Mr. Copperhead, however, did not come for two days, though Ursula spent all the morning and a great deal of trouble in arranging a luncheon for him; but on the second morning he came, driven by Sir Robert, who had changed horses on the road, and who was in a somewhat irritated and excited condition, very glad to get rid of his visitor.
“I hope you don’t mind having your toes trodden on, May,” he said, privately; “that fellow is never happy but when he’s insulting someone.” And indeed Mr. Copperhead began this favourite pastime at once by making very big eyes at the sight of Ursula. “A-ha!” he said, rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows; and he gave a meaning laugh as he shook hands with her, and declared that he did not expect to find young ladies here. “I haven’t a great deal of education myself, and I never knew it could be carried on so pleasantly,” he said. “You’re a lucky young dog, Clar, that’s what you are;” and the son laughed with the father at this excellent joke, though the rest of the company looked on with great gravity. Ursula, for her part, turned with wondering eyes from the newcomer to her old friend, Sir Robert.
“What does he mean?” she asked, with an appealing look.
“He is the greatest brute I know,” said poor Sir Robert, under his breath; and he went off suddenly on the plea of business, leaving his unpleasant visitor in Mr. May’s hands, who undertook the charge not unwillingly, being possessed by his own plan. Mr. Copperhead went all over Carlingford. He inspected the town-hall, the infirmary, and the church, with the businesslike air of a man who was doing his duty.
“Poor little place, but well enough for the country,” he said. “A country-town’s a mistake in my opinion. If I had it in my power I’d raze them all to the ground, and have one London and the rest green fields. That’s your sort, Mr. May. Now you don’t produce anything here, what’s the good of you? All unproductive communities, sir, ought to be swept off the face of the earth. I’d let Manchester and those sort of places go on till they burst; but a bit of a little piggery like this, where there’s nothing doing, no trade, no productions of any kind.”
“We like it all the same,” said Mr. May; “we small sort of people who have no enterprise like you—”
“I dare say you like it! To be sure, you can moon about here as much as you please, and make believe to do something, and there’s nobody to contradict you. In a great centre of industry you couldn’t live like that; you must work or you’ll get pushed aside altogether; unless, of course, you’re a millionaire to start with,” Mr. Copperhead added, with a noisy laugh.
“Which I am not certainly—very much the reverse—in short, a poor man with a large family, which I suppose is a thing about as objectionable in a centre of industry as anything can be.”
“The large family ain’t objectionable if you make ’em work,” said Mr. Copperhead; “it all depends on that. There’s always objections, you know,” he said, with a jocular grin, “to pretty girls like that daughter of yours put straight in a young fellow’s way. You won’t mind my saying it? They neither work themselves nor let others work—that sort. I think we could get on with a deal fewer women, I must allow. There’s where Providence is in a mistake. We don’t want ’em in England; it’s a waste of raw material. They’re bad for the men, and they ain’t much good for themselves, that I can see.”
“You are a little hard upon the ladies, Mr. Copperhead.”
“Not I—we can’t do without ’em of course, and the surplus we ought to export as we export other surpluses; but I object to them in a young man’s way, not meaning anything unpleasant to you. And perhaps if I had been put up to it sooner—but let’s hope there’s no mischief done. What is this now? some of your antiquities, I suppose. Oh yes, let’s have a look at it; but I confess it’s the present age I like best.”
“This is the College,” cried Mr. May, swallowing certain sensations which impaired his sense of friendliness; “but not an educational college, a foundation for old men—decayed citizens, as they are called—founded in the fifteenth century. My son is the chaplain, and will be very glad to show it you. There are twelve old men here at present, very comfortably looked after, thanks to the liberal arrangements of the founder. They attend chapel twice a day, where Reginald officiates. It is very agreeable to me to have him settled so near me.”
“Cunning I call it,” said Mr. Copperhead, with his hoarse laugh; “does you credit; a capital snug nest—nothing to do—and pay—pay good now? those old fellows generally managed that; as it was priests that had the doing of it, of course they did well for their own kind. Good Lord, what a waste of good money all this is!” he continued, as they went into the quadrangle, and saw the little park beyond with its few fine trees; “half-a-dozen nice villas might be built on this site, and it’s just the sort of place I should fancy where villas would pay. Why don’t the Corporation
