“But, Cousin Anne! Dresses! If it was a necktie or a ribbon; but frocks—”
“Frocks would be most useful, wouldn’t they? One for Amy, and one for Janey. I suppose Robin does not wear frocks now?”
“He has been in knickerbockers these two years,” said Ursula, half proud, half sorry; “and the worst of it is, they can’t be made at home. Papa says, boys’ clothes made at home are always spoiled, and the tailor is so dear. Oh, Cousin Anne, are you really, really going to be so very, very good—!”
Mrs. Copperhead came into the shop while they were choosing. Poor little woman! she who trembled so in her own house, how everybody bowed down before her at Messrs. Margrove and Snelcher’s! It was all she could do to extricate herself from a crowd of anxious officials, all eager to supply her with everything that heart could desire, when she saw the little party. She came up to them, almost running in her eagerness, her small pale face flushed, and leaned on Anne Dorset’s chair and whispered to her.
“You will not be angry, dear kind Anne. You are always so good to everybody. Oh, forgive me! forgive me!”
Ursula could not help hearing what she said.
“There is nothing to forgive you, Mrs. Copperhead.”
“Oh, dear Anne! But I am more than myself, you know! He does not mean it; he never was brought up to know better. He thinks that is how people behave—”
“Please don’t say anything, dear Mrs. Copperhead.”
“Not if you will forgive—not if you will promise to forgive. Poor Clarence is heartbroken!” cried the poor woman. “He is so frightened for what you must think.”
“We don’t think anything,” said Sophy, breaking in; “it is one of our good qualities as a family that we never think. Come and help us; we are choosing frocks for Ursula’s sisters. She has two. What are their ages, Ursula? You, who live in town, and know the fashions, come and help us to choose.”
And how respectful all the shopmen grew when the nameless country party was joined by the great Mrs. Copperhead—or rather the great Mr. Copperhead’s wife, at whose command was unlimited credit, and all the contents of the shop if she chose. One hurried forward to give her a chair, and quite a grand personage, a “head man,” came from another counter to take the charge of pleasing such a customer. Ursula could not but look upon the whole transaction with awe. Mrs. Copperhead was a very humble, timid woman, and Mr. Copperhead was not nice; but it was something to command the reverence of all the people in such a grand shop—a shop which Ursula by herself would scarcely have ventured to enter, and in which she felt timid and overwhelmed, saying, “Sir” to the gentleman who was so good as to ask what she wanted. But here Mrs. Copperhead was not afraid. She gave herself up with her whole heart to the delightful perplexity of choice, and when that matter was settled, looked round with searching eyes.
“Don’t they want something else?” she said, “it is so long since I have bought any children’s things. It reminds me of the days when Clarence was little, when I took such pride in his dress. Come with me into the cloak room, my dear, I am sure they must want jackets or something.”
Ursula resisted with pitiful looks at Cousin Anne, and Sophy whispered into Mrs. Copperhead’s ear an explanation, which, instead of quenching her ardour, brought it up instantly to boiling point. Her pale little languid countenance glowed and shone. She took both Ursula’s hands in hers, half smiling, half crying.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, “you can give me such a pleasure, if you will! You know we are connections, almost relations. Let me send them something. Dear children, I wish I could see them. Come and look at the little jackets and mantles. I have often thought, if Providence had given me a little girl, what pleasure I should have had in dressing her. Hats too! I am sure they must want hats. Come, my dear, come and look at them.” Ursula did not know what to do. A little pride and a great deal of shyness kept her back, but Mrs. Copperhead was too much in earnest to be crossed. She bought a couple of very smart little upper garments for Amy and Janey, and then, clandestinely taking no one into her confidence, for Ursula herself, and gave secret orders to have them all sent to the Dorsets’ lodgings that night. She was quite transformed so long as this transaction lasted. Her languid countenance grew bright, her pale eyes lighted up.
“You have given me such a pleasure,” she said, holding Ursula’s hands, and standing up on tiptoe to kiss her. “I am so much obliged to you. I could almost think that Clarence was little again, or that he had got a little sister, which was always my heart’s desire. Ah, well! often, often, it seems better for us not to have our heart’s desire, my dear; at least I suppose that is how it must be.”
“I do not know how to thank you,” said Ursula, “you have been so kind—so very kind.”
“I have been kind to myself,” said Mrs. Copperhead, “I have so enjoyed it; and, my dear,” she added, with some solemnity, still holding Ursula by the hands, “promise you will do me one favour more. It will be such a favour. Whenever you want anything for yourself or your sister will you write to me? I am always in London except in autumn, and I should so like to do your commissions. People who live in London know how to get bargains, my dear. You must promise to let me do them for you. It will make
