Mary was one of eight children, there were two girls younger than Mary, then there came two boys, then another girl, and then two baby boys. The elder boys were at a preparatory school, Mary was now her father’s right hand in the parish, and her sisters Marcia and Angela were both at the same school as the Wyndhams. Marcia and Angela were very particular friends of Molly and Jessie.
When “Irish Molly,” as they used to call the eldest daughter of the Rev. Mr. Welsh, however, received a letter, on a certain sunny morning, from Mr. Wyndham of Preston Manor, she read it in some amazement, and then turned to her mother.
Mrs. Welsh was a gentle, sweet-looking woman, very young-looking for her age. She had always been the darling of her children, devoting her life to their care, living for them, adoring them as only the best mother can. Mr. Welsh was an earnest and hard-working clergyman. Mary was a sort of curate to her father, looking after the poor people; she was their nurse in times of sickness and their playmate in times of rejoicing. It was Mary who organised the village feasts, the bean-treats, all the different amusements which took place in the summer. “Miss Mary” was adored by young and old, by rich and poor. She was “Miss Mary” with some, “Miss Molly” with others, “Miss Polly” with others again; but by all she was loved, and there was no one who had not a good word for Mary Welsh.
Now there was something particularly pleasing about this young girl’s appearance; without being pretty she had a certain charm of face and manner which could not but arrest attention. Her face was oval. She had soft brown hair, a delicate sort of mouse-brown in colour; it was very thick and was divided simply on her broad, white brow, and rolled up in a great coil at the back of her head without any attempt at fuzz or curl or ornament of any sort. Mary’s hair, when let down, fell far below her knees, and was very much admired by her brothers and sisters; her one object, however, was to coil it up as tightly as possible, hairpin it, and have, as she expressed it, done with it for the day at least. The broad, rather low forehead had a pair of delicately curved eyebrows, and beneath the brows were two wonderfully soft, velvety brown eyes, the colour of delicate brown velvet or of a hazel-nut. The eyes were large, well opened, and very clear, and they were surrounded by thick and curly black lashes. Her little features were neat and small, her mouth had a dimple at one corner, and her teeth were white as milk. This little face, which was altogether charming and yet not in the least beautiful, added greatly to the effect which Mary produced on all who came in contact with her. She was a well-grown, well-developed girl, she had a neat waist and a firm column of a throat, her head was nobly set upon the throat, and she walked like a young princess. The other girls and boys were all good-looking; but Mary was, as her Irish mother was fond of saying, “the cream of the crock and the flower of the flock.”
“Well, we shall have a busy day,” said Angela on this special morning. “Why, Polly Molly Mary, what on earth’s the matter?”
“Oh, this, this—do listen, girls. I’ve had a letter from Uncle Paul.”
Now, Mr. Wyndham was not “Uncle Paul” in any sense of the word to the Welsh family, but he was such a kind-hearted, good, affectionate man that Mary had long ago christened him uncle, and insisted on his speaking of her as “his affectionate niece.”
“Uncle Paul’s in a bit of a bother, and wants me to go over there at once.—Daddy, can I have the pony trap? I ought to go as soon as possible.”
“But, my darling child, you really can’t go to-day,” said her father. “You know we’re having the infant school feast in the hayfield. How can we manage without you?”
“Oh daddy, I really think I must go. Just listen to what he says.”