered at, undervalued Clarence, yet hadbeen forced to be civil to him, and respect their father's imperiouswill as he chose that it should be respected. What a sorry figure heshould cut before all of them if he cast off Clarence, and had toannounce himself publicly as foiled in all his plans and hopes! He couldnot face this prospect; he shrank from it as if it had involved actualbodily pain. The men who would laugh at his failure were men of his ownclass, to whom he had bragged at his ease, crowing and exulting overthem, and he felt that he could not face them if all his grandanticipations collapsed. There was nothing for it but to give in. And onthe other hand this girl Phoebe was a very clever girl, able not only tosave the expense of coaches, but to cram the boy, and keep him up betterthan any coach could do. She could make his speeches for him, likeenough, Mr. Copperhead thought, and a great many reasons might be givento the world why she had been chosen instead of a richer wife for thegolden boy. Golden girls, as a general rule, were not of so much use. "Fortune ain't worth thinking of in comparison with brains. It wasbrains I wanted, and I've bought 'em dear; but I hope I can afford it, "he almost heard himself saying to an admiring, envious assembly; for Mr. Copperhead so far deserved his success that he could accept a defeatwhen it was necessary, and make the best of it. When he had nearly endedhis walk, and had reached in his thoughts to this point, he met his son, who was walking up from the Parsonage to No. 6 in the Lane. Clarencelooked cheerful enough as he walked along, whistling under his breath, towards his love; but when he saw his father, a change came over hisface. Once more his eyelids drooped over his eyes, and those muddy brownorbs got fixed in dull obstinacy; once more his upper lip shut downsullen and fast upon the lower. The entire expression of his facechanged. Mr. Copperhead saw this afar off, from the moment his sonperceived him, and the sight gave to all his thinking that force whichreality gives to imagination; the risk he was running became doublyclear. 

"Good morning, Clarence, " he said. 

"Good morning, sir, " responded the other, with lowering brows andclose-shut mouth. 

"I suppose you were coming to the George to me? Come along, I've had nobreakfast; and let's hope, my boy, that you're in a better mind thanlast night. "

"Look here, sir, " said Clarence; "you might as well ask one of thosehouses to walk with you to the George, and show a better mind. I'm ofone mind, and one only. I'll marry Phoebe Beecham, whether you like it ornot, and no other woman in this world. "

"Is that your last word?" said the father, curiously repeating, withoutbeing aware of it, his question of the previous night. 

"That's my last word, " said the son, contemplating his father sullenlyfrom under the heavy lids of his obstinate eyes. 

"Very well, " said Mr. Copperhead; "then come along to breakfast, for I'mhungry, and we can talk it over there. "

CHAPTER XLV. 

THE LAST. 

This is how Phoebe's difficulties ended. Contrary to her everyexpectation, Mr. Copperhead made a great brag of her powers wherever hewent. "Money is money, " he said, "but brains is brains, all the same--wecan't get on without 'em--and when you want to make a figure in theworld, sir, buy a few brains if they fall in your way--that's my style. I've done with stupid ones up till now; but when I see there's a want ofa clever one, I ain't such a fool as to shut my eyes to it. They costdear, but I'm thankful to say I can afford that, ay, and a good dealmore. " Thus everything was satisfactorily arranged. Tozer and his wifecried together for joy on the wedding-day, but they did not expect to beasked to that ceremony, being well aware that Phoebe, having nowcompletely entered into the regions of the great, could not be expectedto have very much to say to them. "Though I know, the darling, as she'djust be the same if she was here, and wouldn't let nobody look down uponyou and me, " said the old woman. 

"She's a wonderful girl, she is, " said old Tozer. "Wind us all round herlittle finger, that's what she could do--leastways, except when therewas principle in it, and there I stood firm. But I've done things forPhoebe as I wouldn't have done for no other breathing, and she knew it. Iwouldn't give in to her tho' about church folks being just as good asthem as is more enlightened. That's agin' reason. But I've done thingsfor 'em along of her!--Ah! she's a wonderful girl is Phoebe--Phoebe, Junior, as I always call her. There ain't her match between here andLondon, and that's what I'll always say. "

