FATHER AND SON.
Ursula had prepared a very careful luncheon for the stranger. She
thought him disagreeable, but she had not looked at him much, for,
indeed, Ursula's mind was much unsettled. Horace Northcote had spoken to
her 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 long
story, though it was briefly done, and could have been expressed in
three words. He was not of her species of humanity; his ways of
thinking, his prejudices, his traditions, were all different from hers,
and yet that had happened to him which happens all over the world in
every kind of circumstances--without knowing how it was, he had got to
love her. Yes, he knew very well how it was, or rather, he knew when it
was, which is all that is to be expected from a lover. It was on the
evening of the _entrées_, the first dinner-party, and he had gone on
ever since, deeper and deeper, hearing her say many things which he did
not agree in, and tracing her life through a score of little habits
which were not congenial to his, yet loving her more and more for all
that was new to him, and even for the things which were uncongenial. He
had 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 with
which he spoke; wondering and trembling a little. She had guessed what
he meant the night before, as has been said, and this had touched her
with a little thrill of awakened feeling; but the innocent girl knew no
more about passion than a child, and when she saw it, glowing and
ardent, appealing to her, she was half-alarmed, half-overawed by the
strange sight. What answer could she make to him? She did not know what
to say. To reject him altogether was not in Ursula's heart; but she
could not respond to that strange, new, overwhelming sentiment, which
put a light in his eyes which she dared not meet; which dazzled her when
she 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 tell
him 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, a
confusion strange but sweet. Gratified vanity is not a pretty title to
give to any feeling, and yet that mixture of gratification and
gratitude, and penetrating pleasure in the fact of being elevated from
an often-scolded and imperfect child to an admired and worshipped woman
is, 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 was
nothing of a laughter-producing nature in her way; and sometimes it made
her cry, both the crying and the laughter being one. It was strange,
very strange, and yet sweet. Under the influence of this, and of the
secret homage which Northcote paid her whenever they met; and which she
now understood as she had never understood it before, the girl's whole
nature expanded, though she did not know. She was becoming sweet to the
children, to puzzled Janey, to every one around her. Her little
petulances were all subdued. She was more sympathetic than she had ever
been before. And yet she was not in love with her lover. It was only
that the sunshine of young life had caught her, that the highest
gratification of youth had fallen to her share unawares. All this might
have 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 the
love which she did not return.
This is a digression from our immediate subject, which was the luncheon
prepared for Mr. Copperhead. Ursula sent up an urgent message for Phoebe,
who came to her in her prettiest morning dress, very carefully
arranged, 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 meet
Mr. Copperhead. I don't like him."
"Neither do I like him," cried Ursula. "He said something disagreeable
the little moment he was here. Oh, I don't remember what it was, but
something. Please stay. What am I to do with them all by myself? If you
will help me, I may get through."
Phoebe kissed her with a tremulous kiss; perhaps she was not unwilling to
see with her own eyes what the father of Clarence meant, and what
brought him here. She sat down at the window, and was the first to see
them coming along the street.
"What a gentleman your father looks beside them," cried Phoebe; "both of
them, father and son; though Clarence, after all, is a great deal better
than 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 had
hurt her. What did it all mean? Ursula, though rays of enlightenment had
come to her, was still perplexed, and did not understand.
Mr. Copperhead did not see her till he went to luncheon, when Phoebe
appeared with little Amy May looking like a visitor, newly arrived. She
had run upstairs after that first sight of him from the window,
declaring herself unable to be civil to him except at table. The great
man'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,'" he
said. "That's Scripture, ain't it, Miss Ursula? I am not good at giving
chapter and verse."
"What does it mean?" asked Ursula.
She was quite indifferent to Mr. Copperhead, and perfectly unconscious
of his observation. As for Phoebe, on the contrary, she was slightly
agitated, her placid surface ruffled a little, and she looked her best
in her agitation. Mr. Copperhead looked straight at her across the
table, and laughed in his insolent way.
"So you are here too, Miss Phoebe!" he said. "I might think myself in the
Crescent if I didn't know better. I met young Northcote just now, and
now you. What may you be doing here, might one ask? It is what you call
a curious coincidence, ain't it, Clarence and you both here?"
"I said so when Mr. Clarence came," said Phoebe. "_I_ came to take care
of my grandmother, who is ill; and it was a very lucky thing for me that
I had met Miss May at your ball, Mr. Copperhead."
"By Jove, wasn't it!" said Clarence, roused to some dull sense of what
was 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 came
here to work; that's how we old fellows get taken in. Work! with young
ladies dangling about, and putting things into your head! I ought to
have known better, don't you think so, Miss Ursula? _You_ could have
taught me a thing or two."
