sharp by their utter uselessness to
himself. Had it been possible that he might have what he wanted from
Mr. Copperhead, his patience would have held out against any trial; but
the moment that hope was over, what further interest had he in the
question? He went to his writing-table and sat down there, leaving them
to fight it out as they would, by themselves. It was no affair of his.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

A PLEASANT EVENING.

The result, however, was a compromise. Clarence Copperhead went off with
his father and Sir Robert to the Hall for the night, but was to return
next day, and Phoebe was left in a condition of some excitement behind
them, not quite knowing what to think. She was as sure as ever that he
had made up his mind to propose; but he had not done it, and what effect
his father's visit, and perhaps his mother's entreaties, might have upon
him, Phoebe could not tell. The crisis excited her beyond any excitement
which she would have thought possible in respect to Clarence Copperhead.
She was more like an applicant for office kept uncertain whether she was
to have a desirable post or not, than a girl on the eve of a lover's
declaration. This was her own conception of the circumstances. She did
not dislike Clarence; quite the reverse. She had no sympathy with
Ursula's impatience of his heavy vanity. Phoebe had been used to him all
her life, and had never thought badly of the heavy boy whom she had been
invited to amuse when she was six years old, and whom she had no
particular objection to amuse still, let the others wonder at her as
they might. Poor Reginald, contemplating bitterly her many little
complacencies to his rival, set them down hastily to an appreciation of
that rival's worldly advantages, which was not quite a just sentence. It
was true, and yet it was not true; other feelings mingled in Phoebe's
worldliness. She did, indeed, perceive and esteem highly the advantages
which Clarence could give her; but she had not the objections to
Clarence himself that the others had. She was willing, quite willing, to
undertake the charge of him, to manage, and guide, and make a man of
him. And yet, while it was not pure worldliness, much less was it actual
love which moved her. It was a kind of habitual affection, as for the
"poor thing, but mine own, sir," of the jester. He was but a poor
creature, but Phoebe knew she could make something of him, and she had
no distaste to the task. When she began to perceiv