THE HALL.
It is unnecessary to say that the dinner party in the Hall bore very
little resemblance to those simple amusements in No. 6, Grange Lane.
There were three or four people to meet Mr. May, who, as an orator and
literary man, had greater reputation even such a little way from home
than he had in his own town. He was a very good preacher, and those
articles of his were much admired as "thoughtful" papers, searching into
many mental depths, and fathoming the religious soul with wonderful
insight. Ladies especially admired them; the ladies who were
intellectual, and found pleasure in the feeling of being more advanced
than their neighbours. The Rector's wife of the parish in which the
Dorsets lived applied herself with great vigour to the art of drawing
him out. She asked him questions with that air of delightful submission
to an intellectual authority which some ladies love to assume, and which
it pleases many men to accept. His daughters were not at all reverential
of Mr. May, and it soothed him to get marks of devotion and literary
submission out of doors. Even Sophy Dorset had gone through the phase of
admiration for her cousin. This had been dissipated, it is true, long
ago; but yet she did not laugh, as she usually did, at the believers in
him. She listened to Mrs. Rector plying him with eager questions, asking
his 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 got
the advantage of it. Little Ursula was one of her prime favourites--a
motherless 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 little
Indian children had long ere this yielded to the charms of Aunt Anne.
They followed her wherever she went like little spaniels, hanging on by
her dress. She had to go up to the nursery to hear them say their
prayers before she dressed for dinner.
"You see, this is a proof that with children one should never be
discouraged," she said; "for they did not take to me at first;" and she
turned her mild countenance, beaming with soft light, upon Ursula. To be
hampered by these babies clinging about her, to have them claiming
imperiously her attention and her time, however she might be engaged; to
give up to them the moments of leisure in which otherwise she might have
had a little quiet and repose, this was what Anne Dorset considered as
her recompense.
"Oh, I wish I could be as good to Amy and Robin! But I feel as if I
should like to shake them often," cried Ursula, "even though I love them
with all my heart. Oh! Cousin Anne, I don't think there is any one like
you."
"Yes, that is what she thinks her reward," said Sophy. "I should like
something better, if it was I. Don't copy her, Ursula. It is better to
have children of your own, and get other people to nurse them. Anne, you
see, likes it. I want you to marry, and get all the good things in this
life. Let us leave the self-denials to her; she likes them, you
perceive."
"I don't know why you should always talk of marrying to me, Cousin
Sophy," said Ursula with gentle reproach. "I hope I am not a girl to
think 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 that
her cousin spoke. She could not but feel that this big Clarence
Copperhead, with the diamond buttons, and that huge expanse of
shirt-front, had something to do with Sophy's talk. There was six feet
of him, which is a thing that goes a long way with a girl; and he was
not bad-looking. And why did he come to Carlingford, having nothing in
the world to do with the place? and coming to Carlingford, why was papa
sought out, of all people, to be his tutor? Certainly the circumstances
were such as invited conjecture, especially when added on to Sophy's
allusions. 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 her
housekeeping, had she been sufficiently disengaged to notice it, he yet
found time to talk a little between the courses.
"I did not expect, when I saw you in London, that we were to meet again
so soon, Miss May," was the perfectly innocent remark with which he
opened the conversation.
Ursula would have said it herself had he not said it, and all she could
do 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 to
that ball, Miss May. It makes me feel that I know you. I don't like
starting off afresh, all at once, among people I don't know."
"No," said Ursula; "I should not like it either. But there are other
people you know in Carlingford. There is the lady who was at the
ball--the young lady in black, I used to call her--Miss Beecham; you
must know her better than you know me."
"Who? Phoebe? really!" he said, elevating his eyebrows. "Phoebe in
Carlingford! By Jove! how the governor will laugh! I should like to
know," with a conscious smile on his countenance, "what _she_ is doing
there."
"Her grandmamma is ill, and she is nursing her," said Ursula simply, at
which young Copperhead laughed again.
"Oh, that is how it is! Very good of her, don't you think? Shouldn't
suppose she would be amusing, the old granny, and Phoebe likes to be
amused. I must go to see her as soon as I can get there. You know, we
are Dissenters at home, Miss May. Good joke, isn't it? The governor will
not hear a word against them. As a matter of fact, nobody does go to
chapel in our rank of life; but the governor sometimes is as obstinate
as an old pig."