But we will not try to describe the glory and joy that filled Mr. Beecham's house in the Terrace, when Mrs. Clarence Copperhead went backthere with all their friends to the wedding-breakfast, which was in thevery best style, and regardless of expense. Even at that moment it gavePhoebe a little pang to see her mother in the bright colours which sheloved, but which made her so much pinker and fatter than was needful. Little Mrs. Copperhead, in dim neutral tints, looked like a littleshadow beside the pastor's buxom wife, and was frightened and ill atease and sad to the heart to lose her boy, who had been all shepossessed in the world. Sophy Dorset, specially asked for the purposewith Ursula May, who was a bridesmaid, looked on with much admiration atthe curious people, so rich, so fine, and so overwhelming, among whomher father had found it so remarkable to meet not one person whom heknew. "Now, Ursula, " she said, "if you had played your cards properlythat beautiful bridegroom and that nice little house in Mayfair, and theprivilege, perhaps, of writing M. P. After your name some time or other, might all have been yours instead of Miss Beecham's. Why did you let hercarry off the prize?"

"Cousin Sophy!" cried Ursula indignantly. "As if I ever thought of himas a prize! But I know you are only laughing at me. The strange thing isthat she likes him, though I am sure she knew very well thatReginald--Oh, when one thinks how many people there are in this worldwho do not get what they wish most--and how many people there are--"Ursula paused, involved in her own antithesis, and Sophy ended it forher with a sigh. 

"Who do--and the one is no happier than the other, most times, littleUrsula; but you don't understand that, and as you are going to be oneof the blessed ones, you need not take to making reflections; that is myprivilege, my dear. "

"Oh, Cousin Sophy, why were not you one of those blessed ones too?"cried Ursula, clasping her arms suddenly round her kind friend. This, beit understood, was after the breakfast was over, and when, in the deepgloom which generally concludes a wedding day, everybody had gone home. The two were in a magnificent large bedchamber in Portland Place, in thevast silent mansion of the Copperheads, where at present there wasnothing more cheerful than the bridegroom's soft-eyed mother, takingherself dreadfully to task for not being happy, and trying not to cry, though there was to be a great dinner and entertainment that night. 

"Don't you know?" said Sophy, putting her aside with a certain proudcoldness, and a momentary laugh, "he I loved proved false; that is tosay, in simple language, he turned out so poor a creature that it isvery good of me not to despise humanity for his sweet sake. Never mind. If all had gone well, and he had been a real man instead of the shamimage of one, I don't suppose I should have ever been among the blessedones. Anne is, who never thought of such mysteries at all; and so youwill be, my little Ursula--very happy. I am sure of it--though how youcan manage to be happy, my dear, marrying a man who is not a goodChurchman, it is not for me to say. "

"Cousin Sophy, have I been brought up in a way to make me so fond ofChurchmen?" said Ursula solemnly. She could not have told how much orhow little she knew about her father's behaviour, and the "shock to hismental system;" but vaguely and by instinct there was a great deal thatshe did know. 

"You have been behind the scenes too much perhaps, " said Sophy Dorset, shrugging her shoulders, "but don't think any worse of the world thanyou ought, if you can't think very much better. No class is good or bad, Ursula. Men are but men all over the world. "

This made Ursula cry, though it is difficult to say why. She thought itcynical, and probably so will the reader. Perhaps Sophy Dorset abandonedthe cause of mankind too easily, as most people of her temperament andage are disposed to do. Anyhow the evening entertainment took place andwas very fine, and every honour was done to Clarence Copperhead'smarriage, especially by his mother, who appeared in the most lovelysatin that eyes ever saw, and diamonds--and almost succeeded all theevening in keeping herself from crying, but not entirely. She did breakdown when the health of bridegroom and bride was drunk as it ought tobe; but recovered herself hastily when the mother on the other side gaveher a kiss of sympathy. Though it was an honest kiss it filled poorlittle Mrs. Copperhead's mind with the most unchristian feelings, andgave her strength to keep up for the rest of the evening, and do herduty to the last. Nevertheless Phoebe was the best of daughters-in-law, and ended by making her husband's mother dependent on her for most ofthe comforts of her life. And Clarence got into Parliament, and thereader, perhaps (if Parliament is sitting), may have had the luck toread a speech in the morning paper of Phoebe's composition, and if heever got the secret of her style would know it again, and might tracethe course of a public character for years to come by that means. Butthis secret is one which no bribe nor worldly inducement will ever temptour lips to betray. 

