“I have not seen anybody,” said Phoebe. “My people are not much in society. When one is old and sick, I don’t suppose one cares—”
“There is no society to speak of in Carlingford,” said Reginald. “It is like most other country towns. If you like it we shall be sure your liking is quite disinterested, for it has no social charms—”
When had Reginald said so many words at a time to a young lady before? The girls exchanged glances. “I think it is pretty,” said Phoebe, closing the subject. “It is going to snow, don’t you think? I suppose you skate like all the young ladies now. It seems the first thing anyone thinks of when the winter begins.”
“Do you skate?” said Ursula, her eyes brighter and opener than ever.
“Oh, a little—as everybody does! Perhaps if there is no society,” said Phoebe, turning to Reginald for the first time, “people are free here from the necessity of doing as everybody does. I don’t think there is any such bondage in the world—dressing, living, working, amusing yourself—you have to do everything as other people do it. So I skate—I can’t help myself; and a hundred foolish things beside.”
“But I should think it delightful,” cried Ursula, “I have always envied the boys. They look so warm when we are all shivering. Reginald, if it freezes will you teach us? I think I should like it better than anything in the world.”
“Yes,” said Reginald, “if Miss—if we can make up a party—if you,” he added with a perfectly new inflection in his voice, “will come too.”
“I see you don’t know my name,” said Phoebe, with a soft little laugh. “It is Beecham. One never catches names at a party. I remembered yours because of a family in a novel that I used to admire very much in my girlish days—”
“Oh! I know,” cried Janey, “The Daisy Chain. We are not a set of prigs like those people. We are not goody, whatever we are; we—”
“I don’t suppose Miss Beecham cares for your opinion of the family character,” said Reginald in a tone that made Janey furious. Thus discoursing they reached the gates of the Parsonage, where Ursula was most eager that her friend should come in. And here Mr. May joined them, who was impressed, like everybody else, by Phoebe’s appearance, and made himself so agreeable that Reginald felt eclipsed and driven into the background. Ursula had never been so satisfied with her father in her life; though there was a cloud on Mr. May’s soul, it suited him to show a high good-humour with everybody in recompense for his son’s satisfactory decision, and he was, indeed, in a state of high complacence with himself for having managed matters so cleverly that the very thing which should have secured Reginald’s final abandonment of the chaplaincy determined him, on the contrary, to accept it. And he admired Phoebe, and was dazzled by her self-possession and knowledge of the world. He supported Ursula’s invitation warmly; but the stranger freed herself with graceful excuses. She had her patient to attend to.
“That is a very ladylike young woman,” said Mr. May, when they had gone in, after watching regretfully their new acquaintance’s progress through Grange Lane. “You met her in town, did you? A friend of the Dorsets? Where is she living, I wonder; and whom does she belong to? One does not often see that style of thing here.”
“I never saw anyone like her before,” said Ursula fervently; and they were still all uniting in admiration of Phoebe—when—
But such an interruption demands another page.
XX
That Tozer Girl!
“Well, who is she?” cried Mrs. Sam Hurst, too curious to think of the ordinary decorums. She had no bonnet on, but a light “cloud” of white wool over her cap, and her whole aspect was full of eagerness and excitement. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew her? Who is she? I am dying to know.”
“Who is—who?” said Ursula, rather glad of the opportunity of being politely rude to Mrs. Sam Hurst before papa. “How is anyone to find out from the way you speak? She? who is she?”
“That is just what I want you to tell me,” said Mrs. Sam Hurst, with imperturbable good-humour. “You, Mr. May, you are always good to me, though Ursula has her little tempers—the girl you were talking to at the door. I stood and watched from the window, and I scarcely could contain myself sufficiently not to bounce out in the middle of the talk. Now do tell, as the Americans say. Who is that Tozer girl?”
“That Tozer girl!” Ursula gave a little shriek, and grew first red and then pale with horror and dismay.
“Yes; I told you about her; so well dressed and looking so nice. That was she; with the very same dress, such a charming dress! so much style about it. Who is she, Ursula? Mr. May, tell me who is she? You can’t imagine how much I want to know.”
Ursula dropped into a chair, looking like a little ghost, faint and rigid. She said afterwards to Janey that she felt in the depths of her heart that it must be true. She could have cried with pain and disappointment, but she would not give Mrs. Sam Hurst the pleasure of making her cry.
“There must be some mistake,” said Reginald, interposing. “This is a lady—my sister met her in town with the Dorsets.”
“Oh, does she know the Dorsets too?” said the inquirer. “That makes it still more interesting. Yes, that is the girl that is with the Tozers; there can be no mistake
