SHOPPING.
Next day a telegram came from Southampton, announcing the arrival of the
little Dorsets, which Ursula rejoiced over with the rest, yet was
dreadfully 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 was
glad to leave London, with all its delights, the bright streets and the
shop-windows, and the theatres, and the excitement of being "on a
visit," would be a great deal more than the truth. She was glad,
sympathetically, and to please the others; but for herself, her heart
fell. It was still winter, and winter is not lively in Carlingford; and
there 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 at
twenty, pleasure is so much more pleasant than duty. Ursula did not at
all rebel, nor did she make painful contrasts in her mind, as so many
young 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, the
dinners to be invented with a due regard for the butcher's bill, the
tradespeople to be kept in good humour, the servant to be managed, and
papa, who was more difficult than the servant, and more troublesome than
the children! If Ursula sighed over the prospect, I don't think the
severest of recording angels would put a very bad mark against her. She
had been free of all this for ten wonderful days. No torn frocks, no
unpleasant baker, no hole in the carpet, no spoiled mutton-chops, had
disturbed her repose. All these troubles, no doubt, were going on as
usual at home, and Janey and the maid were struggling with them as best
they 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 her
young sister might be enduring in her absence, to get the good of her
holiday; but I fear this was not how she felt it. Janey, no doubt, would
get through somehow; and it was very sweet to escape for ever so short a
time, and have a real rest. Therefore, it must be allowed that, when
Ursula went to her bed-room after this news arrived, she relieved
herself by "a good cry." Two or three days longer, what difference could
that have made to those children? But after her headache was relieved in
this way, the cloud dispersed a little. The thought of all she had to
tell Janey consoled her. She counted over the spare contents of her
purse, and calculated that, after all, she would have enough to buy the
necktie; and she had all her presents to exhibit; the ball-dress, that
unhoped-for acquisition; the Venetian beads; the bracelet, "Which is
really good--_good_ gold; fancy!" said Ursula to herself, weighing it in
her hand. How Janey would be interested, how she would be dazzled! There
was a great deal of consolation in this thought. In the afternoon her
cousins took her out "shopping," an occupation which all young girls and
women like. They bought a great many things "for the spring," and "for
the children," while Ursula looked on with admiration. To be able to buy
things three months in advance, three months before they could possibly
be wanted, what luxury! and yet the Dorsets were not rich, or so, at
least, 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. "You
know I have not any money; you know we can't afford it!" she cried, with
starting 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 a
little sigh. "It runs through one's fingers. When one has something to
show for it, that is always a satisfaction. Come, this would be pretty
for little Amy; but it is you who must choose."
"But, Cousin Anne! Dresses! If it was a necktie or a ribbon; but
frocks--"
"Frocks would be most useful, wouldn't they? One for Amy, and one for
Janey. I suppose Robin does not wear frocks now?"
"He has been in knickerbockers these two years," said Ursula, half
proud, 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 tailor
is 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 little
woman! she who trembled so in her own house, how everybody bowed down
before her at Messrs. Margrove and Snelcher's! It was all she could do
to extricate herself from a crowd of anxious officials, all eager to
supply her with everything that heart could desire, when she saw the
little party. She came up to them, almost running in her eagerness, her
small pale face flushed, and leaned on Anne Dorset's chair and whispered
to her.
"You will not be angry, dear kind Anne. You are always so good to
everybody. 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 mean
it; he never was brought up to know better. He thinks that is how people
behave--"
"Please don't say anything, dear Mrs. Copperhead."
"Not if you will forgive--not if you will promise to forgive. Poor
Clarence is heart-broken!" cried the poor woman. "He is so frightened
for what you must think."
"We don't think anything," said Sophy, breaking in; "it is one of our
good qualities as a family that we never think. Come and help us; we are
choosing 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 us
to choose."
And how respectful all the shopmen grew when the nameless country party
was joined by the great Mrs. Copperhead--or rather the great Mr.
Copperhead's wife, at whose command was unlimited credit, and all the
contents of the shop if she chose. One hurried forward to give her a
chair, and quite a grand personage, a "head man," came from another
counter to take the charge of pleasing such a customer. Ursula could not
but look upon the whole transaction with awe. Mrs. Copperhead was a very
humble, timid woman, and Mr. Copperhead was not nice; but it was
something to command the reverence of all the people in such a grand
shop--a shop which Ursula by herself would scarcely have ventured to
enter, and in which she felt timid and overwhelmed, saying, "Sir" to the
gentleman 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 to
the 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 have
bought any children's things. It reminds me of the days when Clarence
was little, when I took such pride in his dress. Come with me into the
cloak room, my dear, I am sure they must want jackets or something."
Ursula resisted with pitiful looks at Cousin Anne, and Sophy whispered
into Mrs. Copperhead's ear an explanation, which, instead of quenching
her ardour, brought it up instantly to boiling point. Her pale little
languid countenance glowed and shone. She took both Ursula's hands in
hers, 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 them
something. Dear children, I wish I could see them. Come and look at the
little jackets and mantles. I have often thought, if Providence had
given 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 at
them." Ursula did not know what to do. A little pride and a great deal
of shyness kept her back, but Mrs. Copperhead was too much in earnest to
be crossed. She bought a couple of very smart little upper garments for
Amy and Janey, and then, clandestinely taking no one into her
confidence, for Ursula herself, and gave secret orders to have them all
sent to the Dorsets' lodgings that night. She was quite transformed so
long 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. I
could almost think that Clarence was little again, or that he had got a
little 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 so
kind--so very kind."
