“You have been behind the scenes too much perhaps,” said Sophy Dorset, shrugging her shoulders, “but don’t think any worse of the world than you ought, if you can’t think very much better. No class is good or bad, Ursula. Men are but men all over the world.”
This made Ursula cry, though it is difficult to say why. She thought it cynical, and probably so will the reader. Perhaps Sophy Dorset abandoned the cause of mankind too easily, as most people of her temperament and age are disposed to do. Anyhow the evening entertainment took place and was very fine, and every honour was done to Clarence Copperhead’s marriage, especially by his mother, who appeared in the most lovely satin that eyes ever saw, and diamonds—and almost succeeded all the evening in keeping herself from crying, but not entirely. She did break down when the health of bridegroom and bride was drunk as it ought to be; but recovered herself hastily when the mother on the other side gave her a kiss of sympathy. Though it was an honest kiss it filled poor little Mrs. Copperhead’s mind with the most unchristian feelings, and gave her strength to keep up for the rest of the evening, and do her duty to the last. Nevertheless Phoebe was the best of daughters-in-law, and ended by making her husband’s mother dependent on her for most of the comforts of her life. And Clarence got into Parliament, and the reader, perhaps (if Parliament is sitting), may have had the luck to read a speech in the morning paper of Phoebe’s composition, and if he ever got the secret of her style would know it again, and might trace the course of a public character for years to come by that means. But this secret is one which no bribe nor worldly inducement will ever tempt our lips to betray.
Northcote was released from the charge of Salem Chapel directly after these events, by the return of the minister safe and sound from his holiday, to the great delight of the congregation, though they had not been very fond of their old pastor before. Now they could not sufficiently exult over the happy re-instalment. “The other one never crossed our doors from the day he came till now as he’s going away,” said one indignant member; “nor took no more notice of us chapel folks nor if we were dirt beneath his feet.” “That time as the Meeting was held, when he spoke up again’ the sinecure, was the only time as my mind was satisfied,” cried another. “And a deal came of it after, making friends with the very man he had abused.” “All his friends was Church folks,” said a third; “he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that’s what I calls him; and a poor moralist as a preacher, with never a rousing word in them things as he called his sermons. We’re well rid of the likes of him, though he may be clever. I don’t give much for that kind of cleverness; and what’s the good of you, minister or not minister, if you can’t keep consistent and stick to your own side.” The chorus was so strong that the echo of it moved Tozer, who was a kind of archdeacon and leading member too, in his way, where he sat twiddling his thumbs in his little room. “I’m one as is qualified to give what you may call a casting vote,” said Tozer, “being the oldest deacon in Salem, and one as has seen generations coming and going. And as for Church and Chapel, I’ve served ’em both, and seen the colour of their money, and there’s them as has their obligations to me, though we needn’t name no names. But this I will say, as I’m cured of clever men and them as is thought superior. They ain’t to be calculated upon. If any more o’ them young intellectuals turns up at Carlingford, I’ll tell him right out, ‘You ain’t the man for my money.’ I’ll say to him as bold as brass, ‘I’ve been young, and now I’m old, and it’s my conviction as clever young men ain’t the sort for Salem. We want them as is steady-going, and them as is consistent; good strong opinions, and none o’ your charity, that’s what we wants here.’ ” Now Tozer had loved clever young men in his day more well than wisely, as everybody knew, and this deliverance carried all the more weight in consequence, and was echoed loudly by one general hum of content and applause.
Northcote took this very quietly, but he retired, after he had married Ursula, from the office of pastor, for which he was not fitted, and from the Liberation Society, and various other societies, coming to see that Disestablishment was not a panacea for national evils any more than other things. He was in the habit of quoting his brother-in-law, Reginald May, as the best man he knew; but this did not make him a Churchman; for naturally he could not say the same of other members of the same class and family. He was shaken out of his strong opinions; but it is doubtful how far this was good for him, for he was a man of warlike disposition, and not to have something which he could go to the stake for—something which he could think the devil’s own stronghold to assail, was a drawback to him, and cramped his mental development; but he was happy in his home with his pretty Ursula, which is probably all the reader will care to know. He paid Tozer’s hundred and fifty pounds. And he made no inquiries, and tried not to ask himself what all that strange scene had meant—and whatever it did mean it was over forever, and nobody asked any further questions or made any revelations on the subject. As for Mr. May, his mysterious illness went on
