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 herself
into it heart and soul, until she received the crushing intimation from
her father, that her company was not expected at this stately meal; a
discovery which altogether extinguished poor Janey, accustomed to be
always in the front whatever occurred, and to whom suggestions of things
that could not be done by a girl who was not "out," had never presented
themselves. She retired to her own room dissolved in tears when this
fearful mandate went forth, and for the rest of the morning was good for
nothing, her eyes being converted into a sort of red pulp, her rough
hair doubly dishevelled, her whole being run into tears. She was of no
more use now to go errands between the kitchen and the drawing-room, or
to read the cookery-book out loud, which was a process upon which Ursula
depended very much, to fix in her mind the exact ingredients and painful
method of preparation of the _entrées_ at which she was toiling. Betsy,
the former maid-of-all-work, now promoted under the title of cook, could
be trusted to roast the saddle of mutton, which, on consideration that
it was "a party," had been thought preferable to a leg, and she could
boil the fish, after a sort, and make good honest family soup, and the
rice-pudding or apple-tart, which was the nearest approach to luxury
indulged in at the Parsonage; but as for _entrées_, Betsy did not know
what they were. She had heard of made dishes indeed, and respectfully
afar off had seen them when she was kitchen-maid at Lady Weston's--the
golden age of her youthful inexperience. But this was so long ago, that
her recollections were rather confusing than useful to Ursula, when she
went downstairs to make her first heroic effort.
"La, Miss, that ain't how cook used to do 'em at Lady Weston's," Betsy
said, looking on with unbelieving eyes. She was sure of this negative,
but she was not sure of anything else, and utterly failed to give any
active assistance, after driving the girl desperate with her criticisms.
Altogether it was a confused and unpleasant day. When Reginald came in
in the morning, his sister had no time to speak to him, so anxious was
she 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 round
table in the middle, round which the family had grouped themselves for
so long, had been pushed aside into a corner, leaving one fresh patch of
carpet, quite inappropriate, and unconnected with anything else; and
instead of the work and the school-books which so often intruded there,
all that was gaudy and uninteresting in the May library had been
produced to decorate the table; and even a case of wax flowers, a
production of thirty years since, which had been respectfully
transferred to a china closet by Ursula's better taste, but which in the
dearth of ornament she had brought back again. Reginald carried off the
wax flowers and replaced the table with his own hands, while Ursula
scorched her cheeks over the _entrées_ downstairs.
"All this for Northcote," he said, when she ran up for a moment, done up
in a big white apron, her face crimson with the fire and anxiety
combined: "for Miss Beecham has been here before, and you made no fuss
about her then."
"She came to tea," said Ursula. "And I got a cake, which was all any one
could do; but a dinner is a very different thing." Indeed she had by
this time come to share her father's opinion, that dinner was the right
and dignified thing in all cases, and that they had been hitherto living
in 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 he
is?"
"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. Papa
thinks there is nobody like him. And so is Phoebe."
"Oh, have you come so far as that?" said Reginald, with a little tinge
of colour in his face. He laughed, but the name moved him. "It is a
pretty fresh sort of country name, not quite like such an accomplished
person."
"Oh, that is just like you men, with your injustice! Because she is
clever you take it amiss; you are all jealous of her. Look at her pretty
colour and her beautiful hair; if that is not fresh I should like to
know what is. She might be Hebe instead of Phoebe," said Ursula, who had
picked up scraps of classical knowledge in spite of herself.