"I suppose he likes it best," said Ursula, gently; and here a new course
came round, and for the moment Clarence had something else to do. He
resumed 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. I
am not much in the hunting way; nor your father, I suppose? for, to be
sure, a hunting parson would never do. I am too heavy a weight for most
horses, and the good of galloping over the country all day, after a poor
brute of a fox!--but we must not say that before Sir Robert. I suppose
it is dull?" he said, somewhat pathetically, looking in her face.
"We don't think it dull, Mr. Copperhead. It may be, perhaps, for a
gentleman."
"That's it," said Clarence. "I don't know if it's because women have
more resources, or because they want less; but you always get on better
than we do, somehow; very lucky for you. You don't expect so much. I
believe that's what it is."
"Then that shows we are the most sensible," said Ursula, roused, and a
little indignant.
He paused, to make his choice between the inevitable turkey and the
inevitable beef.
"I hope it's braised," he said, in a devout undertone. "You don't expect
so much, Miss May, that's what it is; you're always in the house. You
don't care for exercise. Bless you, if I didn't take exercise, I should
be fifteen stone before you could turn round. How much are you? about
eight, perhaps; not much more. That makes a deal of difference: you
don't require to keep yourself down."
Ursula did not make any answer. She was prepared to look upon him very
favourably, 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 more
disposed to take offence at the young man's tone than to guide it into
better ways.
"I hope your mother is well," she said at last, falteringly, after a
long pause. Ursula thought her companion would remark this pause, and
think her displeased. She might have saved herself the trouble, for it
was the braised turkey which kept Clarence quiet, not offence.
"Oh, quite well, I thank you. Not so well as when I am at home; she
don't like parting with me," he said, "but, of course, I can't be always
at 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 buying
things for somebody," he replied, betraying an acquaintance with the
exact manner of the kindness which somewhat disturbed poor Ursula: "that
is exactly her way. I dare say she'll come and see the Dorsets while I'm
here."
Then there was again a pause, and Clarence turned to speak to some one
at his other side.
"No, I don't hunt much," he said; "I have come into the country to be
coached. My father's a modern sort of man, and wants a fellow to be up
in history, and that sort of thing. Bore--yes; and I dare say
Carlingford is very dull. Oh, yes, I will go out with the hounds now and
then, if there is not a frost. I should rather like a frost for my
part."
It was a hunting lady who had started this new conversation, into which
the stranger had drifted away, leaving Ursula stranded. She was slightly
piqued, it must be allowed, and when Sophy asked her after dinner how
she liked her companion, made a dignified reply.
"I have no doubt he is very nice," she said; "I don't know much of
gentlemen. He talks of papa as if he were a school-master, and thinks
Carlingford 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 Cousin
Anne, where the new pupil could not come near her. Indeed he did not
seem very anxious to do so, as Ursula soon saw. She blushed very hotly
all by herself, under Cousin Anne's shadow: that she could have been so
absurd as ever to think--But his size, and the weight over which he had
lamented, and his abundant whiskers and large shirt front, made it quite
impossible for Ursula to think of him as a person to be educated. It
must be Miss Beecham, she said to herself.
No thoughts of this kind crossed Mr. Clarence Copperhead's mind, as he
stretched his big limbs before the drawing-room fire after dinner, and
said "Brava!" when the ladies sang. He knew "Brava" was the right thing
to 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, and
which at the piano was endeavouring to gain his approbation. He was so
much his father's son that he had a sense of pleasure and triumph in
being thus elevated; and he had a feeling, more or less, of contempt for
the clergyman, "only a parson," who was to be his coach. He felt the
power and the beauty of money almost as much as his father did. What was
there he could not buy with it? the services of the most learned pundit
in existence, for what was learning? or the prettiest woman going to be
his wife, if that was what he wanted. It may be supposed then that he
had very little attention indeed to bestow upon a girl like Ursula, who
was only the daughter of his coach--nobody at all in particular--and
that her foolish fancies on the subject might have been spared. He aired
himself on the hearth-rug with great satisfaction, giving now and then a
shake to one of his long limbs, and a furtive glance to see that all was
perfect in the _sit_ of the garment that clothed it. He had been
ploughed it is true, but that did not interfere much with his mental
satisfaction; for, after all, scholarship was a thing cultivated chiefly
by dons and prigs, and poor men; and no doubt this other poor man, the
parson, would be able to put all into his head that was necessary, just
as much as would pay, and no more--a process the mere thought of which
made Clarence yawn, yet which he had wound up his noble mind to submit
to.