"I?" said Ursula, startled. "I don't know what I could teach any one. I
think Mr. Clarence Copperhead has kept to his hours very steadily. Papa
is rather severe; he never would take any excuse from any of us when we
were working with him."
"He is not so severe now, I'll be bound," said Mr. Copperhead. "Lets you
have your fun a little, as Clarence tells me; don't you, May? Girls will
be girls, and boys, boys, whatever we do; and I am sure, Miss Phoebe, you
have been very entertaining, as you always were."
"I have done my best," said Phoebe, looking him in the face. "I should
have had a dull life but for the Parsonage, and I have tried to be
grateful. I have accompanied your son on the violin a great many
evenings, and I hope our friends have liked it. Mr. Clarence is a
promising player, though I should like him to trust less to his ear; but
we 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's
face; 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 to
deliver Ursula, and she determined at the same time to let her future
father-in-law (if he was to be her father-in-law) see what sort of a
person he had to deal with. As soon as she made up her mind, her
agitation 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 not
turned poor Clar's head among you, young ladies. It's not a very strong
head; and two is more than a match for one. I dare say he has had no
chance between you."
"Make yourself quite easy," said Phoebe, with her sweetest smile; "he was
only one of a party. Mr. Reginald May and Mr. Northcote are both very
pleasant companions. Your son is bored sometimes, but the rest of us are
never bored. You see, he has been accustomed to more brilliant society;
but as for us, we have no particular pretensions. We have been very
happy. 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. If
your mother sent you here, I don't doubt it was for a purpose, eh? She
knows what she's about, and she won't like it if she knows you are
fritting away your chances and your attentions. She has an eye for
business, has Mrs. Beecham," said the leading member, with a laugh.
"You cannot tell mamma more about me than she knows already," said
Phoebe, with rising colour.
And by this time every one else at table was uncomfortable. Even
Clarence, who had a dull appreciation of his father's jokes when they
were not levelled at himself, and who was by no means indisposed to
believe that "girls," generally, were "after him," and that even in this
particular case Phoebe herself might have come to Carlingford on purpose
to complete his conquest, even Clarence was moved.
"I don't know what you mean by brilliant society," he said. "I know I'm
the dull one among you clever people. I don't say much, but I know it
all the same; and it's awfully good of you to pull me through all that
music. 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've
been turning it over in my head, and I think I can see my way to another
arrangement."
"That, of course, is entirely in your own hands," said Mr. May, with a
cheerfulness he did not feel. His heart sank, but every rule of good
society made it incumbent upon him to show no failure at such a moment.
"Copperhead, see that your father has some wine. Well, I suppose our
poor 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 opinion
in 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 there
was not another blessed brick in the country. There is always something
that will grow in a field, corn or fat beasts--not that we couldn't get
all that cheaper from over the water if it was managed as it ought to
be. But a place like this, what's the good of it? Almshouses and
chaplains, and that kind of rubbish, and old women; there's old women by
the score."
"They must be somewhere, I suppose," said Mr. May. "We cannot kill them
off, if they are inoffensive, and keep the laws. So that, after all, a
country town is of use."
"Kill 'em off--no; it's against what you benevolent humbugs call the
spirit of the time, and Christianity, and all that; but there's such a
thing as carrying Christianity too far; that's my opinion. There's your
almshouses now. What's the principle of them? I call it encouraging
those old beggars to live," said Mr. Copperhead; "giving them permission
to 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," said
Phoebe, quietly stepping into the conversation; "but then it would have
to be with the consent of the victims. When any one found himself
useless, unnecessary to the world, or unhappy in it--"
"Humbug and nonsense," said Mr. Copperhead. "A likely thing for anybody
to do. No, it is not a question for law-making. Let 'em die out
naturally, that's my opinion. Don't do anything to hurry 'em--that is, I
don't see my way to it; but let 'em go quiet, and don't bring 'em
cordials and feather-beds, and all that middyeval nonsense, to keep 'em
going 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, "it
is refreshing to hear opinions so bold and original. Something new is
always a blessing. I cannot say I agree with you--"
"No parson would be bold enough for that. Christianity's been a capital
thing for the world," said Mr. Copperhead, "I don't say a word against
it; but in these go-ahead days, sir, we've had enough of it, that's to
say when it's carried too far. All this fuss about the poor, all the row
about dragging up a lot of poor little beggars to live that had far
better die, and your almshouses to keep the old ones going, past all
nature! 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's
my way of thinking--and what's more, I'm right."