"You are a little goose," said Reginald, pinching her ear, but he liked
his sister for her generous partizanship. "Mind you don't come to dinner
with cheeks like that," he said. "I like my sister to be herself, not a
cook-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 Grange
Lane many times at the hour of sunset, hoping to meet Phoebe again, but
that sensible young woman had no mind to be talked of, and never
appeared except when she was certain the road was clear. This had
tantalized Reginald more than he chose to avow, even to himself. Pride
prevented him from knocking at the closed door. The old Tozers were
fearful people to encounter, people whom to visit would be to damn
himself in Carlingford; but then the Miss Griffiths were very insipid by
the side of Phoebe, and the variety of her talk, though he had seen so
little of her, seemed to have created a new want in his life. He thought
of a hundred things which he should like to discuss with her--things
which did not interest Ursula, and which the people about him did not
understand much. Society at that time, as may be presumed, was in a poor
way in Carlingford. The Wentworths and Wodehouses were gone, and many
other nice people; the houses in Grange Lane were getting deserted, or
falling into inferior hands, as was apparent by the fact that the
Tozers--old Tozer, the butterman--had got one of them. The other people
were mostly relics of a bygone state of things: retired old couples, old
ladies, spinsters, and widows--excellent people, but not lively to talk
to--and the Griffiths, above mentioned, put up with in consideration of
tolerable good looks and "fun," became tiresome when anything better was
to be had. The mere apparition of Phoebe upon the horizon had been enough
to show Reginald that there were other kinds of human beings in the
world. It had not occurred to him that he was in love with her, and the
idea of the social suicide implied in marrying old Tozer's
granddaughter, had not so much as once entered his imagination. Had he
thought of it, he would have pulled that imagination up tight, like an
unruly horse, the thing being too impossible to bear thinking of. But
this 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 of
interest--that was all. No one else within his sphere could talk so
well. The Rector was very great indeed on the reredos question, and the
necessity of reviving the disused "Church" customs; but Reginald could
not go so far as he did as to the importance of the reredos, and was
quite in doubt whether it was not as well for most people to "direct"
themselves by their own consciences as to be directed by the spiritual
head of the parish, who was not over wise in his own concerns. His
father, Reginald knew, could be very agreeable among strangers, but he
seldom chose to be so in his own house. All this made the advent of
Phoebe 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 simpleton
all the same. He thought he saw in her an evidence of what life was like
in those intellectual professional circles which a man may hope to get
into only in London. It was not the world of fashion he was aware, but
he thought in his simplicity that it was the still higher world of
culture and knowledge, in which genius, and wit, and intellect stood
instead of rank or riches. How Tozer's granddaughter had got admission
there, he did not ask himself, but this was what he thought, and to talk
to 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 her
pretty white dress, which she had worn at the Dorsets', how much toil
and anxiety the preparations had given her. At the last moment, when her
mind was so far clear of the _entrées_, &c.--as clear as the mind of an
inexperienced dinner-giver can be, until the blessed moment when they
are eaten and done with--she had to take Sarah in hand, who was not very
clear about the waiting, and to instruct her according to her own very
imperfect knowledge how to fulfil her duties.
"Think it is not a dinner-party at all, but only just our ordinary
luncheon, 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 with
tears.
These were all the directions she could give, and they, it must be
allowed, were somewhat vague. The excitement was becoming to her. She
sat down with a dreadful flutter in her heart, but with her eyes shining
and sparkling. Clarence Copperhead, who extended an arm very carelessly
to take her downstairs, absolutely certain of being a more important
person than his guest Northcote, was roused for the first time to the
consciousness that she was very pretty, which he had not found out
before. "But no style," he said to himself. Phoebe was the one who had
style. She sat between Mr. May and the stranger, but devoted herself to
her host chiefly, displaying a gentle contempt of the younger men in his
presence. No anxiety was in her mind about the dinner. She did not
follow the fate of those _entrées_ round the table with terrible
palpitations, as poor Ursula did; and, alas, the _entrées_ were not
good, and Ursula had the mortification to see the dishes she had taken
so 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 plate
away 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 she
wished she could be dismissed like Betsy! She turned those two little
oceans of trouble piteously, without knowing it, upon Northcote, who had
said something to her, without being able to reply to him. And
Northcote, who was but a young man, though he was a fiery political
Dissenter, and who had come to the Parsonage with a curious mixture of
pleasure and reluctance, immediately threw down any arms that nature
might have provided him with, and fell in love with her there and then
on the spot! to his own absolute consternation. This was how it
happened. The moment was not romantic, the situation was not sublime. A
little motherless housekeeper crying because her father scolded her in
public for a piece of bad cookery. There is nothing in this to make an
idyll 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 felt
that if she tried to talk she must cry, and anything further from her
troubled thoughts than love it would be impossible to imagine; but then
and there, so far as the young man was concerned, the story began. He
talked very little for the rest of the meal, and Ursula did not exert
herself, though she recovered slightly when the mutton turned out to be
very good, and was commended; but what was the mutton in comparison with
her _entrées_, which she had made with her own hands, and which were a
failure? She was reduced to silence, and she thought that the stranger
at her left hand was nice, because he did not bother her, and was
content with a very little talk.
"Oh, Phoebe, did you hear papa about those _entrées_?" she cried, when
they reached the drawing-room; and sitting down on the stool by the fire
which Janey usually appropriated, she cried, poor child, with
undisguised passion. "I had made them myself; I had been busy about them
all day; I read the cookery-book till my head ached, and took such
pains! and you heard what he said."
"Yes, dear, I heard him; but he did not think what he was saying, it
never occurred to him that it was you. Don't shake your little head, I
am sure of it; you know, Ursula, your papa is very agreeable and very
clever."