"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 repeated
much the same sentiment, with a difference, to Sophy Dorset, who by way
of civility, while the Rector's wife paid court to Mr. May, talked to
Clarence 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 ill
with midnight oil and that sort of thing," he said (he was not at all
clear 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 suppose
there will be nothing else to do."
"Not much in Carlingford; there are neither pictures, nor museums, nor
fine buildings, nor anything of the sort; and very little society; a few
tea-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 fellow
must hunt a little, I suppose, as the place is so destitute. As for
pictures and museums, that don't trouble me. The worst of going abroad
is that you've always got to look at things of that sort. To have to do
it at home would be beyond a joke."
"Have you seen the box of curious things John sent me with the
children?" said Sophy. "They are on the table at the end of the
room,--yataghans, and I don't know what other names they have, all sorts
of 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 at
her in such a way that she might have appropriated this remark as a
compliment, had she pleased; but Sophy laughed, and it is to be feared
did not feel the compliment, for she turned right round to somebody
else, and took no more notice of Clarence. He was so fully satisfied
with himself that he had not any strong sense of neglect, though he had
but little conversation with the company. He was quite satisfied to
exhibit himself and his shirt-front before the fire.
Next day he accompanied the Mays back to Carlingford. Mr. May had
enjoyed his visit. His mind was free for the moment; he had staved off
the evil day, and he had a little money in his pocket, the remains of
that extra fifty pounds which he had put on to Tozer's bill. With some
of it he had paid some urgent debts, and he had presented five pounds to
Cotsdean to buy his wife a gown, and he had a little money in his
pockets. So that in every way he was comfortable and more at ease than
usual. The reckoning was four months off, which was like an eternity to
him in his present mood of mind, and of course he would get the money
before that time. There was so much time, indeed, that to begin to think
of 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's
residence with him, if he stayed so long, and that would do, if nothing
else. Therefore Mr. May was quite easy in his mind, not in the least
feeling the possibility of trouble in store for him. And the visit had
been pleasant. He had enlarged his acquaintance, and that among the very
sort of people he cared to know. He had been very well received by all
the Dorsets, and introduced by Sir Robert as a relation, and he had
received some personal incense about his works and his gifts which was
sweet to him. Therefore he was in very good spirits, and exceedingly
amiable. He conversed with his future pupil urbanely, though he had not
concealed his entire concurrence in Sir Robert's opinion that he was "a
cub."
"What have you been reading lately?" he asked, when they had been
transferred from the Dorsets' carriage, to the admiration and by the
obsequious cares of all the attendant officials, into the railway
carriage. Mr. May liked the fuss and liked the idea of that superiority
which attended the Dorsets' guests. He had just been explaining to his
companions that Sir Robert was the Lord of the Manor, and that all the
homage done to him was perfectly natural; and he was in great
good-humour even with this cub.
"Well, I've not been reading very much," said Clarence, candidly. "What
was 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 to
read. 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 so
forth, and very little work."
"That's about it," said the young man, settling himself and his
trousers, which were the objects of a great deal of affectionate care on
his part. He gave them furtive pulls at the knees, and stroked them down
towards the ankle, as he got himself comfortably into his seat.
Mr. May looked at him with scientific observation, and Ursula with
half-affronted curiosity; his self-occupation was an offence to the
girl, but it was only amusing to her father. "An unmitigated cub," Mr.
May pronounced to himself; but there where he sat he represented three
hundred a-year, and that, at least, was not to be despised. Ursula was
not so charitable as her father; she was not amused by him in the
slightest degree. Had he come down to Carlingford in humble worship of
her pretty eyes, and with a romantic intention of making himself
agreeable to her, the captivating flattery would have prepossessed
Ursula, and prepared her to see him in a very pleasant light, and put
the best interpretation upon all he did and said. But this pretty
delusion being dissipated, Ursula was angry with herself for having been
so foolish, and naturally angry with Clarence for having led her into
it, though he was quite without blame in the matter. She looked at him
in his corner--he had taken the best corner, without consulting her
inclinations--and thought him a vulgar coxcomb, which perhaps he was.
But she would not have been so indignant except for that little bit of
injured feeling, for which really, after all, he was not justly to
blame.