"What a fine thing for you, Mr. Clarence," cried Phoebe, "who are going
into Parliament! to take up your father's idea and work it out. What a
speech you could make on the subject! I saw a hospital once in Paris
that would make such a wonderful illustration. I'll tell you about it if
you like. Poor old wretched people whose life was nothing but
wretchedness kept going, kept living for years and years--why, no one
could tell; for I am sure it would have been better, far better for them
to die and be done with it. What a speech you might make when you bring
a bill into Parliament to abolish almshouses and all sorts of
charities!" she added with a laugh, turning from Clarence, at whom she
had been looking, to his father, who was puzzled, and did not know how
to understand the young woman's eyes.
"I'll never make much of a speech in Parliament," said Clarence; "unless
you make it for me," he added in an undertone. But no one else was
speaking, and the undertone was quite audible. Meanwhile Phoebe had not
ceased to look at his father, and held him with a pair of eyes not like
the Ancient Mariner's. Mr. Copperhead was confused, his power even of
insolence was cowed for the moment. He obeyed quite docilely the
movement 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, but
dared not, being where he was.
And lunch being over, Mr. May led his pupil's father into his study. "I
want to show you what your boy has been doing," he said, pointing to a
line of books which made the millionnaire's soul shrink within him. "I
have not bothered him with classics; what was the use as he is not going
back to Oxford? but I have done my best for him in a practical way. He
has read history, largely as you see, and as much as I could give him of
political and constitutional--"
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Copperhead, reading the titles of some of the books
under his breath. They impressed him deeply, and took away for a moment
his self-confidence. It was his habit to boast that he knew nothing
about books; but in their presence he shrank, feeling that they were
greater than he, which was, there is little doubt, a sign of grace.
"If you wish to remove Clarence," said Mr. May, "perhaps I had better
make out a scheme of reading for him."
"Look here," cried the rich man, "I didn't want to remove him; but there
he 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's
charming; but anyhow there she is side by side with Clar, who is no more
able to resist that sort of thing--"
Mr. May laughed, and this time with unmitigated amusement. "Do you mean
Ursula? I think I can answer for it that she made no attempts upon him
for which resistance would be necessary."
"That's all very well to say; but bless you they do it, every one," said
Mr. Copperhead, "without exception, when a young fellow's well off and
well-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 real
minister's daughter. I don't mean anything uncivil to you or yours. I
suppose a parson's different; but we know what a minister's daughter is
in our connection. Like the men themselves, in short, who are always
pouncing 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 bit
of 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, somewhat
sharply. He would preserve his dignity even though his heart was
sinking; 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 three
months, if you choose, fair and square. I meant him to stay, and I'll
pay. But that's all. You've no further claim upon me that I know of; and
I must say that for a tutor, a regular coach, to keep girls in his
house, daughters, or whatever you choose to call them, is something
monstrous. It's a thing no fellow's friends would put up with. It's what
I 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 dare
say, Sir Robert can take him, and we will send the portmanteaux. In such
a 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 you
hear? 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 almost
into his hair. "Go? What do you mean? Out of the Parsonage? The
Governor'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 the
good reason that nobody had taken any notice of what he did, and that he
had foreseen the excitement that was coming. "You don't mean it, I
know," he added aloud; "I'll go over for the night if Sir Robert will
have me, and see my mother--"
"Ask May," said Mr. Copperhead, "you'll believe him, I suppose; he's as
glad to get rid of you as I am to take you away."
"Is this true?" cried Clarence, roused and wondering, "and if so, what's
happened? I ain't a baby, you know, to be bundled about from one to
another. The Governor forgets that."
"Your father," said Mr. May, "chooses to remove you, and that is all I
choose to say."
"But, by George, I can say a deal more," said Mr. Copperhead. "You
simpleton, do you think I am going to leave you here where there's
man-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's
to 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 very
sorry, father, if these are your sentiments; but I may as well tell you
at 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 without
these extra glasses of sherry he would not have had the courage now. But
what with sherry, and what with _amour propre_, and what with the thing
he called love, Clarence Copperhead mounted all at once upon a pedestal.
He had a certain dogged obstinacy in him, suspected by nobody but his
mother, who had little enough to say in the guidance of her boy. He set
himself square like a pugilist, which was his notion of resistance. Mr.
May looked on with a curious mixture of feelings. His own sudden and
foolish hope was over, and what did it matter to him whether the
detestable father or the coarse son should win? He turned away from them
with contempt, which was made sharp by their utter uselessness to
himself. Had it been possible that he might have what he wanted from
Mr. Copperhead, his patience would have held out against any trial; but
the moment that hope was over, what further interest had he in the
question? He went to his writing-table and sat down there, leaving them
to fight it out as they would, by themselves. It was no affair of his.