"I have been kind to myself," said Mrs. Copperhead, "I have so enjoyed
it; and, my dear," she added, with some solemnity, still holding Ursula
by the hands, "promise you will do me one favour more. It will be such a
favour. Whenever you want anything for yourself or your sister will you
write to me? I am always in London except in autumn, and I should so
like to do your commissions. People who live in London know how to get
bargains, my dear. You must promise to let me do them for you. It will
make me so happy. Promise!" cried the little woman, quite bright in her
excitement. Ursula looked at the two others who were looking on, and did
not 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, "money
and 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 say
good-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 for
Ursula, she would not at all have objected to the splendour of the
carriage. And her heart was melted by the lonely little woman's pathetic
looks. But the other ladies stood out. They stood by while poor Mrs.
Copperhead got into the carriage and drove off, her pale reproachful
little face looking at them wistfully from the window. It was afternoon
by this time, getting dark, and it was a tolerably long walk along the
lighted, crowded streets.
"Cousin Anne, I am afraid we have hurt her feelings," said Ursula; "why
wouldn't you go?"
"Go!" cried mild Anne Dorset; "get into that man's carriage after
yesterday? Not for the world! I can put up with a great deal, but I
can'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 have
everything that your heart can desire?"
Ursula looked at her wondering. To tell the truth, Mrs. Copperhead's
eagerness to buy everything she could think of for the unknown children
at Carlingford, the manner with which she was regarded in the great
shop, her lavish liberality, her beautiful carriage, and all the fine
things about her, had brought Ursula to this very thought, that it was
extremely fine to marry a rich man. Sophy's irony was lost upon her
simple-minded cousin, and so indeed was Mrs. Copperhead's pathos. That
she 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 a
rich man's wife. Mr. Copperhead certainly was not very _nice_; but when
people 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 at
Sophy, wondering what she meant. Yes, indeed, to marry a rich man, to be
able to buy presents for everyone, to make the children at home
perfectly happy without any trouble to one's self! Could any one doubt
that it was very nice? Alas! Ursula did not think it at all likely that
this would ever be in her power.
"Poor Mrs. Copperhead!" said Anne, as they made their way along the
crowded street, where it was difficult for them to walk together, much
less to maintain any conversation. And presently Ursula, keeping as
close as possible to her cousin's side, but compelled to make way
continually for other passers-by, lost herself in a maze of fancies, to
which the misty afternoon atmosphere, and the twinkling lights, and the
quickly passing crowds lent a confused but not unpleasing background.
She was glad that the noise made all talk impossible, and that she could
dream on quietly as they glided and pressed their way through the
current of people in Oxford Street and Regent Street, as undisturbed as
if she had been shut up in her own room--nay, more so--for the external
sights and sounds which flitted vaguely by her, disguised those dreams
even from herself. Mrs. Copperhead had once been poorer than she was, a
poor little governess. What if somewhere about, in some beautiful house,
with just such a carriage at the door, a beautiful young hero should be
waiting who would give all those dazzling delights to Ursula? Then what
frocks she would buy, what toys, what ornaments! She would not stop at
the girls, but drive to the best tailor's boldly, and bid him send down
some 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 I
can't tell where besides; and finally drive down in the fairy chariot
laden with everything that was delightful, to the very door. She would
not go in any vulgar railway. She would keep everything in her own
possession, and give each present with her own hands--a crowning delight
which was impossible to Mrs. Copperhead--and how clearly she seemed to
see herself drawing up, with panting horses, high-stepping and splendid,
to the dull door of the poor parsonage, where scarcely anything better
than a pony-carriage ever came! How the children would rush to the
window, and "even papa," out of his study; and what a commotion would
run through Grange Lane, and even up into the High Street, where the
butcher and the baker would remember with a shiver how saucy they had
sometimes been--when they saw what a great lady she was.
A dreamy smile hovered upon Ursula's face as she saw all the little
scenes of this little drama, mixed up with gleams of the shop-windows,
and noises of the streets, and great ghosts of passing omnibuses, and
horses steaming in the frosty air. How many girls, like her, go dreaming
about the prosaic streets? It was not, perhaps, a very elevated or
heroic dream, but the visionary chariot full of fine things for the
children, was better than Cinderella's pumpkin carriage, or many another
chariot of romance. Her cousins, who were so much her elders, and who
shuddered in their very souls at the thought of poor Mrs. Copperhead,
and who were talking earnestly about the children they expected next
morning, and what was to be done with them, had no clue to Ursula's
thoughts. They did not think much of them, one way or another, but took
great care not to lose her from their side, and that she should not be
frightened by the crowding, which, after all, was the great matter. And
they were very glad to get back to the comparative quiet of Suffolk
Street, and to take off their bonnets and take their cup of tea. But
Ursula, for her part, was sorry when the walk was over. She had enjoyed
it so much. It was half Regent Street and half Carlingford, with the
pleasure of both mixed up together; and she was half little Ursula May
with her head in the air, and half that very great lady in the
dream-chariot, who had it in her power to make everybody so happy.
Between poor Mrs. Copperhead, who was the most miserable, frightened
little slave in the world, with nothing, as she said, but time and
money, 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 so
easily. But the dream was broken when she got indoors; not even the
quiet of her own little room could bring back in all their glory the
disturbed images that had floated before her in the street.
This was Ursula's last day in town, and there can be no doubt that it
was of a nature, without any aid from Sophy's suggestion, to put a great
many ideas into her mind.