Part 20 (2/2)

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

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

Janey was taken altogether by surprise. ”I hope he is not going to fall in love with Miss Beecham,” she said suspiciously. ”I have heard Betsy say 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 for papa. I wish you could be sent to school and learn more sense. You give your opinion as if you were--twenty--more than that. I am sure I never should have ventured to say such things when I was a child like you.”

”Child yourself!” said Janey indignant; which was her last resource when she had nothing more to say; but Ursula was too busy putting aside her work and preparing for her walk to pay any attention. In proportion as she had been subdued and downcast heretofore, she was gay now. She forgot all about old Tozer; about the Dissenters' meeting, and the man who had made an attack upon poor Reginald. She flew to her room for her hat and jacket, and ran downstairs, singing to herself. Janey only overtook her, out of breath, as she emerged into the road from the Parsonage door.

”What a dreadful hurry you are in,” said Janey. ”I always get ready so much 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, without seeing anything of Phoebe, and Ursula returned home disconsolate. In the evening Reginald intimated carelessly that he had met Miss Beecham. ”She is much better worth talking to than most of the girls one meets with, whoever her grandfather may be,” he said, evidently with an instant readiness to stand on the defensive.

”Oh, did you talk to her,” said Ursula, ”without knowing? Reginald, papa has 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,” said Reginald, ”but it does not matter particularly to me. Of course I talked to her. Even my father could not expect that his permission was needed for me.”

At which piece of self-a.s.sertion the girls looked at him with admiring eyes. Already they felt there was a difference. Reginald at home, nominal curate, without pay or position, was a different thing from Reginald with an appointment, a house of his own, and two hundred and fifty pounds a year. The girls looked at him admiringly, but felt that this was never likely to be their fate. In everything the boys had so much the best of it; and yet it was almost a comfort to think that they had seen Reginald himself trembling before papa. Reginald had a great deal to tell them about the college, about the old men who made a hundred daily claims on his attention, and the charities which he had to administer, doles of this and that, and several charity schools of a humble cla.s.s.

”As for my time, it is not likely to hang on my hands as I thought. I can't be a parish Quixote, as we planned, Ursula, knocking down windmills for other people,” he said, adjusting his round edge of collar. 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 little laugh when he went away, but Ursula did not like the change.

”Never mind,” cried Janey; ”I hope Copperhead will be nice. We shall have him to talk to, when he comes.”

”Oh!” cried Ursula, in a kind of despair, ”who taught you to call gentlemen 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 little older than Ursula, was kind to the country girls, and talked to them both, and drew them out. She smiled when she heard of Clarence Copperhead, and told them that he was not very clever, but she did not think there was any harm in him.

”It is his father who is disagreeable,” said Phoebe; ”didn't you think so? You know, papa is a minister, Miss May,” (she did not say clergyman when she spoke to a churchwoman, for what was the use of exciting any one's prejudices?) ”and Mr. Copperhead comes to our church. You may be very thankful, in that respect, that you are not a dissenter. But it will be very strange to see Clarence Copperhead in Carlingford. I have known him since I was no bigger than your little sister. To tell the truth,” said Phoebe, frankly, ”I think I am rather sorry he is coming here.”

”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 call it, or 'ploughed,' does your brother say? University slang is very droll. He has not taken his degree, I suppose, and they want him to work before going up again. I am sorry for your father, too, for I don't think it will be very easy to get anything into Clarence Copperhead's mind. But there is no harm at all in him, and he used to be very nice to his mother. Mamma and I liked him for that; he was always very nice to his 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 you had gone away, or something--”

Ursula, however, could not help looking guilty as she spoke, and Phoebe perceived at once that there had been some reason for the two or three days disappearance of the girls from Grange Lane.

”You must tell me first,” she said, with a smile, ”whether you know who I am. If you ask me after that, I shall come. I am old Mr. Tozer's granddaughter, who had a shop in the High Street. My uncle has a shop there now. I do not like it myself,” said Phoebe, with the masterly candour that distinguished her, ”and no one else can be expected to like it. If you did not know--”

”Oh, we heard directly,” cried Janey; ”Mrs. Sam Hurst told us. She came shrieking, 'Who is she?' before your back was turned that day; for she wondered to see you with old Tozer--”

”Janey!” cried Ursula, with horror. ”Of course we know; and please will you come? Every new person in Carlingford gets talked over, and if an angel were to walk about, Mrs. Sam Hurst would never rest till she had found out where he came from.”

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