“You see, this is a proof that with children one should never be discouraged,” she said; “for they did not take to me at first;” and she turned her mild countenance, beaming with soft light, upon Ursula. To be hampered by these babies clinging about her, to have them claiming imperiously her attention and her time, however she might be engaged; to give up to them the moments of leisure in which otherwise she might have had a little quiet and repose, this was what Anne Dorset considered as her recompense.
“Oh, I wish I could be as good to Amy and Robin! But I feel as if I should like to shake them often,” cried Ursula, “even though I love them with all my heart. Oh! Cousin Anne, I don’t think there is anyone like you.”
“Yes, that is what she thinks her reward,” said Sophy. “I should like something better, if it was I. Don’t copy her, Ursula. It is better to have children of your own, and get other people to nurse them. Anne, you see, likes it. I want you to marry, and get all the good things in this life. Let us leave the self-denials to her; she likes them, you perceive.”
“I don’t know why you should always talk of marrying to me, Cousin Sophy,” said Ursula with gentle reproach. “I hope I am not a girl to think of such things.”
“And why not? Is it not the first duty of woman, you little simpleton?” said Sophy Dorset, with a laugh.
But Ursula could not imagine that it was only in this general way that her cousin spoke. She could not but feel that this big Clarence Copperhead, with the diamond buttons, and that huge expanse of shirtfront, had something to do with Sophy’s talk. There was six feet of him, which is a thing that goes a long way with a girl; and he was not bad-looking. And why did he come to Carlingford, having nothing in the world to do with the place? and coming to Carlingford, why was papa sought out, of all people, to be his tutor? Certainly the circumstances were such as invited conjecture, especially when added on to Sophy’s allusions. He took Ursula in to dinner, which fluttered her somewhat; and though he was much intent upon the dinner itself, and studied the menu with a devotion which would have made her tremble for her housekeeping, had she been sufficiently disengaged to notice it, he yet found time to talk a little between the courses.
“I did not expect, when I saw you in London, that we were to meet again so soon, Miss May,” was the perfectly innocent remark with which he opened the conversation.
Ursula would have said it herself had he not said it, and all she could do was to answer, “No, indeed,” with a smile.
“And I am coming to your father to be coached,” continued the young man. “It is a funny coincidence, don’t you think so? I am glad you came to that ball, Miss May. It makes me feel that I know you. I don’t like starting off afresh, all at once, among people I don’t know.”
“No,” said Ursula; “I should not like it either. But there are other people you know in Carlingford. There is the lady who was at the ball—the young lady in black, I used to call her—Miss Beecham; you must know her better than you know me.”
“Who? Phoebe? really!” he said, elevating his eyebrows. “Phoebe in Carlingford! By Jove! how the governor will laugh! I should like to know,” with a conscious smile on his countenance, “what she is doing there.”
“Her grandmamma is ill, and she is nursing her,” said Ursula simply, at which young Copperhead laughed again.
“Oh, that is how it is! Very good of her, don’t you think? Shouldn’t suppose she would be amusing, the old granny, and Phoebe likes to be amused. I must go to see her as soon as I can get there. You know, we are Dissenters at home, Miss May. Good joke, isn’t it? The governor will not hear a word against them. As a matter of fact, nobody does go to chapel in our rank of life; but the governor sometimes is as obstinate as an old pig.”
“I suppose he likes it best,” said Ursula, gently; and here a new course came round, and for
