"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 ap.r.o.n-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 s.h.i.+rt 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--n.o.body 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, scholars.h.i.+p 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 n.o.ble 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 dest.i.tute. 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 s.h.i.+rt-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 p.r.o.nounced 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 wors.h.i.+p 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 c.o.xcomb, 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.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A PAIR OF NATURAL ENEMIES.

After the evening at Grange Lane which has been described, Reginald May met Northcote in the street several times, as was unavoidable, considering the size of the place, and the concentration of all business in Carlingford within the restricted length of the High Street. The two young men bowed stiffly to each other at first; then by dint of seeing each other frequently, got to inclinations a little more friendly, until at length one day when Northcote was pa.s.sing by the College, as Reginald stood in the old doorway, the young chaplain feeling magnanimous on his own ground, and somewhat amused by the idea which suddenly presented itself to him, asked his Dissenting a.s.sailant if he would not come in and see the place. Reginald had the best of it in every way. It was he who was the superior, holding out a hand of favour and kindness to one who here at least, was beneath him in social consideration; and it was he who was the a.s.sailed, and, so to speak, injured party, and who nevertheless extended to his a.s.sailant a polite recognition, which, perhaps, no one else occupying the same position would have given. He was amused by his own magnanimity, and enjoyed it, and the pleasure of heaping coals of fire upon his adversary's head was entirely delightful to him.

"I know you do not approve of the place or me," he said, forgetting in that moment of triumph all his own objections to it, and the ground upon which these objections were founded. "Come in and see it, will you? The chapel and the rooms are worth seeing. They are fair memorials of the past, however little the foundation may be to your mind."

He laughed as he spoke, but without ill-humour; for it is easy to be good-humoured when one feels one's self on the gaining, not the losing side. As for Northcote, pride kept him from any demonstration of unwillingness to look at what the other had to show. He would not for worlds have betrayed himself. It was expedient for him, if he did not mean to acknowledge himself worsted, to put on a good face and accept the politeness cheerfully. So that it was on the very strength of the conflict which made them first aware of each other's existence, that they thus came together. The Dissenter declared his entire delight in being taken to see the place, and with secret satisfaction, not easily put into words, the Churchman led the way. They went to all the rooms where the old men sat, some dozing by the fire, some reading, some busy about small businesses; one had a turning-lathe, another was illuminating texts, a third had a collection of curiosities of a heterogeneous kind, which he was cleaning and arranging, writing neat little labels in the neatest little hand for each article.

"The charity of our ancestors might have been worse employed," said Reginald. "A home for the old and poor is surely as fine a kind of benevolence as one could think of--if benevolence is to be tolerated at all."

"Ye-es," said Northcote. "I don't pretend to disapprove of benevolence.

Perhaps the young who have a future before them, who can be of use to their country, are better objects still."

"Because they will pay," said Reginald; "because we can get something out of them in return; while we have already got all that is to be had out of the old people? A very modern doctrine, but not so lovely as the old-fas.h.i.+oned way."

"I did not mean that," said the other, colouring. "Certainly it ought to pay; everything, I suppose, is meant to pay one way or other. The life and progress of the young, or the gratified sentiment of the benefactor, who feels that he has provided for the old--which is the n.o.blest kind of payment? I think the first, for my part."

"For that matter, there is a large and most flouris.h.i.+ng school, which you will come across without fail if you work among the poor. Do you work among the poor? Pardon my curiosity; I don't know."

"It depends upon what you call the poor," said the other, who did not like to acknowledge the absence of this element in Salem Chapel; "if you mean the dest.i.tute cla.s.ses, the lowest level, no; but if you mean the respectable, comfortable--"

"Persons of small income?" said Reginald. "I mean people with no incomes at all; people without trades, or anything to earn a comfortable living by; labouring people, here to-day and away to-morrow; women who take in was.h.i.+ng, and men who go about hunting for a day's work. These are the kind of people the Church is weighted with."

"I don't see any trace of them," said the Nonconformist. "Smooth lawns, fine trees, rooms that countesses might live in. I can't see any trace of them here."

"There is no harm in a bit of gra.s.s and a few trees, and the rooms are cheaper in their long continuance than any flimsy new rubbish that could be built."

"I know I am making an unfortunate quotation," said Northcote; "but there is reason in it. It might be sold for so much, and given to the poor."

"Cheating the poor, in the first place," said Reginald, warmly concerned for what he felt to be his own; "just as the paddock an old horse dies in might bear a crop instead, and pay the owner; but what would become of the old horse?"

"Half-quarter of this s.p.a.ce would do quite as well for your pensioners, and they might do without--"

"A chaplain!" said Reginald, laughing in spite of himself. "I know you think so. It is a sinecure."

"Well, I think they may say their prayers for themselves; a young man like you, full of talent, full of capability--I beg your pardon," said Northcote, "you must excuse me, I grudge the waste. There are so many things more worthy of you that you might do."

"What, for example?"

"Anything almost," cried the other; "digging, ploughing, building--anything! And for me too."

This he said in an undertone; but Reginald heard, and did not carry his magnanimity so far as not to reply.

"Yes," he said; "if I am wasted reading prayers for my old men, what are you, who come to agitate for my abolition? _I_ think, too, almost anything would be better than to encourage the ignorant to make themselves judges of public inst.i.tutions, which the wisest even find too delicate to meddle with. The digging and the ploughing might be a good thing for more than me."