"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 in
her morning frock. "Oh, no, I am not dressed, I don't mean to, to let
him get the better of me, and think I care. Only just for a moment to
see 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 dinner
instead of tea? Did it go off very well, did you enjoy yourselves? Or
were 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 at
all. Enjoy myself! with the _entrées_ on my mind, and after what papa
said. Oh, run away, Janey, and dress, or else go to bed. Papa will be so
angry 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, I
am angry; haven't I a right to be angry? I am as tall as Ursula--I hope
I know how to behave myself--and when there were people coming, and a
real dinner--"
"Oh, I hear them," cried Ursula in alarm, and Janey flew off, her hair
streaming behind her. Phoebe put her arm round Ursula, and raised her
from the stool. She was not perhaps a perfect young woman, but had her
own ends to serve like other people; yet she had a friendly soul. She
gave her friend a kiss to preface her admonition, as girls have a way of
doing.
"I would not let Janey talk so," she said, "I think you should not talk
so yourself, Ursula, if you will forgive me, of your papa; he is very
nice, and so clever. I should try all I could to please him, and I
should 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 be
good-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 fully
displayed, came into the room. He came in half whistling in serene
indifference. Phoebe had "style," it was true; but she was only a
Dissenting parson's daughter, and what were two such girls to Clarence
Copperhead? He came in whistling an opera air, which he let drop only
after 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 she
laughed, 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 it
here and let us look over it? I dare say there are some things we can
play together."
"You can play everything," said the young man. "And I'll bring my
violin, if you like."
He was delighted; he quickened his steps almost into a run as he went
away.
"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 are
not quite good, after all."
"Violin!" said Mr. May. "Heaven and earth! is there going to be any
fiddling? Miss Beecham, I did not expect you to bring such a horror upon
me. 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 Northcote
to him, who was standing beside Ursula, eager to talk, but not knowing
how to begin. It was bad enough to be thus withdrawn from his chance of
making himself agreeable; but the reader may imagine what was the
Dissenter's feelings when Mr. May, with a smile, turned upon him. Having
given him a (tolerably) good dinner, and lulled him into a belief that
his sins against the family were unknown, he looked at him, smiling, and
began.
"Mr. Northcote, the first time I saw you, you were discoursing at an
Anti-Establishment Meeting in the Town Hall."
Northcote started. He blushed fiery red. "It is quite true. I wished to
have told you; not to come here on false pretences; but Copperhead--and
your son has been very kind--"
"Then I suppose your views are modified. Clergymen no longer appear to
you the demons in human shape you thought them then; and my son, in
particular, 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 Copperhead
brought you in. Nay," said the clergyman, rubbing his hands; "do you
think 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 find
out how; so that we are positively in your debt. But I hope you don't
fiddle too. If you like to come with me to my study--"
Northcote gave a longing look round the room, which had become all at
once so interesting to him. Mr. May was too clear-sighted not to see it.
He thought, quite impartially, that perhaps it was an excusable
weakness, even though it was his own society that was the counter
attraction. They were two nice-looking girls. This was how he put it,
being no longer young, and father to one of them; naturally, the two
young men would have described the attraction of Phoebe and Ursula more
warmly. Clarence Copperhead, who had come in with an armful of music and
his fiddle, was not thinking of the girls, nor of anything but the sweet
sounds he was about to make--and himself. When he began to tune his
violin, Mr. May got up in dismay.
"This is more than mortal can stand," he said, making as though he would
have gone away. Then he changed his mind, for, after all, he was the
chaperon of his motherless girl. "Get me the paper, Ursula," he said. It
would be hard to tell with what feelings Northcote contemplated him. He
was the father of Ursula, yet he dared to order her about, to bring the
tears to her eyes. Northcote darted the same way as she was going, and
caught 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 he
brought 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 he
took it out of her hands. "Thank him for his consideration. But he was
not 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 those
tears 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 to
beg 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 done
them nicely, and I was vexed. It was very childish," she said, shaking
her head with something of the same moisture floating back over the
lustre in her pretty eyes.
"I will never tell any one, you may be sure," said the young man; but
Ursula did not notice that he declined to give the other pledge, for
Reginald came up just then with wrath in his eyes.
"Is that idiot going to fiddle all night?" he cried (poor Clarence had
scarcely 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 her
about something. Can't you get that brute beguiled away?"
Clarence was the one who was _de trop_ in the little party; but he
fiddled beatifically, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, without the
slightest suspicion of the fact, while Phoebe accompanied him, with
little smiles at her friends, and shrugs of her shoulders. Reginald felt
very strongly, though for the first time, that she was over doing the
Scriptural maxim of being all things to all men.