Northcote was released from the charge of Salem Chapel directly afterthese events, by the return of the minister safe and sound from hisholiday, to the great delight of the congregation, though they had notbeen very fond of their old pastor before. Now they could notsufficiently exult over the happy re-instalment. "The other one nevercrossed our doors from the day he came till now as he's going away, "said one indignant member; "nor took no more notice of us chapel folksnor if we were dirt beneath his feet. " "That time as the Meeting washeld, when he spoke up again' the sinecure, was the only time as my mindwas satisfied, " cried another. "And a deal came of it after, makingfriends with the very man he had abused. " "All his friends was Churchfolks, " said a third; "he was a wolf in sheep's clothing, that's what Icalls him; and a poor moralist as a preacher, with never a rousing wordin them things as he called his sermons. We're well rid of the likes ofhim, though he may be clever. I don't give much for that kind ofcleverness; and what's the good of you, minister or not minister, if youcan't keep consistent and stick to your own side. " The chorus was sostrong that the echo of it moved Tozer, who was a kind of arch-deaconand leading member too, in his way, where he sat twiddling his thumbs inhis little room. "I'm one as is qualified to give what you may call acasting vote, " said Tozer, "being the oldest deacon in Salem, and one ashas seen generations coming and going. And as for Church and Chapel, I've served 'em both, and seen the colour of their money, and there'sthem as has their obligations to me, though we needn't name no names. But this I will say, as I'm cured of clever men and them as is thoughtsuperior. They ain't to be calculated upon. If any more o' them youngintellectuals turns up at Carlingford, I'll tell him right out, 'Youain't the man for my money. ' I'll say to him as bold as brass, 'I'vebeen young, and now I'm old, and it's my conviction as clever young menain't the sort for Salem. We want them as is steady-going, and them asis consistent; good strong opinions, and none o' your charity, that'swhat we wants here. '" Now Tozer had loved clever young men in his daymore well than wisely, as everybody knew, and this deliverance carriedall the more weight in consequence, and was echoed loudly by one generalhum of content and applause. 

Northcote took this very quietly, but he retired, after he had marriedUrsula, from the office of pastor, for which he was not fitted, and fromthe Liberation Society, and various other societies, coming to see thatDisestablishment was not a panacea for national evils any more thanother things. He was in the habit of quoting his brother-in-law, Reginald May, as the best man he knew; but this did not make him aChurchman; for naturally he could not say the same of other members ofthe same class and family. He was shaken out of his strong opinions; butit is doubtful how far this was good for him, for he was a man ofwarlike disposition, and not to have something which he could go to thestake for--something which he could think the devil's own stronghold toassail, was a drawback to him, and cramped his mental development; buthe was happy in his home with his pretty Ursula, which is probably allthe reader will care to know. He paid Tozer's hundred and fifty pounds. And he made no inquiries, and tried not to ask himself what all thatstrange scene had meant--and whatever it did mean it was over for ever, and nobody asked any further questions or made any revelations on thesubject. As for Mr. May, his mysterious illness went on for some time, the doctors never venturing to put any name to it. It was "mentalshock, " and perhaps aberration, though he was sane enough to calm downafter that incomprehensible scene. Mr. Simpson of the Bank had a goodguess at the secret of the enigma, but even Tozer got hazy about itafter a while, and though he knew that he had done Mr. May a wonderfulservice, could scarcely have told what it was--and neither, when it wasall over, could the culprit have told. He got better and worse for abouta year, and then he died, his strength failing him without any distinctreason, no one could tell how. Reginald got the living and stepped intohis father's place, making a home for the children, which sharp Janeyrules over, not so softly or steadily as Ursula, with a love of theoriesand experiments not quite consistent with the higher graces ofhousekeeping, yet with an honest meaning through it all. As the timesare so unsettled, and no one can tell what may become within a year ofany old foundation, the trustees have requested Reginald to retain hischaplaincy at the old College; so that he is in reality a pluralist, andalmost rich, though they say the hardest-worked man in Carlingford. Hehas his vagaries too, which no man can live without, but he is thekindest guardian to his brothers and sisters, and bears with Janey'sfreaks with exemplary gentleness. And he has a curate, whom in thecourse of nature Janey will probably marry--though this has not yet beenrevealed to either party, who have reached only the first stage ofhating each other up to this time. It is not thought in the family thatReginald will ever marry. She was never worthy of him, the sisters say;but he thinks differently, as yet at least. However he is young, andthings may mend. 

THE END.